A Fulcrum so Black . . .
This is one of the ways in which people of this particular mindset demonstrate that they don't really understand war.
The soldiers of every war have done the same thing, there just weren't websites for them to express themselves on. When faced with the horror of combat, black humor is one of the defense mechanisms. The soldiers of the "greatest generation" saw the same things and acted in the same way at times, and they came home to no great ill. Korea, VietNam, Panama, Somalia, and all the little actions in between that didn't make the papers have all had their gruesome moments. And those soldiers all came home. Remember the tales of necklaces made of human ears coming out of VietNam? Same deal.
In order for a soldier to overcome the very human tendency against murder, he has to dehumanize his enemy. It's all right to kill them because they're not real people. This aspect of soldiering doesn't get much press . . . or at least not much that gets it right . . . but it's been true since the memory of man runneth not to the contrary.
War is ugly. No-one knows that better than the poor bastards who do the actual fighting. But they also understand words like duty, and so they evolve ways to cope with what they experience. One of those ways is such black humor as exhibited on that website.
Is it right? Not by the standards of a placid "think of the children" society where the worst thing they ever see is a traffic accident on the six o'clock news. But it's war. The ancient Greeks said of their war god Ares that his face was so terrible that no man could look upon it. They knew what they were talking about.
We ask these men and women to go into harm's way so that we can have the freedom to bitch about how rotten our government is. Most of us don't concern ourselves overmuch with how they do their jobs, because we're not the ones doing it. We've no time for defending our country, we've got to write our blogs and sip our latte and make another payment on the SUV. We're busy with vacations to places that are safe to visit because men and women of previous generations died to make them so.
When we're shown the true face of war we can express our shock and horror, and cluck our tongues at the impropriety of it all, while quietly giving thanks that it isn't us sitting in that desert, standing on that line, crouching in that hole.
Maybe that's our defense mechanism. Maybe that's how we live with ourselves for sending these youngsters off to do things we won't do ourselves.
Balance this one yourselves, gentle readers.