Free House to House: A Tale of Modern War by David Bellavia

fucking Rockne.
    Today, as the first faint streaks of dawn spread over the horizon, we stand in a task force formation in front of Lieutenant Colonel Newell as he gives us one last talk. He has to raise his voice so he can be heard over the distant artillery fire exploding a few miles to our south.
    Around us, vehicles are warming up as their crews get ready to drive us to the pre-staging area. Once we’re fueled and ready to go, we’ll move to the staging area, then the attack position, and finally the pre-assault position at the breach. This is the choreography by which the United States Army moves thousands of men and vehicles into an attack and still retains a semblance of order. We learned to do this off Normandy, at Okinawa, at Iwo Jima, Inchon, and Hue. To us, it seems like a hopper. We’ll get fed in and tossed about until the big machine spits us straight into the city.
    Lieutenant Colonel Newell continues his speech. CNN films it. In Germany, I grew to respect him when I saw the daily example he set. He always makes a point of rising earlier, running farther, and working harder than any of his officers and infantrymen. In Iraq he has proven to me a greatness in battle that is most uncommon.
    At first, however, his speech strikes a tone similar to all the others. It fails to move me. But his final words pack a wallop.
    “This is as pure a fight of good versus evil as we’ll probably see in our lifetime.” Now he has my attention.
    “Nobody in the world is better at what’s going to happen than you. We’re gonna go out there and kick their asses. They killed our own. Twenty-seven of our brothers are dead and these are the assholes who are responsible. This is personal for me, and it should be to you.”
    He’s right. Twenty-seven men from our brigade combat team have died since we reached Iraq eight months ago. This motivates me. There is no doubt in my mind that this assault will tear the heart out of the insurgency.
    Newell finishes to cheers and Hooahs. A moment later, we’re dismissed. We stream toward our waiting Bradleys along with a bunch of support personnel. Before we get too far, Sergeant Major Faulkenburg appears. Normally, he looks at us all like we’ve just shit in his taco salad, but this morning his face is an absolute mask. I can’t read it at all. We all fear his wrath yet we also seek his approval. In his twenty-six years in the army, he has seen the ass crack and armpit of every trouble spot from Korea to Kosovo. We fear his emasculating rants yet we stand in awe of him at the same time.
    He’s done almost everything you can do in the army, but he hasn’t done this. Fallujah will be tougher than any fight since Vietnam, and the look on his face makes me realize he harbors no illusions.
    “Ramrods, take a knee,” he calls to us in his gravelly southern drawl. There are times I think he’s speaking a foreign language, his southern accent is so indiscernible. It’s like a cross between John Wayne and Ross Perot. Our task force is known as the Ramrods. Those of us in Alpha Company are the Terminators.
    Alpha Company forms a horseshoe around Sergeant Major Faulkenburg. We get down on one knee and wait. At first, he says nothing. He spits a wad of Red Man chewing tobacco into the dirt as he eyeballs us with a squint. He takes the time to look each of us in the eyes.
    I stare back at him. To me, he has always seemed big as a grizzly bear and twice as scary. But now as I study him, I realize he’s wiry and short. It’s the weight of his character that makes him seem so large.
    “Men, I could not be more proud of you if you were my own kids.”
    We wait for him to continue. He hesitates. He’s struggling with his emotions, and we see his eyes mist up. That sight sends a surge of emotion through me—part love, part despair, part blind loyalty.
    “I couldn’t be more proud looking at how far you all have come and what you are about to do.”
    He pauses again and lowers his head, his