House to House: A Tale of Modern War (11 page)

The air grows wretched. Every breath is unpleasant. I’m jammed between the ramp and Lawson, unable to move more than an inch or two in any direction. In Fitts’s track, Michael Ware starts to lose it. He screams, “Drop ramp! Drop ramp!” The crew almost does it until Fitts drowns him out. When that doesn’t work, Ware pounds on the ramp and screams some more. He’s far from a coward, just claustrophobic.

We all feel the same way. Facing bullets is nothing compared to this. Another hour passes, and some of us have to piss. Our leg muscles start to spasm. Mine cramp up altogether. Still we don’t move.

Another volley of 155mm artillery explodes much closer than usual. The Brad quivers from the concussion wave. I can hear a flight of jets surge onto the scene and I picture their strafing runs along the northern edge of the city. An AC-130 Spectre gunship rumbles overhead at ten thousand feet and spits out greetings to the insurgents with its whirling Gatling guns and 105mm howitzer. There is nothing more terrifying than the sight and sounds of that gunship. With its wings banked, it unloads an unbelievable barrage of bullets and shells into its targets. “
Grrrrrrrrr
—Boom—Boom—
Grrrrrrrrr
….” The AC-130 is the closest man has come in imitation of the fist of God.

The driver shifts into gear. We surge forward. This is it. I say a quick prayer.

Ten feet later, we halt again.

Mother fuck.

The wait continues. We endure, but only barely. In Fitts’s track, Ware is completely beside himself and hammers again on the ramp. Everyone’s on edge.

And then it begins. Several of our tanks cross the line of departure and move to the berm. They volley-fire their 120mm cannon into the buildings closest to the breaching point. This is the cue for the engineers to come up. Led by Lieutenant Shawn Gniazdowski, they pass through our ranks and speed ahead.

We roll forward again. Is this it? Adrenaline surges into us. We stop. We’re here to provide support fire for the engineers. Some of the company’s Bradleys pick out targets. Their cannons bark.

We’re still trapped in the depths of our metal boxes, unable to see more than a keyhole-sized sliver of the battle raging around us. Our bodies are totally confused. Should they be relaxed or pumped? The anticipation drives us all crazy.

Finally, we’re off. Our driver floors it, and the Brad charges forward. All around us, every vehicle, tank, and track takes off in one pell-mell chase for the breach site. We have faith in our engineers. It is total chaos, a modern-day version of the land rushes of Wild West lore. As our Brad works up to its top speed, we’re thrown around like bowling pins. My head cracks against the bulkhead, then I’m thrown against the ramp. Just as I recover, Lawson’s Kevlar slams into my chin. Gear starts flying around us. A machine-gun belt lands on top of us and uncoils like a snake. More belts fall, and soon we’re tangled in our own ammunition.

Outside, the explosions grow in volume and intensity. I look out the periscope viewer in the back of the Bradley. Blurring, jarring images flash before me. I see tracers, and fire, and more lights on the horizon. I sweep my eyes left and catch sight of the Bradleys on either side of us, keeping abreast.

The engineers’ vehicles come into sight. They’re catching hell at the berm despite all the suppressing fire the task force can muster. Tracers form fiery webs over them. Bullets spark off the armored flanks of their trucks. An IED detonates. The engineers ignore it all. Sievers and Lockwald fire their MICLIC rocket carrying the long rope of explosives. An enormous series of blasts follows. The concussion waves slam into our Bradley and stir our guts. The embankment sports a gaping new hole.

The radio crackles, “Go! Go! Go!”

On the fly, we swing into a column. We close on the railroad embankment.

Wham!
Our Brad rocks on its tracks. An IED has exploded close by. Another one detonates, then another. Soon, we’re engulfed in a series of near-continuous explosions. Shrapnel whines off our thick metal hides. More of it clatters overhead or strikes our turret.

Don’t break track. Don’t break track.

Flares and flashes line the horizon. Off to the west, I see a steady series of IEDs going off. The Marines are getting hit as hard as we are.

We’re in column now, my Brad in the lead. Ahead, we see the breach. We steer through it, careful to stay between the chemical lights and tape the engineers have used to mark the lane they’ve cleared. In seconds, we’re out the other side and racing for the city. Ahead is an Abrams tank, battering its way forward. Another stands to one side, spewing flames from the tube of its 120mm gun.

Lieutenant Edward Iwan’s Humvee, with eternally unlucky Specialist Joey Seyford, slams to a halt near the breach. The heavy armored vehicles have had no issues getting over the blown railroad tracks, but the light-wheeled Humvees and trucks are stymied.

“Get this fucking bitch over the berm,” Iwan says to his driver.

As Staff Sergeant Lockwald and the engineers rig up another charge to blow the gap wider, a mortar round whistles in and lands right next to Seyford and Iwan’s Humvee.

SHHH-FROMMM!

Shrapnel blisters every inch of the rig’s windshield and side windows.

“What are the odds it hits us,” Seyford shouts down in amazement from atop the cupola of the Humvee.

“Pretty good with you around, Seyford. When this calms down I want you as far away from me as possible. You are fucking cursed.”

“Cursed? We’re fucking lucky. That should’ve taken my head off,” Seyford replies with a laugh.

Boom!
An RPG.
Boom! Boom!
Two more strike nearby. More IEDs explode. Mines, more explosions, dirt, smoke, and flames erupt all around us. We’re surrounded by detonations, and our Brads plough through squalls of shrapnel, which sound like hail on a tin roof.

A Humvee driven by the Air Force controllers pulls between two First Platoon Bradleys and Lieutenant Iwan’s borrowed rig. The sight of the Humvees unable to cross the breech encourages the enemy. They direct their fire at these vulnerable vehicles. Two RPGs scorch the night. One scores a hit on the Air Force Humvee, seriously wounding Senior Airman Michael Smyre in the foot.

Joey Seyford, standing in Iwan’s turret, takes a piece of shrapnel and his hands fly to his face.

“Fuck! My eye!” he screams. Seyford clutches his open wound with both hands. Blood pours down his face.

“You’re right, dude, you are lucky. You get to go home, Joey. You lucky bastard,” shouts Iwan over the battle’s din.

“I’m not going anywhere, sir. Fuck that shit.” Seyford wipes the blood from his face, racks the bolt on his 50-cal M2, and starts hammering the enemy with it.

Another rocket sizzles into Staff Sergeant McDaniel’s Bradley to our right. It explodes below the turret. Behind us, Sergeant First Class Cantrell’s Brad takes a direct hit and bursts into flames. Fire scorches its flanks as the vehicle lurches forward. Seconds later, it runs across an IED, which explodes with such force that the entire back end of the Bradley leaves the desert floor. It plummets back down, causing the rig to rock backward and lift the nose up.

Shit.

Our own Brad suddenly stops. We tumble against one another and curse. Our driver, Luis Gonzalez, has hit something. He backs up and floors it. We spring forward, jump clear of the obstacle and crash back down on the wrong side of the engineer tape.

Voices boom over the radio. “Oh shit! You’re out of the lane! Get right! Get right.”

We start to swing back to the lane. A shattering blast engulfs us. The back end of our Bradley is thrown upward. Dust and smoke spiral around us. I choke and gag and try to scream for my guys. All that comes out is a hoarse rasp. I can’t hear anyone respond. Lawson, just inches away, doesn’t answer me either. I wonder if I’ve been deafened by the blast. Or maybe everyone but me is dead.

CHAPTER FIVE

Machines of Loving Grace

Smoke. Eyes burning. I suck air, which sears my throat. I paw my eyes, smearing grime across both cheeks. I blink. The Brad’s interior comes into view. Through the smoke I see the red lights on our gunner’s panel. Gossard is firing the 25mm cannon, but I can’t hear it. All I hear is a steady, high-pitched buzz.

Lungs full of smoke, I try to shout again. All that comes out is a hoarse, “Smack my knees. Smack my knees if you’re okay!”

Lawson turns and puts his lips close to my ear. He must be okay. He’s alive, anyway. He’s shouting something, but I can’t hear any of it.

Dim shapes take form around me. I see my men, darkened silhouettes inside our titanium box. I can’t tell if anyone else is alive or dead.

The Bradley churns upward, then thumps back down. My head rebounds off the bulkhead behind me. At least we’re still moving.

The buzzing grows louder and louder. Then it starts to morph into something else. I realize I’m hearing the 600-horsepower engine that drives our thirty-ton monster screaming and whining in protest. Throttle open, our driver pushes it beyond all sensible limits to get us out of this kill zone.

As if down a long corridor, I begin to hear Lawson’s voice, still muted and hard to comprehend. For the moment, I ignore it. I yell again, “Smack my knee if you’re okay!”

A hand snakes out of the darkness and whacks my knee. Another follows. Then three more.

Lawson takes a deep breath and bellows right into my ear. This time I hear him. “We’re all okay, Sergeant Bell! You’re screaming like you’re on fire!”

How the hell did we survive that blast?

Another sound swells in my ear. Explosions. They thump through the Bradley’s hull,
boom-boom-boom.
Our gunner keeps up a steady rate of fire, and now I can feel the vibrations of the 25mm through the seat of my pants.

I lean forward and try to lay eyes on the Bradleys behind us. I catch sight of Sergeant First Class Cantrell’s track. Fitts and Ware are in it, too. Last I saw of it, the insurgents were pounding it with everything they had. Somehow, it has weathered the storm. Flanks scorched by numerous hits, it grinds through the Fallujah sand, keeping up with us while the turret traverses in search of targets. Judging by their radio silence at least, Ware is calm. Then a rocket sears the darkness and slams into the side of the Bradley.

“That was an IED,” Ware announces.

“No, that was a rocket,” Fitts replies tersely.

A few seconds later, another explosion engulfs them. Their Bradley vanishes in the smoke and flying sand, only to emerge a second later, seemingly unscathed.

“
That
was an IED,” says Fitts.

The radio is full of competing voices. I can’t make out much of it over the din of battle. Then Cantrell’s voice breaks through. “Shut the fuck up!” he screams through the airwaves.

Staff Sergeant Brown echoes him, “Shut the fuck up, goddamnit!”

More voices. They step all over each other. Lieutenant Iwan’s voice breaks in, “Clear the net! All Terminator elements, clear the net!”

It dawns on me that somebody else’s broadcasts are leaking onto our company and platoon nets. This is not good, especially since we’re within minutes of dropping ramp and assaulting the city on foot.

Lieutenant Meno and Captain Sims try to wade into the chatter with final instructions. Their voices are garbled, their orders lost. I listen to other voices interloping on our frequency, and it becomes clear they’re a bunch of Marines.

What the fuck are Marines doing on our net?

“Get the fuck off our net!” Cantrell shrieks. Sims tries to speak, only to be drowned out.

“Fire base Thunder, this is Alpha 2 Bravo….”

Okay: the Marines on our net are a relay team, passing instructions from their forward observers to the gun line to our rear. They tell us to go to hell, and keep right on talking. “Fire base Thunder, Fire Base Thunder…!”

Our track suddenly slams to a stop. The ramp drops. My heart jumps into my throat. Adrenaline blasts through my veins. This is it. This is our Normandy beachhead.

I turn to jump out into the fight and see Ruiz staring at me.

What the hell?

He looks sheepish, which is bizarre amid the chaos around us.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I demand, now half in, half out of the track. Behind me, the rest of the men have frozen in mid-dismount.

“I gotta…uh, fill your radio, Sergeant. We gotta change our coms.”

“You’ve gotta do
what
?”

“I’m supposed to refill your radio, Sergeant. Somebody’s on our net.”

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me, Ruiz.”

“No, Sergeant Bell. I guess battalion just worked out a new company net for us.”

I step off the ramp into the powdery sand. Ruiz steps behind me and pulls my radio out of a sleeve on the back of my body armor. He starts fumbling with it, while I take a knee.

The platoon is strung out in a column, perhaps a hundred meters from the city. I can see the Fallujah skyline silhouetted by artillery strikes to our south. We’re on the verge of our entry point to the city, but our charge has come to a crashing halt.

“We’re doing a COMSEC changeover a hundred meters from the city,” I scream to no one in particular. “After all this? You’re shitting me. You’re shitting me, right?”

Ruiz fiddles with the radio. I fume. The Brads train their turrets left and right, looking for targets.

“Dude, just fucking keep it. You are my new RTO.” My new radio telephone operator.

“Awesome, this is the demotion I’ve been waiting for.”

“Your call sign is Cannabis 2. You got that?”

“Roger, Sergeant. Cannabis 2.” Ruiz takes the radio and begins to reload different frequencies. It’s a joke of course—I need that radio, and he has a job to do.

“You’re still gonna kill more people than smallpox, Ruiz. You just get to tell everyone about it now.”

“Thanks.” He pauses, then deadpans, “This makes me complete now.”

Inside our track, the radio crackles. It is the young lieutenant who is the leader of the tank platoon that has been attached to us. He tells Staff Sergeant Biden Jim that he cannot use any of the streets in our entry point. “You’ll have to make your own path through the city,” he says.