Matterhorn: a novel of the Vietnam War

Matterhorn: a novel of the Vietnam War Page 61

by Karl Marlantes

  Now, in the heat and stillness of the echoing decks and passageways lit by dim red lights, Mellas quietly worked his way closer to the center of officers’ country. He knew that the area where the nurses lived was off-limits to him. Nevertheless, he nervously pushed ahead. A corpsman and then a sailor passed him. Both looked at him but said nothing, because he was an officer. Mellas continued down the passageways. His boots, pliable from hours in water, whispered softly against the metal beneath them. He turned a corner in the passageway and went by an open door. Inside he glimpsed an older, gray-haired officer, bent over a small desk. With a start, Mellas realized that this was the captain of the ship. He hurried by and worked through a bewildering maze of turns, not certain where he was, trusting to instinct that he’d eventually find Lieutenant Elsked’s quarters, with her name over the hatch.

  Eventually he did.

  His heart was thumping in his throat. If she reacted badly, he would be in serious trouble. He looked up and down the empty passageway, swallowed, then knocked.

  After a moment there was a muffled question to someone else, then a louder “Who is it?”

  Mellas didn’t know how to answer. He’d never actually told her his name. Would she remember it from the operating room?

  “Who is it?” a second, harsher, voice repeated.

  “Uh, it’s me.” Mellas felt lame. “The Marine lieutenant.” He paused, then quickly added, “T. S. Eliot.”

  There was a muffled, annoyed, “Who?” from the second voice, then a responding “It’s OK. I know him.” There was a pause. “I’m afraid you do, too.”

  The door opened. Lieutenant Elsked, clutching a white terry-cloth bathrobe around her, peered out.

  “What in the world are you doing here?” she whispered.

  “I got to talk to you about something.”

  “What?” she whispered. “You’re going to get in real trouble.”

  “Let me in, then.”

  She tightened her grip on the robe, closing it more firmly.

  “Please,” Mellas whispered. He looked at her, pleadingly. “It’s not what you think. I need help.” He saw her fingers relax slightly. “I need someone who knows the machinery around here. I mean the social machinery.”

  She paused a moment. “OK.” She opened the hatch. “God, the things I do for my country.”

  Mellas slipped in.

  She turned on a desk lamp. “Sorry, Kendra,” she said.

  Mellas looked over to see the nurse from Triage on the lower bunk. She looked back, her jaw tight.

  “I believe you two know each other,” Lieutenant Elsked said impishly. “Second Lieutenant Mellas, United States Marine Corps.” She nodded her head slightly toward Mellas. “Reserve, correct?” She had a hint of a smile. “Meet Lieutenant Dunn, United States Navy.” She pulled a chair out from under the desk. “Now that you’ve been introduced, maybe you could both relax.” She sat down and pulled her bathrobe tighter around her knees. She leaned back and put her hands in the bathrobe pockets, clearly amused. “Neither of you is as bad as the other one thinks,” she added.

  Dunn glared at Mellas. She pulled her blanket up around her shoulders and turned her back on him to face the bulkhead.

  Mellas looked at Lieutenant Elsked, who gave a little shrug as if to say that she’d given it a try. She looked down for a moment at her bare feet. Mellas couldn’t help following her gaze. His eyes lingered a split second on her calves before resting on her red toenails.

  “Well, T. S.?” Elsked said, looking up warmly. “Or can I call you Waino? Funny name.”

  Mellas felt himself blush with embarrassment, because she obviously had been told all about his encounter with her roommate—and with happiness, because she knew his name.

  “Waino’s fine,” he said.

  “Mine’s Karen. Bet you didn’t know that.”

  “No I didn’t, Lieutenant Elsked.”

  “You can call me Karen when I’ve got a bathrobe on.”

  There was a pleasant, awkward pause, broken by the decidedly noisy shifting of Elsked’s roommate.

  Mellas plunged in. “Somebody’s stolen my sword.”

  Dunn threw back the covers from her head and turned to face Mellas. “I’m sick and tired of that damned sword. Now turn your ass around and walk out of here. If it wasn’t for Lieutenant Elsked, I’d have you arrested.”

  Mellas felt his usual rage begin to uncoil, but this time he controlled it. He turned to Elsked. “I need your help. I’ve gone to everyone I can think of. It’s disappeared. I don’t have a receipt. There’s no way of tracing it. An HM-1 named Bell was the last one I saw it with.”

  “What’s Lieutenant Elsked supposed to do about it, Lieutenant?” Dunn said.

  Mellas took a deep slow breath. He kept his eyes fixed on Elsked’s. She watched him clinically. “I thought maybe you’d know how to find it,” he said. “If you asked around—you know, asked some of the corpsmen—maybe they’ve seen it. Somebody’s got to have it.”

  “OK. I’ll ask around on my shift tomorrow.”

  Mellas shook his head. “It can’t wait. I’ve got orders for tomorrow.” Fear made his stomach plunge.

  Elsked looked at him carefully. “How much longer have you got to go?”

  Mellas’s mind stopped. “What day is it?”

  Elsked laughed. “Thursday, April third, unless it’s after midnight. This Sunday’s Easter.”

  Mellas was looking at his right hand and moving his fingers. “Three hundred four days and a wake-up,” he finally said. It was like a life sentence. “If I stay awake all night. Otherwise it’s two wake-ups.” He forced a smile.

  Her face showed kindness. “That’s a long time.”

  “Yeah.”

  “The eye OK?”

  He nodded.

  “Legs?”

  He nodded again.

  The light in her eyes grew warmer. She looked down at her legs again. Mellas’s eyes followed. Her legs were very well shaped.

  “Why is the sword so important?” she asked.

  “Somebody died . . .” Mellas stopped. He saw Vancouver breaking up the ambush, probably saving his life. How many lives were owed to this warrior? “I don’t know. It just is.” He paused. “You had to be there.”

  “Jesus, it’s a souvenir sword,” Dunn said. She had been putting on a blue bathrobe beneath the covers. Now she got out of the berth, her body rigid beneath the robe.

  “It’s sort of hard to explain,” Mellas said. It angered him that Dunn thought the sword was trivial, but he held it back.

  “You better believe it’s hard to explain,” Dunn said. Her small eyes were narrowed even further. She grabbed a set of utilities and a pair of small black shoes with thick rubber soles. “Come on, Karen.”

  “Where are you going?” Elsked asked her.

  “To get the duty officer.” Dunn turned her back and put her pants on underneath her bathrobe. She turned around, holding together the opening of the robe.

  “He hasn’t done anything wrong,” Elsked said quietly but firmly.

  “Just off-limits, is all. Not to mention disobedience of a direct order and disrespect for a superior officer.” Dunn sat on the bunk and pulled on a pair of khaki socks and her shoes, fumbling to hold her robe closed. She rose to her feet.

  “Kendra, hey, he just asked for some help. What’s the big deal?”

  “Maybe I don’t like swords. Maybe I don’t like him. He’s off-limits and way out of line.” She moved toward the hatch.

  Mellas put his hand on the hatch, almost as if to bar Dunn’s way. His insides quivered. He tried to make his voice controlled and calm. “Please, Lieutenant, ma’am.” He held one hand out to her, palm up, fingers spread, as if to ward her off. “Believe me, I didn’t come here to cause trouble. I admit I’m off-limits. Look, I can’t explain why it’s so important. Please. I just came here to ask Karen—Lieutenant Elsked—for help, and I think it’s up to her. If she says no, I’ll leave. I’ll even leave if she says yes. I’m leaving tomorrow. I’ll be out of your life. I might even be out of mine.” He turned back to Elsked and blurted out, “Karen, I’ve got to have that sword.” If throwing himself at Dun
n’s feet would have helped, he would have done it.

  Elsked saw this, and compassion flashed across her face. She slowly nodded. She got up and reached for her uniform. “Go wait in the wardroom,” she said to Mellas. “There’s always some coffee brewing there. I’ll meet you as soon as I can.” She turned to Dunn, who’d been watching them with compressed lips. “So relax, already. OK? He’s harmless.” She looked back at Mellas. “At least to us.”

  Mellas reached the safety of the officers’ mess without incident, but his heart was still thumping. He poured himself a mug of coffee and began to wait. An hour passed. He drank two more mugs. He read magazines distractedly. Nurses and doctors filed in as the watches changed. Some nodded or said hello. The room emptied. He started on a fourth mug. Another hour passed.

  Then Elsked walked into the paneled room. She had the sword in her hand. Her eyes were shining and she was breathing hard, her breasts noticeably moving up and down.

  “You got it!” Mellas cried. He rushed up to hug her, then slowed and stopped.

  She handed it to him, almost formally, as if in a presentation. He took it. “God, Karen. Thank you.” Mellas grabbed it by the hilt and squeezed it hard, his eyes wet with triumph and gratitude. He held the sword up in front of both of them. “I feel like Sir Francis Drake,” he said, suddenly self-conscious.

  She laughed. “Well, if you really want to, I’ll touch you on both shoulders with it, but I didn’t exactly feel like Queen Elizabeth when I knocked on the hatch of the good doctor who bought it off of HM-1 Bell.” She laughed. “But I was Bloody fucking Mary when it came to getting the deal reversed.”

  “I’ll bet you were,” Mellas said and laughed. He looked down at her and realized that she was a good six inches shorter then he. “It belonged to a guy in my platoon named Vancouver. He died with it, running across an LZ trying to take out some gooks coming across from the other side. He saved the assault. He . . .” Mellas, to his own surprise, started to choke up. “He . . .” He wanted to go on, but the choking sadness filled his lungs and eyes and stopped his tongue. He couldn’t speak.

  “It’s OK,” Karen said. She touched him lightly on his forearm. “He was a friend. You miss him, like the others.” She gently grasped his forearm and held on.

  Mellas could only nod, tears streaming down his face.

  “I knew it was important. You don’t have to explain it. I’m glad I could find it.” She held him in her gaze and then released his arm.

  Mellas smiled. The choke hold was gone. “I don’t think you know what you did,” he said.

  “Actually,” she answered. “I think it’s just the opposite.”

  Mellas looked at the sword. “Yeah. It’s like I think we’re going to need it someday or something. Crazy, I guess.”

  “No. Healthy.”

  He looked directly into her eyes, and they looked back, clear and warm.

  “I probably won’t see you again,” he said.

  “Let’s hope not.” She tried to smile but managed only a shaky twitch. “God knows you’re better off if you can stay clear of here.” She bit her lower lip. “Will you be all right? I mean . . .” She faltered. “You know what I mean—not physically.”

  Mellas nodded several times. “I will now,” he finally managed to say. She reached out for him and kissed him quickly on the cheek. He grabbed her with his left arm and squeezed her to him, the sword still in his right hand, caught between them. He wanted to merge with her. He tried to bury his head against her soft red hair. She pushed him away gently but firmly. He saw that her eyes were moist as she turned and walked quickly away.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The day Mellas had been medevaced, Bravo Company filed off Matterhorn and climbed back up Helicopter Hill to be evacuated. All the holes they’d dug were taken by Delta Company and battalion headquarters.

  Fitch looked around nervously. The kids sat down. Some saw friends of theirs and went over to try to slip into their holes, but most of the company just remained exposed, lying on their backs in the wet clay.

  Blakely crawled out of the command bunker when the radio operator reported Bravo’s arrival. He could see that there was no fight left in them. Yet he couldn’t help being thrilled, remembering the assault. Blakely regretted that he couldn’t have been a young lieutenant and participated in it. Yet at the same time he felt immensely proud of his own part. It was staff work, but he knew that it was important and he was good at it.

  Right now he had two shitty jobs to do. The first was to tell Bravo to go back down the hill. He couldn’t move Delta Company, because they needed to be on the LZ as the reserve and exploitation element. To leave Bravo on the hill would crowd everything and invite casualties from the mortars. Besides, if they were dug in down on the saddle, that would eliminate the NVA’s easiest approaches to both hills.

  He watched Fitch and Hawke walk wearily toward him. Fitch’s radio operator was about three paces behind them, shouting something at one of the troops from Delta Company.

  “Lieutenant Fitch,” Blakely said, reaching out to shake his hand, “I’m sorry you walked up here.” He explained that all the birds were tied up moving troops and artillery and that Bravo would have to spend the night in the saddle between Matterhorn and Helicopter Hill.

  “Oh, boy,” Pallack said, just audibly.

  Blakely looked at him, a little irritated at this lack of respect.

  “Sir, my men are beat,” Fitch said. “You’re asking them to build another perimeter, in an exposed position. We could barely keep them awake last night.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Blakely said. It angered him that with such an unprofessional attitude Fitch somehow always managed to come out smelling like a rose. The colonel was tickled pink over the assault. Everyone in the division, right up to the general, had been watching this one. No one had seen any of the sloppy leadership, the disrespect, sleeping on watch, and getting stranded without food and water.

  “Oh, boy,” Pallack said again.

  “Lance Corporal Pallack, that’s enough,” Fitch said. “Go tell Scar to get everyone water, food, and full ammunition. I’ll join you later.”

  “Aye, aye, Skipper.” Pallack looked briefly across the chasm of hierarchy and class that separated him from the major, then turned back toward what remained of the company to do his job.

  “I want to talk to you two,” Blakely said. He turned and walked toward the entrance of the bunker, leaving Hawke and Fitch looking at each other.

  “What’s he going to do?” Fitch asked. “Make us assault the hill again?”

  “He just might,” Hawke answered. “With Delta defending.”

  They followed Blakely in.

  Blakely said that he could have Hawke court-martialed for leaving his post. “I guess you also know I’m not going to,” he added to Hawke. “Why didn’t you just come and tell me?”

  Hawke was silent.

  “Do you have anything to say for yourself before I dismiss you?”

  “For myself ? No sir.”

  “OK, then. The colonel wants to see you. He’s over by Delta’s CP. I want to talk with Lieutenant Fitch alone.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.” Hawke left to see Simpson.

  When he’d gone, Blakely told Fitch that Simpson was transferring him out of the battalion. It was only out of kindness and in recognition of his recent assault that Simpson wasn’t going to relieve him of his command for cause. Fitch could consider himself transferred once they got back to VCB. Goodwin would take over until Mellas got back, and Mellas would have the company until they could get a regular.

  Over at Delta Company’s CP, Simpson said he was putting Hawke in for a Bronze Star.

  When Hawke rejoined Fitch and Pallack next to Fitch’s old bunker, he heard cries of “Tubing!” People everywhere scurried into holes. The mortar rounds came crashing in. Marines huddled in their holes, holding on to their helmets, praying, trying not to think, hear, or feel. Hawke crouched low next to the bunker entrance, staring out at his old company.

  Fitch and Goodwin walked side by side, leading the company silently off the hill. The Marine
s of Bravo Company followed, in silence, giving no apparent thought to the mortar shells, walking with their rifles slung on their shoulders. Exhausted, they were as indifferent as if the falling shells were rain.

  Some Marines from Delta Company poked their heads up from their holes and watched their comrades, as Hawke was doing. Some shook their heads and muttered, “Crazy motherfuckers.” Some let out a low whistle. Most were silent.

  Emotion constricted Hawke’s throat. He suddenly understood why the victims of concentration camps had walked quietly to the gas chambers. In the face of horror and insanity, it was the one human thing to do. Not the noble thing, not the heroic thing—the human thing. To live, succumbing to the insanity, was the ultimate loss of pride.

 

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