The 1955 Vietnam War: The Battle of the Rainforest

The pale corpse before me
had struggled desperately just moments before, but now it resembled a mannequin in a clothing store back home. Its hands were bound with vines, its body spread-eagled, face up, thick white fluid oozing from its stomach and chest. A thick, bushy branch, the most common tree branch in the forest, had been shoved into its genitals, at least half a foot deep.
Lying haphazardly around it were my newly acquainted brothers—well, better to bury them properly before nightfall than call them brothers.
This black-haired woman with a full bosom, a slender waist, and delicate features had killed Tom, Joshua, Lyca, and several other young men I didn't recognize.
As a Viet Cong guerrilla, she was definitely a skilled killer.
She was killed by those black men in the third platoon. I'm not a racist, but faced with such inhumanity, you would definitely develop a negative impression of their race if you were in their shoes.
They captured her alive and were supposed to send her to a prisoner-of-war camp, but I watched as a group of twenty men stripped the young girl naked. She looked about seventeen or eighteen years old. She'd probably run out of bullets and couldn't escape in time; these twenty black men stripped her naked without a word. The girl struggled desperately, even nearly escaping once, but I knew she couldn't outrun them.
We'd been stuck in this jungle for half a month, and too many people had died.
It had been far too long since we'd been with a woman.
Sometimes at night, we'd talk about dirty jokes, imagining the times back home.
Now that we'd captured such a woman with a full bosom and a slender waist, how could we let her go? To hell with the military court!
I watched as they grabbed her and, amidst her desperate cries, stripped her of her clothes—coarse linen camouflage smeared with tree sap, the Viet Cong's simple uniform, very discreet.
Then the leader of the black men, the squad leader of the third platoon (the platoon leader had died on the third day of the week, so he was temporarily in charge; he was a big guy who had boasted about being a boxer back home), we called him Old Peter, ripped off the girl's panties, pulled up his thick penis, and thrust it all the way in. The girl convulsed, screaming and crying in a language I couldn't understand.
I could see her blood running down her pale thighs.
I also had a fiancée; she was newly pregnant when we left.
I desperately wanted to stop this, but Old Peter's red eyes silently stopped me.
Yes, we had lost too many friends in the past two weeks.
At this point, morality and law were meaningless.
We needed blood for blood.
Old Peter had been working on her for over an hour. The girl, supported by several men, was crying until her voice was hoarse, as if she was about to faint. But just as Old Peter was about to pull his thick penis out, one of our sharp-eyed comrades—we called him "Little Girl" because of his delicate voice—screamed. That's when we noticed the girl's hand was already in the pocket of Old Peter's knife.
Without a word, blinded by rage, we immediately grabbed her hands, using the most common vines in the rainforest to separate and tie them together. Then the second black man pulled Old Peter away and thrust his even longer, thicker penis in. The girl's genitals, lubricated by Old Peter's semen and her blood, allowed the black man to easily insert his entire penis, with only his dark pubic hair protruding. The girl screamed with all her might and fainted.
The second black man, let's call him Strongman Will
, claimed to have Carthaginian ancestry and had defeated the Romans and Gauls. No one would believe such nonsense, but he was indeed a huge man, even larger than Old Peter. His
black ancestry gave him a sufficiently large secondary characteristic; his bulging, veiny penis often made us feel inferior, looking from a distance like a muscular... It was about the thickness of a calf.
Now that thing was thrusting inside a foreign woman, streaked with blood and white fluid, more blood gushing from the girl's thighs.
Such a virgin being used in combat by the Vietnamese was such a waste.
With each powerful thrust from the burly Will, the girl's body twitched weakly, her breasts swaying.
Will's lips quickly sucked on the girl's pink nipples, her dark, smooth, plump buttocks bobbing up and down.
The girl's blood pooled in a small patch beneath her buttocks.
I suddenly felt a wave of nausea.
That Vietnamese girl was... She only awoke when the seven black men climbed onto her body. We lit a campfire, and the black men continued their work, one after another, climbing onto the girl's body. I was certain she couldn't possibly survive the night.
Between each shift of the black men, I could see that the inside of her long, slender thighs were a bloody mess, the flesh inside her vagina was turned inside out from being dried out, and her once pink vulva now looked like a bloody hole. Her breasts were bruised from being squeezed. Before the seventh black man climbed on top of her, I even thought she was dead. But to my surprise, the seventh man climbed on top of her... She opened her eyes and began to cry, moaning in sync with the rhythm of the black man's thrusts. Sometimes, during his brief pauses, she gasped for breath, as if she might faint again at any moment, her long-lashed eyes glistening with tears.
Several soldiers surrounding her couldn't resist the allure of her fair body and began masturbating in front of her.
The girl's eyes then swept over us—within her sight, though our ranks were disheveled, we were numerous and possessed advanced weaponry.
It was our fifth platoon and the fourth platoon of the third platoon, which had been routed . There were roughly seven or eight hundred people in the line. She looked around, gazing at the sky with a sense of despair, silently enduring each thrust, as if she were already a corpse.
When the twelfth man climbed on top, her eyes glazed over, as if she had long since become numb to the pain, as if she could no longer feel the ravaging each person inflicted upon her. I was among the men masturbating around her; our white fluids splattered on her breasts, face, and thighs. Each of us had caressed her elastic and warm body, squeezed her full, supple breasts.
When the thirteenth man came down, her eyes rolled back, using her last strength... She screamed pitifully, her hands leaving marks from the wound, her beautiful legs struggling and kicking for a moment before going still.
But I didn't know if she was dead.
In fact, even as the 35 men who had climbed onto her realized her incontinent urine was flowing uncontrollably across the ground, already stained with her blood and our fluids, we weren't sure, even though she felt cold to the touch and there was blood-tinged foam at the corner of her mouth. We
finally determined that she had died in the brutal way I described at the beginning.
The half-madman, Bell, first used the thin muzzle of a rifle to forcefully ram into the girl's already bloodied and mangled genitals. The girl's body swayed helplessly a few times with his movements, her two alluring breasts jiggled, and then Bell grinned as he pulled out his rifle, blood dripping from it. The girl didn't seem to be awake yet. Bell found a wooden stick as thick as a bowl and, with all his might, shoved it inside—he claimed he would stuff a thick thing into the belly of every Vietnamese whore he slept with—it went in a full half-foot long.
But the girl's eyes were still wide open, rolled back, and only then did we finally realize that she had been dead for a long time.
Her final fate makes me feel nauseous every time I think about it.
What I vaguely remember is that her breasts were cut off by a 17-year-old German boy, who supposedly played with them until they smelled foul.
Her two slender feet were also severed and taken by a corporal as a souvenir.
It was the first time I realized how many crazy people were around me, but perhaps war makes people even crazier.
Living in constant fear, I had become accustomed to bloodshed. When I first saw a comrade next to me, blown to pieces by a landmine and struggling for our help, my soul died.
In the days that followed, we witnessed Viet Cong bandits decapitating our people as trophies, and we saw lawless soldiers seize Viet Cong women, take turns raping them, and then shove gun barrels into their vaginas and pull the triggers to kill them. Some even went so far as to force rifles directly into women's vaginas, all the way to the butt, to conserve ammunition. The woman had long since screamed until she collapsed, suffocating from the excruciating pain and fear. This horrific method of execution lasted a full hour. When the rifle was halfway in, she struggled violently, blood gushing from her mouth and nose. The executioner—the madman Bell, with his signature smile—forcefully thrust the rifle in and out, brutally pounding into the woman's internal organs, while simultaneously ramming and slowly pumping it in. The woman was just a civilian, looking no more than thirty years old, her face pale.
Even after Bell had completely inserted the rifle, she was still struggling desperately. Bell forbade us from firing to release her; he wanted to watch her slowly suffer and die.
Finally, the woman stopped struggling after vomiting a string of black, bloody foam.
If I hadn't experienced this war firsthand, I certainly wouldn't have been able to accept that horrific process.
But I accepted it completely.
Every day, people around me died, not peacefully, but in agony and struggle.
Three days after we killed that Viet Cong female fighter, we were still advancing through the same rainforest, the sky above us seemingly perpetually overcast, every blade of grass a potential enemy.
Old Peter captured two sisters who looked only seventeen or eighteen at night; the dry firewood in their hands identified them.
The burly Will grinned and told us that the village wasn't far away, and there should be supplies.
I knew exactly what that meant.
The screams of torture that followed echoed throughout the camp at dusk.
Of the sisters captured during the day, only the older sister remained alive; the younger sister had reportedly died that afternoon.
I only saw Will carry the younger sister into the tent, followed by 40 other black soldiers, and soon the girl's cries for help and screams echoed from inside.
Later, a black man named Wallace who followed me in bragged to me that the burly man grabbed the girl, and they all tore off her clothes. The girl was slender and thin, completely naked. He couldn't imagine how such a delicate waist could withstand the relentless thrusting of Will's enormous penis. The girl couldn't withstand the struggles of forty men.
They touched the girl's entire body, and then the young girl cried and begged for mercy. Will pretended to agree but suddenly thrust his huge penis into the girl's anus, causing blood to gush out. Another black man, not to be outdone, also thrust into the girl's tender vagina. The girl couldn't withstand such torment, screamed, and stopped struggling. These forty men tried almost every method they could think of. With each thrust, the girl's anus and vagina became one hole, blood splattered all over the floor. Her throat was filled with huge penises, and her thin body was covered in bruises and the black men's semen.
I saw the pitiful corpse this morning. Her vagina was ripped open, her anus and rectum were protruding, her nipples were bitten off, and blood and semen were flowing from her mouth.
However, this frail girl was in a much better situation than her sister.
Bloody interrogation was naturally one of Madman Bell's forte. He made a makeshift electrode using a transmitter to torture the girl. She was in agony, refusing to say a word. Without warning, Bell began to manipulate her nipples and clitoris with his fingers. Her screams immediately turned into pitiful moans, and white fluid flowed continuously down her thighs. Madman Bell didn't miss this detail; he collected the fluid in a small antibiotic bottle, grinning maliciously as he told us he was conducting a kind of collection.
Then came an even more unbearable form of torture: I could see Bell, while fondling the girl's genitals, secretly inserting his fingers. The girl had clearly never experienced sexual intercourse; Bell's fingertips quickly turned red, and blood flowed from her gradually opening vulva.
Because she was firmly bound to the chair, her legs fixed in an M-shape, her most private parts were completely exposed, with nowhere to hide. She could only groan, drenched in sweat, the sweat dripping down her slightly developed breasts. She pitifully asked about her sister's whereabouts, in Vietnamese, which I was beginning to understand. I knew she would see her sister soon, certainly not in this cruel, war-torn world.
Bell stirred up more of the girl's love juice, then suddenly clenched his fist and shoved it into her vagina. The girl cried out in alarm, begging Bell to pull his hand out, but she clearly didn't understand the madman Bell.
He laughed loudly as he forcefully stirred inside her, just as he had done with a rifle inside a young woman before. The girl cried and pleaded, drenched in sweat. Bell began asking where the village was.
The girl initially refused to answer, but Bell's fist, like a demon's scythe, relentlessly struck the deepest part of her abdomen. Later, he even said that if Old Peter had punched her once, the girl would definitely be finished.
But I wish she were already dead.
Blood began to gush from the arm of the madman Bell, like a fountain. Bell's relentless punches deepened, each one more powerful than the last. The girl's frail body swayed with each blow, and I could even vaguely see the fist-shaped bulge in her abdomen gradually rising above her navel. The girl gasped for breath, drenched in sweat, seemingly exhausted, but the buckets of cold water wouldn't bring her to collapse so quickly.
She shook her head.
Bell reluctantly withdrew his fist. I could see that the girl's genitals had become an open hole, the gushing blood staining the chair used to torture her red.
Bell took out a thick iron rod and heated it red-hot in the charcoal fire. I could tell what he was going to do, so I quickly stopped him and said to the girl in my broken Vietnamese, "Quickly tell us the location of the village, so you and your sister can go and inform the villagers to evacuate. We only need food; we won't kill anyone."
The girl struggled to open her eyes and asked if I would really let her sister go.
I said yes.
She slowly and haltingly uttered the village's location, then began to sob helplessly—the first time she had sobbed since the torture began, as if waiting for me to bring her sister.
By then, it was too late to stop her. Bell, still grinning maliciously, picked up the red-hot iron rod and forcefully thrust it deep into the sobbing girl's vagina. The girl screamed, then screamed terribly, her body instinctively twisting and convulsing. The smell of burning human flesh made me gag. Bell didn't stop, thrusting harder and loudly asking the girl if it felt good.
On his fifth thrust, the girl's head lolled to the side, her eyes open, and she died. I punched Bell in the face. Bell spat out two bloody teeth, but instead of being angry, he looked at me seriously, as if to say, "This is war."
I knew that if they went back to report, we would die.
This is war.
The so-called village actually had fewer than a hundred people; the men had all gone to war, leaving only women and children. The black men still rushed into houses, finding young, beautiful girls inside. Without a word, they pinned them to the table, stripped them naked, and forty or fifty of them took turns raping them. We were busy searching for food and didn't have time to pay attention to them. From inside the house came the girl's screams and groans, and the creaking of the wooden table.
Then I watched helplessly as the madman Bell grabbed a young girl, stripped her naked, and shoved his penis into her anus. The girl screamed in agony. Bell did this for an hour, then, still not satisfied, pulled the safety pin on a grenade and stuffed it into the girl's stomach. Then he threw the screaming, limp girl into the pond. After a loud explosion, the water was a bloody red. The only remains of the girl that had survived were a clean-cut, white thigh and a breast still attached to the skin.
I walked past a series of female corpses, their vaginas pierced with sharp bamboo sticks. The teeth marks on her breasts and the abrasions on her inner thighs testified to the cruelty she had suffered.
A few girls huddled trembling inside the grain barn were our only surviving spoils.
On the way back, I saw the beautiful woman, naked, lying on a table inside a half-open door, having been repeatedly raped by forty or fifty black men. Her eyes were rolled back, blood trickling from her lips, and the table was covered in her blood.
Her vagina was torn and swollen, and next to her was a bottle stained with her blood—clearly, these black men had used it to rape this poor girl.
The girl's blood flowed down her thighs to the floor but didn't pool. We opened the floorboards and found a wounded Viet Cong soldier and the girl's unborn child, not yet fourteen. I glanced at them, then silently closed the lid, covered the floor, and pretended not to notice.
My conscience wouldn't allow me to kill the two lives this beautiful girl had protected with her life and chastity.
We are not fascists; we come from a free country.
Although it all seems absurd and ironic now.
On the way back, I heard that the 17-year-old recruit who liked to collect girls' breasts had died. He had tried to cut off the breast of a woman who appeared to be dead,
but she wasn't quite dead yet; she suddenly got up, grabbed him, and bit him hard on the neck. Although Bell, who later saved him, claimed to have fired at least two magazines of bullets into the woman's vagina, blasting her uterus and intestines out of her body, it didn't save the kid—his artery was severed.
There are many ways to die, and although he was eccentric, I can attest that he hadn't killed a single person since he enlisted.
We all went mad during this battle.
The captured girls suffered far more tragically than the dead; they all died before leaving the jungle—more than 200 lustful soldiers took turns raping them every night. It's said that two of them died of exhaustion after taking painkillers from the medics, and three others struggled desperately but were tied up and raped to death from excessive bleeding; their vaginas were torn and swollen.
Another girl died of an abdominal infection. She was convulsing after being gang-raped when Bell discovered her. Unable to restrain himself, he grabbed a military shovel and forcefully shovel handle into her vagina. She struggled for
two days, developed a high fever, and finally died.
The autopsy revealed her internal organs had been mangled.
Of the last three girls, one died from shock, and another was targeted by the burly Will. She went into his house and never came out. Her body was only discovered when they set up camp: Will had cut off her entire vagina, including her breasts. Will later said he did it during her orgasm. The girl had indeed orgasmed; judging from her expression at the time of her death, Will even said he was merciful by shooting her in the heart at the moment of her orgasm, so she didn't suffer.
I don't know the details of this part.
The last girl was missing for a day before her body was found not far from the camp. She was bound hand-to-hand and hanging from a tree, a thick, sharp bamboo pole inserted into her genitals. It was clear she had been tortured to death by this pole, which had penetrated deep into her abdomen. Her legs were thrashing about, and she died in a strange position. We couldn't say it was Bell who did it, because recently many people in the camp had developed a habit of inserting strange things into women's vaginas.
However, this girl appeared to have been dead for some time.
We wandered like this for two months before finally leaving this jungle, leaving behind countless corpses.
I witnessed this war; I was a medic in the unit.
Vietnam, girl, clothes, impression
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The 1955 Vietnam War: The Battle of the Rainforest

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