The battlefield is like a hellish arena.

page views:1 Publication date:2023-03-24

All around was quiet, save for the occasional chirping of some unidentified 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 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, waiting, waiting for the perfect opportunity to kill me. I could even feel his murderous intent.

Since the day before the start of the Sino-Vietnamese War, my company had been unfortunately assigned the task of being the sharpest weapon by our incredibly unlucky company commander. From that moment on, our company's casualties had skyrocketed, while our company commander and political instructor were still shouting, "Sacrificing for the country is an honor!" Damn, this is bad. When we were almost at Hanoi, our entire company was reduced to just Gouwa and me. Just then, the order came down: "The punishment of Vietnam, the South Asian bully, is complete; you can withdraw."

A mile from the rendezvous point, in the woods, Gouwa and I were still chatting and laughing, thinking we could return home heroically, when 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 before the sniper hit him in the right chest and fell.

My instincts have always been sharp, especially in dangerous situations; that's why I've survived the entire battle. Gouwa was the sniper's primary target because he was carrying a radio transmitter, a device long since unusable due to a dead battery, but Gouwa insisted on carrying it back because he was the transmitter operator, and military property had to be protected. 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 grenade technology; small in size but more powerful than our own wooden-handled ones. 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, so good that it was prioritized for our comrades and brothers, the Vietnamese, to fight 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 their 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 figures we might imagine; that was in the past when dark skin was considered beautiful, and even their teeth were stained black from years of betel nut chewing. But after the French occupation, they began to take care of their skin tone, not only covering their faces with towels under their conical hats and wearing cotton trousers, but also long gloves to prevent their arms from getting sunburned). She looked to be only sixteen or seventeen. Her right hand had been blown off, and her right leg and right abdomen were lacerated by shrapnel, 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 lust 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 with a certain firmness, 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 kept groaning intermittently, whether from the pain of her wounds or from the pain of my grabbing her breasts, her face contorted in agony, large beads of sweat soaking her hair. Her left hand and right 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 on her abdomen. I bit and licked her breasts, but that wasn't enough. It wasn't enough for me to understand the mysteries of the woman's body. I put her down again and began to undo her belt. The girl frantically tried to push me away with her uninjured left hand, and her uninjured left leg made futile efforts, uttering angry curses. I couldn't understand Vietnamese, but I knew she was cursing. 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 in a few quick cuts, leaving a three-inch-long gash on the girl's snow-white abdomen. The congealed blood began to flow again from the tearing.

The woman's mysterious area was completely exposed before my eyes. The area that had only been the subject of dirty jokes among veterans was now laid bare before me, and my breathing became heavy.

Between her legs, the sparse black pubic hair on her slightly protruding mons pubis was stuck together by blood from her wounds, obscuring her most vital parts. I grabbed a tattered cloth, my hand trembling, and slowly pressed it against that soft, beautiful flesh. I squeezed and kneaded it heavily through the cloth, experiencing an indescribable sensation. After wiping away the blood, the pink cleft hidden among the pubic hair was finally revealed. So beautiful! The two plump labia were tightly closed, like half a nearly ripe peach.

I threw away the tattered cloth, and my right hand pressed against that semi-circular area again. Without the obstruction, a different sensation came from my hand—the heat from the cleft, the friction of the pubic hair, and the boneless flesh. These sensations made me increase the intensity of my kneading. My left hand wasn't idle either; it reached up and grabbed one of her breasts.

At this moment, my penis throbbed with extreme pain. I quickly unbuttoned my pants, and a purplish-red, engorged, fiery hot cock sprang out. Just as it emerged, I felt a sharp pain in my lower back, a surge of urge to urinate, and a stream of white fluid gushed from my urethra. Damn it, my first time was a wasted effort.

Unwilling to give up, I rested panting for a moment, then hurriedly pulled down my military pants and immediately placed my semi-erect penis between the girl's legs. I lifted her buttocks and clamped her legs around my waist. I began to move my hips, pressing the girl's vulva tightly against my penis, rubbing it against her slender waist with both hands. Soon, my lust was rekindled, and my penis hardened again.

This time, I couldn't let it be a wasted effort. I released my right hand, parted the girl's labia with my fingers, aimed my penis at her small, red opening, thrust my hips forward, and pushed my left hand, which was holding her waist, forward, forcefully inserting the head of my penis into the girl's flower passage. So tight, so tight! It was so tight and dry, like being bound by a rubber band, preventing me from moving forward. My lust was burning, so I used all my strength, thrusting my hips forward with all my might, finally breaking through a thin membrane. With a trickle of heat, my penis, like breaching the Liangshan pass, plunged into another tight sheath of flesh. The surrounding flesh walls tightly enveloped my shaft. "So good, so comfortable!" This is the union of man and woman, I roared.

I began thrusting in and out of the girl's vagina, the friction of flesh against flesh, my abdomen slapping against her vulva with a "slap, slap" sound, my hands gripping and kneading her small, round, elastic buttocks. At the point of intercourse, the symbol of the girl becoming a young woman was carried 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 furious semen into her body. I still had my still-erect penis inside the Vietnamese woman's body, enjoying the afterglow of the intense pleasure and slowly recovering my strength.

A sense of danger arose again in an instant. Instinctively, I flung the girl's legs away and rolled to the side.

"Ah!" A scream escaped from the girl's mouth as a triangular bayonet pierced her left leg. Blood gushed out along three blood grooves. The girl's left hand, gripping the hilt, was torn apart. The excruciating pain caused her to faint again.

Damn it, this bitch actually used her left hand to take the bayonet from my gun while I was venting my lust... no, my rage. My sense of crisis saved my life once again. If I had been stabbed by that bayonet, I would have been half-dead, if not dead (the wounds caused by a triangular bayonet are the hardest to heal and stop bleeding, often leading to massive bleeding and death). In this hostile country, half-dead would be dead.

Consumed by rage, I pulled the bayonet from her leg and, with a swift motion, stabbed her in the center of her 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 all over my face. When I came to my senses, I 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 just muttered, "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 corpse for a while longer, then pulled out the two American-made grenades I had captured. These were the last two; I'd have to hand them over anyway, so I might as well use them. I pried open the girl's tightly closed mouth with my M9 and shoved one 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 my gun over my shoulder, bent down, and simultaneously pulled the safety pins on both grenades in her mouth. I turned and started running.

"Boom!" Ten seconds after I ran, I ducked down, and both grenades exploded almost simultaneously. The girl's body was blown to pieces; the evidence was destroyed. No one knew what I had done to her.

[The End]

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The battlefield is like a hellish arena.

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