Days later, looking at the twisted remains of dead insurgents lent stark perspective: this is what death looks like, this is how and where the fiery struggle ends. All that these people were - very much like the animated Iraqis milling about them - is gone, and only a broken husk remains. I forced myself to look at them, and despite my respect for life and the tangible gravity of the reminder about war's stakes, as well as the gruesome nature of their poses and and injuries, I remained oddly unmoved. Clinical. I'm not sure what to think about that, except an apathetic "fuck 'em, they're terrorists."
Once you've heard the first-hand stories and seen what terrorist insurgents are doing to both Americans and the people in this city, you might feel that way too. I don't know.
Read the whole thing.