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6 Marines
3 standing tall and proud in the foreground
3 crouching in the foreground
6 Marines posing in Fallujah, supposedly the “Graveyard of Americans”
6 young, strong men with battle hardened countenances.
6 marines in great health posing with rifles, deep in enemy territory
They can go to any country in the world, kick ass and take pictures to show
the folks back home what their tax dollars are paying for.
That picture of my buddies and I, is forever in my mind, yet slightly
changed....
Private Perez was killed by a car bomber at a vehicle check point.
There’s only 5 Marines in the picture now.
Sergeant Silva lost the use of his left leg after a rocket attack and now is
addicted to painkillers and booze.
There’s only 4 Marines in the picture now.
Lance Corporal Dubois joined the Marines to help conquer his heroin
addiction. After 3 years clean and sober, he came home from Iraq a broken
man, and turned back to heroin. He overdosed two months after we got back
There’s only 3 Marines in the picture now.
Corporal Allen’s stress and emotional problems got the better of him and he
started beating his wife and children. 2 years after Iraq he’s in prison,
without a family.
There’s only 2 Marines in the picture now.
Private First Class Anderson got dishonorably discharged for drug use 5
months after we came home. Rather than turn to his family for help, he
wanders the streets of southern California, begging for money, food, work
There’s one Marine left in the picture now, and it’s me. Am I still alive?
I might be physically breathing, but I’m dying inside. So really there
aren’t any Marines in that picture and without those Marines it’s just a
picture of a shattered city in a devastated country.
3 standing tall and proud in the foreground
3 crouching in the foreground
6 Marines posing in Fallujah, supposedly the “Graveyard of Americans”
6 young, strong men with battle hardened countenances.
6 marines in great health posing with rifles, deep in enemy territory
They can go to any country in the world, kick ass and take pictures to show
the folks back home what their tax dollars are paying for.
That picture of my buddies and I, is forever in my mind, yet slightly
changed....
Private Perez was killed by a car bomber at a vehicle check point.
There’s only 5 Marines in the picture now.
Sergeant Silva lost the use of his left leg after a rocket attack and now is
addicted to painkillers and booze.
There’s only 4 Marines in the picture now.
Lance Corporal Dubois joined the Marines to help conquer his heroin
addiction. After 3 years clean and sober, he came home from Iraq a broken
man, and turned back to heroin. He overdosed two months after we got back
There’s only 3 Marines in the picture now.
Corporal Allen’s stress and emotional problems got the better of him and he
started beating his wife and children. 2 years after Iraq he’s in prison,
without a family.
There’s only 2 Marines in the picture now.
Private First Class Anderson got dishonorably discharged for drug use 5
months after we came home. Rather than turn to his family for help, he
wanders the streets of southern California, begging for money, food, work
There’s one Marine left in the picture now, and it’s me. Am I still alive?
I might be physically breathing, but I’m dying inside. So really there
aren’t any Marines in that picture and without those Marines it’s just a
picture of a shattered city in a devastated country.
"That damn truck"
A narrative by Cpl. Cloy Richards
It was just a truck. A big, green truck. Not a pickup or a big-rig, but a
big, green, seven-ton military truck. A big, green truck in a barren,
desert wasteland that stuck out like a sore thumb. The cab held 2 Marines
and mounted above the cab, was a gunner armed with a Browning M2 .50 caliber
machine gun, just like the ones you see pointed out of the sides of
helicopters in the popular movie Black Hawk Down. In the bed of the truck
were 10 severely uncomfortable and easily irritable Marines, seated upon
3,000 pounds of explosives and ammunition; the last place you'd want to be
if a rocket-propelled grenade happened to come whistling your way. Fist
fights would break out over elbow space and legroom. That truck was a
cramped death trap where sleep was impossible and comfort was a wish no
genie could grant. However, to the boys of 1st squad, Alpha Company, it
Everyone had "their spot" in the back of that truck. Sergeants and
corporals got first pick of their spots, while privates and lance corporals
got last pick. If a private was so lucky as to pick a comfortable spot, it
was very possible that a grouchy sergeant would annex it. I never got so
lucky. I carried a heavy machine gun so I was blessed with being stuck on
the port (left) side in the back of the bed. My staff sergeant's reasoning
for that splendid move was so that I could lay down suppressing fire while
everyone else dismounted the truck in case of an attack. I think he did it
just to torture me. That spot had to be the most uncomfortable spot of them
all. "Thanks a lot Staff Sergeant," I would mutter everytime I climbed into
the back of that truck. I made the most out of that spot, though. I mushed
the sandbags down in front of me to make a mini-dinner table where I could
dine on whatever fine, vaccuum-sealed meal Uncle Sam would bless me with.
No matter what I did I could never keep the hard, aluminum canisters of
explosives from digging right into my buttocks and thighs. Sitting in the
back of that truck was a nightmare. I hated that truck.
We rode that truck through a hole in the berm separating Kuwait and Iraq .
We led tanks
and armored vehicles into Iraq in that truck. I even leaned out of the back
of that truck and tried to touch the fire burning off of an oil well in
Southern Iraq . I waved to young Iraqi children who would give me a thumb up
and yell "America good" as I passed by in that truck. In the back of that
truck I daydreamed of what my ex-girlfriend was doing back home, and who she
was doing it with. I shot snipers off rooftops from the back of that truck.
Our driver would tell all us in the back when we were about to run over an
enemy so we could all be quiet and listen for the sound of the crunch of his
bones under the weight of American steel and once we heard it we would all
that truck. I hated myself in that truck.
The weather was unusually mild on March 25th, 2003 in south-central Iraq .
There was a cool breeze that made our nuclear, biological, chemical
protective suits actually a bit manageable in that miserable desert. We had
been stuck in that truck for three days straight and were growing irritable,
but that breeze was just the reprieve we needed to stop our bitter
grumbling. It was just a calm before the storm. The rain clouds rolled in
so fast it was like God had dimmed the lights in Iraq . As the first
raindrops bounced off the barrel of my machine gun I heard thunder clap
nearby and searched the sky for lightning. I looked out the back of the
truck and saw the truck behind us explode and realized that wasn't thunder I
was hearing. "Fall out, Fall out" our Staff Sergeant screamed as my squad
poured out of the truck. Some snipers were taking potshots at my boys while
they were jumping out of the truck so I laid down suppressing fire. I was
in the perfect spot in the back of the truck to mow every sniper down.
"Thanks a lot staff sergeant" I thought to myself. I still hate that spot
in the truck.
After I jumped out of the truck I could see what was in front of us, even
though I didn't want to. The vehicles in front of us had been blown apart,
including the captain's vehicle. Before I ran to my position on the
perimeter I tried to catch a glimpse of the damage up ahead, but could only
focus on the captain and the bloody stump where his arm used to be. I was
stunned by this gruesome sight but quickly regained a grasp on the situation
after I watched my captain tie a dressing around his own wound, pull out his
pistol and scream "Let's get these sons of bitches!" I laid in the mud for
18 hours shooting whoever dare breach my section of the perimeter. We were
outnumbered 3,000 to 150 but after all was said and done, most of us climbed
back into those trucks. Thirteen of us had jumped off that truck earlier
that morning. Eight of us climbed back in that night. I had missed that
truck.
To this day, I can't put my finger on what was so special about that truck.
It was so cramped, so uncomfortable. I wouldn't get back into that truck
for a million dollars. After that rainy day in the desert I had never been
happier to get in that truck. I prayed I would never have to get out ever
again. Unfortunately there were alot more days like March 25th, 2003 and
everytime we climbed back into that truck there were fewer of us. That
never made it more comfortable. Those of us who were left would stuff
ourselves into our old positions so as not to interfere with the space a
fallen comrade had once taken. That truck offered so much pain, so much
grief and yet, so much comfort. No one ever died inside that truck. It was
only when we got out of the truck, it seemed, was when our brothers would
die. I miss that damn truck.
A narrative by Cpl. Cloy Richards
It was just a truck. A big, green truck. Not a pickup or a big-rig, but a
big, green, seven-ton military truck. A big, green truck in a barren,
desert wasteland that stuck out like a sore thumb. The cab held 2 Marines
and mounted above the cab, was a gunner armed with a Browning M2 .50 caliber
machine gun, just like the ones you see pointed out of the sides of
helicopters in the popular movie Black Hawk Down. In the bed of the truck
were 10 severely uncomfortable and easily irritable Marines, seated upon
3,000 pounds of explosives and ammunition; the last place you'd want to be
if a rocket-propelled grenade happened to come whistling your way. Fist
fights would break out over elbow space and legroom. That truck was a
cramped death trap where sleep was impossible and comfort was a wish no
genie could grant. However, to the boys of 1st squad, Alpha Company, it
Everyone had "their spot" in the back of that truck. Sergeants and
corporals got first pick of their spots, while privates and lance corporals
got last pick. If a private was so lucky as to pick a comfortable spot, it
was very possible that a grouchy sergeant would annex it. I never got so
lucky. I carried a heavy machine gun so I was blessed with being stuck on
the port (left) side in the back of the bed. My staff sergeant's reasoning
for that splendid move was so that I could lay down suppressing fire while
everyone else dismounted the truck in case of an attack. I think he did it
just to torture me. That spot had to be the most uncomfortable spot of them
all. "Thanks a lot Staff Sergeant," I would mutter everytime I climbed into
the back of that truck. I made the most out of that spot, though. I mushed
the sandbags down in front of me to make a mini-dinner table where I could
dine on whatever fine, vaccuum-sealed meal Uncle Sam would bless me with.
No matter what I did I could never keep the hard, aluminum canisters of
explosives from digging right into my buttocks and thighs. Sitting in the
back of that truck was a nightmare. I hated that truck.
We rode that truck through a hole in the berm separating Kuwait and Iraq .
We led tanks
and armored vehicles into Iraq in that truck. I even leaned out of the back
of that truck and tried to touch the fire burning off of an oil well in
Southern Iraq . I waved to young Iraqi children who would give me a thumb up
and yell "America good" as I passed by in that truck. In the back of that
truck I daydreamed of what my ex-girlfriend was doing back home, and who she
was doing it with. I shot snipers off rooftops from the back of that truck.
Our driver would tell all us in the back when we were about to run over an
enemy so we could all be quiet and listen for the sound of the crunch of his
bones under the weight of American steel and once we heard it we would all
that truck. I hated myself in that truck.
The weather was unusually mild on March 25th, 2003 in south-central Iraq .
There was a cool breeze that made our nuclear, biological, chemical
protective suits actually a bit manageable in that miserable desert. We had
been stuck in that truck for three days straight and were growing irritable,
but that breeze was just the reprieve we needed to stop our bitter
grumbling. It was just a calm before the storm. The rain clouds rolled in
so fast it was like God had dimmed the lights in Iraq . As the first
raindrops bounced off the barrel of my machine gun I heard thunder clap
nearby and searched the sky for lightning. I looked out the back of the
truck and saw the truck behind us explode and realized that wasn't thunder I
was hearing. "Fall out, Fall out" our Staff Sergeant screamed as my squad
poured out of the truck. Some snipers were taking potshots at my boys while
they were jumping out of the truck so I laid down suppressing fire. I was
in the perfect spot in the back of the truck to mow every sniper down.
"Thanks a lot staff sergeant" I thought to myself. I still hate that spot
in the truck.
After I jumped out of the truck I could see what was in front of us, even
though I didn't want to. The vehicles in front of us had been blown apart,
including the captain's vehicle. Before I ran to my position on the
perimeter I tried to catch a glimpse of the damage up ahead, but could only
focus on the captain and the bloody stump where his arm used to be. I was
stunned by this gruesome sight but quickly regained a grasp on the situation
after I watched my captain tie a dressing around his own wound, pull out his
pistol and scream "Let's get these sons of bitches!" I laid in the mud for
18 hours shooting whoever dare breach my section of the perimeter. We were
outnumbered 3,000 to 150 but after all was said and done, most of us climbed
back into those trucks. Thirteen of us had jumped off that truck earlier
that morning. Eight of us climbed back in that night. I had missed that
truck.
To this day, I can't put my finger on what was so special about that truck.
It was so cramped, so uncomfortable. I wouldn't get back into that truck
for a million dollars. After that rainy day in the desert I had never been
happier to get in that truck. I prayed I would never have to get out ever
again. Unfortunately there were alot more days like March 25th, 2003 and
everytime we climbed back into that truck there were fewer of us. That
never made it more comfortable. Those of us who were left would stuff
ourselves into our old positions so as not to interfere with the space a
fallen comrade had once taken. That truck offered so much pain, so much
grief and yet, so much comfort. No one ever died inside that truck. It was
only when we got out of the truck, it seemed, was when our brothers would
die. I miss that damn truck.
"Why I Fight for Peace"
by Cpl. Cloy Richards as read into the
congressional minutes
Chair: Under a previous order of the House, the gentlewoman from California
(Ms. Woolsey) is recognized for 5 minutes.
this war on real people, both in service and after they come home from service.
this war on real people, both in service and after they come home from service.
One of these stories belongs to Corporal Cloy Richards, who bravely served
with the United States Marine Corps for two tours in Iraq and may soon be
called back again even though he has been diagnosed with PTS.
Cloy Richards has a poem; it is a courage poem. It is entitled: "Why I Fight for
Peace." This poem is exactly the message we need to hear.
The message that shows us in our continuing debate on funding the
occupation of Iraq, just how this affects our servicemembers.
As I said, the poem is called, "Why I Fight for Peace," by Corporal Cloy
Richards, United States Marine Corps. And I am going to read it, Mr. Speaker.
"Because I can't forget no matter how hard I try. They told us we are taking out
advancing Iraqi forces, but when we went to check out the bodies, they were
nothing but women and children desperately fleeing their homes because they
wanted to get out of the city before we attacked in the morning.
"Because my little brother, who is my job to protect, decided to join the
California National Guard to get some money for college, and they promised he
wouldn't go to Iraq. Instead, 3 months after enlisting, he was sent to Iraq for 1
year.
he lives by himself. The only person he associates with is a friend of his, the
"He called me a few weeks ago for the first time, and he told me he's having
nightmares. I asked what they were about, and he said, they're about picking
up the pieces of his fellow soldiers after a car bomb hit them.
"Because every single one of the Marines I served with, the really brave
warriors, even when some friends and people they looked up to got killed and
lost an arm or a leg, they wouldn't cry; they just kept fighting. They completed
their mission.
"Every one of them I have spoken to since we got home has broken down
crying in front of me, saying all they can do since they got back is bounce from
job to job, drink and do drugs and contemplate suicide to end the pain.
"Because I'm tired of drinking, bouncing from job to job and contemplating
suicide to end the pain.
"Because every time I see a child, I think of the thousands I have slaughtered.
Because every time I see a young soldier, I think of the thousands Bush has
slaughtered. Because every time I look in the mirror, I see a casualty of war.
"Because I have a lot of lives I have to make up for, the lives I have taken. And
because it's right. That's why I fight. Because of soldiers with wounds you can't
see."
As I said, Cloy Richards served two tours in Iraq. He is currently in the IRR and
facing a possible involuntary recall for a third tour.
Mr. Speaker, I urge my colleagues, I urge the President to remember that our
commitment to our soldiers does not stop on the battlefield. It must continue
when our troops return home.
Corporal Richards deserves our full support. He has bravely fulfilled his duty to
fight for our country.
Now it is time for the Congress to fulfill its duty, and we must do that by heeding
his call for peace. This is a call we cannot afford to ignore.
by Cpl. Cloy Richards as read into the
congressional minutes
Chair: Under a previous order of the House, the gentlewoman from California
(Ms. Woolsey) is recognized for 5 minutes.
this war on real people, both in service and after they come home from service.
this war on real people, both in service and after they come home from service.
One of these stories belongs to Corporal Cloy Richards, who bravely served
with the United States Marine Corps for two tours in Iraq and may soon be
called back again even though he has been diagnosed with PTS.
Cloy Richards has a poem; it is a courage poem. It is entitled: "Why I Fight for
Peace." This poem is exactly the message we need to hear.
The message that shows us in our continuing debate on funding the
occupation of Iraq, just how this affects our servicemembers.
As I said, the poem is called, "Why I Fight for Peace," by Corporal Cloy
Richards, United States Marine Corps. And I am going to read it, Mr. Speaker.
"Because I can't forget no matter how hard I try. They told us we are taking out
advancing Iraqi forces, but when we went to check out the bodies, they were
nothing but women and children desperately fleeing their homes because they
wanted to get out of the city before we attacked in the morning.
"Because my little brother, who is my job to protect, decided to join the
California National Guard to get some money for college, and they promised he
wouldn't go to Iraq. Instead, 3 months after enlisting, he was sent to Iraq for 1
year.
he lives by himself. The only person he associates with is a friend of his, the
"He called me a few weeks ago for the first time, and he told me he's having
nightmares. I asked what they were about, and he said, they're about picking
up the pieces of his fellow soldiers after a car bomb hit them.
"Because every single one of the Marines I served with, the really brave
warriors, even when some friends and people they looked up to got killed and
lost an arm or a leg, they wouldn't cry; they just kept fighting. They completed
their mission.
"Every one of them I have spoken to since we got home has broken down
crying in front of me, saying all they can do since they got back is bounce from
job to job, drink and do drugs and contemplate suicide to end the pain.
"Because I'm tired of drinking, bouncing from job to job and contemplating
suicide to end the pain.
"Because every time I see a child, I think of the thousands I have slaughtered.
Because every time I see a young soldier, I think of the thousands Bush has
slaughtered. Because every time I look in the mirror, I see a casualty of war.
"Because I have a lot of lives I have to make up for, the lives I have taken. And
because it's right. That's why I fight. Because of soldiers with wounds you can't
see."
As I said, Cloy Richards served two tours in Iraq. He is currently in the IRR and
facing a possible involuntary recall for a third tour.
Mr. Speaker, I urge my colleagues, I urge the President to remember that our
commitment to our soldiers does not stop on the battlefield. It must continue
when our troops return home.
Corporal Richards deserves our full support. He has bravely fulfilled his duty to
fight for our country.
Now it is time for the Congress to fulfill its duty, and we must do that by heeding
his call for peace. This is a call we cannot afford to ignore.
by
Cloy Richards
Cloy Richards
Survivor's Guilt
By Corporal Cloy Richards
I stare at this paper and don’t know what to say
I don’t feel right saying “happy memorial day”
I don’t find anything happy in the price you’ve paid
We’re both just pawns when this game called war gets played
My body came home but my spirit just stayed
That hot Iraqi day when you were slayed
Watching my back so I could sleep unafraid I heard the explosion from
where I laid
And instantly I watched the skies go grey
I watched my life just float away
How could things go this way
You were my brother in arms and you took my place
But not like the way that car bomb took your face
And blew off your limbs
When I think about it my head starts to spin
I get noxious when I think of your family
I’m sorry your son died protecting me
This isn’t the way things were meant to be
You see that day your son took my duty
Your brother sacrificed four 4 hours of sleep
So he could go guard a gate for me
Your fiancée took my fate from me
I’m sorry your father took my place for me
I’m sorry I can spend memorial day with my family
Today should have been a memorial for me
At least then the survivor could have lived guilt-free
By Corporal Cloy Richards
I stare at this paper and don’t know what to say
I don’t feel right saying “happy memorial day”
I don’t find anything happy in the price you’ve paid
We’re both just pawns when this game called war gets played
My body came home but my spirit just stayed
That hot Iraqi day when you were slayed
Watching my back so I could sleep unafraid I heard the explosion from
where I laid
And instantly I watched the skies go grey
I watched my life just float away
How could things go this way
You were my brother in arms and you took my place
But not like the way that car bomb took your face
And blew off your limbs
When I think about it my head starts to spin
I get noxious when I think of your family
I’m sorry your son died protecting me
This isn’t the way things were meant to be
You see that day your son took my duty
Your brother sacrificed four 4 hours of sleep
So he could go guard a gate for me
Your fiancée took my fate from me
I’m sorry your father took my place for me
I’m sorry I can spend memorial day with my family
Today should have been a memorial for me
At least then the survivor could have lived guilt-free
Perez died due to enemy action in Al Anbar Province, Iraq. He was
assigned to 3rd Battalion, 1st Marine Regiment, 1st Marine
Division, I Marine Expeditionary Force, Camp Pendleton,
California. Died on August 15, 2004.
I have a wooden dove I keep with me always with Geoffrey's name
on it. Every time I start a day, I thank Geoffrey for saving my son's
life and vow to do whatever I can to stop another family from going
through the pain of Geoffrey's.
Thank You Geoffrey
assigned to 3rd Battalion, 1st Marine Regiment, 1st Marine
Division, I Marine Expeditionary Force, Camp Pendleton,
California. Died on August 15, 2004.
I have a wooden dove I keep with me always with Geoffrey's name
on it. Every time I start a day, I thank Geoffrey for saving my son's
life and vow to do whatever I can to stop another family from going
through the pain of Geoffrey's.
Thank You Geoffrey
