Matterhorn: a novel of the Vietnam War

by Karl Marlantes

  The shelling continued for fifteen minutes. Just fifteen minutes. Then it stopped.

  Mellas waited two minutes. He peered over the edge of the crater and then got up to check the damage. He found the senior squid already out patching someone up. Goodwin reported two more killed: they’d both been in the same hole. Otherwise, there were only minor shrapnel wounds.

  Mellas walked back to Fitch’s hole. Relsnik looked up, his face working. Pallack was looking away.

  “What is it?”

  Fitch broke the silence. “Bass is dead,” he said quickly. As if he were trying to atone for this terse announcement, he added, “We don’t have enough effectives to cover both hills. As soon as we get the wounded off of Matterhorn, I’m pulling One and Three back here.”

  It took Mellas a moment to register both pieces of information. Even then his next question was automatic. It was all he could say to fill the emptiness.

  “How?” he asked numbly.

  “Shrapnel. He bled to death.”

  Mellas turned around and walked back to the edge of the lines facing Matterhorn. It was quiet. Matterhorn floated serenely above the fog. He saw Bass on Matterhorn just weeks earlier, teaching him, joking with him, bitching to him. Bass wrapping him in a blanket one day after a patrol when he was so cold he couldn’t stop shivering. Fixing a cup of coffee. Talking about home. The Corps. Bass. Dead. On this fucking wasted piece of earth.

  Goodwin came up behind Mellas and put a hand on his helmet and rocked it back and forth. He didn’t say anything.

  “Thanks, Scar,” Mellas finally said.

  Mellas’s throat ached. Tears crowded close behind his eyelids. But the ache was never released and the tears never broke through. Emptiness filled his soul.

  “Hey!” someone shouted on the south side of the perimeter. “Here come the birds.”

  Out of the fog to the south, a single CH-46 climbed upward toward the zone on Matterhorn. Someone on Matterhorn popped a red smoke grenade. The smoke spread slowly through the air, like blood in water.

  Lazy puffs of darker smoke curled around the chopper as it came in—more mortar rounds.

  Leaving the radios, Mellas picked up Fitch’s field glasses and perched on a small mound. He watched Jackson standing all alone in the middle of the zone, directing the chopper with hand signals, the radio on his back, while mortar shells burst around him. With Fracasso and Bass both gone, Jackson took charge. There had been no orders and no questions.

  Mellas watched the chopper settle in. Crewmen piled out while the Marines from Bravo Company ran up, carrying the wounded in any way they could manage, and throwing them into the tailgate. While crew members pulled the bodies forward, the Marines continued to run into and out of the bird with more dead and wounded. Then the chopper lifted, beating the air, as Marines ran from it and scattered for shelter. A figure appeared at the closing tailgate, hesitated a moment, then jumped out into space and tumbled to the ground. It looked like Jacobs. The wry thought entered Mellas’s head that Jacobs had probably stuttered too badly to get the pilot to stay on the ground, but then he felt bad for having such a thought. He watched as Jacobs lay there for a second; then someone darted out into the exploding mortar rounds and tugged on him. Then they both were up and running for cover.

  “Fucking Jake, man,” Mellas muttered out loud. “He actually jumped back into this shit.”

  He watched Jackson calmly direct another chopper in. Then the clouds closed out the zone and he could see no more.

  A third chopper came straining up the south side of Helicopter Hill. Everyone listened to its progress. Pallack was talking to the pilot on the radio, and the senior squid was preparing the previous day’s wounded for evacuation. Two of the five original emergency cases were still alive. One of them was Merritt, still saying he wasn’t ever going to forget this. Sheller said he wouldn’t either. Sheller and the corpsmen from Second Platoon put Merritt’s foul-smelling body on a poncho strung between two sticks and carried him down to a torn piece of flat earth on the east side of the hill, away from the automatic weapons fire, to wait for the chopper.

  Mellas watched the chopper emerge from the fog. Pallack popped a yellow smoke and the mortar shells once again started falling on Helicopter Hill.

  The pilot was talking to Pallack in a calm, steady voice. “OK, son. Where are they shooting from? I know where they’re shooting at. Over.”

  “The finger just to our north, sir. Also tubes to d’ northwest and due west just about on d’ border. Over.”

  “OK, son. I’ll bring her in from the southeast. You’re sure that fucking hole is big enough to get me in? Over.”

  “Yes, sir. I walked right across it. It’s a nice big flat space. Over.”

  “Nice big flat ain’t helping me much. How about some numbers? Over.”

  “One nice big flat spot, sir,” Pallack said. “Over.”

  “I ain’t in the fucking mood for kidding around. Over.”

  Pallack didn’t want to tell the pilot how small the zone was; he was afraid the pilot would turn around and not try it.

  “Goddamn it, son, now I know you think I’m going to fly away if it’s too small, but so help me, if you don’t tell how big a spot you’ve got there, I am turning this fucking machine around. Right now. Over.”

  Pallack hesitated. “Ten meters, sir. But d’ere’s no fucking wind. Over.”

  “Shit.” The word was muttered, not intended to go over the air. Nevertheless the chopper kept coming in. Mellas could see the pilot, a large overweight man, probably a field-grade officer, hands moving deftly at the controls, large sweating face packed into the narrow plastic helmet. Mellas couldn’t help thinking of Santa Claus.

  By now small arms fire from the finger to the north could be heard crackling through the air above the landing zone; the chopper was flying straight into it. A second volley of tubing sounded through the fog, and everyone who was waiting for the chopper flattened out against the mud. More shells exploded on the hill.

  Sheller was sitting next to his wounded men, rubbing his face. Ridlow, still chalky white and with clammy sweat on his face, was bantering about whether or not to leave his .44 Magnum with Goodwin, but he and Goodwin were both worried. Ridlow had passed out twice from loss of blood.

  The pilot started talking as if to keep his own mind off the danger. “Normally I wouldn’t do this, son, but I was held up by some wild-ass redneck staff sergeant right outside Delta Med who told me to drop off a huss for you guys when I went in or he’d shoot me out of the fucking sky.” The pilot laughed. “You know that character? Over.”

  “Yeah. It’s d’ gunny,” Pallack said. “He would, too, sir,” he added. “You’re much better off with us. Over.”

  “That’s what I figured, son.” The radio lapsed into static.

  The fire intensified, but the bird kept coming in a slow, straight, exposed approach. More mortar rounds hit the hill behind the backs of the evacuation party. The bird loomed up on them out of the fog, its blades whapping and pounding, its turbines screaming. Suddenly there was chaos as the bird shuddered, hovering above the tiny level space on the side of the hill, its blades barely missing the earth on the uphill side. Mellas saw that bullets had perforated the clear canopy around the pilot. The copilot was slumped over, held up only by his seat belt, his plastic helmet shattered and broken.

  The chopper hit the deck and the crew chief started throwing out bags as Sheller and Fredrickson, with the help of others, shoved the critically wounded into the belly of the bird. In seconds the chopper was moving and the kids on the ground were diving for holes, not caring what was in the bags. The next salvo came just as the chopper started curving away, gaining speed rapidly as it moved with gravity, sliding southward toward the valley. A hand poked out of one of the chopper’s broken portholes. It held a Smith & Wesson .44 that barked out six heavy shots at the north finger.

  Mellas lifted his head from the earth. He darted down to the satchels, hollering for help, and began dragging them up the hill to the bunkers. Inside the bags were several cases of IV fluid,
several cases of machine-gun ammunition, fifteen gallons of water, a case of hand grenades, and, in a Marine seabag stuffed with melting ice, two cases of Coca-Cola.

  “D’ fucking gunny, man,” Pallack said.

  First and Third Platoons filed back onto Helicopter Hill three hours later, having had to walk at the pace of the wounded for whom there hadn’t been room on the medevac birds. Connolly had Vancouver’s sword. He walked up to the CP and handed it to Mellas.

  “What the fuck am I supposed to do with it, Conman?” Mellas asked, feeling its weight.

  “I don’t know.” Connolly looked out into the fog. “All I know is if it went back with Vancouver, someone who didn’t deserve it would take it. At least you could trade it for something.”

  “That doesn’t seem right,” Mellas said. “Maybe we ought to send it home to his father,” he added lamely.

  “What father?” Connolly said. “He wouldn’t want that, sir. What you think a fucking Canadian is doing in an American war if he had a home and a father he wanted to go back to?”

  Connolly sat down in the mud and stared past Mellas, across at Matterhorn. “He was my fucking brother, sir.” He started crying. Mellas looked at the sword, unable to speak. Snot and tears were running over Connolly’s mouth and chin. He kept wiping them away with his filthy hand, smearing everything all together. He looked up at Mellas. “He was my fucking brother.”

  Mellas put the sword in the CP bunker. Then he walked down to First Platoon’s position and took over the platoon without even asking Fitch.

  There were now fifteen bodies stacked on top of Helicopter Hill, stiff with rigor mortis, several of them mutilated by a mortar shell that had exploded in their midst. Goodwin’s platoon had lost fifteen: eight killed and seven medevaced. The other wounded of his platoon stayed behind and were still capable of fighting. Kendall had lost fourteen: six killed and eight medevaced, with ten others left behind functioning with minor wounds. First Platoon had twenty left out of forty-two—the addition of Mellas made it twenty-one. Of those, half had minor wounds but were still able to fight. With the CP group and the mortarmen, that left ninety-seven effectives in the company. Fifteen gallons of water divided by ninety-seven was roughly a pint and a quarter for each Marine. Everyone also got half a can of Coke.

  The time was only 1015.

  They redistributed water, food, and ammunition from the dead, including the NVA. Some Marines kept the NVA water in separate canteens from their own. Others just dumped the two together. It made little difference. Machine gunners met and split their remaining rounds evenly.

  All day they sat or stood in their holes, staring at the fog. Every so often someone would shout “Tubing!” and they would squeeze down, knees up to their helmets, waiting for the sounds that would let them know they weren’t the ones who were hit.

  By evening, as a result of the hammering by the NVA mortars, Mellas’s mind was running out of control. At some point he’d taken a second flak jacket off a dead body and put it on over his own. His mind wouldn’t stop calculating: if one flak jacket will take fifty percent of the flak, then two will take seventy-five percent. If I wear three, that will be eighty-seven and a half percent, and four will be ninety-three and three-quarters percent. He would keep this up until his fogged mind could divide no further; then, for some reason, he would start up again. If one will block half, then two will block three-quarters . . . He tried to shut the calculations off. He walked from hole to hole talking to people. But then he would hear the tubing, and he would know more shells were on their way. He would scramble for the nearest hole and once again go through the numbers, waiting for the explosions. He remembered a lecture about how mortars are fairly ineffective against troops that are dug in. But the lecturer hadn’t mentioned the psychological effect on the troops.

  At dusk Fitch called an actuals meeting in the bunker. Kendall arrived before the others, very subdued. Word about his fuckup had spread all over the hill. He looked guiltily at Relsnik and Pallack and mumbled a greeting to Fitch. He sat down in the darkness, his arms holding his knees close to his chest, to wait for the others to arrive.

  “How’re you doing?” Fitch asked.

  “OK, Skipper.”

  “The platoon?”

  “A few more shrapnel wounds, nothing serious. They’re tired. Real thirsty. We haven’t slept in two nights.”

  “No one else has either,” Fitch said, sighing.

  “I didn’t mean it that way, Skipper,” Kendall said.

  “Sure, I know.” Fitch smiled. “Hey, I really know. Don’t worry about it.”

  They were both silent. They could hear one of the listening posts checking out the radio before leaving the lines. “Bravo One, Bravo One, this is Milford. Comm check. Over.” Since Milford was a town in Connecticut, the speaker was one of First Platoon’s LPs.

  “I got you Loco Cocoa, Milford.” This was Jackson’s voice, saying he could hear the transmission loud and clear. “Hey, the actual says he wants to talk to you before you head out. Over.”

  “Roger One. He coming down here? Over.”

  “Wait one.” There was a pause. “That’s affirmed. He says he’ll be there in zero three. Over.”

  “Milford out,” the voice acknowledged.

  Fitch chuckled. Kendall knew that Fitch was trying to raise his spirits. “Mellas thought he wanted to be the Five,” Fitch said, “but I think he’s much happier as Bravo One Actual. He’d rather be checking out his LP than up here at the actuals meeting.”

  Kendall merely nodded. His world was in his memory. Bass waving his ornately carved stick, shouting, trying to organize the top of the hill, doing Kendall’s job. Fracasso’s body being tossed onto the helicopter. The quiet condemnation of his platoon as he led them back to Helicopter Hill.

  The awkward silence was broken when Goodwin crawled in through the doorway.

  “It’s colder than a well-digger’s ass in January,” he said. “Why I left my fucking pack behind I’ll never fucking know. Some dumb-assed idea from some fucked-up officer.”

  “Hey, Scar,” Pallack said. “You get your third Purple Heart today?”

  “You ain’t shitting, Jack.” Scar crawled over to Pallack and pulled down his filthy collar. “Look at that. A wound, right? A fucking shrapnel wound, right in the neck. I got the squid writing me up right now. That’s it, you sorry motherfuckers.” He paused for effect. “Okinawa.”

  “I can’t see no fucking wound, Scar,” Pallack said.

  “That’s because it’s fucking dark in here, Jack.”

  “You really going to take a third Heart for that, Scar?” Relsnik asked. “And go back to Okinawa?”

  “You’re fuckin’ A right. You can’t have no nervous wreck leading the troops.”

  “How’s the platoon?” Fitch broke in finally.

  “Shit, Jack. How do you think?”

  Fitch didn’t answer.

  “They’re all right,” Goodwin finally said. “We’re going to freeze our fucking nuts off tonight, though.”

  “You just hope that’s all that happens.” Fitch turned to Pallack. “See if Mellas is on his way up here yet.”

  Sheller crawled in, and they went back to bantering about Scar’s Purple Hearts until Mellas crawled through the narrow trench that led into the bunker.

  It felt warm and very secure compared with once again sitting down on the lines with the platoon.

  “Any word on relief?” Mellas asked before he had even settled into position. He pulled his muddy boots and legs up underneath him and pushed his back against the musty earth of the bunker.

  “Alpha and Charlie were supposed to be dropped into the valley this afternoon,” Fitch said. “But the weather fucked it up. Maybe tomorrow morning. They say they’re doing everything they can. Meanwhile, we just have to hold the hill. They weren’t too happy about us abandoning Matterhorn.”

  “I didn’t see any of them up there,” Mellas said through clenched teeth.

  “No one’s blaming us,” Fitch said quickly. “At least not over the radio. I told them we didn’t have enough men to hold Matterhorn and we had the stretcher cases
to protect here and a smaller perimeter.”

  “So what’s he doing about it, Jack?” Goodwin asked. “If the fucking fog don’t lift we’ll be out of Hotel Twenty tomorrow night.”

  “Hotel Twenty?” Fitch asked. “Get the fuck back. Where’d you pick that up?”

  “Ain’t you been to fucking school, Jack? H two O. That’s water. You remember the stuff. You used to drink it back in the world. Turn a little fucking handle in the kitchen and it was sort of clear and had funny bubbles in it.”

  “And you didn’t have to fuck it up with halazone,” Mellas said.

  “Naw, d’fucking government fucked it up for you at d’plant,” Pallack put in.

  They laughed for a moment and then became quiet. Sheller broke the silence. “I’ve got to have water for the wounded in a safe place where I can get to it. It helps keep people from going into shock.”