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" "I remember working with the sergeant major that day. I had an M4 with all sorts of high-tech shit hanging off its rails. A hundred and fifty meters ahead of us, something piqued the sergeant major's interest. Faulkenberg took off and hobbled a ways, stopped, and fired a single shot. I was so intimidated by him, I didn't dare ask if he hit anything. He looked at me and scrunched his lips up in a pseudo-smile. "Another day in paradise, son."
After that fight, Sergeant Major Faulkenberg gave me the same look he gives me now. I had stood with him as the bullets smacked around us, and he respected that. Now, twenty minutes before we roll into the fight of our lives, I can see he trusts me with his soldiers. No words are said. I'd do anything for this man, and he knows it. I'd kill for him, and he knows that, too. I'd follow him anywhere because I trust him to always do the right thing. Few men are leaders. Even fewer are role models. Faulkenberg is both. We will fight like demons for him today.
David Gregory Bellavia (born November 10, 1975) is a former United States Army soldier who was awarded the Medal of Honor for his actions during the Second Battle of Fallujah. Bellavia has also received the Bronze Star Medal, two Army Commendation Medals, two Army Achievement Medals, and the New York State Conspicuous Service Cross. In 2005, Bellavia was inducted into the New York Veterans' Hall of Fame. He has subsequently been involved with politics in Western New York State. Upon being awarded the Medal of Honor on June 25, 2019, Bellavia became the first, and currently only living recipient of the Medal of Honor for service during the Iraq War.
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I believe that peer pressure is an incredible thing. We always seem to talk about it in negative ways. But sometimes peer pressure gets you through difficult times because it's impossible to take a step backward when everyone else is moving forward. The easiest job in the world is to lead. The most difficult job is to follow. You have to trust that guy out in front. You have to trust their guidance and do what it takes to not be the weakest link in the chain.
"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.
If I don't go in, they'll have won. How many times have we heard that American soldiers rely on firepower and technology because they lack courage? How many times has our enemy said that man-for-man, they can beat us? That's nothing new. The Germans and Japanese said the same thing in World War II. Inside that house, I surrendered my honor and mny manhood. Now I have to take both back, or live with the fact that they are right about me. That is unacceptable. I rant and swear with abandon. Down the street, I see Sergeant Knapp taking care of my men like they are his little brothers. I want to cry I am so proud. I love these kids in a way I will never be able to express. I see their faces. One by one. John Ruiz, Lucas Abernathy, Piotr Sucholas, Alex Stuckert, Victor Santos, Brett Pulley, Tristan Maxfield- they deserve more from me. I stop pacing and let out a deep, rattling sigh. Only Ware remains near me on the street. Everyone else has moved away. Perhaps my display has convinced them I've gone mad. But Ware is still here. The journalist. Our platoon's unofficial intel officer. We stare intently at each other. "Fuck it," I say. "Fuck it," agrees Ware. That settles it. I'm going back in.