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The most eloquent and personal story of a young man at war since Geoffrey Wellum's FIRST LIGHT
Until a winter evening in 1998 Nathaniel was just another history student on a comfortable career trajectory of high school to college to white collar job. Then he went to a lecture by a Wall Street Journal reporter who had just published a book on the US Marines. It brought forth a latent desire to break free of the 'seat belt and safety goggle, safety-first' culture: to be a warrior. He passed the gruelling selection course and joined the Marine Corps on graduation. Posted to a Marine Regiment in the wake of 9/11, he took part in the invasion of Afghanistan, then led a platoon of their elite Recon Battalion during the invasion of Iraq.
This is not a book about the Iraq invasion as such: it is an articulate and deeply thoughtful young man's account of what it means to fight in the frontline, to risk not just death or injury, but psychological harm. He reveals some of the awful dilemmas war can bring, horrible problems to which there is no 'right' answer, but a decision had to be made quickly -- by him alone. In combat you are just one bullet away from death -- or promotion. But this doesn't focus the mind: it makes it freeze up -- unless your training is so thorough that you overcome exhaustion and terror.
'Nate' took 65 men to war and came home with all 65. He proved himself an excellent officer and won promotion, but resigned in 2003 to write this book and attend Harvard Business School.
397 pages, Kindle Edition
First published January 1, 2005
I felt impotent, but I wasn't powerless. I had an assault rifle in my hands. I could shoot the motherf****r. I could hold him hostage until he called in that helicopter.
In slow motion, I watch .50-caliber tracers and Mark-19 rounds arcing over the truck. It closed the gap on the gunners faster than they could lower their guns. For a second, I thought he'd run right into us. The gunners corrected, and grenades exploded against the grille and windshield as armor-piercing incendiary machine gun rounds ripped the cab apart...Still the truck rushed closer...I jammed the rifle stock into my shoulder and flipped the selector level to 'burst'...I aimed low, at the middle of the grille, knowing the shots would float upward toward the windshield. The rifle stuttered, three little kicks at a time.
The rules of engagement harked back to my college classes on Saint Augustine and "just war" theory. I couldn't control the justice of the declaration of war, but I could control the justice of its conduct within my tiny sphere of influence. Doing right, I thought, wasn't only a moral imperative but also the most expedient way to lead the platoon."
“I have neither the time nor the inclination to explain myself to a man who rises and sleeps under the blanket of the very freedom that I provide and then questions the manner in which I provide it.”
“You’re quoted as saying, ‘The bad news is, we don’t get much sleep tonight; the good news is, we get to kill people.’ […] Could you please explain that quote for me?”
“No, I cannot.”
“Well, do you really feel that way?”
“You mean, will I climb your clock tower and pick people off with a hunting rifle? […] No, I will not. Do I feel compelled to explain myself to you? I don’t.”