House to House

by David Bellavia

  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.

  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.