Mellas squatted there, looking across the hill, which came into and went out of view in the swirling gray. Ten minutes passed. He thought about the man inside the bunker across the way. The bunker was one that Jacobs had built. It was dug in deep, with eye-level just aboveground, logs interspersed with dirt, runway matting, sandbagsunless it was hit right on top, even a 500-pound bomb wouldnt hurt someone inside. Infantry would be required. Mellas didnt want to think about this anymore.
He got bored again and left. Close to 1500half an hour after hed left Goodwin the second timehe heard the single crack of the M-16, then two more shots in quick succession. Scar got one. The cry came floating over the hill. Mellas ran across the top, ducking in case there was return fire.
I got the little fucker, Goodwin said as Mellas threw himself down beside him. One of the kids providing security with Goodwin handed Fitchs binoculars to Mellas. Through them, he could see the dead soldier being dragged back into the bunker. I got him right in the high part of the throat, Goodwin said matter-of-factly. I knew hed have to come out and piss sometime.
Nice shot, Mellas said. You gonna try for another one?
Beats humping.
The fog cleared for a moment, exposing the top of Helicopter Hill to the NVA again. A single AK-47 rattled briefly. The Marines scrambled into their holes. But the AK-47 was even less accurate at long range than the M-16.
Mellas lay flat on the ground, thirst battering his brain. His lips and tongue felt like cotton. He noted the obvious fire discipline of the NVA. They could reach quite accurately with their 7.62 machine guns but didnt fire them: like the Marines, they did not want to give away key defensive positions. But the NVA had no compunction about firing their SKS rifles and AK-47s, particularly from the little finger running northeast from Matterhorn.
Goodwin poked his head over the log after the firing stopped. They dont know where were at, Jack, he said quietly. He crouched and duckwalked away from the log, screened by the dead bushes; then he stood straight up and, looking directly at Matterhorn, took a piss. Then he walked back and settled on his stomach behind the log. He rested the rifle on the log and leaned his cheek against the stock. See that fucking bunker with the little bush to the left, two over from where we shot the gook? he said to the kid with the binoculars.
Yeah, the kid answered. They were both ignoring rank and the usually obligatory sir.
I saw someone move in there and Im going to kill him.
Mellas looked at Goodwin, then across at Matterhorn. He exulted in Goodwins prowess. He wanted to kill as well, but knew he wasnt nearly as good a shot and would embarrass himself. Nor did he have Goodwins uncanny patience. Mellas didnt hate the NVA. He wanted to kill the enemy because that was the only way the company would get off the hill, and he wanted to live and go home. He also wanted to kill because a burning anger inside him had no place to go. The people he had hatedthe colonel, the politicians, the protesters, bullys whod shamed him in childhood, little friends whod taken his toys when he was twowerent available, but the NVA soldiers were. At a very deep level, Mellas simply wanted to stand on a body that he had laid low. Watching Goodwin with more than a little envy, he had to admit that he wanted to kill because part of him was thrilled by killing.
At Vandegrift Combat Base the battalion staff was huddled around several large maps.
What do you think, Lieutenant Hawke? Simpson asked. Youve operated all around there.
Like I said yesterday, sir, its triple canopy all the way up the ridge and its lucky to make three klicks a day, and then theyll be totally disregarding security.
Captain Bainford spoke up. The AO says the closest place, before the cloud cover socks things in, is Hill 631. He pointed to a gently sloping hill in the broad valley south of Matterhorn. Thats only nine klicks from Matterhorn. I cant believe it would take three days.
Hawke exploded. You cant believe it because youve never fucking been there.
Bainford looked hurt and glanced over at Blakely and Simpson. Stevens started looking for something to do.
Sorry, Captain Bainford, Hawke said. I guess Im personally invested. I didnt mean to take it out on you.
Thats OK, Hawke, the air officer replied, clearly happy to seem magnanimous. I understand how it is.
The fuck you do, Hawke thought. He tried to think of something constructive. Then he realized he could do no more than they could. Neither Blakely nor Simpson had slept much since the attack on Matterhorn, and it showed, particularly in Simpson. Theyd worked hard. Supplies had to be detailed and ranked by priority; choppers, trucks, and loading parties had to be coordinated; fixed-wing air support had to be organized and briefed, not just to help Bravo Company but for every insertion of every company in the battalion. The same went for artillery from the 8-inch howitzers on Sherpa to the 105s now around Cam Lo, down to the battalions own 81-millimeter mortar platoon. All had to be prepared to move, to be picked up by choppers, to be moved to a new position that had to be secured by infantry, supplied with ammunition, water, and food. Theyd done all this. Everything was ready to go, including two additional companies op-conned from Third Battalion that were going to be dropped in to cut off any retreat by the NVA. But they were held up, just as everything else was, waiting at landing zones for the clouds to rise high enough for the pilots to see their way into the mountains.
Hawke was thinking that if they didnt get a clear day soon, Bravo Company would be out of water and ammunition and would have to abandon the hill. Then theyd have to fight their way through a regiment. There would be nothing left of them. The colonel had been right, Hawke thought ruefully. There were fucking gooks around Matterhorn.
Captain Bainford was angry with Hawke. Just because Hawke had been in the jungle with the fucking ground pounders, he acted like God Almightys gift to the Marine Corps and treated Bainford like a child. These fucking grunts couldnt appreciate the burden of being personally responsible for several million dollars worth of aircraft.
Lieutenant Stevens wished he could catch some sleep. For the past forty-eight hours, hed been standing around answering stupid questions about how far 105s and 155s could shoot. He wondered if they were going to be able to get the two eight-inch guns moved to Eiger along with Golf Battery. Get those eight-inchers in there and theyd shoot the motherfuckers right through the slits in their bunkers. You couldnt beat an eight-inch for precision. Those poor fucking grunts on that hill, man. Gook eighty-twos for two solid days now.
Major Blakely was frustrated. Hed put together a perfect operation, and now the fucking weather had closed him out. It was shaping up to be two Marine battalions taking on a gook regiment in a running fight. Too bad Fitch had made the blunder of splitting his forces. And then to pull back to the lower hill. A classic fuckup. They should have been screaming bloody murder to get a regular captain to replace Fitch. Sure, it was a mistake not to blow those bunkers on Matterhorn, but then that was hindsight. At the time, the Cam Lo cordon was a big deal and it had been a nightmare scrambling to keep up with all the changes. Theyd been watching that combined operation with the ARVNs right up to the White House. Vietnamization. Horseshit. If Blakely were at the Pentagon, thered be no bullshitting about the ARVNs being able to take on the NVA or this pacification crap. You had to get in there and scrapwith American firepower and guts. That was the only way to do it. He smiled to himself. Grab them by the balls and their hearts and minds will follow. Whoever had said that had been there.
Lieutenant Colonel Simpson was worried sick. If he didnt get Bravo Companys ass out of the crack in the next three days theyd be too dehydrated to fight. They had enough ammunition for maybe two more firefights. If the NVA mounted an attack of any length, it would run them dry of ammo. But that was probably the little bastards strategy. Simpson pictured the little gook colonel, eating rice in his command bunker
, looking at maps with strange Chinese writing on them. That little bastard was going to sit there and wait for the company to run out of water. If Bravo Company tried to break out, hed have them by the short hairs. But if the fog held, just for another day, Simpson would have an entire regiment fixed in place. Then, if it cleared, he could call in the jets and have a field day. If Bravo Company took too many more casualties, though, it was going to look bad no matter what the outcome. That didnt seem fair.
Weve all done what we can, Simpson said, still looking at the map. I suggest we catch some rest before dark. It might be a long night.
Everybody took him up on the suggestion except Hawke, who had the watch until 2000 hours. When he was relieved, he went to the regimental O-club to start a private mystery tour.
When Colonel Mulvaney pushed through the screen door of the O-club he recognized Hawke standing at the bar. There were already four empty shot glasses in front of him. Mulvaney walked over to him and threw a wad of pink military payment currency onto the bar, saying, Youre Hawke, arent you? He asked the bartender for drinks for himself and Hawke before Hawke could respond.
Thank you, sir, Hawke said.
My pleasure. Mulvaney leaned his heavy bulk over his forearms. I see they got the wire mesh repaired, he said.
Hawke studied his shot glass.
Seems some young officers tied one on and disrupted a movie.
Did you find out who it was? Hawke asked.
Mulvaney watched Hawke in the mirror. No. But they also stole a truck. One of my staff officers at the club had a little too much to drink himself and he put two bullet holes in it. He got a letter of reprimand.
Thats too bad, sir.
Too bad?
I mean, for him. I mean shooting a pistol inside the perimeter of a base like this is a little foolish.
So is stealing a truck.
Yes sir, Hawke said. He hung his head.
Mulvaney leaned his back against the bar and looked at the groups of officers drinking at the tables. Well, the screens fixed. The trucks OK. Mulvaney turned to Hawke, who was still looking down at his glass. But just between you and me, Hawke, he said, very evenly and quietly,
it was a stupid fucking thing to do. It could have ruined the careers of some good officers, and we need all the good ones we can get. If I could kick your butt all over this bar without having to get involved in a goddamned court-martial Id do it.
Yes sir, Hawke said.
Mulvaney softened. Goddamn it, Hawke, are you Irish or what? I got to drink all these things by myself?
No sir. Hawke looked up at him. Sir, Im sorry.
Forget it. Ive been there too. Mulvaney was pointing to a package of Beer Nuts with his left hand, but he was also seeing Jim Auld moaning in the sand on the banks of the Tenaru, his eyes pleading for help, a bloody socket where his arm had been before the Japanese anti-tank gun had taken it off. You just got to remember to get the shit out of your system someplace where you wont get in trouble.
Mulvaney opened the package and spread the Beer Nuts on the bar in front of them. He popped them into his mouth as he talked, downing the whiskey half a shot glass at a time. My wife tells me I shouldnt drink so much but, goddamn it, whats the sense of having tax-free whiskey if you cant drink more than the ordinary son of a bitch?
I agree, sir. Hawke took another drink and picked up several of the nuts. Sir, he asked, you got any word on the relief for Bravo Company?
Naw. Nothing new. Fucking monsoon. Mulvaney gave Hawke a reassuring smile. Dont worry about them, Hawke. Theyll make it OK. Theres been worse situations.
Yeah. We read about them all the time in glory-filled history books.
Mulvaney wanted to tell Hawke about the Chosin Reservoir, but he knew Hawke didnt want to hear about it any more than Mulvaney had wanted to hear about Château-Thierry when he was a lieutenant. Everyones war was the worst. No need to bad-mouth bravery just because youre pissed off and tired, Mulvaney finally said.
Im sorry, sir. It just slipped out.
Slipped out? Bullshit. What lieutenant worth his fucking salt isnt pissed off and tired? Im pissed off and tired too, but then Im the bastard that makes the decisions, so I dont have any right to bitch about it. Mulvaney chuckled.
Hawke didnt respond as Mulvaney would have liked. Instead he put his glass down and turned to face him. Why was it necessary for Bravo Company to go into the assault, knowing were in monsoon season?
Anger quickened Mulvaneys pulse. He wanted to tell Hawke how Simpson had ordered the assault without consulting him, how Blakely had pre-briefed the division staff informally, cutting off any chance of countering the order. But Simpson and Blakely reported to Mulvaney. He was responsible. It was the code. We thought it was a chance to kill some gooks, Mulvaney said. Thats our job, Hawke. You knew that when you came aboard.
Yes sir, I did. Hawke took another gulp of whiskey.
Look, Hawke, I think youre a hell of an officer and Im not going to bullshit you. Bravo Companys up there either because of a fuckup or because of a brilliant tactical move. It all depends on the body count. Thats the kind of war were in.
Which fuckup? Hawke asked. There were a lot of them.
Officially it will be Fitchs. He split his forces, abandoned a key position, and got his ass into a jam. Hes a reserve officer. His careers not at stake.
You really think Fitch is that dumb?
I told you the way it will read, not what I thought. Christ, Hawke, you really think Im that dumb? The fucking kid had too few men to do what was asked and still provide security for his wounded. You think youre the only fuckers ever been to war around here?
Sometimes it looks that way.
Well, you aint. Grow up and quit trying to find blame like everyone else around here. Just get the fucking job done.
Yes sir.
There was drunken laughter from one of the groups of officers throwing dice for drinks.
I didnt want to preach to you like some sort of fucking bishop, Mulvaney said.
I guess I brought it on myself, sir.
Mulvaney felt a barrier growing between him and Hawke. He felt lost, lonely, heartsick.
Its the situation, Mulvaney said, pushing a Beer Nut with his thick finger.
There it is, sir, Hawke said.
Dont give up on me, Hawke, Mulvaney said. He grinned. Tell you what. You promise to go regular, Ill see you get a fucking rifle company. He watched Hawke visibly react and then regain control.
Im out of the bush, sir, and I dont ever want to go back. But thank you, sir.
Mulvaney studied Hawke closely. Dont try and bullshit a salty old fucker like me, Lieutenant, because Ive been there. A Marine rifle company. Two hundred twelve Marinestwo hundred twelve of the biggest hearts in the world. And youre barely old enough to stand in a bar and drink. He paused. Itll be Bravo Company if its open.
He watched Hawke catch his breath.
Hawke was saved from having to answer because just then Corporal Odegaard, Mulvaneys driver, shouted through the door, Colonel Mulvaney, sir, Bravo Companys in the shit again.
Mulvaney gulped the remainder of his whiskey, put his big hand on the top of Hawkes head, and gave a couple of barely perceptible little pushes. Think about it, he said. We need you. Then he strode quickly out the door, Hawke on his heels. He knew without a doubt that Hawke had just gone regular.
The attack started with the NVA coming up on the company radio net. Fucky you, Bahvo, fucky you. Fucky you, Bahvo, fucky you.
Goddamn it, Mellas said to Jackson. Goodwins LP had failed to scramble the frequency knobs on the radio. Theyre jamming the net.
Yeah, well, fuck you too, you fuck
ing gook, they heard Pallack snap back over the net.
Mellas grabbed the hook. Bravo, this is Bravo Five. Get everyone switched off right fucking now. Well get you the new freak ASAP.
Fucky you, Bahvo, fucky you.
Firing broke out in a roar just below Kendalls lines. It was his LP.
Fucky you, Bahvo, fucky you.
The radios were useless. The LPs were isolated.
Mellas shouted at Jackson above the racket. Get your ass up to the CP and get us a new freak. Jackson immediately heaved himself out of the hole and crawled off in the darkness. Mellas did the same but headed toward his LP. Hartford in! he shouted. Hartford in! The radio nets fucked up. Get your asses in here, Hartford. Friendlies coming in!
A burst of fire ripped out of the jungle below him, the muzzle blast glowing strangely in the fog. Then there was the roar of the M-16s from the listening post. There was an indistinguishable shout and then someone was yelling the password: Lemonade, Lemonade, its fucking Jermain, goddamn it. Lemonade, were coming in. Another roar of fire cut off his words, but Mellas heard the sound of running and scrambling through the brush, and then another M-16 on full automatic.
Up at the CP, Fitch was sick with dread. All the radio net could do was sing, Fucky you, Bahvo, fucky you, jamming all transmissions. He scrambled out of the bunker to find out what was happening. Pallack and Relsnik followed after him, dragging the radios.
Down at Third Platoon, Lieutenant Kendall was crouched in his hole. The roar of the firefight at his listening post drowned out every thought in his head. Genoa, his radio operator, watched him anxiously, wishing Samms were still alive. He hoped the lieutenant would stay in the hole and give him an excuse to do the same thing.
Goodwin grabbed his rifle and headed downhill to his center squads machine-gun position. There, even if he couldnt talk on the radio, he could at least direct the fire of one of his three biggest weapons and be in the middle of the fight. His radio operator, not knowing what Goodwin had in mind, scrambled after him shouting, Friendlies, friendlies! Its Scar and Russell.
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