Bookworm Room

I’ve mentioned before that I’m a persnickity lady who likes my comforts — a fact that only serves to increase my admiration for those American troops dealing with the dangers and discomforts in Iraq. I know from my father, who fought in North Africa during WWII, how particularly nasty desert fighting is. He had amusing stories of washing clothes in gasoline in order to preserve water, only to have the clothes dissolve; and scary stories of finding shelter in abandoned shacks, only to wake up to find the floor crawling with scorpions. He never talked about combat itself, although my Mom tells me of bayonet to bayonet fighting with the Nazis, especially at el Alamein.

It’s not my Dad’s war, but Teflon Don, at Acute Politics, has a good way with words, and a good sense of imagery, so he really takes you with him on a nighttime journey through Fallujah territory. Check it out.

As an aside, it’s a mixed blessing that it’s not my Dad’s war. It’s good, because Dad’s war was unimaginably bloody while the current war, for all the fuss from the anti-War activists is, mercifully, one of the most bloodless wars America has ever fought. It’s bad, though, because WWII had the virtue of a united front, where virtually the entire country enthusiastically and generously supported the war effort.

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