Gung-Ho for Gomorrah
Gung-Ho for Gomorrah.
“Twice put up and twice cast down, the East will also weaken the West…”
– Nostradamus (1503-1566)
Tears well up as I watch the bright young faces and long lithe limbs of the men of the 82nd Airborne get kitted up for deployment to the Middle-East. “We’re going to war, bro!”, one red headed infantryman announces with the naivety of a junior freshman heading off to college. An image that brings to mind the black and white photographs of teenage GI’s lining up on a rain-lashed dockside to board troop ships from New York to Europe in 1944, the recruitment posters that featured captions like: “We care more about how you think than how you cut your hair” in an attempt to counter the massive anti-draft sentiment aroused by the Vietnam War in the early 70’s, the televised footage of the panicked Operation Frequent Wind evacuation of the US Embassy compound in Saigon in April 1975, and of course the embarrassing spectacle of crashed and burnt out RH-53D helicopters during Operation Eagle Claw, when President Jimmy Carter was forced to abort his attempt to free the 53 US hostages trapped inside the US embassy in Tehran in April 1980.
Although enamored by books like William March’s Company K (1933), James Jones’s The Thin Red Line (1962) and Bao Ninh’s The Sorrow of War (1990), believe me when I say I am no pacifist. Indeed, my stomach turns when I think of the true motivation behind novels like the Zionist sponsored Bertha von Suttner’s novel Lay Down Your Arms (1906), Joseph Heller’s Catch-22 (1961) and Michael Herr’s Dispatches (1977). Texts intended to question as well as undermine the will of the White world to defend itself and uphold traditional martial values. Which is in marked contrast to the purpose of Leon Uris’s much lauded and far overrated book, Exodus (1958), which glorifies the murderous guerilla war waged by Jewish migrants in post-war Palestine against both the British and the Arab communities they encounter there.
So, when I see the thumbs-up bravado of the young guns from places like Ashboro, Virginia, the slim-wasted girls from Fayetteville pulling on their fatigues and buckling their webbing, and the grinning slack-bellied politicians, in the pay of casino-magnates, slapping the backs of the troopers sitting on benches quaffing a breakfast of eggs, waffles, oatmeal and doughnuts, my heart sinks and I hear myself sigh.
“Next stop Kuwait!”, someone cries. “We’re stoked to go!”, another claims as he lifts his CSASS sniper rifle towards the sky. Turbo-charged and adrenalin high they march three abreast to the cigar-shaped carriers, carrying their 34 kg back-packs, armor-plated vests and M4 carbines, keen to fulfill the Commander-in-Chief’s promise to put ‘boots on the ground in the Promised Land’. To ensure the survival of the region’s only democracy, protect an unswerving ally and uphold America’s commitment to liberty. Words that ring hollow to my mind.
For those heading out of Fort Bragg, North Carolina, carrying armfuls of ammunition and the hopes of their nation, are not the first to go and they will not be the last to die. Because Tel Aviv’s land hunger is insatiable and the President’s need for another Desert Storm filled with “shock and awe” is most dire. First it was Iraq and then Afghanistan. Then it was Gaddafi, Egypt and Syria. And now it is Iran. Endless wars in miserable lands that bleed America’s youth dry while a relentless surge of anchor-babies and southern border insurgents constantly arrive.
“We’re an infantry brigade.”, one commander snaps at a journalist, “Our primary mission is ground fighting. This is as real as it gets”. Behind him, a sergeant is rattling off surnames, ticking a list as the roll call echoes with “Here”, “Yup” and Yo”. An all too familiar scene, as the gullible-goy ride out like the 7th Cavalry once more, to chase down the latest version of the cinematic Apache, Sioux and Comanche, while Wall Street purrs, the New York Times opines about war-zone refugees and Congressmen light Hanukkah candles on the White House lawn.