Baghdad in Middle America

http://www.smirkingchimp.com/thread/11047

Baghdad in Middle America
by Robert C. Koehler | Nov 15 2007



Honoring vets means nothing at all unless it means honoring the deeply gouged personal truths each experienced during deployment. But the dismissal of such truths is as much a part of war, and its aftermath, as the propaganda and geopolitical whoppers necessary to launch it.

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"Every vet feels the necessity to tell the truth to the American people, but is afraid to talk about it," Parrish said.

The military command structure -- the immediate context of their lives -- certainly has no use for it. It has a war to sell. A vet haunted by the memory of, say, accidentally killing an Iraqi civilian will not have much to contribute to this cause.

Consider, for instance, the deeply troubling story of the "Marlboro Marine," Lance Cpl. James Blake Miller. His face became an instant icon of the war on terror when, during a lull in the U.S. assault on Fallujah in November 2004, his photo was snapped by L.A. Times photographer Luis Sinco. Miller, leaning against a wall, savoring a cigarette, his face streaked with war paint and blood, had the look of a battle-weary American hero. Within 24 hours, the picture had run in more than 150 U.S. newspapers.

As an accidental celebrity, Miller, the grunt, was suddenly a beloved and valuable commodity up the chain of command. Shockingly, he was offered the chance to go home before his tour of duty ended because, according to Sinco's lengthy account in the L.A. Times this week, "nobody wanted to see him wounded or dead." Miller refused the offer.

Sinco's remarkable story details the reality behind the icon. In the ensuing three years, the Marlboro Marine's life has gone to hell: PTSD, blackouts, nightmares, alcoholism, emotional volatility (he was discharged from the Marines after he attacked a sailor whose whistling reminded him of a rocket-propelled grenade). His marriage fell apart, as did his career plans. He's in and out of rehab; his anguished memories are still inside him.

When we honor our vets, do we honor the cardboard glory or the nightmarish truth of their lives? And more importantly, when the usual suspects begin swaggering toward a new war, will we pause and consider the truth still festering from the last one?