Fifty or sixty species of cuckoo are brood parasites, meaning they lay their eggs in other birds' nests. That's where "cuckold" came from. The European Common Cuckoo's egg hatches earlier than the host's, and the chick grows faster. It pushes the other chicks or eggs out of the nest; the mothers never notice, because all they see is the chick's mouth, open and hungry. And the chicks grow, to lay eggs that will grow in nests, and so on. Imagine looking down at your child's face and realizing it was put there by somebody else. Doesn't happen. We don't have an equivalent. Trombley's not the apocalypse, and he's not a killing machine. He's somebody's son. They all are. In every war that's ever happened, and there's always one somewhere: they are your sons and daughters.
Generation Kill is a misnomer, as well as an oxymoron. It puts all that pain and fear somewhere in the same place as video games and rap lyrics and downloading music: what the kids are up to these days is killing. Except they're not cuckoos, because we all came from somewhere: Trombley was failed. In the exact same way as Baghdad, and Afghanistan before that. Before he ever left. And they are coming home. That's not a horror movie, it's a fucking tragedy, and it started right here. In the cradle; in the nest. In the garden.
As long as we can point to the bad guys -- even when they're our own children -- we can be safe in the knowledge that they're not us. We can say we won the war, whatever the war happens to be, and we can say we live in peace, for a little while. Until they come and find us again. We can say we're substantially different from them, and that can be enough, which is how war happens in the first place, and peace too. But if that peace is just a lie we tell ourselves, so we can shut the book and go back to our lives, if that peace rests on the backs and bodies of people you won't even recognize as your own, then war will always be the motherfucking answer.