Matterhorn

Matterhorn Page 34

by Karl Marlantes

  The officers stood, echoing the toast. Then they sat down with the colonel, who received congratulations on his fine toast from Blakely.

  Coates turned to Mellas, his eyes dancing with deep humor. “Cool down, Lieutenant Mellas. Colonel Mulvaney will never let him near the place. You don’t commit an entire battalion to an area covered by enemy artillery that we can’t go after because of political reasons. Add to that uncertain air support because of the weather. That’s why Mulvaney pulled us out in the first place. Return to Matterhorn? Nevah hoppin.”

  Mellas was surprised. “Here I thought you were a lifer,” he said, smiling.

  “I am, Lieutenant Mellas. But I ain’t stupid. And I also know how to keep my mouth shut.”

  Mellas awoke the next morning to hard rain slashing against the tent. Relsnik, on radio watch, was hunched in his poncho liner staring out into the dark. Mellas’s first thought was hopeful. With rain like that, no choppers would be able to fly. Anyone who got into the shit would have to rely on something besides the Bald Eagle to get rescued. He wrapped the snoopy around his shoulders, never wanting to leave its security. He remained in a snug ball but was slowly losing a fight with his bladder. He gave up and ran out into the rain to piss.

  When he got back inside the tent, Fitch was up, starting coffee.

  “No way we can get launched today,” Mellas said.

  Fitch squinted into the darkness. He turned to his radio operator. “Hey, Snik, see if you can get a weather report out of battalion.”

  The weather report wasn’t good. It was supposed to stop raining by midmorning. That meant the choppers could fly.

  An hour later Mellas was at the supply tent, doing paperwork that ranged from writing press releases for local newspapers about the activities of local boys to handling inquiries about paternity suits from Red Cross workers to straightening out paycheck allocations to divorced wives, current wives, and women illegally claiming to be wives, mothers, and mothers-in-law. To Mellas it seemed as if half the company came from broken homes and had wives or parents who were drunks, dope addicts, runaways, prostitutes, or child beaters. Two things about this surprised him. The first was the fact itself. The second was that everyone seemed to cope with it so well.

  A runner dropped off a small stack of papers and radio messages from battalion. Included were orders transferring Staff Sergeant Cassidy to H & S Company. Mellas marveled at Sergeant Major Knapp’s efficiency. He looked back into the gloom of the tent where Cassidy and two helpers were trying to straighten out a mess of equipment and steeled himself for what had to follow. “Hey, Gunny,” he said, feigning excitement and getting up from the table, “you’ve got orders out of the bush. Look at this.” He walked back with the triplicate orders.

  Cassidy looked at Mellas in surprise. “What? Let me see ’em.” He furrowed his brow, reading the order slowly. It was a routine set, transferring a lot of people. His name was singled out by a neat rubber-stamped arrow. The words ORIGINAL ORDERS were stamped in bold capitals across the mimeographed sheet. “Well, I’ll be fucked,” he said.

  “Where are you going, Gunny?” one of the Marines asked. Both of them were grinning broadly, happy that anyone was escaping the bush alive.

  “Well, I’ll be fucked,” Cassidy said again. He sat down. “H & S Company. I didn’t know nothing about it.” He looked up at Mellas. “I don’t see nothing about my replacement.”

  “He’s probably coming in from division or someplace.”

  Cassidy said, “Well, sir, I’d like to go see what I’ll be doing. No one told me nothing. I swear.”

  “Sure, Gunny, go ahead. I’ll honcho this.”

  Cassidy sent the two Marines to chow, with orders to send two replacements back afterward. Then he walked off to see his new company commander.

  Vancouver was one of the two Marines who managed to wangle work in the supply tent rather than fill sandbags in the rain. He and the other kid were soon rummaging through the damp, often mildewed bags of personal gear left behind by Marines who had rotated home or been killed.

  “Hey, Vancouver,” the other kid said. “Here’s something that’s yours.”

  When Vancouver saw the long rectangular box he felt a foreboding. It was his sword. It had been a funny shtick when he ordered it. He thought it had been lost for good. Now he said—but it was as if he heard someone else’s voice saying—“Jesus Christ. Hey, it’s my fucking gook sword. It’s been here all along.” He was tearing at the paper, pulling the long handle and sheath from the narrow box. He grabbed the hilt and, with a ringing sound, drew the sword from its sheath.

  Mellas had turned at the sound of Vancouver’s cry.

  “Look at this mother, Lieutenant,” Vancouver crowed. He was standing on top of two seabags, his feet spread apart, holding the sword in front of him. He took a quick slash at the air. “I’m gonna get some now,” he said through clenched teeth.

  By late afternoon word of Vancouver’s sword had made its way through the entire battalion. A friend of Jancowitz’s from H & S stopped by the sandbag detail to tell Jancowitz about it. Jancowitz had a feeling of despair which he couldn’t identify and which he quickly forced back into the reservoir of other feelings he’d fought down for the past year and a half. “Crazy fucker,” he said, smiling. “He’ll get some, too. You wait and see.”

  “Yeah, he might,” his friend told him, “but the gooks ain’t hardly going to use swords. They ain’t no fucking savages.”

  “Yeah, but Vancouver is,” Jancowitz retorted. People laughed. His friend grinned and set off down the road. Jancowitz turned sadly back to his pile of dirt.

  All day Bravo Company dug in the clay, filling the green plastic bags, trying to forget that at any second an officer in an air-conditioned bunker in Dong Ha or Da Nang could call in the helicopters that would carry them to some unknown spot in the jungle where they would die. They tried with every shovelful to forget that at any moment the company jeep might come tearing across the narrow airstrip, with Pallack shouting that someone was in the shit and Bravo Company was going to bail them out.

  Jancowitz was as anxious as everybody else. He tried to think of Susi, but he was having a hard time remembering her face. He was embarrassed to take out his wallet in front of everyone and look at her picture, so he remained torn between wanting to do just that and not wanting to appear foolish. The guys would laugh and say she was just another fucking bar girl. He couldn’t have taken that. He’d signed on for an extra six months of fear and filth just to spend thirty days with her. He threw himself into filling the next sandbag.

  At 1700 they folded their E-tools and walked in twos and threes back toward their tents. Broyer had joined Jancowitz, his eyeglasses steaming slightly from the perspiration dripping from his forehead. “Hey, Janc,” he said, wiping the glasses on his shirttail. “What we got an assistant general for anyway?” He was referring to the one-star general who resided at Task Force Hotel and whose red flag with a single gold star on it they had stared at all day while filling sandbags for his bunker. He put the glasses back on. They promptly slid forward. Annoyed, he pushed them back onto his nose, but then they started to steam up again.

  Jancowitz didn’t answer. He was thinking of Susi, trying to block out the smell of oil that had been sprayed on the road and the smoke that came from the efforts of a lone Marine who was burning shit with kerosene in three sawed-off steel barrels. Eventually, though, Broyer’s question worked its way into his consciousness. He looked at Broyer. When Broyer showed up on Matterhorn, Jancowitz had been worried about his thin frame and hesitant way of talking. But he didn’t worry about Broyer anymore—a good fucking Marine. “Fucked if I know, Broyer. General Neitzel probably needs someone to handle his paperwork.”

  “Way I hear it, he needs someone to handle his fighting. First order he gave was for everyone to button their utility shirts. Sheeit.”

  Jancowitz smiled, listening to Broyer, who was trying to make his “shit” sound cool. Jancowitz had been in-country when the previous general had arrived and had heard the same kind of bitching. Jancowitz had
his own criterion for whether or not a general, or any other officer for that matter, was any good, and that was the number of times he saw the officer out in the bush with the snuffs. That’s why he liked Colonel Mulvaney. He’d been out on the lines at VCB one night, raining like hell, dark as a motherfucker, when he heard this jeep coming up. He thought it was Hawke. So he hollered out, “What the fuck you doing out here?” He about shit his pants when it turned out to be Mulvaney, the commander of the whole Twenty-Fourth Marine Regiment. The old fucker had proceeded to ask him if he’d killed any rats, inspect his rifle, and tell him he was doing a good job.

  “Lieutenant Mellas doesn’t give a shit if we don’t button our utility shirts,” Broyer went on.

  “Yeah. Only he won’t stay in.”

  “You going to stay in?” Broyer asked after a moment.

  “I don’t know. I got this girl in Bangkok.” Jancowitz smiled. “How about you?”

  “I want to go to the University of Maryland on the GI Bill and get into government work.” Broyer hesitated. “Maybe the State Department.” He looked quickly at Jancowitz to see if there was any reaction. Then he smiled ruefully. “I thought being a Marine would look good on my résumé.”

  “What’s a résumé?” Jancowitz asked. He saw that Broyer was surprised that he didn’t know but was trying not to let on.

  “You use it when you’re looking for a job. It’s a couple of pages that tells your experience, where you went to school. That sort of thing.”

  Jancowitz laughed out loud. He couldn’t imagine why he’d ever need one of those to get a job.

  They walked along silently for a while.

  “I hear there’s going to be a movie tonight,” Broyer said. “And maybe even a Red Cross girl.”

  “That’s an old rumor. They don’t let Red Cross girls out of Da Nang. They say it’s too dangerous. Such horseshit. They don’t let the fucking Budweiser and air mattresses out of Da Nang either.”

  “But the movie isn’t a rumor,” Broyer said.

  “I bet you it’s a fucking cowboy show.”

  Broyer laughed quietly, and they walked along in silence again. Overhead they heard the gentle honking of some geese and they both looked up at a small flock of about six moving north. They stood and watched until the geese were lost in the clouds hiding Mutter’s Ridge.

  “Makes me homesick,” Jancowitz said quietly.

  “Me too,” Broyer answered.

  When they rounded the last bend before their tents by the airfield, Jancowitz said, “Well, I’ll be fucked.” Arran was sitting on the ground, leaning his back against his pack. Pat was beside him in the down position, head and reddish ears alert, panting quietly, watching the two of them approach. Pat looked questioningly at Arran, who said, “OK.” Pat got to his feet and trotted over to greet Jancowitz and Broyer. He put his muzzle right in Broyer’s crotch, and Broyer giggled and started ruffling his fur. Then Pat danced away and circled behind Jancowitz, nuzzling up against the back of his knees, causing Jancowitz to giggle as well.

  “Looks like he’s singled you guys out,” Arran called.

  “Yeah, the old quitter,” Jancowitz said fondly, rubbing Pat’s head. “How long did it take for him to get back on his feet?”

  “Aw, about a week. We just fucked off back at scout platoon, both of us getting fat and happy.” He smiled and got to his feet, snapping his fingers quietly. “We were already dumb.” Pat quickly moved into heel position. Arran turned to Broyer, nodding his head toward Jancowitz. “This crazy motherfucker got you broken in yet?”

  Broyer grinned. “Yeah.”

  “You watch out for him, Broyer. Janc’s the only other crazy motherfucker I know besides me upped for an extension in the Nam. Of course he did it for some chick in Bangkok, not someone who’d really stand by you.” He squatted down and grabbed Pat on both sides of his jowls, putting his face right into Pat’s nose, moving it back and forth. “Won’t you, boy? Won’t you, you dumb sheepdog?” He stood again. It was well known that Arran had extended his tour twice because the scout dogs couldn’t be transferred to other handlers, and when their tour was over, they were killed. Someone back in the world had declared them too dangerous to bring home.

  “You back with us for a while?” Jancowitz asked.

  “Not as long as you’re on Bald fucking Eagle, I ain’t,” Arran answered. “No need for a fucking four-legged radar set when they dump you right in the middle of the shit.” He turned to Pat. “We’re specialists, ain’t we, Pat?” Pat wagged his tail.

  “What’re you doing here, then?” Jancowitz asked.

  “We’re going out with Alpha One Fifteen tomorrow. They’re getting dropped in the east end of the Da Krong Valley. Lots of sensor activity.” He stopped short and grinned. “You ain’t supposed to hear that, otherwise I’d have to kill you.”

  “The fucking gooks already know about it anyway,” Jancowitz said, not really joking.

  There was an awkward silence. Janc realized that Arran had come over because he was going out in the jungle again and wanted to say good-bye.

  “You’ll be OK,” Janc finally said. “Hell, you’re the one’s got Pat.”

  Arran grinned, looked down at Pat, and then looked up at the clouds, embarrassed. “Hope you motherfuckers don’t get launched,” he said. “We’ll see you on your next op.”

  They watched Arran and Pat walk off. They all knew that it could be the last time.

  At dinner that evening Blakely and Simpson walked to the head of the chow line where Marines on KP slopped large spoonfuls of food onto trays. One of the Marines splattered a speck of gravy on Blakely’s sleeve. Blakely glared at him, unable to sop it up because both hands were holding the tray.

  “Sorry, sir,” the young Marine stammered.

  Blakely smiled. “It’s OK, Tiger. Just don’t get so damn eager.”

  Blakely followed Simpson into the officers’ and NCOs’ mess. Someone shouted “Attention” and everyone rose. Simpson grunted “As you were,” and everyone resumed eating, all conversation dulled temporarily until Simpson and Blakely got settled. Blakely got up soon after they had seated themselves and poured two mugs of coffee. He returned to his seat and said to Simpson, “I heard there was another fragging last night, down south. You hear about it, sir?”

  Simpson looked up, washing down a mouthful of noodles with coffee. “Fuck, no. Who?”

  “Some mustang lieutenant in Three Eleven. Three or four of the bastards rolled grenades under his rack while he was sleeping. Someone saw them running away. Black radicals. Nothing left for evidence but monkey meat.”

  “Fucking rear-area poags,” Simpson said. “If any of that shit happens around here I’ll string every black power son of a bitch up by his nuts.” Simpson downed the rest of his coffee with a gulp. “We ought to send every black son of a bitch to the bush. That’d stop this shit.” He looked at his empty cup. “How about a little of that pink Portuguese stuff?” he asked.

  Blakely walked over to the cabinet where the colonel’s case of Mateus was kept. He looked through the insect screen to where the enlisted men were eating. He noticed most of the blacks together in one corner. A few fine wrinkles creased his forehead. He broke the wine bottle’s seal, pulled the cork stopper, and poured two glasses.

  “May you be ten minutes in heaven before the devil knows you’re gone,” Simpson said, raising his glass and gulping a large swallow. Blakely was aware that Simpson prided himself on knowing many different toasts in different languages. He smiled appropriately and drank. Simpson drank some more. “Good fucking stuff,” he said.

  Blakely chose not to agree, rather than to disagree. After a moment he said, “Sir, did you ever think about maybe getting someone to watch your quarters at night?”

  “You think I’m chickenshit?”

  “No sir. But that fragging was the third one in the last two months.” Blakely lowered his voice and leaned over the table. “I heard, strictly scuttlebutt, that someone tried to kill Cassidy, the new Area NCOIC we picked up from Bravo Company. That’s why the sergeant major told me he got the idea to transfer him.”

  “Why aren’t we investigating
the fucking incident?”

  “Apparently the black that did it was Bravo’s cerebral malaria case. I’m not sure we want to stir that up.”

  Simpson nervously twirled the pink wine in his glass. “I’m glad to see there’s some fucking justice in the world. That was smart of Knapp.” He tossed down the wine. “I think I’ll go check out the situation at the COC.” He rose to his feet, and so did everyone else. He waved the others down with, “As you were, gentlemen.”

  Sitting alone in the tent he shared with his squad, Jancowitz didn’t need to visit the COC to know what was going on in the regiment’s area of operation. In his mind’s eye he could see the units out in the bush setting their trip flares and putting out their listening posts. He watched as furtive figures, two by two, slipped beyond the lines, carrying their poncho liners and radios with them. He knew he could relax for the moment. There would be no “exploitation” by the Bald Eagle unit until daylight. A night helicopter lift took far too much planning. The units were on their own.

  He took out his short-timer’s chart and carefully filled in another day. He’d been in Vietnam twenty-two months. Well, really only nineteen and three quarters if you subtracted the first week of R & R in Bangkok, when he’d met Susi, and the two thirty-day leaves. He took out his wallet and looked at the picture he’d taken of Susi when she was asleep on his bed in the hotel. He tried to remember the smell of her hair, but that was even more difficult than remembering her face. All he could smell was the mothballs and oil of the sagging tent.

  He walked down to the open pit that had been converted to a small outdoor theater. About a hundred people were sitting there on old crates and boxes. A slight drizzle was starting to fall, but it was warm, unlike the drizzle up in the mountains, and Jancowitz hardly noticed it. He put his hands in his pockets and waited for the movie to begin.

 

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