by Oliver North
Some people here at home claim, "I support the troops; I just don't support what they are doing in Iraq or Afghanistan." Those who believe that statement need to try this experiment. When you get home after work, walk in the front door and tell your spouse: "I love you . . . but I really don't like the way you drive, cook, look after the house, or care for the kids—and that needs to change right now." Then see where you sleep that night.
Most of the young Americans in our military are in their early twenties. They are accountable for hundreds of millions of dollars worth of equipment and the lives and safety of innumerable others. In a combat zone they go to work every day carrying lethal weapons and the means to summon massive destruction from afar on a moment's notice. By the time they have received an honorable discharge, they will have been entrusted with more responsibility than their civilian peers will ever be given.
Though they rarely see "gratitude" mentioned in print or on the air, the men and women in our armed forces earnestly believe that they are protecting us from a ruthless foe who would repeat the horror of 9/11 against us if given the chance. And those who serve in our military today know that their pitiless adversary has been taught to hate and is dying to kill any American.
If that weren't enough, those on the front lines in the war against radical Islam also carry on their shoulders the hopes and dreams of Muslims who yearn for freedom and safety after years of brutality and oppression. And back home, the biggest decision many of their peers have to make is what movie to see on a Friday night.
During the opening stages of Operation Iraqi Freedom, I asked Col. Joe Dunford to describe the seven thousand Marines, soldiers, and sailors he was leading in RCT-5 in the attack north to Baghdad. "They're just incredible," he replied. "They look out for each other, they trust each other, and they're ready to do whatever they're called upon to do."
I have met many of those troops in trips to Iraq, Afghanistan, and the Philippines. They are still serving. Now that's commitment.
HERO HUMOR
Will Work for Food
Each time the Marines established a new U.S.-Iraqi security station in terrorist-controlled neighborhoods, they had to fortify the building they were going to occupy with sandbags. But tens of thousands of sandbags don't fill themselves. The Marines solved the problem in Marine Corps fashion.
Immediately outside the mess hall at Hurricane Point the engineers dumped a mountain of sand. Next to it they placed pallets of green sandbags and a half-dozen shovels. Every person on the base—officers, troops, and FOX News personnel—had to fill two sandbags in order to get a meal. There were no complaints—at least that we heard. One wag put it this way: "We're Marines. We work for food."
Freedom Comes in Forty-Pound Bags
Mal James, my superb combat cameraman, and I accompanied the Marines as they opened a new police station in the heart of an Al Qaeda-controlled neighborhood in Ramadi. We moved out after dark—a Marine rifle platoon, a company of Iraqi Shiite soldiers, and a detachment of Iraqi Sunni policemen.
Within a few hours this combined unit of fewer than one hundred men occupied a four-story concrete building in the middle of an Al Qaeda-controlled neighborhood. Well before dawn they had packed every window full of sandbags and built sandbag barriers around the edge of the roof. Each of those forty-pound sandbags—thousands of them—had been filled by the Marines, loaded on flatbed trucks, brought to the site, and then carried up the stairs. Almost half of them were taken all the way to the roof. It was back-breaking, dirty work—carried out in the100-degree heat through a stifling, dust-filled haze lit only by the eerie dim glow of blue chem-lights. Mal and I did our share, joining the human chain that passed the sandbags from the ground floor and up the stairs. In the midst of it all, one of the Marines observed, "The recruiter never told me that freedom comes in forty-pound bags!"
COMPASSION
Since 2001 I have spent more than a year covering U.S. military personnel fighting radical Islamists around the world. Whoever coined the phrase "nice guys finish last" didn't spend enough time with the men and women of our armed forces. On the battlefield, compassion and courage aren't mutually exclusive.
The care with which U.S. forces are carrying out this war stands in stark contrast to the ruthless tactics of our adversaries. Americans publicly debate the morality of certain forms of interrogation. Our enemies release to the public videos of hostages being tortured and beheaded.
I've also looked into Saddam's mass graves and seen the captured films and videotapes of innocent Iraqis having their tongues cut out and others being blindfolded, bound, and marched off the top of a three-story building. I have seen the Taliban's torture chambers in Afghanistan and have interviewed survivors of Abu Sayef atrocities in the Philippines.
I have seen and documented Iraqi schools turned into ammunition depots and mosques used as bunkers. In the village of al Hamira near Baquba in mid-2007, Al Qaeda operatives massacred every inhabitant and their livestock and beheaded more than a dozen children. The same mainstream media that gave front-page, lead-story status to Abu Ghraib and Haditha barely mentioned al Hamira.
Terrible things happen in all wars, and this one is no exception. War is the cruelest of human endeavors. Yet, when American military personnel are accused of being involved in wrongful behavior, they are investigated, and where appropriate, subject to trial and, if convicted, punishment. Restitution is paid to innocent victims of American destruction. But our radical Islamic enemies use innocent civilians as human shields, laud those who commit atrocities—and promise more of the same.
U.S. Air Force SrA Andrzej Wojcicki talks to an Afghan child at an internal displaced persons camp outside of Kabul, Afghanistan
Wounded enemy combatants are routinely sent to the same hospitals where they receive the same outstanding medical care as wounded American troops. Sick or injured enemy combatants often enjoy more comfortable living quarters than the doctors and nurses who treat them.
In battle, I have seen Marines and soldiers risk their lives to rescue Iraqi civilians and care for injured or wounded noncombatants. Troops in the units with which I have been embedded put themselves at great risk to avoid civilian casualties or collateral damage. U.S. military personnel play soccer with kids, befriend the people, and build schools. I've seen soldiers and Marines give their last MREs to hungry children and take up collections among their peers to pay for sending disabled children to the U.S. for advanced surgery and rehabilitation. American military medical personnel routinely petition to adopt orphaned children who come through their field hospitals.
For the members of the U.S. military, compassion is not only a virtue—it's policy. For radical Islamists, compassion is a weakness. For the mainstream media, American compassion is generally ignored.
Yet, compassion—as much as the force of arms—is a key to winning not just the campaigns in Iraq and Afghanistan but the long, deadly struggle against merciless Jihadists. A U.S. Army chaplain in Mosul put it best: "That's the difference between the terrorists and us. Don't you understand? That's the difference!"
HERO HUMOR
Soccer Bombing
One of the best ways our troops are drying up the source of new terrorists is by befriending the Iraqi children. As the troops travel on patrols, the children come running and form a dancing, waving mob behind the Humvees, shouting "Mista! Mista!" (Mister! Mister!) as they distribute toys and soccer balls. These kids know that good things get delivered when the Americans show up.
But not all delivery methods are equally effective. On a helicopter flight between Baquba and Baghdad, an enterprising door gunner began tossing soccer balls out as the chopper flew over remote villages and farms. Popping an Iraqi farmer in the head with a soccer ball from a helicopter going 150 knots probably isn't going to win his heart and mind. Nor is a "smart ball bomb" bouncing through the front door of a little mud hut and ricocheting
around inside going to make a family on the ground an ally.
Most of these desert people live without what we consider the essentials of daily life. It has to be unsettling to them when a screaming black monster the size of a house goes thundering overhead at nearly 200 miles per hour. Having a brand new soccer ball crash into their chicken coop from out of the sky doesn't exactly set their minds at ease.
In the aftermath, somebody rethought the soccer-bombing campaign. Sure, it's better to give than to receive, especially when you are talking about high-velocity projectiles. But when it comes to delivering soccer balls, it's best to do it from the ground.
Mal James
You Told Me It Would Be Hot
If asked to describe the weather in Iraq, the average American would probably respond "hot." And this is correct—most of the time. But you might be surprised to discover that the winter season in northern Iraq gets surprisingly cold. Just ask my combat cameraman, Mal James. He and I had been to Iraq during the summer of 2004, and the heat was so intense he ended up with an IV drip in his arm.
On a subsequent trip to Iraq to cover the troops as they prepared for another Christmas away from home, Mal was surprised to find that the weather wasn't just cold; it was frigid.
One day at Hurricane Point in Ramadi a firefight broke out in the city. We decided to climb up on the roof of the building we were staying in to get some footage. The wind chill on that rooftop was approaching zero, and the gusts felt like they would tear the frozen flesh off your face. Mal piled on every stitch of clothing he'd brought with him. But even with sixty pounds of body armor, it still wasn't enough.
This photo I took of Mal captures the misery of that day quite perfectly. With teeth chattering, he declared, "You told me it would be HOT!"
I laughed and told him he looked like the poor kid on the school playground whom no one wants to play with.
Such is the glamour of a job in broadcasting.
The Press Corps
When members of the media are "embedded" with U.S. military units in a combat zone, they wear body armor and Kevlar helmets just like the troops. Chuck Holton's vest had the word "PRESS" stamped prominently across the back. This prompted a soldier to walk up behind him and press the word on his vest. Getting no reaction, he pressed "PRESS" again, then shrugged and said, "Hmm . . . nothing happened."
FAITH
"May the LORD my rock be praised,
who trains my hands for battle
and my fingers for warfare."
—Psalm 144:1
"The safest place for me to be is in the center of God's will, and if that is in the line of fire, that is where I will be."
—Father Tim Vakoc, U.S. Army chaplain
War can bring out the worst in man. The crucible of combat tests a person's faith in himself, his fellow man—even faith in God. It is particularly so in this war on terror. At any moment a brutal, suicidal, and fanatical enemy can blow himself to pieces just to kill an American. Yet on Sundays in Iraq and Afghanistan, where our troops brave these dangers daily, tens of thousands of young Americans attend services where they pray for their enemies. Those who lead those prayers are garbed in the same sun-bleached camouflage as the troops kneeling before them. We call them chaplains. They are part of what makes us "different" from our enemy, and they are a remarkable lot.
My wife and I were married before a Navy chaplain assigned to the Marine base at Quantico. When I was wounded in Vietnam, it was Cmdr. Jake Laboon, our regimental chaplain, who called out "take this one next," as the triage corpsmen ran in to get another litter patient for emergency surgery. Chaplains Bob Beddingfield and Don Dulligan spent months in the field with my Marines, braving enemy fire to minister to them. As our children were born, other chaplains baptized them in chapels around the country. To say that these "men of the cloth" were an important part of my life in the service would be an understatement. And so it is today for the young Americans I see on my trips to Southwest Asia.
Chaplains hold services wherever and whenever they can
Chaplain John Barkemeyer celebrates mass for soldiers at their combat base in Ramadi, Iraq
The chaplains in Afghanistan and Iraq—and offshore in the Persian Gulf—are cut from the same bolt of cloth as those I recall from my days in uniform. They minister to a "flock" of Americans only a few months out of high school—all of whom know fear, whether they show it or not. By the time these worshippers return to the United States they will have confronted more hardship and danger than their civilian contemporaries will experience the rest of their lives.
Yet, despite all they have endured, the vast majority of these young Americans will complete full and productive lives. Thanks for that should go, in part, to chaplains like Navy LT Jamie Stall-Ryan. He's the type of chaplain who greets you warmly. When he asks how you are doing, you can see that he really wants to know. He's a "man's man," yet talks of Bible study classes and invites those in his "parish" to consider meaning and purpose in a place filled with chaos. He acquired a large-screen TV and a satellite dish for his chapel so the troops have a place to watch NFL football games. They know he will be there for them if things fall apart.
These spiritual leaders counsel young men and women who are confronting their own mortality. But there aren't enough chaplains to go around. As many as a third of all chaplain slots in the military are vacant. Units frequently deploy without a dedicated chaplain. For many troops, the only chaplain they will see are "circuit riders" who—like "saddlebag preachers" of old—brave ambushes to deliver comfort and spiritual reinforcement in dangerous places.
Father Tim Vakoc, an Army chaplain, was making the rounds ministering to soldiers deployed around Mosul in May of 2004 when his Humvee was hit by an IED. He became the first chaplain wounded in Iraq. He suffered terrible head wounds from the explosion and shrapnel. When I visited him in the VA hospital in Minneapolis, he was barely able to move. He has since been transferred to a nursing facility where he continues to make what can only be described as miraculous progress.
Chaplains like Father Vakoc have served as merciful messengers in America's military since the American Revolution. In the midst of the arduous campaigns in Iraq and Afghanistan, I have seen them tending the wounded, comforting friends of the fallen, and encouraging the weary. On numerous occasions I've heard chaplains like Carey Cash, Father Bill Devine, Frank Holley, and Brian Weigelt remind young warriors that despite the horror of combat, the incredible fatigue and the terrifying sights, sounds and smells of war, the God who made them did not intend that they descend into savagery.
After the brutal battle to liberate Fallujah, Chaplain Bill Devine told the troops at a memorial service for their fallen brethren in RCT-7, "There is nothing more Christian than what we are doing here." Father Devine wasn't making a political statement, nor were his words intended to inflame the passions of Islamic radicals who hate Christians and Jews. His words referred to the sacrifice of those who had fought against great odds so the Iraqi people could enjoy their God-given freedom.
In all my years in and around the military, I have never seen so many men flock to chapel services, Bible study groups, and prayer sessions. I have seen them put pocket Bibles into their flak jackets and gather in a prayer circle before and after dangerous missions. In the midst of terrible gunfights, I've heard these men take vulgar language to the level of a new art form. But when the shooting stops, I've seen them reading the Bible in a quiet moment.
The behavior of these young men thrust into the most dangerous circumstances reflects a faith forged in a culture that does not seem to comprehend who they are—or their spiritual underpinnings. But these troops don't seem to care what others think. They know who they are, where they are going, and why they are going there.
After a vicious engagement on the streets of Ramadi one hot afternoon, we returned to the company outpost. After making sure that al
l his Marines had replenished their ammunition and prepared their gear for the next mission, the company gunnery sergeant announced, "Bible study on the third floor at 17 hundred," or 5:00 p.m. The place was packed. The study leader was the great gruff bear of a sergeant whose squad I had been with during the patrol. Three weeks later he was dead.
By then I was back in the States, and I attended his funeral in Fredericksburg, Virginia, to tell his family what a fine man their son and brother was. But they already knew. And I know that I'm going to see Sgt Joshua Frazier, USMC, again.
With Marine Sgt Joshua Frazier shortly before he was killed in action
HERO HUMOR
A U.S. Navy SEAL in the Philippines
Doesn't FOX Know How to Set Up a Camera?
In the Philippines, U.S. Special Operations troops have been quietly helping the government wage a successful campaign against the Abu Sayyaf and Jemaah Islamiyah Muslim terrorist organizations for years. I got a chance to see this progress for myself during a month-long trip to the region in mid-2007.