Ghost Troop Home Page April Fools Part 4

October 22, email from Thom Shanker, New York Times

Captain May,
I’ve been racing around for the past two days, and not much at my desk, as I prepare for an unexpected but likely short trip downrange to Iraq. I’ll give a holler upon my return.
Regards,
Thom
Thom Shanker
Pentagon correspondent
The New York Times
202/862-0323

October 24, email to Thom Shanker, New York Times

Hey Thom,

I was pleased to let you regale me with your adventure story from Baghdad. You’re turning out to be more Tom Sawyer than Thom Shanker, though you were right Monday when you said I didn’t know the real you. That’s true enough. You were a little edgy after mid-July, and your braver side wasn’t so apparent then.

So you went and peeked out the window of the Baghdad Hotel to see where the rockets had impacted? Or did you hang your whole fool head out there to get a good look for the public? Thom, I want you to know that you’re a lunatic, because there were a dozen rockets left cooking in the launcher. Yep, you’ve finally impressed me, and all of Ghost Troop, whom you may wind up joining as more than a mascot if you keep charging at the truth. You just used up a life, little buddy. I know, ‘cause I’ve used up a few myself lately. How many we got left in us, Thom?

Well, I hope we’ve got enough for our little project, The History of the Infowar, (“by Captain Eric Holmes May, MI, USA, Commander, Ghost Troop, 3/7 Cavalry…, and Thom, his little mascot friend”) I like the title; I like the credits – whaddaya think? I’ll split it even Stephen if you’ll do all our research and writing, and let me toke and puff a little style into the places in the history that you pave with New York Times pedestrian prose (the mainstream style – newspeak, I believe Mr. Orwell called it). I don’t need much to live on, honest, and you know that I’m giving away the money from April Fools, Captain May (just to prove that the title is right), so half of the best history since Shirer’s Rise and Fall of the Third Reich would suit me just fine. Tell you what, let’s just make it a joint military/media project like the whole infowar has been anyhow, so you’ll be familiar with the process (and I won’t have to explain it). Here’s how it works: I (the military) just tell you (the media) what shit to write and tell you to say it’s really Shinola. [Editor’s emphasis, in all cases] As far as picking the false info out of the shit that’s already been uttered and written, your skills would be indispensable. Hire a pro to catch the pros, I say!

Hey, just for fun, let’s do some inferential thinking about Woodward & Bernstein. To read all the flattering books, you’d think that the Post went whole hog behind them, even though they were junior journalists, because they’d found the story of Watergate. Yep, there’s the media myth: objective and honorable in the battle against ignorance and for the public’s right to know. But Captain May sez that the Post kept the little guys on the Tricky Dicky’s trail because junior journalists can be shut down in the case of an emergency – like Nixon attacking the Post. Think so, Thom?

Woody and Bernie passed on the Battle of Baghdad story, of course. I sent word to ‘em about six weeks ago. I’ve seen every form of bullshit artist exposed in the last six months, and that’s my judgment of both of ‘em. Journalists get to write really good stories about how brave they were – after the fact, but I’ve saw dozens of ‘em pissing their britches this summer. Did I ever tell you about how Davy Corn, the highly touted lion of the left, turned pussy cat when I called him in April, July, August… My God, hearing him twist in the wind on the phone to avoid understanding boo about Bush and the war made me think he was just stupid for a while, then I figured out that he was a coward, too. We went back and forth for a half an hour as he tried to muddy what premises he could, and avoid conclusions at all costs. I had never until that moment realized that a simian life form could be invertebrate as well. Oh well, I suppose you have to devolve a bit to thrive in the jungles of journalism…

I’ll attach my letter of admiration to him so that you and my other pen-pals can enjoy a look at the soul behind his smile. There wasn’t a lot of real dignity in the infowar, Thom, was there? I think everyone got a little too scared to keep up honorable appearances, especially after David Kelly’s death.

Here are some broad notes to get you started doing our history homework:

At the end of June and the beginning of July, the forces of reason were moving against the Bushling’s bullshit in the infowar, because the war itself was already a demonstrative failure. The attack of the anti-Bush crowd lasted until July 8, when I published my anti-Bush piece in the then-confident Chronicle. We were about to sail through to truth when Bush and Blair started stealing ideas from Richard III.

Kelly’s death in the woods was about as subtle as the guy who drowned in a barrel of wine in Shakespeare’s story of the humpbacked king. You know what, Thom? I’ll bet that the next day in London the journalists of King Richard’s court were saying that the poor man had gotten drunk and fallen head over heels in the drink by accident! Y’all little men just have to say what the living powerful say, right? Yep, no sense speculating about who did what and why. Tell any story but the real story, cause telling the real story means your death might be the next story. Of course, showing tyrants that you’re afraid to tell the truth about their dark deeds is what empowers tyrants, but it take brass nuts to stand up to them, and few people have ‘em.

Yep, the Bush/Blair bullies outed and offed their infowar enemies, Thom, and by the second week in July, folks got mighty nervous – you and me as much as any. Did you think you were going to get it, little buddy? You sure seemed deathly scared when I called and you started talking Russian. It was our second conversation, a week after Kelly and I had moved underground – he in a box and I in a bunker. I remember exactly how the call started:

“Hello, this is Thom Shanker.”

“Motherfucker it’s me! Why the fuck didn’t you tell me that they’d killed David Kelly?”

“Sir, it’s the policy of the Times not to comment on any allegations related to potential sources while… Captain May???

You stopped hemming and hawing legalese when you realized who I was, then you hemmed and hawed in Russian for a while. I started cussing you in Russian, then settled down and listened to you spill your guts. It was a hoot, Thom, and I sure hope we get to talk about it for years to come. We can’t be out of lives just yet. Hell, I’m thinking that maybe the latter days of the infowar are coming, and we might have something to smile about if we last. I say we, incidentally, ‘cause we’ve talked so much, and you’ve read so much, that you’re as endangered as I am if the infowar escalates with a new round of assassinations, or (perhaps next) official incarcerations. Yep, Thom, even if you make it out alive we’ll be sharing morning exercise periods down in Camp Delta, Gitmo, labeled infoterrorists for writing ungood analysis of the Bush league.

So the 911 Commission is hitting Bush for documents again – just like they started to do back on July 8, before the little guy started using black operations… I’ll bet we’ll hear more bullshit about executive privilege than we’ve heard since Nixon before it’s over, ‘cause the prez can’t allow his infowall to crack or it will all come tumbling down. It’s kinda like the Berlin Wall, ain’t it. Well, Captain May sez: “George XLIII, tear the motherfucking wall down!” There, that was for the Gipper (I voted for him back in 1980 – the first and last time I voted). The Bushling can’t comply, though. Once the first pack of lies gets exposed it means another pack of lies investigated, and another, and another… That’s why they’re insisting on the documents now, right? Yep, it’s safe to do your job again in America – unless you’re a journalist, that is. But I’m still waiting for you foxy folks as I smile at your equivocation.

Thom, I sure do hope that you’re the one who gets to break the Bushling’s balls for the Times, and I hope you’ll use as much of my info as you can. There’s glory waiting, just out of reach, Thom, and it’s time to remember what you bragged about from Baghdad: You went to look when a cool head would have ducked, and I’ve acknowledged your feat. How about you stick your head out of your safety net at the Times and move around in my underworld inferno for awhile. I’ll be your Virgil. It’s really trippy down here, Thom; the rockets are always glaring red. By God, this is what the star spangled banner is all about – I’m going to go play the Hendrix version to celebrate our national Hades, ‘cause I’m having a hell of a time!

Here’s my situation update:

My little octogenarian intelligence network has held together long enough, but I have to respect age and let my comrades rest in peace. Professor G., my old professor from German side of the Russian Front, helped me get started with the idea of the failed German campaign of ‘41, an idea I published in the Houston Chronicle April 3, which started off saying we were repeating a geopolitical blunder. I know I was a voice in the wilderness then, but there have been some wild times since, and sooner or later you’ll all get around to using the word I capped my pre-Baghdad prognosis with: quicksand. By the way, have you heard the recent joke folks have started? Question: How do you get out of quicksand? Answer: Quick. I think it’s time for someone to say it to the prez, before he and Sharon start a war with Syria to get America good and committed to World War III.

Anyway, Professor G. and I had another talk a couple of days ago, the first in a while, and we discussed quaint things like the effects of inclement weather on logistics, the inefficacy of counter-partisan operations in a hostile culture and the like – nothing that would be of any interest to you, Thom, ‘cause you and the other journalism boys and girls are the ones who are really in the know. Professor G. concurs with my analysis (ripped off from various Third Reich histories) that the course of a failed war always goes from “We have won!” (as with Germany in 1941 before the Russian winter) to “We are winning!” (as with Germany in 42) to “We must win!” after Stalingrad.

The good Professor G. and I concur that the military situation in Iraq will continue to deteriorate, and that the greatest danger ahead is one of continuing bad military intelligence – on the part of the commander in chief, because he has none. I credit all national and military intelligence agencies with doing their jobs, but you can’t talk sense to a fool. The Bushling, on the other hand, has to discredit his subordinates to cover up his mistakes, which he will continue to do while you report shit and Shinola with equal “objectivity.”

In the feeble mind of the prez, and in his inner circle’s conversations, it’s time for “Global War” on the “Axis of Evil” and has been since before 911 – if only he got an empowering event like 911. Now that he’s getting an unwelcome reality check courtesy of the Iraqis abroad and the opportunists at home, I suppose he’s hoping for (or seeing to) an empowering event to allow him to further mobilize the country for war – real war, regional war, world war. I did predict all of this in my April 3 op-ed, Thom. I’ve laid out most of the other hot items of analysis in other essays, published and unpublishable, which I’ve attached should you want to share any of them with that boy in the opinion section, Toby – wasn’t it? I’ll bet my Professor G and I were the only folks in H-town to believe that the little boy from Yale would be a Hitler, and that the religious right would be the SA, that SF would be SS… You finish the parallels, and get a copy of Shirer, Thom – there was a journalist!

So much for theoretic discussions with Professor G., who is more ensconced in art history than military analysis nowadays. He got to see his first country head down the road to doom – indeed, he was one of the ones who fought; now he wonders if he’ll have to watch it on TV this time with his grandchildren fighting for a different fatherland.

You may recall that Professor G. was only one half of my tandem of talent. The other is Mr. Coleman, who served in the Pacific Theater with the Army in World War II. He lives in a little house by the woods where I walk Dexter, my personal mascot – but you can come with us some day if you want, cause I like you half as much as him, and twice as much as any other journalist I know.

Yep, Mr. Coleman used to see me walking barefoot in the brambles, broken glass, junk yard refuse and snakes of our field/dump on the north side of town. After I bought a used back-porch stair from him (he sells a bit of junk from his back yard), we became familiar. That was February, just after I’d published my target analysis of the city in the Chronicle op-ed. It turned out that the junk man was an op-ed reader. He had seen my stuff, and recognized the common sense of it. We struck up a friendship.

At first he thought me a bit uncommon, I suppose. He asked me if I was afraid of being barefoot with all the mess and mischief lying around. I explained to him that the danger of a misstep taught me how to walk well. Thom, I can walk as quiet as an Indian, and I told him so. He laughed, and said that white men and black men can’t be as clever-footed as red men. I told him that I could, ‘cause I’d learned from a yellow man, Master Yu, my teacher. Just to prove it I caught a wild cat that had never been touched by a human – the poor kitty never knew I was coming. He was spooked though unharmed, and Mr. Coleman reckoned that he had found a white man worth knowing.

Our paradigm has been different from the one I’ve developed with Professor G. The way Mr. Coleman and I see it, the Bushling is a spoiled, temperamental rich man’s son, a classic fuck-up, the kind of dumbass honkey who would get his ass kicked or his pocket picked – or both – in our neck of the woods. We figured that his leadership would insure the same effect in Iraq. We were right, of course. You can’t beat common sense, Thom. I know – I’ve tried to be an intellectual all my life, but it’s only since I’ve returned to my hood and my black brothers that I’m seeing beyond all that a bit.

Tell you what, I’ll go buy a part of those woods and build a log cabin barracks, and call it the Horse Sense Hotel, and invite the American Intelligentsia to come and get in touch with reality. I’ll send ‘em to the street corner to get smokes and let ‘em dodge the drunks and dealers. I’ll teach ‘em to watch where they walk, how to build a fire, how to dodge the cops, how to whip-ass if need be. Shit man, this could be a better idea than writing the History of the Infowar. Tell you what, you do our homework – that’s the deal, remember, and I’ll set up the spa. I know a lot of the folks who come here will be full of shit, and that’s fine, cause I’ll doctor ‘em, gratis. Mr. Coleman said I could use his faucet, and we’ll get a garden hose to do some colonic irrigation as a designer service. I’ll just shove half a foot of it up each guest’s butt, and turn on the water for a quarter hour. After that I’ll cut the used part of the hose off and line-up the next VIP. Do you think it’ll work, Thom? God knows, with all the shit you guys have been carrying around – bottled up inside for months – it would seem to be a relief.

Ghost Troop Home Page April Fools Part 4