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In the Name of God بسم الله
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A Soldier's Perspective

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That fateful day often comes back to me. When I look down on the people who are, I think of those who were... once upon a time. Who were, and never will be again. The last battle I fought is like a sparkling gem in my memory, a gem I cannot seem to ignore. I remember myself standing in the middle of the forest; amidst all the bullets and corpses, after so many years, I was overwhelmed by the whole affair. Sick of it. Suddenly, everything seemed to be happening in slow motion. I watched helplessly as friend after friend went down, like trees being felled... while I just stood there, unable to do anything, unable to save them.

And then, I cried.

I a brave soldier, wept for my friends; for the children they would never have, for the wives they would never kiss; for all the joys they would miss.

I shed tears for the generations that would never come, for the boys who would never run. For the daughters who would never be, for the beauty they would never see. Sadly I thought of the people who would never wed, of the love that would never spread.

And with this ache in my heart, I died... a sad soldier.

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Waiting in Silence

Left and right security in position,

Rear security in place,

Clamores primed,

All weapons locked and loaded,

Zones of fire assigned to each,

In hidden silent vigilance, we wait.

Over a whispering mike,

Flash! Flash! Flash!

Enemy sighted.

By swift kicks,

Down the line from boot to boot,

With silent hand and arm signals and predatory grins,

The Platoon is goes to 100 percent.


Coming into the kill zone,

Target acquired.

Safeties off,

Muzzles tracking,

On center of mass following,


Waiting for the command of execution.

The sniper gets the nod.

He squeezes off the only bullet with a name on it.


His targets falls clear of,


Command detonated claymore mines

A sickle of death aimed low at the knees cutting through the stunned ranks.

300 hundred pellets each, sweeping though, a blade of death.

Before the numbed ears can forget the multiple echoing blasts,

The M60 machineguns start in with deep-throated roars at 600 rounds per-minute.

The angry red tracer’s streams down range clawing through six-inch trees and living flesh.

Filling the short air-cooled breaths of the M60s, the lighter answering stuttering sound of squad auto's sing at 1000 rounds per minute,

The crescendo hiding the aimed individual cracks of the M16 rifles.

Under the pelting rain of tracer and ball

The grass and brush sway and fly away

And the enemy disappears, knocked flat.

No return fire comes our way.

Above the bedlam, the first whistle blast sounds,

Repeated by voice down the line.

“Shift Fire! Shift Fire! Shift Fire!”

Another single whistle shrill,

“Cease Fire! Cease-Fire! Cease Fire!”

Then two whistle blast.

Toward the downed men,

The killer team moves in.

Sweeping through the kill zone in a silence,

Punctuated with single head shots,

Listening for...

“Objective found!

He’s alive!”

The counter begins “TWO MINUTES!”,

A flurry of commands comes from the Lieutenant

“Primary POW and Search Teams move out.

Primary Aid and Litter Teams move out.

Demolition team moves out.”

Outer security, pull in.

Heavy Weapons, move to initial rally point and establish a 360-degree defense.

Move, Move, Move, Move!

The search teams tallies and the recorder makes record.

11 enemy dead, one enemy captured, Sir.

Record it.

12 AK rifles, one RPG anti-tank rocket launcher with three reloads, Sir.

Record and trash it.

One FM radio, Sir.

Record presets frequencies and trash it.

The frequencies are: 34.56, 23.67, and 67.92.

I copy 34.56, 23.67, and 67.92.

Good copy!

Three maps, Sir.

Secure it.

One code book, Sir.

Secure it

One address book, Sir.

Secure it.

11 personal documents, Sir.

Secure them.


One Bino, Sir.

Record and trash it.

One pistol, Sir.

Record and trash it.

All Magazines are full, Sir.

Record and trash them.

Boots new, uniforms new, equipment oiled and in good condition, Sir.

Record it.

Canteens half full, one field ration per man, Sir.

Record it.

Uniform insignia all same, Sir.

Remove one and secure.

Bodies same racial type, Sir.

Record it.


Prisoner secured and ready to transport Sir!

Move out to initial rally point.


Demolition team set your C4 fuse.

Setting Fuse Sir!

Three whistle blast sound.


Security teams pull off to initial rally point.

Moving Sir!



Ambush site is clear sir!

Good job Sergent.

All security teams move rally point.


Demolition, pull out!


Moving Sir!

The remaining seconds pass and end it


Wrapped in cordite smoke,

In stunned tortured silence,

Under the corpses,

One grenade,

Hidden and primed,

Waiting in silence.

Edited by Spriglief

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Glory in the Sand


"Fix Bayonets!"

Then fumble and snap.

Because in the moment,

The uncased colors are seen,

And the cool steel comes clean,

And from a hundred rifles blades,

The sun flashes and gleans.


"Prepare to charge"

Wipe the sweat from your brow,

And wait for the officer's sword to come down.

To hear the bugles ring,



Then give a full-throated yell,

Because when history is written in sand,

It is to be repeated again.






George Thomas Everette Jr.

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nuclear blastings in my mind

such a horrible pain

if it wasnt for my will

and my lords love

i would go blind


wouldnt be able to utter a word

ive sharpened my sword

blood is dripping

making words


i cannot breath normally

im in the midst of an everlasting battle


dreams shattered

darkness covering the sky

bullets fired

saved by my diary

bleeding internatlly

verbally warfare

verbally warfare

verb ally war fare

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We had just finished six weeks on the line and were joyous the tedium of the outpost was over, even if for only twelve days. Half way into our six hour drive back to South Camp we rapidly overtook a small white Toyota pickup truck, so over loaded it leaned to one side on its suspension. Three men sat in cab and a top the owner’s possessions, which were bound up in a trap, sat the Bedouin woman. She was the first woman we had seen without the aid of binoculars in six weeks. All our eyes were on her and she turned away. It was inevitable, even if the soldier had known the form of my reprimand. A whistling cat call rang out as we pulled along side. Then her burning eyes were on us and she did something with her hands.

Sergeant Paz crossed himself; his Hispanic culture gives great respect to woman dressed in black. The rest of us were struck dumb and it is hard for me to describe what she communicated without a breath crossing her lips. She was mocking, as a woman can mock a man. She was taunting, as women have ever taunted men. She was demeaning, as a women who can make men feel as boys. It was anger, as enraged as femininity can be. Those burning eyes held every tong on the troop transport till well past. Then we exploded like monkeys in a tree, safe from the gaze of the enraged lioness.

Edited by Spriglief

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I met my first Alaskan Scout in basic when I was placed in charge of setting up the night fire watch. Our barracks were old wooden buildings hastily erected during World War II, perfect fire traps. So somebody was kept awake to warn the other sleeping soldiers in the event of a fire. It was a hated duty.

Anyway, going down the list of soldiers, I noticed one soldier was not included on the list and in fact as near as I could tell had never pulled one night of guard. I immediately included him on the roster. The soldier came to me and told me he was not to be put on guard duty by order of the Drill Instructor, but he could not tell me why. This seemed grossly unfair to all the other soldiers and so I kept my guard rooster as it was.

The next morning, while doing uncounted pushup, side stratle hops, mountain climbers, ect, ect, my Drill Instructor explained why this soldier was not included on the rooster. The soldier in question was an Eskimo, (I knew this) and lived where it is night during the winter and day during the summer (I did not know this). Time meant nothing to them. When they felt sleepy they simply went to sleep. Of course this made it extremely difficult for them to integrate into the Army. In fact, until the Army made the sleep policy change, none of them had completed basic training. Of course, I had to get my two cents into the discussion, and asked, “Well what type of soldier is the Army going to get with soldier who can’t tell time?” That question introduced me to the Drill Sergeant’s loan policy. I had one week to pay off all the push ups, side stratle hops, mountain climbers, ect, ect, that this question cost me, before his 50% interest rate came into effect. Still, I was not convinced as I watch the soldier in question sleep through the next day’s classes.

Later, the Army sent me to our American Siberia, Alaska. My efforts to get out of this posting are another story. Anyway, I got a chance to see just how good the Alaskan Scouts are.

I was in the Signal Corps, in support of the Alaskan Scouts. The plan was for the Regular Army to protect the population centers, the Air Force to control the sky, and Alaskan Scouts to hold everything else, mostly frozen ice fields, bottomless tundra, and trackless forest. The threat was real. The Soviets had two Airborne Divisions, an armored naval Brigade, and the feared Speznas (unconventional warfare troops). While I was there the Army decided to test the plan.

It worked. The Russian naval brigade was sunk at sea, the Airborne troops were shot out of the air before they could get to their landing zones, but the Speznas, (played by our elite Rangers), they slipped through in small teams of a few men each. It did not take long guess their target. They were going after the Alaskan pipeline, which supplies the lion’s share of our domestic oil production. Only the Alaskan Scouts could stop them and I had a ring side seat to listen to the running battle.

The Alaskan Scouts are different from the rest of the Army. Army discipline, they are above it. Oh the tales I had heard from soldiers tasked to support or train them. Their monthly drills are mostly day and night drunken parties. Their armories are kept under lock and key and still their equipment ends up being sold in surplus stores. But their M16 rifles are spotless and this the only way to tell an Eskimo is a member of the Scouts. Many do not bother with uniforms. They don’t need target practice either since they use their M16 rifles for hunting. You see the Scouts never turn in equipment once it is issued to them.

As the reports come in, we got the feeling that the Rangers were being toyed with. The Rangers were met with single shoots, sometime spaced days apart. As I said, time means nothing to them. Every open field, every frozen river, crossing every danger zone, might or might not cost the Ranger teams a man to cross. Now the Rangers were not helpless. They had their hunters also, Texans, Southerners, mountain men, reservation Indians, whose marksmanship skill are honed by the Army. They sent their snipers out and killed a few Scouts. But then the Scouts changed their tactics, a hundred rifles meet the two man Ranger sniper teams. So the Rangers concentrated their teams and for a while meet no opposition. But then, at the next wide river crossing, the Airforce bombers caught them in the open. The Airforce could find two hundred sets of tracks in the snow, which looks like a highway. So it was back to small independent teams and the war of single shots. The Rangers only had to get one four man team though to blow the pipeline. It was a hopeless battle. The Rangers on snow shoes, the Eskimo’s on their skis, dog sleds, and snowmobiles. The closest they ever got was within one hundred miles of the pipeline.

Afterward the Army linked up the Rangers with the Alaskan Scouts too learn their way of fighting, but had to give it up before the Rangers were turned into a bunch of drunken alcoholics. I wish I had kept the address of the reindeer herder that manned the radios and teletypes retrains station with me. But I was young then and time meant nothing to me.

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