He’s also carrying a car battery.
The platoon opens fire, but it’s too late. He ducks inside the building and disappears.
Michael Ware has just been handed the opportunity of a lifetime. He’s live with CNN, and our current firefight lends drama and excitement to his report. He’s on the satellite phone, talking in rushes between bursts of gunfire.
A deafening thunderclap engulfs our house. Then another. And another. My chair snaps, and I tumble to the floor. Fitts crashes down next to me as a massive concussion wave blasts through the room. The floor quakes. Shrapnel scythes the walls and ceiling. Smoke billows out through the windows. I try to sit up, but another explosion rocks the building, casting shards of metal into the room.
I lie flat and just try to stay alive amid the debris. One more gigantic detonation slams our building and shakes it violently. I wonder if the walls will collapse. I’m dimly aware that the men outside are firing furiously. I have to get out there.
The smoke begins to clear. The walls are scored with new scars. The windows had briefly been funnels of death. Had Fitts or I been behind them, it would have been lights out. We are lucky to be alive. The collapsing chair probably saved me from harm.
We scramble to the second-floor roof, where I find Ohle behind his SAW. He sends a long, angry burst up the road to the north. I am relieved to see every soldier safe behind the sturdy cover of the roof’s parapet. I can’t make out what is happening on the roof above, but their weapons are barking enough for me to think that everyone must be okay.
“What are we shooting at?” I ask Ohle.
“There’s a fucking dude. He went into that house over there.” Ohle pauses, points, then gets back behind his SAW.
The entire block is shrouded in smoke. Telephone poles have snapped like toothpicks. The road we came down is pockmarked with holes. Chunks of asphalt lie scattered around. To the west, an entire building is little more than a burning heap of rubble. Bullets that were inside the building periodically cook off from the heat of the blast, sending lead in random directions.
The M16-armed muj has devastated this neighborhood. He had wired up his battery and detonated more than ten massive explosive devices all at once. Half of them were strapped to the telephone poles at our Bradley commanders’ eye-level. Others were embedded in the road or hidden alongside. The multilevel explosive ambush created a typhoon of steel in the street. There’s not one building in sight left intact; all are riddled with shrapnel holes and most have big gouges torn out of their walls.
But the topper was the final explosion. The house that is now burning was one big improvised explosive device. Had we chosen it as our next foothold, we would all be dead. Once again, a single insurgent could have killed our entire platoon.
A heavy machine gun opens up on us. It rakes the street beside our house. It seems like small potatoes now. We try to suppress the gunner, but we can’t see him. We’re not even sure which building he’s using for cover. Our weapons rattle. The firefight is on.
Fortunately, a Bradley is close at hand. Here comes Brown, rolling up the shattered street. The turret spins. The Bushmaster booms. The insurgents respond with RPG fire. A rocket whips right over Brown’s head and blows up in a house across the street. Brown is unfazed. He stays put while Gossard pours rounds into enemy positions.
At the same time, our company’s forward observer, Sergeant Shaun Juhasz, sees movement across Highway 10. Insurgents are creeping up to firing positions to the south of us. Juhasz calls in an artillery fire mission. Seconds later, the air is full of the whoosh…booom! of 155mm shells. It is the first time since we entered the city that we’ve had our own indirect support, and Captain James Cobb, our task force fire support officer, lays it on thick. Soon, the buildings in the industrial districts of the south side of Highway 10 are smothered in smoke and flames.
On the roof, we unload grenades onto the enemy to the north. Knapp adds a few frags to the mix, just to liven things up a bit. This fire and the presence of Brown’s Brad finally convince the muj to break contact again. As the 155 shells fall behind us, the incoming from the north ceases.
The artillery barrage peters out. The fight is over.
“Was that guy the enemy or was someone from your media pool running batteries to you,” I jokingly ask Michael Ware.
“That was crazy, mate. Just blew up out of nowhere.”
I hear a shuffling noise and turn to see Sergeant Alan Pratt coming toward me.
He is walking with an exaggerated bowlegged sidle that looks ridiculous. I crack up and give him a big smile, glad that he can go for a laugh even in the midst of all this.
“Sergeant Bell,” Pratt says in a weak voice, “I’m hit. I been shot.”
“What?”
He limps toward me, leaving boot prints in blood in his wake. The levity we’d felt just a second before evaporates. Pratt really is hit.
We all rush to him. He’s in tremendous pain. Blood covers his pants and both hands.
“What the fuck is going on?” I shout up to the third-floor roof.
“Sergeant Pratt’s been hit,” Sucholas calls back.
Thanks for fucking telling us.
Medic Lucas “Doc” Abernathy eases Pratt into the house. We lay him down and the Oklahoman goes to work on him. I cradle Pratt’s head. The worst thing possible for a wounded soldier is to see his own wounds. I hold his head so he can’t look down.
Doc cuts away Pratt’s pants.
Pratt writhes in pain. “It’s my dick!”
He tries to look down. I fight him and keep his head up.
But I look down.
“Oh my God! Pratt, you’re hung like a Lincoln conspirator.”
He smiles a little through the pain. “Yeah….”
Doc is focused on his patient and Pratt is in no mood to laugh.
So much for keeping everyone loose.
Then I see why Doc is so engrossed. Embedded in the side of Pratt’s penis is part of a dead-bolt lock from an exterior gate. When the building exploded, he was standing on the third-floor roof. Bits of the house, gate, and wall from across the street acted like shrapnel and blew across to us. Pratt was in the way.
Doc Abernathy eases the chunk of lock out of Pratt’s flesh. Sergeant Pratt takes my hand and squeezes it. It is slick with blood and slips out of my grasp.
“Sergeant Bell, I know it’s my dick!”
“Pratt, It’s fine. You got hit in the leg.”
“Don’t lie to me, Sergeant Bell. My dick hurts!”
He grabs my hand again, but we’re both slippery with blood now, and again I can’t hold on to him. I wipe my hand, reach for his, and try to keep him calm as Doc Abernathy continues to work.
Doc really impresses me. He works methodically, but fast and professionally. He locates another wound. Pratt took some shrapnel in the scrotum, and the tear it left is bleeding pretty seriously. Doc fights to staunch it.
Pratt closes his eyes and grimaces in agony. He is terrified that he might have lost his equipment, but he doesn’t moan. He endures. He’s a man.
Ware and Yuri come inside and snap photos. Pratt opens his eyes, and I see he’s in despair.
“My God, it hurts so fucking bad….”
I look up at Ware. “Hey dude, what the fuck? You’re not gonna take pictures of him.”
Ware promises, “I won’t put this in the magazine…you won’t see his face.”
“Come on. Now is not the fucking time, dude.”
“We want to show what you guys are sacrificing.”
“You could publish these.”
Ware shakes his head. “I’d never do that, mate. This is about the sacrifice….”
He clicks a few more photos. Pratt tries to retain his dignity by conquering his pain with remarkable self-discipline. He doesn’t complain. He doesn’t scream. He takes it.
This kid is a fucking stud.
Doc Abernathy pours Betadine over both wounds. I cannot even imagine how much that would
hurt.
Doc reaches for some gauze and starts to bandage the shrapnel wound on his scrotum. Meno gets on the radio to Cantrell, who is nearby in a Bradley. Meno’s outside on the roof, but I overhear him say, “Pratt’s shot.”
Cantrell’s voice booms back, “Who’s hit? Who’s fucking hit?”
I stand up and move to the roof, then key my mike, “Sergeant Cantrell, Blue Three Alpha is hit.”
“Fuck the feeder card. Fuck his battle roster number! Just tell me who the fuck it is!” roars Cantrell. He’s beside himself with fury.
“It’s Pratt,” I say.
“Pratt?”
“Yes, Pratt.”
Cantrell’s great weakness is his temper. It is directly tied to his feelings for his platoon. He loves us. When he hears one of us has been hit, it is like a knife to his gut.
He starts calling in a medevac dustoff to get Pratt out of here.
“Blue Seven, this is Blue Two. He’s got shrapnel wounds to…near…the groin, genitals. Negative gunshot, shrapnel wounds in the dick zip code.”
Pratt looks up. “What’dja say, Sergeant Bell?”
Fitts looks down. “You’re good, Pratt.”
I reaffirm, “Seven, let me get more info.”
Cantrell demands answers. “Where is he injured? How serious?”
“Priority, possibly urgent—” I pause, and then add, “depending on what you call a limb.”
I am trying to be serious. The rule for calling in an air medevac is “life, limb, or eyesight.” I’m not sure what category Pratt’s wound falls under, but I do know we need to get him to the battalion aid station fast.
Cantrell is now confused and enraged. He shouts into the radio, “Bellavia, what the fuck are you talking about?”
I walk away from Pratt and look over the roof at Sergeant Cantrell standing chest high out of his turret. His screams are hitting me a nanosecond after his mouth moves. I whisper to him, “His cock. He’s got wounds to his cock, Sarge.”
“What are you whispering? What the fuck is wrong with you? We’re going to ground-evac Pratt. Get him down here,” Cantrell says.
I walk back inside. Doc Abernathy is furiously wrapping Pratt’s penis in gauze.
“Hey, Sergeant Cantrell wants to load up and take him to the cloverleaf. Let’s get him on the litter and out of here,” I tell Doc.
As I say that, Pratt becomes desperate. “No! NO! I’m good! I’m good to go!”
Unfortunately, Cantrell hears Pratt over Lieutenant Meno’s radio and loses his mind. “WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN HE’S GOOD?”
I try to calm Cantrell down. “He’s trying to be a hero, Sarge. He’s not good. The kid is outta this fight. He’s outta this fight, okay?”
Pratt refuses to accept this. “I can still fight! I CAN STILL FIGHT!”
Fitts remarks, “Pratt, you have no fucking pants on. How’re you gonna be in this fight? Did you bring an extra pair of pants?”
“I did, Sergeant Fitts. I did! They’re in the Bradley. I’m good.”
Sucholas shows up. He’s been on the third-floor rooftop this entire time. “Hey, Sergeant Fitts, Pratt was hit during the explosions. There’s a shitload of blood up here. I’ve been pouring dirt on it.”
Pratt looks waxy and wan.
“Pratt, you’ve lost a lot of blood. We’re gonna get you outta here. We’re not gonna fuck around with this one, okay?”
Lawson comes in, looks Pratt over, and agrees. “We need to get him out of here.”
Pratt resigns himself to his fate. Doc Abernathy finishes bandaging his penis. It looks like a cast, and there’s so much gauze and weight to it that when we get Pratt on his feet, it bends so far down he begins bleeding again. We ease him back onto the floor. Doc needs to immobilize the wound.
He slings Pratt’s penis to his stomach. Everyone marvels at this. It looks like he’s got a third arm wrapped in a cast.
“Dude, you should be a porn star.”
Pratt offers a sickly grin.
Fitts says, “Okay, gut his shit. We need the ammo.”
We take Pratt’s ammo, night vision, and body-armor insert plates. He also has an M4 with a telescopic sight. I’ve got no scope on my rifle, so I grab it.
Cantrell hollers, “Retards! I’m waiting. Get his ass down here, meatballs!”
I move to the roof and peer over into the street. The platoon sergeant’s got his Bradley parked right next to our front door. He’s waiting impatiently, rage boiling. He makes eye contact from the commander’s hatch and keys his mike. A half second later, his voice blasts through my radio, “Get your shit together, Sergeant Bell, and tell me what the fuck is happening!”
“He’s coming down now, Sarge.”
A moment later, Pratt walks outside to the Bradley. Cantrell looks down at him as the men load him aboard the track. His eyes flick back up to me on the roof. He scowls, tosses his cigarette over the side, and looks like he’s about to chew my head off.
Instead, he howls with laughter. The absurdity of a stomach-slung penis is too much even for our platoon sergeant. I relax a little as Fitts comes up along side me.
“He looks like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Cock.” I say, laughing.
“Frosty the Snow Dick.”
Getting hit in the crotch is every soldier’s worst nightmare. We can either dwell on it and drive ourselves crazy, or make fun of it. Laughter is our only defense.
Our battalion surgeon is a major named Lisa DeWitt. We all regard her as a maternal figure in our infrantry battalion. The thought of her being confronted with Pratt’s injury leaves Fitts and me in stitches. I say to him, “When Major DeWitt sees him on the operating table…they don’t teach you to wrap a dick in any field manual I’ve read.”
The Brad lumbers down the street, bound for our battalion aid station at the cloverleaf east of Fallujah. It is also where most of the reporters are hanging out. Pratt is sure to attract attention when he arrives. A lot of attention.
Poor bastard.
Fitts and I climb to the third-floor roof, and the sight there stops our laughter cold. Sucholas wasn’t kidding. There’s blood all over the roof and parapet. Spatters of it are everywhere. Pratt was wounded right at the beginning of the engagement. He stood with his brothers, ignored his wounds, and stayed in the fight. He fired his M4 until the enemy melted away. For fifteen minutes, Pratt bled through his crotch without thought of the consequences to himself.
I’d had my problems with Pratt in the past. He’d been in my squad at the start of the deployment. I thought he got a little complacent. Then he became a team leader in our weapons squad, and he did a good job. But now, as I look over the evidence of his selflessness, I realize Pratt had something in him beyond common courage. He loved this platoon. This last act with us was the ultimate display of that love. He refused to leave his brothers. He could have bled out and died on the roof. Yet he didn’t say a word until after the fight was over.
Sergeant Alan Pratt of Philadelphia became my hero that day.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Where Feral Dogs Feed
As dusk begins to snuff out our first full day in the city, Michael Ware decides to make his presence felt. I don’t know what prompts this. Perhaps it was the sight of Pratt bleeding. Perhaps he feels a connection to the men he has spent so much time with while covering the war in Iraq. Or maybe he’s just trying to make sure he and Yuri survive.
It starts while Ware is still talking on his satellite phone. Lieutenant Meno gathers up the platoon’s leaders to give us a chalk talk. Team leaders and officers hover around him. Meno tells us we’ve been given a warning order to move into a new area late tonight. We study the area on our maps. We know it already—we’ve got to countermarch north and re-clear the areas we had passed through earlier. We’ve got to eliminate the threat to our rear.
At one point, I glance up over my map and see Ware shutting off his phone. “Hey, whaddya say? Did the Marines catch up?” I ask.
“Mate, they are way the fu
ck up there. Some units are stymied and barely in the city. Just on the outer edge.”
“Marines. Twenty years from now the Army will have never been in Fallujah. You watch. Just like Guadalcanal, Saipan, and Okinawa. The Army was never there. Whole Pacific campaign was Marine led, Marine fought. General MacArthur? He wasn’t Army either. All bullshit.”
Fitts loves to talk about Marine conspiracy just as much as he enjoys sharing his hatred of the officer corps. He doesn’t miss a beat to sink his teeth into my bait.
“My granddad got gut shot at Okinawa. He was Army infantry. Sat on that beachhead for two days until they found him. Wasn’t ever the same fucking man after that. Let me hear someone tell me the Army wasn’t at Okinawa.”
“He wasn’t there. You are a fucking liar. That never fucking happened. The Army never fought in the Pacific. And furthermore, we are not fighting here in Fallujah. This is a simulator at Fort Benning, you’re all part of a Jacob’s Ladder–type experiment, Dr. Bigsby,” I cup my hands and scream off into the wall. “Run that firefight over again, this time let Pulley actually fucking do something of significance for his nation.” Our platoon, Pulley included, are now all openly laughing at the absurdity of this entire bit. Fitts and I have once again taken stress off the minds of young soldiers.
“Where are the Marines, again? Hall asks Ware after we all settle down.
“All the way north,” Ware tells him.
Meno hears Ware and stops what he’s doing. “Sir, did you say that the Marines are barely in the city?”
“Call me Mick. And yes, I just got off the phone with reporters over there by them, and they tell me they are barely in the city. And some other units are stymied near the outer edge of the city.”
Meno goes downstairs and grabs the radio. If what he says is true, then Mick has just given us better intelligence than Captain Sims is getting from battalion.
At that moment, everyone present realizes the importance of Michael Ware. He may be a media type, but he has intelligence that is vital to us. More importantly, he has no problem sharing it with us.
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