Guest Column: from an actual Troop!

Dear Friends,

Occasionally The Swill to Power will feature guest reflections from colleagues, friends, enemies, and random thinkers whose prose is fit for The Pro's. Today, some thoughts on Military Service from a tenured scholar at a prominent national university. Professor Chirch Van Crash, a decorated veteran (pseudonym, but no joke), entered the wilds of academia after successfully avoiding nun-raping excesses whilst doing Reagan's dirty business in Central America. Enjoy......

Hola Folks!

Enjoyed MGS's sweet reflections on being a Nephew of Uncle Sam, philosophy, theory, and the role of good ol' boys in the trenches....errrr....Sands of Falluja. (Imagine if the Duke were around to make a movie about liberating the Muqtada Militia from themselves.) As a former USMC brat myself and a Veteran not only of the 82nd Airborne and all the fun shite that goes along with that, but also a VFW qualifier and National Guardsman, I can appreciate pretty much all the 11/11 hoopla in the post. Bravo. Of course I have to add a few bits-o-my-own now that I'm far removed from the rigour of military life. I should warn, though, that my status as a "former" GI is always in doubt. Afterall, who needs a draft when there are so many fit 40yr old vets rolling around Wal Mart's isles in those little electric shopping carts, eh?

Was in the City of Brutherly Luv last summer and ran into one of my bros from my dayze in Central America, way back during Ronnie's reign in the CW. Strange for all kinds of reasons, but we hit it off pretty well. That is until I drank six martinis and called his wife--former Air Force officer and current right wing crackpot--a "stupid whore." Ooops. Oh well, she was an officer after all. (Or maybe it was my wife, although she's on our team; GW Haters.)

So yesterday, 11/11, he sends me an email and wishes me the best. Nice. Also hooks me up with the webpage of our former unit. Gotta tell ya and I hate to say it, but checking out the images from our modern day real American heroes left a lump in my throat. Felt like I was one of them, which I suppose I am, and easily put myself in their boots. I remembered how great it was being hazed by my comrades. Doing a million push-ups, butt-ass naked in the shower. To be young and strong! Duct taped into a sleeping bag and swung like a giant pendulum from the third floor of the barracks back at Fort Bragg, slowly carving "DEATH FROM ABOVE" into my psyche like "PRISON" so gently inscribed the flesh of Kafka's imagination. To build unit integrity is no clean task.

When I'd done my time as a "cherry", it was my turn to do the dirty work. By early 1987, I'd been hardened by toilet cleaning, swamp sleeping, bug bites, countless hangovers, dope-dazed C130 jumps at 3AM, 72 hours stretches of physical engagement, too many “that’s a really nice foxhole…now move it ten feet to the left”, blah, blah, blah, I was well prepared to condition my protégés to follow in my footsteps. My contribution to those hoping to "Be all that [they could] be" as one of "America's Guard of Honor" was something we decided was best called "mopping." Get an 18yr old shit-faced drunk, strip him naked, hang him by the wrists under a cold shower, and beat the living shit out of him with a wet mop surely hardened him as it would any "man" for the travails that lay ahead.

Now, looking back with a nostalgia I have a difficulty expressing, kicking someone to death seems reasonable enough. No pain, no gain, after all. Eh? That's why they put steel toes on jump boots, right? They say our troops aren't equipped. Ha! Did you see the dog leash in Newsweek’s coverage of Abu Grahib? I walk my pet with an old extension cord and I’m happy to have it! Thank you, VA.

So as we reminisce and look back at the sacrifices our vets have made and continue to make for the nation, remember, when I was earning that free beer no one has ever bought me on Veteran’s Day, we couldn’t afford the porn that MSG so kindly proposes we send to our fine young cannibals in the Middle East today. With the weekend and 10 bucks, we had a choice. A tough choice. Two nights of fisticuffs at the Flaming Mug, or a quick doggie style with a toothless slut behind a milk truck on Bragg Blvd., followed by a $10.00 paycheck from the Plasma Center—often on the table immediately next to the proprietor who earned your ten bucks the night before—so you could still make last call. Besides, at least Lynddie England was getting laid, right? Didn’t cost her shit.

Right’o!
Chirch van Crash