Matterhorn

Matterhorn Page 17

by Karl Marlantes

  “Charlie in the zone still?” His voice was hoarse, weary.

  “Some were when we left,” Mellas answered. “They may have all flip-flopped back to VCB by now. I didn’t hear any more birds come in.”

  “They probably forgot we’re still here. Shit. First they tell us Charlie’s going to Matterhorn and we’re going to Eiger. Then we heard everyone was going to VCB. Some fucking cluster fuck around Cam Lo. Now the word is we’re going to Eiger again. Fucked if I can keep up. Hey, you know that fucking Irishman, Jack Murphy?”

  “Just met him.”

  “He owes me fifty bucks’ worth of bourbon. He said there was no way we could get fucked over worse than on the DMZ operation. You got a cigarette?”

  “No, sorry.”

  Hamilton casually pulled out his own plastic container, opened the lid, and offered both the lieutenant and his radioman a cigarette. Their hands shook as they gratefully lit up. Mellas was appalled at the lack of security. A person could smell cigarette smoke for miles. The tall lieutenant blew a large cloud and sighed. He turned to one of the weary figures going by. “Who’s got the fucking stiff?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “Shit.” He turned to Mellas. Clearly close to a collapse, he took another long draw on his cigarette. “We haven’t eaten in four days.” It was a flat sincere statement. Just then, around the bend in the trail came four Marines. They carried a heavy burden slung between them in a poncho hanging from two poles. One kid looked angry; the other three seemed to be in a daze, faces drawn, wet, muddy. A white, slightly puffy arm stuck up into the air from the poncho. The bearers dumped their load on the ground, breathing hard. With the poles on the ground, the poncho lay open between them, exposing a naked corpse. The angry-looking Marine spat out his words between harsh breaths.

  “How much farther, Lieutenant?”

  He directed the words at the tall lieutenant, but Mellas answered.

  “About six hundred meters.”

  “Six hundred! Fuck me in the mouth. Why don’t we just hump him to VCB? Dumb cocksuckers.”

  “Cool down,” the tall lieutenant said wearily.

  “They killed him, Lieutenant. They fucking humped him to death and you want me to calm down. Well, fuck you.” The kid’s neck showed rows of taut cords. The lieutenant handed him his cigarette, not saying anything. “Thanks,” the kid said. He sat down and took a deep draw while the other members of the company stepped over him and the body; then he handed the cigarette to one of the men with him. Mellas kept staring at the body, pale and bloated against the dark mud of the trail.

  “How did he die?” Mellas asked.

  “Officially, it’s pneumonia,” the lieutenant answered. “Couldn’t get him medevaced. No birds.”

  “Bullshit. They humped him to death.” The kid said it softly.

  “Pneumonia. Jesus.” Mellas whistled under his breath. “And you couldn’t get him out? Doesn’t make sense.”

  “No fucking shit, doesn’t make sense.” The lieutenant gently toed the body. “He was a good fucking kid, too. The squid hasn’t a clue. All we know is his temperature shot up over a hundred six and he started screaming. We took all his clothes off to get it down. Didn’t work. We’d called for an emergency medevac when it hit a hundred four. Doc thought it was flu or something. Battalion said it wasn’t an emergency.” He snickered, nearly losing control. “I guess we were right.”

  He turned to the angry kid who was finishing the cigarette. “Who’s supposed to take over?”

  “Maki’s team.”

  “OK. Leave him here. I’ll tell Maki to pick him up.”

  The kid rounded up his fire team and they trudged down the trail. Another team arrived, slung their rifles over their backs against their packs, and picked up the two poles. They struggled down the trail, the swaying body pulling them off balance.

  “Thanks for the cigarette,” the tall lieutenant said to Hamilton.

  “It’s OK, sir.”

  He turned and walked down the trail, his radioman following. Mellas looked at Hamilton, who was watching them disappear. Tired kids continued to file past.

  “Jesus,” Mellas said.

  “There it is, sir,” Hamilton answered.

  Mellas’s insides were humming. A soft wind snaked its way through the grass, turning his wet clothing cold.

  CHAPTER SIX

  You’ve never been out on a rampage before, have you?” Fitch peered at Mellas over his can of pears. He was sitting cross-legged on a tuft of wet moss. Rampage was the brevity code for an ambush.

  “Sure I have,” Mellas replied. “We ambushed three cows in Virginia one night.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Fitch laughed, spooning another pear into his mouth. “I heard about that. It was just before we graduated.” He continued gulping down his pears. “Big John Six figures we can ambush some gooks who might be heading for the base camp tonight and don’t know we’re here.”

  “I kind of doubt it,” Mellas said. They had reached the abandoned North Vietnamese base camp just an hour before. Everyone was digging in. “It must sound like a herd of water buffalo at a barn dance around here.”

  Fitch chuckled and tossed the can into the bushes. “You see those big cat tracks when we came in?” he asked.

  “He was probably sniffing at the shit Charlie Company left around.”

  Fitch laughed. “The way they looked, I don’t think they left him very much.”

  Mellas took a quick look at the jungle. He was in no mood to talk about wildlife. Ambushes could go wrong, and they’d be way outside the lines alone in the dark.

  Fitch pulled out his map and showed Mellas a crayon mark where battalion wanted to ambush. “You don’t have to take it out yourself. Bass or Conman can set up a good ambush.” He pulled his K-bar out of its sheath and began cleaning his fingernails with it.

  Mellas knew the offer was another test. “Naw, I’ll go. Nothing else to do.” He began unfolding his own map, hoping Fitch wouldn’t see that his hands were trembling.

  Hawke walked up to them. “I had to jump on fucking Kendall for not getting his men clearing brush.” Hawke sighed and squatted down. “You got any fucking coffee?”

  “Hell, you’re the XO, Jayhawk, coffee is your job,” Fitch replied. “What did Kendall say?”

  “Said he was sorry and he’d get on it. What do you mean my fucking job?”

  “What else you got to do?” Mellas put in.

  “Well, one thing I don’t have to do is take any fucking lip from wise-ass boot lieutenants, that’s for damn sure.”

  Mellas laughed but regretted his dumb quip. At the same time, he was desperately trying to recall all the mechanics of that aborted ambush of cows back in Virginia.

  Fitch continued cleaning his nails, then spoke up. “I’m sending a squad from First Platoon out on a rampage.”

  “What for?” Hawk said.

  “The Three called me on the hook and said he wants it.”

  “What for?” Hawke persisted.

  “Says the Six and he both think it’s a good chance to kill some gooks.”

  “You mean a good chance to impress fucking regiment with how gung ho we are.”

  “Maybe.”

  Fitch remained quiet, knowing that there was no way out, but Hawke had to have a chance to let everyone know that he disagreed. He turned to Mellas and sighed. “There it is,” he said. “I’ll get Two and Three to move in and take a couple of your holes since you’ll have a squad out. You going out with them?”

  Again the test, and the very real temptation to tell Connolly or Bass to do it. He fought it down. “Yeah. No time like the present.”

  “What? You a fucking Buddhist or something?” Hawke said.

  Mellas did a double take at Hawke’s comment and then filed it, reevaluating Hawke once again. He laughed. “Naw. Lutheran. We got all eternity, but we feel guilty about it.”

  “What the fuck you guys talking about?” Fitch asked, genuinely puzzled. He looked at his watch. “You better get set in before it gets too dark to see.”

  In spite of his fear, the thought of springing an ambush excited Mellas. Battalion would k
now immediately who had led it. He might even get a medal if they killed enough. And if he was going to lie out in the rain and cold all night, he might as well get the satisfaction of killing someone. As soon as the thought crossed Mellas’s mind, he reproached himself for his callousness. He also knew he didn’t have the nerve to ask anyone else to lead the ambush.

  Mellas had just finished briefing Jackson’s squad about the ambush —it was their turn—when Hamilton called over that there was to be an actuals meeting.

  “Right now? I just left the place.”

  “Right now, sir.”

  Mellas walked back to Fitch’s hooch, fuming. Everyone else was already there, including the two Kit Carson scouts. Their value supposedly lay in knowing the NVA intimately. Unfortunately, no one in the company spoke Vietnamese, and they spoke no English, and no Marine would trust a deserter anyway. They were another example of a brain-storm that looked good in Washington, 10,000 miles from reality.

  The two Kit Carsons were squatting down trying to listen to Vietnamese music on their transistor radio.

  “Hey, Arran,” Cassidy growled at the dog handler, “tell them two fucking dinks to turn off the damned noise.” Arran knew about seven words in Vietnamese—more than anyone else knew—so he always talked with the Kit Carsons. He motioned to the radio and made cutting noises with his hands. Eventually, the huskier of the two small men got the message and clicked it off. His arm was horribly scarred. The Marines figured the injury had happened when he was on the other side. He held up the radio and grinned.

  “Numbah one.”

  Arran glowered at him, “Radio number ten. Number ten.” He pointed to the sky. “Dark, NVA. Number ten.”

  The Kit Carson nodded. “Numbah ten.”

  “Yeah, that’s right, you stupid fucker,” Cassidy growled. No one really wanted them along, but they were assigned by Division S-2, so Fitch had let them hump along with the headquarters group in the middle of the column. The two Kit Carson’s resumed talking Vietnamese in low musical voices. Fitch stood up, and everyone forgot they were there.

  “As you know, Delta was following in our trace all afternoon.” Fitch looked at the ground and scuffed it. “None of you are going to like this, but I’ve been talking with Delta Six on the hook and it seems battalion didn’t tell him until the last minute that he was coming into the valley with us. They were low on food as it was, but they thought they were going back to VCB.” He put his hands in his back pockets and looked into the jungle. “Anyway, they didn’t get a chance to draw any extra rations.” He looked back at the group. “So battalion told them to hook up with us and take half of ours.”

  Mellas exploded, surprising himself. “No, goddamn it. They aren’t getting any of mine.”

  “It isn’t their fault, Mellas,” Hawke said. “I know how you feel, though.”

  “What are we supposed to do, go on half rations because battalion can’t get its shit together?” Mellas knew he sounded like a quarrelsome child, but he didn’t care. He was tired, he had an ambush to set up, and he was already slightly hungry. He’d been trying to ration the food he had to make it last through the operation.

  “You’ll each collect two days’ rations from everyone and leave them here.” Fitch was obviously accepting no bullshit, so no one argued. “And I want it done randomly. No unloading the crap. If you were in their shoes you’d want some decent food.”

  “I’ll be damned,” Mellas said caustically. “The law of universability.”

  Goodwin looked at Mellas. “What the fuck you talking about, Jack?”

  “Moral philosophy for the Golden Rule.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Goodwin said. “Do unto others before they do you—that’s the fucking Golden Rule out here, Jack.” Everyone laughed.

  Mellas walked back to where he and Bass had set up the platoon command post. The bantering had relaxed his anger, but now it was coming back.

  “So we got to give Delta our long rats, Lieutenant?” Bass asked as Mellas approached them. Mellas had long since given up trying to spring news on any of them. Everyone was still digging holes, except Doc Fredrickson, who was counting out malaria tablets, his own small hole already finished. If they were hit, he wouldn’t use it much anyway, since he’d be tending the wounded.

  “Yeah. Shit. Coordinate with Bravo Company concerning food resupply.” His mocking tone brought a few smiles. “And Fitch doesn’t want us creaming the good stuff either.”

  Hamilton looked ruefully at his pack. “Do I give them my peaches or my pound cake?”

  “Just one more glorious day in the corps,” said Bass, “where every day’s a holiday and every meal’s a feast.”

  “Lifer,” Fredrickson retorted.

  “Loyal, industrious, freedom-loving, efficient, rugged,” Bass shot back quickly.

  “Lazy, ignorant fucker expecting retirement,” Fredrickson replied.

  Mellas burst out laughing.

  “No fucking comments from the junior officer section,” Bass said.

  “Well, this junior officer is taking out a rampage so an almost staff sergeant can get his much-needed rest and keep up with the company tomorrow. So if you’d kindly kiss the platoon good night for me, I’ll take the radio and be on my way.”

  “Aye, aye, Mr. Mellas.” Bass picked up one of the radios that lay next to the ponchos where he and Skosh were going to erect their shelter. He handed it to Mellas. “You got a code name?”

  Mellas thought a moment. “Vagina.”

  “Can’t have it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Can’t be cluttering up the airways with filth.”

  “Nothing filthy about the vaginas I know. I don’t know about the ones you know.”

  “You ain’t been around enough to know what one is.”

  Mellas slung the radio over one shoulder. He picked up his rifle. “I don’t have to get around to know what one is,” he said cockily, “they come to me.”

  “Whooo.”

  Mellas laughed, but he was laughing to cover the hurt of Bass’s jibes. He was twenty-one and still a virgin, a fact that shamed him deeply. Anne was the only woman he’d been really intimate with, and she never wanted to have intercourse. He never pushed it. They would roll around madly until Mellas ejaculated and fell asleep. He’d wake up feeling bad because she never climaxed the way he did. One night, she did own up to feeling guilty because she wouldn’t allow intercourse. But Mellas also felt guilty, because he didn’t know what to do and was afraid to ask questions.

  The mood over at Jackson’s squad was subdued. Mallory was slowly working the bolt back and forth on the M-60 machine gun, making a smooth metallic clicking. He would stop periodically to hold his hands to his head as if to stop it from bursting. Williams seemed nervous. He kept switching feet, his big hands buttoning and rebuttoning a single button on his camouflage utility jacket.

  “Hey, Williams,” Jackson kidded him softly, “it’ll stay buttoned. Don’t worry.”

  Williams grinned, embarrassed. “Yeah, I guess it will.” He stopped but almost immediately began toying with it again. Broyer gave Williams a reassuring thumbs-up sign, hidden so no one else could see it, and then pushed his glasses up on his nose with the same hand. Williams nodded. A little smile flickered briefly on his face.

  Parker and Cortell were baiting Pollini as he fumbled to put his rifle back together after cleaning it. “No, Shortround, you put it in t’ other way,” Cortell said, his round face merry.

  “Yeah, the other way,” Parker repeated.

  Pollini was grinning and trying to fix the rifle, but he kept looking up at the two of them and wasn’t concentrating on what he was doing.

  “Shit, Shortround,” Parker said, “you’d fuck up a wet dream, wouldn’t you?”

  “No, I wouldn’t,” Pollini said, grinning.

  “You such a fuckup, Shortround, you ought to be declared a national disaster and you mother taken off the streets and given relief,” Parker cackled.

  “At least I didn’t get shaved bald,” Pollini retorted. Parker stopped smiling. The look on Pollini’s face made it clear that he knew he’d made a mistake.

/>   Parker took a slow step forward. “What’s that, Snowflake?” he said quietly.

  Pollini looked around hesitantly. “I said at least I’m smart enough not to get shaved bald.”

  Parker pulled out his K-bar.

  “Hey, man,” Cortell said, “put away that shit.”

  “I don’t take no shit like that,” he said to Cortell, but stayed focused on Pollini. “Maybe you and Jesus do.”

  Pollini started to back away, looking for help. He fell backward into a partially dug fighting hole. Parker was on him instantly, knocking the wind from him with his knees. Pollini gasped in tiny ineffectual breaths, his face contorted. “What’s the matter white boy, not smart enough to breathe?” Parker had the point of his K-bar’s blade pressed against Pollini’s Adam’s apple. Every time Pollini tried to gasp for air, the motion would jab the knife’s point against it.

  There was the sound of a round being chambered and then Williams’s calm cowboy voice. “Parker, I’ll shoot you if you don’t get off of him.”

  “That’s right,” Parker said, still holding the knife to Pollini’s throat. “You protect you little sawed-off brother here.” He looked around him, angry. “Where my own brothers, huh?”

  Mallory laid his M-60 on the ground and pulled his .45 from its holster. He shoved back the action and let it snap forward, chambering a round. His hand was shaking, but the pistol pointed at Williams.

  “Now there,” Parker said. “We even up, ain’t we, Williams?”

  At this point Jackson intervened. He quietly said, “OK, you two, put the shit down. This between Parker and Shortround, not between chucks and splibs.”

  “It might not be between chucks and splibs,” Parker said, his knife still on Pollini’s Adam’s apple.

  In a tight constricted whisper Pollini wheezed, “I take it back. I didn’t mean nothing, Parker.”

 

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