By Patrick

An excerpt from a the war journal of a soldier in Iraq:

The American G.I. received the same stare forty years ago in rice paddies while hunting down Charlie. Billy Yank felt it on his back while he Marched to the Sea with Sherman, saving our nation from itself. Redcoat Sally came to understand it in a Boston town square, while a brave new world teetered on Revolution. Hell, Jesus’ family – if not the Master Messiah himself – unleashed it at more than a few Roman Legionnaires, I’m sure. It’s the same look any foreign power – or more accurately, the flexed bicep of said foreign power, the soldier – gets when a majority of the local populace feels that they’ve overstayed their welcome, if such a welcome ever existed in the first place.

Telling them we know what is best and that they need to start relying on their own government and police so we can leave and everyone wins and that any help we can and do provide at least offers a new spring in a land of endless, destitute winters doesn’t often have the effect you think it would. Or should. Or could.