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I feel compelled to have my say about Scott Beauchamp, he of the TNR Shock Troops dispatches. He is the same self absorbed, overly educated dickweed that seems to be scattered in platoons across the military world. He is amazingly pompous, ridiculously certain he is right about everything from the state of the political world to the quality of the coffee served at breakfast. His rank tells me that he is not exceling at the soldierly duties that come naturally to most who serve. He almost certainly has his notions of what kind of people his comrades are. Forrest Gump. idiot savants, perfectly suited to waer the uniform in defense of the Great Satan. He professed in one passage to love his comrades. Maybe. But I doubt it. He loves himself. He loves his Holy Quest. He loves the way he can string words into sentences with a modicum of wit. Likely he admires the work of Anthony Swofford, the famous Jarhead. The problem with all this rot is that it lacks any kind of subtlety.

You want great memoirs from men who saw the elephant and emerged from war jaded, cynical and justifiably bitter? Read Goodbye Darkness, by William Manchester, and Roll Me Over, by Raymond Gantter. Both were men with impressive intellect., men who enlisted during the dark days of World War II, men who experienced all the horrors of war, and wrote memoirs that were poignant, painful and which railed against the forces that lead men to war. But with both men, one thing was never in doubt; their love of their comrades, and their desire to win the fucking war so they could go home. Gantter was a post D-Day replacement who slogged through the mud of the Bulge, western Germany, and liberated POW camps. Mancheter was a Marine who fought in Guadalcanal, Tarawa and Okinawa. Both men emerged altered forever, and both hated that all this seemed so inevitable. But again, I can't stress this enough, they never, ever sought to impugn the maginficence of the Soldiers and Marines they bled with.

Beauchamp, Swoffford and others of their nihilistic ilk, have no concept of the bond that forms among the grunts. Beauchamp is the guy who hangs on the fringes, not really fitting in, not really wanting to. Coupled with that is a nagging twinge of lonliness, a moment of desire, a need to fit in. But that only makes him more bitter, more convinced that he is alone with his principles. He must save these morons from themselves, and the only way to do that is to take up the pen, which is, after all, mightier than the sword.

Did he lie? Guess the jury is out on that one, but my hunch? Yeah. Through his fucking teeth he lied.

He should enjoy his moment in the spotlight. As they say, any publicity is good publicity.

Posted by: mikey at 09:31 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
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