Matterhorn: a novel of the Vietnam War

by Karl Marlantes

  “I saw someone move in there and I’m going to kill him.”

  Mellas looked at Goodwin, then across at Matterhorn. He exulted in Goodwin’s prowess. He wanted to kill as well, but knew he wasn’t nearly as good a shot and would embarrass himself. Nor did he have Goodwin’s uncanny patience. Mellas didn’t hate the NVA. He wanted to kill the enemy because that was the only way the company would get off the hill, and he wanted to live and go home. He also wanted to kill because a burning anger inside him had no place to go. The people he had hated—the colonel, the politicians, the protesters, bullys who’d shamed him in childhood, little friends who’d taken his toys when he was two—weren’t available, but the NVA soldiers were. At a very deep level, Mellas simply wanted to stand on a body that he had laid low. Watching Goodwin with more than a little envy, he had to admit that he wanted to kill because part of him was thrilled by killing.

  At Vandegrift Combat Base the battalion staff was huddled around several large maps.

  “What do you think, Lieutenant Hawke?” Simpson asked. “You’ve operated all around there.”

  “Like I said yesterday, sir, it’s triple canopy all the way up the ridge and it’s lucky to make three klicks a day, and then they’ll be totally disregarding security.”

  Captain Bainford spoke up. “The AO says the closest place, before the cloud cover socks things in, is Hill 631.” He pointed to a gently sloping hill in the broad valley south of Matterhorn. “That’s only nine klicks from Matterhorn. I can’t believe it would take three days.”

  Hawke exploded. “You can’t believe it because you’ve never fucking been there.”

  Bainford looked hurt and glanced over at Blakely and Simpson. Stevens started looking for something to do.

  “Sorry, Captain Bainford,” Hawke said. “I guess I’m personally invested. I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”

  “That’s OK, Hawke,” the air officer replied, clearly happy to seem magnanimous. “I understand how it is.”

  The fuck you do, Hawke thought. He tried to think of something constructive. Then he realized he could do no more than they could. Neither Blakely nor Simpson had slept much since the attack on Matterhorn, and it showed, particularly in Simpson. They’d worked hard. Supplies had to be detailed and ranked by priority; choppers, trucks, and loading parties had to be coordinated; fixed-wing air support had to be organized and briefed, not just to help Bravo Company but for every insertion of every company in the battalion. The same went for artillery from the 8-inch howitzers on Sherpa to the 105s now around Cam Lo, down to the battalion’s own 81-millimeter mortar platoon. All had to be prepared to move, to be picked up by choppers, to be moved to a new position that had to be secured by infantry, supplied with ammunition, water, and food. They’d done all this. Everything was ready to go, including two additional companies op-conned from Third Battalion that were going to be dropped in to cut off any retreat by the NVA. But they were held up, just as everything else was, waiting at landing zones for the clouds to rise high enough for the pilots to see their way into the mountains.

  Hawke was thinking that if they didn’t get a clear day soon, Bravo Company would be out of water and ammunition and would have to abandon the hill. Then they’d have to fight their way through a regiment. There would be nothing left of them. The colonel had been right, Hawke thought ruefully. There were fucking gooks around Matterhorn.

  Captain Bainford was angry with Hawke. Just because Hawke had been in the jungle with the fucking ground pounders, he acted like God Almighty’s gift to the Marine Corps and treated Bainford like a child. These fucking grunts couldn’t appreciate the burden of being personally responsible for several million dollars’ worth of aircraft.

  Lieutenant Stevens wished he could catch some sleep. For the past forty-eight hours, he’d been standing around answering stupid questions about how far 105s and 155s could shoot. He wondered if they were going to be able to get the two eight-inch guns moved to Eiger along with Golf Battery. Get those eight-inchers in there and they’d shoot the motherfuckers right through the slits in their bunkers. You couldn’t beat an eight-inch for precision. Those poor fucking grunts on that hill, man. Gook eighty-twos for two solid days now.

  Major Blakely was frustrated. He’d put together a perfect operation, and now the fucking weather had closed him out. It was shaping up to be two Marine battalions taking on a gook regiment in a running fight. Too bad Fitch had made the blunder of splitting his forces. And then to pull back to the lower hill. A classic fuckup. They should have been screaming bloody murder to get a regular captain to replace Fitch. Sure, it was a mistake not to blow those bunkers on Matterhorn, but then that was hindsight. At the time, the Cam Lo cordon was a big deal and it had been a nightmare scrambling to keep up with all the changes. They’d been watching that combined operation with the ARVNs right up to the White House. Vietnamization. Horseshit. If Blakely were at the Pentagon, there’d be no bullshitting about the ARVNs being able to take on the NVA or this pacification crap. You had to get in there and scrap—with American firepower and guts. That was the only way to do it. He smiled to himself. Grab them by the balls and their hearts and minds will follow. Whoever had said that had been there.

  Lieutenant Colonel Simpson was worried sick. If he didn’t get Bravo Company’s ass out of the crack in the next three days they’d be too dehydrated to fight. They had enough ammunition for maybe two more firefights. If the NVA mounted an attack of any length, it would run them dry of ammo. But that was probably the little bastards’ strategy. Simpson pictured the little gook colonel, eating rice in his command bunker, looking at maps with strange Chinese writing on them. That little bastard was going to sit there and wait for the company to run out of water. If Bravo Company tried to break out, he’d have them by the short hairs. But if the fog held, just for another day, Simpson would have an entire regiment fixed in place. Then, if it cleared, he could call in the jets and have a field day. If Bravo Company took too many more casualties, though, it was going to look bad no matter what the outcome. That didn’t seem fair.

  “We’ve all done what we can,” Simpson said, still looking at the map. “I suggest we catch some rest before dark. It might be a long night.”

  Everybody took him up on the suggestion except Hawke, who had the watch until 2000 hours. When he was relieved, he went to the regimental O-club to start a private mystery tour.

  When Colonel Mulvaney pushed through the screen door of the O-club he recognized Hawke standing at the bar. There were already four empty shot glasses in front of him. Mulvaney walked over to him and threw a wad of pink military payment currency onto the bar, saying, “You’re Hawke, aren’t you?” He asked the bartender for drinks for himself and Hawke before Hawke could respond.

  “Thank you, sir,” Hawke said.

  “My pleasure.” Mulvaney leaned his heavy bulk over his forearms. “I see they got the wire mesh repaired,” he said.

  Hawke studied his shot glass.

  “Seems some young officers tied one on and disrupted a movie.”

  “Did you find out who it was?” Hawke asked.

  Mulvaney watched Hawke in the mirror. “No. But they also stole a truck. One of my staff officers at the club had a little too much to drink himself and he put two bullet holes in it. He got a letter of reprimand.”

  “That’s too bad, sir.”

  “Too bad?”

  “I mean, for him. I mean shooting a pistol inside the perimeter of a base like this is a little foolish.”

  “So is stealing a truck.”

  “Yes sir,” Hawke said. He hung his head.

  Mulvaney leaned his back against the bar and looked at the groups of officers drinking at the tables. “Well, the screen’s fixed. The truck’s OK.” Mulvaney turned to Hawke, who was still looking down at his glass. “But just between you and me, Hawke,” he said, very evenly and quietly,

  “it was a stupid fucking thing to do. It could have ruined the careers of some good officers, and we need all the good ones we can get. If I could kick your butt all over this bar without having to get i
nvolved in a goddamned court-martial I’d do it.”

  “Yes sir,” Hawke said.

  Mulvaney softened. “Goddamn it, Hawke, are you Irish or what? I got to drink all these things by myself?”

  “No sir.” Hawke looked up at him. “Sir, I’m sorry.”

  “Forget it. I’ve been there too.” Mulvaney was pointing to a package of Beer Nuts with his left hand, but he was also seeing Jim Auld moaning in the sand on the banks of the Tenaru, his eyes pleading for help, a bloody socket where his arm had been before the Japanese anti-tank gun had taken it off. “You just got to remember to get the shit out of your system someplace where you won’t get in trouble.”

  Mulvaney opened the package and spread the Beer Nuts on the bar in front of them. He popped them into his mouth as he talked, downing the whiskey half a shot glass at a time. “My wife tells me I shouldn’t drink so much but, goddamn it, what’s the sense of having tax-free whiskey if you can’t drink more than the ordinary son of a bitch?”

  “I agree, sir.” Hawke took another drink and picked up several of the nuts. “Sir,” he asked, “you got any word on the relief for Bravo Company?”

  “Naw. Nothing new. Fucking monsoon.” Mulvaney gave Hawke a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry about them, Hawke. They’ll make it OK. There’s been worse situations.”

  “Yeah. We read about them all the time in glory-filled history books.”

  Mulvaney wanted to tell Hawke about the Chosin Reservoir, but he knew Hawke didn’t want to hear about it any more than Mulvaney had wanted to hear about Château-Thierry when he was a lieutenant. Everyone’s war was the worst. “No need to bad-mouth bravery just because you’re pissed off and tired,” Mulvaney finally said.

  “I’m sorry, sir. It just slipped out.”

  “Slipped out? Bullshit. What lieutenant worth his fucking salt isn’t pissed off and tired? I’m pissed off and tired too, but then I’m the bastard that makes the decisions, so I don’t have any right to bitch about it.” Mulvaney chuckled.

  Hawke didn’t respond as Mulvaney would have liked. Instead he put his glass down and turned to face him. “Why was it necessary for Bravo Company to go into the assault, knowing we’re in monsoon season?”

  Anger quickened Mulvaney’s pulse. He wanted to tell Hawke how Simpson had ordered the assault without consulting him, how Blakely had pre-briefed the division staff informally, cutting off any chance of countering the order. But Simpson and Blakely reported to Mulvaney. He was responsible. It was the code. “We thought it was a chance to kill some gooks,” Mulvaney said. “That’s our job, Hawke. You knew that when you came aboard.”

  “Yes sir, I did.” Hawke took another gulp of whiskey.

  “Look, Hawke, I think you’re a hell of an officer and I’m not going to bullshit you. Bravo Company’s up there either because of a fuckup or because of a brilliant tactical move. It all depends on the body count. That’s the kind of war we’re in.”

  “Which fuckup?” Hawke asked. “There were a lot of them.”

  “Officially it will be Fitch’s. He split his forces, abandoned a key position, and got his ass into a jam. He’s a reserve officer. His career’s not at stake.”

  “You really think Fitch is that dumb?”

  “I told you the way it will read, not what I thought. Christ, Hawke, you really think I’m that dumb? The fucking kid had too few men to do what was asked and still provide security for his wounded. You think you’re the only fucker’s ever been to war around here?”

  “Sometimes it looks that way.”

  “Well, you ain’t. Grow up and quit trying to find blame like everyone else around here. Just get the fucking job done.”

  “Yes sir.”

  There was drunken laughter from one of the groups of officers throwing dice for drinks.

  “I didn’t want to preach to you like some sort of fucking bishop,” Mulvaney said.

  “I guess I brought it on myself, sir.”

  Mulvaney felt a barrier growing between him and Hawke. He felt lost, lonely, heartsick.

  “It’s the situation,” Mulvaney said, pushing a Beer Nut with his thick finger.

  “There it is, sir,” Hawke said.

  “Don’t give up on me, Hawke,” Mulvaney said. He grinned. “Tell you what. You promise to go regular, I’ll see you get a fucking rifle company.” He watched Hawke visibly react and then regain control.

  “I’m out of the bush, sir, and I don’t ever want to go back. But thank you, sir.”

  Mulvaney studied Hawke closely. “Don’t try and bullshit a salty old fucker like me, Lieutenant, because I’ve been there. A Marine rifle company. Two hundred twelve Marines—two hundred twelve of the biggest hearts in the world. And you’re barely old enough to stand in a bar and drink.” He paused. “It’ll be Bravo Company if it’s open.”

  He watched Hawke catch his breath.

  Hawke was saved from having to answer because just then Corporal Odegaard, Mulvaney’s driver, shouted through the door, “Colonel Mulvaney, sir, Bravo Company’s in the shit again.”

  Mulvaney gulped the remainder of his whiskey, put his big hand on the top of Hawke’s head, and gave a couple of barely perceptible little pushes. “Think about it,” he said. “We need you.” Then he strode quickly out the door, Hawke on his heels. He knew without a doubt that Hawke had just gone regular.

  The attack started with the NVA coming up on the company radio net. “Fucky you, Bahvo, fucky you. Fucky you, Bahvo, fucky you.”

  “Goddamn it,” Mellas said to Jackson. Goodwin’s LP had failed to scramble the frequency knobs on the radio. “They’re jamming the net.”

  “Yeah, well, fuck you too, you fucking gook,” they heard Pallack snap back over the net.

  Mellas grabbed the hook. “Bravo, this is Bravo Five. Get everyone switched off right fucking now. We’ll get you the new freak ASAP.”

  “Fucky you, Bahvo, fucky you.”

  Firing broke out in a roar just below Kendall’s lines. It was his LP.

  “Fucky you, Bahvo, fucky you.”

  The radios were useless. The LPs were isolated.

  Mellas shouted at Jackson above the racket. “Get your ass up to the CP and get us a new freak.” Jackson immediately heaved himself out of the hole and crawled off in the darkness. Mellas did the same but headed toward his LP. “Hartford in!” he shouted. “Hartford in! The radio net’s fucked up. Get your asses in here, Hartford. Friendlies coming in!”

  A burst of fire ripped out of the jungle below him, the muzzle blast glowing strangely in the fog. Then there was the roar of the M-16s from the listening post. There was an indistinguishable shout and then someone was yelling the password: “Lemonade, Lemonade, it’s fucking Jermain, goddamn it. Lemonade, we’re coming in.” Another roar of fire cut off his words, but Mellas heard the sound of running and scrambling through the brush, and then another M-16 on full automatic.

  Up at the CP, Fitch was sick with dread. All the radio net could do was sing, “Fucky you, Bahvo, fucky you,” jamming all transmissions. He scrambled out of the bunker to find out what was happening. Pallack and Relsnik followed after him, dragging the radios.

  Down at Third Platoon, Lieutenant Kendall was crouched in his hole. The roar of the firefight at his listening post drowned out every thought in his head. Genoa, his radio operator, watched him anxiously, wishing Samms were still alive. He hoped the lieutenant would stay in the hole and give him an excuse to do the same thing.

  Goodwin grabbed his rifle and headed downhill to his center squad’s machine-gun position. There, even if he couldn’t talk on the radio, he could at least direct the fire of one of his three biggest weapons and be in the middle of the fight. His radio operator, not knowing what Goodwin had in mind, scrambled after him shouting, “Friendlies, friendlies! It’s Scar and Russell.”

  Goodwin had doubled the size of his listening post to increase its odds of survival and hold down the jitters. The four kids on the LP, hearing the sound of firing on both sides of them, bolted for the lines. They ran uphill, flailing at the thick brush and tree limbs, panting, their legs cramped from lying on the damp ground, guided forward by eeri
e green and white flashes that brought brush and trees into and out of their sight. They broke out into the cleared field of fire below the lines and started shouting the password just as one of Goodwin’s men threw an M-76 fragmentation grenade. It bounced down the hill toward them. The kid who threw it immediately shouted, “Jesus. I’m sorry. It’s a fucking grenade.” None of the four heard him as they kept panting up the slope. Three seconds later the grenade exploded. One kid from the LP caught the bulk of the shrapnel along his right side. The three others crawled over and dragged him up the hill shouting, “Corpsman! Corpsman!” Goodwin stood up and waved his arms, forgetting that they couldn’t see a thing in the dark, and shouted, “Over here, you stupid motherfuckers, over here.” Guided by Goodwin’s voice, they dragged the wounded Marine into the machine-gun hole. The platoon corpsman crawled over to work on the first of the many wounded who were to come. No one gave a damn about what had caused the explosion that wounded the boy. The Marines were all too grateful to be inside the lines with their friends.