Matterhorn_ A Novel of the Vietnam War Part 11

'You know. Right place at the right time. Being the company executive officer when the CO gets killed or transferred. That sort of thing.'

'You think Hawke will get Bravo when Fitch goes?'

'Like I said, it's timing-and if he's crazy enough to want to stay in the bush. He's overdue now for the rear. Policy is to get as many lieutenants exposed to combat as possible. They'll rotate Hawke someplace soon as we get some. Same policy for captains. Of course we're short of captains.'

'Yeah, they all got killed when they were lieutenants,' Mellas quipped.

Mellas stored Stevens's information about transfer and command policy in the part of his mind that dealt with power. This was as automatic for him as it would be for a farmer to store the morning's weather report and the smell of the air, and then to harvest a week early and beat the unseasonable rains.

Two men pushed through the blanket over the entrance, spilling light and cold air inside. One was neat and good looking, even handsome, and wore the gold leaves of a major. The other was small, wizened, and tough, his face both young and old, marked by lines and the strain of a body that had seen extreme use and maybe too much alcohol. Silver leaves gleamed from a neatly starched collar. Mellas felt excited. It was Lieutenant Colonel Simpson, Big John Six.

Simpson gave Mellas a puzzled look. Major Blakely, on the other hand, returned Mellas's smile. 'Who do we have here, Stevens?' he asked.

'Lieutenant Mellas from Bravo Company, sir,' Stevens replied.

'Ahhh. One of our new tigers. I'm Major Blakely, the battalion Three. Meet Lieutenant Colonel Simpson, our commanding officer.' Blakely shook Mellas's hand. Mellas felt dirty and unkempt.

Simpson reached out a small hand. His grip was surprisingly strong. He grunted. 'Welcome aboard, Mellas. You an oh-three?' he asked, referring to the military occupational specialty, or MOS, for infantry.

'Yes sir,' Mellas replied, laughing. 'Looks like you're stuck with me a lot longer than ninety days.'

'Good,' Simpson said with a grunt, satisfied. 'You a regular?'

'No sir, not yet.' Mellas paused, giving a 'young man at a crossroads' look. 'I'm thinking about it, but I'm also thinking about law school.'

'High-paid f.u.c.king clerks,' Simpson said. 'p.u.s.s.ies, too.' He walked over to the map and started asking Stevens about the disposition of Alpha and Charlie companies in the valley to the north.

'The Marine Corps needs lawyers, too,' Blakely said.

'I know, sir. But for me there's only one reason to stay in the Marine Corps-to lead men. That's why I'm an oh-three.' Mellas noted that Blakely wore a Naval Academy ring and Simpson wore no ring. 'Of course, most of my friends from Princeton are going to law school,' he added, knowing Blakely would pick up on it.

'Jesus Christ,' Simpson said with a snort, 'how'd we ever let someone with a f.u.c.king communist education into the Marine Corps?' Blakely and Mellas both gave the expected laugh, as did Stevens.

'Well, sir,' Mellas said, 'you know how low standards have slipped since you joined.'

'Jesus, don't I,' Simpson said.

Mellas knew he'd connected. He also knew that this moment was the perfect time to leave, but he wasn't through. He turned to Blakely. 'I don't know how law school could compare with having a platoon. Being a platoon commander has to be the greatest experience of my life. I suppose only running a company could have it beat.' Blakely nodded. Mellas could see that he was anxious to be with the colonel. 'I was really lucky to get Lieutenant Hawke's old platoon. He's one of the best. We'll really miss him when he gets out of the bush.'

Blakely raised his eyebrows. 'He due out soon?'

'Overdue. And is he ready ready.' Mellas laughed. 'He's been in the bush nearly ten months. It's a p.i.s.ser, though, losing all the experience so new lieutenants like myself can pick it up. It's hard on the men.' Mellas paused, then brightened. 'You must snap up guys like Hawke as soon as you can.'

Blakely smiled smugly. 'We manage to hang on to our good ones.' He and Mellas were dancing, but as far as they were concerned it was just chatting. Like most good dancers, they made it look easy.

At the three-day deadline the bunkers were only half finished. Because the battery now offered a much more tempting target to the NVA, the security patrols had to be pushed out farther from the hill, and so they took much more time and effort to complete. The Marines would return, already exhausted, to start blasting trees into logs with C-4 and hacking at the logs with their K-bars. Unremitting physical effort combined with the monsoon rains, the mud, and the ceaseless hammering of the artillery battery left them nearly in a stupor.

But they kept at it, digging their fighting holes deeper into the root-bound clay. The bunker roofs had to be raised high enough above the fighting holes so a man could stand on a ledge and fire above the hole's parapet. The roofs had to be set on supporting walls formed from sandbags filled with clay. These walls, and their new exits and entrances, were eventually several feet high on the downhill side and barely aboveground on the uphill side.

The defensive lines grew more distinguishable. No longer were they made up of holes that blended in with the earth and the ma.s.s of torn limbs and brush. The holes had been transformed into naked, angular structures, stark against the denuded hillside, looking like st.u.r.dy little boxes poking out from the slope.

Mellas worked hard like the rest of them, learning from Jancowitz the subtleties of bunker construction. Don't use rocks, because they splinter into deadly shards. Dig pits and shelves to keep feet and a.s.s free of standing water. Interlace hard material with soft to absorb blast energy. Soon Mellas was not only helping with the hacking and hauling but enjoying the intricate planning of the total defense. He carefully walked the ground from the jungle upward, finding how the lay of the land channeled attackers into natural avenues of approach. Then he set the bunkers so that the avenues of approach would be filled with machine-gun bullets. Pegs were carefully driven into the ground so that the swing of the machine-gun barrel would be limited and the fire would be directed into the avenue of approach even in total darkness. More barbed wire came in by chopper, and the exhausting, hand-b.l.o.o.d.ying work of stretching it tautly below the bunkers continued.

Hawke and Fitch both recognized a natural defensive engineer in Mellas and soon had him coming with them whenever they toured the perimeter. Solving the intricacies of setting bunkers so that each bunker was defended by at least two others was an exercise in iterative geometry that came naturally to Mellas. Move one bunker, and all the bunkers around it had to be moved. Getting it right before the bunker was built was the trick, because if one fire team finished a bunker without considering all those around it, a critical weakness could be created in the interlocking system. Mainly because of Hawke's natural feel for the probable pattern of a.s.sault and Mellas's ability to figure out placement, only three half-finished bunkers proved to be misplaced and had to be destroyed and rebuilt just a few feet from their previous positions, to the exasperation of those who had built them.

Every hand in the company ran with pus from jungle rot. Bacteria invaded the cuts and open blisters. Old gloves-even gloves with holes in them-brought more cash than had been paid for them originally. Eventually, though, these transactions dwindled. Any gloves, with or without holes, became as precious as mail and no market price could be struck. Going out on patrol, which used to be a dreaded duty, became a longed-for holiday.

It took six spirit-breaking days to finally complete the bunkers. No one celebrated. On the seventh day the kids rested by doubling the patrols. That evening, Fitch opened the actuals meeting with a terse announcement. 'We're heading into the valley at first light. The battery and the battalion CP group will start pulling out simultaneously. Charlie Company will be where they drop us and take the same choppers back here. They'll provide security for battalion staff and the artillery during the shift. Then they're all heading for the lowlands. Some big f.u.c.king operation around Cam Lo.'

'We just finish the bunkers and they're pulling everyone off?' Mellas grabbed a lone surviving plant and savagely uprooted it, flinging it down the hill. 'Jesus Christ,' he hissed, his teeth clenched. 'Just like that. We're pulling out.' He had grown proud of the job they'd done-of himself, his platoon, all of them-in spite of the fact that it made them more vulnerable at night. Given enough ammunition, he felt they could hold off a regiment.

'We and Delta flip-flop missions with Alpha and Charlie,' Fitch continued slowly. 'Relsnik has it from a battalion radio operator that regiment gave Big John Six one last chance to prove he's got lots of gooks out here. We've also got responsibility for blowing the ammo cache Charlie Company uncovered. They ran out of C-4.'

'You mean we're going out in the jungle just to look around?' Mellas asked. 'A whole d.a.m.ned company?'

'Two d.a.m.ned companies,' Hawke corrected.

'Well, I'm not telling those guys down on the lines that we're leaving after what they've been put through. You get the colonel or that G.o.dd.a.m.ned Three down there to explain why we whipped their a.s.ses into the ground so we could pull out the second we built the G.o.dd.a.m.ned Rock of Gibraltar in the middle of G.o.dd.a.m.ned nowhere.'

'Look, Mellas,' Fitch said tightly, 'simmer the f.u.c.k down. We leave at first light. You just get your platoon ready to move.'

The rest of the actuals were silent. Kendall fiddled with his wedding ring and his wraparound yellow sungla.s.ses. Goodwin, looking drawn and haggard, squatted on his heels toying with a stick. His constant clowning had been a source of relief during the construction. He had said nothing during the entire meeting.

After the meeting, Mellas made his way slowly down the hill, wondering how he'd break the news that they'd built the bunkers for no purpose. It also surprised him, after all the days of looking into the valley, wondering what it was like down there, worrying about going, that now it was time to go, just like that. His entire world had been instantly transformed at the word of a man he barely knew. The platoon could be ready to go in half an hour. All they needed was to pack their food and ammunition. But he felt there should be more time, some ritual of getting ready, before they plunged into that dark valley.

When Mellas reached his hooch, everyone was already there. It was obvious that everyone knew. Jackson, now leader of the Third Squad, had his pocket notebook out and his pen ready; he looked very serious. Ba.s.s had presented Jackson with the decision to make him acting squad leader in Janc's absence and had given no alternatives, just telling Jackson he was it. This was the best they could do to alleviate the problem of Jackson's worrying about reactions from the brothers. Connolly, the leader of the First Squad, was looking down at Mellas's C-ration box, his legs apart and his hands on his hips. He kept spitting into the box, seemingly unconscious of what he was doing. Occasionally he would look out at the valley and curse; his Boston tw.a.n.g was just loud enough to be heard. 'f.u.c.kin' A, man, the f.u.c.kin' Crotch. There it is.' Then he'd spit into the box again, making Mellas cringe because he'd probably have to open one of the packets that Connolly had spat on. He said nothing, however, feeling this wasn't the time. Jacobs, who had taken Second Squad from Fisher, was also staring into the fog below them. He turned to look at Mellas, his eyes flashing. 'F-f.u.c.king bunkers. F-for nothing.' Then he turned again to the fog, saying nothing more. Mellas knew the company history as well as any of them. Bravo Company had never been on an op without at least three deaths.

'There it is, you unhappy motherf.u.c.kers,' Jancowitz crowed. 'Another inch of the green d.i.l.d.o. I'm going to Bangkok and Susi's going to screw my brains out. Hee hee.'

'You were screwed brainless when you extended your tour,' Connolly said.

Mellas quickly opened his notebook. 'That will do, Conman.' He began to pa.s.s on all the information he'd received at the actuals meeting.

'Who's going into the zone first?' Ba.s.s asked. He was notching another day into his short-timer's stick.

'Scar,' Mellas replied, chagrined that Fitch had chosen Goodwin over him for the important task of securing the landing zone in the valley. He'd wanted to volunteer to go first, even though he was afraid, just so Fitch would know he was a decent guy.

'Good,' Ba.s.s grunted. 'We had it last time.'

Mellas went on handing out coordinates, call signs, changes in radio brevity codes, all the minutiae that make up the day-to-day operation of an infantry unit.

Ba.s.s immediately organized work parties in the darkness at the top of the LZ where the company's 60-millimeter mortar squad was set in. There he pa.s.sed out the mortar sh.e.l.ls, each weighing a little over three pounds. The Marines tied two each to their packs. Even the radio operators slung one beneath their radios. That gave the company more than 400 mortar rounds, making it a formidable small artillery force.

Mellas placed two of the mortar sh.e.l.ls-still wrapped in their neat cardboard tubes-under the bottom of his pack, tying them in place with wire. By the time he'd finished stuffing all the food he could into his pack, it weighed almost sixty pounds. In addition, he had his grenades, two bandoleers of ammunition, and four canteens of water. Still, Mellas's burden was lighter than that of most of the kids. He didn't have to share the machine-gun ammunition, extra C-4, trip flares, claymore mines, and rope. The machine gunners and radio operators carried very heavy loads, and the mortar squad carried even more, each man lugging his own rifle and personal gear as well as seven or eight mortar sh.e.l.ls and a heavy part of the disa.s.sembled mortars, which included sixteen-pound bipods and awkward thirteen-pound steel base plates as well as the long heavy mortar tubes themselves.

That night, the faint glow of red-lens flashlights shone beneath poncho liners as last letters home were written. Mellas wrote too, trying to sound cheerful. But leaving Matterhorn filled him with cold foreboding.

CHAPTER FIVE.

The mood on the landing zone at the battalion CP was different. Lieutenant Colonel Simpson had opened a second bottle of Wild Turkey and was generously pa.s.sing out shots to the pared-down staff that had come up the hill with him.

'I smell 'em, G.o.dd.a.m.n it,' Simpson said, pouring Blakely and Stevens another shot. 'I smell 'em.' Light from the hissing Coleman lanterns flickered against the walls of the bunker, casting the shadows of the five officers huddled around the C-ration boxes that served as a low map table. Blakely took his bourbon neat, but Stevens didn't much like the stuff and mixed his with enough 7-Up to kill the taste. When the colonel started drinking, there was no clear stopping point until the colonel stopped drinking. Junior officers didn't stop first-that was protocol. Captain Bainford, the air liaison officer, and Captain Higgins, the intelligence officer, sat wearily on the ground with their backs against the bunker wall, not really in the group around the map. They were trying to stay awake. The battalion radio operators also had shots of whiskey-Simpson was certainly not unfair to enlisted men-but they kept their distance and were quiet, monitoring the desultory radio traffic of the night.

'Well, sir,' Blakely mused aloud, 'we got a compromise. Can't complain.'

'By G.o.d, we can't, can we,' Simpson said. 'Two companies in the bush is better than none.' He paused, took another quick drink, sighed, and smacked his lips. 'G.o.dd.a.m.n, that's good whiskey.'

'Yes, sir,' Blakely agreed, taking another, smaller sip of his own. He knew that if they did find something in the valley during the next few days, it would be very unlikely that General Neitzel could resist doing something about known enemy troops operating just north of them. Matterhorn anch.o.r.ed the west end of Mutter's Ridge, an avenue of attack into the populated lowlands. No matter how intensely he felt the political pressure that was diverting nearly the whole regiment to the Cam Lo operation, he'd have to respond. Blakely's mind drifted to an imaginary scene at division headquarters, where he was chief of staff, advising the general on the political complications and how they interacted with the strategic complications. He smiled at his daydream. Simpson was right. This d.a.m.ned Wild Turkey got smoother and smoother.

Blakely mentally reviewed the flip-flop plan again. Originally it had been easy. Continue the original mission with two companies in the valley snooping and p.o.o.ping. Charlie flip-flops with Bravo on Matterhorn, and Alpha flip-flops with Delta on Eiger. Then comes the idea of the Cam Lo cl.u.s.ter f.u.c.k with everyone pulling back to VCB to get ready for that. So that plan had to be changed. Then comes Mulvaney's compromise with Simpson. So now Bravo and Delta are going out to the valley instead of to VCB. So that that plan had to be changed. A question flickered in his mind. When was the last ration resupply for Delta on Eiger? It hadn't mattered before, because Delta was originally going back to VCB with everyone else. Then it occurred to him that with Charlie moving back to VCB instead of to Matterhorn, that left Golf Battery and battalion headquarters exposed, albeit just briefly, during the time of the flip-flop. This pushed the question of Delta's food supply out of his mind. plan had to be changed. A question flickered in his mind. When was the last ration resupply for Delta on Eiger? It hadn't mattered before, because Delta was originally going back to VCB with everyone else. Then it occurred to him that with Charlie moving back to VCB instead of to Matterhorn, that left Golf Battery and battalion headquarters exposed, albeit just briefly, during the time of the flip-flop. This pushed the question of Delta's food supply out of his mind.

'Sir,' he said to Simpson. 'I'm just thinking about covering the battery. They'll be exposed without Bravo Company for a while until we get them moved back to VCB.'

'What are we talking about? A couple of hours? Blakely, they're Marines. If the gooks are dumb enough to attack us, the battery'll hold them off, and instead of dropping Delta into the valley we'll drop 'em back here and kill gooks from both sides.' He put his arm around Blakely's shoulders. 'You're a h.e.l.l of a staff officer, Blakely, but you're a worrywart.' He took Blakely's gla.s.s and poured more Wild Turkey into it. 'Now relax. That's an order.' He handed a full gla.s.s to Blakely.

Blakely smiled at him and took it. 'Can't disobey an order, sir.'

'G.o.dd.a.m.n right you can't.'

Blakely took a drink. d.a.m.n, Simpson could sure pick a good whiskey. The glow was moving from his stomach through his arms and legs. He felt good. The battery did have only a small window of vulnerability during which it had to protect itself. He was being a worrywart-Simpson was right. For a brief moment Blakely wondered who was blowing the abandoned bunkers on Matterhorn, but just then the other officers broke into laughter. Simpson had pulled out another bottle of Wild Turkey from someplace and was grinning widely as he opened it. He's got to be just as tired as me, Blakely thought. The colonel was right about something else-Blakely should relax more. Besides, it would do nothing for his fitness reports if he looked like a stick-in-the-mud and got on Simpson's wrong side. No one liked stick-in-the-muds. Simpson needed him, too. Simpson had lots of guts; Silver Stars don't come easily in the Marine Corps. But Simpson wasn't up to handling the details. Of course, that's why Simpson had him. Blakely took another sip, savoring it. He had to hand it to the old man: Simpson could pick whiskey. It had been a f.u.c.king nightmare to get everything rescrewed around once Simpson got the word he could put two companies in the valley instead of taking the whole battalion into the flats. One small change, just one, and all that f.u.c.king food and ammunition, all set up to go one way, had to be turned around to go somewhere else. Good staff work was complicated. Blakely's mind wandered; he was half-listening to the jokes and stories of the other officers. He wished he were home. He wished he were asleep. He slugged the rest of the whiskey. What was wrong with relaxing when he could? If everyone was getting drunk before the Cam Lo operation kicked off, why be left behind? You want to be seen as a team player.

Before first light, Bravo Company a.s.sembled in heli teams at the LZ. The kids, fully loaded, heavy, enc.u.mbered, crouched in a single line that stretched below the crest of the hill, waiting for the choppers to come with the daylight. The artillerymen went about their business of packing up their gear, stepping between and sometimes over the infantrymen sitting on the ground. Some looked at the infantrymen curiously, but most tried to ignore them, not wanting to be caught up in their fate.

When Vancouver strolled across the LZ in the predawn semi-darkness, however, even the studied indifference of the artillerymen was broken.

'Where the f.u.c.k did he he come from?' come from?'

'A f.u.c.king movie. Didn't you know the Crotch was making a f.u.c.king movie out of this op?'

'They couldn't get John Wayne so they got him.'

'Naww, f.u.c.k. They're shooting background for Huntley-Brinkley.'

'Did you see what that mother was carrying? A f.u.c.king sawed-off M-60. Jesus Christ.'

'He'd never be able to hit a thing with it. It's a bunch of gunjy bulls.h.i.t.'

'I don't know, man.'

'It's bulls.h.i.t. You couldn't control it.'

'Who the f.u.c.k cares cares if you can control a f.u.c.king M-60?' if you can control a f.u.c.king M-60?'

Mellas kept walking around to check each heli team, asking if everything was all right. He approached the last team, Ba.s.s's. Skosh was lying on the ground with his eyes half closed, a green towel wrapped around his neck.

'I guess we're all set, Sergeant Ba.s.s,' Mellas said.

Ba.s.s looked at him. 'I guess we are, Lieutenant.'

Embarra.s.sed by his obvious anxiety, Mellas walked over to where Goodwin lay on his back, eyes shut, head cradled in his helmet.

Mellas whispered, so the others wouldn't hear, 'Hey, Scar.'

Goodwin grunted.

'Did you pack any underwear?'

'Naw, s.h.i.t, Jack. All it does is give you crotch rot.'

'Yeah,' Mellas whispered. He fingered the pale green T-shirt that his mother had dyed for him.

'How come you call everyone Jack?'

Goodwin opened his eyes and looked at him. 'It's easier to remember their names that way.'

'Oh,' Mellas said. 'Sure.'

Goodwin closed his eyes again.

Mellas walked over to where Jackson was lying with his team. Jackson looked up at Mellas, craning his neck over his immense pack. His record player was tied on top with communication wire. 'All set, Jackson?' Mellas asked for the third time.

'Yes sir.' Jackson, with that nothing-to-hide look of his, held Mellas's eyes. Then he broke eye contact to look down the line of tired bodies in his squad. Mellas could see that everyone in the squad had cultivated a bored waiting-for-a-bus expression that concealed all emotions.

'Couldn't go without your sounds, huh?' Mellas asked.

'No sir. Not hardly.'

'How much does it weigh?'

Cortell, the leader of the second fire team, who was sitting next to his friend Williams, chuckled. 'Man,' Cortell said, 'you can't carry nothin' lighter than music.'

Jackson flipped a thick middle finger in Cortell's direction. 'Easy for you to say, you ain't carryin' it.' He turned back to Mellas. 'The suffering I endure so my men can have music, and Cortell makes light of it.'

'Jesus make all your burdens light,' Cortell said.

'Yeah, well he ain't here today, Preacher.'

'Where two or more are gathered in his name, Jesus be there.' Cortell was used to the banter about his Christianity and gave back as good as he received.

Mellas had caught Jackson's pun, and it made him feel more secure with Jackson as a squad leader. 'Why didn't you get a little tape recorder?' he asked Jackson.

Jackson paused, thinking. 'I guess I just like to see the record go around.'