perfidy

Or so sez Carston Stormer in his second installment in Die Welt. Apparently he is touring Iraq with American forces and writing about these half crazy warriors, their war movie existence, and "extinct" cities like Fallujah. At times the trip really seems to be a vehicle for Stormer to write about himself, but that's really nothing unusual in modern journalism is it?

The short version of the article is that he was waiting for a helicopter by himself, reading a book. After a bit a soldier walks up, seemingly to wait for the same ride, says "God bless you", and sits on the ground next to him. Hilarity ensues.

In my sole interaction in a quasi-journalistic fashion with Special Forces, they were nothing but helpful and professional. Now, I was working for a guy who was there at the invitation of unit leadership. But I think that's nominally beside the point. The fact that Stormer's understanding of SF lies somewhere between a war movie and mythology is enough for you to understand his limitations.

My translation below the fold. For a cleaner version consult with NDR or your local native speaker.

Jesus and the Special Forces

It is said that soldiers of the Special Forces shoot first and ask questions later- which is usually unnecessary by that point. Journalists to these men are “scum”.

Have you ever seen an American war movie? Black Hawk Down or Jarhead? If you haven’t, it’s really not so bad. You see bold men, with full beards and weatherbeaten faces, burnt brown, without uniforms but heavily armed. That is the Special Forces. They jump with precision behind enemy lines, riding on horseback through the desert, a saddlebag stuffed full of dollar bills. So soll schon manch ein Kriegsfürst umgestimmt worden sein (you’re on your own with this turn of phrase, sorry).

In Germany the Special Forces are called the KSK (Kommando Special Kräfte). No one knows exactly what they do, everything is secret. It is said that they shoot first and ask questions later- which by then is usually not necessary. It’s best if one treats it like buffalo- without looking it in the eyes. You might try to photograph them once; at best you’ll lose your camera.

The other day I was sitting on the airfield in Baghdad, waiting for a helicopter and reading Axel Hacke. The sun shone, a nice winter day in Iraq. I was sporting a beard. And I was burnt brown, since when I was home in Germany I took a couple sessions in a tanning bed- the better to hold my endorphin levels (?) in balance on gray winter days. But otherwise, I had nothing in common with members of a Special Forces unit. So anyway that was my look- fatigue pants, bulletproof vest, and smoking a Camel.

After a while a soldier came over and planted himself next to me in the gravel. “God bless you”, he said. I nodded and, unsolicited, he told me his life story.

That he was depressed after returning from the the first Gulf War. That he never again wanted anything to do with war. So he got out of the Army. Stupidly he took to drinking, and it cost him his wife. One night Jesus appeared to him in a dream, two weeks after the United States & co marched into Iraq.

“Rejoin the Army, my son”, Jesus said. “Go to Iraq and convert the unbelievers to the True Faith. That is your mission.” He listened. “Jesus was my rescue.” But He had concealed that Muslims make unwilling converts. That’s why you have to kill so many of the guys, said the soldier. It’s really pretty frustrating- but it’s the only way. Then he asked what I did for the Army- Special Forces? Private security?

Journalists are “scum”

“What? No. Journalist.”

“Uups.”

He didn’t run away, but he didn’t say anything more to me, either. Just took another quick drag on his cigarette. A few moments later another guy sat near us. Beard, khaki pants, M-4 machinegun. And he said “Buddy” to me. He too immediately began to chat about his life. The fact that I was trying to read a book was of no interest to either of them.

He said, “I was in the Special Forces for a time.”

“Sir...“, said the one to whom Jesus had appeared, to the other. “Sir...“ No reaction.

It’s a shame that I’m too old for that sort of work now, the bearded one continued. The hip, he said, still has shrapnel in it. Souvenir from Afghanistan. That’s why he’s now with a private security firm. Convoy security, that kind of thing. “Good money, very good money.“

“Sir!“, quacked the other one next to me, this time emphatically. “Sir!“ No reaction.
Then he told me a good deal of the funny and secret details of the hunt for terrorists behind enemy lines.

“So,” he asked me, “What’s your mission in Iraq, buddy? Special Forces? Marines?“

“Ahhh…”, I said.

„Siiiirrrr, now listen up“, said the first one. „That is a J-o-u-r-n-a-l-i-s-t.“

Journalists are sort of the natural enemy of the Special Forces. Or is it the other way around?

Silence.

“Scum,” he said, the one who’d called me “Buddy”, and both men disappeared.

The whole thing was a little unpleasant, and in the whole time I had hardly said a word.