You know a while back I met a young man named Shamus in a VFW Hall in East Moline, Illinois.  He was a good-looking kid, six-two, six-three, clear eyed, with an easy smile.  He told me he’d joined the Marines and was heading to Iraq the following week.  And as I listened to him explain why he’d enlisted, the absolute faith he had in our country and its leaders, his devotion to duty and service, I thought this young man was all any of us might ever hope for in a child.  But then I asked myself: Are we serving Shamus as well as he's serving us?  I thought of the 900 men and women, sons and daughters, husbands and wives, friends and neighbors, who won’t be returning to their own hometowns.  I thought of families I had met who were struggling to get by without a loved one’s full income, or whose loved ones had returned with a limb missing or nerves shattered, but still lacked long-term health benefits because they were reservists.  When we send our young men and women into harm’s way, we have a solemn obligation not to fudge the numbers or shade the truth about why they’re going, to care for their families while they’re gone, to tend to the soldiers upon their return, and to never ever go to war without enough troops to win the war, secure the peace, and earn the respect of the world.