Matterhorn

Matterhorn Page 50

by Karl Marlantes

  “You’re good, Magpie. I still have you bearing one eight five degrees. Stand by for my mark.”

  There was another intense interval, this time filled with the steady drone of rotor blades augmented by the whine of turbine engines. Then, just above them, obscured by fog, two choppers flashed across the sky. FAC-man jumped to his feet and shouted into the handset, “Mark! Mark!”

  He and Mellas watched the choppers disappear. The Marines on the hill were silent. Everyone listened to the whining engines and the clattering of the choppers’ blades clawing at thin mountain air during the sharp turn. FAC-man yelled compass bearings and ran to the center of the LZ at the same time. “I got you at zero three zero.” He’d pause. “Zero three five.” He’d wait. “Zero three five, holding. Yes sir. That’s it, sir, a ridge bearing roughly zero niner zero. It’s just to our Echo about one hundred feet below us.”

  Finally a huge fuselage loomed out of the clouds, belly exposed as the pilot brought it up, rear wheels down, fighting its way, engines firing full-on to hold the steady descent. Then it bounced in and the new replacements were rushing, falling, stumbling, and crawling for the sides of the LZ as the air erupted in automatic weapons and machine-gun fire from both Matterhorn and the finger to the north. Mellas had his compass out and coolly took a bearing on the sound of the machine gun on the north finger. He found the spot on his map. “Got you, you bastard,” he said.

  The first chopper lifted off, and the second one piled in right behind it. Again, dark figures hurtled from the rear ramp, stumbling under immense weight, falling, crawling, and scrambling for safety. Then, to Mellas’s amazement and joy, one of the figures stood up on the landing zone and raised his right arm in the hawk power sign. Mellas also stood up, yelling jubilantly. “Goddamn it, Hawke, over here. Over here.”

  Hawke turned and, weighted down with ammunition and water, ran jerkily toward Mellas. Mellas’s heart sang as Hawke collapsed into the hole. Marines on the hill risked getting killed to run over to Hawke, laughing, shouting, slapping him on the back.

  Then the mortar shells came slamming down again.

  During a lull in the shelling Mellas ran across the LZ and jumped into the hole Hawke was digging for himself. Mellas took out his K-bar and started stabbing at the hard clay, helping Hawke dig, unable to suppress a broad smile.

  “So what the fuck are you doing here?”

  “I got bored,” Hawke said.

  “Ah, I think you got sentimental.”

  “So I’m a bored sentimentalist.” Hawke grunted and tossed another shovelful of clay.

  Again they heard tubing. They went down low in the shallow hole. The shells shook the ground beneath them and black smoke irritated their nostrils. The explosions jolted them, and their eyes ached from the pressure waves.

  “Nice fucking place you’ve got here,” Hawke said. He threw more shovelfuls of dirt, then said, “Fuck it. Deep enough.” He jabbed the shovel into the earth and curled back into the hole.

  “Hey, Hawke,” Mellas said. “You got any water? I’m dying of fucking thirst.”

  Hawke pulled a canteen from its pouch. “Well, I’ll be fucked,” he said. He showed the canteen to Mellas. There was a small shrapnel hole in it.

  “Better than a hole in your fucking ass.”

  “Yeah, but it was the one with the Rootin’ Tootin’ Raspberry.”

  He handed Mellas the half-empty canteen. Mellas took a long drink, gulping it down, wanting to swim in its tart sweetness. He finally stopped, smiling, with a contented sigh. “I always was a Baron von Lemon fan, but Rootin’ Tootin’ Raspberry will certainly do.”

  “Well, Baron von Lemon is very hard to get this year,” Hawke said.

  Another explosion hit, only fifteen feet from their hole, followed by four more. Mellas felt as if he were in a heavy black bag being beaten with unseen clubs. Smoke replaced oxygen. They couldn’t talk. They endured.

  Then the explosions shifted to another part of the hill. Hawke calmly took out his tin-can cup and a small chunk of C-4 and started making coffee. He looked up at Mellas, who was watching him intently. “It’s the ever-flowing source of all that’s good and the cure of all ills,” Hawke said. He lit the ball of C-4 and brought the water to a boil. When the coffee was ready he gave the cup to Mellas.

  Mellas took a sip. Then he closed his eyes and took another. He sighed and handed the steaming coffee back to Hawke. “When’s Delta getting here to relieve us?” Mellas asked.

  “Fucked if I know. Do I look like—”

  “A goddamned fortune-teller?” Mellas said. “No, but you’re supposed to be the Three Zulu, whatever the fuck that is.”

  “It’s nothing. And if I was Delta Company I’d never get my ass up here.”

  “You came,” Mellas said, suddenly serious.

  Hawke’s brief pause acknowledged Mellas’s thanks. “Yeah,” he said quietly, “but I’m crazy. I couldn’t fucking stand it any more.”

  “That bad, huh?” Mellas said.

  “Oh, hell,” Hawke said. “I don’t know. A consummate politician like you might even like it back there.” He tried to smile.

  “It’d beat humping,” Mellas said. “I’m out here freezing my nuts off in a jungle and dying of thirst in a monsoon.”

  Hawke looked up at the sky. “The Six and the Three are saying you abandoned your packs. That’s why you’re cold and ran out of water and food. Then you fell asleep on the lines last night.”

  “They can’t be serious,” Mellas said slowly.

  “’Fraid so. Simpson was talking about relieving Fitch again.”

  Mellas stood up and shouted, “What the fuck’s the matter with him? What the fuck’s the matter with everybody? These guys only fought a fucking week with no sleeping gear, no food, no water, and that fucking asshole thinks they were sleeping. We’re the ones who should be insane, not that drunken bastard.” A shell exploded, but Mellas no longer cared if it hit him or not.

  “Sit down before you get fucking blown away,” Hawke said, pulling at him.

  Mellas sat down. He wanted to strike out at someone. “It’s a fucking blatant lie. Our LP took the first hit, just like in the books. No one was asleep. I fucking guarantee.”

  “You took more casualties overall than you got confirmed.”

  “What does he want us to do? Send out another squad or two and have them killed counting dead gooks so it’ll even up his goddamned reports to division?”

  “I don’t know what he wants, Mel. I just know what he says.” Hawke was playing with a stick and he paused to flick some mud with it. “You all right?” he asked. “I mean personally?”

  “Yeah,” Mellas answered. “I got some metal in my ass and hands but you can’t tell it from the jungle rot.”

  “I don’t mean that way. I mean about Bass and Janc and all.”

  “I’ll get over it.” Mellas looked away from Hawke, up into the blank and now nearly dark sky.

  “I doubt it.”

  “How the fuck do you know?”

  “I just know,” he said.

  “How’s Mallory?” Mellas asked, changing the subject.

  “Diddy-bopping around. Waiting for his court-martial. Waiting to go to the fucking dentist. That’ll probably be in six months or so.”

  “How long did he stay in the box?”

  “I got him out about three hours after you left,” Hawke added.

  “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it. I just hope you have to be his goddamned character witness, not me.”

  “You have any trouble?”

  “I just told the snuffy on guard I was taking over. Blakely ranted and raved about going behind his back, making him look bad, making Cassidy look bad, the Marine Corps, military justice, you name it. Then he went to the O-club.”

  They both laughed. Then Mellas remembered Hawke, boots shined, notebook out, trying to look good at the battalion briefing. He looked down at the mud. “Hawke, I know what it took. Thank you. He’s nobody you want on your bad side.” Then he grinned. “Especially since you turned into a lifer.”

  “Next time do your own goddamned rescuing, that’s all I ask,” H
awke said, a little sharply.

  “They going to throw the book at him?” Mellas asked. He was trying to figure out why Hawke was angry.

  “He pulled a goddamned pistol on a fucking Navy officer who’s screaming his fucking head off.”

  “It was fucking empty.”

  “It’s still a fucking pistol,” Hawke said. “You’ve already been out here too long. Ordinary people think pistols are dangerous. They don’t stop to look if there’s a magazine in it or not and laugh at the joke. The doctor’s pissed and he wants Mallory’s ass. And he’ll get it. Several years’ worth.”

  “Maybe Mallory was out here too long, too,” Mellas fired back. “The fucking Navy doctors were the ones that kept sending him back.”

  “I don’t want to talk about fucking Mallory,” Hawke said.

  They heard more tubing pops in the distance. “You won’t have to,” Mellas said and pushed himself against the side of the hole, once again waiting for the explosions. These were so close that afterward Mellas’s ears rang and Hawke just stared straight ahead at the opposite wall of the hole, with blood trickling from his nose and his mouth hanging open. They looked at each other, saying nothing. Then Mellas pulled out a notebook and began work on the supply list for the next bird.

  “Mellas, stop for a second, huh?”

  Mellas looked up, straining through the ringing in his ears for whatever Hawke had to say.

  “I resent the shit out of you calling me a lifer.”

  Hawke’s words lodged like a heavy weight in Mellas’s stomach. “I was just kidding,” Mellas said.

  “I resent the shit out of it,” Hawke repeated.

  “I’m sorry,” Mellas said. “I didn’t mean it. My usual sarcasm.” He tried to think of how he could make it up to Hawke, but the words had been said. Mellas could only be forgiven. “Sometimes my mouth runs off faster than my brain,” he added lamely.

  “Than your heart, Mellas,” Hawke said. He was still visibly angry. “What the fuck do you think a lifer is? Do you really think he’s the same guy these kids think he is? It’s fucking easy for your kind. You’ll go back and be the fucking lifer’s superior for the rest of your life. What’s a guy like you even doing here? Slumming? These so-called fucking lifers don’t have any place to go like you do. And neither do the fucking snuffs. For most of them this is it. This is the top of their little hill. And people like you fly over it and shit on it. Goddamn superior fucking assholes.”

  “I didn’t mean to be putting people down,” Mellas mumbled.

  “Just don’t put down the good ones like Murphy and Cassidy. You’re going to go to law school. Where the hell’s Cassidy going to go? Here he counts for something. And you shit on it.”

  Mellas’s own temper was starting to rise. “What am I supposed to do, feel sorry for him? I suppose I should feel sorry for the colonel and the Three, too.”

  “Look. The colonel’s an asshole. The Three’s an asshole. Fine. I agree. All I’m saying, Mellas, is don’t you ever wonder why they’re assholes? Do you think they enjoy spending every minute of their tiny lives worried that someone’s going to shit on them because one of their companies didn’t make a checkpoint on time? I’m not saying to forget that they’re assholes. I’m just saying when you call someone a name, have some compassion. Label the shit out of them, but who they are and who you are is as much about luck as anything else.”

  Mellas and Hawke were both looking at the dirt in front of them, unable to let their eyes meet.

  “I guess I forget my place sometimes,” Mellas finally said, giving Hawke the flicker of a smile.

  Hawke smiled too. “Shit. Turn a good fucking sermon into a joke, Mellas.” He tucked his hands under his flak jacket and looked at Mellas. “Mellas, you’ve got everything I wish I had. It just makes me jealous to see you so fucking give-a-shit about it.”

  “I’ve got everything you wish you had?” Mellas broke into laughter that was half a cry of pain. “Hawke, I’ve got nothing. Jack shit.”

  “You’ve got brains, you know where you’re going, how to get there. You call that nothing?”

  “One minute you’re making me feel like a turd for being insensitive and now you’re telling me I’ve got talent and you’re envious.”

  “I didn’t say you were fucking perfect.”

  Over their laughter they heard the distant sound of mortar tubing. They hunkered down and waited. Mellas was counting seconds to see if the flight time was the same as for the last bunch. It was different. The shells landed near the top of the LZ, causing only a mild thud.

  “Hawke,” Mellas said quietly, “you know we might be dead tomorrow.”

  “Shit,” Hawke said. “Tonight.” Then he smiled. “You ain’t going to get killed, Mellas. You’ve got too far to go.”

  That evening, the siege lifted. But there were no thundering hoofbeats, no flashing swords, and no bugle calls. The air simply reached a certain temperature and humidity and the fog vanished. Matterhorn stood before them, greenish-black in the dying light. The kids rose from their fighting holes and cheered. NVA small arms and mortar fire soon pushed them back into their holes, but everything was changed. The helicopters could fly.

  And they did. They came flying through the automatic weapons fire and the exploding mortar shells. Ashen-faced replacements ran for the nearest holes, staggering under their loads of extra ammunition, IV fluid, water, and food. Corpsmen and friends of the wounded ran in the opposite direction, ducking into and out of the trembling fuselages, stacking live bodies, running for cover from the one NVA machine gun that had revealed itself on the northeast finger and was systematically stitching bullets into the landing zone. Then the pilots pushed throttles forward and the choppers took off, curving out of sight, taking the happy wounded with them, including a triumphant, grinning Kendall.

  Just before dark a single platoon from Delta Company arrived and took a position between Mellas’s and Goodwin’s platoons. That evening, while friendly artillery fire plastered Matterhorn and Daniels laid down protective fire that surrounded Bravo Company and the Delta Company platoon like smoky armor, the kids drank Kool-Aid and Pillsbury Funny Faces and ate C-rations, happily throwing occasional dirt clods at one another. As far as they were concerned, it was fucking over.

  For General Neitzel, however, it wasn’t over, and time was running out. He radioed Colonel Mulvaney at VCB, urging him to move even faster.

  Mulvaney, however, knew that the window of opportunity was closing. The NVA command must have recognized its vulnerability by now, and the gook regiment was probably heading for Laos as fast as it could go. Neitzel’s prayer that the weather would remain bad and give him one extra day hadn’t been answered. The fog had lifted too soon. Mulvaney chuckled. Too many of those goddamned kids in Bravo Company had been praying against Neitzel, he thought proudly. No, the NVA would see the advantage gone and scatter to regroup in Laos, as always. The NVA could wait for years if they had to. It had been chancy all along. “Risk,” the general had said, hoping Bravo would slow things up enough to get the entire Twenty-Fourth Regiment engaged. It would have been a hell of a fight. But with the choppers grounded the Marines just couldn’t move fast enough.

  The NVA were putting a rear guard on Matterhorn to keep the high ground as they pulled back, but otherwise the northern part of the operation was over. With their northern flank exposed, the two units moving down the Da Krong and Au Shau valleys to the south would also be called back. No need to push when time was on your side, Mulvaney mused. That was the problem. The NVA had forever. The Americans had until the next election. Still, it had cost only half a company of Marines to fuck up a major thrust. Since the entire division had been involved, all the casualties and deaths in Bravo Company would be compared with a full division, and the daily briefing would simply say “light casualties.” The action wouldn’t even get into the newspapers. Thwarting a major enemy offensive before it got going just wasn’t news. Reporters cared about hot stories and Pulitzers, neither of which resulted from battles that involved only light casualties. Heavy casualties made hot stories and supported antimilitary po
litics. Over time, continual bad news will discourage any civilian population, and Americans had the lowest tolerance on the planet for bad news. Mulvaney grunted. He had to hand it to the gooks. They have us coming and going, he thought.

  He left for evening chow, knowing there would be a lot of backpedaling in the morning. Neitzel had his dick hanging out all over Quang Tri province and not a goddamned thing to show for it. Mulvaney chuckled again. He’d probably have to do some quick backpedaling himself.

  In Lieutenant Colonel Simpson’s tent, no one wanted to chuckle. Both Simpson and Blakely felt the opportunity trickling away, like sand trickling through their fingers. “Hawke was right,” Simpson growled. “The place to be is in the fucking bush, not sitting on our cans moving goddamned artillery around. Hawke was right to go up there.”

  “I think he ought to be reprimanded for abandoning his duty station, if not fucking court-martialed,” Blakely said quietly but firmly.

  “You’re just an old woman, Blakely,” Simpson said. He poured himself another bourbon and tossed it down quickly. “I say we move the CP to Helicopter Hill. Direct the operation from right smack in the middle.”

  Blakely immediately thought how that might look to an awards review board. He dismissed the idea as foolish, then thought about it again. He knew, even if the old buzzard didn’t, that the show was just about over. With a high chance of fixed-wing air, escape to the DMZ blocked, two battalions of Marines moving in from the south and east, and a reinforced company sitting right smack on the NVA’s line of supply, Nagoolian would be heading back to Laos. The gooks weren’t idiots—at least, not the North Gooks. But they probably would defend Matterhorn to cover their withdrawal. Some value might be squeezed out of that.

  “Maybe you’ve got a point, sir,” Blakely said.

  “Goddamned right I do,” Simpson said, pouring himself another bourbon. He offered the bottle to Blakely.

  Blakely was looking at his empty glass, not at the bottle, and thinking quickly. He began talking, still staring at the glass. “Given the casualties from Bravo Company,” he said carefully, preparing his case, “the poor kill ratio, falling asleep on the job—the list goes on—it would look almost imperative that a good battalion commander personally take control of a leadership situation as badly out of hand as that.”

 

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