The Ugly ‘D’ Word

By Stewart Nusbaumer

04/12/06 "Lost Writers" -- -- “Let me make this clear,” John shifts his weight on the bar stool, leans closer, ready to push his words into my face. “Bush is running around saying Americans shouldn’t lose their nerve and pull out of Iraq. I ain’t losing my nerve,” his index finger pokes me in the chest. “I’m waiting for Bush to get his nerve and send his two daughters to Iraq. Then my boy can go.”

I take a long swallow from my Wild Turkey, set the glass down on the bar, and look John straight in the face: “Damn right!”

John and I are enthusiastic cheerleaders for the school of realism that teaches words don’t mean crap unless backed up by action. Realism puts a premium on behavior, insisting on an investment in body and not just brain. But modern education cares little about realism, it’s all about mind. Proud products of the greatest educational loans in human history, our college grads bolt out of the temples of education drooling to banter ideas and articulate the grayish shading on any and all positions while splitting the hairs of the most refined language. Relishing in the full glory of the glorious word, verbosity soars to the clouds of utter numb-skullism.

Last week in the West End bar, on the Upper West Side across from Columbia University, I met Bob. “Well, I don’t like politics,” the 20-something Bob said. “It’s just, you know, politics is bad.” Bob prefers talking about his latest self-identity crisis and his perennial quest for a job.

I thought about Bob’s profound political statement, and decided to interject a slight twist on the idea of what is bad. “You want to know ‘bad’? It’s spelled D-R-A-F-T.”

Before my very eyes Bob’s white flesh flashed to deep purple and exploded into blood red, followed by the fastest move for a Brooklyn Lager I have ever witnessed in my many years of living in bars. But Bob was soon back in fighting form, delivering the most moving libertarian oratory this side of Montana. I mean, the guy is really into freedom.

Unfortunately, many of Bob’s cohorts are not only into freedom but also the Iraq War. Or at least were, since today even the numb-skulls are bailing out of Vietnam II.

When the Iraq War busted out of the starting gates of this Neocon administration, the Americans most rabid about “kickin’ those Iraqi butts” were the youngest group of adult Americans. Who would have guessed? Right in front of our blurred vision, a new Rambo generation had grown up. Not long ago Gen X-ers were a pathetic group of slothful, pampered, whiny, boring pests whose martial instincts were limited to fighting for the remote control.

But a strange thing happened on the way to the Iraq War. Rambo was a no show. This precipitated humongous bonuses in our military and the instituting of stop-loss to retain military personnel. Then came a huge expansion of mercenary forces because we didn’t have enough military personnel, followed by the lowering of recruit requirements because we didn’t have enough military personnel. And of course the wholesale activation of Guard and Reserve troops who were trying to pay college tuition and now are paying with lives and limbs because the land of the brave couldn’t beg, buy, or intimidate others to fight this new Vietnam.

In Transformation of War, the brilliant Israeli military strategist Martin van Crevald illustrates that societies conduct warfare based upon the societal beliefs they hold dear. So, what beliefs does American society hold dear? Money rules, if not the law will stop you, and protect the middle class at all costs?

Between the words “kickin’ those Iraqi butts” and being the kicker, there was a nasty short-circuit, so the words never carried over to the actions. Sort of a divorce before there was even a marriage. On the other hand, Generation Rambo was heavily engaged and really didn’t have time to make it down to the recruitment office—kicking butt on an army of Internet forums where combat was a 24 hour vicious fight.

A Military Draft

There are a lot of nations in this world where people are kooky, but only America has the military outreach to project our kookiness onto the world. That is why more than any nation state, America desperately needs a military draft. Numb-skullism, when pertaining to family matters or animal rights or liver abuse, is small potatoes when compared to kickin’ the world’s butt.

A military draft of our Rambos would immediately tie their words to their actions, behavior would no longer be removed from consequences, and life would no longer be cost-free. So tell me, just how important is it for you to liberate those Iraqi women? How about enough to blow two years of your life in the mindless U.S. military? Possibly lose a chunk of your body for a lifetime?

Wild Turkey drinking realists—the Special Forces in the corps of realism—know that when actions lead one to the frontline of costs, then conclusions are radically changed. It took me about one-tenth of a second to realize the Vietnam War was B.S., the first one-tenth of a second our 5-man recon team was surrounded by 300 North Vietnamese soldiers. It was clear to me in that flash of less than a second that Vietnam was not worth my promising future as a barfly.

Besides a drastic cut in B.S. circulating in this country—which fouls our national debates faster than a garbage strike in New York brings home reality—there is another reason to jumpstart the draft. We need some high-grade cannon fodder. We need surly, condescending middle-class punks trained to the max in video combat who will instantly clog the wheels of military arrogance. We need those cocky, irreverent kids who as miserable soldiers know their career sergeant is dumber than mom’s brainless poodle. We need those thinkers who just can’t comprehend why our military bureaucracy is determined to sink their overweight body in some quagmire surrounded by killing fields. What we need in our military is a strong contingent that can’t keep their foul mouths shut and have never seen a program they could just go along with.

And of course we need their parents, parents who contribute to the financial campaign of the local sleaze-ball politicians, who without hesitation will scream and threaten Mr. Corrupt if their little Johnny or Judy comes within 100 Starbucks of any war. And that blur that will blow you off the road and into the ditch, that would be mom headed to her Congressman’s office: “What the f_ _ _ (she hasn’t used that word since Richard Nixon was president) are we doing in that stupid Iraq, you moron Congressman? End this war yesterday if you want to be a Congressman tomorrow!”

We need middle-aged Americans who are closer to the power structure of this nation, who understand how to impact public policy and how to keep our military from sliding into more bloody foreign adventures where our nation's butt gets kicked. As we know, shopping at Macy’s isn’t stopping this war in Iraq.

The greatest resource and safeguard we have for stopping these foolish and wasteful wars that this country keeps returning to like a dog’s bone is to give middle-class Johnny and Judy a real stake in getting their posterior diplomas shot off. The fear that Johnny and Judy could be drafted to fight in some bizarre war will be enough to send their middle-class parents tripping into hysterical spasms with nasty public scenes that will accomplish more than getting them booted out the local country club.

People, it’s time to get serious. It's time to bring on the great middle class.

A Nation of Rambos

But don’t misunderstand me. The problem is not Gen X, nor their parents. The problem is human nature. When given a free ride, too many of us jump at the opportunity to mouth the words of Rambo. And we justify our Rambo stand by articulating even greater nonsense. Newt Gingrich once said, in explaining why he didn’t go to Vietnam when he strongly supported fighting the war: “I went to where the real war was, Washington.” I had no idea those bullets I was dodging on the DMZ were fake! Tom Delay, nicknamed the Hammer, claims he wanted to enlist but they were only taking minorities. Needless to say, that statement was a real mind scrambler for us White guys who fought in Nam. More recently, Christopher Hitchens, the blimp from England, whose vast array of rhetorical skills have been devoted to making war in Iraq, when asked on TV why he didn’t go to Iraq, responded, “I’m not good at that type of thing. There are others much better suited.”

Well, Christopher, I wasn’t well suited to have my leg blown off on the DMZ in Vietnam, nor was Jonathan well suited at the age of 19 to have the back of his head blown off in Iraq and his body parts returned to America in a body bag.

When I interviewed Jonathan’s mother, Barbera Porchia, a mother broken by the pain of losing her “baby,” she said: “Americans don’t care. They won’t care until it’s their kid!” She is right. You don’t care. On the day that Jonathan’s head was split into several pieces by a bomb, how much did you care? Wearing a flag pin and putting a bumper sticker on your SUV is not caring. Spouting political rhetoric on the Internet is not caring. Staying at home when there is an antiwar demonstration is not caring. If there was a military draft, maybe it would be your body parts in Jonathan’s body bag. Would you care then?

Stewart Nusbaumer boasts he is one of the last hold outs in the Boomer Generation not to join the zapped and sedated ranks of the Subscription Drug Culture. Starting next week, Stewart will be based in Afghanistan where he will write a weekly column, Night Life in Kabul.

Email the author at SNusbaumer@aol.com
 

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