From Sgt Zeno
25 Jan 96
Here's a story that my coworker here at the Pentagon shared with me. It's an experience worthy of being posted, and also a true account. If you have any comments for Jay, just drop me a line.
BEGIN MESSAGE TEXT
Let's begin with a little background information on some of the players in our little story. We will start at the top and go down; seems logical enough. First we have Carson Horatio (not his real name ::deeeeeuh::), the man in charge-company commander. Carson hails from sunny Miami, Florida. Captain Horatio was an intense man and invariably difficult person to get along with. He began military life as a jarhead, but came to his senses and transferred to the Army. Our next character is Lee Addison, genius. Now Lee was about as smart as Forrest Gump, but he more than made up for his inept, pea-sized cerebrum with his physical prowess. Lee put his choad in everything that would let him. Finally, there's me; the principal. I'm Jay, and I'm a homicidal maniac by modern definition.
Our unit deployed to the beautiful resort community of Mogadishu, Somalia on 13 December 1992. The place was just as Dan Rather described on the news days before our arrival. Folks, keep in mind that our first glimpse of hell came after a 72 hour flight (troop seats are for kids). We were immediately assigned a sector of the capitol city and began our patrols as early as the following morning. Morning to a G.I. in the field is when the C.O. gets up and decides--too early (ex Marine, remember?)--the day should begin. Our team consisted of Horatio the commander, Addison the driver, and Jay (yours truly) the gunner from hell. We patrolled as a lone vehicle wheras the other patrols cruised around as squads--at least two vehicles. Horatio swore that we did this for speed and mobility. He wanted to be everywhere double-quick. I secretly believe the little ball-sniffer wanted the Somalis to attack our vehicle; which was 85% more likely to happen to a lone vehicle.
One fine, starry evening we were tooling down MSR Blue at a scorching 10 miles an hour looking for something to get into. We were in total blackout--by mere mortal definition anyway. I had my trusty PVS-7 NVGs on and could see all the zipperheads running around in the dark.
So anyway, this worthless Somali comes sashaying up to the Humvee as if he were totally invisible. I m staring right at him! My 9mm Beretta in hand, I jumped out of the turrett and slid down the back of the truck. I looped around behind this guy and saw that he had a rifle in his hands and he was in the process of creeping up to the commanders side of the vehicle.
I ran the rules of engagement through my mind (for good measure)...I couldn't seem to find a reason to not shoot this moron, and I raised my pistol to do so.
::crack:: ::crack:: ::crack::
The Beretta sounded like a wimpy version of a child's cap gun, but the results were astounding. I popped the mentally challenged native three times in the back of his thighs, ran up and kicked his weapon away from his flailing hands.
The Somali is screaming at the top of his lungs AIEEEEEE!! AIEEEEEEE!!
And I'm yelling at him to shut his fucking hole.
Lee stops the vehicle and they both jump out to catch a glimpse of our first blood. The look on the commander's face is nonchalant. He rolls the Somali on his back and shines a MAG LITE on the groundchuck that was once this pitiful shitball's quads. Flecks of femur speckle the open wounds and blood pumps rythmically from the one hole in his right thigh.
Ahh, the femoral artery, no doubt.
I'm quite pleased that the guy is obviously in alot of pain. If his country had their shit together, I wouldn't have been there in the first place and he'd still be a camel rapist, but at least he wouldn't be laying there dying
::big grin now::
The C.O. finally says, and I quote: "If that fucker had tried to get my commander, I would have killed him."
Then he turned, got into his seat and closed the door. Lee and I exchanged awkward glances and looked at the writhing fool at our feet. He's looking up and holding my leg as if to ask for help.
I unsheath the K-Bar strapped to my left boot and gaze at the length and width of the blade. Addison looks around like a cop might show up, which is ironic, since we were the law. The whites of the zipperhead's eyes are as visible as the headlights of an oncoming truck when I bring the blade down overhead and drive the seven inch blade into his skull about one inch.
It was harder than I d imagined--his head I mean. I figured the knife would easily pierce the skull and enter the brain. But bone proved to be thicker than water, I guess, so I used my free hand to hammer the knife home.
The Somali is convulsing now--I assumed death would be instant. I know I wouldn't want to feel anything jabbed into my head. I did the old horror movie jiggle of the knife. Amazingly the blood wasn t spurting out like in a Tarrantino film, but it was coming out fast. I ain't never seen brains like that. Blood is really warm when it comes out of a fresh kill and my mind drifted to the scene in Red Dawn when the kid kills his first deer and he drinks the blood. Sheeeeeeeut. I'd cut out Magic Johnson's colon with a butter knife and eat it before I drank Somali blood, So we just jumped in the vehicle and left.
We stay in, the three of us. Horatio doesn t like to talk about the good times we had over there, but Addison and I laugh like lunatics when we think back to the Writhing Somali Death Dance we were obliged to see that fateful night. One show only. What a hoot!
END MESSAGE TEXT
Have a tasteless day,
-Zeno.
"Actually, it's more like deliberately slamming your balls in a car door, over and over, until you realize that slamming your balls in a car door really hurts, and you stop doing it. However, when you stop slamming the car door, half of the car magically vanishes." * Michael Booye, on marriage.*
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