House to House: A Tale of Modern War (9 page)

I remember working with the sergeant major that day. I had an M4 with all sorts of high-tech shit hanging off its rails. A hundred and fifty meters ahead of us, something piqued the sergeant major’s interest. Faulkenburg took off and hobbled a ways, stopped, and fired a single shot. I was so intimidated by him, I didn’t dare ask if he hit anything. He looked at me and scrunched his lip up in a pseudo smile. “Another day in paradise, son.”

After that fight, Sergeant Major Faulkenburg gave me the same look he gives me now. I had stood with him as the bullets smacked around us, and he respected that. Now, twenty minutes before we roll into the fight of our lives, I can see he trusts me with his soldiers.

No words are said. I’d do anything for this man, and he knows it. I’d kill for him, and he knows that, too. I’d follow him anywhere because I trust him to always do the right thing. Few men are leaders. Even fewer are role models. Faulkenburg is both. We will fight like demons for him today.

And then the moment is gone, carried away by the surge of men flowing around us. I get to my feet and link up with Fitts. We lead our squads to our waiting Bradleys.

Our platoon sergeant, James Cantrell, rejoined us earlier in the morning. He had been on leave, and when he discovered that Fitts had reorganized the platoon, he demanded an explanation.

Fitts did the right thing. Our weapons squad leader had failed us in Muqdadiyah on April 9. Under withering fire, he took his squad across the road to link up with First Platoon instead of fighting his way to us. When we desperately needed his machine guns, they were nowhere to be found. After that, I couldn’t really trust him again. Heading into Fallujah, we just can’t have the machine guns sitting back away from our fight, supporting somebody else. They have to be up with us. Once Cantrell went home on leave, Fitts traded him to the Bradleys and grabbed Staff Sergeant Scott Lawson out of Headquarters and Headquarters Company (HHC), where he’d been a supply clerk.

Lawson is a smart-ass. He sports Elvis-style sideburns that are way beyond regulation and refuses to shave them. His failure to give a shit about his appearance and his sarcastic personality have earned him a rebellious reputation in the battalion. Before he went to HHC, he served in Second Platoon, Alpha Company prior to our Kosovo deployment. Fitts and I had seen him then and had been impressed. Fitts rolled the dice and decided to give him a second chance with a line unit. It pissed off Cantrell, but we knew Lawson would be a fighter.

At the staging area just outside FOB Fallujah, we reach our Bradleys and begin to organize our gear. Our vehicles are lined up getting fuel, ready to convoy to the next stop.

We use the time to distribute our most important supplies: chew, dip, and cigarettes. We’ve been told we will be in the city for at least twenty days. We’ll need tobacco to get through it. I make sure every man has a pouch with wet-dry matches and a lighter.

I had purchased a coffeemaker the day before, but Cantrell gave it to our chief mechanic, Staff Sergeant Jason Ward, because we had no converters for AC power in our Bradleys. Missing my morning cup of joe pissed me off. When I went to see Ward about it, he’d already brewed up a batch. The smell alone drives me crazy. I’m a coffee addict, and I’ve made a point of carrying around bags of Starbucks grinds. Ward at least offers me a cup.

When I return to my own Bradley with the coffee, I see Chaplain Brown nearby, going from track to track, talking with the soldiers. I avoid him. Today is not a day for another deep spiritual moment. It is a day to act.

I find my men busily loading the last pieces of gear into our vehicles. Third Platoon’s Bradleys are crammed full of ammunition, rocket launchers, dozens of Claymore mines, grenades, meals ready-to-eat (MREs), Javelin missiles, and water. We will have to get cozy to fit everybody inside for the ride into the city.

Cantrell arrives to check on us. He sees one of my SAW gunners, Private First Class Alex Stuckert, reaching for a carton of smokes. Cantrell erupts, “Get your dick beaters off my cigarettes, meatball.”

Cowed, Stuckert offers, “I thought they were mine, Sergeant.”

Cantrell is a Missouri outdoorsman who learned to stalk and kill anything that shit outside since he could walk. While other platoon sergeants want to know how your children are adjusting to your deployment, Cantrell wants to know how long you are gonna waste his time with your “ball assing about your stupid family.” He doesn’t pretend to give a shit about your wife and kids. All he cares about are results and keeping his boys alive while they inflict mayhem on the enemy.

Cantrell’s personality is uniquely suited to his position. He wouldn’t last a week as an elementary school principal, but as a platoon sergeant he’s tough and mean and leads only by example. If he told me to eat a shit sandwich, I’d do it without a second thought, or mustard. He makes mistakes, sure, but he never repeats them. In combat, his only weakness is his battle-fueled temper. He rages and screams at us in every fight. Call it tough love. He is the best in Third Brigade and he knows it.

“Sergeant Bell, did you buy premium smokes or are you settling for those cheap ones you get from back home?” Cantrell is busting my balls, as usual.

“I got the good shit, Sarge. If things get tough, I’ll fall back on the Miami blend the Iraqis love so much.”

“Miamis? You might as well wipe your ass with your hand, Sergeant Bell. Those are shitty cigarettes.”

Not far from us are some troopers from an Iraqi Intervention Force unit who look glum. They sit in their five-ton trucks staring south toward Fallujah with expressions on their faces that say:
I’m going to my own funeral.
They contrast sharply with us. We smoke and joke and keep it light. We are loose, ready, and even eager. Perhaps we’re also in denial, but we know better than to explore that right now.

Cantrell observes the Iraqis for a long moment. He pulls out a Zippo lighter, flicks it, and lights a cigarette over the yellow-orange flame. He smokes in silence as he sizes them up. A minute passes. Cantrell takes another drag, exhales a cloud of smoke and shakes his head sadly.

“Look at those sorry bastards. They need a pick-me-up, Sergeant Bell. Go have a smoke with them.”

I’m not sure why I have to be the one to give the Iraqi guys a morale boost, but orders are orders. I grab Stuckert, Santos, and Ruiz and motion our interpreter to come along. I call our ’terp “The Enigma”—nobody can figure out what gender he/she is. A debate has raged for months over this. Some have sworn they’ve seen him/her pissing standing up in the latrine. Others swear he/she is a woman. Money has been wagered, and that bet is still riding. I just wish somebody would go ask, “So, are you a dude?”

I call our androgynous interpreter “Pat.” He/she follows us over to the Iraqi rigs. The first Iraqi I come to looks at me like somebody’s just shot his dog. I give him a slap on the shoulder and a big smile. Santos and Ruiz do the same.

An Iraqi asks a question. Pat translates, “He wants to know why you are so happy.”

“We’re happy,” I begin, “‘cause we’re gonna kill some fucking bad guys today.”

Pat translates. I add, “This is it, dudes. Everyone in that bitch…” I pause and point to Fallujah, “…is bad. Bad dudes, man, and we’re gonna fuckin’ murder ’em.”

Did the tone get lost in translation? I don’t know, but suddenly the Iraqis crowd around us. One of them even cracks a smile. Guys jump off the truck to join us. They score more smokes from Santos and Stuckert. Ruiz is busy pantomiming a conversation with his own cluster of Iraqis.

Another Iraqi soldier asks me a question. Pat translates, “He asks if his unit is going into the city first.”

I know we’re supposed to be the lead. My platoon will be the first infantry element through the breach. But in the spirit of allied cooperation, I don’t tell these Iraqis that.

I turn to Pat and say, “No. We go in together.”

As soon as that is translated, the Iraqis break out in cheers over this news. They must have thought they’d be going in first as cannon fodder. Now they hug one another and start to sing. Some of them start dancing. Soon the whole group is leaping and gyrating.

“Oh shit,” says Santos, “It’s the fucking Iraqi gay dance again.”

This is not a very soldierly dance. The moves are distinctly feminine. They throw a Shakira-like pelvic thrust into the mix every now and then. Sometimes they passively look away as they grind into each other. As I watch this, I have a flashback to my English mastiff’s insemination a few years ago. It makes me a little uncomfortable.

“What is wrong with these guys, Sergeant?” Stuckert asks in total astonishment.

“It’s like a Rock Hudson pool party over here. Let’s get in on this before they tire out.”

“That guy over there is eye-fucking me.”

“Which one?” asks Santos.

“Pat.” Our translator is in the middle of the Iraqi gaggle, dancing in between the three men as they bump him/her from side to side with their pelvic regions, like some homoerotic tetherball.

This is not a pretty sight.

We retreat back to our track, saying farewell as the Iraqis continue to make a spectacle of themselves. Pat reluctantly detaches him/herself and trails along behind us. The Iraqis are a happier bunch now. Driving through IEDs like the ones we saw on that film, in unarmored trucks, probably won’t be a hell of a lot of fun. We’ll pave the way for them.

Back at our Bradley, I discover the men are sharing their deepest secrets with one another. They’re still smoking and joking, but the mood is more serious. Soldiers who ordinarily do not hang out huddle together, talking in rushed voices. I overhear snippets of a dozen ridiculous conversations at once.

“I look over and see the red on my knuckles. I lick it, right? It is fucking lipstick. Dude, I knocked the fuck out of a bitch. I thought she was a dude, but it was fucking lipstick….”

“I had fifteen hours of plastic fucking surgery after that car accident. Man, my scalp was peeled all the way back. No shit. My mom about fucking had a heart attack. And we didn’t have insurance either. This shit was serious.”

“Hey, I want you to know man, that from the first day I met you, I thought you were a fucking good dude….”

“You, too, man, let’s get a picture.”

Throughout Alpha Company, digital cameras appear, and soon the men are posing for one another. Nearby, our embedded reporters take this all in. They cluster together like the new kids in second grade, watching the scene as awkward outsiders.

These photos are crucially important, a form of insurance against our own mortality. A few months back, we lost a man and realized to our unending dismay that no one had a single photo of him to display at his memorial service. It was disgraceful. Surely this is in the back of everyone’s mind now. This time we will have a record of every soul who goes through the breach.

Michael Ware breaks ranks from the cluster of journalists with Yuri in tow. They come over to Third Platoon and offer to take our picture. The platoon lines up and they go to work. The other embeds see this and promptly stream to their assigned units, taking cameras and snapping pictures of the men. As they click away, they are no longer awkward outsiders. Now that they’ve found a way to help us, they circulate among the soldiers and start to fit in. They’ve shown us they’re human, and the company appreciates that.

After Michael and Yuri finish up, I light a smoke and stretch out on the ground next to the track. It is almost 0900. The morning is crisp, cold, and punctuated by distant artillery barrages. Every few minutes, an Apache thunders overhead. Fast-moving fighter jets crisscross the sky above them.

I turn to Ware, who is fiddling with a camera. “If this man should fall,” I say dramatically, “who will carry his boom mic?” It is a parody of that great Matthew Broderick moment in
Glory
just before his regiment charges Battery Wagner. Ware laughs, but I don’t think he gets it. Yuri looks stone-faced as usual. I conclude he’s one hard son of a bitch.

I look over at the Iraqi Intervention Force guys. They’re not dancing anymore. Instead, they’re smoking and joking, just like us. A few have produced digital cameras, and they’re snapping pictures in small groups. It is a comforting scene.

This is where I belong. It’s the first time in my life that I have found my place. It’s a reassuring thought that eases some of the butterflies fluttering around in my gut.

I wonder if this is what it was like for the soldiers of the Union Army during the Civil War.
Tenting Tonight on the Old Camp Ground
and
All Quiet on the Potomac
have been replaced by our percussion-heavy modern metal riffs from Mudvayne and Dope, but we’re still basically the same. The details vary from war to war, but no matter the epoch, the camaraderie remains. It’s a closeness that no civilian will ever really understand.

A Bradley swings out of the column and starts toward us. Lieutenant Colonel Newell, riding shotgun in the turret, yells at the troops as he passes. He looks like Patton must have looked as he raced alongside one of his flying columns in a jeep, dressed like he was ready for a parade. Patton sometimes stood on the passenger seat to shout at his GIs. Newell can’t do that in a modern-day Bradley Fighting Vehicle, but the similarities are striking nonetheless.

Our task force is a hundred vehicles strong. Newell’s track runs the length of our column like a steel sheepdog shepherding us forward. As he passes by, I hear him bellow, “Let’s go! Go! Go! Go! Go!”

CHAPTER FOUR

Land Rush

Lieutenant Colonel Newell swings around the front of the column and blitzes back down the other side. In his wake, Task Force 2–2’s soldiers scramble to their feet. Cigarettes are stomped out. Last words are exchanged. We throw on our full battle rattle, which includes: ballistic-proof eye protection, smoke grenades for concealment, reinforced knee pads any skateboarder would envy, a five-quart CamelBak reservoir of water that can be accessed by a mouthpiece, thirty-five-pound Interceptor Ballistic Armor fully loaded, two-and-a-half-pound Kevlar helmet, night vision, grenades, weapon, and ammunition. It’s about sixty-five pounds of gear, but we’re so jacked up we scarcely notice the load. We saddle up for the ride to the attack position.