Confessions of a Marine

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Confessions of a Marine

Wed, 02 Nov 2005 14:09:18 -0800

 

 

Confessions of a Marine

http://www.truthout.org/docs_2005/110205A.shtml

The story no American publisher wanted: In a book just published in

France, Master-Sergeant Jimmy Massey writes about his mission to

recruit for, then fight in, the war in Iraq. He tells why he killed.

And cracked.

 

 

 

 

http://www.truthout.org/docs_2005/110205A.shtml

 

Confessions of a Marine

By Jean-Paul Mari

Le Nouvel Observateur

 

Thursday 27 October 2005 edition

 

Iraq: The story no American publisher wanted.

 

In a just-published book, Master-Sergeant Jimmy Massey tells about

his mission to recruit for, then fight in, the war in Iraq. He tells

why he killed. And cracked.

 

Jimmy Massey is 34 years old. He's originally a Texas boy, raised

as a good Southern Baptist who loves squirrel hunting with his air

rifle. After 12 years in the Marines, Jim is a broken man, a veteran

afflicted with Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome, a depressive hooked on

his medications, haunted by the nightmare images in which he massacres

innocent civilians, scenes experienced in Iraq when he was nothing but

a killing machine. Jim has cracked, has withdrawn from the service for

medical reasons, and has written a raw and brutal book. Telling the

life of a Marine of today, revealing " how he talks, how he thinks, how

he fucks, and how he kills. " The army denies the facts and his former

comrades have insulted, rejected, and threatened him. His testimony

ulcerates Neo-Conservative America and shocks the politically correct.

In the United States, no publishing house has dared to publish his

manuscript. Extracts follow.

 

The Recruiter

 

When you're a recruiter, you have to learn fast. And I rapidly

learned that if I wanted to keep my job, I couldn't allow myself to

have any scruples.

 

I went to public schools every day where I was able to contact

young people easily. I had already been given a list of all the

students, with their phone numbers. So I really didn't need the 2002

law - the No Child Left Behind Act 1 - which stipulates that any high

school receiving federal funds must furnish military recruitment

officers with the names, addresses, and telephone numbers of its

students. [...] As usual, I said to myself, " I'm going to get them,

those fuckheads, " since, you must understand, a recruiter has only one

thing in his head if he wants to pay his rent: landing contracts. [...]

 

One day in 2000, I was with my warrant officer in the cafeteria of

a little local university. Chief Warrant Officer Dalhouse rushed over

to me, saying " Hey! Chief-Sergeant, I'd like to introduce you to

Timmy. " I lifted my head towards Timmy to discover ... a retard! Two

hundred and ten pounds of muscles, the features and the speech of a

retard. Upset, I looked at my new boss and asked him: " Are you

shitting me? " He firmly replied: " No, Chief-Sergeant, you are going to

interview this guy. He is seriously thinking about joining the Marines. "

 

[...] Timmy was short and massive; he wore blue jeans, work boots,

and a T-shirt in the Andrews High School football team colors. He

reminded me of the Lenny character from Steinbeck's " Of Mice and Men. "

He seriously wanted to sign up with the Marines; it was obvious. [...]

" Now, let's talk about your handicap. I know it's been harder for you

than the average person and you've already shown a lot of

self-confidence by overcoming your disability. " Timmy lowered his

eyes; I saw he was a little embarrassed. Then he raised his head, his

eyes glistening with tears, and in a trembling voice, answered:

" You're right, Sergeant, it's been really hard for me. Once, when I

was new, the other guys locked me in a closet. They shoved me around

and insulted me. I was so angry I knocked down the closet door. " " -

Timmy, no one will ever bother you again. The Corps will help you

acquire all the self-confidence you'll need to overcome the obstacles

you could encounter in the course of your life. " He sent me a look

full of gratitude. [...]

 

When a kid told me he had taken Ecstasy, here's the sort of

conversation we'd have: " Listen, guy, are you sure it was really

Ecstasy? Maybe it was Doliprane. " When I said that, I'd nod my head up

and down. " Yeah, I'm not sure, in fact. " " So you think it was

Doliprane? " still nodding my head. " Yeah, it was Doliprane. " [...]

 

The War in Iraq

 

" You call that pacification? I've got a problem with it, " I said

in a nauseated voice. " My friend, you've gotta get a grip. If you keep

making waves, they'll judge you as a war criminal. "

 

We had reached the military site Al-Rashid on an overcast, dark

and sinister day. [...] When we stopped, I saw ten Iraqis, about 150

yards away. They were under forty years old, clean and dressed in the

traditional white garment. They stayed on the side of the road waving

signs and screaming anti-American slogans. [...] That's when I heard a

shot pass just over our heads, from right to left. I ran into the

middle of the street to see what was happening. I had barely rejoined

Schutz when my guys unloaded their weapons on the demonstrators. It

only took me three seconds to take aim. I aimed my sights on the

center of a demonstrator's body. I breathed in deeply and, as I

exhaled, I gently opened my right eye and fired. I watched the bullets

hit the demonstrator right in the middle of his chest. My Marines

barked: " Come on, little girls! You wanna fight? "

 

I acquired a new target right away, a demonstrator on all fours

who was trying to run away as fast as possible. I quickly aimed for

the head; I breathed in deeply, breathed out, and I fired again. One

head: boom! Another: boom! The center of a mass in the bull's eye:

boom! Another: boom! I kept on until the moment when I saw no more

movement from the demonstrators. There was no answering fire. I must

have fired at least a dozen times. It all lasted no longer than two

and a half minutes.

 

I know that they had also been shot in the back; some of them were

crawling and their white clothes turned red. The M-16's 5.56 is a

nasty bullet: it doesn't kill all at once. For example, it can enter

the chest and come out at the knee, tearing all the internal organs on

the way through. My guys were jumping around in every direction.

Taylor and Gaumont hollered: " Come back, babies! " " They don't know how

to fight, those cocksuckers! Fucking cowards! " They slapped one

another on the back, exchanging " Good job!, " but they were frustrated

because some demonstrators had succeeded in getting away. I wanted to

keep on firing, I kept telling myself: " Good God, there must be more

of them. " It was like eating the first spoonful of your favorite ice

cream. You want more. [...]

 

Those demonstrators were the first people I killed. [...] That had

a hell of an effect on me. What an adrenaline, rush, fuck! Fear

becomes a motor. It pushes you. It had more of an impact on me than

the best grass I ever smoked. It was as though all those I had ever

hated, all the anger that was accumulated in me was there in that

being; you feel like you're absorbing life like a cannibal. You're

really happy with yourself; you feel really powerful and everything

becomes clear. You reach nirvana, like a white luminous space. But

after a few hours, you come down from nirvana and find yourself in

dark waters; you swim in a pool of mud and the only way to go back to

that other feeling is to kill again. [...]

 

After pulling out at dusk, we heard shots, at least a hundred.

Lima Company had opened fire on a vehicle. I learned later that there

were three women and a child inside. As far as I know, there was never

any inquiry. [...]

 

Forty-five minutes later, a red Kia Spectra came towards us at

around 35 mph. It penetrated the green zone; a few of my Marines let

loose a warning round and the sniper fired on the engine, but the

damage didn't keep the car from continuing into the red zone. The

vehicles installed in the rear immediately opened fire with their 240

Gulfs; we joined in with our M-16s, targeting the car and firing at

least 200 rounds at high speed. The KIA stopped in a grating around 25

yards from my Humvee, and my Marines pounced on the vehicle and began

to extract the four wounded Iraqis. The occupants, young men

tastefully dressed, were bleeding profusely. [...] Six stretcher

bearers arrived with stretchers and took them away. The survivor came

towards me groaning, a tortured expression covering his face. He

looked in the air, his hands raised: " Why did you kill my brother? We

didn't do anything to you. We're not terrorists. "

 

I walked away without saying anything to him and sat down inside

my vehicle, devastated. I got out when I heard the Marines and the

stretcher-bearers bringing the Kia's occupants back to the car. " Fuck,

what are you bringing them back for? " " Chief-Sergeant, the chief

Medical Officer said he couldn't do anything for them. " I looked at

the Iraqis, containing my anger with difficulty. They were twisting

and groaning, dying by inches and in pain. [...] I couldn't speak. I

looked inside the car. Obviously, there were neither weapons nor

explosives there. I was more and more disgusted.

 

The Last Straw

 

[...] Captain Schmitt came towards me and asked me, very calmly:

" Are you OK, Chief-Sergeant? [...] " " - No, Captain. I'm not OK. " " -

Why not? " I answered without hesitation: " It's a bad day. We killed a

lot of innocent civilians. " " - No. It's a good day, " he retorted in an

authoritarian tone. Before I had time to answer, he had already moved

away from me with a confident tread.

 

Today, Jimmy Massey is no longer a Marine. He lives in a little

village in North Carolina, spends his time making anti-recruitment

visits to schools and militating against the war in the association he

founded with five other soldiers: Veterans Against the War.

 

----

 

(*)Kill! Kill! Kill! by Jimmy Massey (with Natasha Saulnier),

published by Editions du Panama, 390 p., 22 Euros.

 

Translation: t r u t h o u t French language correspondent Leslie

Thatcher.

 

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