The September 11th attacks took place early in my senior year in high school. I followed the events of the day probably a little more closely than the average high school kid. After reading stories of bravery and heroism displayed during and after the attacks by our first responders and servicemen, I decided I wanted to see the world and kill some bad people.
I made friends, of sorts, with a local recruiter. It wasn't everyday she snagged a recruit who aced the ASVAB with a 99, particularly one who was eager to enlist right away. Her only problem was that she wanted to steer me into something besides ground pounding and I had my heart set on killing some fanatical scumbags.
She was a story in and of herself. Sgt. L. G. Santana was a pretty darn cute Latina, although at the time I was next to clueless about getting girls in the sack. There were many early mornings where her cute ass provided me the motivation to keep running or exercising.
Sgt. Santana maintained her professionalism, and there was no fooling around between us. I clumsily flirted at times and she caught me looking down her shirt or staring at her ass plenty of times, but despite my fantasies, nothing happened, even after I celebrated my 18th birthday and was legal.
When I went off to basic training, I was in great physical shape and breezed through, thanks to Sgt. Santana's mentoring and my dedication to fitness. Basic was followed with more training and I was excited to finally get my first deployment to the sandbox.
My first and second tours were fairly enjoyable. I got to do a lot of point of the spear stuff with a great bunch of guys.
I killed my share of bad people and then some. I loved sending Allah followers' souls to Jesus and I kept him busy.
Unfortunately, I had a few people I cared about get killed or crippled and sent back home, too. When my friends started getting hurt, that gave me a new perspective. I also found out the Kool-Aid didn't taste so good. We could kill half the people over there and they are still going to behave like it's the 8th Century A.D.
It was my third tour when I picked up a nice scar in my thigh from a passing 7.62x39 round that went through and through while I was dragging a wounded Major and his driver to cover in the middle of a firefight. An IED blew the piss out of their armored Humvee. Sadly, despite my best efforts and training, the driver didn't make it and that kind of messed with my head. He was hurt badly and begged me to save him and I failed him. It brings a tear to my eye just recalling it.
Got my third Purple Heart right away for that and a Bronze Star with a V device for valor not long after.
My fourth trip was to Afghanistan. That really sucked moose cock, to quote Pat Rogers, a civilian firearms instructor I trained under. At least in Iraq we had decent quarters. In the 'Stan, we were out in BFE as often as not. Picked up yet another Purple Heart and again a Bronze Star with a V device after our outpost was over-run by goddamn insurgents.
That was perhaps the most supremely shitty day. Lost a friend to a goddamn treasonous Afghan National Army (ANA) cook who was really a Taliban. We had about three or four ANA soldiers turn on us that day. One was stabbing my buddy when I walked in on him. The quisling had a catastrophic cerebral vascular accident courtesy of a pair of M855 5.56x45 rounds from my M4. Blew his brains all over everything down range in that tent.
I was checking on my buddy administering aid when another one of those ANA cocksuckers pretended he was helping then jumps me and tries to slit my throat. We had a little wrestling match of sorts. First prize got you whatever you wanted from the other guy. Second prize was death.
He had a knife, and he cut me with it. Unfortunately for him, while he had me pinned down on the ground, I accessed my karambit. While I couldn't get at his femoral, but his balls were real handy, so I cut them off. The look on his face was priceless. Shock and fear, all rolled into one. He moved a little and I got another chance, this time I opened up his femoral. He was very eager to get away from me at that point. He screamed and moaned as he bled out. I just smiled and said, "Inshallah, bitch" a couple of times before he faded to black, his femoral squirting like a hose despite his efforts to staunch the blood loss. Those karambits are nasty little weapons.
I worked on my friend then dragged him out and handed him off to some other GIs and a medic. They thought I was hit too because of all of the blood on me from our cook's femoral. I was covered and a mess.
Minutes later, the camp was overrun. Taliban had made it inside the wire and it was shaping up to be a rout. In the ensuing firefight, I chased down and waxed two of those goatfuckers who were dragging away an unconscious GI sergeant. I half-dragged, half-carried his ass back to friendlier territory after administering some hot lead therapy to our misguided enemy combatants. Helicopter support arrived, along with reinforcements from a nearby camp, just in the nick of time.
I had already turned them down on re-enlisting before this went down. In fact, I had already been accepted into the University of Illinois, the college my parents had attended, in the weeks before. After my second Bronze Star, they made another pass at offering me re-enlistment, but I declined. While I was with a great bunch of guys, the bloom was off the rose and that last firefight I actually felt like we might not make it. In my opinion, our mission there and the people there weren't worth it by a long shot and they certainly weren't worth dying for.
Don't get me wrong. I'm a long way from a peacenik, but this nation-building crap doesn't work when you're dealing with people who fuck goats in their spare time and live like savages.
A month after that firefight, I was back home in the USA.
I had checked out of the Army as a Staff Sergeant and was set to attend the University of Illinois, courtesy of my Uncle Sam and the GI Bill. Two of their residence rules I didn't care for required me to a) leave my personal rifle and handgun elsewhere and b) that I live in University-approved housing which basically meant the dorms or a frat. My firearms were part of my soul after eight years in the service, and almost two-thirds of that time in a foreign land using them to stay alive and take care of business. As for joining a fraternity? After eight years of serving in a fraternity where your brother and fellow infantryman would as often as not literally risk his life for you under fire, the social drinking fraternities pretending not to be social drinking clubs seemed more than a little childishly immature to me.
Making my GI Bill money go as far as possible, I had signed up for a triple dorm room to save money, and move-in day was soon upon me.
For whatever reason, I had butterflies in my stomach that morning. I don't know why. Hell, I wasn't as nervous going on my first real-deal combat mission.
I had arrived early in my vehicle, a Dodge Grand Caravan. Yes, a minivan. Not exactly what you would expect a high-speed, low-drag operator to drive, but I got it for a song and paid cash for it and it carried my gear that I liked to have handy. I even installed a small safe in the back for my spare cash, handguns and other valuables. My AR rifle case and gear just had to be covered with a blanket. My stuff for the room was neatly wrapped up in a duffle bag, a backpack and a couple of nylon bags.
I was assigned to Oglesby Hall, which was part of the Florida Ave. Residence Halls on the southeast corner of the U of I's campus. Student parking was across the street so that was handy. The main intramural facility was on the other corner of campus due west. Lucky for me, they had a rudimentary fitness room in the basement of the Florida Avenue complex that would work if I didn't want to traipse across campus. I was still a fitness buff and worked out every morning.
As was my style, I was early to the arrival. They let me in a half-hour early to test their process. I think I was the first or second student into the building.
I found my room, 930, and picked the single bed. The other two were bunked. I also took the middle closet and began unpacking.
Coming back out to get my duffel, the first thing that struck me was the age of my fellow students as they waited in the check-in line. They were kids. Compared to other students, I was an "old man".
About an hour later, George Perez showed up. Perez was a Latino guy from the suburbs that was kind of stocky, and a few inches shorter than my 6'. Nice kid.
Perez's mom and dad brought him down. He brought in a stereo, TV and fridge. His mom was a MILF and his dad was made of stern stuff. Fit, close-cut hair. Turns out he was a career Army NCO. We got along great. They took me out to eat with them. Mr. Perez took liking me to a whole new level when he found out his son was living with a "retired" Staff Sergeant. Turns out his dad had been in Iraq the first time and we talked about being at some of the same shitholes. His dad wouldn't hear of me paying for dinner and wrestled the check out of my hand. I got the tip and we called it good. I'd bet his dad was a good troop.
That evening, the third member of our trio arrived. Terrell Maxwell was a skinny black kid from Chicago and the shortest among the three of us at about 5' 6". He too was a nice enough guy. He came down on a bus with a pair of suitcases. He told us he shipped a couple of boxes of stuff via UPS that should arrive in a couple of days.
We seemed to get along just fine in our triple room and indeed there weren't any personality clashes with anyone on the whole floor. There were a couple of strange birds, but all in all, no douchebags. Maybe everyone was in the honeymoon period on their best behavior.
Perez, in addition to having a cool career Army father, also had a trio of girls he had gone to school with that he introduced to Terrell and I the next day. I didn't know anyone and it was exceptionally nice to have pretty girls around. The girls were all black or mixed and very sweet. They hung out with us for a couple of hours and I found myself hoping they would be back.
The ring-leader was a mixed girl that was half Latino. Her name was Jennifer and she was stunning. She kind of looked like a young Jennifer Lopez minus the big ass and about fifty pounds. If I was a betting man, I'd say she probably looked like a supermodel if she dolled herself up. She stood about 5' 6" and had gotten the round, black girl ass from her dad and the skin and hair from her Latina mom. Just guessing, I'd say she was a size 2 or so, and maybe 105 pounds and a 32-B bra size. She had a boyfriend from her hometown who was attending Northwestern. As pretty as Jennifer was, I didn't think their relationship was going to last with all those pretty girls at Northwestern.
There was also Tifani, a very dark-skinned black coed. She had a cute body but when she smiled, her teeth were in serious need of some braces and she didn't have the prettiest of faces. She was about the same height and build as Jennifer, maybe 10 pounds heavier with slightly bigger hips. Tifani's personality made her the party girl, the life of any party. She was dating a white guy who was about thirty, divorced and worked for the City of Chicago. She usually dressed the most provocatively with skin-tight jeans and shirts the norm. Oh yes, she had a very sweet ass that just begged to be squeezed and she knew guys liked it.
