Vidar

Worthy of Killing and Dying For by: E.M. Burlingame They wrote in the old days it's sweet and fitting to die for one’s country. But in modern war there's nothing sweet nor fitting in your dying. You'll die like a dog for no good reason. Fuck. That. Noise. We’re done. Done feeding good men to the meat grinder so bankers and bureaucrats can jerk off to spreadsheets and “diversity metrics.” Done watching brothers bleed out in some shithole qalat, last words choked by dust while the same suits hand the keys to the enemy and call it victory. Done dishonoring the dead by pretending this hollow corpse of a nation is worth one drop of their blood. No more. The requirement is carved into every scar, every Fighter, every Infantryman, every Operator, every pissed-off father who buried too many brothers: Make of this country, once more, a people worthy of killing and dying for. Forge it. Hammer the steel till the spine snaps straight. Burn out the parasites, the traitors, the child-fuckers in high places, the imported auxiliaries who rape our daughters and vote for our erasure. Wade through rivers of blood till the weak, the civilized, the merciful drown, and the banks run red with every motherfucker who sold us out. Then—only then— build it back. Build it back as the English barons did at Runnymede, free men dragging a tyrant king to the meadow, forcing Magna Carta on his neck: no man above the law. Build it back as the minutemen at Lexington, farmers and blacksmiths in the frost, Brown Bess muskets answering tyranny with the shot heard round the world. Build it back as the signers pledged— lives, fortunes, sacred honor— no retreat, because a man’s word is iron and free soil is worth dying for. A nation of men who keep their word like Alfred’s fyrd held the line against the Danes— freemen bearing arms because the land and the folk were theirs. Men who protect their women like the yeomen of Agincourt— longbows and balls against the world’s finest knights. Men who raise sons to be killers of tyrants like Washington crossing the ice-choked Delaware, steel and surprise at Trenton, no mercy for occupiers— sons taught to love truth the way Patrick Henry roared it: “Give me liberty or give me death.” A people who remember the fallen not as statistics but as the price paid to own the ground under our boots again— Bunker Hill grass running red, Valley Forge barefoot in the snow. A country where dying means something because the soil itself is soaked in honor— not bullshit, not fentanyl, not foreign flags. Until that day the old lie stays a lie. Until that day we die like dogs. But we're not dogs. We're the sons of the men who built empires. We're the fathers who'll burn this one down to save what’s left. So light the fucking torches. Pass them hand to hand. Make it worthy. Or don’t. But then shut the fuck up when the next brother eats a round for nothing— you had your chance. We're the reckoning. We're the worthy. We'll make it so. Lock and load, brothers. The war's come home. This time our dead won't have died in vain.