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

where he’d been a supply clerk.
    Lawson is a smart-ass. He sports Elvis-style sideburns that are way beyond regulation and refuses to shave them. His failure to give a shit about his appearance and his sarcastic personality have earned him a rebellious reputation in the battalion. Before he went to HHC, he served in Second Platoon, Alpha Company prior to our Kosovo deployment. Fitts and I had seen him then and had been impressed. Fitts rolled the dice and decided to give him a second chance with a line unit. It pissed off Cantrell, but we knew Lawson would be a fighter.
    At the staging area just outside FOB Fallujah, we reach our Bradleys and begin to organize our gear. Our vehicles are lined up getting fuel, ready to convoy to the next stop.
    We use the time to distribute our most important supplies: chew, dip, and cigarettes. We’ve been told we will be in the city for at least twenty days. We’ll need tobacco to get through it. I make sure every man has a pouch with wet-dry matches and a lighter.
    I had purchased a coffeemaker the day before, but Cantrell gave it to our chief mechanic, Staff Sergeant Jason Ward, because we had no converters for AC power in our Bradleys. Missing my morning cup of joe pissed me off. When I went to see Ward about it, he’d already brewed up a batch. The smell alone drives me crazy. I’m a coffee addict, and I’ve made a point of carrying around bags of Starbucks grinds. Ward at least offers me a cup.
    When I return to my own Bradley with the coffee, I see Chaplain Brown nearby, going from track to track, talking with the soldiers. I avoid him. Today is not a day for another deep spiritual moment. It is a day to act.
    I find my men busily loading the last pieces of gear into our vehicles. Third Platoon’s Bradleys are crammed full of ammunition, rocket launchers, dozens of Claymore mines, grenades, meals ready-to-eat (MREs), Javelin missiles, and water. We will have to get cozy to fit everybody inside for the ride into the city.
    Cantrell arrives to check on us. He sees one of my SAW gunners, Private First Class Alex Stuckert, reaching for a carton of smokes. Cantrell erupts, “Get your dick beaters off my cigarettes, meatball.”
    Cowed, Stuckert offers, “I thought they were mine, Sergeant.”
    Cantrell is a Missouri outdoorsman who learned to stalk and kill anything that shit outside since he could walk. While other platoon sergeants want to know how your children are adjusting to your deployment, Cantrell wants to know how long you are gonna waste his time with your “ball assing about your stupid family.” He doesn’t pretend to give a shit about your wife and kids. All he cares about are results and keeping his boys alive while they inflict mayhem on the enemy.
    Cantrell’s personality is uniquely suited to his position. He wouldn’t last a week as an elementary school principal, but as a platoon sergeant he’s tough and mean and leads only by example. If he told me to eat a shit sandwich, I’d do it without a second thought, or mustard. He makes mistakes, sure, but he never repeats them. In combat, his only weakness is his battle-fueled temper. He rages and screams at us in every fight. Call it tough love. He is the best in Third Brigade and he knows it.
    “Sergeant Bell, did you buy premium smokes or are you settling for those cheap ones you get from back home?” Cantrell is busting my balls, as usual.
    “I got the good shit, Sarge. If things get tough, I’ll fall back on the Miami blend the Iraqis love so much.”
    “Miamis? You might as well wipe your ass with your hand, Sergeant Bell. Those are shitty cigarettes.”
    Not far from us are some troopers from an Iraqi Intervention Force unit who look glum. They sit in their five-ton trucks staring south toward Fallujah with expressions on their faces that say: I’m going to my own funeral. They contrast sharply with us. We smoke and joke and keep it light. We are loose, ready, and even eager. Perhaps we’re also