David Bellavia Quotes

It's important to have different perspectives, and journalism supports that. Today, everyone has an opinion about everything. COVID-19 happens, and suddenly we're all research specialists posting our findings on Facebook or wherever. What we don't do is properly consider the sources of our material, our "facts." Everyone responds emotionally to everything. We paint millennials in a bad light: the iGeneration is awful; but the truth is that my parents' generation thought the same things about us. We were couch potatoes; we lived in our parents' basements until we were twenty-five. Then the Twin Towers fell.
Every generation is going to be tested. And some people are going to answer the call. Fortunately, I believe that many liberals shoot as straight as conservatives. I served with a lot of guys who hated George W. Bush and his reasons for taking us to war. Now they didn't vote for President Trump. But under fire, they saved my life and they made sure I came home. Those guys are my family. I love them to death. We argue about politics every single day, but we also see beyond that.

I found that in the worst part of humanity, there's like this... it's just like God's grace just shows up. You actually feel the presence of God in the worst situation possible. And not just Americans, but the enemy. The enemy is doing beautiful things for each other because they're in it together. It doesn't make me want to stop shooting, but it makes me respect the hell out of them, and it changes my life forever, too. Because we're not fighting storm troopers, and we're not fighting a bunch of yahoos. We're fighting people that are into their cause, believe in their cause, and will die for their cause.

"Fuck the photos! Fuck shaving!" I hear First Sergeant Smith scream to Captain Walter. Sergeant Major Bohn is with them now. He nods his head. Smith is still livid, "All they want is fucking food, sir. Enough of the bullshit. They don't know what these kids have been through." Before Doug Walter arrived to lead A Company, First Sergeant Peter Smith became the acting commander. During a time of great stress, with his company reeling from all the tragic losses, Smith became a steady presence and brought his company to fight only fifteen minutes after losing Sean Sims. General Batiste is not far away, talking with another engineer. Unless he's as deaf as we are, he can't possibly miss what's going on. He ignores it.
Wow. This is awesome. First Sergeant Smith is about to snap. Our leadership is fighting for us. But they lose. We are ordered to shave and try to clean up as best we can.

The Ramrods were part of the legendary 1st Infantry Division. Movies have been made on the Big Red One for its actions on D-Day and through Europe during World War II. The Fighting First fought in nearly every major American battle of World War I; it saw combat for five years in Vietnam before being forward deployed to Germany to face the Warsaw Pact/Soviet threat during the final decades of the Cold War. The Big Red One is the backbone of the American infantry. These days, it is sometimes overshadowed by the airborne divisions in the popular press. The 1st Infantry Division, with the Ramrods at the top of the spear, has won every battle it has fought since 1918.

Honor. What an overused word. It's an abstraction. Who can define it? All year in Iraq, I've stood with my men. If they had to fill sandbags until three in the morning, I'd be out there in the dirt and mud with them. I would never give an order, then go relax as they worked. My example is all I have as a noncommissioned officer. I take pride in that. That is my honor. I've always told my men not to be afraid in combat. When the bullets start flying, they need to man-up and dish it back tenfold. How many times have I drilled this into them? Perhaps telling them to be unafraid is unrealistic. We're all human. Fear walks with us in every battle. Yet we cannot allow fear to dictate who we are and how we act. That is another essential element of honor.

"Into the Hot Zone," the article Mick Ware writes about that night, is Time magazine's cover story less than two weeks later. I earn a Silver Star. But all I hear for ten years is, "Bullshit. I don't believe it. That didn't happen." Then I get a call from the military paper Stars and Stripes. "Hey, you're nominated for the Medal of Honor, did you know that? I hear there's a videotape. Do you have a comment? I'm immediately on the defensive. No one who's served in Iraq has received the US Armed Forces' highest military decoration, except posthumously. "What's on the tape? How did you find out?" The Army's trying to tell me that I'm getting the Medal of Honor, and I'm acting like they're trying to put me in jail. Turns out Ware sold a documentary to HBO. He filmed the entire firefight. Honestly, Ware's anti-war and pro-freedom for the press to tell the truth, but he's got the biggest balls of anyone I've ever met in my life. He was right there the whole time. Because of Michael Ware, everything is corroborated. He was recording the fight the entire time.

I never really thought about legacy when I was in a fight. A legacy is what old men think about when they're dying. But now I realize how important that legacy is.

We have business on the battlefield, but when that's over, you look back and say, "I hope every person in our country can see a stranger as important as themselves." If you're willing to do things for them, I just think that's the meaning of life. I'm not going to get thanked, you're not going to know my name, you're not going to pay me, and I will still do it. The closest thing I've ever seen to God is when you see people sacrifice knowingly without any concern for themselves.

The area around us suddenly erupts with grenades and machine-gun fire. Those shells landed near some Marines, who have finally reached our area. It is about time they get on-line with us. Then again, it is a mixed blessing to have them around. They don't take kindly to the 25mm incoming. Their response sends us diving for cover behind our tracks as .50-caliber machine-gun fire stitches across our street. Rodriguez gets on the radio. The Marines are not apologetic. We are told that they will return any and all incoming fire, friendly or otherwise.

Today is my birthday. I'm twenty-nine. It's November 10, 2004. I'm a staff sergeant with 2nd Battalion, 2nd Infantry Regiment, stationed in Fallujah, Iraq. I'm near the end of a thirty-six-month "all others" tour away from my family, currently deployed to Iraq in support of Operation Iraqi Freedom. Fallujah had been abandoned for six months when we arrived in the late fall of 2004. During that time, four thousand to six thousand enemy insurgents have entrenched, preparing their defenses for our arrival. Bodies are all over the street, festering bacteria. Within a matter of days of our arrival, we've all suffered strep throat, fevers, and diarrhea. It's horrible. We engage in close-quarters combat, within a deadly two-foot radius. The enemy is a mix of highly skilled professionals and amateurs who fight with passion. We never know what we're going to encounter. I'm not bothered by fear. I'm fueled by it.

The details vary from war to war, but no matter the epoch, the camaraderie remains. It's a closeness no civilian will ever really understand.

I move along the roof to look over toward the northwest. A solitary figure stands in the street. He's cloaked in shadows, but I can see his outline, rigid and tall. He begins to chant. A surge of terror streaks up my spine. His voice is determined and full of passion. This one's a believer.
I wonder if you're ready to die.
He steps out of the shadows and into the orange dawn's light. His stride is measured and proud. He repeats his chant. His right arm holds a belt-fed machine gun. The ammunition is wound around his left arm, Rambo-style. He curls his fingers and beckons us to bring it on. We stare at him, stunned. He takes no cover. He seeks no protection. He strides through the middle of the street, his machine gun ready. He acts as if it weighs nothing. What is this man doing? He is begging to be shot. What sort of man throws his life away ike this? Up until now, I've had little but contempt for our enemy. Now as I watch this man, I have to respect him. He is a warrior, a man who believes that his cause has value and is worth his life. We have that much in common. But still he must die.

For now, I look forward to the time when Evan and his younger brother can play together. I see them in the backyard, both clad in boy-sized desert camo, low-crawling through the grass as they ambush neighborhood kids, playing the bad guys, and save the day. Each attack executed to the pinnacle of absolute doctrinal perfection, a perfection that only a well-rehearsed combat element can unleash. Evan cooks off the pine-cone grenade as his brother lays down plunging suppressive fire. Each boy will have his own Bellavia nametape on his chest. Each face camouflaged in tiger stripes. Evan, after all, means "Little warrior." As for my youngest son, Aiden, he carries the middle name of an unsung but still great American hero: Edward Iwan. Aiden Edward Bellavia. May he grow to be half the patriot of his namesake.

The only way to bridge the divide is if everyone realizes that we all have skin in the game. Everyone has to serve. Does that means they have to be in the military, that we should reinstate the draft? No. We all have to do something that's about doing something for someone other than ourselves. And we should realize that as soldiers, as warriors, we swore an oath of allegiance to a document, to the US Constitution. We were there protecting a document and what that document represents. We chose to go be uncomfortable so that others could remain in comfort. We didn't do it for our careers or our bottom line.

A block away, machine guns echo through the night. AK-47s bark. M4s beat a response. The firefight grows.