House to House: A Tale of Modern War (27 page)

Cantrell calls to me over the radio. “What do you need?” Shouting over a Bradley’s engine is nothing but wasted effort. I make eye contact with my platoon sergeant and ask, “Can you bulldoze the fucking wall?”

Cantrell examines the area. The road is so narrow, the track looks like a monstrous toy, too big for the scenery.

“No way. I can’t even maneuver to hit the wall hard enough.”

I had wanted the Brad to smash through the wall, drive into the palm grove, and then tear up the side of the building with 25mm shells. Then we could call in a tank and blast the house to dust. That would take care of the fuckers inside for sure.

But it isn’t going to go down like that. Sergeant Brad Unterseher, Cantrell’s gunner, has a hard time even getting his cannon trained on the house. The outer wall is so tall that it obstructs the track’s field of fire. And even if a tank could drive down this narrow road, it wouldn’t be able to train its main gun on the house either. The 120mm gun tube is simply too long.

Cantrell comes over the radio, “I see a front room…okay, two front rooms.”

“Juice ’em.”

The turret traverses, his gun barks. The shells explode high and to the side, into the kitchen and living room. Unterseher walks his fire back and forth, seesawing between the two rooms. He pauses as Cantrell sweeps the track free of shell casings, which tumble hot and smoking into the street.

Unterseher pumps almost two hundred shells into the house. Cantrell holds him up and then asks me, “What else can I do?”

“Can you coax the palm grove?”

The M240 machine gun next to the cannon spits lead. I watch the fire tear the trees apart and realize the grove is a lot smaller than I initially thought. There’s probably nobody in the palm grove. This isn’t working.

I know what must be done, but I’m not ready to do it.

“What else?” Cantrell asks.

I key the mike and tell him to wax the palm grove some more. The M240 unloads again. This is probably pointless, and I realize I’m just stalling.

Cantrell backs the Brad up the street to where he can lay down a curtain of fire on the rooftops. Most of the shells go high, but the incoming shots cease—for the moment anyway.

“What else you got? You think we got them?” Cantrell asks.

Michael Ware hears the question. Over the din of the Brad’s engine he shouts, “There’s no way he’s got ’em. Sergeant Bell, there’s no way.” Ware had been in the courtyard when the shit hit the fan. He had to dodge the machine-gun fire from the kitchen.

In my heart, I know he’s right. But at the same time, there’s no point in wasting any more ammunition. The Brad just can’t get a kill shot into the house. At best, the barrage drove the insurgents away from the front windows overlooking the courtyard.

“I think we’re good,” I tell the Brad crew.

We’re back to square one.

I start to pace again. Walking back and forth, my inner monologue spills out of my mouth. I’m talking to myself in front of Ware, in front of the men. I’m livid. This whole situation has taken my dignity. I need to find the strength to get it back.

Honor. What an overused word. It’s an abstraction. Who can define it? All year in Iraq, I’ve stood with my men. If they had to fill sandbags until three in the morning, I’d be out there in the dirt and mud with them. I would never give an order, then go relax as they worked. My example is all I have as a noncommissioned officer. I take pride in that. That is my honor.

I’ve always told my men not to be afraid in combat. When the bullets start flying, they need to man-up and dish it back tenfold. How many times have I drilled this into them? Perhaps telling them to be unafraid is unrealistic. We’re all human. Fear walks with us in every battle. Yet we cannot allow fear to dictate to us who we are and how we act. We cannot let it control us. We must master it. That is another essential element of honor.

As I storm around in the street, struggling with myself, Ware regards me curiously. The last thing I want right now is a journalist watching me grapple with my own demons. I turn away and pace back up the street, slipping on a couple of 25mm shell casings in the process. Another spray of sparks flares around me.

Do I have the balls? Do I have the nuts to do what my fucking heart wants me to do?

If I don’t go in, they’ll have won. How many times have we heard that American soldiers rely on firepower and technology because they lack courage? How many times has our enemy said that man-for-man, they can beat us? That’s nothing new. The Germans and Japanese said the same thing in World War II.

Inside that house, I surrendered my honor and my manhood. Now I have to take both back, or live with the fact that they are right about me. That is unacceptable.

I rant and swear with abandon. Down the street, I see Sergeant Knapp taking care of my men like they are his little brothers. I want to cry I am so proud. I love these kids in a way I will never be able to express.

I see their faces. One by one. John Ruiz, Lucas Abernathy, Piotr Sucholas, Alex Stuckert, Victor Santos, Brett Pulley, Tristan Maxfield—they deserve more from me.

I stop pacing and let out a deep, rattling sigh. Only Ware remains near me on the street. Everyone else has moved away. Perhaps my display has convinced them I’ve gone mad.

But Ware is still here. The journalist. Our platoon’s unofficial intel officer. We stare intently at each other.

“Fuck it,” I say.

“Fuck it,” agrees Ware.

That settles it. I’m going back in.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

A Soldier’s Prayer

You know things are not right with the world when you share a spiritual moment with a damn journalist. But there it is. Mick Ware and I are standing on the street, digesting the finality of the option we’ve just chosen. His job is to write the story, not become the story. But he’s done just that. He’s committed, just as I’m committed. I can see it in his eyes.

It is time to do this thing. I half turn and roar, “Alpha Team, on me!”

And nothing happens. Most of the platoon is either in the two houses across the street, shooting locks and kicking in doors, or pulling security in front of them. Aside from Ware, there is no one around me.

“Bravo Team, on me! Sucholas!” I shout. I’m not sure I can be heard. Fitts’s Mossberg shotgun is blasting in the background. Stray shots and random noise fill the street. My voice is almost gone. When I speak, it feels like I’m gargling with gravel.

I hear Maxfield call, “Hey, come on. Sergeant Bell needs us.”

Maxy is over at the gate to the three-story house, pulling security. He grabs Ohle and together they run across the street to Ware and me. Maxy had been our company commander’s driver because he’s mechanically inclined. He hated that gig and was always begging to get into our platoon. We finally made it happen, and he proved himself. The kid’s alright.

He’s got blood speckled on his face. Sweat streaks the gunk on his cheeks, and he looks like he’s got tiger stripes of filth running from his temple to his jaw. His eyes are huge. I wonder if he’s just scared or really terrified.

“Sarge,” Maxy says as he reaches me, “I’m here if you need me.”

“We’re going back in.”

His eyes get a bit wider.

“Maxy, do you want to do this?”

“Yeah, I wanna do this.”

Those eyes betray him. Then it strikes me that my eyes probably look exactly like his. He’s fighting the same inner battle that I just fought. I notice that his lip is quivering. It makes me realize mine is, too. We both need a little encouragement.

“Fuck these guys. They’re dead.”

Maxy and Ohle gape at me.

I warm up. “We
got
this fucking shit, dude. Are you comin’ with me? Is that new ammo, asshole?”

Both men nod. I need to put on an Oscar performance here. Terrified or not, I need them to know we’re going to be resolute.

“Are you a fucking stud, Maxy? This is what you were born to do, man. You were born for this moment. You were born to kill these evil motherfuckin’ terrorists. Let’s terrorize them. We’re gonna taste them. We’re gonna eat their flesh and send them to fucking Lucifer. Do you hear me? Six-to nine-round bursts. Aim low, hit high.”

More nods. I turn around to find Staff Sergeant Lawson running toward me.

“Whaddya doin’, Bell?” he asks.

“We’re going back in.”

A ripple of shock flits across his face, then vanishes. He sets his jaw and comes close to me. He’s drenched with sweat, and as he speaks, I can see his whole body shivering.

“I’m not going to let you go in there and die alone.”

Now it is my turn to be shocked. I thought he’d try to talk me out of it. Instead, he’s just set the gold standard for devotion to a brother in arms. In that instant, I feel closer to Lawson than to my own kin.

His words force me to confront a fact that has been hiding in the back of my own mind. We could die.
I
could die. I don’t want to face it, but the look in his eyes reinforces the words. He’s right. There may be no coming out. I start to shiver, as if every muscle from my toes to my eyelids picked this moment to spasm.

If I die, my death will be something I brought on myself. At least I’ll go down fighting in the house, where I should have made my stand the first time. If they shoot me here in the street, I deserve that death without honor. If I get killed inside the house, well, I’ll be dying for the right reasons. That is good enough for me.

“Dude, this is fucking insane,” is all I manage to say. I want to tell Lawson so much more. I want to tell him what he’s just done for me. His words, his loyalty, the bond he’s just shown we share. It is unusual in my life, and I want to tell him. I don’t know how.

Lawson nods his head. “I know, but I’m not gonna let you die alone.”

“You’re fucking coming?”

“Absofuckinlutely.”

Lawson is the weapons squad leader. He doesn’t have any reason to come with me. He’s not one of my soldiers. He is my friend, a buddy really. If I survive, I will never forget this.

All the same, that doesn’t mean I can’t bust his nuts a bit. Humor diffuses the awkward, emotional moments that make infantrymen so uncomfortable.

I lean into him and whisper melodramatically in his ear, “Dude, I’m fucking scared to death.”

“I know, man, I am, too,” he replies.

I spring the trap: “You’re a fucking pussy. Whaddya mean, you’re scared?”

He bursts out laughing and the tension breaks for just a moment.

Ware stands next to Lawson, looking grim and resolute.

“Do you know what the fuck you’re doing?” I ask him.

Ware nods. There is no wavering in his eyes.

“Look, dude, this ain’t no fucking Samarra, pal.”

“I’ll stay right here.”

I’m doubtful, but I’ve got other things to worry about. Like getting a grenade.”

“Maxy, you got a grenade?”

“Yeah, Sarge.”

“Good. Get your grenade ready.”

“Roger.”

We move toward the wall, not far from where Cantrell has parked his Bradley. I grab my radio and tell Cantrell the plan.

“We’re gonna frag out and charge this bitch.”

Maxy’s got a SAW with a collapsible stock strapped to his back. The weapon is twenty pounds of deadweight, and I worry about him throwing a grenade while carrying it.

“Can you toss that fucker with a SAW on your back?” I ask him.

Without hesitating he says, “I can do it.”

I want him to throw the grenade over the wall and as close to the house as possible. The blast should cause the insurgents to duck their heads long enough for us to rush into the courtyard. I don’t want to get through the gate only to be greeted with a hail of machine-gun fire.

I tell Maxy to chuck the grenade.

He pulls the tape off, unbends the pin, and pulls it out. The spoon flies off, the grenade sizzles. He tosses it awkwardly, the SAW slipping around on his back.

Lawson grabs Maxfield and tosses him to the ground as he screams,
“Oh shit!”

As soon as I see his release, I know we’re in trouble. The throw looks short. I pull Ohle behind the Bradley. The grenade bounces atop the rim of the outer wall, bounces again and teeters on the edge. I’m convinced it’s about to fall into the street and blow up, spraying the Brad with shrapnel.

At the last second, it rolls forward off the wall, and lands in the courtyard.
BOOM!
A cloud of dust unfurls.

I notice that the wall is so thick the grenade didn’t even buckle it.

Wow. If the whole house is built like that, we’re in trouble.

Maxy emerges from behind the Bradley, looking shaken.

I glare over at him, “Nice throw, asshole.”

Chagrined, all he can say is, “Sorry.”

It is time to go. To Ohle and Maxy, I say, “Charlie’s Angels!” This is our platoon’s code for forming up into a three-man wedge, weapons at high ready, just like the famous silhouetted trio of babes from the old television show. Ohle takes my left shoulder, Maxfield takes my right. “You stay on my goddamned wing, Hooah? No matter what happens…keep steady and fire.”

“Hooah,” they whisper in unison.

Ware is still with us. I was sure he would opt out of this one. I give him one more chance.

As we move toward the gate I say, “Do you know what the fuck you’re doing?”

“Yes, I do,” he replies, his Aussie accent particularly thick. I feel the need to test him further. I can’t afford his courage to collapse on me.

“What are you doing? You’re not fucking coming.”

“Okay.”

What the hell does that mean?

We move closer to the gate. I pause and look back. Ware is right behind us. The guy is determined, I’ll give him that. I look Ware over. He sees this and says, “You can do this. You’re a fuckin’ stud, mate.”

I stop looking at him. To see him put faith in me when I feel like a little bitch is unbearable. It makes me feel like an impostor.

We’re going to be running across an open stretch of terrain, probably covered by at least one insurgent with a machine gun. Who knows how many others are on the roof. If we draw fire, the only thing that will save us is the fluidity of our motion. Before we launch our assault, I drill that into my men.