The Bohican Prayer

Oh mighty Saint Bohica, patron saint of the Infantry, who dwelleth in Washington, immersed in service records, requisitions, red tape and all of the other sacred impedimenta which surroundeth Armies both in time of peace and in times of war, hallowed be thy name.

Grant us this day our promotions and forgive us our profiles.

Guide us on the path of righteousness by thy all-knowing Army, Corps, and Division regulations and unit SOPs.

Strike with relentlessly swift and horrible death the Finance clerk who loseth our pay file and the Mess Sergeant who robbeth our empty bellies.

Fray not our rappelling ropes, nor yet drowneth us in unauthorized river crossings.

Loadeth not our rucksacks, nor breaketh our compass on night patrol, four our blisters and calluses are already without number.

Jam not our weapons, nor yet schedule us for Nightmare Range.

Deliver us from the hands of the non-grunts of Armor and Cavalry, for thou knowest our missions are manifold. Yea, even though, by some diverse means, and after having roundly been beaten about the head and privy parts with an entrenching tool, are these yellow-legged sons of Satan's concubines, these gutless washouts from thy most glorious Infantry School, allowed to don the hated crossed sabers and tanker's boots of the ersatz dragoons, they most falsely cry that they are thy children of choice. We cannot contain ourselves in their presence; endless assault and mayhem shall inevitably abound.

Approve our passes and leaves, for thou knowest ours is not an easy lot to bear without time for diversion.

Guide our pleasure-bent footsteps from the local dens of sin and iniquity, which beckon to us with the siren call of cheap drink and illicit companionship, lest we should go astray and contract the social uncleanliness that thou hath so vividly described in thy monthly sermons on venereal disease.

By the ghosts of those who have preceded us past the motor pool and through the training areas, we beseech thee...

Amen