Goethestein
Goethestein
Nippon
Post rating:
~
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/chris-kyle-usn-ret/american-sniper_b_1237669.html
Evil in the Crosshairs
Excerpt from American Sniper: The Autobiography of the Most Lethal Sniper in U.S. Military History by Chris Kyle with Scott McEwen and Jim DeFelice (William Morrow, $26.99)
Late March 2003. In the area of Nasiriya, Iraq
I looked through the scope of the sniper rifle, scanning down the road of the tiny Iraqi town. Fifty yards away, a woman opened the door of a small house and stepped outside with her child.
The rest of the street was deserted. The local Iraqis had gone inside, most of them scared. A few curious souls peeked out from behind curtains, waiting. They could hear the rumble of the approaching American unit. The Marines were flooding up the road, marching north to liberate the country from Saddam Hussein.
It was my job to protect them. My platoon had taken over the building earlier in the day, sneaking into position to provide "overwatch"--prevent the enemy from ambushing the Marines as they came through.
It didn't seem like too difficult a task--if anything, I was glad the Marines were on my side. I'd seen the power of their weapons and I would've hated to have to fight them. The Iraq army didn't stand a chance. And, in fact, they appeared to have abandoned the area already.
The war had started roughly two weeks before. My platoon, "Charlie" (later "Cadillac") of SEAL Team 3, helped kick it off during the early morning of March 20. We landed on al-Faw Peninsula and secured the oil terminal there so Saddam couldn't set it ablaze as he had during the First Gulf War. Now we were tasked to assist the Marines as they marched north toward Baghdad.
I was a SEAL, a Navy commando trained in special operations. SEAL stands for "SEa, Air, Land," and it pretty much describes the wide ranges of places we operate. In this case, we were far inland, much farther than SEALs traditionally operated, though as the war against terror continued, this would become common. I'd spent nearly three years training and learning how to become a warrior; I was ready for this fight, or at least as ready as anyone can be.
The rifle I was holding was a .300 WinMag, a bolt-action, precision sniper weapon that belonged to my platoon chief. He'd been covering the street for a while and needed a break. He showed a great deal of confidence in me by choosing me to spot him and take the gun. I was still a new guy, a newbie or rookie in the Teams. By SEAL standards, I had yet to be fully tested.
I was also not yet trained as a SEAL sniper. I wanted to be one in the worst way, but I had a long way to go. Giving me the rifle that morning was the chief's way of testing me to see if I had the right stuff.
We were on the roof of an old rundown building at the edge of a town the Marines were going to pass through. The wind kicked dirt and papers across the battered road below us. The place smelled like a sewer--the stench of Iraq was one thing I'd never get used to.
"Marines are coming," said my chief as the building began to shake. "Keep watching."
I looked through the scope. The only people who were moving were the woman and maybe a child or two nearby.
I watched our troops pull up. Ten young, proud Marines in uniform got out of their vehicles and gathered for a foot patrol. As the Americans organized, the woman took something from beneath her clothes, and yanked at it.
She'd set a grenade. I didn't realize it at first.
"Looks yellow," I told the chief, describing what I saw as he watched himself. "It's yellow, the body--"
"She's got a grenade," said the chief. "That's a Chinese grenade."
"Shit."
"Take a shot."
"But--"
"Shoot. Get the grenade. The Marines--"
I hesitated. Someone was trying to get the Marines on the radio, but we couldn't reach them. They were coming down the street, heading toward the woman.
"Shoot!" said the chief.
I pushed my finger against the trigger. The bullet leapt out. I shot. The grenade dropped. I fired again as the grenade blew up.
It was the first time I'd killed anyone while I was on the sniper rifle. And the first time in Iraq--and the only time--I killed anyone other than a male combatant.
It was my duty to shoot, and I don't regret it. The woman was already dead. I was just making sure she didn't take any Marines with her.
It was clear that not only did she want to kill them, but she didn't care about anybody else nearby who would have been blown up by the grenade or killed in the firefight. Children on the street, people in the houses, maybe her child...
She was too blinded by evil to consider them. She just wanted Americans dead, no matter what.
My shots saved several Americans, whose lives were clearly worth more than that woman's twisted soul. I can stand before God with a clear conscience about doing my job. But I truly, deeply hated the evil that woman possessed. I hate it to this day.
Savage, despicable evil. That's what we were fighting in Iraq. That's why a lot of people, myself included, called the enemy "savages." There really was no other way to describe what we encountered there.
People ask me all the time, "How many people have you killed?" My standard response is, "Does the answer make me less, or more, of a man?"
The number is not important to me. I only wish I had killed more. Not for bragging rights, but because I believe the world is a better place without savages out there taking American lives. Everyone I shot in Iraq was trying to harm Americans or Iraqis loyal to the new government.
I had a job to do as a SEAL. I killed the enemy--an enemy I saw day in and day out plotting to kill my fellow Americans. I'm haunted by the enemy's successes. They were few, but even a single American life is one too many lost.
I don't worry about what other people think of me. It's one of the things I most admired about my dad growing up. He didn't give a hoot what others thought. He was who he was. It's one of the qualities that has kept me most sane.
As this book goes to print, I'm still a bit uncomfortable with the idea of publishing my life story. First of all, I've always thought that if you want to know what life as a SEAL is like, you should go get your own Trident: earn our medal, the symbol of who we are. Go through our training, make the sacrifices, physical and mental. That's the only way you'll know.
Second of all, and more importantly, who cares about my life? I'm no different than anyone else.
I happen to have been in some pretty bad-ass situations. People have told me it's interesting. I don't see it. Other people are talking about writing books about my life, or about some of the things I've done. I find it strange, but I also feel it's my life and my story, and I guess I better be the one to get it on paper the way it actually happened.
Also, there are a lot of people who deserve credit, and if I don't write the story, they may be overlooked. I don't like the idea of that at all. My boys deserve to be praised more than I do.
The Navy credits me with more kills as a sniper than any other American service member, past or present. I guess that's true.
They go back and forth on what the number is. One week, it's 160 (the "official" number as of this writing, for what that's worth), then it's way higher, then it's somewhere in between. If you want a number, ask the Navy--you may even get the truth if you catch them on the right day.
People always want a number. Even if the Navy would let me, I'm not going to give one. I'm not a numbers guy. SEALs are silent warriors, and I'm a SEAL down to my soul. If you want the whole story, get a Trident. If you want to check me out, ask a SEAL.
If you want what I am comfortable with sharing, and even some stuff I am reluctant to reveal, read on.
I've always said that I wasn't the best shot or even the best sniper ever. I'm not denigrating my skills. I certainly worked hard to hone them. I was blessed with some excellent instructors, who deserve a lot of credit. And my boys--the fellow SEALs and the Marines and the Army soldiers who fought with me and helped me do my job--were all a critical part of my success. But my high total and my so-called "legend" have much to do with the fact that I was in the shit a lot.
In other words, I had more opportunities than most. I served back-to-back deployments from right before the Iraq War kicked off until the time I got out in 2009. I was lucky enough to be positioned directly in the action.
There's another question people ask a lot: Did it bother you killing so many people in Iraq?
I tell them, "No."
And I mean it. The first time you shoot someone, you get a little nervous. You think, can I really shoot this guy? Is it really okay? But after you kill your enemy, you see it's okay. You say, Great.
You do it again. And again. You do it so the enemy won't kill you or your countrymen. You do it until there's no one left for you to kill.
That's what war is.
I loved what I did. I still do. If circumstances were different--if my family didn't need me--I'd be back in a heartbeat. I'm not lying or exaggerating to say it was fun. I had the time of my life being a SEAL.
People try to put me in a category as a bad-ass, a good ol' boy, asshole, sniper, SEAL, and probably other categories not appropriate for print. All might be true on any given day. In the end, my story, in Iraq and afterward, is about more than just killing people or even fighting for my country.
It's about being a man. And it's about love as well as hate.
Images from Chris Kyle's life and career as the most lethal sniper in U.S. military history. All images courtesy William Morrow.
Evil in the Crosshairs
Excerpt from American Sniper: The Autobiography of the Most Lethal Sniper in U.S. Military History by Chris Kyle with Scott McEwen and Jim DeFelice (William Morrow, $26.99)
Late March 2003. In the area of Nasiriya, Iraq
I looked through the scope of the sniper rifle, scanning down the road of the tiny Iraqi town. Fifty yards away, a woman opened the door of a small house and stepped outside with her child.
The rest of the street was deserted. The local Iraqis had gone inside, most of them scared. A few curious souls peeked out from behind curtains, waiting. They could hear the rumble of the approaching American unit. The Marines were flooding up the road, marching north to liberate the country from Saddam Hussein.
It was my job to protect them. My platoon had taken over the building earlier in the day, sneaking into position to provide "overwatch"--prevent the enemy from ambushing the Marines as they came through.
It didn't seem like too difficult a task--if anything, I was glad the Marines were on my side. I'd seen the power of their weapons and I would've hated to have to fight them. The Iraq army didn't stand a chance. And, in fact, they appeared to have abandoned the area already.
The war had started roughly two weeks before. My platoon, "Charlie" (later "Cadillac") of SEAL Team 3, helped kick it off during the early morning of March 20. We landed on al-Faw Peninsula and secured the oil terminal there so Saddam couldn't set it ablaze as he had during the First Gulf War. Now we were tasked to assist the Marines as they marched north toward Baghdad.
I was a SEAL, a Navy commando trained in special operations. SEAL stands for "SEa, Air, Land," and it pretty much describes the wide ranges of places we operate. In this case, we were far inland, much farther than SEALs traditionally operated, though as the war against terror continued, this would become common. I'd spent nearly three years training and learning how to become a warrior; I was ready for this fight, or at least as ready as anyone can be.
The rifle I was holding was a .300 WinMag, a bolt-action, precision sniper weapon that belonged to my platoon chief. He'd been covering the street for a while and needed a break. He showed a great deal of confidence in me by choosing me to spot him and take the gun. I was still a new guy, a newbie or rookie in the Teams. By SEAL standards, I had yet to be fully tested.
I was also not yet trained as a SEAL sniper. I wanted to be one in the worst way, but I had a long way to go. Giving me the rifle that morning was the chief's way of testing me to see if I had the right stuff.
We were on the roof of an old rundown building at the edge of a town the Marines were going to pass through. The wind kicked dirt and papers across the battered road below us. The place smelled like a sewer--the stench of Iraq was one thing I'd never get used to.
"Marines are coming," said my chief as the building began to shake. "Keep watching."
I looked through the scope. The only people who were moving were the woman and maybe a child or two nearby.
I watched our troops pull up. Ten young, proud Marines in uniform got out of their vehicles and gathered for a foot patrol. As the Americans organized, the woman took something from beneath her clothes, and yanked at it.
She'd set a grenade. I didn't realize it at first.
"Looks yellow," I told the chief, describing what I saw as he watched himself. "It's yellow, the body--"
"She's got a grenade," said the chief. "That's a Chinese grenade."
"Shit."
"Take a shot."
"But--"
"Shoot. Get the grenade. The Marines--"
I hesitated. Someone was trying to get the Marines on the radio, but we couldn't reach them. They were coming down the street, heading toward the woman.
"Shoot!" said the chief.
I pushed my finger against the trigger. The bullet leapt out. I shot. The grenade dropped. I fired again as the grenade blew up.
It was the first time I'd killed anyone while I was on the sniper rifle. And the first time in Iraq--and the only time--I killed anyone other than a male combatant.
It was my duty to shoot, and I don't regret it. The woman was already dead. I was just making sure she didn't take any Marines with her.
It was clear that not only did she want to kill them, but she didn't care about anybody else nearby who would have been blown up by the grenade or killed in the firefight. Children on the street, people in the houses, maybe her child...
She was too blinded by evil to consider them. She just wanted Americans dead, no matter what.
My shots saved several Americans, whose lives were clearly worth more than that woman's twisted soul. I can stand before God with a clear conscience about doing my job. But I truly, deeply hated the evil that woman possessed. I hate it to this day.
Savage, despicable evil. That's what we were fighting in Iraq. That's why a lot of people, myself included, called the enemy "savages." There really was no other way to describe what we encountered there.
People ask me all the time, "How many people have you killed?" My standard response is, "Does the answer make me less, or more, of a man?"
The number is not important to me. I only wish I had killed more. Not for bragging rights, but because I believe the world is a better place without savages out there taking American lives. Everyone I shot in Iraq was trying to harm Americans or Iraqis loyal to the new government.
I had a job to do as a SEAL. I killed the enemy--an enemy I saw day in and day out plotting to kill my fellow Americans. I'm haunted by the enemy's successes. They were few, but even a single American life is one too many lost.
I don't worry about what other people think of me. It's one of the things I most admired about my dad growing up. He didn't give a hoot what others thought. He was who he was. It's one of the qualities that has kept me most sane.
As this book goes to print, I'm still a bit uncomfortable with the idea of publishing my life story. First of all, I've always thought that if you want to know what life as a SEAL is like, you should go get your own Trident: earn our medal, the symbol of who we are. Go through our training, make the sacrifices, physical and mental. That's the only way you'll know.
Second of all, and more importantly, who cares about my life? I'm no different than anyone else.
I happen to have been in some pretty bad-ass situations. People have told me it's interesting. I don't see it. Other people are talking about writing books about my life, or about some of the things I've done. I find it strange, but I also feel it's my life and my story, and I guess I better be the one to get it on paper the way it actually happened.
Also, there are a lot of people who deserve credit, and if I don't write the story, they may be overlooked. I don't like the idea of that at all. My boys deserve to be praised more than I do.
The Navy credits me with more kills as a sniper than any other American service member, past or present. I guess that's true.
They go back and forth on what the number is. One week, it's 160 (the "official" number as of this writing, for what that's worth), then it's way higher, then it's somewhere in between. If you want a number, ask the Navy--you may even get the truth if you catch them on the right day.
People always want a number. Even if the Navy would let me, I'm not going to give one. I'm not a numbers guy. SEALs are silent warriors, and I'm a SEAL down to my soul. If you want the whole story, get a Trident. If you want to check me out, ask a SEAL.
If you want what I am comfortable with sharing, and even some stuff I am reluctant to reveal, read on.
I've always said that I wasn't the best shot or even the best sniper ever. I'm not denigrating my skills. I certainly worked hard to hone them. I was blessed with some excellent instructors, who deserve a lot of credit. And my boys--the fellow SEALs and the Marines and the Army soldiers who fought with me and helped me do my job--were all a critical part of my success. But my high total and my so-called "legend" have much to do with the fact that I was in the shit a lot.
In other words, I had more opportunities than most. I served back-to-back deployments from right before the Iraq War kicked off until the time I got out in 2009. I was lucky enough to be positioned directly in the action.
There's another question people ask a lot: Did it bother you killing so many people in Iraq?
I tell them, "No."
And I mean it. The first time you shoot someone, you get a little nervous. You think, can I really shoot this guy? Is it really okay? But after you kill your enemy, you see it's okay. You say, Great.
You do it again. And again. You do it so the enemy won't kill you or your countrymen. You do it until there's no one left for you to kill.
That's what war is.
I loved what I did. I still do. If circumstances were different--if my family didn't need me--I'd be back in a heartbeat. I'm not lying or exaggerating to say it was fun. I had the time of my life being a SEAL.
People try to put me in a category as a bad-ass, a good ol' boy, asshole, sniper, SEAL, and probably other categories not appropriate for print. All might be true on any given day. In the end, my story, in Iraq and afterward, is about more than just killing people or even fighting for my country.
It's about being a man. And it's about love as well as hate.
Images from Chris Kyle's life and career as the most lethal sniper in U.S. military history. All images courtesy William Morrow.
Impper
Impper
Post rating:
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lol. 160 confirmed kills, maybe more. what does that put that at, 5000? 10,000, for real? damn son. he's a criminal sociopath haha
Skylark
Skylark
California
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+
it's cool that he assumes people ask him how many human beings he's killed because it's badass if he killed a lot
deadken
deadken
penitent
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soldiers are heroes imo. the cause they fight for may be monstrous but battle is always noble. in an apathetic age they face death in the name of a transcendent ideal. they are our enemies, and in revolutionary battle we must try to kill them, and they must try to kill us - but they are great men, and the bayonet sliding into their chest will be the sign of our respect for their heroism.
Skylark
Skylark
California
Post rating:
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Goethestein posted:
The first time you shoot someone, you get a little nervous. You think, can I really shoot this guy? Is it really okay? But after you kill your enemy, you see it's okay. You say, Great.
Goethestein
Goethestein
Nippon
Post rating:
+
deadken posted:
soldiers are heroes imo. the cause they fight for may be monstrous but battle is always noble. in an apathetic age they face death in the name of a transcendent ideal. they are our enemies, and in revolutionary battle we must try to kill them, and they must try to kill us - but they are great men, and the bayonet sliding into their chest will be the sign of our respect for their heroism.
shut up faggot
Groulxsmith
Groulxsmith
drivel of drunken hags
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appeal to the humanity of marines
[account deactivated]
Skylark
Skylark
California
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marky mark fantasizes about using his action hero moves to be a cool real-life 9/11 hero on flight 93
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2088506/Mark-Wahlberg-9-11-comment-Actor-apologises-ridiculous-claim.html#ixzz1l0FBHqTS
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2088506/Mark-Wahlberg-9-11-comment-Actor-apologises-ridiculous-claim.html#ixzz1l0FBHqTS
If I was on that plane with my kids, it wouldn't have went down like it did. There would have been a lot of blood in that first class cabin and then me saying "OK, we're going to land somewhere safely, don't worry".
We certainly would have tried to do something to fight,' he said during a 2006 interview. 'I've had probably about 50 dreams about it.
littlegreenpills
littlegreenpills
Poronto
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+
deadken posted:
soldiers are heroes imo. the cause they fight for may be monstrous but battle is always noble. in an apathetic age they face death in the name of a transcendent ideal. they are our enemies, and in revolutionary battle we must try to kill them, and they must try to kill us - but they are great men, and the bayonet sliding into their chest will be the sign of our respect for their heroism.
counterpoint: modern warfare
[account deactivated]
[account deactivated]
deadken
deadken
penitent
Post rating:
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Goethestein posted:deadken posted:
soldiers are heroes imo. the cause they fight for may be monstrous but battle is always noble. in an apathetic age they face death in the name of a transcendent ideal. they are our enemies, and in revolutionary battle we must try to kill them, and they must try to kill us - but they are great men, and the bayonet sliding into their chest will be the sign of our respect for their heroism.shut up faggot
you are a weak man, and despise the strong. O k
Goethestein
Goethestein
Nippon
Post rating:
~
agreed except that they should be murdered horribly instead
Meursault
Meursault
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~
Skylark posted:
marky mark fantasizes about using his action her o moves to be a cool real-life 9/11 hero on flight 93
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2088506/Mark-Wahlberg-9-11-comment-Actor-apologises-ridiculous-claim.html#ixzz1l0FBHqTS
If I was on that plane with my kids, it wouldn't have went down like it did. There would have been a lot of blood in that first class cabin and then me saying "OK, we're going to land somewhere safely, don't worry".
We certainly would have tried to do something to fight,' he said during a 2006 interview. 'I've had probably about 50 dreams about it.
A Real American Hero
deadken
deadken
penitent
Post rating:
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littlegreenpills posted:
counterpoint: modern warfare
war has always been a hideous blood-soaked mess. we should celebrate it if only because it is a manifestation of violence in its pure unabstracted beauty.
Skylark
Skylark
California
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littlegreenpills posted:
counterpoint: modern warfare
we should start a clan
deadken
deadken
penitent
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the cia dudes who pilot drones are the real monsters, theyre scum and should be slaughtered without mercy or dignity
[account deactivated]
deadken
deadken
penitent
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my balls were slaughtered without mercy or dignity when i was eight days old
Meursault
Meursault
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~
deadken posted:
the cia dudes who pilot drones are the real monsters, theyre scum and should be slaughtered without mercy or dignity
There should be a book where it's like a new video game and people find out that they're actually remote controlling REAL drones and really killing people. Kind of like a gritty grown up Enders Game
deadken
deadken
penitent
Post rating:
+
i dont think theyd let people do that because i cant play a game for 10 mins without getting bored and shooting my own dudes
Impper
Impper
Post rating:
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deadken posted:
i dont think theyd let people do that because i cant play a game for 10 mins without getting bored and shooting my own dudes
i dont think you're the usual gamer demographic. the normal servers wouldnt correspond to real life but all the best players would be invited into tournament sort of things and, yeah
AmericanNazbro
AmericanNazbro
Post rating:
~
Goethestein posted:deadken posted:
soldiers are heroes imo. the cause they fight for may be monstrous but battle is always noble. in an apathetic age they face death in the name of a transcendent ideal. they are our enemies, and in revolutionary battle we must try to kill them, and they must try to kill us - but they are great men, and the bayonet sliding into their chest will be the sign of our respect for their heroism.shut up faggot
lol
babyfinland
babyfinland
tardy on these heaters
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[account deactivated]
AmericanNazbro
AmericanNazbro
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Meursault posted:deadken posted:the cia dudes who pilot drones are the real monsters, theyre scum and should be slaughtered without mercy or dignity
There should be a book where it's like a new video game and people find out that they're actually remote controlling REAL drones and really killing people. Kind of like a gritty grown up Enders Game
that was the plot in the movie Toys starring Robby Williams
[account deactivated]
littlegreenpills
littlegreenpills
Poronto
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lol the experience of every single soldier dating back to like world war one consists of long periods of boredom punctuated by abject terror, and the main role of the infantryman is getting in the way of explosions
babyfinland
babyfinland
tardy on these heaters
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deadken
deadken
penitent
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troop hate is generally indicative of liberal contrarianism, which is empty and without substance, and as such deeply counter-revolutionary. exhibit a: the goat
Crow
Crow
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~
i hate them, they're swine. when i'll be stronger than them, i'll love them and kill them more effectively, you happy?
Che:
"Hatred as an element of the struggle; a relentless hatred of the enemy, impelling us over and beyond the natural limitations that man is heir to and transforming him into an effective, violent, selective and cold killing machine. Our soldiers must be thus; a people without hatred cannot vanquish a brutal enemy."
Che:
"Hatred as an element of the struggle; a relentless hatred of the enemy, impelling us over and beyond the natural limitations that man is heir to and transforming him into an effective, violent, selective and cold killing machine. Our soldiers must be thus; a people without hatred cannot vanquish a brutal enemy."
babyfinland
babyfinland
tardy on these heaters
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Goethestein
Goethestein
Nippon
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deadken posted:
troop hate is generally indicative of liberal contrarianism, which is empty and without substance, and as such deeply counter-revolutionary. exhibit a: the goat
Goethestein posted:
shut up faggot
babyfinland
babyfinland
tardy on these heaters
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babyfinland
babyfinland
tardy on these heaters
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Impper
Impper
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+
stop posting video links
littlegreenpills
littlegreenpills
Poronto
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deadken posted:
troop hate is generally indicative of liberal contrarianism, which is empty and without substance, and as such deeply counter-revolutionary. exhibit a: the goat
fair point but it doesn't change the fact that the romantic glory of battle died in the trenches of antietam
Impper
Impper
Post rating:
~
what? all the stories about the initial invasion of iraq were extremely romantic and sensationalized, not to mention all of the new war porn style stuff. that hasn't really gone away, it's just changed
aerdil
aerdil
Post rating:
~
Crown Prince Wilhelm on the Prospect of War, 1913
Today, indeed, we live in a time which points with special satisfaction to the proud height of its culture, which is only too willing to boast of its international cosmopolitanism, and flatters itself with visionary dreams of the possibility of an everlasting peace throughout the world.
This view of life is un-German and does not suit us. The German who loves his people, who believes in the greatness and the future of our homeland, and who is unwilling to see its position diminished, dare not close his eyes in the indulgence of dreams such as these, he dare not allow himself to be lulled into indolent sleep by the lullabies of peace sung by the Utopians.
Germany has behind her since the last great war a period of economic prosperity, which has in it something almost disconcerting. Comfort has so increased in all circles of our people that luxury and claims to a certain style of life have undergone a rank development.
Now certainly we must not thanklessly deny that a wave of economic prosperity brings with it much that is good. But the shady side of this too rapid development often manifests itself in a painful and threatening manner. Already the appreciation of wealth has gained in our country an importance which we can only observe with anxiety.
The old ideals, even the position and the honour of the nation, may be sympathetically affected; for peace, peace at any price, is necessary for the undisturbed acquisition of money.
But the study of history teaches us that all those States which in the decisive hour have been guided by purely commercial considerations have miserably come to grief. The sympathies of civilized nations are today, as in the battles of antiquity, still with the sturdy and the bold fighting armies; they are with the brave combatants who, in the words which Lessing puts in the mouth of Tellheim, are soldiers for their country, and fight out of the love which they bear to the cause.
Certainly diplomatic dexterity can, and should, postpone the conflict for a time, and at times disentangle the difficulties. Certainly all those in authority must and will be fully conscious of their enormous responsibility in the grave hour of decision. They must make it clear to their own minds that the gigantic conflagration, once enkindled, cannot be so easily or so quickly extinguished.
As, however, lightning is an adjustment of the tension between two differently charged strata of the atmosphere, so the sword will always be and remain until the end of the world the decisive factor.
Therefore every one, to whom his country is dear, and who believes in a great future for our nation, must joyfully do his part in the task of seeing that the old military spirit of our fathers is not lost, and that it is not sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought. For the sword alone is not decisive, but the arm steeled in exercise which bears the sword.
Each of us must keep himself fit for arms and also prepared in his mind for the great solemn hour when the Emperor calls us to the standard - the hour when we no longer belong to ourselves, but to the Fatherland with all the forces of our mind and our body; for all these faculties must be brought to the highest exertion, to that "will to victory" which has never been without success in history.
Our country is obliged more than any other country to place all its confidence in its good weapons. Set in the centre of Europe, it is badly protected by its unfavourable geographic frontiers, and is regarded by many nations without affection.
Upon the German Empire, therefore, is imposed more emphatically than upon any other peoples of the earth the sacred duty of watching carefully that its army and its navy be always prepared to, meet any attack from the outside. It is only by reliance upon our brave sword that we shall be able to maintain that place in the sun which belongs to us, and which the world does not seem very willing to accord us.
The steel helmets glitter in the sunshine; in the galloping exercises every individual horseman endeavours to keep on to the man in front, and to keep the right direction - no easy matter when there is dust, and the ground is rough.
Many a one stumbles, and away past him gallops the company of riders. What does it matter! When you plane wood, shavings must fall. And there the call resounds over the field, clear and quivering amid the uproar of the galloping mass, "Front!"
The reins whirl round, and as if by a stroke of magic, the line is formed again, with a front of five impetuous squadrons of the guards, and then comes the signal, "Charge!"
Then the last ounce is taken out of the horses, and with bodies strained forward and with lances in rest with a "hurrah" we ride to the attack. For any one who has taken part in such attacks, there is nothing fairer in the world!
And yet to the true horseman there is one thing which appears more beautiful: if all that were the same, but if only at the end of the rapid charge the enemy were to ride out against us, and the struggle for which we have been drilled and trained, the struggle for life and death, were to begin.
How often during such attacks have I heard the yearning call of a comrade riding behind: "Donnewetter" if that were only the real thing!" O horseman's spirit! All who are true soldiers must know and feel: "Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori." [Glad and glorious it is to die for one's country].
Edmund Gosse "War and Literature" London 1914
War is the great scavenger of thought. It is the sovereign disinfectant, and its red stream of blood is the Condy's Fluid that cleans out the stagnant pools and clotted channels of the intellect. I suppose that hardly any Englishman who is capable of a renovation of the mind has failed to feel during the last few weeks a certain solemn refreshment of the spirit, a humble and mournful consciousness that his ideals, his aims, his hopes during our late past years of luxury and peace have been founded on a misconception of our aims as a nation, of our right to possess a leading place in the sunlighted spaces of the world. We have awakened from an opium-dream of comfort, of ease, of that miserable poltroonery of " the sheltered life." Our wish for indulgence of every sort, our laxity of manners, our wretched sensitiveness to personal inconvenience, these are suddenly lifted before us in their true guise as the spectres of national decay; and we have risen from the lethargy of our dilettantism to lay them, before it is too late, by the flashing of the unsheathed sword. "Slaughter is God's daughter," a poet said a hundred years ago, and that strange phrase of Coleridge's, which has been so often ridiculed by a slothful generation, takes a new and solemn significance to ears and eyes awakened at last by the strong red glare of realty.
vs.
Henry James in a letter to a friend, 1914
The plunge of civilization into this abyss of blood and darkness . . . is a thing that so gives away the whole long age during which we have supposed the world to be, with whatever abatement, gradually bettering, that to have to take it all now for what the treacherous years were all the while really making for and meaning is too tragic for any words.
ill let u dudes and deadken decide who ended up being right lmao