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6 Marines
3 standing tall and proud in the foreground
3 crouching in the foreground
6 Marines posing in Fallujah, supposedly the
“Graveyard of Americans”
6 young, strong men with battle hardened
countenances.
6 marines in great health posing with rifles,
deep in enemy territory
They can go to any country in the world, kick
ass and take pictures to show
the folks back home what their tax dollars are
paying for.
That picture of my buddies and I, is forever in
my mind, yet slightly
changed....
Private Perez was killed by a car bomber at a
vehicle check point.
There’s only 5 Marines in the picture now.
Sergeant Silva lost the use of his left leg after a
rocket attack and now is
addicted to painkillers and booze.
There’s only 4 Marines in the picture now.
Lance Corporal Dubois joined the Marines to
help conquer his heroin
addiction. After 3 years clean and sober, he
came home from Iraq a broken
man, and turned back to heroin. He overdosed
two months after we got back
There’s only 3 Marines in the picture now.
Corporal Allen’s stress and emotional
problems got the better of him and he
started beating his wife and children. 2 years
after Iraq he’s in prison,
without a family.
There’s only 2 Marines in the picture now.
Private First Class Anderson got dishonorably
discharged for drug use 5
months after we came home. Rather than turn
to his family for help, he
wanders the streets of southern California,
begging for money, food, work
There’s one Marine left in the picture now, and
it’s me. Am I still alive?
I might be physically breathing, but I’m dying
inside. So really there
aren’t any Marines in that picture and without
those Marines it’s just a
picture of a shattered city in a devastated
country.
3 standing tall and proud in the foreground
3 crouching in the foreground
6 Marines posing in Fallujah, supposedly the
“Graveyard of Americans”
6 young, strong men with battle hardened
countenances.
6 marines in great health posing with rifles,
deep in enemy territory
They can go to any country in the world, kick
ass and take pictures to show
the folks back home what their tax dollars are
paying for.
That picture of my buddies and I, is forever in
my mind, yet slightly
changed....
Private Perez was killed by a car bomber at a
vehicle check point.
There’s only 5 Marines in the picture now.
Sergeant Silva lost the use of his left leg after a
rocket attack and now is
addicted to painkillers and booze.
There’s only 4 Marines in the picture now.
Lance Corporal Dubois joined the Marines to
help conquer his heroin
addiction. After 3 years clean and sober, he
came home from Iraq a broken
man, and turned back to heroin. He overdosed
two months after we got back
There’s only 3 Marines in the picture now.
Corporal Allen’s stress and emotional
problems got the better of him and he
started beating his wife and children. 2 years
after Iraq he’s in prison,
without a family.
There’s only 2 Marines in the picture now.
Private First Class Anderson got dishonorably
discharged for drug use 5
months after we came home. Rather than turn
to his family for help, he
wanders the streets of southern California,
begging for money, food, work
There’s one Marine left in the picture now, and
it’s me. Am I still alive?
I might be physically breathing, but I’m dying
inside. So really there
aren’t any Marines in that picture and without
those Marines it’s just a
picture of a shattered city in a devastated
country.
"That damn truck"
A narrative by Cpl. Cloy Richards
It was just a truck. A big, green truck. Not
a pickup or a big-rig, but a
big, green, seven-ton military truck. A big,
green truck in a barren,
desert wasteland that stuck out like a sore
thumb. The cab held 2 Marines
and mounted above the cab, was a
gunner armed with a Browning M2 .50
caliber
machine gun, just like the ones you see
pointed out of the sides of
helicopters in the popular movie Black
Hawk Down. In the bed of the truck
were 10 severely uncomfortable and
easily irritable Marines, seated upon
3,000 pounds of explosives and
ammunition; the last place you'd want to
be
if a rocket-propelled grenade happened
to come whistling your way. Fist
fights would break out over elbow space
and legroom. That truck was a
cramped death trap where sleep was
impossible and comfort was a wish no
genie could grant. However, to the boys
of 1st squad, Alpha Company, it
Everyone had "their spot" in the back of
that truck. Sergeants and
corporals got first pick of their spots, while
privates and lance corporals
got last pick. If a private was so lucky as
to pick a comfortable spot, it
was very possible that a grouchy sergeant
would annex it. I never got so
lucky. I carried a heavy machine gun so I
was blessed with being stuck on
the port (left) side in the back of the bed.
My staff sergeant's reasoning
for that splendid move was so that I could
lay down suppressing fire while
everyone else dismounted the truck in
case of an attack. I think he did it
just to torture me. That spot had to be
the most uncomfortable spot of them
all. "Thanks a lot Staff Sergeant," I would
mutter everytime I climbed into
the back of that truck. I made the most
out of that spot, though. I mushed
the sandbags down in front of me to make
a mini-dinner table where I could
dine on whatever fine, vaccuum-sealed
meal Uncle Sam would bless me with.
No matter what I did I could never keep
the hard, aluminum canisters of
explosives from digging right into my
buttocks and thighs. Sitting in the
back of that truck was a nightmare. I
hated that truck.
We rode that truck through a hole in the
berm separating Kuwait and Iraq .
We led tanks
and armored vehicles into Iraq in that
truck. I even leaned out of the back
of that truck and tried to touch the fire
burning off of an oil well in
Southern Iraq . I waved to young Iraqi
children who would give me a thumb up
and yell "America good" as I passed by in
that truck. In the back of that
truck I daydreamed of what my
ex-girlfriend was doing back home, and
who she
was doing it with. I shot snipers off
rooftops from the back of that truck.
Our driver would tell all us in the back
when we were about to run over an
enemy so we could all be quiet and listen
for the sound of the crunch of his
bones under the weight of American steel
and once we heard it we would all
that truck. I hated myself in that truck.
The weather was unusually mild on March
25th, 2003 in south-central Iraq .
There was a cool breeze that made our
nuclear, biological, chemical
protective suits actually a bit manageable
in that miserable desert. We had
been stuck in that truck for three days
straight and were growing irritable,
but that breeze was just the reprieve we
needed to stop our bitter
grumbling. It was just a calm before the
storm. The rain clouds rolled in
so fast it was like God had dimmed the
lights in Iraq . As the first
raindrops bounced off the barrel of my
machine gun I heard thunder clap
nearby and searched the sky for lightning.
I looked out the back of the
truck and saw the truck behind us explode
and realized that wasn't thunder I
was hearing. "Fall out, Fall out" our Staff
Sergeant screamed as my squad
poured out of the truck. Some snipers
were taking potshots at my boys while
they were jumping out of the truck so I laid
down suppressing fire. I was
in the perfect spot in the back of the truck
to mow every sniper down.
"Thanks a lot staff sergeant" I thought to
myself. I still hate that spot
in the truck.
After I jumped out of the truck I could see
what was in front of us, even
though I didn't want to. The vehicles in
front of us had been blown apart,
including the captain's vehicle. Before I
ran to my position on the
perimeter I tried to catch a glimpse of the
damage up ahead, but could only
focus on the captain and the bloody
stump where his arm used to be. I was
stunned by this gruesome sight but
quickly regained a grasp on the situation
after I watched my captain tie a dressing
around his own wound, pull out his
pistol and scream "Let's get these sons of
bitches!" I laid in the mud for
18 hours shooting whoever dare breach
my section of the perimeter. We were
outnumbered 3,000 to 150 but after all
was said and done, most of us climbed
back into those trucks. Thirteen of us had
jumped off that truck earlier
that morning. Eight of us climbed back in
that night. I had missed that
truck.
To this day, I can't put my finger on what
was so special about that truck.
It was so cramped, so uncomfortable. I
wouldn't get back into that truck
for a million dollars. After that rainy day in
the desert I had never been
happier to get in that truck. I prayed I
would never have to get out ever
again. Unfortunately there were alot more
days like March 25th, 2003 and
everytime we climbed back into that truck
there were fewer of us. That
never made it more comfortable. Those
of us who were left would stuff
ourselves into our old positions so as not
to interfere with the space a
fallen comrade had once taken. That
truck offered so much pain, so much
grief and yet, so much comfort. No one
ever died inside that truck. It was
only when we got out of the truck, it
seemed, was when our brothers would
die. I miss that damn truck.
A narrative by Cpl. Cloy Richards
It was just a truck. A big, green truck. Not
a pickup or a big-rig, but a
big, green, seven-ton military truck. A big,
green truck in a barren,
desert wasteland that stuck out like a sore
thumb. The cab held 2 Marines
and mounted above the cab, was a
gunner armed with a Browning M2 .50
caliber
machine gun, just like the ones you see
pointed out of the sides of
helicopters in the popular movie Black
Hawk Down. In the bed of the truck
were 10 severely uncomfortable and
easily irritable Marines, seated upon
3,000 pounds of explosives and
ammunition; the last place you'd want to
be
if a rocket-propelled grenade happened
to come whistling your way. Fist
fights would break out over elbow space
and legroom. That truck was a
cramped death trap where sleep was
impossible and comfort was a wish no
genie could grant. However, to the boys
of 1st squad, Alpha Company, it
Everyone had "their spot" in the back of
that truck. Sergeants and
corporals got first pick of their spots, while
privates and lance corporals
got last pick. If a private was so lucky as
to pick a comfortable spot, it
was very possible that a grouchy sergeant
would annex it. I never got so
lucky. I carried a heavy machine gun so I
was blessed with being stuck on
the port (left) side in the back of the bed.
My staff sergeant's reasoning
for that splendid move was so that I could
lay down suppressing fire while
everyone else dismounted the truck in
case of an attack. I think he did it
just to torture me. That spot had to be
the most uncomfortable spot of them
all. "Thanks a lot Staff Sergeant," I would
mutter everytime I climbed into
the back of that truck. I made the most
out of that spot, though. I mushed
the sandbags down in front of me to make
a mini-dinner table where I could
dine on whatever fine, vaccuum-sealed
meal Uncle Sam would bless me with.
No matter what I did I could never keep
the hard, aluminum canisters of
explosives from digging right into my
buttocks and thighs. Sitting in the
back of that truck was a nightmare. I
hated that truck.
We rode that truck through a hole in the
berm separating Kuwait and Iraq .
We led tanks
and armored vehicles into Iraq in that
truck. I even leaned out of the back
of that truck and tried to touch the fire
burning off of an oil well in
Southern Iraq . I waved to young Iraqi
children who would give me a thumb up
and yell "America good" as I passed by in
that truck. In the back of that
truck I daydreamed of what my
ex-girlfriend was doing back home, and
who she
was doing it with. I shot snipers off
rooftops from the back of that truck.
Our driver would tell all us in the back
when we were about to run over an
enemy so we could all be quiet and listen
for the sound of the crunch of his
bones under the weight of American steel
and once we heard it we would all
that truck. I hated myself in that truck.
The weather was unusually mild on March
25th, 2003 in south-central Iraq .
There was a cool breeze that made our
nuclear, biological, chemical
protective suits actually a bit manageable
in that miserable desert. We had
been stuck in that truck for three days
straight and were growing irritable,
but that breeze was just the reprieve we
needed to stop our bitter
grumbling. It was just a calm before the
storm. The rain clouds rolled in
so fast it was like God had dimmed the
lights in Iraq . As the first
raindrops bounced off the barrel of my
machine gun I heard thunder clap
nearby and searched the sky for lightning.
I looked out the back of the
truck and saw the truck behind us explode
and realized that wasn't thunder I
was hearing. "Fall out, Fall out" our Staff
Sergeant screamed as my squad
poured out of the truck. Some snipers
were taking potshots at my boys while
they were jumping out of the truck so I laid
down suppressing fire. I was
in the perfect spot in the back of the truck
to mow every sniper down.
"Thanks a lot staff sergeant" I thought to
myself. I still hate that spot
in the truck.
After I jumped out of the truck I could see
what was in front of us, even
though I didn't want to. The vehicles in
front of us had been blown apart,
including the captain's vehicle. Before I
ran to my position on the
perimeter I tried to catch a glimpse of the
damage up ahead, but could only
focus on the captain and the bloody
stump where his arm used to be. I was
stunned by this gruesome sight but
quickly regained a grasp on the situation
after I watched my captain tie a dressing
around his own wound, pull out his
pistol and scream "Let's get these sons of
bitches!" I laid in the mud for
18 hours shooting whoever dare breach
my section of the perimeter. We were
outnumbered 3,000 to 150 but after all
was said and done, most of us climbed
back into those trucks. Thirteen of us had
jumped off that truck earlier
that morning. Eight of us climbed back in
that night. I had missed that
truck.
To this day, I can't put my finger on what
was so special about that truck.
It was so cramped, so uncomfortable. I
wouldn't get back into that truck
for a million dollars. After that rainy day in
the desert I had never been
happier to get in that truck. I prayed I
would never have to get out ever
again. Unfortunately there were alot more
days like March 25th, 2003 and
everytime we climbed back into that truck
there were fewer of us. That
never made it more comfortable. Those
of us who were left would stuff
ourselves into our old positions so as not
to interfere with the space a
fallen comrade had once taken. That
truck offered so much pain, so much
grief and yet, so much comfort. No one
ever died inside that truck. It was
only when we got out of the truck, it
seemed, was when our brothers would
die. I miss that damn truck.
"Why I Fight for Peace"
congressional minutes
Because I can’t forget no matter how hard I try.
They told us we were taking out advancing Iraqi forces,
But when we went to check out the bodies
they were nothing but women and children
desperately fleeing their homes because
they wanted to get out of the city
before we attacked in the morning.
Because my little brother, who is my job to protect,
decided to join the California National Guard
to get some money for college and
they promised he wouldn’t go to Iraq.
instead three months after enlisting
he was sent to Iraq for one year.
Since he has been home for the last six months,
he refuses to talk to anyone, he lives by himself.
the only person he associates with is a friend of his,
the one other man out of his squad of thirteen men
who made it home alive.
He called me a few weeks ago for the first time
And told me he’s having nightmares.
I asked what they were about and
He said they’re about picking up the pieces
Of his fellow soldiers after a car bomb hit them.
Because every single one of the Marines I served with,
the really brave warriors, even when some friends and people
they looked up to got killed or lost an arm or leg,
they wouldn’t cry, they just kept fighting.
They completed their mission.
Every one of them I have spoken to since we got home
has broken down crying in front of me,
saying all they can do since they got back
is bounce from job to job, drink and do drugs,
And contemplate suicide to end the pain.
Because I’m tired of drinking, bouncing from job to job
and contemplating suicide to end the pain.
Because every time I see a child,
I think of the thousands I’ve slaughtered.
Because every time I see a young soldier,
I think of the thousands Bush has slaughtered.
Because every time I look in the mirror
I see a casualty of the war.
Because I have a lot of lives I have to make up for,
the lives I have taken and
Because it’s right.
That’s why I fight.
Because of soldiers with wounds you can’t see.
congressional minutes
Because I can’t forget no matter how hard I try.
They told us we were taking out advancing Iraqi forces,
But when we went to check out the bodies
they were nothing but women and children
desperately fleeing their homes because
they wanted to get out of the city
before we attacked in the morning.
Because my little brother, who is my job to protect,
decided to join the California National Guard
to get some money for college and
they promised he wouldn’t go to Iraq.
instead three months after enlisting
he was sent to Iraq for one year.
Since he has been home for the last six months,
he refuses to talk to anyone, he lives by himself.
the only person he associates with is a friend of his,
the one other man out of his squad of thirteen men
who made it home alive.
He called me a few weeks ago for the first time
And told me he’s having nightmares.
I asked what they were about and
He said they’re about picking up the pieces
Of his fellow soldiers after a car bomb hit them.
Because every single one of the Marines I served with,
the really brave warriors, even when some friends and people
they looked up to got killed or lost an arm or leg,
they wouldn’t cry, they just kept fighting.
They completed their mission.
Every one of them I have spoken to since we got home
has broken down crying in front of me,
saying all they can do since they got back
is bounce from job to job, drink and do drugs,
And contemplate suicide to end the pain.
Because I’m tired of drinking, bouncing from job to job
and contemplating suicide to end the pain.
Because every time I see a child,
I think of the thousands I’ve slaughtered.
Because every time I see a young soldier,
I think of the thousands Bush has slaughtered.
Because every time I look in the mirror
I see a casualty of the war.
Because I have a lot of lives I have to make up for,
the lives I have taken and
Because it’s right.
That’s why I fight.
Because of soldiers with wounds you can’t see.
Survivor's Guilt
By Corporal Cloy Richards
I stare at this paper and don’t know what to say
I don’t feel right saying “happy memorial day”
I don’t find anything happy in the price you’ve paid
We’re both just pawns when this game called war gets played
My body came home but my spirit just stayed
That hot Iraqi day when you were slayed
Watching my back so I could sleep unafraid I heard the explosion from
where I laid
And instantly I watched the skies go grey
I watched my life just float away
How could things go this way
You were my brother in arms and you took my place
But not like the way that car bomb took your face
And blew off your limbs
When I think about it my head starts to spin
I get noxious when I think of your family
I’m sorry your son died protecting me
This isn’t the way things were meant to be
You see that day your son took my duty
Your brother sacrificed four 4 hours of sleep
So he could go guard a gate for me
Your fiancée took my fate from me
I’m sorry your father took my place for me
I’m sorry I can spend memorial day with my family
Today should have been a memorial for me
At least then the survivor could have lived guilt-free
By Corporal Cloy Richards
I stare at this paper and don’t know what to say
I don’t feel right saying “happy memorial day”
I don’t find anything happy in the price you’ve paid
We’re both just pawns when this game called war gets played
My body came home but my spirit just stayed
That hot Iraqi day when you were slayed
Watching my back so I could sleep unafraid I heard the explosion from
where I laid
And instantly I watched the skies go grey
I watched my life just float away
How could things go this way
You were my brother in arms and you took my place
But not like the way that car bomb took your face
And blew off your limbs
When I think about it my head starts to spin
I get noxious when I think of your family
I’m sorry your son died protecting me
This isn’t the way things were meant to be
You see that day your son took my duty
Your brother sacrificed four 4 hours of sleep
So he could go guard a gate for me
Your fiancée took my fate from me
I’m sorry your father took my place for me
I’m sorry I can spend memorial day with my family
Today should have been a memorial for me
At least then the survivor could have lived guilt-free
Geoffrey Perez, assigned to 3rd Battalion, 1st Marine Regiment, 1st
Marine Division, I Marine Expeditionary Force, Camp Pendleton,
California. Died on August 15, 2004.
I have a wooden dove I keep with me always with Geoffrey's name on
it. Every time I start a day, I thank Geoffrey for saving my son's life and
vow to do whatever I can to stop another family from going through the
pain of Geoffrey's.
Thank You Geoffrey
Marine Division, I Marine Expeditionary Force, Camp Pendleton,
California. Died on August 15, 2004.
I have a wooden dove I keep with me always with Geoffrey's name on
it. Every time I start a day, I thank Geoffrey for saving my son's life and
vow to do whatever I can to stop another family from going through the
pain of Geoffrey's.
Thank You Geoffrey
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