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Authors: David Bellavia
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gave Private First Class Victor Santos, my Alpha Team’s grenadier, a pallet of at least a hundred pounds of plastic explosives. The engineers taught him just enough to get us all killed. He’s spent the week packing Gatorade bottles with shrapnel, detonation cord, and C-4. Santos and I share a love for this shit. Knapp has taught young Santos everything he knows, and I can see his mind working overtime collecting each bomb he has made. Santos’s scalp still bears the scars from an enemy rocket that slammed his guard tower back in June. He spent two weeks at the army hospital in Landstuhl, Germany before returning to us. Most recently, Santos waived his leave to make sure he didn’t miss Fallujah. All he wants to do is kill bad guys.
“Go call your families,” I say. “They’ll be shutting the phones down as part of the OPSEC plan, so make sure you do that tonight.”
After I dismiss my squad, Sucholas walks up to me.
“Sergeant Bell, I can’t believe I’m going to die for this conspiracy to reelect George fucking Bush.”
I try to humor him as he continues. “I will die, you know. And it will be your fault. You’ll go to hell for it, too.”
He’s said this a dozen times these past days, and I’ve usually laughed. Tonight, it isn’t funny, not after my encounter with Chaplain Brown. The fact is, he may be right. Hell might be my ultimate destination. Sucholas departs, puzzled that I don’t even fake amusement. He can sense my distraction.
I tend to my duties for the rest of the night, running around for more equipment, ammo, and gear my squad can use. I round up extra dressings, tourniquets, and batteries. I grab an extra five body bags from Staff Sergeant Diaz. Finally, I have to get some sleep, or I will be no good to anyone. The operational tempo has been brutal these past weeks. Train, patrol, train, patrol—it has worked us all to the bone. This might be the last chance for a decent night’s sleep for several days.
I retire to my cot, but my mind refuses to shut down. I dwell on the skirmishes and firefights we fought over the summer. I refight April 8 and 9 in my head again, examining every decision I made and questioning every movement in order to glean more lessons, more ideas that might help us in Fallujah.
We’ll be fighting house-to-house again. We’ll be clearing rooms and fighting inside hallways at point-blank range. This will be my ultimate test. I have sought a fight like this ever since I joined the army.
Dominate the room.
Use controlled pairs.
Slow is smooth, smooth is fast.
Don’t be in a hurry.
Recharge your ammunition at every pause.
It is the most brutal and costly form of modern warfare. The casualties will be appalling.
I am ready.
I close my eyes to start a prayer. Using the template Chaplain Brown provided, I decide to go with the theme of leadership and invincibility over evil. Cory Brown is watching a loud movie on a laptop computer two beds down from me.
The Exorcist.
I can’t focus with all the noise in the foreground, not that communing with Him was going to be an easy exchange anyway.
I am ready. Dear Lord, I wanted to tell you….
I think about my soldiers again. I see their faces and think about when I was their age. They are ten times the men I was. Not at that age.
I once was a meek boy with a coward’s heart.
Not here. Not anymore.
Now I am a lost soul with hell on his shoulders.
And I am coming.
CHAPTER THREE
The Measure of a Man
November 8, 2004
Camp Fallujah
H-hour minus 20 minutes
Hooah. Go get ’em. That’s all we’ve been hearing since we arrived at Camp Fallujah three days ago. Anyone with the rank above major has been given twenty minutes to address a captive audience—us. Captain Sims has even taken to videotaping his own speeches. Every morning, he gathers the company together to give another pep talk. At first, they were inspiring. Now I just want the fighting to start so I can be spared another lesson in rhetoric from Knute
“Go call your families,” I say. “They’ll be shutting the phones down as part of the OPSEC plan, so make sure you do that tonight.”
After I dismiss my squad, Sucholas walks up to me.
“Sergeant Bell, I can’t believe I’m going to die for this conspiracy to reelect George fucking Bush.”
I try to humor him as he continues. “I will die, you know. And it will be your fault. You’ll go to hell for it, too.”
He’s said this a dozen times these past days, and I’ve usually laughed. Tonight, it isn’t funny, not after my encounter with Chaplain Brown. The fact is, he may be right. Hell might be my ultimate destination. Sucholas departs, puzzled that I don’t even fake amusement. He can sense my distraction.
I tend to my duties for the rest of the night, running around for more equipment, ammo, and gear my squad can use. I round up extra dressings, tourniquets, and batteries. I grab an extra five body bags from Staff Sergeant Diaz. Finally, I have to get some sleep, or I will be no good to anyone. The operational tempo has been brutal these past weeks. Train, patrol, train, patrol—it has worked us all to the bone. This might be the last chance for a decent night’s sleep for several days.
I retire to my cot, but my mind refuses to shut down. I dwell on the skirmishes and firefights we fought over the summer. I refight April 8 and 9 in my head again, examining every decision I made and questioning every movement in order to glean more lessons, more ideas that might help us in Fallujah.
We’ll be fighting house-to-house again. We’ll be clearing rooms and fighting inside hallways at point-blank range. This will be my ultimate test. I have sought a fight like this ever since I joined the army.
Dominate the room.
Use controlled pairs.
Slow is smooth, smooth is fast.
Don’t be in a hurry.
Recharge your ammunition at every pause.
It is the most brutal and costly form of modern warfare. The casualties will be appalling.
I am ready.
I close my eyes to start a prayer. Using the template Chaplain Brown provided, I decide to go with the theme of leadership and invincibility over evil. Cory Brown is watching a loud movie on a laptop computer two beds down from me.
The Exorcist.
I can’t focus with all the noise in the foreground, not that communing with Him was going to be an easy exchange anyway.
I am ready. Dear Lord, I wanted to tell you….
I think about my soldiers again. I see their faces and think about when I was their age. They are ten times the men I was. Not at that age.
I once was a meek boy with a coward’s heart.
Not here. Not anymore.
Now I am a lost soul with hell on his shoulders.
And I am coming.
CHAPTER THREE
The Measure of a Man
November 8, 2004
Camp Fallujah
H-hour minus 20 minutes
Hooah. Go get ’em. That’s all we’ve been hearing since we arrived at Camp Fallujah three days ago. Anyone with the rank above major has been given twenty minutes to address a captive audience—us. Captain Sims has even taken to videotaping his own speeches. Every morning, he gathers the company together to give another pep talk. At first, they were inspiring. Now I just want the fighting to start so I can be spared another lesson in rhetoric from Knute
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