House to House: A Tale of Modern War (29 page)

The door swings closed.

I slosh farther into the room, sidling left as I keep my rifle trained on the kitchen door to the right.

I’ve got to find some cover. If this dude comes out of the kitchen, I’m dead.

The stairway is the only thing that can give me any sort of protection. I head to it, and kneel down a few steps up from the bottom.

Movement in the darkness catches my eye. A shape appears in the living room doorway.

“Who’s that?” I cry. I’m spooked and confused.

“It’s me, Mick.”

“Who?”
I rasp. I feel like I’m in a trance. Everything has an ethereal quality. Motion seems fluid and slow. The adrenaline shots my body has taken have left me a little dizzy and nauseated. My stomach flutters. I train my rifle on the living room doorway. One more wrong answer and I fire.

The shadow in the living room answers me, “It’s Mick! Mick the journalist!”

This doesn’t make any sense to my adrenaline-sotted mind. “Who?” I ask again, and I hear despair in my voice.

“Don’t do that, man,” says Lawson, who must be somewhere in the living room behind Ware.

Something clunks on the floor upstairs. I glance up to the landing above me. Then I hear the insurgent in the kitchen. My eyes go back to that doorway. I hear a footstep above me. Then another.

There’s somebody upstairs.

I could get rushed from two directions at once. I realize how precarious my position is.

And then I glance behind me. Over my left shoulder I see a doorway next to the stairwell.

Oh my God. I have an uncleared room to my rear.

My heart rate goes cyclic. Another surge of sweat soaks my uniform and gloves. I can’t cover all three threats at the same time.

I’m in real trouble. Stay calm. You’ve got to fight your way out of this.

The insurgent in the kitchen recovers his composure. He rallies and kicks open the door. “Fucking Jewish dog!” he spits in broken English as he opens fire. Bullets splinter the stairs and burrow into the ceiling right in front of me. I duck against the wall.

He fires again.

I roll right and get my M16 on him. I trigger a few rounds. He ducks back inside the kitchen.

That’s when I see Lawson. He’s standing in the doorway to the living room now. He’s got his 9mm pistol in one hand, and I watch him slam home a clip.

“Lawson, how many you got left?”

“One,” he says morosely.

Lawson looks waxy and gray. His right sleeve looks slick and wet. I wonder if he’s been wounded.

“Lawson, you okay?”

“I think I’m hit.”

“You’re shot?”

Oh fuck. Fuck.

My breathing is ragged. I’m shivering in my sweat. I’ve got to slow down and think this through.

“Lawson, get out of here. Get me a SAW and a shotgun.”

“I’m not going anywhere, Bell.”

“Dude, you’re shot.”

Lawson pauses. “It’s not bad. Don’t move from here.”

I nod. He disappears into the living room.

You’re good right here. Just breathe. You’re good.

With a sudden rush, the insurgent in the kitchen throws open the door and storms out into the room, searching for a target. He’s got a snub-nosed AK in one hand.

Reflexively, my M16 comes up. I feel the stock, cold against my shoulder. I pull the trigger. A fan of blood sprays from his back and spatters the wall behind him. It’s an exit wound. My bullet went all the way through him. It spins him off balance. I fire four more times. He falls through the door to the kitchen and disappears.

Cantrell’s voice booms into my ear, “Bellavia! Bellavia! Give me a fucking SITREP! Give me a SITREP!”

His voice is so loud it makes me even dizzier.

“Two fuckers down. One RPG!” I shout into my hand mike, attached to my Kevlar’s chin strap.

I hear more movement over my head.

The man in the kitchen moans.

I could leave right now. I could run for the living room and get out. I can still survive this.

I can’t move. Fear and pride intermingle.

I will not dishonor myself again. I will not let my men see me run again. Ever.

Every sound, every footfall seems magnified. Each one sends an ice pick into my nerves. My survival depends on both instinct and training. I remember Sergeant Major Darrin Bohn, the second-highest-ranking senior noncommissioned officer in our battalion, telling us, “Always recharge your weapon. I don’t care if you’ve only shot four rounds. If you’re in combat, you’re gonna need ’em.”

I’ve fired a lot of rounds. My M16 feels light, and I realize the magazine is almost empty. I don’t know how many shots I have left.

I pull the magazine from my rifle, reach into a pouch on the right side of my vest, and grab a new one.

I hear another thump upstairs.

Someone’s coming for me.

The new mag seems light, too. I glance down at it. It’s empty. Somehow, I’ve mixed my empties in with my fresh ones.

Did I count this as a fresh one? Do I have three or two full mags? I don’t know.

Something makes a brushing sound, like a jacket swishing against a wall. I can’t tell where it came from.

Stay calm. Stay focused.

I hurl the empty mag. It slams into the wall next to the doorway to the living room.

My hand snakes into the ammo pouch. I feel for a full magazine.

A hollow footstep, like a boot on wood, comes from upstairs. Someone’s on the stairs, around the corner from the landing.

I withdraw a fresh mag from the pouch—this one’s nice and heavy—and slap it home. I slink my bolt forward.

Crouched on the stairs, I wait. Waves of fear rock me. I feel unsteady and totally vulnerable.

You’ve got to use the fear. Use it. Control it. Don’t let it overwhelm you.

A scraping sound echoes through the house. I can’t tell where it came from.

I still have an uncleared room behind me.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand straight up. My instincts tingle. I am certain somebody is behind me. If I stay here, I will die. I’ll either get hit from the stairs or get shot in the back.

I slip off the stairwell and work along the wall until I reach the doorway. I slide into the back room, back against the wall so I cannot be surprised from behind. I make out a small mattress on the floor and a stand-alone armoire sort of closet on the far wall. I’m in a bedroom.

I hear footsteps on the stairs. Someone is hunting me.

I push myself along the wall until I come to a small alcove. I duck inside.

More footsteps on the stairs. He’s close.

Through my radio earpiece, Cantrell’s voice suddenly demands, “Goddamnit, Sergeant Bell! What the fuck is going on in there?”

My hearing is bad enough already. Cantrell’s yelling in my ear makes me almost deaf to everything else around me. That could get me killed in a fight like this.

He waits for an answer.

Another footfall on the stairs. I hear a board creak. He’s right at the edge of the bedroom door.

I whisper into the radio again, “Two fuckers down, one RPG.”

The room is a black hole. The darkness is almost total, and it has swallowed me up. I drop my night vision into position and flick it on. The goggles stutter on and off, then fail. Now I have only my natural senses against whoever is on the stairs. My senses against his.

Unless he has night vision that works.
The thought chills me.

“BELLAVIA, GODDAMNIT….” Cantrell is raving now.

I key my hand mike. “I’m really fucking stressed out right now, Sarge. I’m okay, but please just give me some fucking time. Everything’s gonna be alright. Just give me some time. I’ve got two faggots down.”

Cantrell launches into another tirade.

That’s it. I’m done with the radio.
I shut it off and pull the hand mike off my Kevlar. A second later, the radio splashes into the soggy area carpet at my feet. I cannot fight and get screamed at simultaneously. I grip my M16 and crouch in the alcove.

A black form pivots into the doorway. A muzzle flash leaps toward me and strobes the scene. I catch a quick glimpse of the shooter. He’s wearing a belt of AK ammo pouches around his belly.

A couple rounds slam into the wall right beside me. If it wasn’t for this alcove, I’d be dead.

Before he can get another shot off, I fire my M16. He bucks and jerks as I hit him again and again and again. My finger flies on the trigger, fueled by terror and adrenaline. By the time I ease off, I’ve hit him in the knees, stomach, and pelvis. He collapses in a heap in the doorway.

A tracer strikes the wall right next to my head.

What the fuck? Where did that come from? Is that one of my own shots ricocheting?

I look around wildly. Another flash. Another lightning streak shoots past me and smacks into the alcove over my head. It’s another tracer, and this one came from the far wall.

There’s somebody else in the bedroom.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Blood Oath

Still in a crouch, I inch out along the wall across from the doorway, where the insurgent I’ve just shot lies motionless in a pool of blood and water.

Where did those two shots come from?

I edge past the mattress. I’m halfway across the room now. Even though it’s dark, I can make out my surroundings, and there is nowhere my enemy could be hiding: a mattress on the floor, the empty alcove, not much else. Everything is quiet. I can’t even hear the Brads on the street outside. This is the kind of silence that breeds terror. I have to keep control.

I’m almost to the edge of the armoire when I notice two splintered holes in the door.

There’s a fucking boogeyman in the closet.

The doors fly open. A form jumps clear: an insurgent with two bandoliers of ammo crisscrossing his chest. He hits the floor amid a tangle of women’s clothing that cascades out of the armoire with him. I’m so shocked that I can’t even react. He tumbles past me, only an arm’s reach away. I suck air in surprise and get a lungful of his pungent body odor. He’s as foul and filthy as I am.

As he passes, he senses my presence and I can tell it startles him. He must have thought I was still across the room. He swings his snub-nosed AK-47 up under his right armpit. The barrel sticks out sideways. He’s about to fire, but he trips on a dress that is half-in, half-out of the armoire. He goes flying and lands facedown on the mattress just as the armoire starts to teeter behind him.

The armoire tips over and nearly falls on top of him. I duck behind it just as he gets back to his feet and frantically triggers his AK. A wild stream of tracers pierces the darkness. Bullets whine and crack. He runs for it, his weapon still under his armpit, muzzle blazing.

Bullets thump into the armoire with hollow, hammerlike thuds. Each bullet sends a spray of splinters across the back of the room. Suddenly, I feel a sharp pain in my elbow.

Am I shot? Is this a bullet, or just a splinter?

My heart is a hummingbird. I can’t focus. I can’t even think. Instinct takes over. I get my M16 up over the side of the armoire. The room is a crazy-quilt pattern of darkness and hellish red from the sizzling tracers. I see him.

Steady. Steady.

I squeeze my trigger. The M16 barks. The bullet hits him in the leg. I fire again, but can’t tell if I hit him or not. I think I have, but he keeps going. He hits the doorway, spins and sends another burst right over my head. I duck behind the armoire.

And then he’s gone.

Hollow footsteps echo through the house. He’s running up the stairs. I hear him scream something as he runs.

I’m frozen with terror. Did he just call for help? Are there more insurgents in here? I have no idea how many enemy I face.

My elbow hurts. I’m afraid to look at it, afraid of what I might find.

How did Fitts ever deal with getting shot?

If I have been shot, there’s nothing I can do about it right now. The pain is not severe.

You know you will die horribly in here, right? This pain is just a warm-up.

A voice in my head is taunting me. For a minute, I’m stunned by it.

How many bullets can you stand? How many before you just say, “End this. End me.” Can you take what Fitts took?

I try to erase those thoughts and focus on the moment. I don’t have much luck. The darkness is so complete that my mind plays tricks on me.

Focus on your job. Stay alive.

Faulkenburg. Fitts. Lawson. All shot. You will be next.

FOCUS!

I reach into my ammo pouch and feel for a fresh magazine. There’s only one left.

What the fuck was I thinking? Why the fuck did I do this?

“Ohle! Ohle!” I shout. My voice sounds unearthly, like I’m calling from the depths of my own grave. Just hearing myself unnerves me further.

“Ohle! I need ammo.”

I don’t hear a response. I wait. The darkness smothers me with fear, the silence spearing any hope.

“Sergeant Bell?”

My shoulders sag with relief. They’ve heard me outside. Somebody will come for sure now.

Fitts, where are you, man? Lawson, I need you. Help me.

I’m casting for any salvation, anything at all.

Shut the fuck up and get a grip. You’ve got to get a grip. They are still out there, and you will have to do this alone.

A door creaks. I can’t tell where it came from. I search the blackness and train my M16 on the doorway.

A moan echoes through the house. It’s wracked with pain and utterly despondent.

Something splashes in the stairwell room. Whatever that was, it was close.

Silence. I strain to capture any clue, any bit of noise to tell me what to expect.

Something slides along the wall on the other side of the doorway. I hear breathing. Somebody is close.

“I will kill you and take your dog collar.”

It is a malevolent, accented voice, low and totally devoid of fear. Its self-assured tone triggers a memory of the Nicholas Berg beheading video we watched at our base so long ago. It took them twenty-six seconds to decapitate him, and it was horrifying to watch. They were self-assured, too.