Matterhorn: a novel of the Vietnam War

by Karl Marlantes

  “That’s what the mob say about sellin’ shit to the black man.”

  “So now we gettin’ even.”

  China set his lips tight. “You givin’ all the money to the brothers back home?”

  “Wha’chew think?” Henry’s tone was edgy.

  China didn’t answer. If Henry was, he’d say yes, and if he wasn’t, he’d still say yes. China knew when to drop something that needed dropping.

  He looked down at the weapons, wondering what to do with them. Henry stepped in and rescued him. “Hey, man. It cool. It all cool. You just leave that shit with us and next time one’a the brothers get back to Da Nang we trade it for some good stuff with the Navy and Air Force boys and keep what we get for you next time you out of the bush. You done good, brother. You tryin’.”

  Henry’s patronizing tone increased the humiliation. China put on a cool exterior. “Yeah. OK. I got to get back before I get missed too much.” He turned to Henry’s friends and went through the hand dance. “You brothers stay cool, OK?”

  “Yeah. We be cool. You too, man.”

  China slipped out of the tent into the warm dark. He knew that in many ways he had experienced a serious defeat, and not just his own.

  “You a lifer, Lieutenant Fracasso?” Jancowitz asked blearily. It was now well past midnight and the drinking had been going on for hours.

  Fracasso seemed uncomfortable. Getting drunk with the men the first night wasn’t how he had expected to take over command as a new lieutenant. “What do you think, Corporal Jancowitz?” he replied.

  “Shit, Lieutenant. I don’t know. Call me Janc.” Jancowitz paused a little and Mellas could almost see the thoughts muddling around in his head the way he was muddling the beer around in the can.

  “I really like the Marine Corps,” Fracasso answered carefully. “Right now I think I’ll be staying in.”

  “Goddamn, sir,” Bass hooted. “It’s about fucking time we got a lieutenant with some sense.” Bass hiccupped at just the right moment to make them all laugh.

  “Some lifers are OK,” Jancowitz said with finality, “and some ain’t.”

  “There it is,” said Fredrickson. “I’ll drink to that.”

  “Fuckin’ A right you will, you squid asshole,” Jancowitz returned.

  “I said I would and I will, you jarhead asshole.”

  “And I said that’s fuckin’ A right. Aw, you’re a good fucking squid.” Jancowitz turned, smiled at everyone, and fell over backward, out cold.

  “You see, sir?” Bass said. “No fucking staying power like us lifers.”

  “I guess not, Sergeant Bass,” Fracasso said. He smiled awkwardly.

  They sat in beery silence for a moment. Then the silence was broken by an animal-like scream.

  “Fuckin’ white-ass narco bastard. I’ll kill him. I’ll kill him!”

  One of the groups in front of the large tent erupted in violent movement. Fracasso was instantly running to the fight. Mellas was so sick and weary he barely could get to his feet, but he lurched after Fracasso.

  When Mellas got there a new guy was lying flat on his back, his face bleeding badly. Mellas saw the broken stubs of his two front teeth. Standing over him and breathing very hard was China. He had an E-tool in his hand.

  “Don’t you get enough fucking fighting, China?” Jacobs screamed. He came hurtling across the small circle at China and they both went down to the ground.

  “He got a knife, brother. He got a fucking knife.”

  Mellas broke through the crowd and jumped on Jacobs as hard as he could. He saw Cortell, his high forehead glistening, come in for China and tackle him. Without any sign, both Marines stopped struggling.

  “Anybody bleeding?” Mellas was breathing hard.

  “Aw, shit, sir,” Jacobs said, “I ain’t got a fucking knife.” He opened his hand, pinned to his side by Mellas. It showed a muddy harmonica. Several people laughed.

  “First time I ever heard of assault with a deadly mouth harp,” Mellas said. “You two OK now?”

  “Yeah,” China muttered.

  “He didn’t have to hit him with the fucking E-tool,” Jacobs said.

  “Fuckin’ CID,” said China. He meant the criminal investigation division. “Fuckin’ cunt don’t deserve to be alive.”

  Mellas stood and helped Jacobs to his feet.

  “How do you know he was from CID?” Mellas asked China, ignoring the moans of the man on the ground. Cortell still had his hands on China’s arm.

  “He’s a narc. You can smell the fuckers.”

  “He ask you for some dope or something?” Mellas asked.

  “Yeah. He ask me for dope.”

  “Maybe he just wanted some. Did you ever think of that?”

  “Why he ask me, huh? Why he ask me? A fuckin’ chuck askin’ a splib for dope. Shit, man. I don’t even do that shit.”

  Mellas looked at the figure on the ground and bent down toward him. Fredrickson was already pushing in with his kit to start patching the guy up. If he went to the battalion aid station there’d be shit to pay and the company would lose both China and Jacobs. They were both too good to let go.

  “Hey,” Fredrickson said to the man on the ground. “What’s your name, huh? You hear me?”

  The man groaned a name.

  “You in Bravo Company?” Mellas asked.

  The man nodded.

  “Were you asking about dope?”

  The man shook his head.

  “He’s fuckin’ lying, Lieutenant,” China cried. The man gave a hoarse scream and went for China, but both Fredrickson and Mellas held him down. China had the E-tool positioned for a perfect butt stroke, sharp end toward the man. It probably would have killed him.

  “You’re a fucking fool,” Mellas said quietly to the man on the ground. He heard Bass clearing the Marines out, sending them away from the fight. He turned to Jacobs and China. “I’ll see you two tomorrow about this. Now go sleep it off.”

  Fracasso was standing there with his mouth wide open.

  “Hey, Fracasso, don’t worry about it,” Mellas said. “They’re just letting off steam.”

  He looked at the man on the ground. He had no idea whether the man was CID or not, but one thing was certain: he couldn’t stay in the company. “Hey, look, whatever your name is, I’m going to transfer you out of the company. We can get it done, don’t worry. You just keep quiet and this fight will never get on your record, all right?”

  “I don’t make deals,” the man said, spitting out blood.

  Bass shouted, “What?” He jumped on top of him. “You don’t say fucking things like that to the lieutenant, you understand?” He started beating the man’s head against the ground, rattling his body with his short solid forearms. “You fucking understand?” The man couldn’t answer, because his head was being pounded into the ground.

  Finally Bass stopped and started talking very quietly and very quickly, straddling his chest. “The lieutenant here just offered you two things. Your next promotion, if you want one, and your fucking life, because believe me, you fucking sneaky CID asshole, you’d last about one fucking hour on an operation if you don’t make a deal.”

  “OK,” the man croaked.

  They took him to the supply tent, where Fitch was wearily catching up on paperwork by the light of a single candle. Fitch sent him back to the rear with a letter to Top Seavers the next morning, and that was the last they ever heard of him. Bass punished both Jacobs and China by taking them out of their place in line for KP duty.

  The next day the company moved to a cluster of drooping tents that bordered a secondary landing strip. On the other side of the strip a stream meandered through a broad valley. Vandegrift Combat Base sat in the middle of that valley, between jungled ridges to its east and west. Across the stream on a small hill stood the bunkers and radio antennae of Task Force Oscar. No one in the company knew what Task Force Oscar did. The Marines could hear the sound of the generator that ran the air-conditioning and electric lights. Occasionally an Army helicopter would arrive and a high-ranking Army officer would be met by someone in a jeep to be carried 200 meters to the air-conditioned bunker or the small
officers’ club next to it. Civilians, looking overweight and out of place in Army fatigues without any insignia, came as well; they were probably from AID and the CIA, or journalists afraid to go out in the bush.

  Upstream from Task Force Oscar was a contingent of South Vietnamese troops who apparently also did nothing. The Marines watched them with unconcealed hostility, hating them for sitting around while others died fighting their battles, hating them because their very existence served as part of the lie that had brought American troops to Vietnam in the first place. It was easier to hate a visible part of the lie than it was to hate the liars, who, after all, were their own countrymen: the fat American civilians and rear-area rangers who flitted back and forth with briefcases, sweaty faces, and shiny unused pistols. But the Marines hated them too. Some Marines hated the North Vietnamese Army and some didn’t, but at least the NVA had the Marines’ respect.

  Caught up in the work of getting the tents into shape and cleaning out trenches, the Marines of the company could forget momentarily that they were waiting to be dropped into combat. But whenever a jeep came around the curve of the road a little faster than normal, or a helicopter rushed over their heads, fear and apprehension would return.

  Mellas took the opportunity provided by his new position to ask if he could accompany Fitch to the next battalion briefing. Fitch agreed. The next morning the two of them entered the large tent that also served as a chapel and sat down on folding chairs. Hawke joined them. He had shaved off his mustache, and the sight almost made Mellas wince. It was a clear sign that Hawke was knuckling under to the rear-area chickenshit. Hawke was also wearing shiny new boots. Mellas whistled and pointed at them. Hawke flipped him the bird.

  Major Blakely entered the tent and called everyone to attention. The colonel followed, striding briskly, nodding to Blakely to begin the meeting. Everyone sat down. Mellas looked sideways at Hawke, conveying the disgust he felt at the formal structure of rank and privilege. Hawke chose not to notice.

  Blakely stood with his back to the rough wooden altar and announced the disposition of the companies. Then the staff NCOs began to read out their reports. Some of them seemed nearly illiterate, but others were highly efficient and professional, making suggestions that Mellas could see were crucial to the operation of the battalion rear. Father Riordan, the Navy chaplain, got up and announced the coming services for the various faiths, trying to be one of the boys.

  At his appointed time, Sergeant Major Knapp rose, his slightly rounded body encased in starched jungle utilities, and began his part of the briefing. “Gentlemen, staffNCOs,” he said. “With the entire battalion moving in, the battalion commander feels, and I agree, that we have to be extra careful about our standards of appearance. I expect the staff NCOs to have every man looking like A. J. Squaredaway. We’ve particularly noticed the proliferation of beads, emblems, hangmen’s nooses, and mustaches.” Knapp looked directly at Fitch and Mellas. “Mustaches are a privilege for E-5s or higher. They are to be closely clipped and not extended beyond the outer edge of the upper lip. Now I know we don’t have as many E-5s as we do mustaches”—he chuckled goodhumoredly—“so let’s get that kind of crap cleaned up. I’ll be talking directly to all the staffNCOs as the companies come in.” Knapp smiled, turned to Blakely, and smiled again. “That’s all I have today, sir.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant Major,” Blakely said. Blakely turned to Simpson. “It’s yours, sir.”

  Simpson nodded and walked up to the pulpit to address his command. His sleeves were rolled neatly, and his silver leaves shone on his collar next to the wrinkled red skin of his neck. He reminded Mellas of an irritable gnome. A rednecked gnome with a redneck Georgia accent, trying to act like gentry.

  “Gentlemen, staffNCOs,” he began. “First Battalion’s going to get a goddamned chance to breathe. Then we’ll be pushing off on the next operation. I can’t tell you what that operation will be, but rest assured we’ll be out in the bush either as individual companies, performing our constant task of hitting the enemy, interdicting his supply routes, uncovering his hospitals and ammunition caches, or”—he paused significantly —“we shall be working as we should, one entire massed battalion, kicking the hell out of Charlie in a major strike against his north-south supply lines.” He paused to look at his men. Mellas was slumped in his chair, picking at some jungle rot on his hand. Fitch was writing something in his notebook. Hawke stared vacantly ahead.

  “Gentlemen,” Simpson continued, “we are under the happy circumstances that by tomorrow evening the entire battalion, less one platoon guarding the Khe Gia Bridge, shall be here in Vandegrift Combat Base. I have decided it is a splendid opportunity to hold a formal mess night, a gathering of the officers of the battalion in an evening of fellowship and camaraderie. The mess night will go at eighteen-hundred hours, with cocktails in my quarters, to adjourn to the officers’ mess at nineteen-hundred for a meal that I am sure Master Sergeant Hansen will have prepared to be fit for a king. I expect everyone to look their best.”

  There was silence in the tent. People smiled nervously. The staff sergeants, who weren’t invited, looked the most uncomfortable. Mellas turned to look at Hawke and conspicuously opened his mouth to mime shocked surprise. Hawke ignored him.

  Major Blakely stood up. “I’m sure the officers who will be coming in from the bush, and of course all of us here, are going to be looking forward to Thursday night. I don’t know if the younger officers are aware of it or not, but the tradition of mess night is one that goes back in time to our predecessors, the Royal Marines. To get a chance to do it while experiencing the intensity of combat is something that none of us will ever forget.”

  “He can say that again,” Mellas whispered, looking straight ahead. He expected some reply from Hawke but got none. Hawke had taken out his notebook and was writing in it, an intent expression on his face.

  After the meeting broke up Mellas stopped Hawke just outside the tent. “What the hell happened to your stache?” he asked.

  “It fell off. What the fuck you think happened to it?”

  “You didn’t have to shave your fucking sense of humor off with it.”

  “Look, Mellas, the fucking Three and the colonel are on a big thing about beads, mustaches, hippy hairdos, and hangman nooses, so everyone in battalion had to shave. I’m in the battalion. Remember?”

  Mellas’s anger at the colonel flashed to the surface. “What’s the fucking point? It’s one small thing these guys can do that gives them some kind of pride, and these rear-area chickenshit fucks just take it away from them.”

  “Look, smart guy,” Hawke said, “you push the colonel and the Three too hard and you’re going to get into trouble. They’re already just about as pissed as they can get.”

  “What they got to be pissed about?”

  “Simpson went on record—more than once—about Bravo Company’s objectives. He had to eat crow every time, in front of half the officers in the regiment, because of Bravo Company.”

  “He’s the one that laid on the asinine fucking demands.”

  “That’s beside the point, and you’re smart enough to know it. The point is the colonel’s been passed over for bird colonel once already. This battalion is his last fucking chance. If he doesn’t make it, it’ll be Bravo Company’s fault. The Three is just a younger, smarter version of Simpson, and he isn’t above making a few sacrifices to further his career either. And I don’t mean personal sacrifices.”

  “So they’re all playing politics. Nothing new to me.”

  “No, by God, I’ll bet it isn’t.”

  The two of them stood there facing off.

  “I’m trying to tell you, don’t fuck around with the guy,” Hawke said. “First Battalion isn’t high on Mulvaney’s list right now, and Simpson thinks Bravo Company’s the reason. You guys are going to make or break his career as far as he’s concerned.”

  “Fuck him. I’ll do anything in my power to keep that cocksucker from getting promoted.” Mellas started to walk away.

  Hawke grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around. “You listen to me, you
hotshot Ivy League piece of shit. I don’t give a goddamn what you do to yourself, but you’re not going to fuck up the kids in this company. Those are my fucking guys and I’ll be goddamned if you or anyone else is going to fuck them up because of some personal vendetta. I don’t give a shit how justified you think it is. I’ve walked a fuckload more shitty operations under that guy than you have.” Hawke was breathing hard. “You just get one thing straight, Mr. Politician: the colonel controls the helicopters.”

  Hawke released Mellas’s shirt. His hands were shaking. Mellas backed away, frightened. They stood there looking at each other, breathing hard. Mellas realized how close they’d come to a real fight, how he’d developed a hair-trigger temper. He could see that Hawke felt bad, too. Mellas wanted to reach out and touch him, say he’d been an ass. He couldn’t bear the thought of Hawke not being his friend any more. The reference to his education and aspirations was especially hurtful. “I’ll talk to Jim,” Mellas said. “We’ll clean up. I didn’t mean to be an asshole about it.”