I want to apolgize to this forum for swaring and cussing so much recently. You see, I am still sufering from PTSD, after my discharg described below. I hope you understand why I ac the way i do.

The Dutch Dirty Dozen Roll Call

by "The Yank"

(This story first appeared in its full length in the March, 1993 issue of Soldier of Fortune Magazine.)

I've been mixed up with some wild outfits, but the First Dutch Volunteers beat 'em all. In 1991 I linked up with some Dutch guys who had volunteered to fight for Croatia. Their official name was The First Dutch Volunteers, but they soon came to be known as the Dutch Dirty Dozen, and their barracks as Animal House. After several bloody encounters with the Serbs, all of which we won hands down, the First Dutch (plus one Yank) were disbanded. Here they are, warts and all. Wild Bill: The leader of the 1st Dutch. Wild Bill had been an NCO in the Dutch special forces, but was encouraged to leave due to a drinking problem. He was a crack shot, a born combat leader, and a natural athlete. He was also a stone killer and gun for hire who didn't give a rat's ass who the enemy was as long as there was plenty of them. His resume included desertion from the French Foreign Legion, but not before he'd seen some action in Africa where he bagged 17 restless natives, mostly just for target practice. If you don't like my opinion of Wild Bill, try the Chetniks' on for size. They buried their dead and put a price on his head. Brains: The second in command of the 1st Dutch and a former NCO in the Dutch army. A good soldier whose only social transgression was constantly plotting illegal get rich quick schemes. Stormtrooper: A skinhead bully boy fresh out of the slammer for bank robbery. Basically an alimentary canal with a foghorn mouth at one end, genitals at the other, and all the instincts of a sewer rat. He made no secret of his politics, which were three goose steps to the right of Ernest Rohm, and was forever bragging about his two uncles who fought for the Nazis on the Russian Front. The rumor mill had it that he was hiding out from some Amsterdam drug dealers that he had ripped off at gunpoint. Not the sort of chap you'd invite to high tea with the Queen, but a dead shot with an RPG and thus a handy ace in the hole worth tolerating. Preacher: A Moluccan-Dutchie studying to be a monk, currently AWOL from his monastery. Obviously not playing with a full deck - admitted to me once that he was a virgin. I'm not partial to four-eyed Bible thumpers, but he was a good soldier who wasted two Serbs. Maybe that was his way of sending souls to Jesus via the fast lane. Beats me. Joker: A clever, muscular fellow and self-admitted murderer, steroid popper, burglar, dope peddler, speed freak, con man, black marketeer, arsonist, barroom brawler, counterfeiter, paperhanger, vandal and compulsive thief with a history of assaulting police officers. Otherwise, he was a sweet guy. Knuckles: Ex-French Foreign Legion. Did a tour with the South African Police. A buddy of mine, even if he did seem to be eternally on his way to the hatter's for tea. He was ejected from the 1st Dutch for excessive fighting and drinking. Tripper: A mellow hippy, hopelessly adrift somewhere in space-time He was shot through an arm and a leg in a firefight but came back for more. Always ready for mischief, we were tight buddies. Romeo: A sulky malingerer whose only interests were soccer and composing passionate love letters to lady friends back in Holland. He had to leave to stand trial in Holland for stabbing an Arab who had rudely refused to yield his seat on a train to Romeo. (Would some kind person please send this guy the latest edition of Miss Manner's etiquette handbook?) Mad Max: An industrial strength maniac with the personality of a hyena on laughing gas. On the lam for car theft in Holland and rumored to have murdered a Croat in Dubrovnik. Another deserter from the Frog Foreign Legion - didn't like the food. Claimed to have worked as a hitman for the Cali nose-candy mob, and the Neapolitan Mafia and to have fought for the Kurds in Iraq. You could always tell when he was lying, his lips were moving. We never did find out the real name of this mysterious drifter because he didn't have a passport or any sort of ID. He entered Croatia by cutting his way through a chain-link fence by night. He was thrown in the Klaverin (military jail) for threatening me with a pistol while smoking loco weed. That's what comes of packing your pipe too tight, I suppose. We settled our differences one Rakija-soaked night and became blood brothers with the assistance of an AK-47 bayonet. Crazy Joe: He was a man who didn't know the meaning of the word fear. Unfortunately, he didn't know the meaning of much of anything. Crazy Joe was the village idiot of the First Dutch who had been rejected by the Dutch Army for low mental scores. If his IQ had been one point lower we would have had to put him in a pot and water him once a week. Sir Lunch-a-Lot: A 250 pound blimp reportedly on the lam for beating a guy half to death in Holland. He collapsed on his first patrol, was sent to the hospital and never seen again. Chugalug: A huge linebacker of a fellow, our demo man and a nonstop alcoholic. Needless to say, prudent soldiers took cover when he defused booby traps with his alcohol-shaky hands. A decent guy when (rarely) sober, he was expelled for going AWOL, threatening to blow up a disco with a hand grenade, and for being a rummy. Snake: A scowling psychopath, a former mental hospital inmate and outlaw biker with a broken nose. We became mortal enemies and I hung the sucker out to dry. I reckon he'll think twice before he messes with any Yanks again. Hans: A bored Dutch businessman who "just wanted to see what war was like." The only Dutchie not running from the law, downright psychopathic, dim-witted, or actively pursuing a criminal career; also the only Dutchie whose conduct did not necessitate an assumed name to avoid embarrassing his kin. The other Dutchies, given a choice, would rather strangle a chicken than eat a ice cream cone. How he got past the Dutch Dirty Dozen selection process is a mystery to me. The Yank: Dain-brammaged Vietnam vet; Defender of Western Civilization; the ultimate Rambo; upholder of truth, justice and the American way; blah, blah, blah - you get the picture. That's the Dutch Dirty Dozen roll call. Here's how we spent days when not in snow camo patrolling nomans land. A typical day had no beginning or end that you could focus on as the Dutch, ever a casual lot, did not believe in reveille, duty rosters, barracks police, lights out, inspections, or any such silly chicken shit. They woke whenever the previous night's hangover faded, generally around 10:00 AM. The Dutchies always had a hot breakfast - coffee and a cigarette - followed by nothing until lunch in the mess hall at 1300 hours. Lunch was a greasy bowl of what we called "Croatian Mystery Slop" with bread and lukewarm tea on lucky days. Drinking commenced immediately afterwards. Beer was the juice of choice, but brandy (or Rakija, as the Croatians called it) was more common as it packed more bang for the Dinar, and was easier to smuggle past the guard at the gate. Afternoons generally consisted of runs to the liquor store to replenish or Rakija supply, the usual G.I. bull sessions, or playing pranks on Crazy Joe. The favorite was loosening the joints on his bunk so that it collapsed when the oxygen waster sat on it. Other torments included packing his cigarettes with with match heads and gunpowder; super gluing his enormous "Rambo" survival knife in its sheath; emptying out his foot powder and replacing it with flour; disassembling his G3 and hiding the parts; or sending him off on wild goose chases - like the time we had him report to the Croatian base commander to be measured for a body bag. I used to think that every living creature had a purpose in the grand scheme of things. Misers, for example, make splendid ancestors, while lions are the solution for Christians, but the reason for Crazy Joe's existence would baffle a Zen master. After more Mystery Slop dinner at 1800 hours serious drinking commenced and there was a party every night. Anything could happen and usually did. One event designed to sharpen soldiery skills was drawing a nude lady on a door and commencing fire with everything from bayonets to pistols, with points awarded for hitting various anatomical features. Disassembling claymores and constructing bobby traps to kill the Croatian commander were popular competitions. Smashing chairs and such was always good for a giggle. Once we had to evacuate the building when Joker set the Christmas tree on fire and we were smoked out. Sometimes the girls from the mess hall would drop by the Dutch barracks to party and often as not ran out shrieking half disrobed. These festivities were always accompanied by rock 'n' roll thundering from a cassette player at max volume. Wrestling matches were another favored diversion. Bunks were demolished and the ammo locker often overturned as the enthusiastic grapplers gyrated about the barracks. At other times we'd turn the radio to the Serb frequency and invite them over for a homosexual orgy, complete with graphic descriptions of the delights they would encounter. All we ever got by way of a reply was the repeated "fuck you." Empty Rakia bottles were routinely smashed against the walls. When sufficiently oiled, the Dutchies pried open MG cartridges and grenades and flashed off the powder and semtex to get their jollies off. Puking was not uncommon, and only considered a faux pas if you hit somebody's bunk. Off base R&R featured such bottom-feeding diversions as hosing down abandoned cars with AK47s, fishing with hand grenades, bar fighting, firing gats into the air bandito style, or pursuing the local jailbait disco ladies. What the Dutch went for in the way of horizontal amusements, I can only guess at, but I'm certain it would put a Turkish prison to shame. Anything not embedded in concrete or guarded by pit bulls was judged abandoned property by the Dutch and stolen if fancied or smashed if not. Items liberated included one dog, at least two pistols, several kilograms of semtex, detonators beyond counting, spare parts from civilian cars, siphoned gas, upwards of three dozen hand grenades, some claymores, "souvenirs" from abandoned houses, and several tasty chickens. Epilogue: The Dutch First Volunteers were disbanded by the Croatian base commander at Perusic for accumulated hooliganisms. Most returned to Holland, but some joined Croatian units. Wild Bill was killed in action, and Valhalla welcomed one of its own. Stormtrooper was severely wounded by 20 mike mike shrapnel during an assault on a Serb bunker complex. He is fully recovered and living in Holland. Chugalug was last reported in Tadzhikistan, still on the merc circuit. Preacher is back at his monastery. Romeo is married, and at last report studying to be a paralegal. Tripper is fully recovered and lives with his common-law French wife in France. He earned a degree in history and they have a fine son. Snake was arrested for possession of hand grenades, guns and explosives by the Dutch police, punishment unknown. The whereabouts and status of Sir Lunch-a-lot are unknown. Knuckles was shot by an Arab he had stabbed in a disco in Holland, but recovered. I last saw Mad Max about 4:00 AM in an army barracks in Zagreb. He was pig drunk, covered head to toe with blood, and punching out windows with his fists. He asked to borrow my bayonet to go kill someone. I obliged and haven't seen or heard of him since. The rest all are back in Holland, more or less taking up where they left off. The "Yank" served with a Croatian unit stationed at Vincovci for some time before requesting and receiving honorable discharge from the Croatian Army. He was diagnosed PTSD by the Veterans Administration, and went on to achieve some success as a writer with his book, Civil War Two.

-- Willy Shittum (shittum@aol.com), December 24, 1998

Answers

Willy,

"At other times we'd turn the radio to the Serb frequency and invite them over for a ***homosexual orgy, complete with graphic descriptions of the delights they would encounter.*** All we ever got by way of a reply was the repeated "fuck you."

Ah-haaa, does this explain your fixation with homosexuality on this forum? Thanks for constantly sharing, but it's really getting rather tiresome. Deal with it like the real man I know you are, darling. Nothing to be ashamed of.

kissie kissie

Happy Holidays everyone

Regards

Bob

-- Bob Johnson-Perkins (Bob@Internet2000-Plc.com), December 24, 1998.

FUCK YOU YOU RED HOMO SHENIE FAAGOT CUNTHEAD

I WILL CUT OFF YOUR BALLS AND SEND THEM UP ON A PLANE TO URANUS IF YOU DONT FUCKING WATCH OUT

YOU SEE I HAVE FUCKING KILLED IN COMMBAT AND I HAVE FUCKING MURDERED. I CAN FUCKING KILL YOU YOU FUCKING HOMO SHENIE FAG AND I WILL FUCKING DO IT TOO

I WILL KILL YOU YOU FUCKING HOMO YOU WAIT AND SEE GO FUCK YOURSELF HARD UP THE ASS OR WATCH OUT OR DIE YOU FAGGOTY HOMO

FUCK YOU CUNTHEAD

-- jerry (kjj@jekk.com), December 24, 1998.

"or pursuing the local jailbait disco guys. What the Dutch went for in the way of horizontal amusements, I can only now tell you, but I'm certain it would put a Turkish prison to shame. In fact I know it would because I let them have me in any way they wanted. It was exquisite, darlings."

Yo Jerry, this is Amerika you fag, go to Holland and see your old honey's and leave this forum alone.

We're triing to be serious here.

fag

-- Jimmy Bagga Doughnuts (jim1bets@worldnet.att.net), December 24, 1998.

And that goes for your fagoty fiend Willy Shittum too - go to amsturdam, gay boy

-- Jimmy Bagga Doughnuts (jim1bets@worldnet.att.net), December 24, 1998.

What's Chittum's position on the issue of orientation? Be sure to read NEO- SLAVERY IN THE GLORIOUS EMPIRE from his 'Civil War 2' page.

-- A Friend of Dorothy (festive@family.edu), December 25, 1998.

Go fuck yourself you red homo cunt

I AM GOING TO SODDOMISE YOU SO HARD THAT YOU WILL BE GOING OWIEOWIEOWIEOW BECAUSE YOUR ASS IS NOT BIG ENOUGH FOR THE MASSIVE SIZE OF MY IMMENSE PENIS WHICH HAS ITS OWN GRAVITTY

YOU FUCKING CUNT I AM GOING TO GET YOU I AM GOING TO CUT YOUR HEAD OFF AND FUCK YOUR VEINS I AM GOING TO TAKE OUT YOUR EYES AND PISS ON THEM.

CUNT BREATH FAGOT YOU WAIT AND SEE YOU HOMO LOSER FAG I AM GOING TO BASH YOU YOU FAT NIGER AND I AM GOING TO CUNT YOU SO FUCKIN HARD THAT YOU WILL SCREAM YOU HOMO SHENIE FAG WITH NO PENIS AND NO BALLS COME GET ME YOU CUNT LICKING SHENIE FAG WITH NO DICK YOU FAGOTY HOMO RED JUVENIE ASS WITH NO DICK AND NO BALLS

GO FUCK YOURSELF BEFORE I DO IT FOR YOU, YOU MESSED UP CUNT OF A HOMO FUCKUP LOSER WANKER JACKOFF SCUMBAG SHIT BREATH.

MY PENIS IS BIGGER THAN YOU ANY DAY YOU SHENIE FAG HOMO FUCKER

xxxxxx xxxxx xxxxx xxxxxxx

-- Leska (allaha@earthlink.net), December 25, 1998.

Mr. Chittum,

You are so dumb you think all you rantings, and threats of murder, cannot be traced back to your ISP account.

Steps have been taken on this forum to ensure that those threats of harm and murder have been passed on to the FBI for investigation.

Have a Happy Christmas.

-- Andy (2000EOD@prodigy.net), December 25, 1998.

Bobbi, you would die if you stopped to think a minute about what can be found out about anyone with an internet account. If we have your home email address, it is very likely your real world address is available, maps that show your home, and if you have a few pass words to the right places a credit history can be pulled up online! A friend has(had?) a home page at University of Evansville that would track your IP address and login name back to your home server, query the mail server for your real name, and be back with it by the time the entire page loaded. Came up with HI (Your Name) at the top of his startup page. Moreover, in the age of plastic money why would any cop bother to track you by satellite? Trying to track everyone all the time is an impossible task. Just follow the VISA or MASTERCARD purchases and they know where you are. And what you are spending money on. And often who you are with (purchases at two different shops by both you and a friend). Or track the ATM usage. Close surveillance is only used for someone physically dangerous, or for information used in court or just before someone is picked up. And don't even think other countries are better - most are much worse about spying on their citizens than the USA. If the country doesn't pass some privacy laws soon, with real teeth in them, you might as well move into a goldfish bowl.

Check out a few of the recent real crime detective accounts at your library and you will begin to get the picture.

-- Andy (2000EOD@prodigy.net), December 25, 1998.