In a move which by most standards is wholly counterproductive to the success and credibility of their nation’s government, Iraq released on Sunday an Iraqi militant (Laith al-Khazali) held in connection with a 2007 attack that left five US servicemen dead. (Read article here).
The incident, in Karbala in January 2007, involved twelve gunmen in five SUVs, attired in “American-looking uniforms" and carrying "U.S.-type weapons,” who after navigating perimeter checkpoints, opened fire on US troops. One was killed outright, and four other servicemen were taken hostage by the gunmen, who fled the scene. A short time later, three of them were found dead in a neighboring province, and a fourth was found with a grievous gunshot wound. He died en route to the hospital. The Iraqi government, however, is apparently not particularly concerned with this.
Laith al-Khazali was detained by US troops in March, 2007, and at some point turned over to the Iraqi government for imprisonment and trial. On Sunday, an Iraqi government spokesman stated that he was released in a “gesture by the Iraqi government as part of the national reconciliation process with militant groups.” Yet according to the US military, the militant group al-Khazali represents, (League of the Righteous, also known as Asaib ahl al-Haq, or AAH), has no quarrel with the Iraqi government. AAH militants instead ”oppose foreign military forces in the country.” What reconciliation, therefore, does the Iraqi government expect to accomplish by this gesture? Accepting AAH has a state-sanctioned militia?
Additionally, AAH may now be contributing to sectarian and regional division in Iraq. AAH militants were at one time in good standing with radical Shiite cleric Muqtada Al-Sadr, but their recent cooperation with the Iraqi government has branded them an enemy to Al-Sadr and his enormous militia. Will these two groups now focus their activities on each other? If so, then the Iraqi government has accomplished nothing more than inciting further acts of violence by its own people and against its own people. And now, one more known fighter (from a group which incidentally has ties with Iran) is free to contribute to this chaos.
The inexplicable decision to release this militant speaks volumes about the Iraqi government, their poor choices, and potentially a total ineptitude at self-governance. For a culture that proudly claims the Babylonian Hammurabi as their own, a man reputed with establishing the philosophy of “Rule of Law” (and that no single person is above it), they are boldly demonstrating their total disregard for due process and justice. This incompetent government, mind you, is the very one under which US security contractors now fall. Will they receive similar clemency in a “gesture of goodwill” towards the United States, or will they be somehow subject to a different standard? Ignoring justice once severely undermines, if not destroys the credibility of the entire system. For lack of a better way to put it, the Iraqi government is now negotiating with terrorists – specifically those that have proven their lethality and intent on violence. Why would they wish to gain the allegiance of such a group?
The collateral damage from this gesture will be immense. What incentive does the US military now have to exhibit any confidence in the Iraqi justice system? Why should the US hand over militants at all, if odds are these same men will be soon back on the streets committing heinous acts against whatever victims they choose to hate? How do the Iraqis intend to appease the five families now missing a loved one?
At its core, this decision is a blatant insult to the efforts of US servicemembers to improve a country long plagued by corruption, ruled by dictators, and subdued by fear. Does the government’s disinterest in justice fairly represent the country as a whole? If so, why aid those who don’t wish for any aid? If a freely-elected government clearly indicates they don’t care about those that ensured their freedom, then why bother preserving it? Finally, why help a country that is completely unwilling to help itself? This is not a gesture of reconciliation; it is devolution to shameless sycophancy.
To Capt. Brian S. Freeman, 1st Lt. Jacob N. Fritz, Spc. Johnathan B. Chism, 22, Pfc. Shawn P. Falter, and Pfc. Johnathon M. Millican: rest in peace. A few of us still give a damn.
Copyright © 2009, Ben Shaw, All Rights Reserved
www.byshaw.com
www.byshaw.com/blog
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Monday, June 8, 2009
An Unappealing Hypothesis
Over the past six months, my writing has frequently been on subjects that fairly raise the accusation that I am unhealthily fixated on a small portion of the veteran community that seems to readjust poorly to civilian life. While they may indeed represent a relatively miniscule percentage of veterans, it in no way diminishes the importance of understanding their situations, their plight, and their struggle for readjustment and understanding. The truth is, incidence of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) is on the rise. It necessarily demands attention.
Perhaps the best question would then be “why?” Why are more veterans confessing their difficulty with return to civilian life? Why are VA hospitals packed with young men and women who have not adjusted well following their tenure in a combat zone? And why, above all else, are they committing suicide at such astronomical rates (the VA estimates that 5,000 veterans will take their own lives this year)? These are challenging questions, however, and reams of documents have only barely scratched the surface of the matter.
There is one explanation for this tragedy that has somehow escaped the vast majority of public attention. For lack of a better term, it could be referred to as “national absolution.” One reason it may be often ignored is that it casts a great deal of blame and no doubt makes a number of people extremely uncomfortable – or vehemently defensive. In a nutshell, troops are not receiving a unified statement of “well done” from the public. Opinions on the war are too sharply divided.
Since wars became a part of “civilized” society, so also have ritual cleansing ceremonies and grand victory celebrations for the returning warriors. The individual performance of the warriors was irrelevant, as was perhaps the overall victory in the war itself. What was universally agreed, however, was that the warriors had served well, acted selflessly, and participated in a conflict essential to the survival and wellbeing of the society. But this doesn’t happen anymore.
Though few realize it, by the time the last US troops were withdrawn from Vietnam, the percentage of medical evacuations from the combat zone for psychological trauma (PTSD) was nearly identical to the percentage of civilians in the United States that fiercely opposed the war: approximately 55%. The close correlation cannot be ignored. Though oceans apart, stateside disagreement with the merit of the war was exacting a heavy toll on the troops. It is difficult to put one’s heart behind a cause that only a moderate percentage of one’s own countrymen support.
And while the reception of veterans now is much improved over that during the Vietnam War, strong opposition persists nevertheless, and even a veteran purposefully shielding him or herself from all news sources will still encounter day-to-day conversations that reflect the division. One’s service, therefore, does not settle easily as a noble act, but one of intense controversy.
As a consequence, many veterans are left with three options: they may oppose the war and agree that it was a poor idea and they the victims if a misguided foreign policy, they may spend the remainder of their days attempting to justify their national service, or they may simply remain silent on the matter. None are terribly helpful, however, and deprived of a country which unanimously supports her servicemembers, the actions of a few short years are denied their proper place as distancing memories and held forever in the forefront of the heart and mind. “Did I do well? I think I did, but these other people say I did not.” There is a tormenting lack of closure.
This is an unquestionably unpopular hypothesis because it casts blame for an epidemic of PTSD on all those who are fairly exercising their rights to free speech. Yet perhaps they are misdirecting their anger. As I have quoted before, a wiser man than I once stated, “the warrior has always been separated from the war. The warrior is sacred. The war may be political. Respect for the fallen is never an issue.”
Yet there now appears to be little distinction between the warrior and the war, and the warriors are the ones bearing the burden. According to widely publicized remarks, they aren’t noble men and women who took an oath to their country and its citizens; they are instead a lot of misinformed young persons who have acted as instruments for the government’s maligned intents. Such presumptions, however inaccurate and unfounded, are wounding. There is no peace with one’s war, but a continued battle to justify it within one’s own heart and before one’s own countrymen.
The human body and mind are extremely resilient, and capable of surviving unfathomable injury. And veterans, like few others, are immeasurably tough. What is most challenging to shake, however, is the pervasive fear that their service has all been for nothing. The citizenry they swore to defend loudly declares they needed no defense. There is no longer a country at war, but a few men and women fighting one, and a very large and vocal percentage of the country that aggressively opposes it.
Those who have served well are not returning home to peace, but to a myriad of questions, accusations, and even taunts. Patrolling on foreign soil, wearing body armor and carrying a rifle at the ready was only the first battle. The greater war is actually waged stateside, against ridicule, misunderstanding, and a crowd of citizens who appear to go out of their way to devalue the high character of those who willingly sacrificed personal ambition for the preservation of their country. Yet that country, ignoring the beauty of her warriors, does little to receive them.
Copyright © 2009, Ben Shaw, All Rights Reserved
www.byshaw.com
www.byshaw.com/blog
Perhaps the best question would then be “why?” Why are more veterans confessing their difficulty with return to civilian life? Why are VA hospitals packed with young men and women who have not adjusted well following their tenure in a combat zone? And why, above all else, are they committing suicide at such astronomical rates (the VA estimates that 5,000 veterans will take their own lives this year)? These are challenging questions, however, and reams of documents have only barely scratched the surface of the matter.
There is one explanation for this tragedy that has somehow escaped the vast majority of public attention. For lack of a better term, it could be referred to as “national absolution.” One reason it may be often ignored is that it casts a great deal of blame and no doubt makes a number of people extremely uncomfortable – or vehemently defensive. In a nutshell, troops are not receiving a unified statement of “well done” from the public. Opinions on the war are too sharply divided.
Since wars became a part of “civilized” society, so also have ritual cleansing ceremonies and grand victory celebrations for the returning warriors. The individual performance of the warriors was irrelevant, as was perhaps the overall victory in the war itself. What was universally agreed, however, was that the warriors had served well, acted selflessly, and participated in a conflict essential to the survival and wellbeing of the society. But this doesn’t happen anymore.
Though few realize it, by the time the last US troops were withdrawn from Vietnam, the percentage of medical evacuations from the combat zone for psychological trauma (PTSD) was nearly identical to the percentage of civilians in the United States that fiercely opposed the war: approximately 55%. The close correlation cannot be ignored. Though oceans apart, stateside disagreement with the merit of the war was exacting a heavy toll on the troops. It is difficult to put one’s heart behind a cause that only a moderate percentage of one’s own countrymen support.
And while the reception of veterans now is much improved over that during the Vietnam War, strong opposition persists nevertheless, and even a veteran purposefully shielding him or herself from all news sources will still encounter day-to-day conversations that reflect the division. One’s service, therefore, does not settle easily as a noble act, but one of intense controversy.
As a consequence, many veterans are left with three options: they may oppose the war and agree that it was a poor idea and they the victims if a misguided foreign policy, they may spend the remainder of their days attempting to justify their national service, or they may simply remain silent on the matter. None are terribly helpful, however, and deprived of a country which unanimously supports her servicemembers, the actions of a few short years are denied their proper place as distancing memories and held forever in the forefront of the heart and mind. “Did I do well? I think I did, but these other people say I did not.” There is a tormenting lack of closure.
This is an unquestionably unpopular hypothesis because it casts blame for an epidemic of PTSD on all those who are fairly exercising their rights to free speech. Yet perhaps they are misdirecting their anger. As I have quoted before, a wiser man than I once stated, “the warrior has always been separated from the war. The warrior is sacred. The war may be political. Respect for the fallen is never an issue.”
Yet there now appears to be little distinction between the warrior and the war, and the warriors are the ones bearing the burden. According to widely publicized remarks, they aren’t noble men and women who took an oath to their country and its citizens; they are instead a lot of misinformed young persons who have acted as instruments for the government’s maligned intents. Such presumptions, however inaccurate and unfounded, are wounding. There is no peace with one’s war, but a continued battle to justify it within one’s own heart and before one’s own countrymen.
The human body and mind are extremely resilient, and capable of surviving unfathomable injury. And veterans, like few others, are immeasurably tough. What is most challenging to shake, however, is the pervasive fear that their service has all been for nothing. The citizenry they swore to defend loudly declares they needed no defense. There is no longer a country at war, but a few men and women fighting one, and a very large and vocal percentage of the country that aggressively opposes it.
Those who have served well are not returning home to peace, but to a myriad of questions, accusations, and even taunts. Patrolling on foreign soil, wearing body armor and carrying a rifle at the ready was only the first battle. The greater war is actually waged stateside, against ridicule, misunderstanding, and a crowd of citizens who appear to go out of their way to devalue the high character of those who willingly sacrificed personal ambition for the preservation of their country. Yet that country, ignoring the beauty of her warriors, does little to receive them.
Copyright © 2009, Ben Shaw, All Rights Reserved
www.byshaw.com
www.byshaw.com/blog
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Explain the Purpose
In November 2004, after one unsuccessful attempt by the US military earlier in the year to drive out a strong insurgent presence in Fallujah, Iraq, the situation had grown truly dire. More than any other city in Iraq, Fallujah was so packed with insurgents that the US military officially considered it an insurgent stronghold. Several months prior, four private US contractors were ambushed and killed there, their bodies desecrated and dragged through the streets, and then proudly hung on a bridge. It was a taunt, and one that the US military would directly address.
After extensive preparation, the city was cordoned, civilians were permitted to leave, and as roughly 5,000 insurgent fighters dug in, laid IEDs and booby traps, and transformed mosques into strongholds, over 15,000 US troops readied to clear the city of insurgents indefinitely. They anticipated heavy resistance. In fact, the Marine Corps doctrine estimates that Military Operations in an Urban Terrain (MOUT) will result in an 85% casualty rate. Nevertheless, the city needed to be silenced.
On November 8th, Marines, soldiers, and Iraqi forces began advancing into the perimeter of the city, immediately encountering a caliber of insurgent fighter rarely seen in Iraq. They were well-organized, prepared, and they stayed to fight rather than fire and run. Their preparedness was astounding, as were their elaborate fighting positions, IED “daisy chains,” and deadly booby traps on nearly every door. Snipers audaciously inflicted heavy casualties from mosque towers, necessitating intense airstrikes by US fighter jets.
With ferocious surgical precision, the combat forces – mostly Marines and Army Cavalry – moved from house to house, eliminating insurgents hellbent on fighting to the death. Tragically, took many Marines with them.
On November 13th, Marine 1st Sergeant Bradley Kasal, traveling with a Combined Anti-Armor platoon, heard an explosion of small arms fire erupt to his flank and turned to observe Marines tearing out of a nearby building. There were wounded Marines pinned inside, they yelled, held down by some number of insurgent fighters. Kasal drew his pistol, fell in on a stack of Marines rushing to their aid, and plunged into the building.
After taking down an insurgent in the first room, he and others moved rapidly to aid the wounded Marine in the next room, whereupon he was shot repeatedly in the legs and fell. Unable to stand and losing blood, he still dragged himself over to the injured Marine and, as the insurgents threw grenades to finish them off, he shielded the young Marine with his own body, receiving at least 40 shrapnel wounds. As he lay bleeding out on the floor, other Marines continued pushing through the house, firing as they maneuvered on the insurgents upstairs.
As the Marines kept firing, Kasal yelled encouragement to those still clearing the building, refusing medical attention until the other wounded Marines around him were first treated. When he finally consented to evacuation, they lifted him and dragged him out, his pistol still tightly clenched in his hand. He had lost 60% of his blood.
Throughout the battle for Fallujah, these acts were common, as Marines and soldiers encountered fierce resistance, took casualties, and mounted brave rescue missions to free the wounded laying in harm’s way. Kasal later was awarded the Navy Cross for his bravery and selflessness. He has since undergone 21 surgeries to save what remains of his leg.
In another area of the city, a good friend of mine nearly died as he was singularly targeted by multiple snipers. One bullet pierced his uniform, but amazingly, none hit him.
One Marine captain, leading his company through some of the thickest fighting, lost thirteen of his troops. Elsewhere, a Marine sniper, removing his helmet for a clearer shot through his scope, was promptly shot through the head and killed. My great friend, his spotter laying beside him, is still grieving to this day.
To the south, my unit came under attack by Zarqawi’s forces, long-since escaped from Fallujah.
In the city, the carnage continued, and another friend held his wounded comrade in his arms as he died. 94 other US troops were similarly cut down in battle, and 560 were evacuated with injuries. Despite their losses, they successfully secured the city, killed an estimated 1,350 insurgents, and captured roughly 1,500. The intensity of the house-to-house fighting in the battle for Fallujah was historical, rivaling that of the 1968 battle for Hue City in Vietnam. And as before, the US military proved its skill and valor before a well-armed enemy.
Yet now, less than five years later, as the injured still recover from their wounds and the bereaved still dearly miss their fallen loved one, the battle is being recreated as a video game (click here for the article).
To my surprise, the Marines and soldiers involved in the battle have been enthusiastic about the effort and provided as many facts as they are able. They want the game to be realistic. The families of the fallen, insulted that the tragedy of war that claimed their sons would so quickly be transformed into first-person shooter entertainment, are loudly protesting. No game, they say, does justice to the fighting, and no player will ever understand the gravity of the battle. The game developers, despite the controversy, continue to seek sponsorship and millions of dollars for marketing. They claim it will honor those that fought for Fallujah. How, I ask? Games are intended for entertainment, not historical enlightenment. If they wish to learn about the battle, ask a veteran.
And so, less than five years after Iraq’s bloodiest battle, socially awkward teenaged boys eagerly await the arrival of perhaps the most realistic combat game yet, and developers seek a successful business venture. But the Marines and soldiers in the Battle for Fallujah just want their story told. The key question, however, is this: is anybody truly listening, or are they looking for their latest fix of mindless entertainment? Another Marine friend put it quite eloquently: “It’s not just stupid shooting; it was a war, and my friends died there. That’s not a game; it’s an insult to my brothers.”
“War is awful. Nothing, not the valor with which it is fought nor the nobility of the cause it serves, can glorify war. War is wretched beyond description and only a fool or a fraud could sentimentalize its cruel reality. Whatever is won in war, it is loss the veteran remembers.”
- Sen. John McCain
Copyright © 2009, Ben Shaw, All Rights Reserved
www.byshaw.com
www.byshaw.com/blog
After extensive preparation, the city was cordoned, civilians were permitted to leave, and as roughly 5,000 insurgent fighters dug in, laid IEDs and booby traps, and transformed mosques into strongholds, over 15,000 US troops readied to clear the city of insurgents indefinitely. They anticipated heavy resistance. In fact, the Marine Corps doctrine estimates that Military Operations in an Urban Terrain (MOUT) will result in an 85% casualty rate. Nevertheless, the city needed to be silenced.
On November 8th, Marines, soldiers, and Iraqi forces began advancing into the perimeter of the city, immediately encountering a caliber of insurgent fighter rarely seen in Iraq. They were well-organized, prepared, and they stayed to fight rather than fire and run. Their preparedness was astounding, as were their elaborate fighting positions, IED “daisy chains,” and deadly booby traps on nearly every door. Snipers audaciously inflicted heavy casualties from mosque towers, necessitating intense airstrikes by US fighter jets.
With ferocious surgical precision, the combat forces – mostly Marines and Army Cavalry – moved from house to house, eliminating insurgents hellbent on fighting to the death. Tragically, took many Marines with them.
On November 13th, Marine 1st Sergeant Bradley Kasal, traveling with a Combined Anti-Armor platoon, heard an explosion of small arms fire erupt to his flank and turned to observe Marines tearing out of a nearby building. There were wounded Marines pinned inside, they yelled, held down by some number of insurgent fighters. Kasal drew his pistol, fell in on a stack of Marines rushing to their aid, and plunged into the building.
After taking down an insurgent in the first room, he and others moved rapidly to aid the wounded Marine in the next room, whereupon he was shot repeatedly in the legs and fell. Unable to stand and losing blood, he still dragged himself over to the injured Marine and, as the insurgents threw grenades to finish them off, he shielded the young Marine with his own body, receiving at least 40 shrapnel wounds. As he lay bleeding out on the floor, other Marines continued pushing through the house, firing as they maneuvered on the insurgents upstairs.
As the Marines kept firing, Kasal yelled encouragement to those still clearing the building, refusing medical attention until the other wounded Marines around him were first treated. When he finally consented to evacuation, they lifted him and dragged him out, his pistol still tightly clenched in his hand. He had lost 60% of his blood.
Throughout the battle for Fallujah, these acts were common, as Marines and soldiers encountered fierce resistance, took casualties, and mounted brave rescue missions to free the wounded laying in harm’s way. Kasal later was awarded the Navy Cross for his bravery and selflessness. He has since undergone 21 surgeries to save what remains of his leg.
In another area of the city, a good friend of mine nearly died as he was singularly targeted by multiple snipers. One bullet pierced his uniform, but amazingly, none hit him.
One Marine captain, leading his company through some of the thickest fighting, lost thirteen of his troops. Elsewhere, a Marine sniper, removing his helmet for a clearer shot through his scope, was promptly shot through the head and killed. My great friend, his spotter laying beside him, is still grieving to this day.
To the south, my unit came under attack by Zarqawi’s forces, long-since escaped from Fallujah.
In the city, the carnage continued, and another friend held his wounded comrade in his arms as he died. 94 other US troops were similarly cut down in battle, and 560 were evacuated with injuries. Despite their losses, they successfully secured the city, killed an estimated 1,350 insurgents, and captured roughly 1,500. The intensity of the house-to-house fighting in the battle for Fallujah was historical, rivaling that of the 1968 battle for Hue City in Vietnam. And as before, the US military proved its skill and valor before a well-armed enemy.
Yet now, less than five years later, as the injured still recover from their wounds and the bereaved still dearly miss their fallen loved one, the battle is being recreated as a video game (click here for the article).
To my surprise, the Marines and soldiers involved in the battle have been enthusiastic about the effort and provided as many facts as they are able. They want the game to be realistic. The families of the fallen, insulted that the tragedy of war that claimed their sons would so quickly be transformed into first-person shooter entertainment, are loudly protesting. No game, they say, does justice to the fighting, and no player will ever understand the gravity of the battle. The game developers, despite the controversy, continue to seek sponsorship and millions of dollars for marketing. They claim it will honor those that fought for Fallujah. How, I ask? Games are intended for entertainment, not historical enlightenment. If they wish to learn about the battle, ask a veteran.
And so, less than five years after Iraq’s bloodiest battle, socially awkward teenaged boys eagerly await the arrival of perhaps the most realistic combat game yet, and developers seek a successful business venture. But the Marines and soldiers in the Battle for Fallujah just want their story told. The key question, however, is this: is anybody truly listening, or are they looking for their latest fix of mindless entertainment? Another Marine friend put it quite eloquently: “It’s not just stupid shooting; it was a war, and my friends died there. That’s not a game; it’s an insult to my brothers.”
“War is awful. Nothing, not the valor with which it is fought nor the nobility of the cause it serves, can glorify war. War is wretched beyond description and only a fool or a fraud could sentimentalize its cruel reality. Whatever is won in war, it is loss the veteran remembers.”
- Sen. John McCain
Copyright © 2009, Ben Shaw, All Rights Reserved
www.byshaw.com
www.byshaw.com/blog
Saturday, June 6, 2009
When Men Made History
One of the more enjoyable experiences of my third tour in Iraq was the opportunity to fire an MG3 machinegun, a weapon notorious for its high rate of fire, deadly accuracy, and superb reliability. Of all the heavy weapons I’ve fired, the MG3 unquestionably stands as my favorite.
Today, however, I am reminded of a more tragic aspect of this weapon. Its near-identical predecessor, the MG42, was one of the primary weapons whose withering fire was used to pin down allied troops on the beaches of Normandy exactly 65 years ago. This weapon’s fire, combined with that of mortars and artillery, killed thousands of allied soldiers wading through the surf to the beachhead.
When I look at this photograph, I wonder what was running through these young men’s minds as they crouched low, waiting to hit the sand. I wonder how many were seasick, how many were praying, how many, having just heard General Eisenhower’s epic speech to the invasion force, were firmly convinced they weren’t going to live through the day. I also wonder how many of them were right.
In the culmination of months of planning and astounding military preparation, British, Canadian, and American soldiers sailed across the English Channel from England and simultaneously hit five French beaches at 0630 on Tuesday, June 6th, 1944. Naval guns and allied planes were still bombing Nazi fortifications as they approached. The troops’ landing was preceded the night before by thousands of allied paratroopers in a poorly-executed mission that left their ranks scattered and disorganized. Perhaps 40% of these men survived the week behind enemy lines.
Waves of British infantry hit Sword beach with relatively light casualties and while falling short of their desired objective for the day, were firmly entrenched by the time the second and third waves of soldiers hit the sand. To their west, the Canadians landed on Juno beach under heavy fire. The morning’s bombardment had been ineffective in destroying Nazi positions. Unscathed, the Germans unleashed hell on the Canadians. More than half of the first wave died, but by the end of the day they had advanced nearly 15 kilometers and landed more than 15,000 Canadian troops. The Canadians fought fiercely, and were successful.
Further west, the British encountered heavy casualties at Gold beach, due mostly to a delay in their armored support. Despite their staggering losses and encountering a town heavily fortified by the Nazis, they had advanced far inland by the end of the day. Aside from the Canadians at Juno, the British at Gold were closest to achieving their D-day objectives.
To the far west, the Americans hit Utah beach with minimal resistance, yet still sustained 197 soldiers killed. By the evening, 23,000 troops had landed there, providing the foothold the allies needed in France to maintain their momentum.
The worst beach, however, was Omaha, which was assigned to the Americans. With most Nazi fortifications undamaged despite heavy bombardment, the first wave of soldiers was virtually slaughtered outright. Within ten minutes of landing, every officer and NCO was either dead or lay wounded. The official record states that “it became a struggle for survival and rescue,” not the high-paced assault that was originally intended. General Eisenhower actually considered evacuating the beach altogether, but eventually chose to persist.
Chaplain Burkhalter, an Army lieutenant who landed among the first wave, stated it matter-of-factly:
"The enemy had a long time to fix up the beach. The beach was covered with large pebbles to prevent tank movements, and mines were everywhere. The enemy was well dug in and had set up well prepared positions for machine guns and had well chosen places for sniping. Everything was to their advantage and to our disadvantage, except one thing, the righteous cause for which we are fighting - liberation and freedom. For the moment our advantage was in the abstract and theirs was in the concrete. The beach was spotted with dead and wounded men. I passed one man whose foot had been blown completely off. Another soldier lying close by was suffering from several injuries; his foot was ripped and distorted until it didn't look much like a foot. Another I passed was lying very still, flat on his back, covered in blood. Bodies of injured men all around. Sad and horrible sights were plentiful."
Of the sixteen allied tanks landed on Omaha that day, only two survived. The remainder were destroyed by the heavy Nazi fire. At one point, the troops were so badly pinned on the beachhead by German 75mm guns that destroyers were ordered to move in as close as they could to the beach and provide direct naval gun support to the men trapped in the surf. One ship, the Frankford, made full speed for the beach itself. Many on the beach thought the captain was intending to beach her. But just before grinding to a halt into the channel sand, she cut hard west and began decimating the coastline with her main guns.
In the surf, a single disabled tank still fired at targets on the cliff face. Gunners on the Frankford, following the lead of the lone tank, began obliterating whatever fortifications the tank targeted. As she steamed past the beach, rather than heading back into the channel to come about again, the Frankford ground her screws into full reverse and continued firing along the coastline. There were men to save, and her crew would do everything in their power to help them. Many other destroyers ran aground acting similarly.
On the beaches, crouched behind bodies of fallen comrades and huddled beneath beach obstacles, the situation was dire. The ocean itself was red with the blood of the dead. Fish flopped in the surf, stunned or killed by the concussive waves of artillery from both sides. A young Army colonel strolled forlornly through the ranks and declared, “Gentlemen, we are being killed here on the beaches; let's move inland and be killed there.” And they pushed forward. Few in that first wave survived.
And I think about the MG42 machinegun again, and wonder how I would have acted when faced with a near-inevitability of death. I wonder if I would have crouched behind the men in front of me and hoped they were hit instead of me. I wonder if I would possess the fortitude to do what they did. I wonder if I would even have time to think about it.
There were bigger battles fought in that great war, by far. There were heavier casualties over smaller plots of land. There was astounding heroism in innumerable battlefields against insurmountable odds, and not just on the beaches of Normandy. And in the grand scheme of the war, this was a relatively minor event.
But its historical significance does not go unnoticed. These were waves of young men who, for a cause they barely grasped, ran into a hail of bullets for millions they would never meet. Yet it is the sacrifices and the bravery of these few that brought an entire continent out of bondage.
And now, sixty-five years later, as the veterans of this great battle fade quickly into history and legend, those who fell at Normandy and throughout Europe lay there still. There are fields of well over 100,000 small marble crosses resting on acres of lawns inside perfectly-tended hedges. They fell to purchase countries they would never inhabit, for strangers, for foreigners, for men and women who thirsted for freedom. And those they freed still remember. No single nation is indebted to them, but a continent. They were our youth, our finest and greatest generation, and they bravely dismantled evil.
Nobody can love God better than when he is looking death square in the face and talks to God and then sees God come to the rescue. As I look back through hectic days just gone by to that hellish beach I agree with Ernie Pyle, that it was a pure miracle we even took the beach at all." Yes, there were a lot of miracles on the beach that day. God was on the beach D-Day; I know He was because I was talking with Him.
-2nd Lt Burkhalter, Chaplain, US Army, 6 August, 1944
Copyright © 2009, Ben Shaw, All Rights Reserved
www.byshaw.com
www.byshaw.com/blog
Today, however, I am reminded of a more tragic aspect of this weapon. Its near-identical predecessor, the MG42, was one of the primary weapons whose withering fire was used to pin down allied troops on the beaches of Normandy exactly 65 years ago. This weapon’s fire, combined with that of mortars and artillery, killed thousands of allied soldiers wading through the surf to the beachhead.
When I look at this photograph, I wonder what was running through these young men’s minds as they crouched low, waiting to hit the sand. I wonder how many were seasick, how many were praying, how many, having just heard General Eisenhower’s epic speech to the invasion force, were firmly convinced they weren’t going to live through the day. I also wonder how many of them were right.
In the culmination of months of planning and astounding military preparation, British, Canadian, and American soldiers sailed across the English Channel from England and simultaneously hit five French beaches at 0630 on Tuesday, June 6th, 1944. Naval guns and allied planes were still bombing Nazi fortifications as they approached. The troops’ landing was preceded the night before by thousands of allied paratroopers in a poorly-executed mission that left their ranks scattered and disorganized. Perhaps 40% of these men survived the week behind enemy lines.
Waves of British infantry hit Sword beach with relatively light casualties and while falling short of their desired objective for the day, were firmly entrenched by the time the second and third waves of soldiers hit the sand. To their west, the Canadians landed on Juno beach under heavy fire. The morning’s bombardment had been ineffective in destroying Nazi positions. Unscathed, the Germans unleashed hell on the Canadians. More than half of the first wave died, but by the end of the day they had advanced nearly 15 kilometers and landed more than 15,000 Canadian troops. The Canadians fought fiercely, and were successful.
Further west, the British encountered heavy casualties at Gold beach, due mostly to a delay in their armored support. Despite their staggering losses and encountering a town heavily fortified by the Nazis, they had advanced far inland by the end of the day. Aside from the Canadians at Juno, the British at Gold were closest to achieving their D-day objectives.
To the far west, the Americans hit Utah beach with minimal resistance, yet still sustained 197 soldiers killed. By the evening, 23,000 troops had landed there, providing the foothold the allies needed in France to maintain their momentum.
The worst beach, however, was Omaha, which was assigned to the Americans. With most Nazi fortifications undamaged despite heavy bombardment, the first wave of soldiers was virtually slaughtered outright. Within ten minutes of landing, every officer and NCO was either dead or lay wounded. The official record states that “it became a struggle for survival and rescue,” not the high-paced assault that was originally intended. General Eisenhower actually considered evacuating the beach altogether, but eventually chose to persist.
Chaplain Burkhalter, an Army lieutenant who landed among the first wave, stated it matter-of-factly:
"The enemy had a long time to fix up the beach. The beach was covered with large pebbles to prevent tank movements, and mines were everywhere. The enemy was well dug in and had set up well prepared positions for machine guns and had well chosen places for sniping. Everything was to their advantage and to our disadvantage, except one thing, the righteous cause for which we are fighting - liberation and freedom. For the moment our advantage was in the abstract and theirs was in the concrete. The beach was spotted with dead and wounded men. I passed one man whose foot had been blown completely off. Another soldier lying close by was suffering from several injuries; his foot was ripped and distorted until it didn't look much like a foot. Another I passed was lying very still, flat on his back, covered in blood. Bodies of injured men all around. Sad and horrible sights were plentiful."
Of the sixteen allied tanks landed on Omaha that day, only two survived. The remainder were destroyed by the heavy Nazi fire. At one point, the troops were so badly pinned on the beachhead by German 75mm guns that destroyers were ordered to move in as close as they could to the beach and provide direct naval gun support to the men trapped in the surf. One ship, the Frankford, made full speed for the beach itself. Many on the beach thought the captain was intending to beach her. But just before grinding to a halt into the channel sand, she cut hard west and began decimating the coastline with her main guns.
In the surf, a single disabled tank still fired at targets on the cliff face. Gunners on the Frankford, following the lead of the lone tank, began obliterating whatever fortifications the tank targeted. As she steamed past the beach, rather than heading back into the channel to come about again, the Frankford ground her screws into full reverse and continued firing along the coastline. There were men to save, and her crew would do everything in their power to help them. Many other destroyers ran aground acting similarly.
On the beaches, crouched behind bodies of fallen comrades and huddled beneath beach obstacles, the situation was dire. The ocean itself was red with the blood of the dead. Fish flopped in the surf, stunned or killed by the concussive waves of artillery from both sides. A young Army colonel strolled forlornly through the ranks and declared, “Gentlemen, we are being killed here on the beaches; let's move inland and be killed there.” And they pushed forward. Few in that first wave survived.
And I think about the MG42 machinegun again, and wonder how I would have acted when faced with a near-inevitability of death. I wonder if I would have crouched behind the men in front of me and hoped they were hit instead of me. I wonder if I would possess the fortitude to do what they did. I wonder if I would even have time to think about it.
There were bigger battles fought in that great war, by far. There were heavier casualties over smaller plots of land. There was astounding heroism in innumerable battlefields against insurmountable odds, and not just on the beaches of Normandy. And in the grand scheme of the war, this was a relatively minor event.
But its historical significance does not go unnoticed. These were waves of young men who, for a cause they barely grasped, ran into a hail of bullets for millions they would never meet. Yet it is the sacrifices and the bravery of these few that brought an entire continent out of bondage.
And now, sixty-five years later, as the veterans of this great battle fade quickly into history and legend, those who fell at Normandy and throughout Europe lay there still. There are fields of well over 100,000 small marble crosses resting on acres of lawns inside perfectly-tended hedges. They fell to purchase countries they would never inhabit, for strangers, for foreigners, for men and women who thirsted for freedom. And those they freed still remember. No single nation is indebted to them, but a continent. They were our youth, our finest and greatest generation, and they bravely dismantled evil.
Nobody can love God better than when he is looking death square in the face and talks to God and then sees God come to the rescue. As I look back through hectic days just gone by to that hellish beach I agree with Ernie Pyle, that it was a pure miracle we even took the beach at all." Yes, there were a lot of miracles on the beach that day. God was on the beach D-Day; I know He was because I was talking with Him.
-2nd Lt Burkhalter, Chaplain, US Army, 6 August, 1944
Copyright © 2009, Ben Shaw, All Rights Reserved
www.byshaw.com
www.byshaw.com/blog
Friday, June 5, 2009
For Consideration
We were on base in Habbaniyah one day getting some work done when, without warning, the ground shook with an enormous explosion. Of all the guys in my unit at that time, I had the most experience with explosives, and I estimated that the explosion was within a kilometer, and absolutely huge. After all, even over half a click away, the concussive wave had enough force to ruffle our clothing like a gale force wind. It may not have been on base, but it was close. I asked my staff sergeant if we could check it out, and to my surprise, he declined. I kept pestering him until he relented.
When we drove to the far side of the base we encountered utter chaos. Whether the explosion was on-base or not I still didn’t know, but all the Iraqi casualties were being evacuated to the Iraqi Army clinic adjacent to our compound. It was a bloodbath.
In a panic, the Iraqi soldiers would back up a truck full of casualties to the clinic steps and start unloading. Some climbed down on their own, but a number were carried on stretchers. Several more were wrapped in blankets and already dead. As they were unloaded, another truck would pull up with more injured. The drivers, in a panic to unload their casualties as quickly as they could, were unintentionally running over the line of bodies slowly accumulating at the edge of the lot. Almost everybody was yelling at everybody else, too. We had grabbed gloves and started picking up blood-soaked bandages from the front steps of the clinic. A lot of the patients had been treated, and died, before they had even made it inside the clinic.
My medic friend was working on a little girl that had taken some shrapnel in her ribcage and probably into lungs. Every time he bent over and tried to properly assess her injuries, the older Iraqi man behind him would start yelling and impatiently pushing Doc to look at him first. His only injury was a small cut to his hand. I guess as an old man in a society that respects its elders above all others, he figured he deserved to be treated first.
Doc kept trying to explain to him that the little girl needed treatment first because she had more serious injuries, but the older man either didn’t understand or didn’t care. The cut on his hand took precedence, at least in his mind. After yelling at him again to wait for treatment like everybody else, Doc turned back to the little girl and discovered she had died. In frustration, he moved on to another patient and left the older man there to complain to some other doc.
As they finished transporting all the casualties to the clinic, it started to become clear just how many Iraqis had died. The docs wrapped the rest of the bodies in old, green sleeping bags and stacked them outside the clinic with the rest of the run-over ones. You could always tell which bags had children in them since they looked mostly empty.
We didn’t know the exact number until later, but the final count was 41 killed, including 15 women and children. More than 140 were injured, mostly as they were praying in a nearby mosque, working at the police station right across the road, or shopping at any of the dozens of shops, grocers, or poultry stalls also close by. The bomb had been a large Mercedes truck filled with explosives and then covered with a layer of large quarry stones to hide the bomb. The stones, of course, just made for more projectiles.
Because it happened right outside the wire, the Iraqis evacuated all the casualties into the Iraqi Army clinic, and an “all hands” alert was issued to any US or Iraqi medical personnel on the entire base. The Marines even scrambled emergency convoys to another nearby US base with a better trauma hospital. The severest casualties were choppered out from over there. We did everything we could. It still didn’t seem like much, though.
Whenever people here in the States loudly insist that we should just leave Iraq and forget about it, I think about the car bomb in Habbaniyah. I think about my friends and I on the front steps of the clinic, using squeegees and buckets of water to remove the pools of blood. I remember the line of sleeping bags holding all the bodies and I think of Doc and the little girl that died while he was working on her. I remember all four branches of the US military aiding the Iraqi Army and all of us doing everything in our power to help the injured and dying.
I believe that no human being, regardless of race, creed or ethic, should live in fear of such an attack as that one in Habbaniyah. And those who sincerely endorse us leaving Iraq and thus leaving the Iraqis to endure this sort of violence need to seriously examine themselves … and hope they find a soul.
Copyright © 2009, Ben Shaw, All Rights Reserved
www.byshaw.com
www.byshaw.com/blog
When we drove to the far side of the base we encountered utter chaos. Whether the explosion was on-base or not I still didn’t know, but all the Iraqi casualties were being evacuated to the Iraqi Army clinic adjacent to our compound. It was a bloodbath.
In a panic, the Iraqi soldiers would back up a truck full of casualties to the clinic steps and start unloading. Some climbed down on their own, but a number were carried on stretchers. Several more were wrapped in blankets and already dead. As they were unloaded, another truck would pull up with more injured. The drivers, in a panic to unload their casualties as quickly as they could, were unintentionally running over the line of bodies slowly accumulating at the edge of the lot. Almost everybody was yelling at everybody else, too. We had grabbed gloves and started picking up blood-soaked bandages from the front steps of the clinic. A lot of the patients had been treated, and died, before they had even made it inside the clinic.
My medic friend was working on a little girl that had taken some shrapnel in her ribcage and probably into lungs. Every time he bent over and tried to properly assess her injuries, the older Iraqi man behind him would start yelling and impatiently pushing Doc to look at him first. His only injury was a small cut to his hand. I guess as an old man in a society that respects its elders above all others, he figured he deserved to be treated first.
Doc kept trying to explain to him that the little girl needed treatment first because she had more serious injuries, but the older man either didn’t understand or didn’t care. The cut on his hand took precedence, at least in his mind. After yelling at him again to wait for treatment like everybody else, Doc turned back to the little girl and discovered she had died. In frustration, he moved on to another patient and left the older man there to complain to some other doc.
As they finished transporting all the casualties to the clinic, it started to become clear just how many Iraqis had died. The docs wrapped the rest of the bodies in old, green sleeping bags and stacked them outside the clinic with the rest of the run-over ones. You could always tell which bags had children in them since they looked mostly empty.
We didn’t know the exact number until later, but the final count was 41 killed, including 15 women and children. More than 140 were injured, mostly as they were praying in a nearby mosque, working at the police station right across the road, or shopping at any of the dozens of shops, grocers, or poultry stalls also close by. The bomb had been a large Mercedes truck filled with explosives and then covered with a layer of large quarry stones to hide the bomb. The stones, of course, just made for more projectiles.
Because it happened right outside the wire, the Iraqis evacuated all the casualties into the Iraqi Army clinic, and an “all hands” alert was issued to any US or Iraqi medical personnel on the entire base. The Marines even scrambled emergency convoys to another nearby US base with a better trauma hospital. The severest casualties were choppered out from over there. We did everything we could. It still didn’t seem like much, though.
Whenever people here in the States loudly insist that we should just leave Iraq and forget about it, I think about the car bomb in Habbaniyah. I think about my friends and I on the front steps of the clinic, using squeegees and buckets of water to remove the pools of blood. I remember the line of sleeping bags holding all the bodies and I think of Doc and the little girl that died while he was working on her. I remember all four branches of the US military aiding the Iraqi Army and all of us doing everything in our power to help the injured and dying.
I believe that no human being, regardless of race, creed or ethic, should live in fear of such an attack as that one in Habbaniyah. And those who sincerely endorse us leaving Iraq and thus leaving the Iraqis to endure this sort of violence need to seriously examine themselves … and hope they find a soul.
Copyright © 2009, Ben Shaw, All Rights Reserved
www.byshaw.com
www.byshaw.com/blog
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Open Letter
Below is a letter written to stateside school children in 2007.
Habbaniyah, Iraq:
Imagine being born into a country and a culture that often requires that you quit school before you’ve completed the 5th grade. This isn’t because your parents can’t afford school, but rather because they need you to work – so the whole family can eat. And you spend the next ten years standing or sitting on a small hill of dirt and ensuring that your flock of cattle, goats, or sheep don’t wander off. Periodically, you move them from one brown patch of vegetation to a less brown one.
You have power for a few hours every day. You have one set of clothing. You draw water from a well or from the river, and it’s contaminated. You work from sunup to sunset.
Your future prospects are bleak. In you spare time, you’ve managed to learn to read, and you hope to go to college, but your parents are too afraid that you will be killed by bombs at the university and so they don’t let you go.
At least one of your friends has died like this – randomly gunned down or bombed while they went about their daily lives.
Iraq is not a country of great prospects. It is not a country of hope. At present, it is a country of mere survival. You worry about your next meal, being gunned down in the street or finding work. It is a country of fear. We are laboring tirelessly to change this.
We, as Americans, are more blessed that we can possibly know. We live in relative safety. We typically don’t worry about being shot while taking a walk outside our homes, while shopping or while worshipping. Americans have a future, and the luxury to dream, pursue, and realize those aspirations. And it is our dream that others be afforded similar hope. This is why we are here. To help ensure the safety and peace of a country that has known oppression and despotism for countless years.
But this is an investment, and not without cost. It separates husbands from wives, sons from fathers, and tragically, there are a few that will never return to the arms of those that loved them. Yet we cannot quit. We cannot give up and leave outright violence to seize the day. Why? Because the American dream is that others can dream, too.
So, far from home, we ask you for but one thing – your prayers. We ask that you pray for our wellbeing, for our success, that we find, capture, or eliminate the enemy wreaking havoc, and that in short order we may safely return to our homes and lives. For a love of country we left those we love, and it is to them that we wish to return. Pray for our efforts, and that we will have incomprehensible success.
Love your families. Love your lives. You may not like school, but be glad you know how to read. You may wish to spend your day doing other things, but be glad that at a tender age you aren’t spending it trying to feed your parents and siblings. It is our prayer as soldiers, sailors, airmen and Marines that our work will ensure that none of you are ever asked to serve here.
We pray that you all will be aware of your rich blessing. That you will recognize your near boundless freedom before its absence makes you aware of what you lost. Pray for us even as we pray for you.
So, greetings from the desert, where the summer sun, even now, begins to redden the backs of our necks and leaves us parched. We wish you well, and hope we will rejoin you stateside before we know it.
Copyright © 2009, Ben Shaw, All Rights Reserved
www.byshaw.com
www.byshaw.com/blog
Habbaniyah, Iraq:
Imagine being born into a country and a culture that often requires that you quit school before you’ve completed the 5th grade. This isn’t because your parents can’t afford school, but rather because they need you to work – so the whole family can eat. And you spend the next ten years standing or sitting on a small hill of dirt and ensuring that your flock of cattle, goats, or sheep don’t wander off. Periodically, you move them from one brown patch of vegetation to a less brown one.
You have power for a few hours every day. You have one set of clothing. You draw water from a well or from the river, and it’s contaminated. You work from sunup to sunset.
Your future prospects are bleak. In you spare time, you’ve managed to learn to read, and you hope to go to college, but your parents are too afraid that you will be killed by bombs at the university and so they don’t let you go.
At least one of your friends has died like this – randomly gunned down or bombed while they went about their daily lives.
Iraq is not a country of great prospects. It is not a country of hope. At present, it is a country of mere survival. You worry about your next meal, being gunned down in the street or finding work. It is a country of fear. We are laboring tirelessly to change this.
We, as Americans, are more blessed that we can possibly know. We live in relative safety. We typically don’t worry about being shot while taking a walk outside our homes, while shopping or while worshipping. Americans have a future, and the luxury to dream, pursue, and realize those aspirations. And it is our dream that others be afforded similar hope. This is why we are here. To help ensure the safety and peace of a country that has known oppression and despotism for countless years.
But this is an investment, and not without cost. It separates husbands from wives, sons from fathers, and tragically, there are a few that will never return to the arms of those that loved them. Yet we cannot quit. We cannot give up and leave outright violence to seize the day. Why? Because the American dream is that others can dream, too.
So, far from home, we ask you for but one thing – your prayers. We ask that you pray for our wellbeing, for our success, that we find, capture, or eliminate the enemy wreaking havoc, and that in short order we may safely return to our homes and lives. For a love of country we left those we love, and it is to them that we wish to return. Pray for our efforts, and that we will have incomprehensible success.
Love your families. Love your lives. You may not like school, but be glad you know how to read. You may wish to spend your day doing other things, but be glad that at a tender age you aren’t spending it trying to feed your parents and siblings. It is our prayer as soldiers, sailors, airmen and Marines that our work will ensure that none of you are ever asked to serve here.
We pray that you all will be aware of your rich blessing. That you will recognize your near boundless freedom before its absence makes you aware of what you lost. Pray for us even as we pray for you.
So, greetings from the desert, where the summer sun, even now, begins to redden the backs of our necks and leaves us parched. We wish you well, and hope we will rejoin you stateside before we know it.
Copyright © 2009, Ben Shaw, All Rights Reserved
www.byshaw.com
www.byshaw.com/blog
Monday, June 1, 2009
Mortar Mondays
We used to get mortared all the time on our base – especially when we first got there. The unit that we relieved never did much about it, so it basically encouraged the insurgents to keep doing. The guys on base just hung out in bunkers and waited for it to pass. To them, Monday was “Mortar Monday.” That didn’t fly with our unit, though. When the insurgents tried mortaring us, we’d fire back with everything we had – almost immediately. Our own 81mm mortars, 120mm mortars, and often howitzers, too. After awhile, it diminished a bit. But they'd still lobbed rounds at us here and there.
A lot of guys never got used to it, so the second they heard some sort of thud or explosion, they’d instinctively grab all their gear and sprint for bunkers. I guess most of them had been close enough to an impact to take it seriously. We found it more annoying than anything else. Compared to the IEDs we were getting hit with, the mortars seemed like firecrackers.
It got bad enough that whenever we started taking incoming, we’d all just slowly set down our books, begrudgingly pause our movies, and head to the bunkers. The only reason we ran at all was because they were yelling at us to. Frankly, we were almost as safe in our buildings as we were in the bunkers. And we had to dash some distance out in the open just to get there. We would have slept through a number of attacks if people hadn’t been beating down our doors and screaming at us. We just got used to it. Things blew up a lot. That’s the way it was…
I remember we’d just arrived back on base after a 24 hour period in and out of “contact.” We’d had a couple guys hit, lost a vehicle to an RPG round, and also got into some pretty serious firefights. When we finally made it back to base, we were tired, cranky, hungry, and all we wanted to do was eat and rack out for a few hours. It was a holiday or something though, so the chow hall was serving halfway edible food – crab legs.
They never thought it through completely, though. We had cheap plastic silverware that broke whenever you tried to pry open the crab legs, so a lot of guys would just bite them, pick at them, or beat them on the table in frustration. I always used my Leatherman, which may or may not have even been clean. But it worked perfectly.
So we’re sitting there, and we start getting mortared again. It wasn’t really close, so while everybody is running for the doors, knocking over chairs and fleeing in terror, I was just sitting there. I wasn’t leaving. I was hungry, the mortars weren’t near enough to bother me, and I wanted to finish my crab legs. As some staff sergeant ran by and said something like, “devildog, you need to get your ass into the bunker; got it?” I just sort of looked at him wearily, Leatherman in one hand, crab parts in the other, butter dribbling off my chin, and then I answered:
“I’m finishing my crab legs. I’m hungry. I don’t even care about the mortars. I just wanna eat.”
Sure enough, I got yelled at for it.
Copyright © 2009, Ben Shaw, All Rights Reserved
www.byshaw.com
www.byshaw.com/blog
A lot of guys never got used to it, so the second they heard some sort of thud or explosion, they’d instinctively grab all their gear and sprint for bunkers. I guess most of them had been close enough to an impact to take it seriously. We found it more annoying than anything else. Compared to the IEDs we were getting hit with, the mortars seemed like firecrackers.
It got bad enough that whenever we started taking incoming, we’d all just slowly set down our books, begrudgingly pause our movies, and head to the bunkers. The only reason we ran at all was because they were yelling at us to. Frankly, we were almost as safe in our buildings as we were in the bunkers. And we had to dash some distance out in the open just to get there. We would have slept through a number of attacks if people hadn’t been beating down our doors and screaming at us. We just got used to it. Things blew up a lot. That’s the way it was…
I remember we’d just arrived back on base after a 24 hour period in and out of “contact.” We’d had a couple guys hit, lost a vehicle to an RPG round, and also got into some pretty serious firefights. When we finally made it back to base, we were tired, cranky, hungry, and all we wanted to do was eat and rack out for a few hours. It was a holiday or something though, so the chow hall was serving halfway edible food – crab legs.
They never thought it through completely, though. We had cheap plastic silverware that broke whenever you tried to pry open the crab legs, so a lot of guys would just bite them, pick at them, or beat them on the table in frustration. I always used my Leatherman, which may or may not have even been clean. But it worked perfectly.
So we’re sitting there, and we start getting mortared again. It wasn’t really close, so while everybody is running for the doors, knocking over chairs and fleeing in terror, I was just sitting there. I wasn’t leaving. I was hungry, the mortars weren’t near enough to bother me, and I wanted to finish my crab legs. As some staff sergeant ran by and said something like, “devildog, you need to get your ass into the bunker; got it?” I just sort of looked at him wearily, Leatherman in one hand, crab parts in the other, butter dribbling off my chin, and then I answered:
“I’m finishing my crab legs. I’m hungry. I don’t even care about the mortars. I just wanna eat.”
Sure enough, I got yelled at for it.
Copyright © 2009, Ben Shaw, All Rights Reserved
www.byshaw.com
www.byshaw.com/blog
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