House to House: A Tale of Modern War (28 page)

“If we take fire and somebody goes down, no one render aid. I don’t care if I’m hit and screaming to Jesus. Leave me. Do not look down. Do not look back. Continue to move forward and shoot. Kill the threat or we all go down.”

With wide eyes all around, everyone nods.

“Maxy, Ohle, suppress fire at forty-five degrees on either side. Do not stop. Keep moving. That’s our only chance or we’ll fucking die.”

I take a long sip from my CamelBak. The water is scorching hot, like tea without the flavor. At least it’s wet.

I take a step. The motion breaks all reservations and suddenly we’re moving. Weapons at high ready, we round the gate and pour into the courtyard. Maxy and Ohle match me stride for stride. Ware is right on my ass. Lawson trails him, his 9mm pistol in hand.

We blitz past the first columns. I’ve got my eyes on the windows and rooftops. Ohle and Maxy scan the flanks. No fire greets us. I’m stunned by this. A minute ago, these insurgents couldn’t wait to kill us in the street. The Brad and our grenade barrage must have forced them deeper into the house.

I’m panting now, my gear rattling as I lead my group to the door. We pass the second set of columns. With hand signals, I tell Ohle and Maxy to take up positions on either end of the house. They reach the corners and cover the sides. I smack Ohle on the helmet and give him a push in the butt. That’s my signal for “get prone.”

Lawson stops short of the house and covers the windows. He’s particularly wary of the kitchen window after the PKM in there nearly killed his entire squad. He eyes it like a cold predator. Should somebody pop up there, both Ohle and Maxy would be sitting ducks. They need Lawson to protect their backs.

I reach the front door. It is standing open, inviting. The insurgents want this battle. It is their turf on their terms. They have all the advantages. Inside the foyer, it is pitch black. The little fires that had been burning have been snuffed out. As I move through the foyer, I notice I’m sloshing through a quarter inch of water. The Bradley’s barrage must have blown apart a water tank in the kitchen.

Then the smell assails me. It is really rank in here now. It conjures soggy, rotting fish. The stench is powerful and putrid, and I beat back my gag reflex.

I pause to look behind me. Ware is in the doorway gazing right at me. He nods and has an expression on his face like a father about to watch his son pedal off on his first bike. That really pisses me off. Who the fuck is he?

Then he takes two steps into the room. Now he’s right behind me.

I shake my head to show him my seriousness about him coming farther into the house.

I turn away from him and take a look into the living room through my NODs. It is empty. I start to move, but decide to check on Ware one more time. He’s at the front door now. He bends down, places his video camera in the foyer and backs out into the courtyard. The red blinking light on the recorder is the only light I can see. Lawson slowly creeps past him into the house, his nine mil at high ready. He touches my shoulder with one hand, letting me know he’s right next to me. I slap his hip, a signal for him to get behind me and hug the foyer wall. His presence reassures me, and for a fleeting moment, all the tension that’s built up eases just a bit.

I flick the safety off on my M16 as I start to move again. This time, I inch into the back of the living room. For a second, I’m exposed in the insurgent’s field of fire as I rush for the common wall with the kitchen. I get to the back corner just as the fuckers under the stairs start whispering to each other. The hushed tones in the darkness are unnerving. I freeze and to try to listen.

What are they up to?

My heart beats so hard it feels ready to come through my chest plate. I drop on all fours and crawl to the stairwell room doorway. Cautiously, I take a peek.

Just as my head pokes around the door frame, a burst of gunfire echoes through the house. Though it came from outside, it still startles me so badly that I jerk backward and nearly lose my balance. My heart kicks into overdrive, pounding so hard I can hear the blood rushing through my ears.

My night-vision goggles reveal little in the room around me. It is so dark, they barely function. The dim green outlines provide a surreal scene. It is hard to focus. My breathing comes quick and shallow. I’m probably hyperventilating.

I look up at the wall I’m using for cover. The insurgents have already shot it up during the earlier fight. Scores of bricks have been blasted to dust by the AK rounds. Pieces of them lie scattered on the living-room floor. This is nominal cover at best.

What a huge fucking mistake. You can’t fuck up like this. They’ll kill you before you can even get in there after them.

I’m getting light-headed now. Panic grips me. I’ve chosen the worst place to be in the house. If they open up with that machine gun, the wall will simply crumble around me. If I go through the doorway, well, they’re waiting for that.

Okay, I’ve got to do something that evens the odds a bit. I lean back against the wall and try to think, but my mind is floating. Everything has an ethereal quality. I hear noises all around me. I can’t tell what is my imagination and what is real. Am I hallucinating?

Get a grip. Get a fucking grip.

I whack myself on the helmet. I’m still disoriented. It fails to clear my head.

Come on, you’ve got to get a hold of yourself.

And then, I hear one of the insurgents speak from the stairwell room. He slurs something in Arabic with such preternatural calm that it sounds almost disembodied. The serenity in his voice is so out of place that it jars my nerves. A flood of terror ices my spine, and for a second I’m paralyzed.

The voice says something else. I can’t understand it, but it is so tranquil and languid that I suspect he’s drugged up.

In the distance, rifles bark. A shotgun blasts. Then I hear Fitts and Hall screaming. Is there an insurgent on the roof keeping them from getting into the courtyard? If so, we really are on our own now. They won’t be able to get through the courtyard to us. Since we’re inside, they can’t use Cantrell’s Brad to stitch the roof again.

What have I done to myself? This is crazy.

You’re going to die.

My breathing is rapid fire. My head swims. I’m losing all control.

You stupid fuck. You’ve trapped yourself.

Then comes another voice, strong and confident. “Allahu Akbar!”

God is great? What was that for?

What the fuck are they doing? Is one of those dudes about to strap on a C-4 vest and take us all out? Is he psyching himself up before he detonates?

I have to act. I have to find out what they’re doing and put a stop to it. Then I remember the 40mm grenade tucked in the launcher on my M16. That should do the trick. I get up into a crouch, then swing the rifle into the doorway. I don’t aim; I just trigger the grenade. The grenade sails across the stairwell room, through the room where the insurgents are, and right out the back door that stands open a few feet to the right of the insurgent’s bunker. A second later, I hear an explosion in the palm-grove garden behind the house.

Nice work. I’ve wasted my only 40mm. Come on, David. You’ve got to be disciplined.

I pull the M16 out of the doorway and roll back against the wall. As I do, my PEQ-2 gunsight lazes the living room and flares on something against the far wall. I notice a mirror fragment mounted low on the wall. There are others in here as well, strategically placed so the men in the other room can peer around every corner. I also make out something else: stacks of propane tanks lining one wall.

I’m in a room with flammable gas and open flames.

The insurgents can see every move I make. They can anticipate when I’ll come through the doorway. That’s why they were able to fire so effectively when we were all in here.

But it works both ways. Through the haze, I can see them. The one with the two AKs is young. The one behind the PKM has a well-trimmed beard and wears a wife-beater type of T-shirt.

They sit and softly recite their mantra over and over again.

“Allahu Akbar.”

Jesus, that is unnerving.

In one mirror fragment, I watch the younger insurgent lower his AK. He bends down and pulls out what looks like a vest.

Oh my God. He’s going to blow us all up with a bomb vest.

I continue to watch. It turns out to be not a vest, but a bag. The young one reaches in and withdraws a yellow-tipped rocket, a reload for an RPG launcher. He fumbles with the warhead. He’s trying to arm it.

Right then, I know I’m dead. I’m trapped in the living room just as thoroughly as Fitts and the rest of the platoon had been only a few minutes before. If I run, they’ll cut me down before I even get to the foyer. If I stay in place, they’ll fire a rocket into the propane tanks stacked against the far wall. That’d probably blow a good portion of the house to pieces. That’ll kill me, Lawson, and Ware. Maxy and Ohle will probably die, too.

I don’t know if it is the air quality or the fact that I am breathing so quickly, but I’m so light-headed and dizzy now I can’t tell what’s real and what’s running through my mind. My handle on reality is slipping.

I’m confused and wracked by fear, convinced that these are my last few moments. Words spill out of my mouth but I can’t tell what I’m saying. Am I even talking aloud, or am I hearing my thoughts?

“Allahu Akbar!”

Oh Jesus.

More words tumble out. What am I saying? I have no idea. What’s going on? What am I doing?

Then it dawns on me. I’m talking to God. The realization focuses my mind and for a second all confusion vanishes. I was raised by a churchgoing family. I believe in God. I’m irreverent as hell—I cuss and swear and have no problem killing the enemy. But at the same time, there is a reverence for the Almighty that lies deep inside me. It is one of those paradoxes you find in a lot of combat infantrymen. We’re irreverently reverent.

My brain catches up to my words. I’m not praying, not in a conventional sense. I don’t plan to ask for anything, and I am not begging for my life. Call it a soldier’s prayer, a confession for having lived a life not worthy of His gift.

“Listen. I’ve been a horrible fucking person. I’m not gonna ask you to forgive me. I’m not gonna ask you to make it quick. I know I deserve to fucking suffer and hurt. I expect that. But I am just telling you that I will die the way I should have lived my fucking life—without fear. I will be completely fearless, and if I say I believe in You, then fuck it. I believe in You. And this is the way I’m going out, faithful and unafraid. They’re fanatics. Fine. I’ll be a fanatic, too.”

I know I don’t have much time left. The younger insurgent is still trying to prep the rocket, but any second his fumbling fingers will get it armed.

I try to remember the Twenty-seventh Psalm. It is one of my favorites. The words do not come. Instead, my brain locks on to
The Exorcist
again.

The power of Christ compels you.

From the next room I hear more whispers. “Allahu Akbar.”

Suddenly, the movie line doesn’t seem so foolish and random any more. They have their God. I have mine.

“The power of Christ compels you.” Did I say that aloud? I don’t know. I don’t care. I seize those words. I embrace them. They become a lifeline. I stake everything on the strength they evoke. I utter them again, louder. I have my own mantra now. It is my talisman, my testament of faith.

“THE POWER OF CHRIST COMPELS YOU!”

“ALLAHU AKBAR! ALLAHU AKBAR!”

In one sudden rush, I carry the fight to my enemy.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Man-to-Man

Somebody must die now. There is no turning back.

I bring my rifle to the ready up position. The M16 feels right; it is exactly what I need right now. Tucked firmly against my shoulder, I have a perfect eye line over the rifle’s sights.

Across the room, I see the young insurgent standing behind the barriers. His head is down, still working on the RPG. The kid’s gotta be drugged halfway to Neptune.

I take a step into the room; my feet slosh in the water and send ripples across the flooded floor. The M16’s barrel pivots and stops when it is pointed at the insurgent’s chest. I have the sight picture. My finger is about to end him.

He looks up. He stares at me with terror in his eyes. I know right then that I have surprised him. He doesn’t have a chance, and he knows it, too.

“Jew!” he hisses in fear and spite, as if the word can protect him.

Close-quarters combat is instinctual, fought on the most basic and animalistic level of the human brain. Body language, eye contact, the inflection of a voice can turn a fight in a heartbeat. That is what happens here.

I know I’ve surprised him. His face is a portrait of fear. Instinctively, I know I’ve won. He knows it, too.

I have you.

I pull the trigger and hit him right in the chest. He staggers back. I take a step to the left to move out of the doorway. The room’s carpet is so waterlogged that my boots make a sucking sound with each step.

After a heartbeat’s pause, I shoot him again. This time, my bullet goes into his pelvis. He spins completely around and falls across the barrier. Hands splayed, head draped, he gushes blood across the concrete. The water around him turns a milky crimson.

The last thing he expected was a rush through the doorway. That surprise saved my life and doomed his.

I can win this fight. I can do this.

A red heat forms on my face. The back of my neck tingles.

Where’s the second guy?

In a nanosecond I flip from confident to borderline panic. I’m in the open, exposed with no chance to return fire before he juices me. He has me cold, just like I had his friend.

My eyes dart to the right. The man with the well-trimmed beard is there, running across the room. My surprise appearance and the death of his friend have panicked him. He tries to flee. As he reaches the kitchen door, I fire two quick shots. I think one hits him in the back below his shoulder, but I can’t be sure.