Jon In Iraq - The Lighter Side Of War

The lighter side of War! It ain't so bad here. It all gets blown out of proportion really - We'll show you how much fun the guys have! Jon x

Sunday, June 11, 2006

Knife Fight

Everyone loves a great knife fight. Guns are great, sure, but knives? Knives are personal, man. You can shoot a man and forget about it in an hour (you’re not technically killing them, after all), but knives? Knives, you are. Especially if you gouge your fingers into the wound afterwards.

You just don’t forget a great knife fight, do you? You remember the taste, the smell, and the disgusting, vile sights. Things like that stay with you for years. Even ones you weren’t involved in, ones you’ve just heard about. Like that one in that film (What was it?), and then that other one. Yeah.

Whilst most of my kills have been from guns, grenades, and one particularly fun day with a combine harvester, I’ve had a few knife fights. Most I can’t remember, but there was one particularly intense one a few days ago. I can’t remember when or where exactly, but I remember what happened and what was said.

We stood either side of the room, facing each other. Guns pointed at heads, fingers on triggers, only the shock that it could be the end freezing us both.

For some reason he knew some English. He was after a game. It’s customary: in this situation the revolver comes out, all but one bullet is dropped to the floor, and the deadliest game of all (other than nude piranha dipping) begins.

"So then, this is-"

I pulled the trigger. *Click*

"Why, you!" He went for his own. *Click*

We dropped our guns and unsheathed our secondary weapons.

"You killed my family!" he shouted.

"Yeah, change the record, mate."

"AAAARGH!"

He lunged for me and - quick as a flash - thrust his weapon towards my nude, manly chest. The hairs on my breast glistened beautifully as the red sunset crept through the Venetian blinds and highlighted the liquid beads, sexily.

Surprised, I grabbed his weapon but - surprised by his power - struggled to cope.

As we struggled, his torso met mine, and the grunts became louder as the pain increased. We rolled in the dust, our bodies rubbing against each other. However, I couldn’t raise my weapon. His repeated thrusts were hard to cope with I can tell you – I just wasn’t used to taking such a beating. I was starting to bleed. I looked deep inside my soul and asked myself, "What am I doing with my life? Is this… right?"
I searched for my inner strength.

Suddenly, I summoned the power to respond, and pushed forward, rolling to the side.

Meanwhile, the Iraqi’s momentum took him forward, his knife now stuck into the floorboard. I saw my opportunity, and in one smooth motion my knife was in his back.

"Argh! Ooh, that kills! You little tinker!"

I stabbed him again.

And again.

20 minutes later, he was dead. (I really should have more attention in Knife Class, as to which areas are “critical”.)

Wednesday, May 31, 2006

Erica

Her name was Erica. She was a medic. That night we sat out in the yard drinking beers she told me that the military was in her blood. Her dad had served in Vietnam, she told me.

I told her I liked the name ‘Erica’. She was pretty, and she lived in Manhattan. She had short brown hair and brown eyes. She was killed two days ago.

I met her for the first time about three months ago. After training, Jon and Mark were bored, so Stevo suggested a game of ‘hide the bullet’. We were all up for it, so we faced the wall and started to count to 100 while Steve looked for a suitable hiding place. The place he eventually selected to ‘hide the bullet’ was in my shoulder. At this point I kind of ruined the game for everyone else by instead of keeping quiet falling on the ground and screaming “Aaargh Jesus Christ Stevo’s just bastard well shot me in the bastard shoulder”. The lads were alright about it, though – instead of getting annoyed with me for messing up their game, they just left me lying there for twenty minutes before notifying the meds.

It was Erica who saw to me. She had a nice way about her, she was nice to me as she stitched up the wound. She was just…nice. “It’s just superficial,” she said. “You’ll live.” She didn’t ask how it happened. I guess she knew about the horseplay that went on. Or maybe she didn’t. But she didn’t ask, either way.

I’m no good around women. My parents sent me to a private school – all boys – and after graduation I went straight into the army. So you could say the company of women is somewhat alien to me. I’m just not comfortable around women. Apart from this one time. Christmas, my relatives were staying over. My aunt had been on the whiskey. But I don’t want to go into too much detail about that.

It was different with Erica, though. I felt instantly at ease in her company. She squeezed me on the knee when she’d finished. “All done,” she said.

“Thanks, Erica,” I said.

“You’re welcome,” she said. She smiled. Then she went.

Time passes in a funny way out here. The days that are spent training all seem to come together in a blur. And the days spent out on missions seem so surreal that it’s like they never really happened. So it’s hard to say how many more times I saw Erica again until that night. It might have been once, it might have been a few times. But it was at least once. I remember being out on the complex and seeing her, and our eyes met.

A couple of weeks ago, thirteen days to be exact, some squad came back to base with a crate of imported lager in tow. No one asked how they’d got it, and no one cared. That night, a few of us snuck into the yard with some beers. Me and Jon and Mark and Stevo and Erica and a few others I didn’t know. We drank some beer and we smoked some cigarettes and we talked and we laughed and we forgot.

I got talking to Erica. I was a bit drunk, and I told her I thought she was good looking. She didn’t seem to mind. She was telling me about her family back home, and then Jon came over.

“Hey!” Jon went. “Hey,” he said to Erica, pointing at me, “you see this guy? This guy, here? This guy…oh…oh man!” Jon said, then he started cracking up laughing. “I’m telling you, love, this guy! Ha ha ha!”

Jon laughed some more, then he started telling her about this family he’d killed. He’d done the husband in first, as was the right way, then of course the wife and kids started wailing, and there was a grandparent living in the room next door who started knocking, wanting to know what all the commotion was about. “She soon found out!” said Jon. “BLAM! Then the wife starts pulling at my clothes, so of course she’s next to go. And then – get this – one of the kids can actually speak some English! He’s saying, ‘why you do this? Why you do this?’ So I say – well, actually I don’t say anything, I just shoot him up good and proper! Aah ha ha! Stupid kid!”

Erica smiled, but she didn’t say anything. Neither of us said anything. After a while, Jon gets the message, and he goes away. Pretty soon, everyone had gone away. It was just me and Erica, sat out in the yard. It was very late, and we were sat out in the yard drinking beers.

It was then she told me about her father serving in Vietnam. “Whereabouts did he serve in Vietnam?” I asked her.

“It was a noodle bar near the Cambodian border,” she said. “He worked there as a cook in 1982. Best damn cook in ‘Nam, he was. I’m so proud of him. The way he cleaned the tables at the end of his shift, you wouldn’t have found a cleaner table in Asia. He could have been the best on the continent. Hell, he just about was the best. But July fifth 1982, disaster struck.

“God, I’ll never forget that day. He was making Nem Ran, or more commonly, spring rolls. A fairly straightforward act of duty, you would have thought. But not this time. You see, this time, this time…” She was struggling to hold back the tears. I moved to comfort her, but she pushed me back, and went on. “The shrimp were off. He had no way of telling. It wasn’t his fault. But he did what he always did, and tried the food first before serving it to the customers. He was like that, selfless to the end. Plus it meant he would get free food. But this time, he knew something was wrong. He stopped the production of the batch, thereby saving everyone else, but it was too late for him. Two explosive bouts of diarrhoea later, and it was all over. He was gone. I was only a girl at the time, and I never heard about it until a few days later. I could live with it but…but…” Erica was choking on the tears, trying to hold them back, but she could hold them no longer, the dam burst, and the tears started to flow. “…But they never did find the fisherman,” she wailed climactically.

She fell into me and I held her. I held her until she stopped crying. The moon crept across the sky, casting long shadows across the yard. Much later we went to bed.

That was the last time I ever saw Erica. I found out an hour ago that she had been killed. Official reports are sketchy, but state that she was hit accidentally during friendly fire.

Jon caught me crying on my bed. I looked up at him with my tear-streaked face. I knew what he thought about weakness like this. But I didn’t care. At the time, I didn’t care at all.

To my surprise, he came and sat next to me.

“You all right?” he said.

I nodded.

“It’s about Erica, isn’t it?” he said.

I nodded.

Jon smiled at me and squeezed my knee. “You’ll be okay,” he said. “I’m sorry about what happened, but you’ll be okay. Take it easy, man.” Jon stood up and went to go.

“Jon,” I said. Jon turned back. I hesitated, then said “Jon. Thanks, man. Seriously, thanks.”

“No worries,” said Jon. He stood there, watching me for a moment, and then said “And if it’s any consolation, she was a shit lay anyway. I mean it, mate, she was crap. She kept struggling, and screaming, you know, I just couldn’t shut her up!” he laughed. “Not only that, it was your name she was screaming! She kept screaming for help, for your name, and I was the one that was doing her! Talk about ungrateful! Well, just as well she didn’t live to tell about it, eh? Got that seen to. Right, like I say, take it easy anyway. Later.”

Jon went outside to join Stevo, who was shouting at birds. I watched him go. They’re still out there. I don’t know where Mark is.

The sun is hanging low, hugging the horizon, and it’s overcast. It’ll probably rain sooner rather than later. I can hear the buzzing of insects nearby, and somewhere further off, the echo of gunfire. But that’s normal for me now. I’m used to it. Even when there is no gunfire, I can still hear gunfire. It doesn’t stop. Her name was Erica. She was a medic.

Monday, May 22, 2006

Hell

Sometimes, when I'm lying awake at night, I start questioning what I'm actually doing here. You know, stuck in a war I'm finding it increasingly difficult to understand with 3 psychopaths who are hugging me one minute and trying to shoot my chin off the next. Sometimes I start wondering if things could be any worse. I start thinking that it would be impossible to envision a worse situation.

Then I started thinking, what if you were walking along and then you fell off a cliff? Except that the fall didn't kill you and you were just lying there. Paralysed, like. You couldn't move. And you're thinking "Oh no! I've fallen off a cliff and I'm paralysed! This isn't good!" But you don't just think that, you try and say it as well, but you can't say it because the fact that you've fallen off a cliff and are paralysed has somehow taken away your power of speech as well. I don't know if that's possible, but that's what's happened. So you're lying there and lying there, for ages, and then you notice there are some ants near you. You notice that because you can still move your eyes, but that's all you can move. Because you're paralysed. There are lots of ants - millions, in fact, and they're getting closer and closer to you. And you don't like ants. You really don't like ants. Obviously, normally you'd just get up and move away from the ants, but in this instance you can't do that because you're paralysed. And the ants are getting closer and you're getting more and more afraid, partly because of your crippling fear of ants and partly because of your powerlessness to do anything about it. Then the ants are upon you. They're swarming all over your body, millions of ants. You can feel the ants all over you, everywhere. Ants everywhere. And they're not just swarming over you, they're actually eating you. Eating your flesh. You're praying in your mind for mercy but the ants show none. They have no mercy because they're ants and they're soulless. Soulless. They're burrowing down under your skin now, consuming you from within. It feels like your whole body is on fire, millions of tiny bites from millions of ants, but you realise with a start that this whole process will be a lot slower than death by burning. This could take hours. Hours upon hours of indescribable agony as the ants gradually, gradually eat your body away. And the whole time you have no option but to lie there, powerless, praying that all this would just end. But it doesn't end. It goes on, and on, and on, and the whole time you're in seemingly neverending anguish. And then it strikes you that you and the ants are not alone. There's someone standing over you. Two people, in fact. You look up in desperate hope and surmise. It's your parents. Your parents are looking down at you. For one all too brief moment you think that you may be saved, but then you notice the looks in their eyes. Their eyes are cold and dead. They are showing no compassion, no emotion whatsoever at the sight of their paralysed offspring being eaten alive by millions of ants. "Why mum? Why dad?" you want to say, but you can't because, as I described earlier you lost the power of speech somehow due to your fall. And even if you hadn't, you wouldn't be able to articulate the words anyway because by now the ants have crawled into your mouth and eaten away your tongue. Even if you could speak, which you can't, all you would be able to utter would be incoherent grunts. It strikes you that even if, by some miracle, you were to be saved now the damage that has been done to you is such that the rest of your life would be spent in abject misery, a hideous, deformed freak shunned by the rest of society. Your parents move away, the reason for their failure to save you now being left as an eternal mystery, a mystery that will play on your mind making these last dying moments even more agonisingly painful than they would already have been. But as your parents move, you notice yet more people behind them. These people are not cold and emotionless as your parents were. They're laughing. They're pointing and laughing. Laughing at you. They are actually mocking your death-agony. Who are these people? Then it strikes you. This is every man and/or every woman who has ever rejected your advances throughout your life. All the people who have ever with that casual rejection made the unsaid message to you that you were not good enough to be with them, not good enough to be a part of their life. Not good enough. Not good enough. The words repeat themselves in your head over and over again. You open your mouth to scream but no sound emerges. The ants have burrowed into your throat and eaten away your larynx. You are denied that final defiant scream to a world that has given you such a hideous, hideous death, and are forced to die pathetically instead, with a whimper. You stare, horrified, at the hateful figures gleefully mocking your pain, and it is the last sight you ever behold before the ants eat away your eyes. Yet their mocking laughter still rings out inside your ears, and likewise that is the last thing you ever hear before your ears are eaten from within. All your senses are now deprived of you except for one. Pain. And in the last few moments of your life, that is all you know. Nothing but pain. Your last knowledge of the world is pain. Briefly, you become pain itself. And then it is over. At last your ordeal is done. You are released from the earth and pass on into death. Yet even in the afterlife you are denied peaceful slumber. The question of what lies beyond life is one at which mankind has speculated since the dawn of time, and you have just discovered the answer to that eternal mystery. No heaven or hell awaits you, nor are you simply released into an infinite void of nothingness. For all time, you are now forced to endlessly replay the final hours leading up to your death. For all time, the ants and the pain and the ants and the laughter and the ants and the mocking and the ants and the ants and the ants and the ants and the ants and the ants and

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAANNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN
NNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN
NNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNTTTTTTTTTTTT
TTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT
TTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT
TTTTTTSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS
SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS
SSSSSSSSSSSSSS

I reckon that would be worse.

Sunday, April 09, 2006

A Letter Home


Sara,

Hey, it’s me. How are things? How’s Max?

Routine medical today. Load of crap we have to put up with every so often – just checking that we’re healthy enough to die if needs be. The med was asking about the bruising to my buttocks. Jon, who was there, said it was all because of the lack of padding on my seat in the chopper. The med said he didn’t think we’d been out in the helicopter recently. Jon said yeah, but there’s no padding on his seat in the truck either.

I miss you.

You know, sometimes the guys show me the letters that they’ve written to their loved ones. Well, Mark and Steve do anyway. Steve writes letters to his mom a lot. Although I suppose you couldn’t technically call what he writes a letter, unless your definition of a letter was “MOM – HAT YOU FOR WHAT YOU DID TO ME HAT YOU FOREVER DIE SLUT DIE BURNNN IN HELLLLLS” and then a load of scribble on the page.

Mark, though, Mark in the past has shown me the letters he was writing home while we were sharing a cigarette out in the yard of an evening. He writes these incredibly erotic notes to a loved one back in Virginia. I’m telling you, Sara, these letters are intense – seriously, I’ve got hardons reading them. I think they get to me so much because it makes me imagine all the things I’d like to be doing with you. It’s the little, understated vignettes about their lovemaking he writes where he describes “lying next to her by the fireside, gently caressing her ears” and “giggling in bed together as I run my fingers through her fur”.

We’ve all got our reasons, I suppose. Reasons for fighting. Mark’s got Puddles, Stevo’s got his hatred, Jon’s got that brain thing. I know what my reason is, and it’s you, Sara. I wish I had the ability to articulate exactly just how much I feel for you. I wish I was better with words.

I wish I wasn’t crying so much. I wish I was lying next to you, saying all this instead of writing it all down in some poxy letter. Most of all, I wish you were real and I could actually send this letter to you rather than screwing it up and burning it like I’m about to do.

Love always,

--- x

Wednesday, April 05, 2006

Napalm strike! Haha!

Most bombs are pretty sick if you really think about it. Okay, a lot of the people killed are evil Iraqi soldiers, fair enough there then, but there's a lot of innocent people killed, quickly. Okay maybe not innocent (they are Iraqi, remember!) but still - the point I'm making is in the instant way they kill.

A quick kill is a selfish kill - it gives the victim no time to think things over in a quick flashback style. That's why the napalm bomb was invented. It really was an innovation in thoughful, humane killing.

It's a fair kill because it's expected (We give 24 hours notice) and they also get "burning time", to think about their life and that. A bit of time to sit down with some mates and talk about the good times. After that though, Sizzle! Mmm, bacon! Haha! (I don't really eat them!)

Late last year we went on a daytime mission to take out a farm in North Iraq. The farm's produce was obviously a huge threat to us, so we needed to cut them off. (Not literally - we use guns and bombs rather than swords - gay!)
As we approached the farm we counted the workers there - seven. We had to get low to be accurate with the bomb and get a good spread. 30 seconds later and the bomb was dropped. The farmers lit up comically as they caught fire, and began to mull their last thoughts.

I heard a shout from one of the farmers as he considered how he'd lived his life.

"Mustapha Hadji Matata!"

I got the translator onto this when we got back. It was the Iraqi form of acceptance, or more commonly simply "thank you".

It's always good to see our unselfishness is appreciated.

Wednesday, March 29, 2006

A Birthday Surprise

2 months, 16 days into my service. My 23rd birthday. The boys had planned a surprise. I wasn’t sure what to expect. Last time it was someone’s birthday (Mark’s, last month), his surprise was Stevo wrestling him to the ground and shooting off two of his toes. I really had no clue what was in store for me today, but regardless of what it was I was determined to emerge from the day with my toes intact.

Luckily enough, whatever they had planned came to nothing because we were informed early that morning that we had a mission in a nearby village. We all knew the drill by now: armed men were Stevo’s, unarmed men were Jon’s, women were Mark’s and I was left to mop up the children and invalids.

The village we arrived at was smaller than the ones we had been used to; only two buildings, in fact. Deciding that the old, stone structure to the east looked largely unoccupied, we all moved into the big white-walled building to the west. The four of us prowled through deserted corridors until, finally, we moved into a large room, a hubbub of activity.

The room was filled with women. Most of them wearing nothing but skimpy nightclothes, they reclined against cushions and looked up at us expectantly as we entered.

I turned and looked at Jon in bewilderment. His face broke out into a smile.

“Happy birthday, rookie,” he said. “Take your pick. We’ll be outside.”

Judge me all you want, but I’m not the kind of guy who’d turn down a benevolent gesture such as this. Plus, it’d been a long time since I’d been with a woman – a long time. I went up to the prettiest girl there. “Hey,” I said. She replied in Iraqi. We couldn’t understand each other’s tongues, sure, but there was another language at work here – the language of mutual need. I undressed her, and we performed the act.

I was just finishing up when I heard the sound of gunfire from outside. I jumped up immediately, and said to my girl “Wait here, I’ll be right back.” I ran outside.

The other 3 were still waiting outside the room. “Jon!” I said. “What was that? I heard gunshots…Why is there a dead woman lying next to you?...Why is she wearing a nurses’ uniform?...Why did I assume this was a brothel when I never actually saw any money changing hands?...Jon…Jon, this is a hospital, isn’t it?”

“A hospital?” said Jon. “No! A hospital? Man, what do you take us for?”

“It’s more like a home,” said Steve.

“A special home,” added Jon. “Happy birthday, guy!”

“A special home,” I repeated. I looked back into the room at my girl. She’d tied the sleeves of the nightgown I’d stripped her of around her head, and was dribbling happily.

I smiled at Jon. “Thanks, mate!” I said. I shook his hand, and wandered through the corridors of the building until I was back outside again. The sun was beating down. I removed my gun from its holster, pointed it down at my feet and, still smiling, I shot off two of my toes.

Sunday, March 26, 2006

Interrogation

One of the more fun aspects of war is interrogation - man, we have a laugh. The other day we interrogated someone right, and I laughed so much a fuel barrel exploded. Honestly, I laughed so hard it killed a small child. No seriously, I was laughing so much a white liquid began to secrete from my elbows.

It's like the other week, we needed information, right? We couldn't find the base we'd spent weeks looking for, and we had no leads. After a couple of days out in the field (that means we were in enemy territory, we weren't in an actual field), we spotted a lone commander. We all recognised him straight away - his photo had been plastered on our wanted list for months. He was the one who bore a surprising resemblance to Noel Edmunds.

Now capturing him was the easy part - it was the extracting of information that posed the problem. Now, this guy was loyal.

Now, I don't consider myself disloyal. Sure, I once gave the President's Top Secret position away to a Terrorist organisation, but Clinton was a rubbish president - so what yeah? He was also a massively bent homobender who sucked men's penises. (I'm not homophobic.) Yeah, I don't consider myself disloyal, but this Commander, Edmunds, he was one tough-a nut-a to crack-a! Haha!

First we asked him nicely, fed him well, I even gave him a few of my Ferrero Rocher, but this bitch wasn't giving anything away.

"Tell us where the base is or you aren't getting this last Ferrero Rocher! I swear man, I'll eat it!" I shouted.

"You wouldn't! We've been eating them alternately since the beginning of the box. You just wouldn't." he responded.

"Watch me." I ate the whole thing in one go. Mubdar flinched.

"You monster!"

"Now tell me!" His resistance was incredible.

"Never!"

He withstood some incredible things that day.

An hour of foot tickling - merely laughed off.

30 minutes of tennis balls thrown at his face - nothing. This guy was specially trained.

I won't tell you how we got the information out of him. (We killed half of his family!)

Thursday, March 23, 2006

Wounded in Action

They say when you get shot, there are 2 ways it can go down. The first, they call the ‘wasp sting’. Only instead of a sting, it’s a bullet, and instead of a wasp, it’s a gun what’s firing at you. You barely feel it, the bullet passes straight through you – it’s just a twinge. Except when you look down, you see the blood. You know you’re done, but you don’t feel pain, you’ve time to make your peace. No one wants to die out here, man, but if you’re gonna go down, you’d best pray it’s by the wasp sting.

Now the second way, that ain’t pretty. We call it the ‘mule kick’. And that’s just how it feels. Mules, man, those suckers have got a hell of a lot of power in their hind legs. A mule kicks you, you’re gonna feel it. Knocks the air out of your lungs, you’re flat on your back gasping for air – you’re a goner, period.

It happened during special ops – a two man mission. Stevo and Mark stayed back – this time it was just me and Jon. Quite why they chose a rookie like me, I’ll never know, but there you go. Jon…well, you all know about Jon. He’s a crazy bastard, sure, a few cents short of a dollar, sure, sociopathic, sure, the kind of guy you wouldn’t trust around underage female relatives, sure, but there’s one thing I will say about Jon, and that’s, uh…

Anyway, so it was me and Jon on this special op. Can’t say a hell of a lot about the mission, but this was some dangerous shit, man. Not that it bothered Jon. He was skipping alongside me, giving it all that “Killtime, pshow!” crap, but trust me, I was scared. Scared and aroused.

We got to the building. One entrance round back, one in front. I signalled to Jon. He was going round front, I was going to take the rear. So I…

Sorry, I’m going to have to break the narrative at that point. See, if it was Jon writing this, when I said “I was going to take the rear”, he would probably have made some heterosexuality-affirming comment such as “I don’t mean I’m gay though, matey! I have sex with women all the time!” Something along those lines, yeah? Well, I’m not going to do that because I’ve got nothing to prove because I’m definitely not gay. There’s people who’ll tell you…things, things that happened during training, but 1) they’re lying, and 2) you don’t know what it’s like to be in the US army, yeah? It’s horseplay, harmless horseplay and that kind of shit goes on all the time and it has no bearing, no bearing whatsoever, on a man’s masculinity. I’ve kind of broke my story up at the most important point here, but there were things that needed saying and I’ve said them.

So I was going round the rear – the rear of the building, not a man’s rear, I’m not gay – and that’s when it happened. They were expecting us. An Iraqi, armed to the teeth, came out of nowhere and opened fire. I just didn’t see it coming. I was hit.

It was the mule kick. I went down straight away. I can’t even describe to you how it feels. It’s some crazy combination of pain, fear and resignation. I could hear the bullets whizzing overhead. I closed my eyes.

Fortunately for me, when I said it was the mule kick, I wasn’t talking metaphorically. The guy had an actual mule tethered out back, which kicked me to the ground, out of the way of all the bullets. Just as I was composing myself to return fire, fucking Jon came out of nowhere and capped the guy in the back of the head. Then, laughing, he shot the mule.

“You okay?” said Jon, approaching me.

“Yeah,” said I.

“I’m 10 points ahead of you now,” said Jon. “You know what that means.”

I nodded. Jon dropped his pants. I did what I had to do.

It’s a funny thing, the battlefield. Some men, they get the wasp sting, they cry like babies. Some men, like me, they get the mule kick, they just get on with it. Granted, mine was a literal mule kick and I’ve never been shot, but I’d like to think that in some way my point remains valid. But the most important thing to remember on the battlefield is that despite what Jon made me do to him I am not a gay. I’m not.

Friday, March 17, 2006

Night Ops

3 weeks into my visit to Iraq, and our CO informed my squad of our first night mission.

The best thing about night missions is that they rarely go wrong. A night mission is quick, ruthless and painless. A night mission comes like a thief (soldier) in the night.

An assault after hours, with no soldiers lost, is much preferred - no one is affected. That's the beauty you see - no repercussions.


The first night mission was a breeze (Not literally). We stormed straight into the barracks...

BLAM BLAM BLAM! "Oh no, you little monkey!"

BOOM BLAM BLAM... EXPLOSION! "Arrgh, my mangos!"

RAT-A-TAT-A-TAT-A-TAT! "Flipin' 'eck matey you shot my cock off!"

Night missions are definitely on the lighter side of war.

It's quick - in-out - and no one gets hurt. Just like rape.

Wednesday, March 15, 2006

The power of guns


It's amazing just what a quick flash of your weapon can do to someone. (No, I'm not talking about my penis here! Rest assured it's massive though! I'm not gay though mate!)

I'm referring to gun(s). It makes me chuckle - a man can go from chuckle to smuckle in a second. I'm not sure what smuckle means, in fact I'm pretty sure I just made it up, but my point is it wipes that smile right off their face, baby!

It's like just the other day - this guy was like all in my face, shouting, saying "Hey man, why you kill my family?!" Obviously I tried to laugh it off, I'm not unreasonable, but he just wouldn't go! "Why did you kill my wife?!" he shouted. I was 6 points behind first place for goodness sake, couldn't this guy cut me some slack? Anyway, my point is - he got a bit violent, I flashed my weapon (my gun, not my 14 incher!), and the change was instant. He backed off like a little kitten. A little gay kitten with a pink face. (Although in this case his face was brown of course - he was Iraqi.)

But it's not just the psychological power of guns that, to this day, still startles me - you may or may not know that some guns have fearsome firepower. (Firepower is measured by how hot the bullets are. My rifle is a "3.7 chip pan", as hot as nearly 4 kitchen based fires.)

I remember my first mission in Iraq, 8 months back now, a virgin in the field. (a battle virgin that is, I have sex all the time mate!) (With women, not men!) I hung back for most of the mission, but at the end we had to assault a small stronghold. I sneaked up to the stronghold and fired my weapon.

KA-BLAM!

Iraqi face - EXPLODE! Hahaha, it was really comical. Since then I've kept my kills cleaner by aiming for the heart. Head shots are a risk too, as they are rarely fatal.

Friday, March 10, 2006

The Points System

We were called out of training for what we were told was "an assignment". This basically meant one thing - killtime. So naturally the guys were in high spirits.

Now the killing itself wasn't what we were looking forward to. Sure, it's great at first, the 'oh no!''s, the 'argh my face!''s and the 'Ooh you caught me right off guard matey!''s, but after a while it becomes sucky like anything else.

That's why we introduced the points system: 1 point per kill, simple as that. It gets pretty competitive, I can tell you. The winner usually gets a crate of beer or a blowie off the rookie.

Now I'm not the best. I'm a little cowardly, and the other guys are better at 'mopping up' than me (we like to use cleaning terms for killing: 'mopping up', 'jiffing', 'cillit banging a room' (for a grenade) etc)

I've only ever managed to win it once, and it required a bit of, heheh, 'artistic' licence. Now they never specified who could be killed, did they? So I tossed a 'nade over a wall and fragged me 3 chatting tramps. Haha, they weren't expecting that!

Weapons training

Haha! Oh man! Honestly, me and the guys - it's non-stop. 4 Americans in Iraq having a blast! (Pun intended)

Today we had weapons training. Stevo took the pistol and the rest of us used rifles. We fired off some shots (with the guns that is - we ain't gay mate!) and generally just had an average training day. Boy it was sucking! (Not in a gay way though mate!)

Until Stevo stepped in that is! Let me tell you about Stevo - he's premium A-grade non-suck. We all love him. He's crazy.

Stevo saw his op (oppurtunity) when Mark piped up. "Hey guys, take care yeah, never forget how dangerous these things are, I'd hate anything to happen to any of you!" I know what you're thinking - what a sucker!

Stevo had us crying when replied "I'll never forget how dangerous YOUR MOM is! By which I mean she's dangerous... IN BED! I'm referring to her sexual performance!"

Steve then took his pistol and shot Mark in the ear, taking a chunk off! (See, the beauty of pistols is, they're not as dangerous as rifles - the shots are rarely lethal and close range shots often go straight through the target without causing any damage.) It suddenly became clear why Stevo had chosen a pistol instead of a rifle - what a joker!