BLEEDING LOVE
THE EXPLOSION SWEEPS over us. It catapults me straight into Kraft and Snell. We all tumble down the stairs, legs, arms, guns flailing as we fall into a camouflaged heap on the landing.
My grenade knocked everyone off their feet. I see Levine mouthing something as he picks himself up. Doc Sunny’s saying something, too, but all I hear is a persistent ringing. Ears are toast again.
Kraft, Snell, and I disentangle and find our weapons. We all look shaken, but nobody’s wounded. What sort of a miracle is that?
Kraft shouts something. I shake my head and shrug. “Can’t hear!”
He leans close, and his voice penetrates the ringing. “You good?”
I give him a thumbs-up. He offers a stiff smile then nods his head toward the top of the stairs.
With you brother.
Together with Snell, we bring our weapons to the ready up position and climb the stairs. I discard my AK-47. I’m doing no good spraying the ceiling and walls with the thing. The M16 feels cool and comfortable in my hands, even though it is too long for this sort of work. A good M4 Carbine with a collapsible stock would be the perfect weapon for a close-quarters fight.
I start shooting into the far room as soon as I grab the corner. Then the smoke engulfs us, and we start gagging from its acrid, burning taste. I duck low, but still inhale a lungful of the stuff. I feel like I’m standing in the middle of a campfire.
Snell moves up to my left shoulder, even as I choke and hack. He’s focused, determined, and wanting to kill. Between bursts from his AK, I see him spitting up vile-colored phlegm. If we survive this nightmare, we’ll probably all die of some crazy form of cancer.
Kraft taps my shoulder and hands me another grenade. Through the buzzing in my ear, I vaguely hear him say, “… milk … it!”
“Roger!”
I flip the pin out, release the spoon, and count. Our frag grenades are supposed to have a three-second fuse, but who trusts that? That’s what makes milking one of these things so bloody dangerous. It’s like playing Russian roulette with a bomb.
One … two …
I slide left past Snell, who holds his fire, and launch the grenade. It flies into the doorway and blows up in midair. The concussion punches my chest and stomach, leaving me gasping for breath.
Jesus that was close.
This is not a game we can keep up. Sooner or later, we’ll find a frag some tired worker back home screwed up by cutting the fuse just a hair short. That’ll be the end of me, Snell, and Kraft.
Kraft hands me another frag. “Last one!” he shouts.
Pin out, spoon spins off into space.
One …
God I hope this thing has a long fuse.
Two …
I slide and chuck. The grenade doesn’t even make it to the doorway this time. It explodes at the far end of the foyer. Shrapnel scythes the air around us. Bits of the stuff pepper the wall next to me.
The machine gun opens up again. This time, its bullets stream just past Snell, who ducks forward for the cover the last steps provide. I hug the wall, Kraft close behind me.
A wail of rage and pain bursts through the ringing in my ears. Snell twists back to look over his shoulder, and I see his blackened face contort with horror.
Oh no. Oh shit. Somebody’s hit.
“Motherfucker! Motherfucker!”
I want to pretend this isn’t happening. My heart battering rams my chest so hard it feels split open and horribly exposed.
Turn around. You’ve got to see what’s happened.
No, please no. Not my men. Not my brothers.
The machine gun pans left, raking the floor, wall, and corner. I ball up and make myself as small as possible. Bits of debris cascade down over my Kevlar and fleck my flak jacket. Something strikes my left hand. A tiny, smoking hole appears in my Nomex glove.
Doc Sunny shouts frantically. The din of battle swallows his words, but not his sense of urgency.
As if in slow motion, I force my head to swivel left. A half inch. Something stops me. I can’t look.
Self-discipline. It is the cornerstone of every good Marine. Own your fear, Jeremiah.
Dread. Hate. Worry. I’m almost hysterical now. I’ll fight all day long and face my enemy’s bullets, but just don’t make me face this.
The screams are fury-laced and wracked with pain.
My head turns another inch. Then another. My field of vision sweeps to the landing.
“NO!!! NO! NO!!!” I’ve lost control of my voice. Panic spurs my in-stinctive cries.
Levine’s slumped against the landing’s far wall, a jagged, burnt hole in his cammie sleeve just below his shoulder. Blood spurts through it, which Doc Sunny furiously tries to staunch.
“NO!” The sight splits me open. I love this man, our Bronx-born warrior driven to the Corps to mete out revenge for the people he lost on 9-11.
The Corps taught me how to love.
“We gotta get him outta here!” Kraft bellows into my ear.
Betrayal is all I’ve known. Except here, with them.
I bleed away inside, my own wound impossible to staunch.
Levine’s face is painted with rage and angst. Beneath the grime and smoke stains, his skin drains to an ashen gray. Blood spills across the landing and drips down onto the first flight of stairs.
“Leave me alone! I wanna fuckin’ fight!” he shouts.
Another burst from the machine gun sends us all flying for cover. A bevy of AK’s follow it up with a swarm of bouncing, ricocheting 7.62 rounds.
Doc Sunny turns his face to us. He’s gravely concerned, eyes wide, hands and arms slick with Levine’s blood. He mouths “We’ve got to go!”
Kraft nods. The entire stack opens fire with everything we’ve got. Bullets fly, men scream. Levine begs to stay put. He tries to bring his M16 to his shoulder, using only one hand, but the effort exhausts him. Doc Sunny and Smokes grab him and drag him toward the first flight of stairs. His boots toe through a puddle of blood and leave dual parallel streaks, like tire marks before a car wreck.
Kraft, Snell, and I lay cover fire. The rest of the men move with Levine, Smokes, and Doc Sunny, weapons blazing. When they reach the first floor, we displace off the top of the second flight and back down to the landing. Kraft inches over until he’s got eyes on the foyer. Standing calmly, he unloads an entire magazine with hummingbird-quick trigger pulls on his M16. The insurgents apparently can see him, and a sudden hail of bullets demolish the wall behind us. Amazingly, he isn’t hit, but he runs out of ammo. As he sidesteps to reload, Snell takes his place and faces the same fusillade.
Can there be any braver men? Neither of them even flinched.
Snell moves for the ten-step kill zone. Kraft and I slip into the line of fire and give him all the cover fire we can. Then Kraft and I back down the stairs, firing and loading as we go. At last, our boots hit carpet.
Doc Sunny and Smokes have Levine between them. His wounded arm hangs over Doc’s shoulder, spraying blood down the back of his flak vest. The three of them stagger out through the door with the rest of the men following in support.
We’re rear guard again. Nobody comes down the stairs, so we burst out into the midday sun. A pickup-truck-configured Humvee sits parked in the open gate, and one of our transport guys mans a SAW balanced on the canvas roof over the crew compartment.
Kraft screams, “On three, start shooting!” The gunner nods and gets down behind his light machine gun. Just then, Levine stumbles away from Smokes and Sunny.
“Doc! Doc!”
He staggers back toward the house, determined to get back into the fight. He starts to fail in front of Snell, who catches him. Doc and Sunny scoop him back up. Levine’s lost a lot of blood and he’s getting weaker. We must get him out of here.
Kraft shouts, “One! Two! Three!”
We start moving across the kill zone, but the SAW gunner doesn’t open fire.
“What the fuck?” somebody shouts.
The gunner pulls the trigger but nothing happens. Suddenly it dawns on him that he’s had the weapon at Condition Three. He racks the charging handle, which loads a round into the chamber. As we lurch across the yard, trampling the manicured, incongruously lush lawn under our boots, he finally gets his weapon on line. It spews 5.56mm rounds into the upstairs windows.
God I hope our guys aren’t still up there.
Overhead, a volley of incoming fire rips into the branches of the trees standing near the outer wall. The men ahead of me reach the gate, maneuver through it and past the Humvee. As they disappear, I breathe a sigh of relief. They’re safe in the street.
Kraft and Snell duck through the gate next. I’m last and moving very slowly. The adrenaline rush that the firefight kick-started drains out of my system. All the aches and pains crash down on my nervous system. I start to limp.
The afternoon sun sits perched high above us, its brilliant light drowning out the morning shadows and shade. It has to be a hundred and ten degrees now. We’re left cruelly exposed.
Ahead of me, the rest of the platoon section reaches our vehicles. Kraft and Snell catch up to them while Doc Sunny tears open Levine’s shirtsleeve. Hopefully, somebody’s called a medevac so we can get him to the cloverleaf east of town where a medical unit has set up shop.
Suddenly, my vision blurs. Sweat in my eyes again. Raking my filthy shirtsleeve across my face takes care of that. A few blinks and I see …
Hebert?
To my left, a figure stumbles out from between two houses. He takes awkward baby steps, his arms dangling limp at his sides. He looks like a marionette with half his strings severed.
“Hebert? Is that you?” I shout.
His head lolls over to one side, and he baby-steps twice. He’s fifty feet from me, face stained and saturated with grime.
“… Work … man …”
“Hebert! Hang on.”
Limp-running toward him, my wounded leg drags me down. I feel like I’m trying to break an ankle tackle but the defender refuses to let go. Ahead, Hebert sways unsteadily and tries to turn for me. His knees buckle, and his forward momentum falters.
I have a fleeting vision of him grinning like a kid, hoisting a fish he’d caught on his latest expedition to the lake with Raleigh Smith. They took turns posing and snapping photos of each other and their butt-ugly catches with their digital cameras. The only two Marines in Anbar province with fishing gear.
“… help, me …”
He reaches the sidewalk, forty feet away. I tug and pull my wounded leg, but it feels like I’m running on flypaper. Thirty feet. Hebert’s mouth is open, jaw slack, arms disturbingly lifeless at his sides.
“Hold on, brother. Hold on,” I call. It doesn’t register on him. Through his orange Wiley X’s, I can see his eyes now. They’re unfocused, crazy. I realize I’m seeing the thousand-yard stare—the same look of Iwo and Peleliu vets, like those spooky Tom Lea paintings I’ve seen in books.
“What happened?” but my words are lost in another torrent of gunfire.
Twenty feet. Hebert stutter-steps over the sidewalk, trailing something. What is that?
Blood. I see it now, rich and crimson in the Fallujah sun. It stains the sidewalk like red paint slopping from a can. His pant legs are soaked black.
A panic-driven sense of urgency spurs me forward. Fifteen feet. He starts to lose his balance. One arm, zombie-like with lifeless fingers dangling, raises up for me.
“… help …”
“I gotcha, man,” I say as I collide with him. A bear hug keeps us on our feet. He pitches almost limp against me, forcing me to prop us both up with my wounded leg. A new spurt of adrenaline suppresses the pain.
“… Workman … thank …”
A bullet ricochets off the sidewalk not even an arm’s length away. Holding Hebert, I look back over my shoulder. Somebody’s got eyes on us, but we’re not in view of the house.
They’ve got reinforcements, Jeremiah. You’ve got to move. MOVE NOW!
I start to bull-rush Hebert toward the vehicles, but we stumble and lose our balance. That’s not going to work.
Another bullet zings off the asphalt.
“… They’re still … shooting …” Hebert sighs. He sounds barely conscious.
Jesus. God. Help us. Help us.
Hebert sags through my arms and falls to the street. I hear a crack and a whine. Another near-miss. Somewhere up the block, a sniper ranges in on us.
“Hebert, can you walk?” I ask.
His body trembles. He shakes his head like a ten-shot drunk.
He’s a hundred and sixty pounds without his gear. Close to two hundred with his weapon and flak vest. We’re a good hundred and twenty yards from the vehicles. I can’t carry him; I simply don’t have the strength anymore.
A branch snaps off a tree in the yard Hebert staggered out of a minute ago. It falls to the sidewalk with a rustle of leaves.
“Okay, bro, I’m gonna drag you.”
“… hit …”
I grab a strap off his flak vest, and let out some slack from its buckle. When I have enough, I wrap both hands around its end and spin around. Hebert comes off the street, his back presses against mine. I heave and bring him up a little farther.
“Okay, here we go.”
“… keep … firing …” he says dreamily.
Shit. He’s gone into shock. Move. Move, Jeremiah. Everything you got. Lay it out now.
I once saw a video of Virginia Tech’s star quarterback, Jim Druckenmiller, as he pulled a station wagon across a football field. Leaning forward, every muscle popping, he seemingly defied the laws of physics with brute force and will.
That’s how I feel right now. Hebert’s heavy on my back. I’m staggered by his load, my leg refusing to fully function. My arms are taut as I hold him in place, the strap over my left shoulder.
A solid heave and we move forward with a lurch. My knee gives way, and I collapse to the pavement.
“Hold on, I got you,” I say, more to myself than to Hebert.
A bullet hits the street right in front of Hebert’s blood-speckled boot. “… gotta get … outta … here …” he cries weakly.
I tug hard and surge forward onto my feet. I’m hunched over almost double now, which causes Hebert to slide down my back. I have to pull the strap down with all my strength to keep him from falling off me.
Another bullet sings overhead.
I take a step, then another. Each move bleeds energy, erodes my strength. But I am not going to fail this man. I will die first.
I lean farther forward, balancing his weight against me. I trip and have to release my right hand, which slaps against the grainy asphalt for balance. I’m so low now, that I must look like a defensive lineman in a three-point stance.
Weight down on my right hand, left leg crab-walks forward. Right leg pushes off. Weak now, barely functional. Another push, a spike of pain. Hebert slips to the small of my back. Left hand coiled around the strap, I jerk it hard against my ribs. Hebert’s head pulls up an inch.
I scream from effort, teeth grinding, muscles straining, body taught and taxed.
Hebert scrambles backward with his boots. It gives me a little leverage. I take another step.
The sniper lays a bullet right beside us. There’s no cover here. No hope if my body fails. Our erratic movements must be the only thing saving us.
Right hand down for balance, left burning with the burden of Hebert’s weight. I hold on with everything I’ve got left and duck-walk two more steps.
We’ll never get to the vehicles.
“Workman …” Hebert moans, his voice borders on delirium.
It propels me forward. Two more duck-steps, hand slapping for purchase on the hot asphalt.
Fourth down. Goal to go. Carry the load. When the chips were down, I always wanted the ball. I knew I could break through the line and get that score, even if it meant dragging linebackers with me.
Desperate now, I pull Hebert along. My head’s down so low, my Kevlar helmet scrapes the ground with every forward surge. From between my legs, I can see we’re leaving splatters of blood in our wake from both our wounds.
The sniper takes another shot. Not even close this time, but the sound of the bullet passing sends a sudden bolt of energy through my muscles. It carries us another two or three yards, but then my right knee fails and we go down again. Kneecap on asphalt, I push up to get us going again. My knee comes up an inch … two.
Come on. Come on. Come on.
Ping! A bullet hits the sidewalk to our left.
My knee gives out again, and this time I go down hard. Only my right hand prevents a sagging face-first belly flop onto the asphalt.
I raise my head to see how far we’ve got to go. Bad move. The sudden change of perspective sends my stomach into a death spiral. Sweat pours off my brow, stinging my eyes. Vision blurs. Stomach spasms and I heave up another mouthful of bile.
I try to rise, but my stomach betrays me. I vomit and gasp. Strength fading, my vision tinged with fuzzy black edges, I start to run empty on hope.
You cannot fail this man.
I will not fail this man.
Get through the line. How’d I always do that? Pump your legs, they are your engine. Never let them stop.
I drop my head with no idea how far I am from the vehicles. One … two … three … I piston my legs, my knees jerk off the ground and we’re up and moving. One step, another. I drag Hebert forward.
The sniper’s found the range. A bullet embeds in the asphalt right next to me. I lurch crazily, changing directions. I used to be good at that. In the open field, I’d zig and zag and drive the defense crazy. Now, my life depends on it. So does Hebert’s.
Another crack. Will this ever end? I zig wildly, shambling, staggering sideways then forward. I feel warmth on my back. What is that?
Hebert’s blood.
Holy shit, keep going.
I want to call for help, but I have no breath for it. Besides, nobody will hear; we’re too far away and the gunfire is simply too overwhelming. Back at the house, I can hear the Humvee’s SAW gunner laying down long, uncontrolled bursts of fire. He’s a transport guy and doesn’t know how to use his weapon like we do.
Hebert tries to say something, but only a strangled gurgle comes out. He suddenly gets heavier. Looking between my legs, I see his hands dragging limply by his sides. He feels like deadweight.
I pull him along, half dragging, half carrying him on my back. Knees are shot, calves succumb to the strain. Right hand forward, for balance at first, now my fingers claw for purchase on the asphalt. I drag us forward on my fingernails.
Keep those pistons moving!
We shuffle forward. Bullets whine past. I puke and pull, gasp and gag as rivers of sweat waterfall off my downturned face. My body feels like rubber. Hebert doesn’t move. His body goes slack against mine.
Oh Jesus, don’t let him be dead. Don’t let my brother go.
My heart’s an open wound, bleeding, beating, pain-wracked and crazed.
Love.
The bond between us like a sword gutting me out.
“Hebert? HEBERT?”
There’s no answer to my anguished cry.