Mystery Sender, Who Are You!?
September 24th, 2004 at 10:37 pmOkay, somebody recently sent out an e-mail to their friends or families or whatnot that had a link to Shyzer in it, because I am getting a ton of referrals from one specific e-mail from a lot of different e-mail providers, like Yahoo, Comcast, and Hotmail. But it won’t let me read the e-mail since I’m obviously not one of the persons who it was sent to and I want to know what it says!
So, this post is addressed to you, Mystery Sender. Thank you for spreading the joy of Shyzer to others. You, my friend, are always welcome here. =)
Sax http://www.sevenmoore.com
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The mystery is solved. I sent it to the +Nomads. We were exchanging stuff about Iraq. This is a copy of one of those e-mails. Don’t know the validity of it, it is what it is…I post it here just FYI. If it’s out of place, Goob, delete it.
BY JOSEPH L. GALLOWAY Knight Ridder Newspapers
WASHINGTON - (KRT) - The Internet, which fills our inboxes with spam and
scams every day and keeps our delete keys shiny, occasionally delivers a
real keeper, such as the words below, which were written by a graduate of
West Point, Class of 2003, who’s now at war in Iraq.
We tracked down the author, who gave us permission to quote from his letter
so long as we didn’t reveal his name.
Old soldiers in the Civil War coined a phrase for green troops who survived
their first taste of battle: “He has seen the elephant.” This Army
lieutenant sums up the combat experience better than many a grizzled
veteran:
“Well, I’m here in Iraq, and I’ve seen it, and done it. I’ve seen everything
you’ve ever seen in a war movie. I’ve seen cowardice; I’ve seen heroism;
I’ve seen fear; and I’ve seen relief. I’ve seen blood and brains all over
the back of a vehicle, and I’ve seen men bleed to death surrounded by their
comrades. I’ve seen people throw up when it’s all over, and I’ve seen the
same shell-shocked look in 35-year-old experienced sergeants as in
19-year-old privates.
“I’ve heard the screams - `Medic! Medic!’ I’ve hauled dead civilians out of
cars, and I’ve looked down at my hands and seen them covered in blood after
putting some poor Iraqi civilian in the wrong place at the wrong time into a
helicopter. I’ve seen kids with gunshot wounds, and I’ve seen kids who’ve
tried to kill me.
“I’ve seen men tell lies to save lives: `What happened to Sergeant A.?’ The
reply: `C’mon man, he’s all right - he’s wondering if you’ll be OK - he said
y’all will have a beer together when you get to Germany.’ SFC A. was lying
15 feet away on the other side of the bunker with two medics over him
desperately trying to get either a pulse or a breath. The man who asked
after SFC A. was himself bleeding from two gut wounds and rasping as he
tried to talk with a collapsed lung. One of them made it; one did not.
“I’ve run for cover as fast as I’ve ever run - I’ll hear the bass percussion
thump of mortar rounds and rockets exploding as long as I live. I’ve heard
the shrapnel as it shredded through the trailers my men live in and over my
head. I’ve stood, gasping for breath, as I helped drag into a bunker a man
so pale and badly bloodied I didn’t even recognize him as a soldier I’ve
known for months. I’ve run across open ground to find my soldiers and make
sure I had everyone.
“I’ve raided houses, and shot off locks, and broken in windows. I’ve grabbed
prisoners, and guarded them. I’ve looked into the faces of men who would
have killed me if I’d driven past their IED (improvised explosive device) an
hour later. I’ve looked at men who’ve killed two people I knew, and saw
fear.
“I’ve seen that, sadly, that men who try to kill other men aren’t monsters,
and most of them aren’t even brave - they aren’t defiant to the last -
they’re ordinary people. Men are men, and that’s it. I’ve prayed for a man
to make a move toward the wire, so I could flip my weapon off safe and put
two rounds in his chest - if I could beat my platoon sergeant’s shotgun to
the punch. I’ve been wanted dead, and I’ve wanted to kill.
“I’ve sworn at the radio when I heard one of my classmate’s platoon
sergeants call over the radio: `Contact! Contact! IED, small arms, mortars!
One KIA, three WIA!’ Then a burst of staccato gunfire and a frantic cry:
`Red 1, where are you? Where are you?’ as we raced to the scene … knowing
full well we were too late for at least one of our comrades.
“I’ve seen a man without the back of his head and still done what I’ve been
trained to do - `medic!’ I’ve cleaned up blood and brains so my soldiers
wouldn’t see it - taken pictures to document the scene, like I’m in some
sort of bizarre cop show on TV.
“I’ve heard gunfire and hit the ground, heard it and closed my Humvee door,
and heard it and just looked and figured it was too far off to worry about.
I’ve seen men stacked up outside a house, ready to enter - some as scared as
they could be, and some as calm as if they were picking up lunch from
McDonald’s. I’ve laughed at dead men, and watched a sergeant on the ground,
laughing so hard he was crying, because my boots were stuck in a muddy
field, all the while an Iraqi corpse was not five feet from him.
“I’ve heard men worry about civilians, and I’ve heard men shrug and sum up
their viewpoint in two words - `F— ‘em.’ I’ve seen people shoot when they
shouldn’t have, and I’ve seen my soldiers take an extra second or two, think
about it, and spare somebody’s life.
“I’ve bought drinks from Iraqis while new units watched in wonder from their
trucks, pointing weapons in every direction, including the Iraqis my men
were buying a Pepsi from. I’ve patrolled roads for eight hours at a time
that combat support units spend days preparing to travel 10 miles on. I’ve
laughed as other units sit terrified in traffic, fingers nervously on
triggers, while my soldiers and I deftly whip around, drive on the wrong
side of the road, and wave to Iraqis as we pass. I can recognize a Sadiqqi
(Arabic for friend) from a Haji (Arabic word for someone who has made the
pilgrimage to Mecca, but our word for a bad guy); I know who to point my
weapons at, and who to let pass.
“I’ve come in from my third 18-hour patrol in as many days with a full beard
and stared at a major in a pressed uniform who hasn’t left the wire since
we’ve been here, daring him to tell me to shave. He looked at me, looked at
the dust and sweat and dirt on my uniform, and went back to typing at his
computer.
“I’ve stood with my men in the mess hall, surrounded by people whose idea of
a bad day in Iraq is a six-hour shift manning a radio, and watched them give
us a wide berth as we swagger in, dirty, smelly, tired, but sure in our
knowledge that we pull the triggers, and we do what the Army does, and they,
with their clean uniforms and weapons that have never fired, support us.
“I’ve given a kid water and Gatorade and made a friend for life. I’ve let
them look through my sunglasses - no one wears them in this country but us -
and watched them pretend to be an American soldier - a swaggering invincible
machine, secure behind his sunglasses, only because the Iraqis can’t see the
fear in his eyes.
“I’ve said it a thousand times - `God, I hate this country.’ I’ve heard it a
million times more - `This place sucks.’ In quieter moments, I’ve heard more
profound things: `Sir, this is a thousand times worse than I ever thought it
would be.’ Or, `My wife and Sgt. B’s wife were good friends - I hope she’s
taking it well.’
“They say they’re scared, and say they won’t do this or that, but when it
comes time to do it they can’t let their buddies down, can’t let their
friends go outside the wire without them, because they know it isn’t right
for the team to go into the ballgame at any less than 100 percent.
“That’s combat, I guess, and there’s no way you can be ready for it. It just
is what it is, and everybody’s experience is different. Just thought you
might want to know what it’s really like.”
ABOUT THE WRITER
Joseph L. Galloway is the senior military correspondent for Knight Ridder
Newspapers and co-author of the national best-seller “We Were Soldiers Once
… and Young.” Readers may write to him at: Knight Ridder Washington
Bureau, 700 National Press Building, Washington, D.C. 20045.
Classification: UNCLASSIFIED
Sax http://www.sevenmoore.com
Somehow it missed the original e-mail…it went:
This link http://shyzer.com/ is my son Ryan’s blog. Check out the post from September 20. Whoa!!
Goob http://www.shyzer.com
Heck no Sax, those comments will stay here forever. I might even repost it so that everybody will see it. Thanks for sharing.