Sure, Baghdad wasn't like going on real leave. Even within the city, years after we'd taken over, things weren't exactly making Baghdad a resort town or anything. Still, within the Green Zone, we could do things that soldiers liked to do, namely chill out, get some beers, and if you were really lucky, find a hot chick to share your rack with.
It was the third night of our time in the GZ, and for me, I was feeling pretty damn good. I was still bedmate-less, but there was a cute little supply clerk from the Indiana National Guard that had her eyes on me, and best of all, both of us were open about the fact there would be no relationship situations involved. It was pure sex, a little fun, and then we went our separate ways. I would have been able to seal the deal, too, if it hadn't been that I was supposed to pull guard duty that night. Guard duty in the GZ is nothing compared to pulling a guard shift out in most of the rest of the country. Between the hours of eight PM and midnight, I only managed to get two hours of sleep, and I drooped over my rifle while my Iraqi Army post-mate manned the tower.
It was just after midnight when I came down from the tower I'd been assigned to, and I was ready to head back to my bunk. Duty within the GZ was on a rotating basis, and I didn't need to wake up for any formations or any of that other bullshit the next day, so I was planning on trying to catch up on some sorely missed shut-eye before me and Miss Gina Redman of Terre Haute, Indiana found an empty building to occupy together.
I almost ignored the sound I heard coming from behind the supply shed. It was a common place for people with uptight tent mates or commanders with a bug up their ass to go hook up. While I personally found no fun with the concept of rushed sex in the dark behind a musty tent while sand stuck to the sweat on your ass . . . different strokes for different folks, if you know what I mean.
I almost kept going back to my bunk when I heard the whimpered cry from the girl, and the heavily accented words, strangled with effort. "No . . . no . . . please . . .”
I have no problems with being in control with a woman, and I've had chicks that liked it rough. But there's playacting and then there's real resistance. I don't go for that. Darting around the side of the tent, I saw a man pulling at the belt of his ACUs, holding what looked like a local girl by the throat with his free hand. He had clamped down more with his hand after her cry, cutting off all of her air. She was scratching and clawing, but he was short and stocky, with the sort of arms that came from lots of hard work and just natural freaky strength. Her eyes were fluttering shut and her hands didn't beat quite so hard as the blood flow to her brain shut down.
I didn't even pause, even though I couldn't see the man's face. Taking my M-4, I jabbed the butt stock forward. It hit the man in the back of the shoulder, distracting him enough for him to drop the girl, where she fell to the ground retching and coughing.
The man turned around, and I saw in the dim light something that made my heart sink. "Lloyd? What the fuck are you doing, man?"
“What’s it look like? I’m getting some sandy pussy," he slurred. He was drunk, and Lloyd was the sort of guy who could handle his alcohol pretty damned impressively. I'd once watched him down an entire pitcher of beer in ten minutes, get up off his barstool, and then throw two dead center darts on the electronic board we were playing on. For him to be slurring his words meant he had either downed enough to kill a small elephant, or he'd been hitting something a lot harder than beer. From the smell of his breath, I suspected the latter. It took a lot, but when he was drunk like this, he was nasty. “What the fuck you want?"
"You can't do this, man! You really want to go down on a rape charge?"
Lloyd reached to his right hip, where I saw the bayonet in its scabbard. We didn't use them often. In fact, our normal rifles didn't even have a lug to connect it with, but you could still find one if you needed it. “I’ll finish her off. There won't be no rape charge. There's just gonna be another sad terrorist beheading." He grinned and turned back to the girl. "Now go the fuck on, Boy Scout. Let the real men handle this."
He bent down to grab the girl by her torn and dirty clothes, pulling the bayonet from his scabbard while he did. She wasn't very old, considering she was wearing semi-western style clothing and didn't have even a head scarf on. Our cultural briefings had told us girls who dressed like that were either part of Iraq's tiny Christian minority or underage. I couldn't let it go on.