House to House: A Tale of Modern War (18 page)

“Fuckin’ A, bro.”

“Fuckin’ A.”

A whistle blast stops us all cold. It sounds sharp but rich and powerful. I can’t tell where it came from.

Another whistle blows. Another one answers. Two more reply.

Oh my God. They’re all around us. Our Brads are to the west between us and First Platoon. Ellis is in the intersection to the south and east, but he has no functioning weapons. We’ve got an eagle’s span across this part of Fallujah. It is a solid position, but we have no depth.

I spin around, listening to the chorus, reminded of the legendary bugle calls the Chinese used before their human-wave assaults in Korea.

“Prepare to defend yourselves!” I quote Sam Elliott playing Sergeant Major Basil Plumley in
We Were Soldiers.
It is not as funny as I thought it would be. The men look stricken but resolute. Michael Ware and Yuri are on the roof now with us.

“Check this out, man,” I say to Ware, “This is the fucking story. Right here. Right now.”

Ware stares at me. I turn to my squad. “This is the fucking story you’re gonna tell your kids. Look, we’ve got perfect cover. These fucking dudes are about to charge us, and we’re gonna shoot fish in a motherfucking barrel. Got it?”

Nods all around. I continue, “We’re not gonna bring any Brads up, ’kay? We’re gonna make them think they’ve trapped dismounts in the open without support. They’re gonna rush us, and we’ll fucking take them out. Hooah?”

“Hooah!”

“Okay, get your ammo out. SAW ammo at your knees. Line your mags up where you can get to ‘em quick. We’re not leaving this roof. We’re not moving. We’ll stand and fight right the fuck here.”

The men reach into their pouches and spread their mags out at the base of the wall. Knapp, Sucholas, and I split the squad up and assign sectors of fire. We’re thin, but we have firepower. Lawson’s M240 Bravos are the heart of our strength. We put the two 7.62mm medium machine guns to the north, where the gunners, Specialist Joe Swanson and Private First Class Jamison McDaniel, can scan an open expanse of the city for targets. Sergeant Alan Pratt settles between them, ready to assist on either gun. I put two men on the south wall with M4s. If we’re rushed hard from that direction, we’ll be in trouble, but I’ll be able to pull men off the north and west sides if necessary.

We have excellent cover. We have a central fighting position. My boys trust one another. I trust them. We will win.

Get pumped. Use the fear. Don’t let it own you. Own it. This is the fight you’ve always wanted. This is the fight you were born to win.

I want to be on the wall with the men, weapon trained and ready, but that is not my job. I must be a leader, not a soldier. I walk my firing line, checking on my men. They’re ready, and I can’t be more proud of them.

The whistles fall silent. Now comes the sound of feet, like galloping horses, echoing through the empty streets and alleys around us.

They’re coming. They’re coming for
us.

The Screamer keens and wails. His salvation is at hand.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Rooftop Alamo

The first charge comes from the northwest, toward Fitts’s squad. We hear the beat of footsteps on rubble and we brace ourselves. Santos turns and points in the direction of the Screamer and mouths something, but his words cannot compete with the explosion of gunfire coming from First Squad’s sector. SAWs rake the street. M4s snap. A grenade explodes. It swells into a chorus of combined arms. For fifteen seconds, the street to our west is a kill zone, thanks to Fitts and his boys.

The last bullet ricochets off the asphalt. Cheers erupt in its wake.

“Weeehaww!” shouts Fitts over the radio, “Game over, man! We just took out a fire team plus. Linear ambush!”

The first wave ran right in front of Fitts. His men were waiting in the windows and doorways of the house he had taken. The insurgents had no idea he was there. They charged headlong into his skirmish line and seven or eight died before they ever knew what had hit them. It is a great way to start this fight.

“Great job, bro!” I call back.

“Hey, Bell. That’s about all I’ve got in this house. I’m outta here. We’re comin’ to you.”

“Roger that.”

I turn to my guys, “Hey, hold your fire! Terminators comin’ in!”

To Fitts I say, “Do you know where I’m at?”

“Yeah. Comin’ to you now. We’ve got to consolidate.”

He’s right about that. We’re going to need every rifle and every SAW on our rooftop to withstand what’s coming.

From below, I hear Fitts yell, “Terminators coming in!” First Squad rushes into our house. The men stream upstairs and onto the roof. Third Platoon is one again. Fitts and I reset our squads and reassign fields of fire. Stuckert gets moved to the far side of the roof, with an alleyway to cover. It is the least likely avenue of approach, and Stuckert isn’t happy. After all, he helped pick this fight in the first place.

The sun is still below the horizon, but we can feel the predawn glow of another golden Mesopotamian morning. I move over to the north wall. Somehow during the night the enemy evaded us. They’ve infiltrated our rear and flanks. Now they are poised to strike.

I scan the rooftops, at first only seeing the big water reservoirs the Iraqis have built for their gravity-fed plumbing systems. Next to one reservoir, I see some sandbags, a fighting position. It is one of many. Every roof is studded with defensive emplacements. Some have overhead cover. Some rooftops even have brick and wood bunkers. We’re right in the middle of an entire network of insurgent defenses.

A stillness descends around us. No more footfalls in the streets, no more rattle of gear or the
swish-swish-swish
of pant legs brushing against each other as our enemies rush forward.

A sudden noise catches our attention. It came from a rooftop to the northwest. We look over, but see nothing. The tension on the roof ratchets up another notch. Next comes motion to the northeast. I jerk my neck around, just in time to see a brick fall from a bunker. It clatters to the rooftop. Still not a soul in sight.

Stay calm. They probably don’t even know where we are yet.

I move to Joe Swanson, one of our 240 gunners. “Remember, Swanny, aim low, adjust up. Got it?”

“Got it, Sarge.”

“Allah! Allah!”

What was….

“Argggghh!”

I move along the roof to look over toward the northwest. A solitary figure stands in the street. He’s cloaked in shadows, but I can see his outline, rigid and tall.

He begins to chant.

A surge of terror streaks up my spine. His voice is determined and full of passion. This one’s a believer.

I wonder if you’re ready to die.

He steps out of the shadows and into the orange dawn’s light. His stride is measured and proud. He repeats his chant. His right arm holds a belt-fed machine gun. The ammunition is wound around his left arm, Rambo-style. He curls his fingers and beckons to us to bring it on.

We stare at him, stunned. He takes no cover. He seeks no protection. He strides through the middle of the street, his machine gun ready. He acts as if it weighs nothing.

What is this man doing? He is begging to be shot. What sort of man throws his life away like this? Up until now, I’ve had little but contempt for our enemy. Now as I watch this man, I have to respect him. He is a warrior, a man who believes that his cause has value and is worth his life. We have that much in common.

But he still must die.

He is less than a hundred meters away now. His voice lowers, but there’s not a tremor of fear in it.

When we don’t know where our enemy is, we shoot down-range and wait to see what happens. This is called reconnaissance by fire. The only explanation I have for this suicidal behavior is that the muj are probing us. This lone fighter is a sacrificial lamb, baiting us to open fire and reveal our positions. It is a chilling way to employ a comrade.

We are not fighting amateurs.

The man growls and repeats his chant. I wish I knew what he was saying. Though I understand quite a bit of Arabic, I can’t pick the words out.

Okay, that’s enough.

“Swanson: Give this guy what he wants. End him.”

The 240 roars to life, the sound like a giant zipper being ripped open. Swanson’s aim is low. His first burst tears apart the asphalt right in front of the insurgent. The man turns to us and screams with rage. The raw hatred in his voice sends another chill up my spine.

The insurgent’s machine gun spews fire. He’s standing in the street shooting it out with Swanson, machine gun to machine gun. Swanson adjusts upward and his bullets swarm and dance around the insurgent’s feet. Swanny makes another minute correction. His next burst saws the man’s legs clean off. White bone exposed, the insurgent collapses onto his severed legs, finger still on his trigger. He screams in agony, but refuses to give up the fight. Blood pools around him in the street. He lays on the trigger again. Bullets spring off our house and buzz overhead.

Swanson fires again. Bullets rip into the insurgent’s chest, but he refuses to die. Now Jamison McDaniel opens fire with his own 240. The scene in the street goes from grim to a carnival of gore. Steven Mathieu adds his SAW. The insurgent’s PKC machine gun falls to the asphalt, the insurgent is ripped apart. Chunks of flesh spray across the road. Still, our men linger on their triggers.

“Cease fire! Cease fucking fire!”

Everyone’s a little freaked, but the guns fall silent.

Hardly had our last bullet gone down-range when the world explodes. Bullets rake the rim of our wall. An RPG sizzles across the rooftop. Everywhere I look, muzzle flashes wink from doorways, windows, and corners of buildings.

The enemy now knows where we are and what we’ve got. The fight is on.

I look over and see Stuckert. He has left his position to fire into the insurgent with the others.

“Stuckert,” I shout, “you’re not in your sector. You’ve got to stay in your fucking sector of fire, you hear me?”

He nods and returns to guarding the alley. It takes a lot of courage to trust your buddies and stay in your own sector, especially when the heaviest fire is coming toward the back of your neck.

The enemy is hitting us with everything he has. AK-47s bark. Machine guns rip off long bursts. Our wall becomes torn and pitted along the west and north sides. Figures dart between buildings and race across the street below. The M240s rock and roll, and their incredible firepower makes all the difference. This is standoff combat, a machine gunner’s fight. The enemy is trying to pin us down so they can rush us again. We must stay up and on our guns or we will be overwhelmed.

Swanson chews through his belt of ammunition. He drops under the wall and begins to reload. The guy’s a pro, very methodical, but sometimes he seems to be working in slow motion.

“Swanny, load that bitch faster! We need that gun in the fight!”

Swanson looks up at me, then something clicks. He’s a great kid, a stalwart soldier, but sometimes he needs a well-placed boot up his ass to get him in gear. His hands fly over the receiver. He locks it down and is about to stand up when somebody shouts, “Rocket!”

Everyone ducks.

Fssssssstttttt
—
BOOM!
The RPG slams into the front of the wall that protects us and explodes. Jagged chunks of concrete, masonry, and shrapnel shower us. We ignore them and come back over the rim of the wall, weapons blazing.

Misa suddenly pirouettes and falls to the roof, clutching his face. I rush to his side.

“My face got hit!” he mumbles.

A fragment of a white phosphorus tracer bullet is embedded in his cheek, hissing. His skin is boiling, and black blood is oozing from the wound. I reach up and pluck the chunk of shrapnel out with my gloved fingers. A second later, my hand feels like it’s melting.

“You’re good bro, okay? You’re just burned. I saw that shit. You scared me, dude.”

Misa, dazed, nods. His cheek looks terrible. Any open wound in a sewer like Fallujah is a magnet for infection. Misa doesn’t care. He gets back to his feet and returns to the fight.

To the west, a vicious firefight breaks out around First Platoon, which is pinned on a rooftop without proper cover. Our two Bradleys shift over to help them out and are soon working their Bushmasters to the bone. Virtually our entire task force is getting rocked by this counterassault.

Michael Ware and Yuri move among us, photographing and filming the fight. Neither hesitates to expose himself to get a shot, and my respect for both of them grows. Twice, bullets ping off the rim of the wall right next to Yuri. Ware is nearly hit by an RPG. Still, they stand right behind our guys and film the return fire.

We’re holding our own, but the volume of insurgent fire is growing. The enemy screams and yells around us. It is unnerving, but we shout and swear back at them. At one point, an insurgent spotter appears on a roof directly above the suicidal machine gunner. I see him point us out to his buddies.

Fuck him.

I stand up on a chair, point back, and roar, “‘I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds’…you fuckers!” Ware thinks this is hilarious. He knows I’m quoting Robert Oppenheimer quoting Vishnu. The insurgent doesn’t get it.

Steven Mathieu, one of our SAW gunners, burns through an entire box of ammo. He takes a knee, grabs another box, and jumps back up. His gun chatters as he fires in disciplined bursts. He’s one of Fitts’s men and is the oldest soldier in the platoon at thirty-seven. He’s hanging in there alongside the younger kids.

I catch Stuckert sneaking out of his sector again, dying to get into the fight. I kick his ass back to his spot covering the alley. He curses in frustration.

I move over to talk to Fitts, but he’s nervous about the two of us being so close together. He has a point. As we’re talking, a bullet hits the wall right next to his neck. He winces, ducks, and gives me a look. I know he’s thinking about the three bullets he took on April 9. I try to distract him.