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Reelin' in Iraq
A story of Love awakening
by Vivian Darkbloom
He woke up in the dark room, for a moment imagining himself
cozily at home in Montana. But as he tried to add up the shapes
he saw, to impose the doorway he knew against the pattern of
light, the old woman against his mother, her old wooden chair
against the familiar ones of his home, his mind reluctantly
dragged into sufficient wakefulness to realize how many thousands
of miles he was away from home.
The old woman smiled to see that he was awake, and lovingly
pressed the back of her fingers against his cheek. Her dark hair,
the old-fashioned glasses, her wrinkled and dark-freckled olive
skin, the foreigner's features of her face made him wish to
cringe with xenophobic revulsion, had he the strength to do so.
But she must have read the expression on his face, and
withdrawing her hand, with a knowing wisdom, spoke a sentence in
their impenetrable tongue to the girl standing behind her, about
10 years old. The girl drew forward.
Aside from the dark hair and similar features, the two were about
as opposite as could be. One young and thin, with large, dark
curious eyes, leaning on the shoulder of the other old and
chubby, wise with the ways of the world.
He was starting to remember. The blast. The roadway, the people
all around.
"Where's my patrol? Where is everyone? What have you done with
them?" He demanded, hoarsely.
The girl seemed to understand a little of what he was saying. Her
face was one of sadness. She simply drew a line with her finger
across her throat. The same in any language: dead.
His feeble energy collapsed again.
He remembered the day before the patrol, receiving the news.
"Johnson's dead. I'm sorry." His sergeant know how close the two
had been. After that, setting out, northwest of Fallujah. In
spite of the news, getting out of the bunker the mood was jovial.
Smiles played on the lips of his five companions in the hot
sunlight as they cruised the crowded street in the armored
vehicle. The gears growled as wheels gripped the uneven surfaces.
The driver, an African-American woman he felt an occasional
yearning for shifted and plied the steering wheel, satisfied with
her job.
As they drove jovially, his mind had drifted again to Johnson,
the numbingly repetitive shock of hearing about yet another
attack on American troops, another anonymous statistic to the
newspapers back home, his buddy of ten years back now. Wondering
how it had been for him, had it been quick? Or was it minutes or
even hours of consciousness, feeling the blood filling his lungs,
gasping for breath? Thinking he might have a chance, only to
realize the fatal hardening clutch of death was upon him. That's
one journey you can only travel alone.
No, Johnson would not come marching home, but would arrive
instead inside a giant zip-loc bag. A larger, more opaque version
of the ones used to package the weed or hashish he and Johnson
used to score every weekend.
He hated the girl and the woman even more for what they had done
to Johnson. OK, maybe it was not them. But the woman's son, the
girl's older brother. Madmen, lunatics, every one of them. He
hated the incomprehensible words they exchanged, the unfathomably
knowing looks.
The old woman sighed and placing her hands on her knees in the
dimly lit room, worked her way out of the chair. One more
sentence to the girl as she waddled out of the room, and the girl
took the old woman's place in the chair.
"I take care of you," said the girl, in broken English. "Sleep
now."
The last thing he saw before his eyes shut was her eyes,
beautiful dark wells of curiosity, her infuriatingly long black
lashes.
He remembered two days before the patrol, the last he saw Johnson
still alive, the two of them performing reconnaissance on a
school that had been bombed.
He and Johnson were grappling with the question: How did one
explain to the young boy that what had once been his arm lay in a
pile of limbs in the corner? That American Bombs had condemned
him to a life of otherness, of crippledom, that a few moments of
horrible, wrenching impact had altered his future forever?
The worst part was that the boy was so quiet, so uncomplaining,
so accepting. He wanted the boy to rise up shouting, demanding,
screaming at the unfairness of it all. He spoke no English, but
the translator relayed the message. "He just wants to know, where
is my arm," said the old robed man with the turban and long grey
beard.
Johnson cursed about it afterward. "Fuckin' W Bush, more
perverted than a dozen pedophiles. Look at what he done to those
children. How many lives has he fucked up? All `cause of some
playground petty argument. Saddam insulted his daddy, so he sends
in the troops and fucks up everybody's life. Shit. Fuckin' W bush
ain't no more grown up than a 4-year old."
Clever Sergeant, said nothing, simply glared. A mere few months
ago (another lifetime) such talk would have been unthinkable.
Disloyalty, unpatriotic. But now, with morale crumbling, the
mission dragging on, Sergeant knew the troops needed to let off
steam. He was obligated to glare, to cling to the remains of
established order, but in his heart he knew the same feelings of
conflict, wrestled sleepless with what grueling duty required.
"W fo' WORTHLESS!" shouted Johnson, after Sergeant had left the
room. "WORTHLESS FUCKIN' BUSH!"
Typical Johnson, voicing the frustration he himself felt deep
inside. But now Johnson was gone, an empty silence where the
cantankerous familiar voice of his friend had once been.
And now he supposed the others who had been on patrol with him
were dead as well. His dreams of passion with the beautiful Afro-
American lady-driver, fantasized nights of sweaty rhythmic
exertion and release, were now char-broiled steak riddled with
shards of glass. He remembered bits and pieces now, how he had
been sitting in the right rear seat, perfectly positioned to
flirt with the eyes of the beautiful black woman driving,
exchanging knowingly arched eyebrows, the sound of her lusty
almost-masculine laughter.
He remembered how he had seen the bomb, something resembling
dynamite sticks tied together with wire, flying towards the
windshield. He had ducked, accidentally pulled the latch causing
the door to fall open, him to fall out. The blinding flash, the
thundering din, followed by the silence of his ringing ears.
Perhaps the car door had shielded him from the blast. Some cursed
miracle that had spared him while it released his companions from
this hell.
He knew that the gloriously silky-soft smooth feminine face of
the driver, a great work of beautiful art, had been mercilessly
shredded, rudely vandalized by unfeeling flame. Obscenely
graffitied, courtesy of Nasty Worthless Fuckin' Bush and his
stupid, arrogant, childish playground bickering and bullying.
In her last heroic act, the beautiful negro woman had slammed on
the brakes, so that when he hit the ground the velocity did not
kill him. There was her final goodbye-kiss, a profound act of
tenderness, their final lovemaking, her foot jammed hard on the
brakes gently, caressingly, touched his body through its jarring
impact on the hard, bumpy road. He felt himself falling once
more, and darkness closed around him and he tumbled into dreams
of confusion and decay.
____________________________________________________________
When he awoke, the room was filled with daylight. The girl stood
before him, holding a tray with food on it. Weird, foreigner's
food. What happened to good ol' steak and potatoes? The kinda
breakfast that sticks to your ribs! She stood on tiptoes, to set
it on his lap. Even more infuriatingly beautiful in the innocence
of morning sunlight, God's new day.
His hunger awoke with the aroma of warm grain. The food was good.
He wasn't even sure what it was, but it filled him in a way those
army rations didn't, quite. The girl sat, Indian-style
(Persian-style) on a mat on the floor beside his bed. Endlessly
watching, fidgeting childlike, her eyes deep pools of secret
beauty. She had an elusive quality of the ages of time. Sometimes
when he looked at her face, he saw the contours of ancient
civilizations. She seemed at once ever so young, yet ancient and
wise beyond the years of the earth.
He tried to hate her again, but now bathed in the warm cleansing
rays of innocent sunlight he found it difficult. His mind drifted
to the time he and Johnson had found a couple of Iraqi whores,
how she opened her moist vein of pleasure for his throbbing
desire, her above him like a stormy sky, the sounds of pleasure
in the next room from Johnson and his girl. How when he shot his
shrapnel into her abdomen it reminded him of the feeling of
firing off his machine-gun in battle. How his trusty M-4 carbine
danced like a feather in his hands as it sprayed harsh metal U.S.
bullets, pain searing through the greasy Al-Qaida sleazeball,
tearing into the flesh of the enemy like nails into bleeding
flesh on the cross. The sleazy whore, he imagined her moans to be
cries of agony, her nipples like the hardened tips of bullets
protruding from the soft flesh of her dangling round boobs,
hanging above him like strange fruit swaying in the branches of
the water-balloon tree.
Nearly finished eating now, he muttered to himself, "I wonder if
these people have any coffee." The girl re-appeared (he hadn't
noticed she had gone) with a large mug full of steaming dark
liquid. Gingerly he tasted, and instantly almost spat out the
bitter-sweet syrupy stuff. But coffee it was, and it satisfied
the need (at least, until he abruptly reached the sandy grounds
at the bottom)
When she saw him finish she grinned and held out her hand to take
the mug. Leaning forward she snatched it and bounced away out the
door. In the few seconds that she was gone, he found himself
missing her. Damn.
She returned with a long, cream-colored robe, and for the first
time he realized he was naked. She held it out to him. Where was
his camouflage? His equipment? His machine-gun?
He slid, rolling out of the sheets to standing, unconsciously
running his hand along the back of his shaved neck, when he
noticed the swelling in the back of his skull. Nervously he
probed with his fingers, until he hit a tender spot that sent
sparks of agony across his field of vision. OK, better leave well
enough alone.
He realized he was standing naked in front of this gaunt,
beautiful 10-year-old girl, waiting patiently for him to take the
robe she held, her eyes alternating between gazing at his face
and glancing down at his manhood unfolding in front of her.
Annoyed at the half-erection, he snatched the robe and held it
between them.
Again he tried to be angry, but her fawning gaze melted his rage,
and try as he might he couldn't connect the jumper cables between
her and the greasy Al-Qaida and the soft sweet loving eyes in
front of him now.
He held out the robe in disgust. "I can't wear this," he said.
Apparently she mistook his ethnocentric narrow-mindedness for the
technical uncertainty of how to don the garment, and she lifted
it from his hands and circled behind him, expertly draping it
over his shoulders. As her gentle fingers smoothed the wrinkles
down his back, he felt a tingle of affectionate yearning.
Not the kind of yearning he was accustomed to, not the usual
pelvic twitch, but something softer than that. It was a shift
within his breast, a calming of his heartbeat. As though the egg
in the nest shifted, finally the warmth of the hen's thighs had
yielded its fruit, and ready to hatch, the shell began to crack
and crumble. That was it, a softening of his heart. The hardened
shell to be replaced by something soft and alive.
He shook his head. He had to hate these people. his sanity
demanded it. Or did it? They were being so kind to him (so far,
at least).
She smiled up at him, and the brightness of the innocent morning
sunlight filled his soul.
His mind spun with a million questions. Who were these people?
What did they want? When were they going to let him return to his
patrol?
The mischievous warmth of her smile made all the questions fly
away like a row seagulls that had been standing on the beach
being chased by a dog.
Maybe it was his hatred of her that fanned the flames of her
affection, the impossible challenge, the mountaintop in the
distance. Whatever the cause, she had succeeded in sinking her
hooks into his fragile heart, and ever so gradually (but
unrelentingly) she was reeling him in.
She took his hand, and led him out into the hallways, around a
corner, through another door, and he was astonished to find
himself standing on the edge of an enormous beautiful garden, his
senses flooded with sunlight, sweet floral scents, the buzzing of
insects, and the fluttering of butterflies.
The garden was enclosed on the four sides by the graceful arches
of the home they were in, open to the sky above. Pulling on his
arm, she led him over to a wooden bench, where the two of them
sat down together, her leaning affectionately against him. He
sensed unseen eyes on them, and thought he glimpsed through the
leaves in the other corner of the garden, the eyes of the older
woman, smiling smugly, knowingly behind her glasses.
His mind was filled with crazy imaginings ... He pictured the
himself and the girl getting married in a big expensive wedding,
living together in a big expensive house, her by his side as they
drove their SUV on vacation in the mountains...
He shook his head. No, he couldn't even be imagining such things.
Maybe it was something they put into the food. Or the coffee. He
tried to force his mind to reason through the predicament.
Surely, he couldn't just attempt to escape. First, he would need
to find his things, don his grubby, grimy, scratchy, heavy
uniform in place of the comfortable, loose clean garment he was
wearing.
Then what? It was well known that the life-expectancy of a lone
American in this part of town was not long. He sighed. Ok, so he
would just have to wait.
She swung one leg from the bench, crossed over the other knee
that dug softly into his thigh, rhythmically with the swinging.
He found his resolve to escape melting in the sunlight, with his
fascination of this feeling he had never known before. Sure, he
had had girlfriends back home before. Everyone else did, it was
expected. But this was different, special. Just for him. It made
him feel like a celebrity.
He tried to put his finger on what was different. Those other
girls had been like something he had owned. With the girl beside
him he had a strange new yearning to make her happy, to do
everything for her, to turn him into the queen of his life.
Sheer insanity.
____________________________________________________________
He had known the way things were headed when she had leaned her
elbow intentionally against his hard-on in the afternoon sun.
Dinner had been more than he could eat, and as he lay down in the
bed to sleep, she curled up on a mat beside him. He wondered, did
she usually? Or was this her bed? He tried to take her place and
put her up on the bed, (Whoa, where did that act of compassion
come from?) but she refused and so they lay together separately.
Until the bombs thundered in the distance. She sat up with a
start. At her innocent age, she well knew the twisted perversion
of what a bomb could do. Boom, Boom, in the distance, they could
feel the impact through the floor.
She climbed up under the sheets beside him, and he felt the
intense heat and trembling of her tiny body against his naked
skin. She was really scared.
Awkwardly, he tried to comfort her, caressing and putting his
arms around her, holding her. At this point, he was too numb to
be scared, too numb to feel anything except tired of the
violence. She pushed herself against him, and the trembling
eased. Eventually the bombing ceased, but she stayed with him,
cuddled in his arms, facing away in spoon formation.
They dozed lightly, and in the middle of the night he woke up to
find her lovingly running her finger up and down the length of
his almost painfully hardened penis. She started to see him
awake, but did not stop running her finger, from the base to the
head and back again, lightly sending tingles up his spine with
each gesture. the mysterious huge dark orbs of her child's eyes
penetrating unblinkingly all the while.
We could be dead tomorrow, he thought. How could it be a crime to
make love tonight? And he knew it was wrong, but he waited in
vain for the voice of his conscience to scream out for him to
halt. Silence.
She turned around, and he brushed the tip down the crack of her
tiny buttocks. His finger slipped between her legs, and he felt
the dryness of her sacred valley, so he began to gently knead her
clitoris. Startled, she moaned softly, spreading her legs to
grant him better access. With his other hand, he ran his fingers
lightly up and down her thin, flat chest, each time when he
touched her flat penny-sized nipples, a jolt of electric ecstasy
pulsed through her body. Her moans grew in volume and intensity.
She closed her enormous eyes and relaxed her head back onto his
chest.
He kissed her sweet innocent lips, and she responded, chasing his
tongue as he ran its tip around her mouth. The fingers of his
hand in between her legs were now dripping with delightfully
slimy stickiness, and he probed gently the hole, eliciting a gasp
of pleasure.
He felt an intense longing, desire, partnership, friendship with
this strange beautiful young girl. "I love you," he said,
wondering if he had ever truthfully said it before to anyone.
Sure, he knew that saying I love you got girls to have sex with
him. But this time, unlike the rest, the words sprang from a deep
inner fount of emotion, of intense caring for this exquisitely
wonderful tiny person.
More than anything, he wanted to make her happy. He ignored the
hard-on, and it subsided to some extent, but he knew it would
come back. His heart raced as he turned her around, and traced
with his tongue a thin line from the bottom of her throat, to her
belly button, down, down, down...
His mind swirled with a never-before known thrill as his tongue
engulfed her sweet smooth sexuality, the forbidden secret
honey-button, oh so sweet. She threw back her head, legs spread,
caressing his ears as the rough surface of his tongue stimulated
the flowing juices, opened the floodgates of ecstatic pleasure.
He had read somewhere that even a girl as young as four years old
was capable of orgasm, but he had never believed it. That is,
until tonight. When her writhing thrusts slowed to a climax, and
she exploded around his mouth, hands ripping at the stubble that
covered his scalp, there was no mistaking.
The time had come. His machine-gun had reloaded, and stood like a
grand sentry before her, harder than ever before.
He kissed her again, smearing her juice against her lips. She
responded with passion he had never known with a "real" woman,
reaching her tiny hand down to guide the barrel of his gun
towards her waiting, dripping, burning, aching valley of desire.
Once more he ran his hand up and down her smooth, hairless torso,
simultaneously sparking the ecstasy of contact with her nipples
and poking the tip of it into her hole.
She gasped, and shuddered, arching her back to force him inside
of her, surrounding him with the loving hot sliminess of her
nurturing lower mouth. He felt a ripping, and release, and she
whimpered softly but continued pushing and pulling, working him
into her like a fishhook, relentlessly reeling him in.
As they made love, it was as if every particle of animosity
between their two cultures had disintegrated and flown away like
leaves in the breeze, leaving the sky clear as if after a newly
fallen rain. In their love, they had discovered the language both
shared, that words could never describe. And somehow in their
union, they felt unknowingly a new hope for the human race, for
the generations on the planet, for the nations and rulers.
As he exploded into her, they came together, and he gave her the
gift of his seed in exchange for her nurturing, as both shared
sweet secret sacred symbols in the common tongue of sexual
pleasure, the walls and barriers of culture and values tumbled
down. Their orgasm was like a trumpet before the walls of
Jericho. His release set free a pure white dove of freedom and
equality whose wings beat powerfully the winds of change
spreading over the entire earth.
The walls of hostility dividing classes, races, and nations
crumbled to dust before the brazen defiance of their forbidden
orgasm. They dared the fates, the destinies, the graces, the
winds, the gods and titans, the mountains. They defied the world
of division and agony, and as it receded a new one sprang up in
its place. A world, maybe imagined, but in which they lived for
the duration of their blissful bubble, a world of equality, of
plenty, of laughter and celebration.
As if lifted in an enormous colorful hot-air balloon, or looking
back through the picture-window in a taking-off rocketship, the
walls and boundaries and laws, rules, and morass of mores that
had seemed so overwhelming shrunk to antsize as the landscape
receded and blended into one circle of light and life.
In their laughing, giggling, gleeful giddy bubble they soared
above all the commotion of judgment and division, laughed
refreshingly in the face of old identities that fluttered to the
ground like untethered fetters, tattered costumes of the old
regime as they pirouetted and lept naked over the starlit
moonscape below.
____________________________________________________________
Days passed, he lost count of how many. He grew so accustomed
that his old world seemed now to be the foreign one. The lump on
the back of his head was healing, and he even started to get used
to the Turkish coffee.
And there was the girl. Though it hardly seemed like his love for
her could swell to greater proportions, every day it did. But
overhanging their passion and emotional caring was the knowledge
that someday it would need to end, soon they would come looking
for him, and eventually somebody would ask the right questions,
leading them back to him.
The ecstatic orgasms followed in the moonlight by gentle caresses
and the coziness of each others warmth as together they watched
the birds flying across the cloudy night sky, the sunshine of
daylight warmth as she methodically moaned in pleasure, impaled
on the stiffness of his staff, drawing out the sweetness again
and again as they made love day and night, both sensing the
impending shadow of approaching reconnaissance mission, until one
day as they were sitting together (fortunately clothed -- but
holding hands) the old woman in glasses ushered in Sergeant,
along with two other uniformed and musket-toting soldiers.
"How are you doing?" Sergeant asked.
The reply was a sigh, and with misunderstood reluctance
"Alright."
Their parting was simple, daydream-like. He gave her a hug, and
she squeezed him tighter than ever before, and when she finally
let go he was ushered through the milling crowd of glaringly
sullen onlookers into the armored vehicle.
The last he saw of her was her enormous dark eyes, as she sadly
gazed through the curtain of dust rising behind the vehicle,
watching him being taken away.
He looked down and covered his face to conceal the tears from the
men next to him.
____________________________________________________________
The debriefing (the first of many) was brief. Sergeant walked in
as he was sitting in his bunker, studied the scene, sat down
opposite diagonally in an adjacent chair. Sergeant and soldier,
soldier continued staring off into nothingness.
Sargent, seeing that the other would remain silent, opened the
conversation. "Guess they'll be sending you back soon."
Soldier looked up blankly, eyes filled with deep-seated
confusion. He recalled the time Sergeant had made them march in a
circle chanting "Kill Osama, Kill Al-Qaida!" Then flashed the
image of the beautiful people who fed him, who loved him.
The gun that had once danced as a feather in the palms of his
hands lay before him on the stern metal coffee table. He picked
it up and held it, in his arms, sensing the familiarity. But even
without ammunition, its cumbersome heaviness overwhelmed him. His
arms grew weary, sagged with the burden, and he allowed gravity
to defeat his grasp on it as he gently set it back on the table.
"I can't kill these people," he said simply.
"Now let me ask you straight," said the sergeant. "Did they use
any force of manipulation or torture to coerce you or break down
your willpower?"
He smiled. "No sir. They took good care of me."
"You're sure about that."
"Yes sir."
"Alright then." Sergeant stood up again. "I ain't gonna try and
pry it out of you, `cause when you get back there'll be a dozen
head-shrinkers to do that. So I guess I'll leave you to your
contemplations."
"Yes sir. Thank you sir."
____________________________________________________________
Sooner than he imagined possible, he found himself high in the
sky on an airplane, staring out the too-tiny round plastic window
down at the houses below, wishing her in the empty seat beside
him, studying the landscape, the palaces and gardens, wondering
which one was hers, until all gradually receded and vanished
behind him to be replaced by the monotonously dull gray expanse,
and finally the ocean.
Even without her, he felt his heart lighter than ever before, a
dove in flight, soaring beyond the rainbow bridge to eternal
peace bliss and harmony.
_______________________________________________________
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