The first thing you notice in combat is how your socks don't match.
This was the way my war began, deep in the Iraqi jungle, as the Cong
began blasting away with their Panzers and Charlie Company took the brunt
of the casualties trying to take El Alamain. Shit, I thought, what
a great time to be wearing a white sock on my right foot, and a pink one
on my left. The cruel symbolism of my latent Communist beliefs had
to be pushed to the background, however, when Saladin came rushing through
with his schmitar, slicing Surf Boy in half. Surf Boy had just come
from the expansive Iraqi beachhead at Normandy, bravely defying General
MacArthur's orders to stay off the waves long enough to get a good shot
at Admiral Tojo, and the irony was that he was due to go "out country"
that very night.
Me and a fellow correspondent playing Battleship while
Mosul burns
I remember the storming of Saddam's lair, high in the Bavarian mountains.
How inspiring to see the Hammer and Sickle torn down and the Stars and
Bars in its place. God save the Fairie Queene, indeed.
two of the less fortunate Iraqi ministers of information
The last place any grunt wanted to be was deep in Uday's lair, just
south of Leningrad. A whole platoon of gooks awaited the Indian scouts
patrolling the high country just south of Baghdad, and the Klan members
of the 13th Mississippi were pinned down by Red Communist snipers in pink
tutus and SS members denying they knew where the camps were.
Scenes from the Halliburton victory celebration
The camps. My god, how horrible a sight, so many fresh-faced Danes
forced to shine shoes all day, all night. The brutal inhumanity,
all praise to Allah aside, was too much to bear, and I was glad when we
ambushed the defenseless Gypsies on their way to Tikrit (no doubt to sell
their nuclear warheads to the Swiss).
Those poor, poor Danes
No, it wasn't all fun and games: there was the massacre of Custer and
his Wehrmacht unit just over the border in Sri Lanka, and I'll never be
able to erase the sight of Pickett's charge just outside the Alamo, before
the Spanish on San Juan Hill opened fire with their Tommy Guns. And
the St. Valentine's massacre of fifty defenseless Iraqi information ministers
was even abhorrent to our allies in Milwaukee and Denver. Fuck the
Coloradians if they can't take a little bloodshed in between the weather
and sports, I say.
After his unsuccessful charge at the Alamo, Pickett proved
more successful charging through Mrs. Hussein's thick layers of petticoats
There was no better feeling than the one I got off an Asian prostitute
deep in the bowels of Baghdad, just hours after the Japs dumped a megaton
warhead on themselves and the Germans played hopscotch on Churchill's fat
head. And the final day when we got to kick Hitler's mustache around
was fantastic, Nigel and all the fine young chaps who gave their lives
in the fields of Flanders will not be soon forgotten, but only in time.
My wartime lover, the Asian whore in Baghdad
George the Third was put into power recently, and I hope he can keep
those sympathetic to the Clampetts in line. Meanwhile, frontier justice
reigns in the urban jungle of Basra, where arms can be bought for money
or camels. And fleets of former Iraqi warships are now in the possession
of drug dealers from Cuba. A great moment for democracy, and a fitting
end to the War to End No Wars. Never have so many owed so few so
much back taxes and waivers to get out of the draft.
The well equipped American soldier
Hmm, my lobotomy seems to not be going so well...
the sober reality of battle has obviously driven me crazy
- Trevor
