Note: I openly admit that I have drank the Kool-aid and this post will likely be offensive to near anyone I know. That said, I do not mean this post as disrespect to any of my fellows in other branches, many of whom saw more action than myself. The rest of you though, can go fuck yourselves.
A few people I know lost a friend the other day. More unfortunate I would say would be the loss to the people of Afghanistan. Last week SSgt. Sky Mote / USMC was killed in action in Afghanistan. The usual group of people came out in support. But the usual people, well, they just don’t get it. Their feeling is one of sadness. They line the streets, shed their tears and feel pity for a man who will have lived a more complete and noble life than 99% of them. The police line the streets with their lights flashing and their uniforms pressed as if they understand, as if they are members of the same community. Those police wear their uniforms and feed off of warriors like this to bask in public adoration and score easy pussy. Those same officers are the ones that will respond to tell SSgt. Mote’s comrades who lived, sweat, and bled next to him that they need to call it a night or that they can’t walk home with that beer in their hands when they get stateside, drunk, and celebrate the man’s death.
But that isn’t my point. These people line the streets and feel sorrow. Weep they should. But those tears should be for themselves. The Marine Corps has two missions: (1)to win battles, and (2)to make Marines. The nation and the community lost a Marine. A nation needs her warriors; they are an especially necessary commodity in a society committing suicide through sloth and cowardice. The true warrior lives by a code of honor. He is a creature of moral courage in the vacuum of a decadent civilization.
Now SSgt. Mote, as I understand, was a warrior. The fact that he was baptized on the yellow footprints is no guarantee of valor, but it is a good early indicator. From the limited amount of information I’ve gathered from reading, my knowledge of the man’s unit and MOS, and some scattered stories from friends it sounds like he was the genuine article.
I can see you shaking your head now, still sad, thinking I’m some fool, or some insensitive asshole. That may well be. But I repeat: weep for yourself. Only a very special few will gain a seat in the halls of Valhalla. Such is why you sad, pathetic souls must rely on Christ. You need someone to do the heavy lifting for you, to die for you (there’s an interesting concept, considering the subject). You needed a better man to place himself on a cross (or in a desert shithole) to sacrifice to secure you a seat in Heaven. Valhalla does not work that way. You must EARN your place in the hall. There you do not rest on your laurels and toast with the finest mead; rather you wait, and you prepare for Ragnarǫk. Ragnarǫk, for the uninitiated, is but future combat, battle sufficiently brutal as to KILL GODS. The Marine Corps Hymn itself ends stating that when soldiers and sailors themselves make their way into your Judeo-Christian heaven, they find Marines on duty. So great an honor! Such an incredible duty is not to be sullied with tears but met with a grave reverence.
Weep! Weep for yourselves, for likely none of you truly will see him again, as the gates of Valhalla will never be opened to you. And I’ll never meet someone I feel very much at a loss for never having known. I will not earn so great an honor either.
Marines die. That’s what we’re here for. But the Marine Corps lives forever, and that means SSgt. Sky Mote lives forever. Cry for yourself. No one will speak so highly of you…
I close by saying perhaps the greatest loss was to the community of manly beards. I’m honestly quite jealous. Semper Fidelis.
