A Canadian With Balls And Common Sense

Mamamontezz mailed me this link to a man that instantly became one of my daily reads!

Sun, November 21, 2004

I don't blame that Marine in Fallujah at all

By Ian Robinson -- Calgary Sun

You're a kid, probably a year or two, or even three, shy of your 25th birthday.

Not a rich kid. Probably not even an upper-middle-class kid ... after all, you don't find a lot of those outside the officer corps in combat naval infantry units.

You're probably not that bright; certainly not as bright as the highly educated college types lining up to condemn you.

Maybe you finished high school. Maybe you didn't.

The average IQ of an enlisted man in the United States Marine Corps is under 90.

It hasn't stopped you from mastering the tools of your trade. You can break down a complex automatic rifle and reassemble it blindfolded. You take care of your rifle with a professional passion that is nearly fetishistic because if you take care of your rifle -- the voice of a Parris Island drill instructor echoes in your head when you think this -- your rifle will take care of you.

You're in fantastic physical condition ... the combat load you carry on your back is 40-lb. more than the average American infantryman in the Second World War.

For whatever reason, you decided to give your life to something greater than yourself. To your country. To the Marines.

Be sure to click continue reading for the rest of the article.

When you did that, you were indoctrinated. They broke you in boot camp and then rebuilt you. You were told you were the meanest, toughest S.O.B. who ever lived.

You know the names of obscure battles where Marines shed blood in the service of their nation.

You know the words of the Marine Hymn.

You know about the halls of Montezuma and the shores of Tripoli. You know about Tarawa, where the landing craft hung up on the coral reef and the Marines went into the lip-high water and waded 1,000 yards through Japanese fire to the beach ... and won.

You know about Khe Sahn where Marines were surrounded by North Vietnamese regulars under a hellish rain of artillery fire week after week ... and prevailed.

You can look at the bewildering array of coloured ribbons on another marine's chest and know whether he's a warrior or a guy who spent his career fighting red tape.

You were told that your job was to go to the dangerous places of the planet and fight and possibly die for your country without asking why. But after you were in for a while, certainly after the first time angry men with guns tried to kill you and you tried to kill them, you figured that nobody's willing to fight and die for their country.

They're willing to fight and die for the guy standing beside them.

The day before it happened, you got shot in the face. The wound wasn't as bad as it sounds. You were back with your unit the next day. You didn't take the opportunity to slack off, to leave your comrades in the lurch.

The same day you got it, a guy in your unit -- maybe a friend, maybe just some guy -- tried to tend to the body of one of your enemies.

The guy was dead ... but he was still lethal.

Your buddy touched him and the booby trap went off and killed him.

He probably should have known better. Beaten soldiers have been booby trapping their dead for a long time. The Germans were artists at it. So too the Viet Cong.

No reason crazed Islamofascists wouldn't be either. These people booby trap live women and send them off to die. Stands to reason they wouldn't be squeamish about booby trapping their dead and dying.

Earlier this week you went into the mosque in Fallujah from which Marines had taken fire before. There were five insurgents there. Not moving. And you were afraid.

Another Marine yelled that one of them was faking. That he was alive.

Maybe you could still feel the bullet that tore through part of your face the day before. Maybe the thought of the other Marine killed by a dead man rocketed through your brain. Maybe your hands acted of their own accord.

Maybe.

You pulled the trigger.

We don't know your name yet. We don't know anything about you.

I do know one thing.

I don't blame you. I don't blame you at all.

That's it, to a "T". I couldn't have said it better. This Marine was not only just for what he did, but he may have saved the lives of other Marines.

This is war people, wake up. This isn't Mocha Lattes and puppy dog tails.

SlagleRock Out!