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.

Pull the Pin

“When outnumbered and amongst a people you can’t trust, you must emit the craziest of aura’s to ensure the safety of your men.” ~ The Legend

“Drill Sergeant, what happens if you fall asleep on watch in Iraq,” a private asked during basic training in the summer of 2004.

“I’ll show you, private.  Shut the doors,” Drill Sergeant Scarecrow boldly ordered.

DS Scarecrow showed us a video of an independent contractor in Iraq that fell asleep in a bad part of town.  He was on Al-Jazeera and masked men slowly severed his head with what seemed to be a dull sword.  The image of the man’s face going from fighting for his life, to fear of death, to the exact moment he was gone is forever ingrained in my head.  It taught me to always have your head on a swivel and watch your own back no matter what.

Now speed up to early 2010 in the village of Tibij, Iraq in Diyala Province not too far from the Iranian boarder.  This last tour was the mind-fuck of all tours.  We were in the process of handing over control to corrupt Iraqi Security Forces (ISF) with our hands tied behind our backs regarding the rules of engagement and posture while on patrol.  We felt like we were soldiers trapped in the position of rent-a-cops.

“If you guys can make it out of this year without losing your mind, you can mentally make it out of anything,” I’d constantly tell the fellas.

We did a whole lotta walking in Tibij.

Immense boredom brought the complete opposite of vigilance and offered constant opportunities for the enemy to commit sneak attacks such as dressing up as ISF to hit us hard.  There were and still are several green on blue attacks throughout Iraq and Afghanistan.  Green on blue refers to forces that are supposed to be our allies turning on us with no warning.  These are people we have to trust with weapons and go on joint patrols when they are influenced by the enemy or they are themselves an infiltrating enemy with nothing but the worst intentions.  My brothers in Crazyhorse Troop who served in Afghanistan last year will always be heart broken over such a betrayal they suffered.

With the threat of green on blue always on my mind I tried to keep a comfortable distance from any Iraqi forces while on patrol.  On one mission we were to link up with an Iraqi army company and do a dismounted patrol thru Tibij.  Tibij was a dustbowl and located near a dead lake that we suspected Al-Qaeda was using as both transportation and a hideout.  White Platoon and our Iraqi counterparts were to collect intel from as many people as possible on anything suspicious in the area.

Why was this idea not going to work?  This was a shanty town and what few people lived there were most likely threatened by any “new neighbors” that might have strolled by with an arsenal.  They weren’t going to talk to us, but hey, what the fuck else do we have to do?  I was given control of a squad of Iraqi’s whose leader was nicknamed “Machine Gun.”  I’m guessing it was because he was carrying a… MACHINE GUN.  Some jackass soldier probably called him that and now this dipshit thinks it’s an awesome name.  You might as well call yourself “stinky bastard with two arms and legs.”

Machine Gun had a brown-nosing buddy I’ll call Pip.  Pip was a scrawny, hyperactive guy who was always in my face trying to tell me things like, “mistah, over here, no good.”  To which I would reply, “Yes, Pip, blood on the wall, no good.  Good job, guy.”  I noticed every time Pip tried to get me to investigate something, Machine Gun was stoically posed on the back of an Iraqi pick-up truck and yes, he still had his machine gun and Rambo style head wrap.  Pip had to look back at Machine Gun while flailing his arms in frustration when I refused to go anywhere with him while Machine Gun just stared.  This behavior was a red flag to me.  Why was Pip so upset and why was he always trying to get Machine Gun’s attention?

On the back of an Iraqi army pick-up. Notice how I'm in control of the big weapon
and how this bastard is holding his AK-47...  not safe... not ever. And yes, I was
probably talking shit.

Later in the patrol I found myself on the outside of a cluster of dirt hut homes while the platoon attempted to make nice with the locals.  I was over it so I joined our guys on the outside when Pip frantically came up to me gesturing to follow.  I told my guys to stay back and decided to follow Pip to the end of the cluster.  I stopped so my soldiers could still have eyes on me only 50 meters away.  At that point Pip pointed down a nasty back ally next to Machine Gun’s truck.  The wind picked up and we already had overcast skies.  This didn’t feel right.

Pip changed his innocent tone and grabbed me.  With all my gear on he couldn’t succeed.  I noticed his men started to circle and Machine Gun aggressively jumped off his truck to walk towards me.  This prompted me to swat Pip’s grip from my arm.

“Sergeant Vance?!” a soldier yelled from the cluster.

“Stay back!” I hollered in fear that this was about to go south.

I needed my guys at a safe distance to possibly light these fuckers up after they lay waste to me.  If White came closer, they would be at risk as well and that would be selfish on my part to invite them into whatever was about to happen.

As Machine Gun closed in more, Pip jumped at me and violently grabbed my vest to drag me in a certain direction.  Then I saw the opportunity I was looking for.  In moments like this you think, “Just shoot them!” but you have to understand that you don’t know the language and it might be a legitimate threat Pip is trying to tell you about.  It still just didn’t feel right.  In that particular moment I decided to send a message to the Iraqi’s to stand down or I’m going to kill everything.  Yes, even those chickens roaming the streets that won’t shut the fuck up, adding to the commotion.

Pip was wearing two grenades on his vest.  Can you see where I’m going with this?  As his men drew closer and I was fearful of being dragged away to be decapitated on Al-Jazeera, I grabbed one of the grenades and slipped my index finger thru the safety.  Pip’s men instantly stopped and his face turned white.  I smiled.  Pip thought for a second and smiled back.  I took this as him thinking I was bluffing, so I widened my eyes and grabbed the same grenade with my other hand to get a better grip on the safety pin.  I then dropped my smile and pulled the pin halfway out.  It’s pointless to be taken alive, because they are just going to torture you and kill you very publicly.  If I’m going out, I’m taking as many enemy units as I can with me.

“No, no, NO! MISTAH NO!” Pip squirmed and squealed.

“Back the FUCK UP. YELLA!” I barked.

You don’t have to speak English to understand when an American soldier isn’t playing around, but I reinforced it with “Yella” which is Arabic for “Go away.”  All the Iraqi’s backed up with hands in the air as my guys came flying up for intimidation.  Perfect timing.  I pushed the safety pin back into place, Pip gave a big sigh of relief as we all slowly dispersed and higher ups on both sides came to investigate.

What Pip didn’t know is that I was prepared to give everything in service to my country and to protect my brothers.  I had to show the enemy that was disguised as a friend that we were lunatics, thus making them think twice before messing with an American they now called “Crazy.”  Everyday after that when we had joint patrols, we all kept our distance as I smiled and shouted “Machine Gun!” he would hesitantly smile and shout back, “Crazy!”  Burn in hell after you rot in Tibij, buddy.

My mentality while overseas is tattooed on my ribcage…

“God,

help my men today,

help me be strong to protect them,

if anyone should fall let it be me.

Thank you.”

Marinate on that the next time you think radicals are the only ones prepared to die for a cause.  My cause is protecting my people.  Deuces.

Song Du Jour

Sadam's famed Cross Sabres over his parade field right outside F.O.B. Union III           

I encountered all kinds of music from various comrades while serving.  I got into country because it relaxes me.  I got into heavy metal because the growling, longhaired and heavily pierced screamer that sounded like a constipated bear bellowing "KICK THE PUPPIES, EAT THE BABIES," actually made sense to me in the middle of a firefight. Then there is music that nobody understands why I listen to it.

           

Crazyhorse Troop had been going balls to the wall for over 9 months when we finally got a time to rest in the land known as “The Green Zone.” Holy shit this place was paradise.  People that were there for the duration of their time in Iraq had no idea how nice they had it.  We got to stay in an old administrative building near the Bath Party Headquarters on F.O.B. Union III that was half collapsed in the middle from a bomb during the invasion.  We stayed on the second floor and spent down time smoking cigarettes and playing the guitar.  Occasionally we would be entertained by people running and screaming for shelter.

            “What’s that noise, Puppet?” I asked.

            “I think it’s an alarm for incoming,” Puppet replied.

We never had the luxury of a warning before.  We knew the incoming rounds weren’t going to land on the F.O.B. that day, because we didn’t hear the whistle the rounds make if they are close.  However, the people who never went outside the wire sure as hell didn’t know that.  They were screaming and scurrying like scared squirrels to find a hard shelter while dawning green helmets and black protective vests.  They had no idea where they were going, but it was fascinating to see people freak out when the danger was so far off.

            “The fuck are they doing, Vance?” Puppet asked.

            “I can’t breathe!” I laughed.

            You’ll have to forgive us for being so desensitized.  Actually, don’t.  Just get used to it. 

            Our tempo slowed to just two missions or patrols a day and spending a week at a time at C.O.P. Remagen then going back to missions for a couple more weeks.  After mission we would go to the open area created by the invasion’s blasts.  There was a local guy that was allowed to come in, set up a kabob stand and sell cheap food to some stinky soldiers.  We simply referred to the area as “The Hodgy Stand.”  The local guy also set up a small tube TV with a Jerry-rigged antenna that would make even McGuiver jealous.

            The TV in the Hodgy Stand would only show 3 channels.  One was news in Arabic.  Another was an Arabic music video station.  The third showed American music videos.  The thing about that channel is that it showed the same three videos all-day, everyday.   So after mission we would run to the Hodgy Stand to eat kabobs, drink stale Pepsi from tiny 8 oz. cans, smoke and watch these videos to relax, but what was so special about these videos?

            Before I reveal these videos I feel the need to ask you to imagine our mindset.  We had been living like savages and this was the first nice place we came to.  It was the summer of 2007, we hadn’t seen a female since the previous summer and we stunk like shit.  We smelled so bad that we could be walking and as the wind picked up, we'd sniff something wonderful, stop dead in our tracks, simultaneously turn and BAM!

“Chicks dude.”

           

            Back at the Hodgy Stand we sat in awe as Rihanna’s “Umbrella,” Avril Lavigne’s “Girlfriend,” and Fergie’s “Big Girls Don’t Cry,” echoed throughout the accidental courtyard.  White Platoon found an escape.  These songs brought us such happiness that we were there almost everyday.  Rihanna was in sparkling silver body paint sounding like a stuttering badass with her “ella, ella, ella, eh, eh, oh.”  Avril was running around in a schoolgirl outfit being chased by a hotter version of herself.  Fergie was rockin’ tight jeans and a pouty face while leaving her man.  That’s right, Fergie, leave that asshole and find a better man.  I’m single.  Just saying.  No?  That’s cool.

Me jammin' and smokin' between missions with a shaved head.

            Those videos created a memory of my brothers just relaxing in a world of madness and a time where we weren’t screaming obscenities at each other and the higher ups left us alone.  It was peace during war.  It’s a great memory.  Memories like this one help all of us deal with the bad ones.  I always urge veterans to think like this, because I’ve seen too many good men be swallowed by grief.  We’re lucky to be alive… now live!

            After getting out of the military I had a long wait before I could start contracting overseas so I picked up two local jobs to pass time and pay the bills.  I started serving tables at a neighborhood bar, Ramparts, and drove for a catering company delivering food all over DC.  I would be cruising thru South East at 5 am in a really bad part of town and stop at a red light when I saw my surroundings and realized a decision had to be made.  There were gang members plotting some kind of early morning shenanigans and mean mugging me while completely stopped.  What do you do in that situation?

            I’ll tell ya what to do.  You act crazier than them to secur your life for another day.  Now how do you act crazy?  You crank the radio and sing as loud as you can while smiling and staring right back with the windows down.  What song happened to be playing on that fateful morning?

“Hey! Hey! You! YOU! I wanna be your girlfriend!” and the crowd dispersed.

            Whenever I hear those three songs come on the radio you can bet everything on me turning it up as loud as I possibly can and smiling for the duration.  I don't care who's watching and I obviously have no shame.