What A Maroon

by Bryan

4 comments

1 Jack K., the Grumpy Forester { 05.15.09 at 11:27 pm }

…the “ticking time bomb” and” the buried kidnapped child” are the scenarios that we are going to be burdened with for some time to come, courtesy of the wingnut torture-supporting chattering class and ’24’. Neither of those scenarios has any basis in fact or reality (“kidnapped child” is simply a puerile play on emotions and the whole idea of ‘breaking’ someone who knows the location of some ticking time bomb misunderstands the motivations of the terrorist mind). All those voices insisting that torture doesn’t work are being lost in a whole other discussion about where it is needed, even though nobody is able to provide any real live evidence of situations where it actually worked…

Jack K., the Grumpy Forester´s last blog post..Mother And Baby Are Doing Fine

2 Bryan { 05.15.09 at 11:35 pm }

Funny you should mention the buried child, Jack. Dirty Harry was on today, and that was one of the plot points. Harry tortures the perp to find the child, who is dead when they find her, and the perp walks free because of the torture.

Without the torture, the child would still be dead, but the perp would pay for the crime. Of course the audience thinks Harry was right to do what he did.

They can always find excuses to be inhuman.

3 Kryten42 { 05.16.09 at 1:44 am }

They can always find excuses to be inhuman.

Bingo! And I have had MORE than a gutfull of that! I saw things these assh*les can’t even begin to imagine. Pol Pot and his warlords were the most sadistic evil bastards on the planet! I wish i could grab the lot of them by the metaphorical ‘scruff of the neck’ and rub their noses in what I saw until their eyes bleed.

We had a burning anger and hatred for the KR. But we controlled it and did our jobs. And we saved innocents, thousands of them. That was what kept us from becoming like the KR, or worse. We got good intelligence because the local villagers knew we would do all we could to protect them, that we at the very least gave them hope and a chance at surviving they didn’t otherwise have. The KR we captured cooperated because they knew we would not abuse them and would treat them well but also that their lives would be over without hesitation if they didn’t. We were not hypocrites. And that was what got us what we wanted. And that was how we survived. Maybe this will help:

Life is but a dream.

Imagine that life is a dream, and dreams appear real,
Then my friend, and only then, you will understand how I feel.
It started many years ago, or was it yesterday?
We flew to a new adventure in that land so far away.

From aircraft to helicopter it happened just as they said,
We attacked that village stronghold and none of us are dead.
You’re all professionals, they told us, and good soldiers never die.
Recalling past events, we knew that was a lie.

But something didn’t seem quite right, as we advanced that day.
The villagers were there to welcome us, and children were at play.
Not a shot was fired. That’s not what we expected.
We were supposed to be at war, yet we were unaffected.

Days passed then came the orders that we awaited.
We will search for and destroy the enemy that we hated.
From treetop level to jungle clearing, Choppers signaled our arrival,
While gunships circled overhead, ensuring our survival.

From chopper to jungle cover we ran, our Cobra’s guns were blazing
Showered by leaves and limbs of trees, their bullets were erasing.
Then deathly silence filled the air, as air support went home
Darkness closed in quickly, and we were all alone.

That night we dreamed in peaceful sleep, of our land called Australia.
Of family, friends and memories of other days gone by.
Stirred only by the sentries, creeping stealthily through the night,
And the report and thud of mortars, in some distant firefight.

At dawn we moved out cautiously, no anticipation of events to come,
A vicious jungle battle, chilled the soul of everyone.
Forward scouts had signaled enemy. “There’s only three of them.”
Our scouts didn’t know what was waiting behind those three men.

With the crack of light arms fire, those three lives were ended fast,
Then the whistle of close~placed bullets, filled the air as they went past.
Seconds seemed like hours before that dreaded sound,
The scream of approaching rockets; their explosions shook the ground.

“Medic! Medic!” Voices yelled almost simultaneously;
As men fell down, all around in pain and misery.
The Medic clambered down the bank, into the small creek bed.
The Captain lay upon the mud, a bullet through his head.

The Medic’s shirt was soaked with sweat, his throat and mouth were dry,
For he was caught in crossfire and must surely die.
“Dustoff! Dustoff!” The Medic screamed, not one of fear or dread,
With desperation in his voice, he knew, the Captain would soon be dead.

Then all at once the fighting ceased, almost as quickly as it started
The KR withdrew their fighters and then the armies parted.
“I see red!” The chopper pilot said, “Is the area clear?”
“Affirmative,” the Sig replied sarcastically, “there’s been no action here.”

Fighters came from their safe base, and thundered overhead,
As “Dustoffs” took their human load, the wounded and our dead.
Like a demented Hollywood movie, this scene continually repeated.
With politicians as directors until the actors were depleted.

We were put on SOPS, to hunt for the warlords and protect the villagers.
We often arrived too late to save the poor innocents, though we did all we could.
The bastards seemed to know somehow, when we were on their trail.
The village would be burned and not a soul survive, and the KR would be gone.

And during the next twelve months each action seemed the same.
“Violence!” Solidified the spirit and petrified the brain.
Then after just a few hours flight I’m back home in Australia once more.
My family and friends are here, but my mind is still at war.

They called it a Police Action, those Political men.
As if that somehow made it less terrible or less deadly then.
As if we were only fighting a ragtag gang of cowardly bloody criminals,
and not hundred’s of thousands of ruthless, cold killers out for our blood.

At night I dream in restless sleep, of other days gone by.
Of fighting, death and destruction and of true friends who I saw die.
So imagine that your dreams are real, and true life’s just a dream.
Then my friend and only then, might you know what I mean.

It’s not intended to be poetic, more of a campfire story, but it’s real. I’ve seen this around in various forms of change, reprinted by some from memory I guess, this is the original.

4 Bryan { 05.16.09 at 12:26 pm }

It was always amazing how the bad guys knew details of everything that was reported to the higher ups. It sort of made you suspicious out of the front lines that someone with shoulder glitter didn’t know how to keep their mouths shut.

After a while you learn not to tell everything you know until after everything is over, and delay until the last moment when you need an airstrike or support so there isn’t time for leak.

When they question you, you tell them flat out, they have a problem, and you don’t intend to die because of it. They don’t like, but they can’t do your job, and they are more than a little afraid of you. They don’t ever look into it because it might be embarrassing and cost them the next bit of glitter.

Different armies, same crap. Different wars, same crap.