From Baghdad with Love Jay Kopelman (top 10 inspirational books txt) 📖

discourages human beings from killing other human beings, so over the years the smart guys devised ways to overcome any and all ethical thorns, because not wanting to kill the enemy in combat posed, well, problems. Effective warriors, they decided, had to be trained without regard to moral repercussions.

So after World War II Marines were trained to act immediately and reflexively rather than to stop and think about it first. Through the use of Pavlovian conditioning, we were taught to kill on command. Instead of shooting at the old-time bull’s-eye targets, we were taught to shoot at human-silhouette-shaped targets that popped up out of nowhere, and the repeated use of pop-up marksmanship ranges combined with fire commands, battle drills, and continued orders to “Shoot!” from authority figures not only controlled our reactions but anesthetized them as well. By the time the Vietnam War rolled around, 90 percent of American troops fired at the adversary. Now killing was as reflexive as answering a phone when it rang, and nothing was supposed to interfere with progress. Nothing.

Another morning I wake to see Lava’s entire front end stuffed into one of my boots with his butt and back legs draped out over the side. He’s not moving, right? So I think he’s dead.

“Oh shit.”

Probably from the MREs.

“Oh no. Oh shit.”

Lava’s body doesn’t move at first, but when he hears my voice, his tail starts waving like a wind-kissed flag, and I decide that from now on, he’s not eating any more noodles, biscuits, or beans in butter sauce. No more M&M’s. No more toothpaste. Only meat. That’s what real dogs eat, meat.

Out on the streets one day during that first week, I discover the Iraqi soldiers with looted candy bars and cigarettes in their pockets, and because we’re supposed to train them to be just like us—moral except for the killing stuff—and because looting breaks all the rules, I decide to give them a little additional training.

I pace the ground six inches in front of them with an unopened candy bar clenched in my fist. They wince and lean back.

“Well, excuuuuse me, am I invading your personal space?” I say through the interpreter, letting concern drip like battery acid from every word, because, you know, I have to make an impression here.

The three soldiers try not to move, but their eyes swivel back and forth between me and the interpreter, who is the closest thing they can trace back to the good old days when everyone spoke Arabic and no one yelled at them for eating a little candy.

“Well, I have some information for you pathetic excuses for soldiers.” I push my face into exhale range of one of the men and deliver a jab to his chest with each word.

“You have no personal space.”

I step back and stare at the unopened candy bar in my hand as if it just fell from a spaceship.

“What is this?”

The three soldiers eye the interpreter.

“And what are these?”

I march toward them, yank packs of cigarettes and more candy bars from their vests, and throw them on the ground with as much passion as I can muster. The soldiers look at the interpreter, down at the loot, and back at the interpreter again.

“Did you pay for this stuff?”

The three nod in unison.

“Which one of you paid for it?”

The three point to one another simultaneously.

They just don’t get it. These guys are supposed to take over their country’s security, and here they are acting like the Three Stooges. Disobeying orders threatens survival out here, and while just about everything threatens survival out here including walking, talking, and pissing in the wrong place, lack of discipline is up near the top of the list of sure killers, along with panic, loss of focus, and too much compassion.

“You are less than men for stealing.”

I pace up and down in front of the soldiers.

“You humiliate yourselves and the Iraqi forces.”

I spit at their feet.

“You are no good as soldiers and I will abandon you here in Fallujah, where you will be beheaded by insurgents.”

I rip off my helmet.

“You are nothing but shit.”

The interpreter stops and looks at me.

“Go on, translate shit. It’s not that hard.”

I throw my helmet on the ground.

“Repeat after me. I do not steal.”

The soldiers mumble their response to the interpreter.

“In English. I do not steal.”

“In inglezee. I do not sti-il.”

“I do not lie.”

“I do not lie.”

“I am a moron and I worship the ground you walk on, sir.”

Discipline overrides everything between Heaven and earth here, including hunger, exhaustion, fear, homesickness, empathy, guilt, hangovers, snipers, regret, hatred, intestinal blockage, thoughts of suicide, calls to prayer, and letters from home.

“And from this time forth, thy righteous ordinance of discipline will be my guide and I will forgo sex, kill my firstborn, chew with my mouth closed, take no prisoners, do unto others, brush in back, worship my gun, place I before E except after C, leave no Marine behind, oo-rah, praise the Lord, hail Caesar full of grace, Santa Claus lives, Allah is great, yes sir, always and forever and ever and ever, amen.”

Poor schmucks. They start praying. They don’t even hear me anymore because they’re whispering “Allah, Allah” and trying not to cry, only I see they aren’t looking at me anymore but at something behind my back.

I glance across the street and at first only see the usual horizon of a city blown to smithereens. Then I see something moving, and I stiffen and position my gun.

“Allah, Allah.”

It takes me a second to focus.

I squint and grip the gun, because my palms start sweating, and my fingers start shaking, and the soldiers keep moaning, and I scream “Shut the fuck up,” because I can’t hold the rifle steady anymore, because what I see is a pack of dogs . . . “Allah, Allah” . . . feeding on meat, “Oh God,” and I think I’m going to puke.

Another morning I wake up thinking someone short-sheeted my sleeping bag because I can’t