Gone but Not Forgotten
Billmon:remembereringgiap:
the death of general 'bodycount' westmoreland leaves the mass of the people with one mass murderer less. there is nothing to distinguish this man - neither as a military nor as a strategic thinker. i am not alone in that understanding. even at the colleges of war of the empire his reputation was & remains at a very base level. not only did he lose to an 'inferior force' but faced with imminent defeat at each turn, he was like the butcher generals of the first world war & sacrificed the children of the working class & minorites. he did so without blushing. like all butchers of his kind - they care nothing for their soldiery - they are small coins in his pockets or worse as the sicilians say - stones in his shoe
the man i honour & honour still - the great general giap understood what a westmoreland could not. that a peoples war is in the heart of the people. that is also true in iraq no matter how many demonise it - the war that is taking place has begun in the hearts of the iraqi people. their hearts are not represented in the puppet parliaments
what giap understood from the beginning is that people make history & not the other way around & in the real war that was the determining factor because even at a local level the soldiers of the viet cong & the nva always showed great inventiveness, imagination & when necessary a devouring ferocity
they did so because as they understood from uncle ho - that there is nothing more precious than national independence & freedom - they fought agressor after agressor until finally - the heart of the puppet government collapsed in 1975. & it was just wind. soldiers dropped their clothes in the streets & welcomed their liberation. that was a real liberation that a rumsfield can only imagine in his worst nightmares
westmoreland was one of those less than intelligent military leaders - much like the leadership of south africa under apartheid could have drawn the fundamental lessons much much earlier than they did - by prolonging it - they brought only bloodshed - they brought nothing back
& that pumped up kinsman kissinger - who parades pompously as if he was the greatest diplomat, the most esteemed purveyor of the great machiaveli was so stupid he gained nothing - not even in the short term - everything they constructed collapsed & collapsed catastrophically
under westmoreland's control - the specifically terrorist actions of special forces was to be perfected for the coming period in latin america africa & other parts of asia - there can be no question that this is the point where the american army & the nazi einsatzgruppen became one & i would not be surprised given their relationship with gehlen amongst others that they did study their methods. vietnamisation, the phoenix programme, the illegal entries into cambodia were of a kind any real soldier would be deeply ashamed of - this was not war - it was terrorism
it was under westmorelands leadership that the cia & american air began collecting the funds through the cultivation of heroin for the operations for the wars to come
he was an indecent man a man who not only does not deserve our thoughts or even our concern - we should all watch by his grave to make sure he is dead
Posted by b on July 20, 2005 at 5:16 UTC | Permalink | Comments (15)
WB: Here Comes the Cavalry
Billmon:In other words, there are still limits, at least for now, on a PR strategy based on the propaganda playbook originally developed by the two Joes (Stalin and Goebbels). And that's some comfort -- even if the Plame scandal isn't in the same category as ginning up a phony WMD threat or turning an entire war into a closely held corporation.
Posted by b on July 19, 2005 at 19:27 UTC | Permalink | Comments (39)
HBP
How come these folks all think that character is really dead. It is not of course. It just needs to be seen as dead to be able to fullfill its next task.
We will see it back in the seventh installment.
Posted by b on July 19, 2005 at 18:52 UTC | Permalink | Comments (9)
WB: Rove's Last Stand
Billmon:Posted by b on July 19, 2005 at 6:50 UTC | Permalink | Comments (14)
WB: Network of the Living Dead
Billmon:The source, who I am now at liberty to reveal is Wolf Blitzer, disclosed that Fox talk show host Bill O'Reilly rejected a CNN offer after lengthy negotiations. "His Fox contract includes an all-the-production-assistants-you-can-eat clause," Blitzer said. "Klein wanted to top it, but the highest corporate would go was an unlimited supply of dead Iraqis. And O'Reilly said they give him gas."
Posted by b on July 19, 2005 at 4:54 UTC | Permalink | Comments (10)
WB: Crime and Punishment
Billmon:The president is a man of his word. And he didn't make any exception for pardoned criminals.
Posted by b on July 19, 2005 at 1:51 UTC | Permalink | Comments (10)
WB: Ayatollah You So
Billmon:How would the folks back home feel if they knew their sons and daughters were getting limbs blown off so that Iraqi politicians could jaunt off to Tehran and say warm and fuzzy things about the crazy old man who gave us the Iranian hostage crisis?
Posted by b on July 19, 2005 at 1:09 UTC | Permalink | Comments (1)
Just Another OT
Open Thread
Posted by b on July 18, 2005 at 20:15 UTC | Permalink | Comments (71)
WB: The Plame Blame Game (+)
Billmon:So let's play a different game. Just this once, I'm going to reopen the comments section, and anyone who wants to play is welcome to guess the answers to the following questions:
The Plame Blame Game (with comments open)
plus
Posted by b on July 18, 2005 at 20:13 UTC | Permalink | Comments (19)
WB: Sunshine Daydream
Billmon:A touching thought, but Rummy better hope he's not right -- or else he and gang could find themselves in a whole lot of trouble.
Posted by b on July 18, 2005 at 19:59 UTC | Permalink | Comments (1)
WB: When Scandals Collide
Billmon:Given how much untraceable cash has disappeared down the Iraqi drain, anyone care to place any bets on what sewer pipe "funds that were not necessarily appropriated by Congress" might have been siphoned from?
Posted by b on July 18, 2005 at 7:03 UTC | Permalink | Comments (27)
WB: Another Lie .. (++)
Billmon:Another Lie From the New Pravda
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Posted by b on July 18, 2005 at 6:59 UTC | Permalink | Comments (8)
WB: Cooper Speaks
Billmon:That doesn't mean, of course, that Rove knew Plame was a NOC -- although it also doesn't mean he didn't know. But at a minimum, it at least suggests Rove knew the information he had given Cooper was confidential, if not classified. That, after all, was what made it such a valuable nugget to feed to Cooper.
Posted by b on July 17, 2005 at 21:55 UTC | Permalink | Comments (30)
WB: A Few Nuggets
Billmon:Otherwise, I can't understand why they're so focused on that particular event. From what's been leaked to the media, the memo itself sounds like it was written for one purpose: to smear Joe Wilson.
Posted by b on July 17, 2005 at 20:09 UTC | Permalink | Comments (15)
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Posted by b on July 17, 2005 at 19:58 UTC | Permalink | Comments (3)
Open Thread 05-71
Other news ...
Posted by b on July 17, 2005 at 6:48 UTC | Permalink | Comments (45)
WB: There Aren't Enough Rocks
Billmon:I wish I could think of something hopeful to say about the human meatgrinder the Cheney administration has created in Iraq -- instead of just dishing out the anger and snark. But I can't.
Posted by b on July 17, 2005 at 6:46 UTC | Permalink | Comments (23)
WB: All the News That's Shit
Billmon:The real purpose of the Times story seems fairly obvious: The leakers (those mysterious "people who have been briefed") wanted to point a finger of suspicion at Colin Powell, the man who was seen holding the smoking memo in his hand on the plane to Africa.
Posted by b on July 17, 2005 at 6:40 UTC | Permalink | Comments (18)
WB: Now Comes Miller Time
Billmon:Posted by b on July 16, 2005 at 21:14 UTC | Permalink | Comments (55)
Terrible Knowledge
by remembereringgiap
an extract of my piece for theatre 'terrible knowledge' which would seem to constitute the nightly dreams & sweat of mr karl rove:
All this time. I have expected them. When the political winds change. I know they will not forget Heimmann. There have been times when I have expected them to pluck me out. To take me to their sanctuary. To examine me. Like some specimen. They want to hold me up. Hold me up to the world like some ventriloquist's doll. Heimmann will not do that. He will show this good for nothing scum what he is made of. They will think they have a prize in their hands.
No. No. They will have a bomb. A bomb that will explode into their money lending hands. That is certain. I know they follow me. Do they think for one moment that it is possible to fool the man who controlled Europe with an intelligence network the like which had never and has never been seen in human history. In the same hour I could have a man picked up in Lodz. Another in Brussells. A woman in Prague. A teenager in Paris. They could all end up in my office the next day. They could be dead the day after that. That is power. That is strength. Every morning at my desk I would have reports from each of the occupied countries. From their cities. From their towns. From their villages. I had comprimised . I had corrupted. I had debased key individuals If I wanted information it was on my desk. The next morning. The next hour. Looking back it seems I had half of Europe in my debt one way or another. I had corrupted them. They had corrupted themselves. They are still here.
Some of them doing very well. Key people. I cannot touch them. In this world who would believe Heimmann. He is not to be believed I can hear them saying. I'll tell them many things they don't want to hear. I'll not end up on the scaffold praying to smaller gods than I am myself. I'll not tell them I was only following orders. I am not frightened by their puny justice. They'll try to shut me up but I will speak until I have no more to say. They want to know how such a man is made. I'll tell them. They needn't ask. I'll tell them at once. I'm a man they can only imagine. They all live in my shadow. I know them already. I will know their faces. I will have knoxn their fathers. Mothers. Uncles. Sisters. Brothers. I will have known their relatives. Their friends. I will have taken whole families on my train to their final departures.
They do not frighten me. Where are they now ? I can hear them. I have seen them. I am sitting here alone waiting for them. When will they come ? I am not going to run anymore. When we left the railway station Eckstein made no attempt to speak to me. To explain his action. I made no attempt to speak to him. My mind was rushing with many thoughts. There were moments when I felt like I wanted to pull out my pistol and end it there and then. I wanted him. He was simply one more man that I had control over. That was the truth of the matter. He could expect no grace from me.
He sat in the carriage as if nothing had happened. He passed me some papers that I had given him earler in the day. This man. His sons will try to do business with me but they have another thing coming. I am not an old man they can intimidate like they would an arab in the desert. I'm no savage they can beat into submission. They will feel the sharp whip of my toungue crack them across the face. Who do these assassins of Christ think they are dealing with ? They are not dealing with some flunked doctor now.
In a forest. Somewhere on the outskirts of Paris. My men gathered up the entire staff of a particular lycée in Paris that we knew to be the centre of resistance against us. They were gathered up in the middle of the day when they least expected it. It was in full view of the locals. Everybody pretended not to notice. We gathered them on a truck. The entire staff. There were Israelites amongst them. I am certain. They had changed their names but the lycée would have been a natural home for them. Packed off into a truck and driven to the outskirts of Paris. In a forest. They pleaded with us. demanding to know why they had been taken. From their beloved lycée. An old man - a professor came up to me. A Jew of long standing I would have thought. He came to talk to me. He wanted to know why they were here. I told him. Because you serve no purpose. I pushed him back into the throng and my men fired upon them until no one was left standing. An officer. A middle-aged man who was not involved in the shooting came up to me and asked brusquely why we had shot these people. I pulled out my pistol and shot him point blank. I told him - that's because you don't understand our purpose. He fell on his knees as if in prayer. We got back in the truck leaving this mess.
They think they know why they want me. I am a sinister man - they say. Do they think people have long memories ? People were forgetting as soon as we had done these actions. After the war people's memories got very distorted. Some of the young do not even know there was a war. They do not want to know. No one wants to remember. I remember everything. People want to move towards a future. What a future we left those we conquered. No sooner had the war finished than the French were in Vietnam. Then in Algeria. Employing the same methods that we had taught them. They were unflinching in their brutality. The English were no sooner out of the Blitz and they were putting the boot into the colonies and giving their own population some punishment. The Americans were in anywhere they could get a fight going so that they may profit. By brutality Israel was founded and by brutality it was maintained. A litany of the occupied becoming the occupier.
Their methods were no different except they were less efficient. They followed our rule book as if they had written it. Yet they presented this mimicry as if they alone were saving civilisation. The Russians never pretended civilisation and they renewed their savagery with a fervour with their new satellites. Living here. Watching the globe. I have laughed until my sides split to think that these men think they can judge me. By what laws ? We are the ones that developed those laws. They mirror our every action. They sit on high and tell me Heimmann this world cannot live with a man like you in its midst. Humanity has to rehabilitate itself - they will say. Humanity has to do away with people like you. They will insist. These liars. These frauds. Any one of these countries including Israel would benefit with the service of a Heimmann working for them. Ministering to their needs. No doubts about that. They would do well to employ me. They could not secrete me behind a door in some office. They know they would have to show others their naked face. This they cannot afford. They hide their face behind two penny brutes that they keep on a chain in countries like these. They keep their hands clean. They forever wash them.
That's your trouble Heimmann - they would say — you got your hands too dirty with your tasks. We cannot be contaminated by you they would claim. They are drowned in their own filth. They cannot clean up the filth they have accumulated. They want the benefit of my methods but they do not want to pay the price. Perhaps they think they can make a public spectacle of me then they can go about their business without reference to my deeds. To do away with me is to pretend to do away with the deed. This is the thinking that made America.
They will not forget Heimmann and his deeds. They will live on. In both books and life. This world cannot forget Heimmann. He is the door through which they constructed the post-war world. It is to him that they owe a debt. While they destroy town after town. City after city. Country after country. They can always point to the misdeeds of Heimmann to detract from their own deeds. They are without culture. They are without intelligence. Their reign will not last.
When I was a young man. After the First World War. I would look at maps and know that what was there today might not be there tommorrow. That empires were doomed to collapse. That one country would become another. That whole continents would be transformed. I drew on these maps. I imagined new boundaries. The creation of new borders. I imagined this then. Behind every change I saw the chosen ones or some other inferior race that needed to be extinguished. Now every day the world is faced with this reality.
It was in the last days of the war that I visited the camp where Eckstein was held. He was still working in the chamber commando. Many of those he might have called colleagues in his task had already gone to join their number. Not Eckstein. He was skin and bone with a sack on top but he was still there. He would go soon. He had been a lucky man. He had seen day turn into night. He had seen the future. I went up to him in the camp. He did not seem to recognise me. I tapped him hard on his arms. He looked up for a moment. Continued with his task except now he was almost unconciouslly mimicking me. He was following my every movement and gesture. The look on my face he mirrored. It was as if he was passing through me. I spoke to him but he could not answer. The man in charge of the camp was about to strike him but I fended off the attack. The weather will finish him off I said. They are the last words I spoke to him. We walked away from him but as I went into the main block I could still see him mimicking me. That's the last I saw of him.
I am alone sitting in my office. I have been told the Red Army are nearing Berlin. They are not far away. I can hear them. In the distance. The others are in a frenzy. There are already some who have deserted and others who have gone to Switzerland to make a peace. There are orders going everywhere. Orders are not being followed. This very day I have seen full uniforms left in piles all over the place. Left there. As if the owners had stripped off and just walked naked from the uniform. Ghosts. This city is a madhouse. I cannot believe this is hhappening.
All the shops are either closed or ransacked. My men are staying loyal. They at least give this appearance. I do not know. The means of communication are nearly all gone. Fourteen year old boys travel the city with messages from one leader to another. These boys carry news of what is happening on the front. Without them it would be impossible to get information from one place to another. The leadership seems to be everywhere and nowhere. The radio has gone and rumour has become the deadline.
You hear everything. Men I have known throughout our struggle run pass me in the street. No one greets one another anymore. Fear within the nation is greater than I have ever felt. Those who have their wits about them still fear me though they do their best to bypass me. I am not being noticed. Who are these orders for ? Who am I issuing them to ? An order has a short lifespan here if you can find someone to delegate it to. All around me. They all want to save their skins. That's the politics of our days and nights. We have night no longer. Every night we are being bombarded and light fills what is left of the sky. You cannot believe what I am seeing.
Yesterday after the Russians had hit the zoo with mortar fire you could see wild animals prowling through the city. Wild animals. I am situated in the middle of a nightmare. It is happening so fast. There doesn't seem enough time anymore. I cannot breathe. I need air. The cage is closing in. Why can't I breathe. My body feels as if it is in convulsion. I go through my files searching out names. I pore over schedules. I seek out names and numbers. Places. It's falling apart.
I'm looking at reports I made in 1934. They are detailed and precise. They speak to me now. My memory serves me well. The whole city is falling apart. These are my people. This is my country. What are we doing? The camps should be burnt to the ground. Lock stock and barrell. I have sent the order. I don't know whether it's been acknowledged. Whether there is anybody to acknowledge the order. Our cities look like a collection of rubble. Few buildings are left standing. They're pummelling our city to ash. We who have brought culture to the world now see that culture smashed to pieces. Opera houses. Theatres. Cathedrals. Galleries. Museums. Rubble. Eckstein and his sons have folloxed my scent though I will smell them first. They are very close. I hear and see. I am not imagining them. I can hear them. I can see them. They are close. So close.
I will know them. They will listen to me. I have a story to tell these stamp collectors. They will hear more than their ears can bare. They will hear a word or two that they may have not thought possible to utter. I will utter them. Eckstein will have told his side of the story. That's certain. A sob story. I would be a large figure in that landscape. No doubt about that. Eckstein will have his lists. My name will be at the top of them. I'll not hide that fact. That's what they expect me to do. Hide the facts. I am sitting in this office in a burnt out Berlin while mty men are going to the wall. I am powerless to do anything at all. They would expect my assistance. I have none to give. These were days that I thought all was gone. I hung on to the fact that all men are open to corruption. This is my talent. Our days were not at their end. Someone would do a deal with us.
The situation is still open I thought. I am at my best when I am confronted with adversity. I was working without break. Alone. I was surrounded by a building full of information and it was useless. I felt helpless. I have lived in this jungle of a country for too long. Without contacts. Without any network. To have lived in this cesspit and calle dit home has made me feel disgust. I cannot breathe. I imagine this city as it had once been. Ten years ago.
The beauty of Berlin had the power to oppress those of limited imagination. It still made all the cities we conquered look insignificant. To be in Berlin was to feel a man again. A man better than other men. Now it was in flames. As far as they eye could see. The buildings I had loved since I was a child ripped apart as if some great giant had held the city in his hand and shaken it all over the place. Emptying it of everything. Including people. It was an unimaginable sight. I cannot see his face. I saw him not long ago. I'm certain. I can't sleep. I am continually disturbed by all sorts of sounds.
I cannot hear myself. The heart is irregular. Covered in sweat. I was put to good use. I put myself to such good use. Ten years. A mammoth task. In ten years I had done to the chosen people what no man order or nation had ever had the strength to do. Not one of their number on the continent would have been untouched by my hands. I had entered their homes. I had emptied their families. A father here. A mother there. A grandmother. A daughter and son. Whole generations and families perished. I closed the door on their future. I turned their past against them. I turned them against each other. I chopped every branch of their culture from the tree and left them on the ground to be collected as firewood to burn the heretics. It will take a million years to rebuild their culture. Perhaps never. There can be no question about that. No question. No devil in their holy books was quite like me. The chosen people of today are different people.
Not the same as the ones I did business with. Certainly not. They had built a home where they could despise others as they despised themselves. The only home they deserved was in the camps. Here they had a community. A community like no other. Here the jew of every type was one. Half jew was all jew as far as I was concerned. From each corner the jew was brought ot meet his long lost cousins. Never before such a congress of jews. They only meet in disaster. It is in anguish that they find their brotherhood. In the chambers they went as one enormous family. They were one big family in the pit. Their homes are the burial grounds of Europewe dug for them. Ash bone and earth.
I cannot breathe. All the time i'm catching my breath. A pain across my chest will not go away. I feel as if I need a walking stick to stand straight.
They are going to do away with me. I know them. I can hear them. Their smell. I know it. They are here. They cannot hide from me. I know they are here. I am a master of their trade. I know they're here. They cannot hide from Heimmann. I will not walk to them. As they marched happily to the furnace. No.
They'll find me too much trouble. They know that from their fathers. From books. They'll know what they get when they capture me. Why do they come now ? Why now ? They have left me alone. They could have come here before. They now want me. What use am I to them ?. An old man in the dock. They want me.
A young man has come crying to me. He's no older than eighteen. Perhaps younger. New to the dirty uniform. He told me it had all come to an end. This young man. He had been at the bunker. A guard. They shot themselves four hours ago he said. His death and that of his bride did not disturb me. I remember staring out the window at the searchlights thinking that none of them can face the end. He who faces the end can watch history do the striptease. This man must know the end. I then turned on the boy in a fit of rage. Grabbed him by the coat and swung him against the door. I screamed at him that they had left us. Too scared to hold the flag. We are betrayed at every corner I told him. The swine never sleep in their own filfth. They leave us to embrace the end. I was still holding on tightly to the young man. This boy. It was clear that he was frightened out of his wits. He didn't know where to turn. I wanted to hurt this boy as I have never wanted to hurt someone in my life. I was holding this child to blame for what was happening. I remember screaming that I needed more time to carry out my task. I was screaming it out so loudly that it seemed to drown the room in sound. The boy couldn't have known what I was talking about. Just another official going mad before his eyes. He said nothing while I was holding him. He was sweating through the coat with fear. I let him go. Find a leader. Find a leader. I shouted to him as he fled the building to the dust and rubble.
Posted by b on July 16, 2005 at 10:45 UTC | Permalink | Comments (61)