Huns Kill Women and Children!

From the beginning of time until a few years ago, it was considered normal to hate your enemy during wars. Okay, there were a few incidents where Americans and Krauts sang Silent Night together before killing each other the next day, but for the most part, armies have hated one another. Is that bad?

The above recruiting poster is among the Marines' most famous. Wouldn't this be considered a hate crime today if posted on a college campus? I'm sure that 100 years ago, my Hun ancestors in Wisconsin didn't take it the wrong way. It was a war.

Watch even the most sanitized, bloodless WWII movie, e.g., Sands of Iwo Jima. Racial caricatures abound. Characters speak of Japs, Nips, little lemon-colored characters, etc. And that was made a few years after the war.

T.R. Fehrenbach claimed that (paraphrasing) most Indian tribes called themselves by a word that meant "The true human beings" in their language, as if everyone else wasn't.

So give Gary a break for writing the passage below. He was here at the time, and thinking as most other warriors have since the beginning.

“Infidels…we will kill you slowly…Allah smiles each time you scream.”

If that isn’t what the muezzin said, the men accepted my translation. He’s blabbed over the loudspeaker since dusk, likely, “Shoot those Marines on the bakery roof.” Rightfully, the minaret should be rubble. We were pounded with RPGs and rifle fire from this mosque. One thermobaric[1] SMAW round would have put the muezzin’s body in a debris pile, and his soul—well, with those of the Fedayeen[2], cabbies, women, children, ambulance drivers, birdwatchers, and everyone else we killed. I’ve never been so proud of my men, and I’d defend each shot.

Baghdad is a hybrid of New Orleans and Mogadishu. We patrolled a random neighborhood two miles west of the Diyala River. Smaller streets are residential. Boulevards have 2-3 story buildings with shops on street level. We’re atop one such—a bakery, though I smell only the human waste of 50 men. Across the street is the “Towelhead Titanic” store, selling bootleg videos. Its entrance bears a mural of Kate and Leo on the bow, looking ayatollish.

I took all-night firewatch (I’m writing during a short respite). We needed two of my eight—reducing that was a better gesture than serving chow. I knew I wouldn’t sleep. Actually, I’ve had firewatch volunteers.

I can tell the men nothing. I have no idea how many Marines died. I have no comm with other platoons—my antenna-free radio reaches two blocks. I’ve heard 10-12 were shot but only saw one myself. That was horrifying. The CO was with us. His radio works, but it’s complicated enough to require an operator, Sandoval. Brad and I were with them when Sandoval took a bullet to the head. His eyes rolled back, his tongue went limp, and he crashed to the deck. Blood was everywhere, and his brain hung out. At least he died quickly, I thought.

Then he awoke. If it’s possible to scream louder and more obscenely than an OC victim, he did. He’s big. We cut off his gear and divided it. A college football player and a bouncer alternated carrying him 500 meters to an evacuation point. I played road guard at intersections, blocking traffic while Marines went past. More RPGs missed me, and I fired 3-round bursts at nobody in particular. We’d run to a helicopter LZ, but a Hummer evacuated him. He was barely alive, and we assume the worst. Meanwhile, we were taking shots from behind. Lampert spotted a guy watching us with binoculars near the shooting’s source and asked for guidance. “Kill him.” He did. Bad day for birdwatching, pal.

I’ll write more if I survive. If I don’t: Maria, I love you. Remember the letters in the safe.

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[1] Warhead mixing fuel with atmospheric oxygen, enabling greater energy density.

[2] Fedayeen Saddam were irregular paramilitary troops loyal to their namesake.