I don't agree with his assessment of our IQs but I like his Views.
BT

Sun, November 21, 2004
Calgary Sun
I don't blame that Marine in Fallujah at all
By Ian Robinson

You're a kid, probably a year or two, or even three, shy of your 25th
birthday.

Not a rich kid. Probably not even an upper-middle-class kid ... after
all,
you don't find a lot of those outside the officer corps in combat
naval
infantry units.

You're probably not that bright; certainly not as bright as the highly
educated college types lining up to condemn you.

Maybe you finished high school. Maybe you didn't.

The average IQ of an enlisted man in the United States Marine Corps is
under 90.

It hasn't stopped you from mastering the tools of your trade. You can
break down a complex automatic rifle and reassemble it blindfolded.
You
take care of your rifle with a professional passion that is nearly
fetishistic because if you take care of your rifle -- the voice of a
Parris Island drill instructor echoes in your head when you think this
--
your rifle will take care of you.

You're in fantastic physical condition ... the combat load you carry
on
your back is 40-lb. more than the average American infantryman in the
Second World War.

For whatever reason, you decided to give your life to something
greater
than yourself. To your country. To the Marines.

When you did that, you were indoctrinated. They broke you in boot camp
and
then rebuilt you. You were told you were the meanest, toughest S.O.B.
who
ever lived.

You know the names of obscure battles where Marines shed blood in the
service of their nation.

You know the words of the Marine Hymn.

You know about the halls of Montezuma and the shores of Tripoli. You
know
about Tarawa, where the landing craft hung up on the coral reef and
the
Marines went into the lip-high water and waded 1,000 yards through
Japanese fire to the beach ... and won.

You know about Khe Sahn where Marines were surrounded by North
Vietnamese
regulars under a hellish rain of artillery fire week after week ...
and
prevailed.

You can look at the bewildering array of coloured ribbons on another
marine's chest and know whether he's a warrior or a guy who spent his
career fighting red tape.

You were told that your job was to go to the dangerous places of the
planet and fight and possibly die for your country without asking why.
But
after you were in for a while, certainly after the first time angry
men
with guns tried to kill you and you tried to kill them, you figured
that
nobody's willing to fight and die for their country.

They're willing to fight and die for the guy standing beside them.

The day before it happened, you got shot in the face. The wound wasn't
as
bad as it sounds. You were back with your unit the next day. You
didn't
take the opportunity to slack off, to leave your comrades in the
lurch.

The same day you got it, a guy in your unit -- maybe a friend, maybe
just
some guy -- tried to tend to the body of one of your enemies.

The guy was dead ... but he was still lethal.

Your buddy touched him and the booby trap went off and killed him.

He probably should have known better. Beaten soldiers have been booby
trapping their dead for a long time. The Germans were artists at it.
So
too the Viet Cong.

No reason crazed Islamofascists wouldn't be either. These people booby
trap live women and send them off to die. Stands to reason they
wouldn't
be squeamish about booby trapping their dead and dying.

Earlier this week you went into the mosque in Fallujah from which
Marines
had taken fire before. There were five insurgents there. Not moving.
And
you were afraid.

Another Marine yelled that one of them was faking. That he was alive.

Maybe you could still feel the bullet that tore through part of your
face
the day before. Maybe the thought of the other Marine killed by a dead
man
rocketed through your brain. Maybe your hands acted of their own
accord.

Maybe.

You pulled the trigger.

We don't know your name yet. We don't know anything about you.

I do know one thing.

I don't blame you. I don't blame you at all.

CalgarySun.com