IrishGold
03-25-2003, 11:11 PM
I have seen posts by others here, all espousing their views and posting website addresses of articles that bolster their particular points of view, but let me tell you this; war is not about boycotting products, whether they be French or American. It is not about mood changes of people in southern California, or what this general or that admiral thinks. It is not about how the market will react to this piece of news or that rumor. It is not about oil, the euro, the dollar, yen, gold or any other thing you can lay your hand on. It is not about politics, religion or morals (or any lack thereof).
Do you want to know what war is really about?
It is about having to go out on patrol, knowing you are going to have to kill or be killed and being so fearful, you loose control, and wet your pants.
It is wondering if you will let your buddies down when the critical time comes. If you can really execute all the things you have been taught.
It is the adrenalin rush, when contact with the enemy is first made. It is such a feeling of power that for some, it becomes quite addictive.
It is finding out that you really can look another person in the eye, pull the trigger and take their life. It is also finding out, after several times, it doesn’t bother you anymore. Just the first, and maybe some special ones like the pregnant woman trying to take off your buddy’s head with a bush knife. Those have a way of remaining in your memory forever.
It is the stench of battle, which is one that once experienced, you will never forget. It is the smell of gunpowder sweat, blood, vomit, urine, feces and rotting human flesh, all mixed together into one horrible scent that invades your nostrils and overwhelms your senses. You choke and gag, and would do anything to get a breath of fresh air, but it stays with you, permeating your clothes, your hair and skin so much that it seems like it is still there, days and weeks later.
It is about the fact that when someone is shot in the gut and their intestines are lying out on the ground, it can still take them more than an hour to die. All the while, their buddies are trying to comfort them, but those same buddies would do almost anything to stop the screaming!
It is about the fact that when someone is shot in the head, they don’t just fall over like in the movies. They thrash around exactly like the old saying “like a chicken with it’s head cut off.” They arch their back so violently they practically come off the ground. They kick their legs, drumming their feet on the ground for long periods of time. Even after the major movements cease, they will twitch or squirm; sometimes as long as an hour after being shot.
It is the scenes imbedded forever in your memory that cause you to curse the fates that brought you to this time and place. The vision of your best friend setting off a mine and having both legs blown off, and remembering how you had to use field dressings and bamboo sticks to make tourniquets to stop the bleeding. The slippery feel of the sticks because your hands were wet with his blood, while you were trying to tighten them. Later seeing him get so much morphine to kill the pain that he is laughing and joking about what a cripple he is going to be.
It is having to force your whole hand into the wound in the throat of one of your platoon leaders, a guy who once told you that he just got married before coming in-country, and knowing that if you can’t find that artery that’s spraying blood up into your face, his wife is going to be a widow.
It is the falling down on your knees at night and thanking God that you made it through another day, knowing full well you have to go back out beyond the wire again tomorrow.
It is hell, my friends. Those who have been there never want to go back and I pray to God, those who have not experienced it, never have to.
Do you want to know what war is really about?
It is about having to go out on patrol, knowing you are going to have to kill or be killed and being so fearful, you loose control, and wet your pants.
It is wondering if you will let your buddies down when the critical time comes. If you can really execute all the things you have been taught.
It is the adrenalin rush, when contact with the enemy is first made. It is such a feeling of power that for some, it becomes quite addictive.
It is finding out that you really can look another person in the eye, pull the trigger and take their life. It is also finding out, after several times, it doesn’t bother you anymore. Just the first, and maybe some special ones like the pregnant woman trying to take off your buddy’s head with a bush knife. Those have a way of remaining in your memory forever.
It is the stench of battle, which is one that once experienced, you will never forget. It is the smell of gunpowder sweat, blood, vomit, urine, feces and rotting human flesh, all mixed together into one horrible scent that invades your nostrils and overwhelms your senses. You choke and gag, and would do anything to get a breath of fresh air, but it stays with you, permeating your clothes, your hair and skin so much that it seems like it is still there, days and weeks later.
It is about the fact that when someone is shot in the gut and their intestines are lying out on the ground, it can still take them more than an hour to die. All the while, their buddies are trying to comfort them, but those same buddies would do almost anything to stop the screaming!
It is about the fact that when someone is shot in the head, they don’t just fall over like in the movies. They thrash around exactly like the old saying “like a chicken with it’s head cut off.” They arch their back so violently they practically come off the ground. They kick their legs, drumming their feet on the ground for long periods of time. Even after the major movements cease, they will twitch or squirm; sometimes as long as an hour after being shot.
It is the scenes imbedded forever in your memory that cause you to curse the fates that brought you to this time and place. The vision of your best friend setting off a mine and having both legs blown off, and remembering how you had to use field dressings and bamboo sticks to make tourniquets to stop the bleeding. The slippery feel of the sticks because your hands were wet with his blood, while you were trying to tighten them. Later seeing him get so much morphine to kill the pain that he is laughing and joking about what a cripple he is going to be.
It is having to force your whole hand into the wound in the throat of one of your platoon leaders, a guy who once told you that he just got married before coming in-country, and knowing that if you can’t find that artery that’s spraying blood up into your face, his wife is going to be a widow.
It is the falling down on your knees at night and thanking God that you made it through another day, knowing full well you have to go back out beyond the wire again tomorrow.
It is hell, my friends. Those who have been there never want to go back and I pray to God, those who have not experienced it, never have to.