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"PORNOGRAPHY" OF VIOLENCE. These kids are also stoked -- and not just on pretty dreams of patriotism. The recruiters fill them full of stories of cheap sex and rot-gut booze, and they're woozy with repeated viewings of war movies. Here's how Swofford and his buddies psyche themselves up before shipping out from their base in Southern California to Kuwait in 1990: "For three days we sit in our rec room and drink beer and watch [war] movies and we yell 'Semper Fi!' and we head-butt and beat the crap out of each other and we get off on various visions of carnage and violence and deceit, the raping and killing and pillaging."
Vietnam War films like Apocalypse Now, Full Metal Jacket and Platoon may seem to have an antiwar message to the critics, but to these kids they're "pornography," Swofford writes, because "the magic brutality of the films celebrates the terrible and despicable beauty" of fighting.
They're all afraid, he admits, "but show this in various ways -- violent indifference, fake ease, standard-issue bravura. We are afraid, but that doesn't mean we don't want to fight."
FACES OF DEATH. Are they ready for the kind of mean, dirty fight that may await them? By Swofford's account, America's jarheads are extremely well-trained and in astonishing physical condition (they spend about 35 hours per week working out). They're fierce in battle, and they have an incredible array of weapons and technology at their disposal.
If his experience is any indication, however, these soldiers may not be well-prepared for a chemical attack. He describes how an officer had his unit in the desert play a football game in full chemical-weapon protective gear to show two visiting reporters his men's readiness. The chemical warfare suits were leaky and ungodly hot, the gas masks didn't work, and the soldiers had to pull up their hoods to drink out of special chemical-warfare canteens. In the end, one of the soldiers doused the suits with fuel and torched them.
As Swofford's tough, patriotic father shows, no one can really prepare for the routine horrors of war. Though Anthony didn't end up shooting any Iraqis, his unit was attacked twice (once by friendly forces), and he was nearly killed by a boobytrap. I suspect, however, that the memories that haunt him are the ones described near the end of his book, where his unit romps across landscapes of dead Iraqi soldiers, incinerated by American bombs. Here's one of the more memorable scenes:
"Six tin coffee cups sit among the remains of fire. The men's boots are cooked to their feet. The man to my right has no head. To my left, the man's head is between his legs, and his arms hang at his sides like the burnt flags of defeated countries. The insects of the dead are swarming. Though I can make out no insignia, I imagine that the man across from me commanded the unit, and that when the bombs landed, he was in the middle of issuing a patrol order, 'Tomorrow we will kick some American ass.'"
These Iraqis soldiers, of course, were somebody's sons, cousins, nephews, and husbands. Given the mayhem the U.S. wreaked on Iraq in 12 years ago, and since then, it's little wonder many Iraqis are resisting this invasion, whatever their hatred of Saddam Hussein. If America had to fight them again -- and I don't think it did -- the ones doing the fighting shouldn't just be the kids from small towns, mean streets, and gritty little subdivisions. Americans should all be in it together -- or not be in it at all.
Peterson is a contributing editor at BusinessWeek Online. Follow his weekly Moveable Feast column, only on BusinessWeek Online Edited by Douglas Harbrecht
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