Matterhorn

Matterhorn Page 23

by Karl Marlantes

  Hunger dominated people’s minds, nagging at the point men and at Goodwin, who tried to ignore his pounding brain and concentrate on the task at hand. They walked with a constant feeling of irritation and frustration. A piece of gear catching on a branch became a monstrous injustice. Bumping into someone from behind because of fatigue-dulled senses brought out unreasonable anger rather than the usual sarcastic comment.

  They reached checkpoint Alpha one hour after dusk, now a full day behind schedule. Checkpoint Alpha turned out to be the top of a hill covered with jungle, nothing more. They had eaten nothing all day, the last three-quarters can of food having been eaten the day before. It had been three days since anyone had eaten even a half ration.

  All through dinner, Lieutenant Colonel Simpson looked distracted. Major Blakely assumed that he was worried about how he’d explain the delay to Colonel Mulvaney at the next day’s briefing. He hardly seemed to notice when the enlisted waiter removed his plate and refilled his coffee cup. He only halfheartedly joined Major Blakely and Captain Bainford, the forward air control officer, in telling tales and laughing over cigars. Simpson reached for the bottle of Mateus that they’d nearly consumed during the meal and poured himself another glass, ignoring the coffee. He drank it quickly. He reached into his pocket for another cigar but found the thin cardboard box empty.

  “Cigar, Colonel?” Blakely asked, reaching for one of his own.

  Simpson lit it from the candle on the table, worked up a good start with some quick inward puffs, then relaxed. Blakely lit one of his own, leaned back, and looked out of the wire mesh that protected the interior of the officers’ and staff NCOs’ small mess tent from the insects hovering just outside. At sunset, VCB was not a pretty place to have a meal. Enlisted men stood in ragged bunches in the chow line outside the mess tent. The ground was muddy. The night air stank of kerosene and burning barrels of shit collected from the latrines. A lone Huey, returning to Quang Tri, rose from the rough airstrip, was lost momentarily against the gray-green of the hills, and then emerged silhouetted against the dying light.

  “This is no fucking place to be, Blakely,” Simpson growled. He took what seemed like an angry puff of his cigar.

  “Sir?”

  “We ought to be in the bush. We got three companies sitting on their asses in the flatlands and one fucking off up in the mountains. Can’t control them. Can’t kick ass when we need to.”

  “I agree, sir, but with the battalion split like it is, companies all over the map even when we do have an operation, how are you going to control them?”

  “Matterhorn. I want to be back on Matterhorn. We’d have the whole northwest corner of the country tied up. Keep the companies down in the jungle disrupting the gooks, hitting their supply lines, destroying their caches.” He spat a piece of tobacco to the floor. “Who knows, even forays into Laos. This bombing bullshit just don’t get it. You drop a bomb and a grunt gets up and walks right through the crater, and the NVA are a bunch of grunts, some of the best. That’s why we got to send our grunts out after them.”

  “I agree,” Blakely said carefully, looking at the forward air controller with a sideways glance, “but with the goddamned political restrictions what can you do? But, I do agree, goddamn it. You go where the action is.” Blakely didn’t ask the colonel what the difference was between running four companies by radio from Matterhorn and running four companies by radio from VCB. He knew the real difference was psychological, at least for the people back at division. With One Twenty-Four’s command post on the map at Matterhorn—all by itself, in the most exposed position—people back at division would constantly be reminded that the officers who ran One Twenty-Four were bush Marines, not staff personnel hidden in thick bunkers. Blakely knew the value of image. It wouldn’t hurt at all if they got shelled every so often. He had to have real combat on his record, the kind with Purple Hearts and medals. It was the best route, maybe the only route, to the top.

  “We’ve got to get better control,” Simpson went on, almost to himself. “That fucking Fitch is a full day behind schedule. He sat on his ass all day yesterday. The entire fucking day to medevac immersion foot cases that are nothing but the result of bad leadership. Well, I didn’t let him. Teach him something.”

  Simpson poured himself another glass of wine and, rising from his chair, gulped it down. He slammed the glass against the table. “That’s good stuff. Portuguese, isn’t it? We ought to get another case of it.” He left the room and the others rose from their chairs as he went out.

  Simpson continued to drink. After two hours of restlessly flipping through the stack of papers on the makeshift plywood desk, he’d consumed nearly half a bottle of Jack Daniel’s Black. He’d been up from his chair six or seven times to look at the map tacked to another piece of plywood that leaned against the damp canvas of the tent’s side. He would touch the coordinates of Hill 1609, Bravo’s last reported position, and try to assure himself they would be OK. Then, failing to find any comfort, and feeling his responsibility for a lot of lives, he would reluctantly return to the paperwork and refill his glass.

  He knew he shouldn’t drink so much, especially alone. But he was alone a lot. After all, he was the battalion commander. It was supposed to be lonely at the top. What did he expect, the easy camaraderie of the bachelor officers’ quarters? But another voice reproved him. He ought to be on friendlier terms with the other battalion commanders in the regiment, or some of the regimental staff of his own age and rank. He’d tried. He’d asked Lieutenant Colonel Lowe, who’d been given Two Twenty-Four, over for dinner the other night. He’d broken out new cigars and some really good wine. But it had been awkward. Lowe had been playing football for Annapolis while Simpson was freezing his ass off in Korea, but here he was, three years younger than Simpson and at the same place. But that was just it—Annapolis. Simpson had worked his way through Georgia State and never had time to learn how to socialize. So he wasn’t a socializer like Lowe or Blakely. Never was. Never would be. So what? So he was alone. So what? He wasn’t here to have a good time. He was here to kill gooks.

  He pushed the mass of paperwork slowly across the desk. In the clear space, he placed the glass of whiskey and the half-full bottle. The amber liquid reflected warmly back to him. Warm light. Deep and warm.

  He kept going over Mulvaney’s comments and questions during the briefing. Why did he have to get a goddamn cartoon character jack-ass like Mulvaney? He just couldn’t be sure what Mulvaney was thinking —or what Mulvaney thought of him. Simpson had been certain that an old grunt like Mulvaney would be delighted when his headquarters were moved to Matterhorn. Mulvaney had even said it looked like there were gooks out there. Now, however, he felt he’d done something wrong, being out there and having to scramble to come back for Cam Lo. But Mulvaney had given the go-ahead. Simpson took a few more sips. Four days to open 1609. Had that been rash? God knows the men were left out there with a bunch of green reserve lieutenants. Soft on the troops. Moving too slow. There just weren’t enough regular captains to go around. The whole goddamn thing stank. Marines were shock troops.

  “Can openers,” Liddell Hart had once called them. Or was it “lock openers”? He never remembered details like that, so he could never put pithy quotes into his reports the way he knew he ought to. But he knew his fucking tactics. Why should he have to remember pithy fucking quotes? The only can we opened over here was a fucking can of worms. Malaria. Jungle rot. Politicians. The nigras up in arms with this black power crap. He slowly and carefully measured out just a little more whiskey into his glass. Just a few more months to tough this one out. A battalion in combat. Hell, he was already thirty-nine. It was a godsend, a reprieve from the twenty-year final curtain. Now he’d have a chance to make full colonel—get a regiment. He smiled at the warm glass. No, not a division. You don’t ask the gods for too much, or they’ll put you down. But a regiment was possible, if he didn’t screw this one up.

  His stomach gave a lurch and he reacted by downing the rest of the whiskey. He refilled the glass.

  Thirty-nine
years old. Last chance. He knew he wasn’t smart like Blakely, or colorful like Mulvaney. But he cared. He cared about immersion foot. He cared about security and cutting his casualty rate. But how do those things get you the notice of the commanding general? It stank. It all stank. Goddamn Bravo Company out there on a limb. He should never have let Blakely sweet-talk him and Mulvaney into it. Then the screwup about the rations. He hadn’t caught it. Should have caught it. Supervise, supervise, supervise. That was the last “s” in BAMCISS: Begin planning, arrange for reconnaissance . . . or was it arrange for support? Make a reconnaissance. No, a plan. Damn. Memory never was that good. Shit. It’s simple. You just go out there and kill the goddamned enemy. If that rations thing ever got out, there’d be hell to pay.

  Blakely was transferring the supply officer who’d fucked up back to Da Nang. Not that the S-4 minded that. Hell, no. Officer clubs. Liquor. Women. Round-eyed women. There was one blond who sold cars to the troops. Cars? Hell, Mercedes Benzes. A whole year’s pay for one of them babies. Of course there’d be nothing on the supply officer’s record. No sense making it hard on the guy. Blakely was using back channels to let people know they were letting the supply officer off easy and not putting it on his record. But if word ever got out, well, he could show he took immediate action by getting rid of the officer. Not that it was so bad. Hell, no one got killed or anything. Besides, they’d get Bravo Company out, make it up to them. He’d have steaks for everyone when they got back. In fact, with Bravo at VCB, the whole battalion would be here at the same time. He’d have steaks for the whole battalion and a formal mess night for the officers. Had ’em ever since the Royal Marines, goddamn it. Just like in the old days. That’s the thing for morale. A mess night for the officers and steaks for the enlisted. Good fucking Marines, those kids. Not their fault. They’d like him in the end. They’d understand. No leadership. That wasn’t anyone’s fault either. You get these green-assed college kids, no experience. One day they’re screwing government office girls in Washington and a week later they’re dropped into the bush. What can you expect? Shit. They just needed some toughening up, that’s all. Maturity. That’s why he had to get back out in the bush again. Like those bunkers on Matterhorn. They’d have been slaughtered in an air raid or heavy shelling. You can’t be too careful. Sure, it was hard on ’em—goddamn right it was hard. But that’s what he was here for: to save lives. By God, all they needed was a good fucking jacking up. A little leadership.

  He threw down the rest of the whiskey, grabbed his utility cap, and pushed through the blackout curtains into the night. Guided by the whitewashed stones that lined the path, he crossed over to the COC, the combat operations center. He pushed open the heavy door, surprising the watch officer, who was reading Playboy, and the three radio operators, two of whom were playing chess. The third was listening to the top-forty countdown from AFVN, the Army radio station in Quang Tri. Everyone scrambled to his feet.

  “Get me Bravo Six,” Simpson barked.

  One of the radio operators began calling. Pretty soon Pallack’s voice answered, and then Fitch came up. His voice was faint as a wraith.

  “This is Big John Six. I want to know why you deliberately disobeyed an order and are sitting on your ass at checkpoint Alpha a full day behind schedule. I want a fucking good explanation or goddamn it you can explain yourself to somebody on Okinawa, because by God I’ll have any commander’s ass that can’t do the job. Over.”

  The radio operators glanced sideways at one another. The watch officer began going over radio messages that had come in from division.

  There was a long pause. “Did you copy me, Bravo Six?” Simpson insisted. “Over.”

  “Roger, sir. I copied.” There was a break in the transmission. “We were fogged in all day. I kept waiting for that bird I’d requested. I have some bad cases of immersion foot, a body, and we’re out of food. It was my judgment we could move faster if we had those problems taken care of. I’ll take full responsibility for the delay. Over.”

  “You bet your ass you will. But that don’t help me explain it to Bushwhacker Six. Over.”

  “I understand, sir. Perhaps if we knew what our mission was it would help the men move. Over.” The distance and weak batteries made Fitch’s voice waver and break.

  “Your mission is to find, close with, and destroy the enemy. That’s the mission of every fucking Marine.” Simpson unconsciously pulled back his shoulders. He was aware of the staff watching him. “Now goddamn it you get to finding and destroying or I’ll have you relieved for cause. You copy me, Bravo Six?”

  “Roger. Copy.”

  “It’s imperative—imperative—that you reach Checkpoint Echo by noon on Thursday. You’ll await further orders there. Imperative. You understand? Over.”

  The radio was silent. Checkpoint Echo was where two rivers joined, the one coming from the mountains over which they were struggling and the other rushing down from another chain of mountains to their east. Fitch came up. “Sir, I’m looking on my map here and Checkpoint Echo is across the other side of some very steep stuff. Look, in this terrain I just don’t think we can make it that soon. Over.”

  “Wait one.”

  Simpson darted over to the map, putting one finger on Bravo’s position, neatly indicated by a pin with a large letter B on it. He then put his finger on the coordinates of Checkpoint Echo. His two fingers were approximately eight inches apart. Fitch was obviously shirking.

  Simpson picked up the handset. “What are you trying to pull on me, Bravo Six? You be at Echo by noon or you’ll spend your first month in Okinawa getting my foot out of your ass. You copy?”

  “I copy.”

  “Big John Six, out.”

  In the damp and cold, thirty kilometers from VCB, Fitch lightly tossed the handset to the ground and stared into the dark. Relsnik fumbled for it and picked it up.

  Hawke whistled. “Maybe when he sobers up he’ll forget what he said.”

  Fitch grunted.

  “Hey, forget it,” Hawke continued. “What’s he gonna do, Jim, cut your hair off and send you to Vietnam?”

  Fitch smiled, grateful for Hawke’s support, and wondered why he wouldn’t be happy to be relieved. Just get out of everything. Still, he felt terrible. His fitness report would kill him. Any hope of getting a decent assignment once he left Vietnam would be crushed. To have started out so well, a company commander, and then be shit-canned back to the rear was something he couldn’t bear. Fitch knew the Marine Corps well enough to realize that the word would get around. And in an organization as small as the Marines, he’d never be able to outrun it. No amount of explaining would help. It would only look like excuses. The real story, known by Hawke and the platoon commanders, would remain locked up in the jungle until they rotated home. By then it wouldn’t matter. Fitch would be a joke.

  Down on the lines Mellas and Hamilton sat on the back edge of their fighting hole. Hamilton had borrowed Mellas’s red-lens flashlight to fill in another square on his short-timer’s chart. It was a drawing of a delicate Vietnamese girl, her right leg cocked up above her head, exposing her vagina. Two hundred small numbered segments twisted around the girl in a spiral, ending with day zero on the sweet spot. “You know, Lieutenant,” Hamilton said, “I truly think this girl here is beautiful. I mean I really do. She looks just like a girl I used to know back home.”

  “Get back, Hamilton. They all look the same from that angle,” Mellas said, remembering a joke he’d heard. Then he felt that he’d somehow profaned the beautiful girl on Hamilton’s short-timer’s chart.

  Hamilton leaned back on his elbows. “I wanted to marry her ever since the eighth grade.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “She married some guy who’s an engineer at the plant. He had a draft-exempt job.” Hamilton drifted off into his own world for a while, then returned. “I was with this friend of mine, Sonny Martinez. We’d come down from Camp Lejeune to their wedding. Sonny speaks pretty good English, but still a little fucked up. Anyway he gets Margaret’s husband’s attention at the reception and asks him, ‘You been in Army before, hey?’
‘No, I haven’t’ this guy answers. ‘Why you not go to Army?’ Hamilton’s voice turned pompous and slow. ‘Well, you see I have a very important job and, well, it’s too important a job for me to go in the Army.’ Well Sonny just shut up the rest of the day and I wanted to jump across the table and beat the bastard’s eyeballs out.”

  Mellas laughed.

  Hamilton raised his invisible toast glass. “Here’s to Margaret and her fucking husband.” He was silent for a moment. “Why is it that assholes like that always end up marrying the outstanding chicks?”

  “I guess girls want security. Guys like you and me aren’t too good a risk.”

  “Somehow I can’t help thinking we’re better guys, though.”

  “Unfortunately, women don’t,” Mellas said. He remembered the night Anne told him that she couldn’t go along with this weird concept of morality he’d come up with about keeping his promise to the president. It had started as a wonderful meal in the New York apartment that Anne shared with two of her friends from Bryn Mawr, both of whom had made themselves descreetly absent. Anne had gone all-out, not only with the bacon-wrapped teriyaki chicken and water chestnuts, but with real French-press coffee from a real French-press coffeepot that she’d brought home from her junior summer in Paris. Mellas had never seen one before. He thought that the best time to tell her about sending in his letter to the Marine Corps would be over coffee.

  There was no best time. Mellas found himself standing with an empty coffeepot in one hand and two empty mugs in the other, looking at her beautiful backside. She was wearing the salmon-colored miniskirt that emphasized her small waist and hugged her bottom—the one that she knew drove him wild.

 

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