Monoreaction:
PFC Jones: I've been home now a month and it has been the longest month of my life. Everyday it feels like I'm gonna wake up again in the desert, Saudir City, Fallujah, wherever, and that this last month will have just been a dream. It's been a month and I still don't feel like I'm home. All these people talk so much shit everyday, talking about Rumsfeld and Bush, and troop numbers, and what we should do, and none of them really knows the answer. We didn't know the answer and we were there, face to face with the enemies and with the people we were defending, and nobody had a God-damned, sorry, clue about how to make it better. The more people we kill the more enemies we create. Every father has a son and every sister has a brother who are more willing to kill and to die than we are. Children would be afraid of us in the streets and run away with their eyes wide open staring at us, thinking that we might want to kill them too. Wouldn't you? I walk up to you on your way home from school holding a machine gun that is bigger than you are and no matter how nice I am, you'll always wonder if I'm gonna use that gun against you.
And now they want to send me back, that's why I came to talk to you father. They won't let me out, something about stop loss, but I don't want to fight anymore, I don't have the will. The thought of it makes me sick. You can't want someone fighting for you who admits that they don't believe in it anymore. You'd have to be crazy. I want to finish high school here. Maybe I can take what I learned over there and help kids in Iraq somehow feel better about us, but that ain't gonna be through fighting, I know that. So, can you help me? Tell them I'm crazy, or touched by God or something? No?
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