Memoirs written in prose of Sergeant Robertson, Damon M. USMC while in Iraq | ...with frequent appearances of King Hammurabi.
If you are new to this journal, make sure to start reading in chronological order by scrolling down to the bottom of the oldest post in October 2004. Damon's letters from August 20th, 2004 - October 23rd, 2004 were all added to this blog on Oct. 23rd, 2004. All subsequent letters are posted in real time.
Thursday, January 06, 2005
Re: Hammurabi, USMC - DMR
Alright (!). When Aristotle hacked out his explanation of what it means to be virtuous, that is, to do that which God made you for, I don't recall him giving any explanation as to how we're supposed to know we're doing what was intended. [Jim "Disco" Taylor, my philosophy professor and recipient of this email, is probably spinning in his cubicle right now... "what?!?! Can't remember!?!?!" ] Just kidding. Disco's the real deal. But I don't remember Aristotle saying anything like "Virtuous? I dunno. It's hard to explain, but I know it when I'm in the moment." ... Teaching Police. Whoa. Hold on. Let me contextualize. First Sgt. ... what name did I give him? Oh who cares. He doesn't rate a nickname, even a depricating one. From the beginning of our activation we've tried to add significance to our (prison-like) tenure at the flightline. We've volunteered for convoy security, prisoner of war guard, internal (base) guard, external (base) patrols, you name it. We've done everything we could to lock on training that's fun, i.e. macho and we get to blow things up, but there's always this disconnect. Like, you're on the list but at the last minute no one gets to go because the class was mysteriously "kanked" (cancelled), or you're told to show up at 2pm and the class started at 9am. Huh. Again? Mysterious and upsetting how that *always* seems to happen to us... I'm not a mathematically inclined person but I do remember playing "connect the dots" when I was a kid and certain variables tend to stack up fairly quickly. Who's ultimately in charge of sending Marines to training? Ssgt Baldy, my first platoon commander here who's since been promoted, billet-wise, to Company Gunnery Sergeant, though he still holds the rank of Staff Sergeant. Then there's his friend and long time, er, "buddy," the Beloved First Sergeant ****. Who, as it turns out, have deliberately thrown wrenches into the schedules and hard work we've come up with to make our lives and service as Marines count for something more than "gee, mom, I didn't do much but handle incoming mail and baggage for the real Marines." ... Why, pray tell? You're going to think the explanation is too simple, too easy, perhaps the product of some intense suspicion and anger on my part. Believe me, it's taken me the whole time I've been here to say this: They're jealous. They've been POGs (persons other than grunts) their whole careers. Half of them (the staff, the aforementioned men included) LIE, straight up LIE for God's sake, about having been former grunts. WHAT!?! Who *does* that anymore? Who really lies about what they've done to make themselves sound hard, tough, etc.? We know they're lying because we've asked around, talked to other staff from other units who've met them before, worked with them, and found all corroborating evidence to run counter to everything these guys claim. "Phony Tough" is written all over them. Oh. Yeah. My "leaders." The men who literally have lied, stolen, and in other ways broken the laws of the UCMJ (Uniform Code of Military Justice) the whole time we've been here and every time covered eachother's butts. Compile to this list the fact that they have fried good Marines for the simplest infractions, to the fullest extent of their power as executors of the UCMJ for our unit. Something stinks here and it's not the wadi, for once. In a classic show of "I've still got give-a-S**t-itus," the disease that haunts real motivators like me and my friends, Super Marine locked on a chance to accompany the outer perimiter security sweeps. But we hear 1st Sgt **** whine about "it's not our mission. our mission is the flightline. there's no way Super Marine is leaving the flight line. Ever." So why did they make such big promises when we were headed out here? Why didn't they tell us in the first place "You're pogs, you're a shame to "real" Marines, and you're good for nothing more than the simplest tasks that even apes could accomplish here on the flightline." God. At least then we would have known to lose hope and not try and just resign ourselves, our educated, capable selves, to being their cronies and nothing but. [the patrols Super Marine was going to participate in would not have conflicted with his 12-hour shift at the flight line, so there is no dereliction of responsibility to the mission that can be logically voiced in the argument, though this isn't the sort of thing Corporals tell their 1st Sgts. It would be like telling a caveman he can't simply hit a woman over the head and drag her off to the cave and have his way. All the caveman sees is a "blocker" to his personal adjenda, nothing more. And for men who think that hitting things and yelling solves problems, being the one to disagree means you get hit, and you get yelled at. I'm not in this for that.] ... It's a good thing I don't spend a lot of time hoping in these men, and that I put my trust somewhere else entirely. ... So yesterday, without the knowledge of my chain of command, and during my off hours, having served 13 hours at the flight line already, I went and helped train the iraqi police class here on base for three hours. I got four hours of sleep last night but I feel awesome. At first the men seemed unsettled that we were there. I'm sure it seemed like we were observers, looking for mistakes only. When Stan and I volunteered to be the "non-compliant" felony arrest subjects and let the trainees use their non-lethal subjugation techniques on us, the doggone ice got broke. They were intimidated at first (we are about twice their size, and at least 1 foot taller than the biggest of them) but everyone is the first time they have to take down a bigger man. It doesn't matter so much not being able to speak Arabic, or that these men can barely pronounce "Robers...roberts-unn." A smile is a smile, and laughter is understood everywhere. I don't have much time left, but I'll leave you with an observation. The media tells us constantly "more iraqi police officers fled in the wake of insurgent violence." Well, there's lots of logistical reasons for this (lack of ammunition for the IP's is a big one, and that we don't issue them ROCKET LAUNCHERS, like the bad guys have... bit of a difference, that one). Also, as I've discussed earlier, if I could flee a police station and save my family from the rapine of foreign-hired insurgents, I'd go home early. But, then there's something else I'd do, too, once it got dark. I'd take my issue 9mm glock and get some potatoes. Since the town is small and since everyone knows where these braggarts/rapists live, I'd ninja up in my head-wrap and I'd silently walk around the outskirts of town though the trash heaps until I got to their house. Jam the potato on the end of the pistol. Shimmy through the door, probably unlocked, and cap the first guy. The potato silences the pistol for one shot. If they're all in the same room, keep capping. Use potatoes when I can so less attention is drawn to the scene. Less attention means fewer witnesses. Then leave. Leave their still warm, dead bodies where they lie, taking nothing, saying nothing, ditching my dark clothing in the trash heap on my way back home. In the morning I'd go back to work and let the news of the violence surprise me. ... Some of you are shocked. Oh well. What these men need is a modern, living mythology of heroes. They've lived in the grip of a tyrant for 35 years, where the proverbial "nail that sticks out" didn't get hammered down so much as yanked out, twisted, and tossed in a refuse heap. They don't have the benefit, the "macho poison" for you cynics, of Hollywood's countless heroes. They don't know that they don't have to be afraid of these men. The worst thing these men have to fear is being afraid, to steal a good quote. What they fail to see is that they, the new police, are a kind of gang of their own. Now I'm not suggesting that they adopt the same rape and throat-slashing of their enemies. Nope. Remember Chicago, New York? The "roaring 20's"? The streets of America hung in the balance between the mob families who elected themselves into public office, stepping into place over the bloodied bodies of their enemies. The cops... with their six-shooters and uniforms, what could they do? Huh. I dunno. Maybe buy some .45 caliber Thomson machine guns and kill every last mook they could find until the occupational hazards of being a gangster in an organized mob became less compelling than the benefits. This *is* their frontier time. This *is* their turn to be the Lone Badge that Saved the West(ern) Province of Al-Anbar. ... At any rate, i'm going to train these men as long as I can, before the staff of my unit cripse and cry and make me sit in my barracks watching paint fade, which they can do. This is the military. Until then, love you all, :D
# posted by chevas @ 4:19 PM 