[Editor's Note: I heard Jimmy Massey over the radio maybe
8 or 9 months ago, I can't remember for sure. He hadn't wrote this book
yet, but I was hoping he would, since he had a lot to say about the BETRAYAL
of American ideals and the abandonment of concepts of morality and justified
force which are today BRAINWASHED out of military recruits. I'll repeat
a point I've made in similar introductions: the US military, its upper echelons
of command and control, are in the hands of SATANISTS and TRAITORS to the
Constitution, who are in bed with the New World Odor in order to bring about
the destruction of America and its people. The anecdotes that Jimmy Massey
recounts in this book are the words of a career marine who FINALLY REALIZED-after
he stressed his mind and heart as far as they would go- for himself what
I've stated above. The way to stop this cancer of a once admired US military,
is to stand up to it and declare yourself a moral human being who will not
allow this evil to continue...Ken]
By Jean-Paul Mari, Le Nouvel Observateur
October 27, 2005
In a just-published book, Master-Sergeant Jimmy Massey
tells about his mission to recruit for, then fight in, the war in Iraq.
He tells why he killed. And cracked.
Jimmy Massey is 34 years old. He's originally a Texas boy,
raised as a good Southern Baptist who loves squirrel hunting with his air
rifle. After 12 years in the Marines, Jim is a broken man, a veteran afflicted
with Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome, a depressive hooked on his medications,
haunted by the nightmare images in which he massacres innocent civilians,
scenes experienced in Iraq when he was nothing but a killing
machine. Jim has cracked, has withdrawn from the service for medical
reasons, and has written a raw and brutal book. Telling the life of a Marine
of today, revealing "how he talks, how he thinks, how he fucks, and
how he kills." The Army denies the facts and his former comrades have
insulted, rejected, and threatened him. His testimony ulcerates Neo-Conservative
America and shocks the politically correct. In the United States, no publishing
house has dared to publish his manuscript. Extracts follow.
When you're a recruiter, you have to learn fast. And I rapidly
learned that if I wanted to keep my job, I couldn't allow myself
to have any scruples.
I went to public schools every day where I was able to contact
young people easily. I had already been given a list of all the students,
with their phone numbers. So I really didn't need the 2002 law - the No
Child Left Behind Act 1 - which stipulates that any high school receiving
federal funds must furnish military recruitment officers with the names,
addresses, and telephone numbers of its students. [...] As usual, I said
to myself, "I'm going to get them,
those fuckheads," since, you must understand, a recruiter has only
one thing in his head if he wants to pay his rent: landing contracts. [...]
One day in 2000, I was with my warrant officer in the cafeteria
of a little local university. Chief Warrant Officer Dalhouse rushed over
to me, saying "Hey! Chief-Sergeant, I'd like to introduce you to Timmy."
I lifted my head towards Timmy to discover ... a retard! Two hundred and
ten pounds of muscles, the features and the speech of a retard. Upset, I
looked at my new boss and asked him: "Are you shitting me?" He
firmly replied: "No, Chief-Sergeant, you are going to interview this
guy. He is seriously thinking about joining the Marines."
[...] Timmy was short and massive; he wore blue jeans, work
boots, and a T-shirt in the Andrews High School football team colors. He
reminded me of the Lenny character from Steinbeck's "Of Mice and Men."
He seriously wanted to sign up with the Marines; it was obvious. [...] "Now,
let's talk about your handicap. I know it's been harder for you than the
average person and you've already shown a lot of self-confidence by overcoming
your disability." Timmy lowered his eyes; I saw he was a little embarrassed.
Then he raised his head, his eyes glistening with tears, and in a trembling
voice, answered: "You're right, Sergeant, it's been really hard for
me. Once, when I was new, the other guys locked me in a closet. They shoved
me around and insulted me. I was so angry I knocked down the closet door."
"- Timmy, no one will ever bother you again. The Corps will help you
acquire all the self-confidence you'll need to overcome the obstacles you
could encounter in the course of your life." He sent me a look full
of gratitude. [...]
When a kid told me he had taken Ecstasy, here's the sort of
conversation we'd have: "Listen, guy, are you sure it was really Ecstasy?
Maybe it was Doliprane." When I said that, I'd nod my head up and down.
"Yeah, I'm not sure, in fact." "So you think it was Doliprane?"
still nodding my head. "Yeah, it was Doliprane." [...]
The War in Iraq
"You call that pacification? I've got a problem with
it," I said in a nauseated voice. "My friend, you've gotta get
a grip. If you keep making waves, they'll judge you as a war criminal."
We had reached the military site Al-Rashid on an overcast,
dark and sinister day. [...] When we stopped, I saw ten Iraqis, about 150
yards away. They were under forty years old, clean and dressed in the traditional
white garment. They stayed on the side of the road waving signs and screaming
anti-American slogans. [...] That's when I heard a shot pass just over our
heads, from right to left. I ran into the middle of the street to see what
was happening. I had barely rejoined Schutz when my guys unloaded
their weapons on the demonstrators. It only took me three seconds
to take aim. I aimed my sights on the center of a demonstrator's body. I
breathed in deeply and, as I exhaled, I gently opened my right eye and fired.
I watched the bullets hit the demonstrator right in the middle of his chest.
My Marines barked: "Come on, little girls! You wanna fight?"
I acquired a new target right away, a demonstrator on all
fours who was trying to run away as fast as possible. I quickly aimed for
the head; I breathed in deeply, breathed out, and I fired again. One head:
boom! Another: boom! The center of a mass in the bull's eye: boom! Another:
boom! I kept on until the moment when I saw no more movement from the demonstrators.
There was no answering fire. I must have fired at least a dozen times. It
all lasted no longer than two and a half minutes.
I know that they had also been shot in the back; some of them
were crawling and their white clothes turned red. The M-16's 5.56 is a nasty
bullet: it doesn't kill all at once. For example, it can enter the chest
and come out at the knee, tearing all the internal organs on the way through.
My guys were jumping around in every direction. Taylor and Gaumont hollered:
"Come back, babies!" "They don't know how to fight,
those cocksuckers! Fucking cowards!" They slapped one another
on the back, exchanging "Good job!," but they were frustrated
because some demonstrators had succeeded in getting away. I wanted to keep
on firing, I kept telling myself: "Good God, there must be more of
them." It was like eating the first spoonful of your favorite ice cream.
You want more. [...]
Those demonstrators were the first people I killed. [...]
That had a hell of an effect on me. What an adrenaline, rush, fuck! Fear
becomes a motor. It pushes you. It had more of an impact on me than the
best grass I ever smoked. It was as though all those I had ever hated, all
the anger that was accumulated in me was there in that being; you feel like
you're absorbing life like a cannibal. You're really happy with
yourself; you feel really powerful and everything
becomes clear. You reach nirvana, like a white luminous space. But after
a few hours, you come down from nirvana and find yourself in dark waters;
you swim in a pool of mud and the only way to go back to that other feeling
is to kill again. [...]
After pulling out at dusk, we heard shots, at least a hundred.
Lima Company had opened fire on a vehicle. I learned later
that there were three women and a child inside. As far
as I know, there was never any inquiry. [...]
Forty-five minutes later, a red Kia Spectra came towards us
at around 35 mph. It penetrated the green zone; a few of my Marines let
loose a warning round and the sniper fired on the engine, but the damage
didn't keep the car from continuing into the red zone. The vehicles installed
in the rear immediately opened fire with their 240 Gulfs; we joined in with
our M-16s, targeting the car and firing at least 200 rounds at high speed.
The KIA stopped in a grating around 25 yards from my Humvee, and my Marines
pounced on the vehicle and began to extract the four wounded Iraqis. The
occupants, young men tastefully dressed, were bleeding profusely.
[...] Six stretcher bearers arrived with stretchers and took them away.
The survivor came towards me groaning, a tortured expression covering his
face. He looked in the air, his hands raised: "Why did you
kill my brother? We didn't do anything to you. We're not terrorists."
I walked away without saying anything to him and sat down
inside my vehicle, devastated. I got out when I heard the Marines and the
stretcher-bearers bringing the Kia's occupants back to the car. "Fuck,
what are you bringing them back for?" "Chief-Sergeant, the chief
Medical Officer said he couldn't do anything for them." I looked at
the Iraqis, containing my anger with difficulty. They were twisting and
groaning, dying by inches and in pain. [...] I couldn't speak. I looked
inside the car. Obviously, there were neither weapons nor explosives
there. I was more and more disgusted.
The Last Straw
[...] Captain Schmitt came towards me and asked me, very calmly:
"Are you OK, Chief-Sergeant? [...]" "- No, Captain. I'm not
OK." "- Why not?" I answered without hesitation: "It's
a bad day. We killed a lot of innocent civilians." "- No. It's
a good day," he retorted in an authoritarian tone. Before I had time
to answer, he had already moved away from me with a confident tread.
Today, Jimmy Massey is no longer a Marine. He lives in a little
village in North Carolina, spends his time making anti-recruitment
visits to schools and militating against the war in the association
he founded with five other soldiers: Veterans Against the War.
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