Matterhorn: a novel of the Vietnam War

by Karl Marlantes

  The pilot, a warrant officer about Mellas’s age, looked at him. “No,” he said puzzled. “Why? You guys out?”

  “Well, no,” Mellas lied. “Just wondered if maybe they threw on something.”

  The pilot looked around him. He seemed excited about being so far out in the bush and helping out another service. “Jesus, you guys smell,” he said with a smile. “You been here long?”

  “No,” Fitch said. “We just got in this morning.” He looked at Mellas and Hawke, obviously wondering what could have gone wrong with the resupply.

  “This morning?” The pilot looked at Mellas. “Whatever possessed you people to hump down here at night?”

  Mellas’s chin was trembling. “We thought we’d avoid the heat,” he managed to choke out. He turned and walked away.

  “What’s with him?” the pilot asked Fitch and Hawke.

  “He’s a little tired,” Hawke said. “Had point all night. Don’t take it personally.”

  “Sure. I can understand that.”

  “Say,” Hawke added, “if you could do us another favor, we’d really appreciate a huss.”

  “Name it. I got to wait around while the general talks to your guys in Dong Ha. Glad to do something.”

  “Well, we got some guys that are due to go on R & R, things like that. Then there’s another guy who’s really overdue to go home. The company shouldn’t be carrying him. It’d sure help morale if we could get them out.”

  “Sure. How many you got?”

  “How many can you take?” Hawke asked evenly. “They’re all fairly light.”

  The worst cases of immersion foot hobbled up to the edge of the landing zone. They exchanged their better clothing with those staying behind. By the time they were helped aboard by the crew chief, they looked very bad indeed. Cortell and Jackson struggled up to the side of the slick with Williams. They looked inquiringly at the crew chief and pilot, who were transfixed by the bloated discolored hands wrapped around the pole. The crew chief lost control and gagged but managed not to throw up.

  “If there’s not enough room,” Cortell said, “we could tie him to the skids.”

  “No, it’s not that,” the pilot managed to say, still trying to hold his breath. He waved toward the chopper door. The Marines who were already aboard pulled the body in.

  Corporal Arran carried Pat onto the chopper with him. Pat lay still, his eyes staring blankly, waiting for his handler to fix the hunger and sickness. He tried to lick Arran’s hand.

  The two Vietnamese Kit Carsons walked nervously onto the small zone. Everyone watched them silently. Most of the Marines had forgotten that they existed. The Kit Carsons crawled into the body of the chopper. The Marines on board ignored them.

  Hippy had been waiting with the gun squad in the high grass at the edge of the zone. When the pilot climbed back into the chopper, he knew for certain that he was going home. He turned and handed Young his machine gun, as if exchanging colors. Then he grinned to break the solemnity. “Don’t forget you’re the only chuck left in guns,” he said. “Since you can’t wear a noose, maybe this will help.” He lifted his peace medallion from his neck and handed it to Young.

  He shook hands slowly with Mole. “They’re all yours, Mole. Promise me, no Pancho Villa bullshit. You make sure they keep the fucking ammo in the cans and not all over their chests so it’ll shoot when they need it.” Mole nodded. “You hang in there, Mallory,” Hippy said, and shook his hand, too. Mallory nodded rapidly.

  Jacobs shook Hippy’s hand and then offered to help him out to the chopper. Hippy refused the offer and walked out of the war one step at a time.

  Twenty minutes after the chopper left, the company waded into the river, following Kendall. The clouds had lowered and a steady rain spattered the water. Within an hour they were moving between steep hills whose tops came into and out of view through the clouds. In another hour they were moving between low cliffs that got gradually higher as they moved east toward Sky Cap.

  Late that afternoon, knee-deep in the rushing water, Parker collapsed, his contorted jaw clamping his teeth together. His scream echoed up and down the river between the rocky cliffs.

  Mellas reached Parker before Fredrickson. Cortell was cradling his head out of the water. Parker’s eyes rolled and blood dribbled down his chin from his lacerated tongue. Mellas tore off a branch and stuffed it into Parker’s mouth. By the time Doc Fredrickson got there, the fit seemed to have passed. Parker was sweating heavily, even with the water flowing over his body. “Why didn’t you tell someone you were epileptic?” Fredrickson asked softly.

  Parker just stared at him, “What’s epiletic?”

  Fredrickson looked at Mellas, surprise on his face. He started shaking down his thermometer, his forehead creased with worry. “It ain’t like anything I saw in Field Med,” he said.

  Fitch was on the radio asking what was holding things up. He ordered Kendall to push off, and the column began to move past them. Parker attempted to get up, but Fredrickson pushed him down. His temperature was 105 degrees.

  The senior squid, Sheller, arrived. He, Fredrickson, and Mellas talked quietly where Parker couldn’t hear them. Rain fell steadily, soundless in the river’s roar. The clouds were at the cliff tops. If the whole company went back to the LZ at Checkpoint Echo, it would delay Sky Cap’s opening by a full day. If Fitch sent Parker back with a single platoon, a single platoon might get hit in a canyon going back and a reduced company might get hit in a canyon going forward. They couldn’t get Parker back to Echo before dark anyway, so an evacuation there was problematical before morning. Humping in the dark also increased the risk of injuries. Mellas suggested getting a bird to work its way up the river. Because the canyon walls blocked the PRC-25s line-of-sight transmissions, Relsnik couldn’t contact battalion. Daniels managed to contact a forward air observer on a weather check above the clouds who acted as a relay. The word came back. Flying in a canyon with its erratic winds was risky—a blade could hit a cliff. Unless it was a clear emergency, they wouldn’t risk a chopper and its crew. With malaria, dystenery, and many other tropical diseases, temperatures of 105 were common and not immediately life-threatening. They could medevac Parker when they opened the LZ on 1609.

  Sheller asked, “You think you can hump, Parker?”

  “What the fuck you think?” Parker spat out. “I got a choice?”

  Parker rose shakily to his feet. There was sweat on his face, mixing with the rain. He picked up his pack, shrugged into it, and stepped off into the river.

  “You think he’s faking?” Mellas asked Sheller.

  “You don’t fake a temperature like that and a bloody tongue, sir. I think he’s really sick. I’d turn the company around and medevac him from Echo.”

  “Nevah hoppin,” Fredrickson said.

  “There it is,” said Mellas.

  At dusk Fitch ordered Kendall to climb out of the canyon to find a safe position for the night. It was a difficult, dangerous climb that took two hours. One of Goodwin’s men fell backward, badly bruising a knee, when a root he was holding pulled loose. Everyone breathed with relief that the man’s back wasn’t hurt—he could still carry his own gear.

  At the top, Mellas met Kendall in the dark. He was guiding everyone to his position. “Nice job today, Kendall,” he said.

  Kendall nodded. “Hard to get lost in a fucking canyon,” he said, “even for me.”

  Mellas laughed. He wondered why he had been so hard on Kendall. It wasn’t Kendall’s idea to be out here. Was it such a great failing not to be cut out to be a Marine infantry officer? Maybe in war it was.

  Fog set in. They could hear the steady roar of the river far below them, an ominous and frightening noise because it would muffle the sound of anyone sneaking up on them. It had been their sixth day in a row without food.

  Two hours before midnight, someone from Kendall’s platoon screamed for a corpsman. A kid had suddenly gone into a fit, his temperature shooting dangerously upward. At two in the morning, Parker went into convulsions again. His choked screaming was that of a man no longer in control of his mind. When Fredrickson tried
to take his temperature, Parker continued to jerk his head violently, saying “no” to someone who wasn’t present, spitting out the thermometer. Fredrickson stuck it under his armpit. “One hundred and six, Lieutenant,” Fredrickson said. “That’s outside the body. His brain is cooking.”

  Parker started crying, “I don’t want to die. Not here. Not here. I don’t want to die.”

  Cortell clasped his hands and prayed. “You believe in Jesus, Parker, I know you do,” he said. He poured water on the soaked field dressing that Fredrickson had placed on Parker’s forehead.

  Sheller arrived and looked into Parker’s eyes with a flashlight. “Challand over with Third Platoon’s got the exact same thing,” he said. “It’s nothing I ever seen. We don’t get them cooled down, though, they’ll die.” He looked up at Mellas. “We’ll get an emergency medevac this time for sure. The question is where.”

  Mellas’s mind raced. Here above the canyon they were in jungle with 200-foot trees, and the fog came right to the ground. The canyon had narrowed considerably since Parker’s first episode, but it had been clear of fog. It seemed the only choice. He remembered a wide spot just before Kendall took them off the river. He radioed Fitch.

  Ten minutes later Vancouver was leading the way down to the river. Parker and Challand, the kid from Kendall’s platoon, were both slung in ponchos. Parker kept moaning, so they stuffed part of his shirt in his mouth.

  Mellas and Vancouver emerged from the jungle onto the canyon rim, somewhat ahead of the rest. They were a good forty feet above the river. Mellas’s heart sank. Was the flat area upstream or down? He looked at his watch. Daylight in another hour. It had taken them two hours to make it to the river. He knew he was close, but what if he wasn’t? They could be trapped in the river in the dark and moving in the wrong direction. They’d lose both Parker and Challand. It was his call.

  He huddled over his map, hiding the dim red glow of his flashlight. The breeze made his back cold. He squinted into the dark, trying to identify any terrain feature that would help him make the right choice.

  There was a loud groan and a sound of falling rocks as the litter bearers emerged from the jungle. Jackson came up to him. “Doc says we got to cool Parker off quick, sir. Parker ain’t even making sense anymore.”

  “Get the rope,” Mellas said. “We’ll take him over the edge right here. I think we got to be close to the spot.”

  “Here?”

  “Here, goddamn it. Get some security set up behind us.”

  Jackson put Tilghman, Amarillo, Broyer, and Pollini in an arc behind them to serve as a human trip wire against any NVA who might have zeroed in on their noise. He looped the rope around a tree, and he and Mellas dangled both ends into the darkness of the canyon. Mellas pulled it back up, relieved to find both ends wet. That meant that the first rapeller would reach the bottom safely. It also meant that the river was right next to the cliff, so the wide spot wasn’t here.

  Without being told, Vancouver wrapped the rope around his waist, walked out backward over the edge, and disappeared. Mellas crawled on his stomach, trying to watch Vancouver’s descent in the dark. The rope slackened. Vancouver’s voice floated up. “It ain’t bad, Lieutenant. We even got some rock up out of the water.”

  Three others went over the edge to set up security, two upstream and two down. Then they lowered Parker and Challand to the water. Soon only a very frightened Broyer and Tilghman were left above to provide security where the rope was tied.

  Fredrickson and Cortell undressed Parker except for his boots, leaving only his head out of the water. Challand, his fever having suddenly abated, sat by the river’s edge, shivering uncontrollably. One of the squad mates took off his flak jacket and wrapped his arms around Challand, trying to warm him.

  Mellas sent Vancouver and another kid upstream, and Jackson and another downstream. Jackson returned first. He’d found the wide spot.

  They lifted Parker to the litter and carried him downstream, whistling for Broyer and Tilghman to come down the rope. Mellas told them to pull it down and wait there for Vancouver.

  Mellas slipped and fell in the water three times before they finally reached the wide place. They laid Parker on his back on the rocks. He was fully conscious, the river flowing around him, cooling his body. Cortell knelt beside him.

  “I been scared before,” Parker said, “but I didn’t think it’d be like this.”

  “You be OK. We get a bird in for you. Jesus be with you, brother.”

  Parker looked up at the darkness above him. His eyes closed. Then he reached out, grabbing for anything. Cortell took his hand, squeezing it hard.

  “I don’t want to die here, Cortell. I don’t want to die here.” He started moaning softly.

  Mellas and Fredrickson looked on, the water running across the tops of their boots. Mellas’s throat ached. He screwed up his eyes, forcing the tears back. He’d never watched anyone die.

  “It’ll be OK, Parker,” said Cortell. “Brother, we just baptize you right here on the spot. Jesus wash all you sins away.”

  “I was going to kill the gunny.”

  “That’s OK, Parker, so was I. You didn’t.”

  “I rigged his grenade, but he must have found it. It was only luck I didn’t kill him.”

  “That’s OK.” Cortell was slowly pouring water from his hands onto Parker’s forehead. “We call that grace.”

  “I know I should never done it. That’s why I got this fever.” Parker rolled to his side, his elbow slipping on a loose rock beneath the water. He lunged for Cortell, who helped turn him on his back, cradling his head in the stream. He lay there and began sobbing. “How can I go to hell, Cortell? Forever. How can I? How can it be so fucking bad? Not like this. How can I go to hell?”

  “You ain’t goin’ to hell. That where you been. You just ask Jesus to forgive you.” Cortell gently poured another handful of water onto Parker’s head.

  “I can’t.”

  “Then I will.” Cortell let a third handful of water drain onto Parker’s head. He placed his helmet on Parker’s stomach. Then he bent over the helmet, hands folded, and closed his eyes. “Lord Jesus. Sweet Lord Jesus. You know this man Duane Parker who is about to come to thee. He has been a good man. He has seen some bad times. Now he asks you with all of his heart for you to forgive him so he might come to thee and thy glory. Lord Jesus, I know you hear me, even here in this river. Amen.”

  Cortell took his helmet off Parker’s stomach and placed it on his own head again. He put one hand on Parker’s chest and moved it in a slow rhythm.

  “You know my sister,” Parker said, “she’s a cheerleader—of her high school. She live with our great-aunt now.” Parker was breathing rapidly. “You tell her—you tell her I never much said anything nice to her—but I love her, huh. You tell her, Cortell.”

  “Sure. Don’t worry. She know that.” Cortell started singing a hymn.

  It was one that neither Fredrickson nor Mellas had heard: “Deep river, Lord . . . I want to cross over into campground . . . where all is peace.”

  Mellas filled a hand with water for a drink. But he just looked at it and let the water drain from between his fingers. Then he covered his eyes with his palm, his wet fingers against his forehead, to hide his tears.

  They waited there, looking east for the first light, listening for the sound of a chopper. Just before dawn, Parker went into convulsions and died as the three of them tried to keep him from drowning. Challand was still alive when the medevac bird came up the narrow gorge, fighting the erratic wind currents, the rotar wash spraying water behind it like a hydroplane. It took out two bodies not yet on the planet twenty years, one living and one dead.

  Word came back on the radio later that afternoon that the disease was called cerebral malaria. It was carried by an isolated species of mosquito found only in the mountains, and the usual pills didn’t help against it. The odds were high that others in the company had been bitten as well. Mellas felt shadowed by disease and madness.

  The company made only three and a half kilometers that day. The gentle blue line on the map was a torrent o
n the ground. It ran between steep cliffs and through narrow gorges, and had sudden waterfalls that required the use of ropes. It was the only path to the horseshoe of mountains that cradled its source, one of which a general or a staff officer had named Sky Cap.

  Fitch felt it would be best to climb out of the canyon to set in for the night. Blakely and Simpson disagreed. They had just sat through the fifth regimental staff meeting in a row during which they had to explain why Bravo Company wasn’t where Mulvaney had been told it would be. The order was relayed by an air observer: “There will be no deviations from the line of march for any reason.”

  To leave the canyon and lie about their position would be suicidal. The artillery might assume the company was someplace else and drop rounds on it. Since the company was strung out in the canyon with no way of circling into a defensive position or digging into the rock, Fitch felt he had no choice but to keep moving. At one in the morning, a kid in Kendall’s platoon slipped on a steeply pitched wet slab. There was a thud, a splash, and a suppressed moan. He had fractured his left tibia, and the broken bone was sticking through the skin. Fitch told Relsnik to lose communications, even if the battalion sent an air observer to act as a relay. They would wait for morning.