Men of war reform society, and the margins between rival societies. But, as these men, these members of the various strands of the Warrior Cult Genome, older by far than all social life forms other than family, seek to retain their primal form in between the actual combat that is their purpose, they are in turn deformed by society. The pressures upon such men to be different than what they need to be as warriors, in order to conform to the twisted society that they serve, wax and wane with war and peace. The warriors who have it worst are those civilized soldiers that serve a society long at peace; and long adrift from its violent rise. The United States is such a society, a nation that has not had to fight for its survival since 1864.

To be a warrior one must first be a man. Therefore, rising from the bowels of a feminist police state to defend it means hurdling many natural psychological hurdles with the weight of sissy society weighting one down. The men who fought in Vietnam suffered unparalleled levels of post traumatic stress, largely due to the fact that they killed at a higher rate than they were conditioned to deal with; mindfucked by the military just enough to kill, but not enough to live with it. This too, will haunt the Western veterans of the Global War between Capitalism and Islam. But worst of all will be the fact that, to be a real effective war fighter, one most live and die at odds with virtually all of the values most important to the feminist welfare state one is ostensibly fighting and dying—all at once or a breath at a time—to preserve.

In Samuel Finlay’s memoir/novel we are treated to the life of every day U.S. army grunts preparing to lay their life on the line for a nation that hates them and a corporate cause that sees them as disposable assets. These are postmodern Janissaries, slave soldiers of a robotic republic. The men of Second Platoon are not Special Forces studs or Navy SEAL super soldiers, but meat about to be shoved into a grinder by the callously gloved hands of the State.

The lot of Second Platoon is the lot of the simple soldier from time immemorial. They will be the targets of enemy heroes. The enemy will send their best to murder them in the night. They will likewise be overlooked by those they serve for the super soldiers that do likewise to the enemy’s mortal soldiers. Just as Achilles woke next to the most desirable slave girl of antiquity, as the ordinary Achaeans lined up to plough whatever infertile field Agamemnon had grown tired of, these soldiers are reduced to drone status by the corrupt military they serve with their bodies and the savage sluts that prey upon their souls on leave. When we read of Special Ops warriors we are told of loyal but troubled wives holding down the homestead. But the grunts in Breakfast with the Dirt Cult are, like my brother Tony related from his time at Fort Bragg 30 years ago, often disposable asset packages for rural ghetto bitch parasites with no sense of loyalty and an appetite for betrayal.

Below are some quotes from the life of a simple soldier, without a movie deal in his future for record confirmed kills, as he prepares to be the objectified tool for one war machine, and the hated target of another:

“…he was about to be alone, stuck in a world between dumb-ass Cherries and bi-polar leaders, and it was a toss of the dice as to which would probably get him killed first.”

“After one particular nasty week finally found the decency to die…"

“The uppity fucking slags [women of Postmodern Feminist Slut America] had no idea what went on in the world to maintain their safety and material comfort.”

“Occasionally, they [girlfriends/wives cutting off ties with Dear John’s] even sent the deployed soldier a video of the significant other getting the shit railed out of her half-to-death by some Stunt Cock.”

“As he endured his smoking [punishment via exercise] with the rest of the Joes, Walton fed on his hatred for Roper and the system that put men like that over him. And he despised himself for following along with it.”

Walton and the Joes of Second Platoon even have a mythic construct, a flesh and soul eating creature called “The Bad Man” who ultimately exacted his “pound of flesh” from every miserable Joe.

Walton wondered about “the workings of the tribe to which he belonged,” as he prepared for boots on the ground reality in a distant land.

Such accounts by regular grunts are rare enough in literature, and face additional barriers to publication under our current publishing ethos. Sam’s story gives a face to the hero food that has made up the grist for the stories of remarkable warriors throughout the ages, who have been able to—at least temporarily—rise above the monstrosity they serve, and, as Lions among Men, sustain themselves for their brief time of glory at the expense of the anonymous and leashed dogs of war.

The story of Second Platoon is the story of the enslavement of the warrior; of leashing and abusing men like vicious dogs to do their master’s bidding.

Get a copy of this rare type of book via the link below.