Matterhorn

Matterhorn Page 19

by Karl Marlantes

  On the third night Cortell crawled to the body and put his hands on the lump that was the head. “Williams, I’m sorry. I might have done somethin’ but run. I didn’t know. I was so scared. You know how scared you can get. You and me been scared like that. You know. I’m sorry, Williams. Oh, Jesus, I’m so sorry.” Cortell started to sob.

  Jackson, in the next hole, crawled across the ground and gently pulled Cortell away from the body, urging him silently back into his fighting hole, getting him to stop. The sobs could be heard too clearly, delineating the perimeter’s position.

  And truly, on the fourth day, what was slung beneath the pole had no soul. It stank.

  Late that same afternoon, the company was stopped cold. Everyone sat down inboard-outboard and leaned back wearily against his pack. The kids took swigs of plastic-tasting water from their canteens or started de-leeching. Some dozed off. It was soon apparent from the radio conversation that Lieutenant Kendall was lost again.

  Mellas pulled out his map. There was nothing to take bearings on. Clouds hid anything the jungle didn’t hide. Mellas carefully reconstructed the terrain they’d passed through, dead-reckoning their position. Finally, when he could stand it no longer, he slipped out of his pack and walked back along the line of tired Marines to find Hawke and Bass.

  Hamilton didn’t get up to go with him. He closed his eyes and fell asleep.

  Mellas found Hawke and Bass already heating coffee in the old pear can, which Hawke carried tied to the outside of his pack for ready access. Hawke, who was squatting Vietnamese style on the path next to the burning C-4, glanced up. “Cut me some fucking slack, Mellas.” Hawke turned to Bass. “I don’t believe he smelled the coffee all the way up front.”

  “It’s funny about him,” Bass said. “I never seen him make his own cup of coffee, but he always knows when someone else is making one.”

  Mellas laughed and sat down in the mud with them. He started unfolding his map. Just then a static-riddled voice came from the radio handset, hooked on the strap of Skosh’s pack. It was Kendall. “Best I can figure, Bravo Six, we’re at”—there was a pause—“from Chevrolet, up one point two and right three point four. Over.”

  Fitch’s taut voice returned. “I copy.” Fitch was already a full day late in reaching the next geographic checkpoint that had been assigned to him by Lieutenant Colonel Simpson.

  Mellas pulled the map over to where Bass and Hawke could see it. The day’s radio code used cars for position reports. He found the prearranged coordinates of Chevrolet and traced out Kendall’s reported position. “He’s crazy. We’d have to be over this ridgeline. We’re by this riverbed, even if we’ve never seen it. You can feel the way the ground slopes.”

  Hawke looked at the map, grunted approval, and put the finishing touches on the coffee.

  The radio came to life again as someone keyed his handset. In the silence of the jungle they all could clearly hear the person breathing. “I don’t think so, Bravo Three.” It was Fitch. “I see us just about a klick south of there by the blue line. Over.”

  There was a long silence. An error could bring their own artillery down on them. Worse, it could mean hours of extra walking.

  “What a dingbat,” Mellas said.

  Hawke took a gulp of coffee, then handed the cup to Bass, who took a deep pull and handed it to Mellas, who did the same and passed it over to Skosh. The coffee burned delightfully all the way into Mellas’s stomach, where he felt it radiate heat to his body. Sharing the cup felt good. It reminded him of passing around a joint.

  Hawke took another drink, put the steaming can on the mud, and took the radio handset. “Bravo Six, this is Bravo Five. Over.”

  “Yeah, Five,” Fitch returned.

  “Bravo One Actual and I are back here with Bravo One Assist, and we’ve decided you’re both fucked up. We’re down zero point three and right four point five. Over.”

  Daniels’s voice crackled over the air. “That’s affirmative, Skipper.”

  There was short pause, and Fitch came up on the hook again. “OK, I’ll buy that. You copy that, Bravo Three? Over.”

  “Roger, I copy,” said Kendall. “If that’s where we are, I got to come back out of this little draw because we’re headed the wrong direction. Over.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Bass muttered.

  “Bravo Two, this is Bravo Six. You copy our pos? Over.”

  “Fuck, yes, Jack. Over.”

  “Look, Scar, I know you’re not due to walk point until tomorrow, but could you take it this afternoon so Three can join our tail as we go by? Over.”

  There was short pause while Goodwin weighed the request against the additional danger.

  “OK, Jack. Bravo Two, out.”

  Mellas left Hawke and Bass and worked his way forward to Hamilton, who gave him the handset. “Skipper wants to talk to you,” Hamilton said. From the tone of his voice, Mellas felt something had gone wrong.

  “Bravo Six, this is Bravo One Actual. Over.”

  “Bravo One, where the fuck you been? You don’t go anyplace without your radio. Is that clear? Do you copy that? Over.”

  Mellas flushed and looked angrily at Hamilton, who had averted his eyes and was adjusting the heavy radio to ride better on his back.

  “Roger, I copy that.” Mellas knew that everyone on the radio net was aware of his mistake. He gave the handset back to Hamilton, saying nothing.

  “I should have gone with you,” Hamilton mumbled. “Sorry, sir. I won’t let you down again.”

  “Sorry won’t get it,” Mellas snapped. He reached down for his heavy pack and heaved it into place. He readjusted his ammunition bandoleers and took a long pull of brackish halazoned water. “Oh, hell. I should have known better myself,” he said. He handed Hamilton his open canteen.

  With Goodwin leading the way, Bravo Company lurched forward. Soon they were passing the disgusted-looking Marines from Kendall’s platoon, who sat back in the low brush, rifles at the ready, watching the rest of the company file by. With Goodwin’s platoon up front, they made faster progress, but it was still not fast enough for Colonel Simpson or Major Blakely, who began to ask Fitch for position reports almost hourly.

  By nightfall the company was still four kilometers short of the ammunition site. The colonel radioed that the ammo was to be blown by noon the next day or he’d have Fitch relieved. This left Fitch with the alternative he’d dreaded—moving the company down into the river valley and taking the trail on which Alpha had been ambushed.

  As he checked holes that night, Mellas felt a subtle change in the atmosphere. A pocket of warm air, isolated in the monsoon, was going slowly toward the China Sea. By the time they were moving the next morning, heading down off the high ridgeline that afforded some breeze and the coolness of altitude, the air felt like a wool blanket pulled over their heads.

  To get down to the trail they had to break out their ropes. Hands burned red and blisters erupted as they dangled down steep cliffs with heavy loads on their backs. Sweat stung their eyes. Tempers flared. Mellas felt as if he were having an asthma attack in a stuffy automobile.

  After two hours they reached the trail that ran down the valley floor. It formed a narrow muddy tunnel in the thick growth. Light barely penetrated the ceiling of overhanging vegetation. Goodwin waved the two Kit Carsons out in front and the company jerked its way forward. The rate of progress was now nearly double what it had been off the trail—however, so was the danger.

  There was no longer any need to hack through bush and bamboo, but the fear of ambush still kept the pace agonizingly slow. Mellas fumed, wondering why blowing the dump by noon was better than blowing it that night. He wished they were up on the ridge where it was cooler and safer and the going was not much slower.

  After two more hours Goodwin’s platoon moved off the trail to allow Mellas’s to take point. When he saw Goodwin, Mellas was too hot and tired to do anything except roll his eyes and let his tongue hang out. “You ain’t fucking wrong, Jack,” Goodwin said in an almost normal tone of voice. It seemed very loud. Those who heard him smiled.

  An hour
later the entire column had stopped. The kids stood dumbly in the heat, sweating, reeking, not wanting to move forward, yet wanting to get the day over with. Then some of them sat down. Soon the entire column was taking five with no one having given the word.

  Fitch came forward. “What the fuck’s going on?”

  Mellas didn’t know. He knew he should have known. He crawled forward, determined to get back in Fitch’s good graces. He reached Jackson. Jackson didn’t know. Mellas crawled on, Hamilton crawling after him. A small clearing opened up. The two Kit Carsons were cooking a meal, listening to their transistor radio.

  Mellas was enraged. The lead Marine must have seen the Kit Carsons stop, but he hadn’t been ordered to take point. Being on point was the Kit Carsons’ bad luck. He wasn’t about to volunteer to push past them and risk getting killed, especially since it meant walking across an open clearing. If the Kit Carsons weren’t supposed to be cooking their meal, then an officer would probably wonder why the whole column had stopped and come up and investigate—as in fact happened.

  Mellas strode out of the cover of the jungle into the small patch of light. “Goddamn you fucking gook assholes.” He kicked the pot of water, scattering the burning C-4. “Get out of my goddamn sight.” One of them reached for the pot, the other for his rifle. Mellas was too angry to feel threatened. “Get the fuck out of here!” he screamed, shoving them toward the rear. “Back. You go to CP, you stupid motherfucker. Back. Me no want you. You numbah ten.”

  He radioed Fitch that he was sending the Kit Carsons back and didn’t want to see them up front again. “I don’t want any fucking deserters fucking up my men,” he shouted over the radio.

  Fitch sighed. “Just get us moving, OK? Out.”

  Mellas’s contempt for anything Vietnamese grew.

  Fitch sent Arran and Pat forward in hopes that Pat’s nose would help speed things along. It didn’t.

  An hour later Mellas saw Mallory sitting at the edge of the trail, his machine gun across his knees, holding his head and moaning with pain. “Come on, Mallory,” Mellas said. “We’ve only got a few more hours to go, then we’ll blow the shit up and get our asses out of here.” The column filed wearily past them.

  “My head aches, Lieutenant,” Mallory said, nearly screaming.

  “I know. We’re going to try and get you to a psychologist. Maybe he’ll be able to help.”

  A loud groan escaped Mallory before he could cut it off. “A psychologist? Oh, shit, man. I tell you it hurts. I’m not crazy.”

  Mellas held out his hand and Mallory struggled to his feet and humped up the trail, trying to regain his position in the line.

  Within minutes they were again stopped dead. No one knew why. Mellas wanted to sit down and guzzle water. A leech groped its way toward him, one end anchored to the ground while the other end arched up, blindly sensing the air. Mellas began torturing it with his bottle of insect repellent. Disgusted with himself, he killed it with his boot.

  Hamilton walked up and offered the handset to Mellas. “It’s the skipper,” he said.

  Fitch’s voice was testy. “What’s the fucking holdup now? Over.” “I’m finding out now,” Mellas lied.

  “Well, hurry the fuck up.”

  Mellas groaned and struggled to his feet. Hamilton followed. They reached Jacobs, whose squad was now on point.

  “What’s the story?” Mellas whispered.

  “P-Pat alerted.”

  “Don’t you ever pass the damned word back?”

  “S-sorry, sir.” He gave Hamilton a quick knowing look, which was returned. Mellas caught the exchange. One more peevish lieutenant.

  He calmed down and moved forward with Hamilton creeping behind him, sweating under the load of the radio. They reached the dog and Arran. Arran squatted beside Pat, holding Pat’s thick neck, his shotgun at the ready. Pat’s tongue stuck out. The dog’s lungs worked rapidly, trying to expel the heat. One of his reddish ears was folded half down, as if it had wilted.

  “Small alert, sir,” Arran whispered. “Robertson and Jermain are checking it out.” There was an uncertain pause. “Uh, sir. Pat’s done in. We been on point two hours now.”

  Mellas only nodded and continued forward, feeling more exposed with each step. He reached Jermain, the M-79 man, who was lying prone on the trail, trying to peer through the thick bamboo all around them. Mellas and Hamilton crawled up to him. “Where’s Robertson?” Mellas whispered. Robertson was the leader of Jacobs’s first fire team.

  Jermain turned his face, red with the heat and excitement, toward Mellas, and motioned with his hands in a wide arc. Robertson had chosen to move around to come up behind any possible enemy.

  “He went by himself?” Mellas whispered. Jermain nodded and shrugged, still looking straight ahead. Mellas was struck by Robertson’s bravery.

  The radio hissed. Hamilton quickly muffled the handset against his shirt, but he listened to the words. He tapped Mellas’s boot. “It’s the skipper. He wants to know what the fucking holdup is.”

  Mellas grabbed the handset. “Bravo Six, we’re checking it out, goddamn it. Over.” He had barely controlled the volume of his voice.

  “Roger, Bravo One. I got Big John on my ass about the ammo getting blown. I’ll give you five more minutes. Over.”

  “Roger. Out.” Mellas gave Hamilton the handset. “The colonel’s in a hurry,” he said to Hamilton bitterly. “Start moving forward, Jermain.”

  Jermain turned to look at him in surprise. “We got to cover for Robertson,” he said, exasperated. “Someone’s got to care.”

  Mellas started crawling forward past Jermain, who took a deep breath and crawled out in front of him, his honor having been challenged.

  “Jermain?” a voice whispered from the jungle ahead of them.

  “Yeah. Right here,” Jermain whispered back.

  There was a rustle in the bushes, and then Robertson’s sweating face emerged. He was duckwalking. “Oh, hi, Lieutenant,” he said, and smiled. He remained there in a squat, his little body looking perfectly at ease in its folded-up position.

  Mellas turned to look at Hamilton. “‘Hi, Lieutenant,’ he says.” He shook his head and turned to Robertson. “See anything?” he asked.

  Robertson shook his head, obviously unfazed by Mellas’s sarcastic tone. “I got the feeling, though, that they’re just in front of us keeping tabs somehow.”

  Mellas became serious. “Why do you feel that?”

  “I don’t know. Little things. I just feel it.”

  Mellas reached for the handset. “Bravo Six, this is Bravo One Actual. We checked out negative up here. I’ll be rotating squads and then we’ll be moving. I’m sending Arran back. Pat’s done and we’ll have big Victor”—he meant Vancouver—“on point anyway. Over.” Fitch acknowledged and Mellas stood up in the trail. “Pass the word back for Conman’s squad to move up. You guys take tail-end Charlie,” he told Jake. “Tell Arran to wait on the CP group.”

  Pretty soon Vancouver’s large frame could be seen moving up the trail, his modified M-60 hanging from his neck. Connolly was just two men behind him. Mellas told the lead fire team and Connolly about the situation and the need for haste. “But don’t go any faster than feels OK, Vancouver,” he added. “I don’t care how much of a hurry the colonel is in to move his little pins in the map.”

  “I got you, sir.”

  Vancouver stared down the trail, constantly scanning it, his eyes jerking with tension. Walking down a trail to save time, he knew, was an invitation for an ambush. Also, Robertson had smelled something. He was a good fire team leader and had been around a while. If Robertson was being cautious, there was good reason. But on point there are always good reasons to be cautious, even if there’s no hurry. The point man is all alone. It makes no difference if there’s a fire team or an entire battalion behind him. He sees no one—only shadows. At every turn lurks the possible ambush—and the point man is the first to go. Or, if the ambushers are particularly successful, they let the point man by and cut him off when they open up on the lieutenant and the radio operator. It’s like walking a hundred feet up on a bending two-by-four with the wind
blowing in sporatic gusts from different directions. There’s no help. No rope. No friend to lean on. The point man is also blindfolded by the jungle. His ears are confused by every tiny sound behind him, obscuring the one sound that might save him. He wants to scream for the whole world to shut up. His hands sweat, making him worry that he won’t be able to pull the trigger. He wants to piss even if he just pissed five minutes ago. His heart thumps in his throat and chest. He waits out the eternity before the squad leader says it’s time to rotate back into safety.

  Vancouver stopped thinking. Fear and exposure drove thought from his head. Only survival remained.

  It was the oddly bent piece of bamboo about ten meters down the trail that caused the rush of dread that saved him. Vancouver dropped to his knees and opened up. The roar of the machine gun and the spewing of hot casings turned the silent world of the jungle upside down. Everything was motion—Marines rolling off the trail, seeking cover in the foliage, scrambling, praying, crawling for their lives. Vancouver saw only shadows, but the shadows were screaming back at him with AK-47 automatic rifles. Bullets spun past him in the trail, kicking up mud, churning the place where the Marines had been a split second before. Connolly rolled into the brush, coming faceup on his back, his M-16 clutched to his chest. He was holding his fire, just as they had discussed so many times.

  The sawed-off M-60 stopped firing. The belt had run out. Vancouver dived for the side of the trail, and Connolly rolled over into it on his stomach. He let loose on automatic just as an NVA soldier emerged from the wall of jungle to finish Vancouver off. Connolly’s bullets caught the NVA soldier full in the chest and face. The back of the man’s head exploded. Connolly rolled over again, fumbling wildly for another magazine. An M-16 opened up on Vancouver’s right, almost on top of him, the bullets screaming past his right ear. Then another M-16 followed almost immediately to his left. Vancouver was crawling backward, along with Connolly, as fast as he could. Connolly was pushing a second magazine into place, shouting for Mole. “Gun up! Gun up! Mole! Goddamn it!”

 

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