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

iron self-discipline fighting a losing battle with his heart.
    “That’s all. Go get ’em.”
    The mechanics and support guys start to cheer. Somebody shouts, “Give ’em hell!” Others shout as well.
    For a moment, I can’t move. Sergeant Major Faulkenburg is our father figure. He’s the man I have most wanted to impress. I have wanted, and needed, to believe he was proud of me and what I’ve done with my squad. I never felt I did anything to be worthy of my own father’s pride. My father was the first person in the history of the state of New York to go from junior college to dental school, starting with absolutely nothing and accomplishing so much on his own. I sought his affirmation, but always seemingly in vain. I always felt I never quite measured up in his eyes. To me, it was my fault for squandering so many chances.
    Here, now, I want more than anything to stand with Sergeant Major Faulkenburg as we head into the fight and to measure up at last. This time, I am determined not to fail. His few words have had a more profound effect on me than any of the pep talks of the past week. A great speech is only partly about what is said. Often what matters more is who says it and how it is delivered. Our sergeant major’s vulnerability and love for us spoke volumes.
    As everyone else gets up to head for their Bradleys, I stay a heartbeat longer. Faulkenburg turns his steel blue eyes to me. No words are spoken, but in his eyes I can see something, a feeling coming my way. Respect.
    A few months earlier, during a night firefight in Muqdadiyah, I was hugging a wall across the street from Sergeant Major Faulkenburg as he banged away with an M16 with iron sights. He could have taken a newer weapon and shortchanged one of his men. He’d sooner use a museum-piece rifle than shortchange one of his men. That is one of the reasons why everyone loves him: he never asked for anything more than what the worst-equipped man in the battalion had.
    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),