We asked our soldiers in the Middle East to do an end around on the embedded shills and give us their uncensored stories from the front. They fired back with tales of blood ’n’ guts, cheating girlfriends, and flying naked combat missions.
Ball-Buster
After dismounting from a Humvee during patrol, I happened to walk near a land mine, which exploded and sent shrapnel from my feet all the way up to my right elbow. It wouldn’t have been so bad except that one nice-size piece found its way into my right nut. As bad as that sounds, it gets worse. The problem, other than possibly losing my nut, is that I only have the one! My other was taken from me by cancer when I was young. Growing up, it really didn’t bother me, but this was a whole new ball game. I was sent to Germany to recover. First priority: Learn how to walk, as my feet were both badly injured. Second, get up the nerve to test my recovering nut’s functionality. Luckily, all went well. I was awarded the Purple Heart for my suffering and given an all-expenses-paid one-way flight — right back to Baghdad! — Spc. Eric Forbis
Potato Masher
Late last year our section was told to pack for up to two weeks in order to camp outside Fallujah at a compound called “the potato factory.” Our mission was to assist mortuary affairs personnel in removing dead insurgents from the streets of Fallujah. The bodies would be stored in the factory’s giant reefers. As team leader of a scout vehicle, my job was to roll up to the bodies, dismount, and look them over for any ordnance or IEDs (improvised explosive devices). Since most of the corpses had been there for up to 10 days, even the quickest of glances seemed too long. A lot of the time, they weren’t even full bodies. You might see just a torso, an arm, or — no shit — a pair of legs with a bare ass attached to them, just hanging out. I couldn’t help but laugh in disbelief at what I was seeing.
Once my team deemed the bodies clear, a grappling team of two transport marines would hook the body, shout, “Prepare to pull!,” and give ’em a good tug while everyone else took cover. This was to prevent any injuries or fatalities from explosives that may have been rigged to the corpse. Next came the stretcher bearers, body baggers, and shovelers, who put the corpses into body bags and scraped up any loose ends. We did this block by block through Fallujah.
We slept in a building next to the makeshift morgue. The stench was ever-present. We spent Thanksgiving at the factory. That night, after a game of football played on the cement lot between the morgue and a minefield, the potato factory marines sat down to a Thanksgiving meal of turkey with all the traditional fixings sent from the chow hall at a nearby camp. The holiday would never be the same, but the mission that some were dying to be a part of was damn near over. Now, could you pass me a leg and the gravy? — Cpl. Joshua D. Harincar
Made for TV
A big mission came down that was hush-hush. It was so secret that we had to make sure all the Iraqis we employed were off the camp by 1500. At 1700 we were eating dinner, watching the news on TV. We were talking about the night’s mission when, lo and behold, right there on CNN, a reporter was talking about it. We all looked at each other stunned. We’d only found out about our orders two hours prior, and now it was all over the news. That pissed us off, to say the least, because just about every Iraqi home has satellite TV.
Cut to the mission: Our company is searching homes for weapons and bad guys. We enter a house, and the woman who lives there greets us with tea and sodas. She asks us, in very good English, “What happened? We saw the news and thought you guys were going to be coming last night.” Big shock, we didn’t find any weapons or bad guys. I love the news media, but I ask one favor: Can they at least hold on to the story until after we hit our targets? — A grunt
Canteen Half-Full
I have seen a buddy get shot, another get his legs blown off completely, and yet another pay the ultimate price. I have been pushed to the limit, to the point where I thought I was breaking. I’ve been in situations where I didn’t think I was going to live, then been amazed and humbled when I did. I have been untouched after a hidden explosive went off 25 feet away, killing Iraqi citizens who were driving in their cars more than 250 feet away. As cruel as the environment can be here, I have grown to love the people of Iraq. I have grown spiritually, growing in the faith that God will deliver me out of this place if I do my part.
The sunsets here are beautiful. When you watch one or two, you remember how beautiful the world really is if you stay optimistic. I
wouldn’t change this experience for the world. I wish I could say that all soldiers feel like this, but it would be a lie. I know soldiers who are completely bitter about the whole “package” here, hating the people and hating the military. When I talk to them, I feel really bad that they see things so poorly instead of trying to look at the good things. — Spc. Josh Galer
Fine Red Mist
We arrived in Fallujah the second day we were in Iraq. We were relieving the guys in the 82nd Airborne Division. The next morning there was a demonstration in front of our compound. They were pissed because the 82nd had killed a lot of them. In the middle of the demonstration, some Iraqis shot at us and a convoy of gun Humvees that were passing. We returned with heavy firepower, and so did the Humvees, which were equipped with .50-caliber machine guns. I saw one Iraqi get his head blown off at point-blank range. His head turned into a fine red mist. A lot of Iraqis died that morning.
Later that night we’d just gone to bed when a couple of grenades were tossed over the wall near where a lot of people were sleeping. Shrapnel hit 10 people, including eight guys from my unit. Thank God no one got killed. I remember pulling some of the guys into the building aid station, not wanting to look at their injuries for fear of seeing missing limbs.
After we got our injured out of there, everyone was up and on the roof or on a wall. Whenever a vehicle passed, you could hear everyone switching their weapon from “safe” to “semi-” or “burst.” Around 0330, the squadron commander had to leave and head back to the rear base, and I had to follow in a Humvee. Just as we were about to cross a bridge that was almost out of town, some motherfucker shot at me. I spent a whole magazine on one guy. That night I was done with thinking all Iraqis can’t be bad. — Specialist Murphy
You asked for funny army stories, and I’ve got one. I spent three years stationed in Vilseck, Germany. I was honorably discharged in May 2003. On a Friday the 13th in 2004, I received a letter reactivating me into Kuwait. Now, if that’s not funny, I don’t know what is. If I had a home in hell and a farm in Kuwait, I would sell my farm and go home. — Specialist Schwegel
Broken Dreams
As 2003 kicked off, everything seemed to be on track. I had a house and a secure job at a bank, and I’d been accepted to law school. Best of all, I was very much in love with my live-in girlfriend. In fact, I allowed myself to believe she was the one, honest and faithful, unlike all others. Then my unit was activated as part of Bush the Deserter’s lust for war.
When I returned home, I discovered that my girl had been sharing my house and bed with another “man,” if you call the sniveling, pencil-neck coward who would do such a thing while I was overseas serving my country, ostensibly protecting his freedom, a man. Needless to say, I didn’t take it very well. I took it so poorly, in fact, that I threatened them both with a firearm. For this I am now serving two and a half to six years in prison for assault. So much for law school. — Sean P. Duross, Mid-Michigan Correctional Facility
Freedom Fighter
I am currently stationed at Abu Ghraib Prison. Recently, some shitheads who thought their balls were bigger than they really were attacked our base. My squad was activated and went to a position where we could return fire and support the towers. We had armored Hummers with machine guns mounted on top. The squad arrived at the spot, and it was World War III for about 30 minutes. My squad shot about 3,000 well-aimed rounds at these motherfuckers. It was a bad day to be an insurgent.
That’s the case all over Iraq. These people are raised to be cowards. They are not individuals, and seldom face a confrontation head-on by themselves. They are group-oriented and have one guy who is the speaker for the rest of them. They will take a couple of potshots and run behind their families, like the shitheads who get their children to build bunkers for them on top of the houses because we won’t shoot innocent children. What kind of sick fuck uses his child to make a bunker? Anyway, you all in America can rest easy knowing that the marines in this country are kicking ass and taking numbers. Shit, we even do the army’s job. — Sgt. Matthew D. Schrecengost
Lieutenant Dumb-ass
As a combat medic, I was pulling morning perimeter security with two of my soldiers in Mosul. At 0445 our brand-new 22-year-old, dumb-ass platoon leader started running beyond the perimeter and screaming, “I see enemy activity in that building!” The building was 200 meters away, and as he began running toward it, without a helmet or flak vest, I said to him, “Sir, don’t go out there.” He told me, “Staff Sergeant, don’t tell me what to do.” He got about 30 meters and then he took a round in the neck. I called out to my soldiers, who were each in their own foxholes, “Watch my lane. I’m going to get dumb-ass.” After I stopped the bleeding with a pressure dressing, I got shot in the stomach through my flak vest. When I returned to the world, his parents wrote me a letter thanking me for saving their son. I wrote them back, asking them why they let their dumb-ass son join the army and told them he was going to get himself or someone else killed. Now I have a hole and a tube in my stomach. Just doing my job. — Staff Sergeant J.D.
Crappy Flight
As a naval flight officer, I’ve flown numerous missions over Iraq in the EA-6B, called the Prowler, an electronic warfare aircraft. When you look at the plane, you’d never believe you could fit four grown men (or women) inside. We strap ourselves into our ejection seats, find a place for whatever gear we require for the flight — and the concept of personal space evaporates.
Recently, I set out on a flight that would be unlike any other. “Smack” was in the back right seat next to me. I didn’t know him very well, but he seemed like a good guy. Everything went smoothly as we pressed out of our home base in Saudi Arabia. We were to spend three hours over Iraq before we pressed home, making the flight a total of about six hours, a long time to sit in an ejection seat. Imagine strapping 40 pounds of gear to your torso and then being tied to a hard, straight-backed chair.
About five minutes after we crossed the border into Iraq, Smack looked at me with what can only be described as sheer terror. He said, “Guys, unless they have something critical for us to do today, we might have to go home now!” I saw him reference his map for possible divert fields. Suddenly, I realized what was wrong. “Are you going to shit yourself?” I asked. To which he responded, “I am doing the Thai pinch right now!” At this point “Fish” from the front seat began laughing uncontrollably and said, “If Smack says he is doing the Thai pinch, he knows what he’s talking about.” Smack and Fish had been in Thailand together.
Then I remembered that in my nav bag (where you carry all your pertinent mission publications) I had a one-gallon Ziploc bag. I looked at Smack. He was pasty white with beads of sweat rolling down his face. I offered up the bag. He grabbed it and asked us to “safe” our seats, meaning effectively disable the ejection seat. He was going to have to take off all his flight gear and realized that if someone were to pull an ejection-seat handle inadvertently, he would become a half-naked meat missile covered in liquid shit screaming to the ground in Iraq. We all safed our seats…and that’s when Smack undertook one of the most impressive acrobatic feats I’ve ever witnessed.
Starting with his helmet, Smack removed every piece of gear from his body down to his knees. Right when I thought he was ready to take care of business, he hesitated. He took off his shirt and was now completely naked. None of us could think of what he might be doing. I remembered the Seinfeld episode where George took off his shirt every time he took a crap, and I thought I was witnessing a similar idiosyncrasy. But what Smack was doing was an act of genius. He lined his ejection seat with his shirt to capture any spillage, since toilet paper is not part of the standard combat load on the plane.
Now he was ready. While carefully balanced, completely naked, flying in combat over Iraq, he successfully crapped (exploded is more
accurate) into a Ziploc bag. The stench that filled the airplane was indescribable. We were all forced into our oxygen masks for the rest of the six-hour flight. While maintaining his balance, he then used his T-shirt to clean himself, put the shirt in the bag, zipped it, and stored it. He got back into his gear and informed us that we could rearm our seats.
For the remainder of the flight, I couldn’t look at Smack without completely losing control of myself in convulsive laughter. I have heard stories from this war of courage under fire, and I am unimpressed. I witnessed a man battle physiology and win. I have even thought about designing a new medal just for him. After a great deal of thought, I have determined that it should be a brown bull’s-eye and that it should be the U.S. military’s first scratch-and-sniff medal. — Captains Stoner and Yeti
Alley Op
One night my squad (known as Joker) went out to do a security patrol. About four blocks from our base, roughly half the squad had made it into an alley when we heard the crack of AK-47s. The flashes from their muzzles lit up their position as the bullets impacted just above our heads. It was “friendly” Iraqi soldiers shooting from a perimeter security post. It scared the shit out of us. The only thing we could do was take cover and hope they didn’t send out a reaction team. To think we work hand in hand with them pissed us off even more.
When we thought it couldn’t get any worse, another Marine squad started lighting up our position with illumination. That squad didn’t know we were being engaged by friendlies. When we finally got word to the Iraqi soldiers and the Marine squad, the firing stopped. My squad was forced to hunker down because our position had been compromised. After about an hour and a half of scanning, we returned to our base to get about two hours of sleep before our next patrol. — L.Cpl. Bert Jendrzejczyk
No Nectar
The only thing we miss more than family and friends is the one thing that makes a man a man…beer! We have plenty of the world’s finest NA beer available, although you have to be a raging alcoholic to enjoy it. But how can we complain when we went from burning our feces to getting them pumped from our luxurious Porta-John? — S.Sgt. Todd Hodge
Palace Guards
My home in Iraq is a run-down, burned-out building with broken windows, no electricity, and no plumbing. As far as family, that consists of my fellow soldiers or “battle buddies.” Most of the time we are stressed out because we are a group of hardworking men who come from different backgrounds to fight for the same cause. Our chain-of-command lives the life of luxury in one of Saddam’s palaces while my battle buddies and I fight the battle not only outside the wire but in our living quarters as well. We fight a continuous battle against scorpions, sand fleas, and mosquitoes in hopes that one of us doesn’t get seriously ill. As for the platoon leader, Lieutenant “Butter Bar,” all he does is think about himself. He could care less about his troops as long as he gets a bed to sleep in and a shower to clean himself. For the past six months, he has squashed all our morale and is stubborn to all ideas. — Spc. G.I. Joe
Beer Goggles
Contrary to popular belief, life in Baghdad isn’t all bad. We have air conditioning, cable TV, beautiful women…but not for the touching, unfortunately. I really get mad when the chow hall runs out of chocolate syrup for my ice cream! I mean how hard is it to keep that in stock? We had a “sports bar,” where we watched sporting events, but that burned down last week. You can get a massage for two dollars. It is so horrible here I can’t begin to tell you. The only thing I am really deprived of — besides sex, convenience stores, half-naked women on hot days, and good food — is alcohol. We are scheduled to rotate back to the States soon. It will be a crazy drunkfest then. They should really think about that rule: no alcohol in country. It’s going to be like letting the hungry lion out of his cage to get the steak after looking at it for a year. Not good. — Spc. Brant Gilmore
The Other War
I am currently in Afghanistan, attached to an infantry platoon. This place ain’t bad, if you like killing people and blowing shit up, which is what I do. I’m a combat engineer. I mess with land mines. I get to do all the infantry shit, but basically I’m here to blow up shit.
U.S. soldiers in Iraq and Afghanistan deserve a lot more pay than what we get. I’ve been shot at, rocketed, mortared, and IED’d. This place is no joke. But every year you get some lame-ass that sits on his ass and votes against a pay raise for the military. I’ve done everything the military has asked me to. I’ve been to Bosnia (1997–98), Korea (2001–02), and now here. Another thing I’m pissed about is that pretty much the whole world has forgotten about us. Some Americans don’t even know that there are still troops in Afghanistan. It’s bullshit. — Sgt. Todd McGuire
Puppy Love
Our unit was in the second taking of Fallujah. Everyone says it’s the biggest thing next to Hue City during Vietnam. Being shot at sucks, especially when you have no idea where it’s coming from. When I saw my first dead insurgent, I was like, “Holy shit, that’s fucking cool.” It got pretty old, though. I got tired of counting bodies, so I stopped. The only kill I got over here was a dog. I mean, I’m not cruel to animals, but we’re authorized to shoot dogs because they eat the dead bodies. — Cpl. Moua Lee
