Rape of Vietnamese female soldiers

The area around the rape of the Vietnamese female soldier
was quiet, save for the occasional chirping of some unknown birds.
I had been lying prone in the grass for three hours. If it weren't for the American-made grenade in my right hand and my left hand stuck in the mud, my palms would probably be bleeding from my own pierced fingers. Less than three meters away under the banana tree, Gouwa's groans had ceased; he had suffered agonizingly for over three hours before dying. And during those three hours, I could only stand motionless three meters away, watching him until his life ended. If it weren't for the American-made M9 multi-purpose bayonet I was biting, I would have cried out long ago, but I couldn't. That damned Vietnamese sniper had been lurking around all along, waiting, waiting for the perfect opportunity to kill me. I could even feel his murderous intent towards me.
The day before the start of the Sino-Vietnamese War, my company, by sheer bad luck, was assigned the sharpest mission by our incredibly unlucky company commander. From that moment on, our company's casualties skyrocketed, while our company commander and political instructor were still shouting, "Sacrificing for the country is an honor!" Damn it, by the time we were almost at Hanoi, the entire company was reduced to just me and Gouwa. Just then, the order came down: "The punishment for the South Asian bully—Vietnam—is over. You can withdraw your troops." Gouwa and I, through the binoculars of the company commander and political instructor, looked at the rows of narrow, long, white, low houses in the distance—all the houses built by the Vietnamese in Hanoi looked the same, two or three meters wide and ten meters long, uniformly gray-white and two or three stories high. We kept cursing the bigwigs who issued the withdrawal order, grabbed our things, and began marching towards the assembly point.
In the woods a mile from the rendezvous point, still chatting and laughing with Gouwa, thinking we could return home heroically, I suddenly sensed danger. I yelled "Get down!" and pushed Gouwa, rolling into the bushes myself. A sharp gunshot rang out. Gouwa only had time to drop to the ground before the sniper struck him in the right chest and fell. My instincts have always been sharp, especially in dangerous situations; that's why I've survived from the start of the battle until now. Gouwa was the sniper's primary target because he was carrying a radio transmitter, a device long since rendered useless by a dead battery. Gouwa insisted on carrying it back because he was the radio operator, and military property had to be protected. This damned military regulation should have been abolished long ago; now Gouwa was risking his life for something useless. The sniper only wounded him, not killed him immediately, to wait for me to rescue him.
During the three-hour standoff, the subtropical sun was scorching hot, my skin burning painfully. I was cursing the heavens a thousand times over in my mind. A flash of light streaked through the forest—the reflection from a sniper rifle scope. I never imagined that the damn bastard was less than thirty meters away. I'd finally got him. Slowly, I pulled the safety on the grenade in my hand. This grenade and the bayonet were left behind by the retreating American troops. Now I'd taken them and was using them against the enemy their former owners hadn't eliminated. It was truly laughable. In the tropical jungle, there are only two ways to deal with a sniper: tit-for-tat, sniper against sniper, or carpet bombing their area with multiple shots. Trying to outshoot an experienced sniper would be suicide. Luckily, that guy must have been waiting for me to make a sound before daring to emerge from underground.
After counting to five, I suddenly straightened up and threw the round grenade thirty meters away. This was thanks to the military's strict combat skills requirements; throwing grenades was a crucial part of the military's five-item training program.
"Boom!" As expected of American equipment; small in size but more powerful than our own wooden-handled grenades. A flock of birds took flight from the forest. At the moment of the explosion, I jumped up and charged towards the sniper's position, firing as I went. Sniper rifles are semi-automatic, single-shot only, making them unsuitable for close-range combat. As I charged closer, I had already fired a full magazine, but I didn't need to reload. The sniper had been blown to the ground by a grenade, his bent Soviet-made sniper rifle lying to one side. It was a copy made during China's aid to Vietnam, one of the top ten rifles in the world at the time. Its quality was so good that it was prioritized for use by our comrades and brothers, the Vietnamese, to fight against the Americans. He lay groaning on the ground, his right side covered in blood, his black women's clothing torn to shreds by shrapnel, a pair of snow-white breasts standing erect on his chest, long black hair cascading over his face. He was a Vietnamese woman. When those small, perky breasts appeared before me, I was immediately stunned, my gun and bayonet falling to the ground. This was the first time I had ever seen a real woman's breasts, naked and in person. At that time, China had just emerged from the turmoil of the ten-year Cultural Revolution, resources were scarce, and social customs were still quite conservative. All we knew was that the protrusions that made women's clothes stand up high were women's breasts.
The woman's low moans startled me from my daze. I immediately knelt down beside the petite Vietnamese woman, brushing aside the disheveled hair from her face to reveal a pale, sweat-drenched face etched with wounds. Although her face was distorted by pain, it still retained a touch of childlike innocence. Vietnamese women weren't the thin, dark-skinned type we might imagine. In the past, Vietnamese people considered dark skin beautiful, and not only were their skin dark, but their teeth were also stained black from years of betel nut chewing. However, after the French occupation, they began to take care of their skin tone, not only covering their faces with towels under their conical hats, but also wearing cotton trousers and long gloves to prevent their arms from getting sunburned. Judging from her age, she was probably only sixteen or seventeen. Her right hand had been blown off, and her right leg and right abdomen were lacerated by shrapnel, with the main injuries being to her abdomen. In a panic, I pulled out gauze from my first-aid kit, not daring to even glance at her exposed breasts—another bad habit dictated by military regulations. Just as I was about to bandage the Vietnamese girl's wounds, she suddenly opened her tightly closed eyes—eyes filled with resentment, a hatred so intense it seemed it could rip out my heart. My keen senses sent a chill down my spine. The bandage nearly fell to the ground. I immediately turned my head, and there before me was my good brother's sniper rifle, its grip bearing dozens of new scratches. This gun, the gun that took Gouwa's life, had taken the lives of six Chinese soldiers before it.
A surge of rage welled up inside me. "Damn it, I'm actually treating this little bitch's wounds!"
I cursed, throwing down the bandage. I grabbed her by the neck and slapped her face repeatedly with my right hand. Blood dripped from her mouth and nose onto my hand, but the girl still stared intently at me.
"Look, look!"
I lifted her up, and her small, perky, snow-white breasts bounced before my eyes, a dazzling, blinding sight. A surge of heat rose from my lower abdomen. From the countryside to joining the army, a full twenty-two years had passed. The poverty of the countryside, the turmoil of the Cultural Revolution, the strictness of the army—I had never felt such a burning desire before. Today, in a foreign land, it was aroused by a girl from the opposing side, who was still nominally an enemy, not even eighteen years old.
"Ugh, ah!"
With a cry of pain, I threw the girl to the ground. Ignoring her injuries, I quickly tore off her already tattered shirt and tightly grasped her small breasts, kneading them in my hands.
"Ah!"
I exclaimed in admiration. This was a woman's breast. For the first time, I had truly touched a woman's breast. I was an orphan and had never been breastfed. Soft yet firm, the two small nipples traced patterns on my palms. The two breasts changed shape constantly in my hands, the delicate white flesh nestled between my fingers. Goodness, these nipples felt so damn good! Excessive force left purple marks on her breasts, and my penis stood erect, creating a bulge in my wide military trousers. "Ah...uh...ah..." The girl groaned intermittently, whether from the pain of her wounds or from my gripping of her breasts, her face contorted in agony. Large beads of sweat soaked her hair, and her left and right severed limbs weakly tried to block my advances.
Unmoved, I lifted her upper body and bit down on one of her breasts. "Ah!"
The girl screamed in agony from the wound in her abdomen. I bit and licked her breasts, but that wasn't enough. It wasn't enough for me to explore the mysteries of the woman's body further. I lowered her body and began to undo her belt. The girl frantically tried to push me away with her uninjured left hand, her left leg also making futile efforts. She mumbled curses, which I couldn't understand in Vietnamese, only that she was swearing. After a few struggles, she fainted from the pain of her wounds.
Damn it, this damn Vietnamese woman's belt is so damn hard to untie! Fueled by lust and rage, I grabbed the M9 bayonet and stabbed it into her belt, slicing it off in one go. This American stuff is really good. Without further ado, I used the knife to slit open her baggy black gauze pants, revealing a three-inch-long gash on her snow-white abdomen. The congealed blood began to flow again from the ribbing.
The woman's secret area was completely exposed before my eyes—the secret area I'd only ever heard about in the dirty jokes of the old soldiers was now laid bare before me. My breathing became heavy.
Between her legs, the sparse black pubic hair on her slightly protruding mons pubis was matted together by the blood from the wound, obscuring her most vital parts. Grabbing a tattered piece of cloth, my hands trembling, I gently pressed it against that soft, beautiful flesh. Through the gauze, I kneaded and rubbed it heavily—it was an indescribable feeling. After wiping away the blood, the pink cleft hidden among the pubic hair was finally revealed. It was beautiful; the two plump labia were tightly closed, like half a nearly ripe peach.
I threw away the rag and pressed my right hand against that semi-circular area again. Without the obstruction, a different sensation came from my hand: the heat from the cleft, the feeling of the pubic hair rubbing against it, and the boneless fleshiness. These made me increase the intensity of my kneading. My left hand wasn't idle either, reaching up to grab one of the breasts.
At this moment, my penis throbbed with extreme pain. I quickly unbuttoned my pants, and a purplish-red, engorged, hot cock sprang out. Just as it emerged, I felt a sharp pain in my lower back, a surge of urination, and a stream of white fluid gushed from the tip. Damn it, my first time was a wasted effort.
I was unwilling to give up. After a short, breathless rest, I hurriedly pulled down my military trousers and immediately placed my half-erect penis between the girl's legs. I lifted her small buttocks and clamped her two slender legs around my waist. I began to move my waist, pressing the girl's vulva tightly against my penis. I rubbed it against her slender waist with both hands, and soon my lust was rekindled, and my penis became hard again.
This time, I couldn't miss. I released my right hand, used my fingers to separate the girl's labia, aimed my penis at that small, red opening, and thrust my waist forward. My left hand, which was holding her waist, also pushed forward, and the head of my penis forcefully entered the girl's flower passage. So tight, so tight! It was so tight and dry, like being tightly bound by a rubber band, preventing me from going any further. My lust was high, and I used my hands again to exert force, and my waist also thrust forward with all my might. Finally, I broke through a thin membrane. With a trickle of heat, my penis finally plunged into another tight vaginal canal, like breaching the pass of Liangshan in Hebei. The walls of flesh around my penis gripped it tightly. "So good, so comfortable!"
I roared. This was the union of man and woman.
I began thrusting in and out of the girl's vagina, the friction of flesh against flesh, the slapping of my abdomen against her vulva making a "slap, slap" sound, my hands gripping and kneading her small, round, elastic buttocks. At the point of penetration, the symbol of a girl becoming a woman was carried out by my penis, flowing out with each thrust. At this moment, all I knew was to keep fucking, fucking the whore beneath me, the whore who had taken the lives of seven of my brothers. Now she was nothing more than a tool for venting my anger, completely disregarding the severity of her injuries. Finally, after thrusting for an unknown amount of time, another urge to urinate arose within me. I thrust a few more times quickly, roared, and ejaculated my angry semen into her body. I still had my still-erect penis inside the Vietnamese woman's body, enjoying the afterglow of the great pleasure, and slowly recovering my strength.
A sense of danger surged within me once more. Instinctively, I flung the girl's legs away and rolled to the side.
"Ah!"
A scream erupted from the girl's mouth as a triangular bayonet pierced her left leg, blood gushing out in three deep gashes. The girl's left hand, gripping the hilt, was writhing in excruciating pain, causing her to faint again.
Damn it, this bitch actually managed to remove the bayonet from my gun with her left hand while I was indulging in... no, in my rage. My sense of crisis saved my life once more. Being stabbed by that bayonet would have been fatal, if not dead. A wound inflicted by a triangular bayonet is extremely difficult to heal and stop bleeding, often leading to massive blood loss and death. In this hostile country, being half-dead could mean being dead.
Enraged, I pulled the bayonet from her leg and, with a swift motion, plunged it into her firm left breast. The force was so great that it pierced her heart and went straight through her back, pinning the still unconscious Vietnamese female sniper naked and firmly to the ground.
Blood spurted from the bayonet's groove, spraying my face. I snapped back to reality and immediately collapsed to the ground. Good heavens, according to military regulations, I had committed a crime punishable by death. Sitting beside the naked, beautiful corpse, I could only mutter, "What to do? What to do?" Twenty minutes later, I gritted
my teeth, stood up, wiped the blood off my body with my torn clothes, dressed, and organized my equipment. I stood by the naked corpse for a while longer, then pulled out the two American-made grenades I had captured. These were the last two; since I'd have to hand them over back home anyway, I might as well use them. I used my M9 to pry open the girl's tightly closed mouth and shoved a grenade into it; then I plunged the knife into her vagina, slicing upwards to open her once-tight vagina, and inserted the last grenade. I wiped the blood off the knife on her breasts, sheathed it in the scabbard strapped to my right calf, slung the gun over my shoulder, bent down, and simultaneously pulled the safety pins on both grenades in her mouth, then turned and started running.
"Boom!" Ten seconds after I ran, I lay down, and both grenades exploded almost simultaneously. The girl's body was blown to pieces, the evidence destroyed, no one knew what I had done to her, and my army's "reputation" was preserved. Just as I jumped up, a white, bloody thing hung from a tree branch in front of me, dripping with blood—it was a human intestine hanging there. I could even clearly see some filth leaking from the severed intestine. A wave of nausea washed over me, and just as I was about to vomit, a white light flashed across my face, and I immediately felt a burning pain from my eyebrow to below my right eye, almost making me faint. At my feet lay a broken triangular bayonet, the one I'd plunged into the girl's breast and forgotten to remove.
"Damn it, they blew the person up and then tried to stab me!"
I hurriedly pulled a tourniquet from my first-aid kit and wrapped it around my head several times. I was disfigured; even if the wound on my face healed, it would be there for life. Enraged, I stomped on the bayonet again. Just as I was about to strike, I snapped back to reality and jumped away, narrowly avoiding adding another wound to my right foot. With nowhere else to vent my anger, I turned it on the piece of intestine. I used the broken knife to poke it into the ground, stomped on it several times, and then angrily released my rage.
Discarding the broken knife, I returned to Gouwa's body, knelt down, closed his wide-open eyes, and murmured, "Good brother, I've avenged you."
Sitting beside the body, I ate a few compressed biscuits and drank some water. Having regained my strength, I threw away all the extra items on Gouwa's body except for the magazines and rations, and carried him towards the assembly point.
Near dusk, I boarded the last train back home. In this punitive battle, my company, in its first combat engagement, suffered heavy losses. Except for me, who was lucky enough to only sustain minor injuries, the entire company was either seriously wounded or died in a foreign land. From this battle, I went from a rookie to a veteran.
"Danbian!"
I roared towards Hanoi! (The Vietnamese word for goodbye, pronounced quickly, has a different meaning.)

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Rape of Vietnamese female soldiers

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