[Milton-L] In Quintam Novembris

Carrol Cox cbcox at ilstu.edu
Sat Nov 5 19:06:11 EST 2005

> Carol Barton wrote:
> May we never have to "celebrate" another terrorist act--successful or not.

But the US & the UK are committing terrorist acts by the score every day
in Iraq.


Le Nouvel Observateur	  Thursday 27 October 2005 edition

Confessions of a Marine

By Jean-Paul Mari

Iraq: The story no American publisher wanted.

In a just-published book, Master-Sergeant Jimmy Massey tells about his
mission to recruit for, then fight in, the war in Iraq. He tells why he
killed. And cracked. 

Jimmy Massey is 34 years old. He's originally a Texas boy, raised as a
good Southern Baptist who loves squirrel hunting with his air rifle.
After 12 years in the Marines, Jim is a broken man, a veteran afflicted
with Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome, a depressive hooked on his
medications, haunted by the nightmare images in which he massacres
innocent civilians, scenes experienced in Iraq when he was nothing but a
killing machine. Jim has cracked, has withdrawn from the service for
medical reasons, and has written a raw and brutal book. Telling the life
of a Marine of today, revealing "how he talks, how he thinks, how he
fucks, and how he kills." The army denies the facts and his former
comrades have insulted, rejected, and threatened him. His testimony
ulcerates Neo-Conservative America and shocks the politically correct.
In the United States, no publishing house has dared to publish his
manuscript. Extracts follow. 


We had reached the military site Al-Rashid on an overcast, dark and
sinister day. [...] When we stopped, I saw ten Iraqis, about 150 yards
away. They were under forty years old, clean and dressed in the
traditional white garment. They stayed on the side of the road waving
signs and screaming anti-American slogans. [...] That's when I heard a
shot pass just over our heads, from right to left. I ran into the middle
of the street to see what was happening. I had barely rejoined Schutz
when my guys unloaded their weapons on the demonstrators. It only took
me three seconds to take aim. I aimed my sights on the center of a
demonstrator's body. I breathed in deeply and, as I exhaled, I gently
opened my right eye and fired. I watched the bullets hit the
demonstrator right in the middle of his chest. My Marines barked: "Come
on, little girls! You wanna fight?" 

I acquired a new target right away, a demonstrator on all fours who was
trying to run away as fast as possible. I quickly aimed for the head; I
breathed in deeply, breathed out, and I fired again. One head: boom!
Another: boom! The center of a mass in the bull's eye: boom! Another:
boom! I kept on until the moment when I saw no more movement from the
demonstrators. There was no answering fire. I must have fired at least a
dozen times. It all lasted no longer than two and a half minutes. 

I know that they had also been shot in the back; some of them were
crawling and their white clothes turned red. The M-16's 5.56 is a nasty
bullet: it doesn't kill all at once. For example, it can enter the chest
and come out at the knee, tearing all the internal organs on the way
through. My guys were jumping around in every direction. Taylor and
Gaumont hollered: "Come back, babies!" "They don't know how to fight,
those cocksuckers! Fucking cowards!" They slapped one another on the
back, exchanging "Good job!," but they were frustrated because some
demonstrators had succeeded in getting away. I wanted to keep on firing,
I kept telling myself: "Good God, there must be more of them." It was
like eating the first spoonful of your favorite ice cream. You want
more. [...] 

Those demonstrators were the first people I killed. [...] That had a
hell of an effect on me. What an adrenaline, rush, fuck! Fear becomes a
motor. It pushes you. It had more of an impact on me than the best grass
I ever smoked. It was as though all those I had ever hated, all the
anger that was accumulated in me was there in that being; you feel like
you're absorbing life like a cannibal. You're really happy with
yourself; you feel really powerful and everything becomes clear. You
reach nirvana, like a white luminous space. But after a few hours, you
come down from nirvana and find yourself in dark waters; you swim in a
pool of mud and the only way to go back to that other feeling is to kill
again. [...] 

After pulling out at dusk, we heard shots, at least a hundred. Lima
Company had opened fire on a vehicle. I learned later that there were
three women and a child inside. As far as I know, there was never any
inquiry. [...] 

Forty-five minutes later, a red Kia Spectra came towards us at around 35
mph. It penetrated the green zone; a few of my Marines let loose a
warning round and the sniper fired on the engine, but the damage didn't
keep the car from continuing into the red zone. The vehicles installed
in the rear immediately opened fire with their 240 Gulfs; we joined in
with our M-16s, targeting the car and firing at least 200 rounds at high
speed. The KIA stopped in a grating around 25 yards from my Humvee, and
my Marines pounced on the vehicle and began to extract the four wounded
Iraqis. The occupants, young men tastefully dressed, were bleeding
profusely. [...] Six stretcher bearers arrived with stretchers and took
them away. The survivor came towards me groaning, a tortured expression
covering his face. He looked in the air, his hands raised: "Why did you
kill my brother? We didn't do anything to you. We're not terrorists." 

I walked away without saying anything to him and sat down inside my
vehicle, devastated. I got out when I heard the Marines and the
stretcher-bearers bringing the Kia's occupants back to the car. "Fuck,
what are you bringing them back for?" "Chief-Sergeant, the chief Medical
Officer said he couldn't do anything for them." I looked at the Iraqis,
containing my anger with difficulty. They were twisting and groaning,
dying by inches and in pain. [...] I couldn't speak. I looked inside the
car. Obviously, there were neither weapons nor explosives there. I was
more and more disgusted. 

The Last Straw 

[...] Captain Schmitt came towards me and asked me, very calmly: "Are
you OK, Chief-Sergeant? [...]" "- No, Captain. I'm not OK." "- Why not?"
I answered without hesitation: "It's a bad day. We killed a lot of
innocent civilians." "- No. It's a good day," he retorted in an
authoritarian tone. Before I had time to answer, he had already moved
away from me with a confident tread. 

Today, Jimmy Massey is no longer a Marine. He lives in a little village
in North Carolina, spends his time making anti-recruitment visits to
schools and militating against the war in the association he founded
with five other soldiers: Veterans Against the War. 


(*) Kill! Kill! Kill! by Jimmy Massey (with Natasha Saulnier), published
by Editions du Panama, 390 p., 22 Euros.

When I was in junior high and high school back in the 1940s we used to
wonder what the "Good Germans" thought about the war. Now all one has to
do is read the daily newspaper to find out what today's "Good
[Americans]" are thinking.

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