Elijah was.
âFirst eight or nine houses were all dry holes. Tenth house, everything went to shit. First room, we found a guy loading an RPG behind a couch. We shot him in the face, but then all his buddies knew we were there.
âThat fatal funnel in doorways you hear about when you learn how to clear rooms? No fucking joke. Took three squads for that one house. Eight enemy spread across five rooms. Eight.
âKilled them all.
âThree wounded, one dead on our side.
âShouldâve just blown the house up with a tank round, but higher wouldnât clear it. Collateral damage, they said. So it was up to us. The grunts. The trigger pullers. The goddamn infantrymen. Thatâs why weâre here, gentlemen. To do what no one else can. What no one else will.
âSomehow, some way, we pushed our way upstairs. Couldnât make sense of anything, everything was too dark or too bright in the night vision. A grenade went off, couldnât hear, neither.
âThree of us stacked outside one of the last rooms and reloaded. There was no door, and we could hear a voice on the other side, fucking with us. Say what you will about al-Qaeda, but they werenât cowards. Not the real ones.
âI went in first and saw a flash of light, of movement, in a corner. So I turned that way. I shot twice, and glass exploded everywhere, falling to the ground. Shots came from behind at the same time. All I could think was, Fuck. Iâd been had.
âThe bastard had set up a mirror so Iâd go that way, chasing his reflection. He had a clean shot at the back of my skull. If the guy behind me hadnât recognized that, Iâd be dead. If the guy behind me hadnât pulled his trigger faster than hajj pulled his, Iâd be dead.
âThat guy was Elijah.
âI didnât know what to say. I think I sputtered out thanks or some shit. He just looked at me and nodded. âI got you, youngblood,â he said. âI got you.âââ
I no longer heard the beetles or the generators, and neither did anyone else. My right leg twitched and twitched and I swallowed loud, looking around to see if anyone had heard me. Chambers continued.
âElijah had a philosophy he lived by. De Oppresso Liber . Anyone hear that before?â
Even if someone had, no one spoke.
âMeans âLiberate the Oppressed.â Itâs the motto of the Green Berets. Elijah planned on joining them after our tour. He didnât just say it, either. Had it tattooed on his chest. He fucking meant it. He fucking lived it.â
Someone in the shadows shouted, âPreach,â which was echoed a few times. Chambers pressed on.
âSome of the squad leaders and team leaders here know what Iâm talking about. They saw it, too. Humvees swallowed in fire, bodies liquefied by metal and heat, all because of a wrong turn or a gunner not spotting a wire fast enough.â
The sound of helicopters, attack birds, moving from Camp Independence sliced through the night. Rather than let them interrupt his benediction, Chambers raised his hands, palms up, and absorbed them into it, the rotors his very own monk chants. It all seemed quite natural, somehow. It really did.
âHear that?â he shouted over the WHOOSH WHOOSH WHOOSH of the blades. âSavage. Thatâs what this is all about. Staying alert. Staying ready. Staying vigilant. Theyâre gonna get some before they get got.â He took a deep breath and closed his eyes as the birds flew south, toward Baghdad. His head drooped down. Seconds passed in a shrouded hush. Then one of the joes up front quietly asked whatâd happened to Rios.
Chambers opened his eyes and smiled. His voice lowered, and I couldnât tell if he was betraying the quiet sort of rage that lingers within men after something vital, something matchless, breaks inside, or just faking the same.
âDead,â Chambers said. âBecause he didnât stay vigilant.
âFirst eight or nine houses were all dry holes. Tenth house, everything went to shit. First room, we found a guy loading an RPG behind a couch. We shot him in the face, but then all his buddies knew we were there.
âThat fatal funnel in doorways you hear about when you learn how to clear rooms? No fucking joke. Took three squads for that one house. Eight enemy spread across five rooms. Eight.
âKilled them all.
âThree wounded, one dead on our side.
âShouldâve just blown the house up with a tank round, but higher wouldnât clear it. Collateral damage, they said. So it was up to us. The grunts. The trigger pullers. The goddamn infantrymen. Thatâs why weâre here, gentlemen. To do what no one else can. What no one else will.
âSomehow, some way, we pushed our way upstairs. Couldnât make sense of anything, everything was too dark or too bright in the night vision. A grenade went off, couldnât hear, neither.
âThree of us stacked outside one of the last rooms and reloaded. There was no door, and we could hear a voice on the other side, fucking with us. Say what you will about al-Qaeda, but they werenât cowards. Not the real ones.
âI went in first and saw a flash of light, of movement, in a corner. So I turned that way. I shot twice, and glass exploded everywhere, falling to the ground. Shots came from behind at the same time. All I could think was, Fuck. Iâd been had.
âThe bastard had set up a mirror so Iâd go that way, chasing his reflection. He had a clean shot at the back of my skull. If the guy behind me hadnât recognized that, Iâd be dead. If the guy behind me hadnât pulled his trigger faster than hajj pulled his, Iâd be dead.
âThat guy was Elijah.
âI didnât know what to say. I think I sputtered out thanks or some shit. He just looked at me and nodded. âI got you, youngblood,â he said. âI got you.âââ
I no longer heard the beetles or the generators, and neither did anyone else. My right leg twitched and twitched and I swallowed loud, looking around to see if anyone had heard me. Chambers continued.
âElijah had a philosophy he lived by. De Oppresso Liber . Anyone hear that before?â
Even if someone had, no one spoke.
âMeans âLiberate the Oppressed.â Itâs the motto of the Green Berets. Elijah planned on joining them after our tour. He didnât just say it, either. Had it tattooed on his chest. He fucking meant it. He fucking lived it.â
Someone in the shadows shouted, âPreach,â which was echoed a few times. Chambers pressed on.
âSome of the squad leaders and team leaders here know what Iâm talking about. They saw it, too. Humvees swallowed in fire, bodies liquefied by metal and heat, all because of a wrong turn or a gunner not spotting a wire fast enough.â
The sound of helicopters, attack birds, moving from Camp Independence sliced through the night. Rather than let them interrupt his benediction, Chambers raised his hands, palms up, and absorbed them into it, the rotors his very own monk chants. It all seemed quite natural, somehow. It really did.
âHear that?â he shouted over the WHOOSH WHOOSH WHOOSH of the blades. âSavage. Thatâs what this is all about. Staying alert. Staying ready. Staying vigilant. Theyâre gonna get some before they get got.â He took a deep breath and closed his eyes as the birds flew south, toward Baghdad. His head drooped down. Seconds passed in a shrouded hush. Then one of the joes up front quietly asked whatâd happened to Rios.
Chambers opened his eyes and smiled. His voice lowered, and I couldnât tell if he was betraying the quiet sort of rage that lingers within men after something vital, something matchless, breaks inside, or just faking the same.
âDead,â Chambers said. âBecause he didnât stay vigilant.
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