The air was alive with noise, bullets, and madness. They had now lain behind the log for more than thirty seconds.
Jermain came running across to the group behind the log. Bullets ripped past him. Theres no fucking room for you, Jermain, Mellas shouted, but Jermain ignored him and kept coming. Jermain piled on top of Mellas and Jackson, knocking the air from Mellass lungs.
He made it, Mellas thought.
Jermains chest was heaving and his eyes were darting back and forth wildly. But he had made it without being hit. That thought kept picking at Mellass mind. Mellas started to turn his own face toward the earth again, trying to ignore the firing, and letting the noise and confusion immobilize him, but Jermain shouted, I know where the fucking gun is, Lieutenant.
Mellas wanted to shout back at him, So fucking what? Im not going up there. Im not going up there so some fucking colonel can get a fucking medal. Instead, he said, Well, shoot at the motherfucker, and pressed his face down into the wonderful earth.
Jermain rolled off Mellass and Jacksons backs to the end of the log. He fired a grenade, then ducked down again as the earth in front of the log and several hundred meters behind it exploded with machine-gun bullets.
Fitch was shouting over the radio. Jermain popped up and fired a second round, and then a third. Mellas couldnt hear, above the noise, what Fitch was saying. He covered one ear. Fitchs voice said, What the fucks going on over there? Two is pinned down. They cant move. Threes run into at least five positions on the finger. The whole front of the goddamn hill is laced with fucking machine guns. What the fucks happening over there? Over.
Mellas was panting. He didnt know how to answer. He heard a sharp cry and turned around. Jermain, shot through the shoulder, reeled and fell on top of Jackson, blood running from beneath his flak jacket. Jackson shoved him off, and the blood spattered on Mellas. Fredrickson reached across and stuffed a wad of battle dressing into the exit hole in Jermains back while Jacobs grabbed the M-79 and, enraged, started to fire at the machine gun Jermain had taken on.
Mellas looked at the blood on his arms and hand, and at Jermains contorted face. Suddenly he seemed to be floating above the scene, watching the entire company. Everything was in slow motion and fuzzily quiet.
Jermain was probably going to die.
An explosion from Goodwins area rocked the hill.
Theyd now been behind the log slightly more than a minute.
Mellas floated high above the hill. He saw the line of Marines stretched out below him, some kicking or contorted in pain, some lying still. He saw the people he knew, still alive, trying to stay alive, behind logs, in small defilades, many lying flat on the ground and attempting to merge with the earth. He studied the bunkers. He saw the interlocking fire as if in a drawing. He saw the machine gun Jermain had attackedand he knew. He floated back to a tactics class at the Basic School where a redheaded major said that junior officers were mostly redundant because the corporals and sergeants could take care of just about anything. But there would come a time when the junior officers would earn every penny of their pay, and they would know when that time came.
Mellas came back to the hill. His time had come.
He saw the smoke from the burning napalm. He saw what would open the door through the interlocking fire, and it was right in front of him, shooting at him.
Mellas keyed the handset. Bravo Six, this is Bravo Five. Over. As if from behind his own shoulder, Mellas watched himself telling Fitch the situation calmly over the radio. He seemed to be reading lines. He was no longer there but somehow directing the scene from above or beside it.
Mellas didnt wait for an answer. He handed the receiver to Jackson. Why Jermain? Why the one who volunteered while the shit-birds stayed in the rear? Why were his friends dying? There seemed only one way out of the nightmare. The single machine gun was the way.
Gun up, Mellas yelled. Get a fucking gun up here. Somehow he had to draw the machine guns fire.
A new kid ran forward with an M-60; an ammo humper scrambled after him with the heavy steel boxes of ammunition belts. The gunners eyes were wild with fear and pain. He had been shot in the left calf. Mellas could see flecks of blood coming off his soaked trouser leg. Still he came lurching forward, running hard. He lunged in on top of Fredrickson, then rolled over just as the ammo humper piled on top of them. His eyes were very white against his black face. It occurred to Mellas that if this kid werent here he would probably be hotdogging on his high schools basketball court.
You start shooting that fucking bunker. That one right there, Mellas shouted, pointing straight ahead. Dont let up. The new kid nodded. He moved, leaving blood behind. Mellas could see it spurting rhythmically. An artery, he thought abstractedly. Maybe the kid had three or four more minutes of consciousness.
The kid leaned the M-60 over the log, cradling it against his shoulder. The machine gun barked. Then it settled into the disciplined, barrel-saving short bursts of the trained gunner. Mellas felt relief. He silently thanked some instructor at Camp Pendleton.
The NVA gunner answered. The duel grew in intensity. The roar increased. The two new kids just kept firing, eyes squinted almost shut, as if squinting could protect them from the bullets.
Mellas redirected Jakes M-79 fire to a second bunker just to the left of the NVA machine gun. He intended to use the projectiles to blind the people inside with smoke and mud. You keep firing at the fucking entrance. No place else, no matter what I do, he said. Jacobs nodded and loaded another projectile. Mellas pulled a grenade from his suspenders and whispered, Dear God, help me now. He felt that this was possibly his last moment of life, here behind this log with these comrades, and knew it was indescribably sweet. A longing sadness arose with the fear, and he looked one more time at his comrades intent faces. He wet his lips and said good-bye, silently, not wanting to leave the safety of the log and their warm bodies.
Then he stood up and ran.
He ran as hed never run before, with neither hope nor despair. He ran because the world was divided into opposites and his side had already been chosen for him, his only choice being whether or not to play his part with heart and courage. He ran because fate had placed him in a position of responsibility and he had accepted the burden. He ran because his self-respect required it. He ran because he loved his friends and this was the only thing he could do to end the madness that was killing and maiming them. He ran directly at the bunker where the grenades from Jakes M-79 were exploding. The bullets from the M-60 machine gun slammed through the air to his right, slashing past him, whining like tortured cats, cracking like the bullwhip of death. He ran, having never felt so alone and frightened in his life.
He passed the large gap in the barbed wire and kept going. The bunker was only fifty meters above him now. He kept waiting for the bullet that would end the run and would let him rest. He almost wanted that bullet so he wouldnt have to continue with the awful responsibility of living. But he ran. He zigzagged. He twisted. His breath came in painful gasps. He saw a shallow hole just above the bunker and to its right. He prayed. He pictured himself striving for it, saw himself from above, small and puny on the vast terrible hillside, his legs churning. The hole loomed large above him. He hit the hole and rolled, catching a glimpse of movement from the corner of his eye. He twisted around, bringing his M-16 to bear at the same time, and was on the point of pulling the trigger, knowing he was doomed. Then the movement solidified into a person wearing a bloody head bandage. It was Cortellwith three new kids. They had followed him.
Mellas came to his feet, releasing the spoon on the grenade hed been carrying. He rushed toward the door of the bunker, praying that Jacobs would have the sense to stop firing as he closed in on it. Mellas reached the door and ran past the bunker, throwing the grenade inside. He rolled to the right as Cortell came running after him, dropping in a grenade of his own. The two grenades went off almost simultaneou
sly.
Mellas rolled to his feet. He looked behind him in bewildermentand then with joy. Jackson was running toward him. Behind Jackson was another fire team. To their right, another group was charging the machine-gun bunker while it still received the new gunners disciplined fire. The whole platoon was swarming up the hill after him. Far off on the right flank of the assault, Mellas saw Second Platoon scrambling to keep up, Goodwin running in front, waving them forward.
Mellass heart surged with wonder.
Bullets were now flying uphill from the Marines and downhill from the NVA. They were so thick that at one point Mellas heard two bullets collide and then ricochet with a singing buzz parallel to the crossing fire. The air was filled with roaring and screaming. Then farther down the slope Mellas saw, looking like rag dolls, those who hadnt survived or wouldnt survive. Some twitched fitfully. Two were crawling toward the defilade. The others lay still, in awkward positions.
Three minutes had passed since the opening shot.
From Helicopter Hill it looked like a textbook assault. In fact, it was. Blakely was pacing up and down in excitement. Simpson, his eyes pressed to his binoculars, was clenching his jaw so tightly that his neck muscles stood out in cords.
Mellas was running hard to his right, shouting as he went, trying to get his platoon to move toward Goodwins. The fight had disintegrated into the mad actions of individuals. Noise, smoke, confusion, and fear prevailed. Mellas rounded a slight knob and saw Goodwin about 100 meters away, running parallel to the hill with the radio receiver in his hand, his radio operator scrambling after him to keep the cord slack.
Jackson handed Mellas the receiver. Its Scar, sir.
Mellas could barely make out what Goodwin was saying, because of the noise and Goodwins wild panting. Theres a gunedge of the LZfucking us up good, Jack. There was more machine-gun fire. Mellas saw Goodwin go down and then get up. Got to get the motherfuckerwith grenades, Goodwin shouted. Dont move toward it.
Just as Goodwin was speaking, Mellas saw Robertson pop up from a shell hole and disappear across the lip of the LZ. He was amazed to see Robertson so high above the rest of them. Goodwin was moving upward beneath the lip of the LZ with five others, carrying two grenades each. They couldnt see Robertson; they had no idea he was there. Mellas reached for the receiver. Just as he started to shout, Goddamn it, Scar, Ive got a man up there, Goodwin sprinted forward, away from his radio. The five Marines followed in a rush.
Robertson popped up, running across the LZ toward the same bunker Goodwins group was after, in full view of everyone except them. Robertson reached the bunkers top just as twelve hand grenades came sailing over the lip of the hill. He tried to stop short, his arms flailing in the air. He threw his own grenade away and tried to sprint to safety. The grenades began going off in a sustained explosion, obscuring him.
Mellas, still holding the handset, shut his eyes. The smoke cleared slightly. The machine-gun opened up again. Mellas heard Goodwin cursing over the radio.
Then Robertson appeared again. All alone, inside the ring of enemy fighting holes, exposed, he ran back to the machine-gun bunker. He dropped in two grenades, then stood calmly taking a third from his suspenders. He pulled the pin and tossed it in. Just then, fire and smoke erupted from the bunker beneath him. He sank to his knees, twisting slightly, and fell out of sight.
Mellas knew he was dead.
Robertson got the bunker, Scar. I watched it go up, he radioed.
Goodwin immediately started moving his platoon forward.
Then, from Helicopter Hill, Mellas became aware of a faint sound of cheering. The cheering filled Mellas with white-hot rage. He turned to look behind him. Marines were firing at bunkers, trying to maneuver up on them from the sides. The North Vietnamese were obviously finished but still kept firing at the Marines from holes on the lip of the LZ.
Mellass fury gave him the cunning of an animal. He forgot everything that had happened before this moment. He knew only that he wanted to kill. He didnt care who or what he killed.
He shouted at Hamilton over the radio. Goddamn it, get fucking moving. These bastards are going to start running off this hill and I fucking want them. Move! Move! Move! I want these fucking gooks killed. You hear me? Over.
Aye aye, sir, Hamiltons voice crackled back. Hamilton was gasping for breath.
Mellas headed for the open holes above the covered bunkers. He knew that now the work would be dirty and methodical. There would be no more cheering. It occurred to him how much the NVA must hate them, not to get up and run.
Jacobs joined Mellas and Jackson. His face was streaked with black powder, mud, and sweat. His Instamatic dangled against his flak jacket.
Mellas was directing fire teams and individuals, watching as position after position was destroyed. He moved cautiously, in quick rushes, with long waits in between. Jackson and Jacobs followed his every move.
Suddenly a man rose from a hole above them and threw a grenade.
Mellas was transfixed by the sight. The small black object seemed to hang suspended in the air above him.
Grenade! Chi-comm! Jackson yelled. Mellas saw the grenade explode. Two small objects hurtled past his head, one on each side. Then the world went black as the explosion enveloped him. It slammed him backward, nearly pulling his head from his neck. He sank to the ground, giving in to the blackness; the sounds of the firing and confusion whirled away from him. Dying was a huge relief. For the first time, he felt safe.
Jackson crawled forward to reach Mellas and called for Doc Fredrickson. Mellass face was covered with blood, powder burns, and bits of solder. Jackson shouted again, but Fredrickson was out of hearing, moving among the bodies left behind in the initial wild run up the hillside. Jackson started shaking Mellas. Sir, sir. You OK? He kept looking around for help. The radio was yammering in his ear, but now he or Jacobs, not Mellas, had to make the decisions.
Jacobs crawled up to Jackson.
J-Jesus. I-is he all right?
Jackson was still shaking Mellas and saying, Sir. Sir. He turned to Jacobs. I dont know. I think hes dead. Fuck.
Jacobs cursed.
Its your fucking platoon now, Jake. What we going to do?
Jacobs had no idea. A burst of rifle fire sent bullets snapping above his head. He saw Fredrickson running to another body far below. Then the NVA soldier in the hole above them popped up again and threw another grenade.
Chi-comm! Jacobs shouted. He and Jackson grabbed Mellas by the legs and tore down the hillside, dragging him facedown. As they ran down the hill the grenade followed them inexorably, moving with gravity, as if linked to them. Jackson finally figured it out and shouted, Stop! He and Jacobs dug their heels in. They buried themselves against the inert Mellas and the deadly canister bounced on past them. It exploded about half a second later, just below them. Neither of them was hurt.
Jacobs turned Mellas over, faceup. He tore open both of Mellass flak jackets and put an ear to his chest. I cant hear fuck. God damn it. Then Jacobs pulled off Mellass helmet, took his canteen out, and poured grape Kool-Aid all over Mellass face, washing some of the mess away. He kept shaking the canteen, emptying the remaining drops on Mellass eyes, which were shut tight with black powder, solder, blood, and dirt.
The world again became black for Mellas. He felt the cool stickiness and smelled the sweet grape odor of the Kool-Aid. Then there was the sound of firing and screaming all around him in the darkness. He felt, rather than heard, someone shouting and pulling at his flak jackets and helmet. He tried to move. He couldnt. He tried to open his eyes and finally managed to open one. He saw gray light. The nightmare was continuing. He could not wake up. He wanted to return to oblivion. There were sounds of voices shouting, heard as if underwater. He again came back to the gray light. He knew that he had something to do with or for those voices. He became aware of Jackson lying on top of him, shielding him from f
ire. He realized that the grenade had been faulty, splitting in two down its soldered seam instead of shattering into deadly pieces. He became aware that Jacobs was shouting over the radio, lying on his back next to him and Jackson, staring upward at the sky, probably talking with Fitch. Ah, f-fuck, Skipper, I think hes Coors. G-grenade. Right in the face. No c-corpsman. What do I do now? Over.
Will you get off me? Mellas said quietly to Jackson. I cant fucking move.
Jackson rolled off, tangling the handset cord around Mellass neck, so that the handset was nearly pulled from Jakes hand. This forced Jake to look at Mellas.
Jake saw Mellas open one eye. J-jesus fuck, Lieutenant, he said in relief. I thought I was g-going to have to take the platoon.
Thanks, Mellas said. Its nice to know youd miss me. Mellass face felt raw, as if there were no skin on it. He couldnt open his right eye. He assumed hed lost it.
Matterhorn: a novel of the Vietnam War Page 56