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.