Smack my knees if you’re okay!”
Lawson turns and puts his lips close to my ear. He must be okay. He’s alive, anyway. He’s shouting something, but I can’t hear any of it.
Dim shapes take form around me. I see my men, darkened silhouettes inside our titanium box. I can’t tell if anyone else is alive or dead.
The Bradley churns upward, then thumps back down. My head rebounds off the bulkhead behind me. At least we’re still moving.
The buzzing grows louder and louder. Then it starts to morph into something else. I realize I’m hearing the 600-horsepower engine that drives our thirty-ton monster screaming and whining in protest. Throttle open, our driver pushes it beyond all sensible limits to get us out of this kill zone.
As if down a long corridor, I begin to hear Lawson’s voice, still muted and hard to comprehend. For the moment, I ignore it. I yell again, “Smack my knee if you’re okay!”
A hand snakes out of the darkness and whacks my knee. Another follows. Then three more.
Lawson takes a deep breath and bellows right into my ear. This time I hear him. “We’re all okay, Sergeant Bell! You’re screaming like you’re on fire!”
How the hell did we survive that blast?
Another sound swells in my ear. Explosions. They thump through the Bradley’s hull, boom-boom-boom. Our gunner keeps up a steady rate of fire, and now I can feel the vibrations of the 25mm through the seat of my pants.
I lean forward and try to lay eyes on the Bradleys behind us. I catch sight of Sergeant First Class Cantrell’s track. Fitts and Ware are in it, too. Last I saw of it, the insurgents were pounding it with everything they had. Somehow, it has weathered the storm. Flanks scorched by numerous hits, it grinds through the Fallujah sand, keeping up with us while the turret traverses in search of targets. Judging by their radio silence at least, Ware is calm. Then a rocket sears the darkness and slams into the side of the Bradley.
“That was an IED,” Ware announces.
“No, that was a rocket,” Fitts replies tersely.
A few seconds later, another explosion engulfs them. Their Bradley vanishes in the smoke and flying sand, only to emerge a second later, seemingly unscathed.
“ That was an IED,” says Fitts.
The radio is full of competing voices. I can’t make out much of it over the din of battle. Then Cantrell’s voice breaks through. “Shut the fuck up!” he screams through the airwaves.
Staff Sergeant Brown echoes him, “Shut the fuck up, goddamnit!”
More voices. They step all over each other. Lieutenant Iwan’s voice breaks in, “Clear the net! All Terminator elements, clear the net!”
It dawns on me that somebody else’s broadcasts are leaking onto our company and platoon nets. This is not good, especially since we’re within minutes of dropping ramp and assaulting the city on foot.
Lieutenant Meno and Captain Sims try to wade into the chatter with final instructions. Their voices are garbled, their orders lost. I listen to other voices interloping on our frequency, and it becomes clear they’re a bunch of Marines.
What the fuck are Marines doing on our net?
“Get the fuck off our net!” Cantrell shrieks. Sims tries to speak, only to be drowned out.
“Fire base Thunder, this is Alpha 2 Bravo….”
Okay: the Marines on our net are a relay team, passing instructions from their forward observers to the gun line to our rear. They tell us to go to hell, and keep right on talking. “Fire base Thunder, Fire Base Thunder…!”
Our track suddenly slams to a stop. The ramp drops. My heart jumps into my throat. Adrenaline blasts through my veins. This is it. This is our Normandy beachhead.
I turn to jump out into the fight and see Ruiz staring at me.
What the hell?
He looks sheepish, which is bizarre amid the chaos around us.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I demand, now half in, half out of the track. Behind me, the rest of the men have frozen in mid-dismount.
“I gotta…uh, fill
Lawson turns and puts his lips close to my ear. He must be okay. He’s alive, anyway. He’s shouting something, but I can’t hear any of it.
Dim shapes take form around me. I see my men, darkened silhouettes inside our titanium box. I can’t tell if anyone else is alive or dead.
The Bradley churns upward, then thumps back down. My head rebounds off the bulkhead behind me. At least we’re still moving.
The buzzing grows louder and louder. Then it starts to morph into something else. I realize I’m hearing the 600-horsepower engine that drives our thirty-ton monster screaming and whining in protest. Throttle open, our driver pushes it beyond all sensible limits to get us out of this kill zone.
As if down a long corridor, I begin to hear Lawson’s voice, still muted and hard to comprehend. For the moment, I ignore it. I yell again, “Smack my knee if you’re okay!”
A hand snakes out of the darkness and whacks my knee. Another follows. Then three more.
Lawson takes a deep breath and bellows right into my ear. This time I hear him. “We’re all okay, Sergeant Bell! You’re screaming like you’re on fire!”
How the hell did we survive that blast?
Another sound swells in my ear. Explosions. They thump through the Bradley’s hull, boom-boom-boom. Our gunner keeps up a steady rate of fire, and now I can feel the vibrations of the 25mm through the seat of my pants.
I lean forward and try to lay eyes on the Bradleys behind us. I catch sight of Sergeant First Class Cantrell’s track. Fitts and Ware are in it, too. Last I saw of it, the insurgents were pounding it with everything they had. Somehow, it has weathered the storm. Flanks scorched by numerous hits, it grinds through the Fallujah sand, keeping up with us while the turret traverses in search of targets. Judging by their radio silence at least, Ware is calm. Then a rocket sears the darkness and slams into the side of the Bradley.
“That was an IED,” Ware announces.
“No, that was a rocket,” Fitts replies tersely.
A few seconds later, another explosion engulfs them. Their Bradley vanishes in the smoke and flying sand, only to emerge a second later, seemingly unscathed.
“ That was an IED,” says Fitts.
The radio is full of competing voices. I can’t make out much of it over the din of battle. Then Cantrell’s voice breaks through. “Shut the fuck up!” he screams through the airwaves.
Staff Sergeant Brown echoes him, “Shut the fuck up, goddamnit!”
More voices. They step all over each other. Lieutenant Iwan’s voice breaks in, “Clear the net! All Terminator elements, clear the net!”
It dawns on me that somebody else’s broadcasts are leaking onto our company and platoon nets. This is not good, especially since we’re within minutes of dropping ramp and assaulting the city on foot.
Lieutenant Meno and Captain Sims try to wade into the chatter with final instructions. Their voices are garbled, their orders lost. I listen to other voices interloping on our frequency, and it becomes clear they’re a bunch of Marines.
What the fuck are Marines doing on our net?
“Get the fuck off our net!” Cantrell shrieks. Sims tries to speak, only to be drowned out.
“Fire base Thunder, this is Alpha 2 Bravo….”
Okay: the Marines on our net are a relay team, passing instructions from their forward observers to the gun line to our rear. They tell us to go to hell, and keep right on talking. “Fire base Thunder, Fire Base Thunder…!”
Our track suddenly slams to a stop. The ramp drops. My heart jumps into my throat. Adrenaline blasts through my veins. This is it. This is our Normandy beachhead.
I turn to jump out into the fight and see Ruiz staring at me.
What the hell?
He looks sheepish, which is bizarre amid the chaos around us.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I demand, now half in, half out of the track. Behind me, the rest of the men have frozen in mid-dismount.
“I gotta…uh, fill
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