My wife Carol and I wander a little dazed among the crowd of protestors and anti-protestors. A group of young men and women scream into each other’s faces. “Just sign up,” one woman blasts, through a wicked smile. No one at all appears to have ever done any military service. I turn the movie camera on.
An Iraq vet named Joe takes the microphone on stage. “Don’t tell me to sign up,” he says. “I did my time in Iraq. The recruiter’s office is over there.” He points, and the anti-protestors quickly become silent.
Alex, an Iraq vet, tells us about his shock when he first learned, from a trusted sergeant, that they weren’t there to fight for Iraqi freedom or to topple Hussein. “We’re here for one thing and that’s oil,” the sergeant said. The only motive they were left with was pride in their unit and the need to look out for each other. This was something we were to hear again and again.
We take to the streets. There are many groups present. A huge “get the hell out of Boston” chant goes up outside of some sort of Christian temple. Here, the buildings are tall and close together and the noise is unbelievable. Although the tone is vigorous and confrontational, no one really expects any violence. A neat row of Boston’s finest on horseback stands nearby, watching, and suddenly heavy snowflakes begin to fall.
We realize we have no idea what we’ve gotten ourselves into.
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