Live From Iraq.

Each day is a struggle and an inherent choice to do what is wrong even when it feels right.  Strange as the last sentence may appear it is worded carefully to explain what Live From Iraq means to those that have ever stepped foot on the sands of the God-forsaken land of the Hodji.  Before I continue, know that I use Hodji in the connection that a Marine uses when he discriminates his enemy from himself.  Hodji is as blatant a bigot response as any that currently we shutter to say in the presence of Mexican Americans, African Americans, or Native Americans.  We each know of a derogative connotation and can express a disgust for a whole unification and symbolism of a group with simple slanderous words. It is known that these are insults and meant to cut at the deepest emotional sensation in those being attacked.

However, Hodji for a Marine is no different than Gook or Charlie or VC when used in the vernacular of Vietnam era Marines.  As Marines we speak freely or not at all.  That is the cockiness that war on top of the distinguishing triumph of earning an Eagle, Globe, and Anchor permit the Marine.  To use the wrong word in the right spot, and eventually doing the wrong action even when it feels so right.  

This is insane, I can hear you question my self-rightousness and wonder how I have the ability to be racist to a dignified body of people.  Yes, judge freely, attack the concepts that CNN, Fox News, and the New York Times have lain out for you to ingest and feel superior to those sinister forces of the U.S. Marine Corps and their mission to topple not Saddam Hussein but the whole existence and culture of the Iraqi people.  

Live From Iraq is not an attempt to be politically correct, instead it is a "REAL" (scary fingers) recollection as to what it means to truly be Live From Iraq.  Hodji is slanderous and I understand that in complete agreement, however, using the term is to truly embrace a Marine or any service-member in any point or time of the Iraqi war.

The following paragraphs will use the language appropriate of the situation as well as embrace the preconceived hatred of a body of people we knew little about and inherently judgement was passed before we stepped foot into their country.  Iraqi's were Hodjis and the only "good Hodji" is a "dead Hodji."  You won't find this written on any official government letterhead or email but this truth was known on February 12, 2003 when I touched down in Kuwait.  

The C-130 Hercules was loaded full of seabags, Molle packs, vehicles, and disgruntled Marines.  19 hours on a flight to a shit hole country will piss off even the most level headed person, now lend that emotion to trigger happy teens in the willing attempt to go to war with people "we" know are standing at the ready.  As one high-ranking enlisted man would put it, "They're there to kill you God-dammit!  They are dug in as deep as possible and waiting for you."

I'd like to take this moment to thank that Marine that made empty promises to our company and never came through, with a few of the following phrases which remain paramount descriptions of upper-echelon leadership;

"When you're a 1st Sgt. then you can have your own cage."

"Take your feelings and put em' in a fucking jar."

"She's at home bangin' Jodie right now, so get it off your fucking minds."

"Fuck with me and I'll put a bullet in your head."

"You fuck me, I'll fuck you, deeper and harder, with a bigger dick and more stamina."

"Home by Father's Day!"  (Yeah right you fuck).

Seriously I wonder if once you get so salty (old and hard) they send you to a course just to learn to cuss and put together anecdotes for daily speech.  I could list a thousand or better, but they would only serve to show the lack of spoken discipline in the Marine Corps.

Feb. 12, 2003

My diary entry would have read something like this,

Arrived in this shit hole.  The C-130 opened and it was like Satan inhaled at the same time I exhaled.  Breathing was labored for a few minutes and my chest felt tight as I walked off the plane.  Nervous, probably, but it was 120 degrees and as we later would hear this was a good day.  We made our way to waiting company vehicles that had arrived on Feb. 9th.  Of course, being that we arrived three days after the advanced party we were already the FNG's in country.  (Fucking New Guy).  We were given an ammo crate full of ammunition and told to fill our magazines.  A magazine for the M-16 A2 service rifle has the capacity for 30 rounds.  However, to prevent jamming, which we learned from our Vietnam War fathers, we loaded 25 rounds in each.  Ammo is heavy but as lessons had taught us in skirmishes past, Marines have a tendency to shot every last fucking bullet and then wonder when more would arrive.  It's comparative to leaving the water on while you brush your teeth.  At this point I feel like breaking into to some earth-friendly song but that may distract from the already apparent distractions.

Magazines full we proceeded to pile into vehicles and get the lay of the land.  Driving through Kuwait is the first immediate culture shock.  (A lot of Marines had a hard time realizing that not all "Hodjis" are in fact "Hodjis").  We made our way to the first firm base and got racked out on cots in nice tents put in place for us by the Pakistani's prior to our arrival.  Nice in the way a tent in the middle of the fucking desert could possibly be anyways.  Leaving the vehicles and walking up to the Hooch, that we would bed down in I greeted my brother, who now sported a shaved head and the typical Camel light tucked behind his ear.  Grabbing the cig and rough-housing a little, we established a prehistoric dominance bond.  Something about a little roughness that secures Marines in the notion of security.  I found my rack next to Whit's.  (Cpl. James E. Whitney).  Unloading my shit I secured an empty MRE box and made a nice night stand on which I could store my gas mask and MP notebook.  Two clarifications, MRE, Meal Ready to Eat, comes in two varieties, MRE Alpha and MRE Bravo, this refers to the case and what its contents are.  Each box contains 24 meals and sports such classics as, Pork Patty, Five-Fingers of Death, Beef Stew, Chicken Patty, the usual shit that appeals to civilians on an occasion basis but gets old very fucking quickly in the deployed Marine's diet.  The other is MP notebook, my MOS, military occupational specialty, is 5811 Military Police.  An MP notebook is one of this items required in every formation to check on the diligence of every Marine present but separate of those rare occasions just a useless notebook of scrap paper.