Roy Scranton - War Porn

Othman watched the discussion from the other end of the kitchen, fiddling with his lighter. Then he tapped it loudly on the table. “I’ll go,” he said.

Mohammed waved the idea away. “Don’t be an idiot.”

“I’ll go with him. I can shoot, I can drive. I know the roads. We both know some English.”

“A fool and a cripple. What a team.”

“Mohammed, my friend, it’s only seventy-five kilometers. I’ll go visit your sister-in-law, drop off Qasim, and I can be back the next day or the day after. I have an old friend in Baqubah I’d like to check up on. Consider it a favor—to me. I want to see your nephew do the right thing. Let me help him.”

Mohammed frowned, remembering the day he’d picked Othman up from al-Amn al-Amm, the Directorate of General Security: his face bruised, teeth missing, wincing as he got in the car, but smiling and joking as if nothing had happened. They said goodbye soon after, Othman going into exile in Lebanon, Mohammed not knowing if he’d ever see his friend again. He remembered Othman reciting from the Qu’ran the day he left: “Does there not pass over man a space of time when his life is a blank?” This time felt different, but how could you know? And what could he do? A man must follow the recitation of his soul. Mohammed shook his head in resignation. “Fine,” he said. “Fine.”

Qasim thanked Othman and Mohammed, then ran upstairs to pack. The two older men said nothing for a long time, smoking in silence until Mohammed stubbed out his cigarette and stood up. “Bring the car back safe,” he said, “or Thurayya will kill both of us.”

The poet’s eyes gleamed. “Insha’Allah.”

Nothing is over: This is the story of a long-haired half-crazed Vietnam vet, harassed by small-town lawmen, lost on his one-man mission of vengeance. Back in the war, he was part of a ragtag team of misfit soldiers, hand-picked for a suicide mission to kill Hitler. Good and evil. He’s a downed fighter pilot. He’s red and white and blue.

This is the story of the sword. Gun. Dawn

patrols blacktop sit guided in a bad hundred feet drowned

gulf

military units added to the

brass shell dogs devour battle

so they too were made of vanity and 72 hours not from the stories of previous wars. Violence inflicted on the largest burden themselves, some of which depicted pyramids and the rest shocked of no-man’s land. Lee Marvin leads a ragtag gang of misfits through the hell of war and loss of innocence as they fight for freedom and America from the deserts of North Africa to the forests of Germany. He’s an idealistic young officer leading his all-black regiment on a suicide attack on a coastal fortress. No-man. Through me tell the story of one man’s rage and the razing of an ancient city. He’s an idealistic young officer charged with cowardice for refusing to send his men to their death on a suicide attack

new reports

electricity

widening the circle of direct blame for shooting it up my ass. On first setting eyes, alas, my son, harassed by small town artillery emplacements, a bridge no more. Night and day did I glory in misfits hand-picked and leads a ragtag bunch of strength to all in Troy both men and hell. From the glory. A young man discovers commando war nothing, for no one pilot develops a tenuous ragtag bunch of All-American right hand like a lizard but that’s not hell, a bunch of ragtag boots lying like getting my machine impression of his wife the flow I mean when I voted for hell, horses in administrative succession, running the Achaeans divide the fate DETAINEE-07’s allegations

a tale of courage and honor, loyalty, grace under pressure and the will to win. He’s a young, dedicated soldier sent up the river to kill a rogue agent. He’s a drunk, grizzled vet sergeant fighting bureaucratic bullshit to transform a ragtag bunch of misfits into a steely band of killers, leading them to glory in the assault on Grenada. The allegations of

this man alone, unsupported, allegations of abuse, his statements available, Peleus, for he is mightier than you. Nevertheless, intel interests dogs and vultures, and a load of grief would be lifted from my damage Iraq’s eyewitness reports, life, both Iraqis cried: The British Academy has committed Muslims. Like people attacking a library. Ragtag. A young glory. An Army Special Forces operative goes up the river. A young man joins the Marines and becomes a photographer and is sent to Vietnam and learns that war is hell is hell. War story. A retired Special Forces operative returns to Vietnam to rescue his POW buddies. This is the story of the Center in Washington D.C. where he practiced for conventions of war or rules had no way to confirm they were the war near equipment in civilian areas, maintaining Abu Ghraib largely with Iraqis of “no intelligence” a lot firmer, particularly his own military; a final atrocity exploited for detainees were meant to be “exploited for” many shops know coalition forces prisoners scooped up in this way soon flooded the keepers taken all the campaign on the harsh terrain of disadvantages nighttime sweeps gave Saddam 48 hours on the harsh terrain of detainees at Abu Ghraib whomsoever Allah overcrowding difficulties

the Iraqi Academy of physical abuse while stuck here

This is a story of we happy stuck here. This is the story of a ragtag bunch of misfits picked for a suicide mission to stuck here. A young man. From the ragtag clutches. A noble, professional Special Forces commando learns that war is young. A young hell and ragtag bunch of All-American misfits fight Japs in the South Pacific and learn war is war. A bunch ragtag of young ragtag learn the true meaning of discipline and camaraderie and war and war. A young maverick risks everything to save his father from the Libyans. A ragtag bunch of Australians go halfway across the world and learn war is is. This is the story ragtag young man.

Stuck here. Stuck here. This is the story of valor, duty, and the cost of war. A young camaraderie. This is the story of a young man who learns war always has a cost. A young wacky. This is the story of a wacky bunch of ragtag misfits trying to escape from Nazi prison. A wacky bunch of ragtag misfits running an Army hospital in Korea. A ragtag maverick valor war. This is the story of a young man’s war, the story of we happy few.

fear is not shameful

if it is controlled

The plane tilted on its side and through the window in the opposite bulkhead Baghdad whirled below, taking my stomach with it. Men and women in brown DCUs turned green as we spun plummeting in a banked spiral. The guy across the aisle puked in a bag and his buddy cheered.

We rolled against the sky, then at the last minute flopped flat and came in straight. The engines growled down into the final approach, and we dropped the last few inches slamming to the deck.

They downloaded our bags and we threw them in the back of a five-ton. The truck took us to a staging area. Contacting Battalion to arrange pickup, I was surprised by how eager I felt to see my fellow soldiers—I had to make sure they were okay, but as much as that I just wanted to see their faces. They understood. They knew this shit world we lived in, knew it all better than anyone I could talk to back in Oregon. I realized as well that I was itching to get back outside the wire. The berms, palm trees, and sand around me seemed not just familiar but comforting. Normal. I wanted to scan rooftops. I wanted shots fired. I wanted ninja women in abayas, hadjis in man-dresses. I wanted to hear and talk salaam a-leykum, ishta, uskut. I wanted my rifle.

It was hard to believe I’d just been back in the land of shopping malls and big hair, showing my ex-girlfriend photo after photo: this is my humvee, this is Captain Yarrow, this is Camp Lancer, this is the UN before, the UN after. How was it possible that just a few weeks ago I’d come down into Portland, rain drumming on the plane’s windows, feeling the war slip off like an old jacket?