There are four types of people
who join the military.
For some, it's a family trade.
Others are patriots, eager to serve.
Next, you have those who just need a job.
Then there's the kind who want a legal
means of killing other people.
James Barr was one of those.
He made sniper.
Trained hard.
Two thousand rounds a week.
And with every shot, he's taught to visualise
the base of a man's skull through his reticle.
The sweet spot where
the medulla meets the spine.
Visualise that puff of pink mist.
Finally, he's deployed to Iraq.
He's put on overwatch.
All day long he stares through
a scope at civilians.
Women.
Children.
Day in, day out, for two long years
without ever once being
cleared to fire a single shot.
Then comes the drawdown.
For James Barr, the war's over.
Two thousand rounds a week.
A quarter million rounds in his career,
not one at a human target.
You've been hungry.
You've been horny.
You've had an itch you can't scratch.
Imagine that feeling.
Days. Weeks. Years.
Imagine that feeling times 200,000,
plus 50,000 more.
Imagine it's 130 degrees on the deck
and tomorrow you're going home,
and you know if you don't scratch that itch now,
you never will.
You need a release.
You need a target.
And the who of it never once enters your mind.
He covered his tracks well,
just like sane people do.
He almost got away with it, too.
But I caught him.
And he confessed.
So why didn't he go to prison?
What Barr didn't know that day was the
four civilian contractors he'd picked off
just spent the weekend
at what they call a rape-rally.
It was 28 women,
ages 54 on down to 11.
Those were just the ones I could find
before the case was shut down.
See the deeper I dug,
the uglier it got.
And after seven long years
of Mission Accomplished,
