Vagina Mono-WOH!

“3-Golf, we’re moving out, time now,” Shmiddie said over the radio.

“Roger, the ramp is coming down,” I replied.

The sounds of heavy breathing shower over my headset as Shmiddie and his dismounts load up onto the Stryker.

“Looks like you guys had a party,” I was suggesting our late night raid had some excitement.

“I… hugh… I can’t… hooo... believe that just happened,” Shmiddie gasped.

“Story time!” yelled the driver.

“Shush Lemon,” I ordered.  “But seriously, story time!” everyone laughs as we haul ass out of the dangerous neighborhood in southern Baghdad.

            For months we had been containing the sectarian violence in the muhallas, or neighborhoods, of Abu Dischir and Mechanix in the south Dora portion of the Karkh district across route Irish/Jackson.  That was a mouth full, but bear with me.  To put it simply, it was a violent area really close to F.O.B. Falcon during the height of the war in 2006.  We had a lot of success and a lot of action there.  The main four-way intersection was directly between the northern and southern portions of the neighborhood.  On the northeast corner, or top right for you directionally challenged people, of the intersection was a “tire shop” that we suspected was home to an individual that kept the enemy up to date on our movements. 

            We pulled surveillance on the place late at night and noticed he would always be suspiciously looking out of his window during the wee hours of the morning.  We couldn’t tell if he was looking to link up with someone or if he was scared someone was coming or if the big green tanks on wheels surrounding his home were freaking him out.

            One night White platoon decided to “go say hi.”  The tire shop was on the first floor and the mystery man lived on the second floor.  We knew he had a family so we brought along the only female soldier we could find to search any women we might come across.  Now this chick was brutal, which was awesome to watch.  She was of middle-eastern decent, spoke fluent Iraqi Arabic and knew the culture a lot better than we did.

            We had worked with this female soldier in the past and watching her question Iraqi women was a show.  She would sit them down as we secured the rest of the place and I would hear her screaming in Arabic at the detainee.  If she didn’t like what she heard, slap!  Then the detainee would start answering questions.

            White platoon roles up and surrounds the place in the middle of the night with no lights and going with night vision, like a good raid should.  I was gunning one of the Strykers that night so as I directed my driver, Lemon, to back up towards the building and drop ramp, I see the Stryker next to me drop ramp and the female soldier ate shit bigger than anything coming off the ramp.  I had to chuckle because people take for granted how difficult it is to go running off of a moving vehicle using night vision, or NODS.  Plus the NODS we were using didn’t have good depth perception and that drop off the ramp can seem like a mile.

            White platoon quietly enters the building and moves upstairs.  I can hear the screaming from down below.  Eventually it calms down.  Maybe I heard a slap and maybe I didn’t, but the screaming stops.  After about 15 minutes, Shmiddie stumbles onto the truck gasping for air with wide eyes.  I could tell story time was going to be worthwhile on this night.

“So, as usual, when we go in and start segregating the men from the women and children, the wifey goes nuts on us,” Shmiddie starts.

“Butt-stroke to the dome?” I asked.

“Naw, that female soldier shut ‘er ass up.  Everythang was going fine ‘til we started findin’ ammo and guns and goin’ thru them cell phones.” (Yes, Shmiddie was a country bumpkin)

“So the mystery man probably freaked?”

“Naw man, it was the wifey.  She exchanged some weird looks with the mystery dude an then it happened.”

“Sheeeee went into labor for eleventeenth time?”

“Naw, she fuckin’ stood up and 3 grenades fell from her ninja nun dress.”

“As in she had pockets somewhere?”

“No man, I’m telling you they came from between her fuckin’ legs. I dunno how, but 3 of them motha’fuckers hit the floor between her feet and luckily the safety pins held up and nothing bad happened.”

“Soooo she held them with her thighs?”

“That’s the kicker, she was already movin’ around before ole girl sat her ass down. I… I… I think they were ‘up in there’ if you know what I mean.”

“Get. The. Fuck. Outta. Here,” Smh.

“That’s what I honestly think she did. I mean we’re tearing that place apart and if things get desperate… they get desperate. She had to hide them somewheres to help her man, I suppose.”

“Were the grenades wet, Sergeant Shmiddie?” asked our demented Lemon.

“Lemon, lets not go there,” I pleaded.

After Lemon’s question, it was a very quiet ride back to Falcon.  We fueled up, parked, dropped ramp and had a cigarette.  Nobody said a word.  Just a lot of deep thinking with an occasional smirk or chuckle or puzzled looks of men trying to figure out how she did it.  Even when someone looked like they had it figured out, they stopped themselves with a caveman grunt and back to a look of confusion.

“Man, I don’t… yeah… I got nothing,” one of us would say as we all walked away.

There’s a famous play called the “Vagina Monologues” in which female actors play the vaginas of different races and religious backgrounds.  One chapter describes what a particular woman says during an orgasm.  If I were to add an Iraqi woman to the mix, it would go something like this…

“When a white woman climaxes, she screams ‘Ohhhh GOD!’ and when a black woman climaxes, she screams ‘Ohhhh SHIT!’ and when an Iraqi woman climaxes, she screams ‘Ohhhh… thump, thump, thump.’”

Get it?  I’ll be here all night, folks… if you don’t push the limits, life gets boring.

Twitter-tastic

Operation Charlie Mike will be making huge moves this summer in support of our Wounded Warriors... follow this tweet shit to continually be updated... we're doing a lot more than a blog friends.

Mat Vance@CharlieMikeHB

Spread the word so we can change lives! (in a good way of course)

P. T. S. Don’t be a Douche Bag

“Why did you show up late and stoned for duty?” asked the First Sergeant.

“I have P.T.S.D. First Sergeant,” Pudge replied.

“Well welcome to the party! Everyone in this building has P.T.S.D. and you don’t see us getting high or showing up whenever we want to!”

Touché, First Sergeant…. Toooooouché.

P.T.S.D. is a sensitive subject for thousands of veterans.  After my first tour of 15 months, we were all evaluated and most of us lied about how we felt towards the events of the tour.  At the time we thought talking about the situations we were in was a sign of weakness.  Then things started happening, which I won't get into now.  I made it a point to encourage guys not to lie when they were evaluated and be as honest as possible, especially since the meetings were confidential and not going on their permanent records.

            I never thought I had any issues and felt confident that I could handle any situation with ease.  After being evaluated following my second tour as I began to out process the military to the joys of civilian life, I was humbled.  Typically you talk for about 5 minutes with a military doctor and they check a bunch of boxes nobody cares about and off you go.  When you transition to the civilian world, you talk to a civilian doctor.  This lady got me good.

            After 2 hours of her digging as deep into my mind as she could go, we were both in tears.  I was like, “What the hell just happened in here?”  I felt Jedi-mind tricked into talking about my feelings and shit.  Then we laughed.  And you know what?  It felt great.  After that day I was an open book to who ever wanted to know anything about my adventures.  I won't start off any conversation with “Hey, so this one time, in Iraq, I stuck a flute….” You get the picture.  I only talk about things when people ask.  The only time I might initiate a conversation about it is if I have a funny story.  Anybody can relate to funny stories, right?!

Even though I fought it and disagreed with her, she diagnosed me with P.T.S.D.  It’s strange to me to be “diagnosed” with something like that.  I never saw my experiences as THAT traumatizing and I actually felt more comfortable and alive during a firefight than I did in a room full of familiar faces at my own house party… wait a minute… yep, that’s probably not normal.  That’s the mentality of a lot of combatants though.  It’s a sense of detachment from what’s normal that we all lack.  I didn’t figure it out until that doctor lady told me, and yes, I like saying the name “doctor lady” like a Neanderthal.

Every time the national anthem plays… waterworks.

“Mat, are you OK?” a civilian friend would ask.

“Yeah, fuck off, I’m good,” I’d reply as we both laughed.

            There’s nothing worse than a guy trying to get free drinks or a girl’s number by volunteering “war stories.”  News flash gentlemen; when you’re out in public and everyone is having a good time, NOBODY CARES ABOUT YOUR PAST.  People just want to relax and have fun.  If they ask, then that’s their problem.  Otherwise, chill out and enjoy the company.

“I like what you did with that shirt,” I said to a woman at Jazz Bones in Tacoma.

“Thank you! Oh geez, you’re a soldier aren’t you?” she questioned.

“Did the haircut give it away?”

“Yeah, and I don’t want to talk to any soldiers.”

“Ha! Did one leave a sour taste in your mouth or something?”

“Well, that one over there bought me a drink and started bitching about war. I’m like, ‘It was voluntary,’ right?”

At this point I realized I was dealing with an airhead. She was wearing a designer shirt that told everyone “I love army guys,” but didn’t “want to talk to any soldiers.” Time to play.

“Wow, what a baby. I don’t like to talk about work so we should be good, right?”

“Umm, yeah! But, like, I just don’t like your military look with the hair and everything.”

“Ha! Fair enough, you have a good night.”

“So you don’t wanna buy me a drink or ask for my number?”

“Well one soldier already left a figurative sour taste in your mouth, I wouldn’t want to leave a physical one.”

“Wait! Come back!”

I walked off.

            I currently work as an independent contractor overseas, but while I’m at home I pick up shifts working at a local bar serving tables for extra cash and to pass the time with entertaining characters.  One such character sits at the bar on most nights and drinks until he gets this creepy look in his eye.  That’s when I know he’s about to inappropriately hit on a chick.

            He’s a veteran that thinks his sob stories will get him laid.  Pathetic.  I’ve never seen him succeed, yet on and on he goes every night.  It drives me nuts.  Sometimes I’ll get behind the bar just to hear his latest lies.  He’ll look at me as I pass, having no idea I know he’s a lying sack of shit.

“It’s tough, ya know? No, you sure wouldn’t know. You gotta be a man to serve like me,” he says often.

“Yes, sir. I could never be a man like you,” I humbly reply.

            People ask why I don’t call him out.  The simple answer is that I’m at work, but since I usually do call people out when I’m off work, I find this case kind of entertaining.  How far can I go with pulling fake stories out of this guy before the girl next to him realizes he’s not telling the truth as I get him tongue-tied?

            P.T.S.D. just means we’ve experienced something different and unnatural to the typical American environment.  I heard a quote that best captures it, “It’s the body's natural reaction to an unnatural event.”  You don’t have to go war to have it.  It could happen if you lose someone close to you, if you’re in a horrific car accident, if you’re involved in a drive by... anything traumatizing.  For those reasons, it drives me up a wall when people use it as an excuse to act instinctual instead of intelligently.  We’re not the world’s first traumatized group of people!  No matter what the circumstance, find someone that has experienced what you have and vent.  Don’t be “that guy” at the bar.  Besides... it was like, voluntary, riiiiight?

Kids are Your Friends… and Also Your Worst Nightmare

“The streets are empty,” said the scout in the front of the convoy with a trembling voice.

“Keep pushing,” says the Platoon Sergeant from the rear.

Empty streets and an Iraqi police force that was literally running out of town because they knew something unpleasant was about to happen is not how you want to start your day.  These are clear signs of an ambush and that’s what we got.  It was an unwritten rule that if you saw kids playing in the street, chances are that it’s safe enough to travel thru.  Just try not to run over them.  They’re like lap dogs that think they should run at the wheel of a 20-ton vehicle or stand under the ramp when you dismount to patrol.

Jenkins and Sanchez were completely surrounded.

“Mistah! Mistah! Bebsi, chocolate, watch!” ordered a random local kid.

“What? You’re selling watches? Where did you get a watch to sell?” I asked.

“Bebsi, chocolate, watch! GIVE ME!”

“Oh you want my watch… go play in traffic you little fucker.”

“Fawckr?” Tilting his head to the side like a confused dog.

“Damnit.”

First of all, “Bebsi,” is supposed to be “Pepsi.”  A lot of people don’t know this, but US forces actually introduced Iraqis’ to the sound of “P” and although they have their own version in their alphabet now, some kids that were out in the sticks didn’t get the memo and continued with “Bebsi!”  Travesty.  Coke is better anyways.  How many fans did I just lose?

            We felt safe with kids around, but they were merciless in their pursuit to annoy us into giving them freebees.  White platoon didn’t have much to give.  I always wondered who were the guys giving out Pepsi and chocolate and now apparently watches.  Maybe watches were just the evolution of their own greed.  Ambitious.  Good for you, fella.

            We met with assets in safer neighborhoods and while the higher ups were inside for meetings, the rest of us doing outside security had to deal with the chee’rin.  In an attempt to combat these little bastards and keep them at a less annoying distance we researched the nastiest of candies to give to them.  SWEDISH FISH.  Ohhh yeah! 

Epic Fail.

Not only did they like these disgusting gelatin sweets, but they turned ravenous towards them.  After a meeting, White would mount up on the Strykers and start rolling out.  Well guess who was en tow?  You guessed it… Iraqi Lykens flying down the road at us.  I swear they went down on all fours at some point.

“Just give them what they want!” I yelled.

“But I like these,” Shmiddie sadly spoke.

“We’ll be over run if you don’t! Do it! I’ll give you my chocolate MRE shake!”

“Really?”

Laughter followed of course, along with the children.  Shmiddie tossed the bag of nasties to the urban piranhas.  As the fish fell to the ground and were instantly covered in dust and grime, the kids picked them up and devoured the delicatessens.  That can’t be healthy, but we would live to see another day.

Like a boss... with Borrat behind him "Very nice!"

            Sometimes we would have dance offs with the kids and other times we would teach them drinking songs, such as “Drunken Sailor.”  Our platoon sergeant, SFC Pons, sang for them often.

           

“What do you do with a drunken sailor, what do you do with a drunken sailor, what do you do with a drunken sailor, early in the moooorning?!”

To which the local quartet or peanut gallery would reply…

“Do do do do doo do do, do do do do doo do do, do do do do doo do do, er-lie eh dah maaawningah!”

Close, but no dice.

            As you can imagine it was a love/hate relationship from us to them.  It was mostly a curious liking from them to us.  Although they drove us nuts at some points, they also gave us indicators if something was out of the norm, because kids can’t keep secrets and their nonverbal body language alerted us if there was trouble brewing or danger nearby.  I met a lot of brave kids that led us to capturing enemies.  I only hope there was no retribution against those kids from the enemies we didn’t catch.  Damn war… and damn Swedish Fish.

Trash Digger

“You’re not gonna like this SGT Vance,” a soldier said.

“Whatya got?” I asked

“Bugs have taken to the food.”

“Oh, so after 18 hours of a mission gone wrong we have no food?”

“Roger.”

“And where is our shitbird supply guy that was supposed to keep it covered?”

“Sleepin’ or jerkin’ off.”

“Both good excuses to fuck over a platoon that hasn’t seen food in a day, right?”

“What do we do?”

“Take the parts that haven’t spoiled or bugs haven’t taken to and dig into room supplies.”

“There won’t be enough for you though.”

“Just do what the fuck I told you and get some shuteye.”

I might have been acting tough, but holy shit I was crying on the inside like a toddler in a grocery store throwing a temper tantrum because his momma won’t buy him some skittles.  Stay calm.  How does it go, “woo sawwwww?”

Our supply guy was a grade A dirt bag.  He was short, white, beer gutted and sported dark, greasy, dandruff-infested hair that was always way out of regulations.  A true embarrassment to the uniform, but every unit needed a supply guy and he was the card we were dealt.  We called him Dog, because prior to morning PT one day back at Fort Lewis he was caught rubbing one out in his truck right in front of the troop area.  We believed he literally had a lower IQ than none other than Forrest, Forrest fucking Gump himself while holding a nervous stutter with a soft, high-pitched voice that often cracked.  Or was that the innocent front ole Dog wanted us to see?  He eventually got arrested for sending boxes of our equipment home to sell off for cash.  Yes, Dog stole and sold equipment we needed for war.

For the most part, we were able to salvage our own supplies.  I told my guys to never expect anything while in a war zone.  It’s a war.  Deal with the conditions given to you the best you can.  Adapting to your environment is a big part of surviving in a hostile, foreign land.  Some days we only had time to sleep, eat or get supplies.  You had to choose just one.

I had to find a way to get some munchies before the cannibalism of my worst soldier began to seem like a good tactical decision.  Perhaps a chubby one?  Negative!  Man up and find a way.  As soldiers started filing thru to grab what they could, each one turned to me with half a handful of food and offered me half of that. 

“I'm good.  Eat that and go to sleep, brother.  We’re back out in 6 hours.”

            In my head, I imagined grabbing the minuscule portions offered and going at them like Cujo with rabies.  I was too stubborn to take from my soldiers, which bordered lunacy.  My eyes wandered around the area in desperation.  Maybe I’ll just smoke a Newport and that’ll quench this hunger, which sadly worked from time to time.  Not this time.  Some food fell to the floor as I glared at the soldier who dropped it, then the food and then the soldier again.  How could he do such a thing!  You son of a bitch.  Woo sawwwww?

            My teeth began to ache.  This was a new level of hunger for me.  Even my teeth missed biting into something as saliva coated them.  The area finally cleared.  I was done acting like a patriarch.  I about fell to my knees to scream, but didn’t have the energy.  As I took a deep breath and turned to attempt the Newport phenomenon I spotted something amazing.  Someone had found an MRE and ransacked the hell out of it.  In their vampire-like lust for food, they had left something behind.

            A cookie.  Not just an ordinary cookie, but a half-eaten M&M cookie.  It looked magical and I wanted it.  I even looked around to see if anybody else was eyeballing it.  "Oh no, darling, its just you and me."  I'm not sure if I said that last bit aloud to myself or not, but game on.  As I reached down to swipe my “precious,” I noticed a lot of other things.  Why was there a plethora of wrappers and ammunition boxes underneath this cookie?  Then the tunnel vision simmered and I realized it was lying near the top of a trash pile.  I didn’t give a damn.  This was happening and I was eating the most glorious of meals straight out of a trashcan.  That half-cookie left me stuffed and on cloud 9.  I’ll have that victory cigarette now to get a quick buzz to the head and pass out for a few.  I win this round, Iraq.