Page 10 of Hard Corps (Selected Sinners MC 7)

CHAPTER FIVE

Early Winter 2004, Fallujah, Iraq

The Second Battle of Fallujah

I stood and listened to my orders, not wanting to believe we were going back into the very depths of hell that I had barely made it out of alive. Fallujah was not only occupied by insurgents, but had been taken over completely. Operation Phantom Fury was being spearheaded by the United States Marine Corps, with the assistance of a handful of Navy SEALS, and a light offering from the United States Army.

“Sixty-five hundred Marines?” I asked, attempting to understand the complexity of the operation.

“That is correct, Staff Sergeant,” he responded.

“And fifteen hundred from the Army?” I asked.

He nodded his head and continued in a stern tone. “Affirmative. Three six-man SEAL teams, a thousand Iraqi troops, and roughly five thousand British troops. You have reservations about going back into that shit storm, I need to know it now.”

I straightened my stance and barked out my response like the devil dog I was. “No, Sir, I’m ready, willing, and capable.”

“Well, Staff Sergeant Jacob, be advised,” he paused and lifted his chin slightly.

“You are one tough son-of-a-bitch, that’s a given. You command your troops well, and make split-second decisions like no other Marine under my command. But. And this is a big but, son. This battle? I can’t guarantee you much, but I can god damned guarantee you this. This son-of-a-bitch will go down in history as one of the, if not the, worst battle of urban combat in the history of my beloved Marine Corps,” he said.

“Oorah,” I grunted.

He slapped his hand against my shoulder. “Drinking gas and shittin’ fire. You’re one gung ho son-of-a-bitch, Jacob. Wish I had a dozen more just like you.”

Considering the living hell we were going into, I wished he did too.

***

Two days into the operation, and it was already described as the bloodiest battle of the three-year war. Marine commanders were calling it the heaviest urban combat in Marine Corps history. All I cared about was that the forty men under my command were returned home alive and in one piece.

Our convoy was approaching an unoccupied intersection in the southern region of the city. The eerily quiet section of street had concerned me, but as we were almost to our destination, I was preparing to exhale a sigh of relief.

The earth beneath us exploded.

The bomb blast sent the Humvee in front of us ten feet straight into the air. The vehicle I was in, the third vehicle, drove into the void of earth the bomb had left, and the airborne vehicle landed on the hood of ours, crushing it completely.

Deafened by the explosion, I was able to feel the sounds and voices around me, but not quite capable of hearing or comprehending them fully. Realizing if I didn’t make quick decisions and maintain my composure as a non-commissioned officer that I would lose every Marine in my command, I swung the door of the Humvee open and surveyed the damage.

The four men in the damaged Humvee were all alive, but wounded. The blast appeared to be remotely set, and not detonated by pressure, which – at least in this circumstance – was good. As fate would have it, the person with the remote switch detonated the bomb a fraction of a second too late, hitting the rear of the vehicle with the brunt of the blast, dislodging the rear axle, but causing minimal damage to the occupants. If it would have been a pressure device, the front tires would have caused the explosion.

Someone was watching us.

A quick head count assured me that although all of the Marines in the bombed vehicle were wounded, they would live if provided medical attention.

“Blast was late, it was remote. They can see us,” I shouted. “Take cover beside the vehicles”

The intersection had rubble from bombed-out buildings on our right side, and still erect but heavily damaged buildings on our left. There was no doubt the buildings to our left were where the enemy was watching us from, and to protect ourselves, we needed to take cover behind our vehicles.

As the wounded Marines were dragged to cover, we began to riddle the buildings with machine gun fire and grenades.

“Todelli! Take your team across the street and see if you can get a visual,” I shouted as I turned and glanced toward him.

He was covered in blood, but appeared to be willing to follow the commands I had given. As he turned to command his men, I shouted at him again.

“Todelli, are you hit?” I asked.

“Everyone’s hit, Jacob. Shit, you’re hit,” he shouted in return as he waved his free hand toward me.