“Staff Sergeant Fitts and Staff Sergeant Bellavia. How are you two gentlemen doing?”
I am a little surprised by Sims’s friendly tone. When Fitts returned to us over the summer, his wounds only half-healed, our captain tried to kick him out of the company. Fitts had pissed him off by bashing a hostile Muqdadiyah police officer in the face with his Kevlar helmet. Staff sergeants often piss off the higher-ups, but Fitts was particularly good at it.
“We’re good, sir. You?” Fitts replies cautiously.
Captain Sims and I also have a tense relationship. In April during the house-to-house fighting in Muqdadiyah, we fought as disparate squads with little overall coordination. I later heard that Sims never left his Bradley during the fight. A commander who leads on the ground is always more desirable than one who stays in an armored vehicle. After that, I questioned his judgment on the battlefield. Later, our relationship almost fractured after I had my squad shoot three IED-laying Iraqis who turned out to be the nephews of a local good guy, an Iraqi security officer. Instead of believing my version of the events, he took sworn statements from my men and even considered opening a formal investigation. Sims dropped it at the urging of our company executive officer and other elements of our company leadership, but the incident created an uncomfortable rift between us.
Captain Sims watches the sunset in silence. Not sure he had heard us, I ask, “How are you, sir?”
“I have been better.”
We can tell. He looks exhausted, and he has a quarter-sized stress zit marring his face. Since the news broke, Sims has worked relentlessly. He rarely sleeps. Instead, he pores over incoming intel reports, studying and restudying the plans the battalion staff produces. He sat for hours at night with Captain Doug Walter, our previous company commander, discussing details and working through new ideas.
Captain Sims even wanted to use Muqdadiyah for a final dress rehearsal before Fallujah. He proposed that the full task force do a cordon and search of the city, clearing every room and every house. I thought this was a brilliant idea, and it showed Sims had a lot of nuts to even pitch it. Of course, battalion command nixed the idea, afraid that such a heavy hand would stir up the locals. Nevertheless, the fact that he wanted to do it gave us newfound respect for our commander. We don’t give a shit about stirring up the locals; as far as we’re concerned, they’re already stirred up. Using maximum force is exactly what we want to do.
Captain Sims takes his eyes off the sunset and turns to us. “What do you think about the training?”
Neither Fitts nor I hesitate. We give him some input, and he takes notes. I am astonished. He’s never listened to me like this before.
We talk shop as dusk overtakes us. It is clear that Captain Sims genuinely wants our opinion. Eventually, the conversation takes another turn.
“Where are you both from?” Sims asks.
“Randolph, Mississippi,” replies Fitts.
“Buffalo, New York,” I answer.
“Why’d you two join the infantry?”
I reply first, “Stephen Sondheim.”
“What?”
Both Fitts and Sims stare at me.
“Stephen fucking Sondheim.”
“You mean the composer?” asked Sims.
“What the fuck are you talking about, bro?” says Fitts. So there’s one thing about me the guy doesn’t know.
“I was a theater major,” I begin to explain.
“No fucking way.”
“Sure. Musical theater direction and stagecraft. I ended up starting my own theater company in Buffalo. Sondheim, well, I loved his work. He was my idol, man.”
“This is a very different side of you, Sergeant Bellavia.”
“He wrote a musical called Assassins. Basically disenfranchised Americans kill presidents, except that he got his history all screwed up. John Wilkes Booth commits suicide, Leon Czolgosz kills McKinley over a girl, Lee Harvey Oswald actually shoots JFK—shit like that.”
I take a drag on my cigarette. Both Fitts and Sims are just staring at me. I guess a grizzled infantryman who loves Sondheim is more shocking than one who loves Michael Moore.
“Okay, so I rewrote it to make it historically accurate and show why these losers killed our presidents. When my theater company put it on, Sondheim stopped my show and threatened to sue me. I called his bluff. Only he wasn’t bluffing.
“Next thing I know I’m field-dressing machine guns.”
Sims and Fitts burst out laughing.
I ask Captain Sims, “What made you go infantry, sir? How’d you end up here?”
“My dad was a colonel in Vietnam. I went to Texas A&M. Married the love of my life, decided to join the army. My dad told me that I could be whatever I wanted to be, but nobody would respect me unless I started out in the infantry. And I loved it, so here I am.”
He paused, then added, “I have a little boy. Sergeant Fitts, you have two children, right?”
“Three kids now, sir. Two boys and a two-year-old she-devil who runs my life.”
“Are you married, Sergeant Bell?” Sims asks.
“I am. We have a four-year-old boy, Evan.”
Sims looks off in the distance again. The sharing of personal details strikes me as almost unprofessional, until it dawns on me that Captain Sims is trying to do something here. He is breaking bread with us, making peace. Settling our differences.
“How are your men doing?” Sims asks.
“They’re great. They’re all great kids,” says Fitts.
“We’re lucky, sir.”
“How do they feel about the intelligence reports?”
“Well,” I begin, “I painted a green arrow in our living area. It points east. I figure we might as well get them used to praying six times a day now.”
I know the men are ready, but they are also tense. In recent days, all the typical bitching and bickering common among infantrymen has evaporated. Those with grudges have made peace with one another. Even Cantrell did that before he left on leave earlier in the month.
One night, Cantrell was walking back to the platoon area when Sergeant Major Steve Faulkenburg spotted him and drove up in a Humvee. He told Cantrell to climb aboard. The two men seemed to detest each other. It hadn’t started that way, but conflicts early in the deployment had hurt their relationship. Here was the opportunity to bury the hatchet. When Faulkenburg said good-bye to Cantrell, he looked him in the eye and remarked, “You know, we won’t be able to bring them all back.”
Our platoon sergeant nodded grimly. “I know, but we’ll handle it head on.”
The same spirit of reconciliation drove Captain Sims to share this sunset with us. Already the past weeks have changed my view of him. Uncertain in battle, perhaps, Sims is in his element when planning and preparing for a set-piece event. He has no ego invested in his ideas, and he genuinely seeks input to make the company even more capable, even more fierce.
“You know what, sir?” I finally say, “we’re gonna be all right.”
Fitts looks around, spits chaw in the dust near the ramp. “The way I figure it, sir, Fallujah can’t be worse than hearing Sergeant Bell bitch at me every five seconds for not having enough batteries or forty-millimeter rounds. This guy is unbelievable. What a pain in the ass.”
“Sergeant Bell, are you demanding?” Sims said in mock astonishment.
“I have needs, sir,” I explain. “Sergeant Cantrell met those needs. This new guy you brought in—he’s such a dick. Doctrinally proficient, sure. But he’s just not a people person.”
Fitts scoffs, “People person.”
Sims chuckles, but soon grows contemplative again. He’s not finished with us. After another long pause, he asks, “Did you know Staff Sergeant Rosales well?”
Rosales was killed during an engagement on our way to Najaf in the spring. His vehicle had been targeted, and he’d been hit. Despite his wounds, he stayed in the fight, shooting his weapon until he died. He never once let anyone know he’d been wounded.
“Ye
ah, sir, I knew him. We all did,” I explain, “He was a great guy. His wife was over in finance, so they deployed together. They had a little boy.”
We had named our makeshift shooting range after Rosales, but Fitts seemed bitter about it. “And what do we give him? This piece of shit range in his honor.”
I nod my head. “Yeah. When people die in the army, it isn’t like the real world. They die and it’s just like they went on leave or went to a new station. It isn’t real till it’s over, I guess.”
Sims nods his head, “It sure seems that way, doesn’t it.”
“When you get home, sir, sit your little boy down with your dad. You tell him about us, okay? Our war. The way we fought. They can’t touch us. They’ll never touch us. We’re gonna be all right.”
“Spoken like a man who has never been shot repeatedly.”
Fitts has been throwing that down a lot recently.
“Dude, I gotta hear this story again?”
Sims grinned, “It gets better every time I hear it.”
“April 9, 2004. We face a company-sized element.”
“Bullshit, it was a twelve-year-old with a .22 rifle.”
Fitts shrugs, “Well, that little fucker could shoot.”
Fitts hikes up his pant leg and sleeves, and we see the damage. The scars of that day in Muqdadiyah will always mark him, like bad tattoos.
The sight of them sobers Captain Sims. He slides off the bench inside the Bradley and jumps to the ground next to the ramp. Turning, he makes eye contact with us both.
“You two are the best squad leaders in the battalion. Everyone knows that. And everyone looks to you two to set the example.” The compliment catches both of us off guard. “We’re going to lose people.”
“We know, sir.”
“We’re going to be tested. We will all be tested.”
Silence. We wait.
“The only way we’ll make it through this is to stay together.”
We nod our heads. Sims is speaking from his heart.
“I am proud of the men,” he manages. “I am proud to lead Alpha Company into the fight.”
“Hooah, sir.”
“Thank you, sir.”
I needed him to say all this. As I watch Captain Sims move off into the growing darkness, my entire view of him has changed in less than twenty minutes.
I’d die for this man.
Fitts and I stay on the ramp, the silence between us like a cocoon. The sun is long gone, and we stare into the blackness.
CHAPTER TWO
Beyond Redemption
November 4, 2004
The night grows cold, but we don’t move. Fallujah weighs on our minds. Fitts doesn’t speak, but I know his thoughts are the same as mine. We will face the challenge of our lifetimes in Fallujah. I’d be more worried, but with Fitts back in the platoon, I have the sense that we will get through this.
By all rights, Colin Fitts shouldn’t even be in Iraq. Three bullet wounds is usually a ticket to a medical retirement and a disability check. Not for Fitts. He flowed through the casualty pipeline from Diyala and Baghdad through Germany before landing at Walter Reed Army Medical Center in Washington, D.C. He stuck around stateside long enough to see his third child born, then bullied his way back to Germany where a friendly sergeant gave him a pass on his PT test.
One summer day, he showed up again. There was no fanfare, but I’ll never forget him limping back into the company area. My morale soared. Lieutenant Colonel Newell even decorated him with the Bronze Star for valor.
The truth is Fitts should not be back with us. His body has not healed completely. He walks with a limp. His arms ache. His leg is always stiff, and there are times I find him in great pain.
It is hard not to love a guy who will sacrifice this much for you.
We make small talk on the ramp for about an hour before we are cleared to go home. We pack up and our Brads drive us back to our barracks, where we discover dozens of Het and Hemmit tractor trailers parked next to our company area. These are the huge rigs used to move our tanks and Bradleys over long distances. The transportation guys have practically taken over all the open ground. Scattered around their gigantic trucks are sacks of laundry, overstuffed rucksacks, and piles of gear. Their arrival confirms that big plans are afoot. Fallujah is a go.
We stow our gear and head off for chow. As Fitts and I approach the mess hall, we catch sight of Lieutenant Colonel Peter Newell. He is surrounded by concentric circles of reporters and cameramen. They jostle each other to get closer and compete to ask questions. It’s surprising to find such a commotion here, in the war’s backwater. Even during the Shia uprising last spring, there have been few reporters out here in Diyala. The journalists have come to FOB Normandy to ride with us into Fallujah. It is clear now. Unlike last April, there will be no stand-down on this one.
The sight of so many media types puts us in a foul mood. Good infantrymen have no interest in playing nursemaid to reporters in the midst of combat.
Fitts opens the mess hall door. As we step inside, I nearly fall on my ass. To our astonishment, the place has been spruced up just in time for the reporters. Instead of the packed dirt and concrete floor, the mess hall now sports faux-marble tiling. Trouble is, whoever dreamed this up forgot to factor in how slippery it would be, especially to Joes wearing sand-speckled boots.
Making our way to get our dinner trays is like trying to walk across an ice rink. On the far side of the tables, I watch as a young private slips and falls. He crashes down on his back, food, silverware, and dishes flying in all directions.
Reporters are everywhere. They’ve taken over the mess and now they huddle around us and gawk. These journalists are spotlessly dressed in designer khakis from Banana Republic. It is hard not to be nauseated.
Another Joe slips and falls flat. The reporters take this all in but make no comments. The soldiers, embarrassed, pick themselves up.
Right outside the chow hall, a reporter hands a smoke to a soldier and lights it for him. All of a sudden, the rest of the herd has the same idea. Hands reach into pockets and thumbs flick a dozen smokes in front of the weary Joes.
“This is going to be so fucking stupid,” I say to Hector Diaz, Alpha Company’s supply sergeant.
Sergeant Cory Brown, a hulking Montanan, grabs a tray next to us and gets in line next to Fitts. He’s our most experienced Bradley commander, but isn’t exactly a rocket scientist, and I’m in the mood to stir the pot a bit.
“Diaz. Check this shit out,” I whisper as I turn to Brown.
“Hey Grizzly,” I say, “these fucking reporters ate the last steak, man. Dude picked it up, took a bite out of it, and then spit into the trash can. Can you believe that asshole? Fucking Reuters. I would take that from an AP guy, but fucking Reuters? Are you serious?”
Brown goes from zero to pissed in a heartbeat. “What’s his name? Rory Turds? Royters? HEY, WHO IS REUTERS?!”
Fitts grabs his arm, “Brown, he’s just fucking with you, dude. Reuters is a press service.”
“I don’t give a fuck who he is! He spit a good steak in the trash, and I’m going to beat his dumb ass.”
Diaz and I break out laughing. Alpha Company’s First Sergeant, Peter Smith, storms over. Raised in Germany by an American father and a German mother, his accent is so thick it could repel grenade shrapnel. Though he might feel more at home at Oktoberfest than a Fourth of July parade, our senior enlisted man in Alpha Company is a brilliant soldier.
“Bellavia and Fitts,” he says, “Get a hold of Mongo. I don’t need his dumb ass making a fucking scene in front of the press corps.”
I try to act indignant, “First Sergeant, what am I, the Retard Whisperer? I can’t control this dude. That’s Fitts’s job.”
“I don’t give a fuck whose job it is. Do it or Cory’ll end up wearing corporal rank and a lacrosse helmet to work.”
Fitts and I try to calm down Brown, who still seems to be looking for the reporter who spit out the steak.
As we sit down to eat our chow, Lieutenant Ed Iwan walks over to us with a journalist who has been shadowing him. Iwan, our husky red-headed Executive Officer, has had the job for all of four months. Much to his disgust, Iwan had been conducting an impromptu interview with this reporter from the chow line through to the salad bar and now in front of our table. Iwan rests his tray down as he applies dressing to his salad. Iwan squints with an ersatz concern that would rival the best-trained Julliard graduate. He smiles politely to the most ridiculous questions regarding the upcoming Fallujah operation.
“Oh, I don’t know much about nuclear weapons or the space program. I think that is way above the pay grade of a junior army infantry officer. But Staff Sergeants Fitts and Bellavia could answer this probably better than I could.” Iwan gives us a deliberate eyebrow raise as he warmly shakes the reporters hand.
Fitts and I stare at each other as the reporter fires questions at us without a proper introduction. Iwan darts away into the mass of strangers loitering about in our new dining facility.
“How would you describe combat to average Americans back home?”
“Combat? You ever play paintball, sir?” I ask him with complete seriousness.
“No, but I am aware of the sport.”
“Tell America that combat is like paintball. With the exception that the enemy is motivated by fanatical devotion and uses bullets as they attempt to kill you. But basically it’s the same thing.”
“Make sure you get that ‘killing with bullets’ part,” Fitts adds.
“Do either of you fly helicopters?”
Iwan comes back to our table this time with two other reporters. He takes the now confused journalist away from us and drops off our platoon’s embedded reporters for Fallujah. Fitts and I shake hands with Michael Ware and his photographer, a scowling Russian named Yuri Kozyrev. These two stand in stark contrast to their brownnosing and perpetually confused cohorts. No starched Banana Republic garb for them. Bandoliers of camera batteries crisscross their chests. They wear green cargo pants that are quite possibly filthier than anything Specialist Tristan Maxfield wears. Maxfield is one of my best soldiers, but he emphatically refuses to practice even the basics of personal grooming. His stench has long since become the stuff of legend and earned my squad the sobriquet “The Dirty Boys.”
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