Shock And Awe
(A war poem in 2003)
Here's a poem I did in 2003 a little after George W. Bush's criminal invasion of Iraq. I'm posting it now, just after Donald Trump's criminal bomb attack in Syria, as a flashback reminder that a huge disaster ensued.
Here's a combat story from Iraq that I heard on National Public Radio one morning.
The report was very brief so please forgive me if I have to fill in some details. That's really what you do with a radio story anyway and the incident apparently was pretty typical; so I probably can't go very far wrong.
Anyway, the lead point element of one of our mechanized divisions has reached their current designated spot on the road to Baghdad. They halt, drive off the road and they form up their vehicles around the landscape like they should. The commanding officer of course naturally sends some guys out in tanks and Bradley armored vehicles to scout ahead a certain distance up the road. The radio reporter happened to be a passenger in one of those particular Bradleys so he tells about this.
So pretty soon they spot a major ambush attempt. Our guys, well trained and still alert despite the sleepless grind, see it in time with their computerized vision screens. The enemy has put some tanks, maybe half a dozen tanks, probably big T-72's I guess, lying in wait, hiding in among the little houses and the little mosque and palm trees of one of those dusty little adobe desert villages.
Our guys stop and deploy and – while they're still maneuvering outside of the enemy's effective range – they pop all the enemy tanks with one round each. They all explode and burn. That's good shooting. And pretty quick our guys are on their way again.
Now here's the thing. They go as far forward as they're supposed to go and turn around so now they're rolling back. They reach the ambush site again. Now here's one single enemy soldier left alive, all alone on foot, and he starts shooting at their armored vehicles with an ordinary AK47 rifle.
They pop him with a cannon round.
That's what we're calling “shock and awe”.
Here's a poem I did in 2003 a little after George W. Bush's criminal invasion of Iraq. I'm posting it now, just after Donald Trump's criminal bomb attack in Syria, as a flashback reminder that a huge disaster ensued.
Here's a combat story from Iraq that I heard on National Public Radio one morning.
The report was very brief so please forgive me if I have to fill in some details. That's really what you do with a radio story anyway and the incident apparently was pretty typical; so I probably can't go very far wrong.
Anyway, the lead point element of one of our mechanized divisions has reached their current designated spot on the road to Baghdad. They halt, drive off the road and they form up their vehicles around the landscape like they should. The commanding officer of course naturally sends some guys out in tanks and Bradley armored vehicles to scout ahead a certain distance up the road. The radio reporter happened to be a passenger in one of those particular Bradleys so he tells about this.
So pretty soon they spot a major ambush attempt. Our guys, well trained and still alert despite the sleepless grind, see it in time with their computerized vision screens. The enemy has put some tanks, maybe half a dozen tanks, probably big T-72's I guess, lying in wait, hiding in among the little houses and the little mosque and palm trees of one of those dusty little adobe desert villages.
Our guys stop and deploy and – while they're still maneuvering outside of the enemy's effective range – they pop all the enemy tanks with one round each. They all explode and burn. That's good shooting. And pretty quick our guys are on their way again.
Now here's the thing. They go as far forward as they're supposed to go and turn around so now they're rolling back. They reach the ambush site again. Now here's one single enemy soldier left alive, all alone on foot, and he starts shooting at their armored vehicles with an ordinary AK47 rifle.
They pop him with a cannon round.
That's what we're calling “shock and awe”.
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Stone Riley's Shoebox
A poet writing essays. Why the title? You know you keep a large size shoe box with all those creative ideas and suchlike stuff scribbled on the back of electric bill envelopes?
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