Matterhorn_ A Novel of the Vietnam War Part 17

'Later.' She smiled down at the baby and said in a quiet singsong, 'Daddy wants to make you a little sister.' Then she looked up at Mulvaney, her large green eyes suddenly serious. 'Dorothy says that they all think you're . . .' She hesitated.

'Go on.'

'That you're some kind of a throwback to World War II. The word is that Mulvaney will never get out of the jungle, but he's good in a fight.'

'That's bad?'

'Oh, Mikey, don't be deliberately dense. You know as well as I do that it's the planners that get ahead, not the fighters.'

'And the politicians.'

'Yes!' She stamped one black pump on the floor and rose to her feet. Putting the baby back on her shoulder, she walked quickly into their bedroom where the crib was next to the bed, her two-inch heels punctuating every step.

He had watched the way her tight wool skirt beautifully molded her rear end.

The briefing room swam back into consciousness, a layer above the memory of his home and his wife. G.o.d, how he missed her now. He saw everyone waiting for him to say something.

He knew Blakely was right. With promising reports coming in from Bravo Company, it would look foolish not to follow through. 'But where in h.e.l.l am I supposed to get the men to follow up on your f.u.c.king reports?' he asked. He was uncomfortably aware that his strangled anger at Blakely and the ARVNs made his voice sound petty and whining.

Blakely thought quickly. 'Why not let Bravo Company sweep the area and move up to 1609 on foot, sir.'

Mulvaney looked at the map. It looked like a little over twenty kilometers as the crow flies, but the small squares were almost completely brown with the thick ma.s.s of twenty-meter contour intervals. They could barely fit next to each other and still be distinguishable. He remembered parts of Korea that looked like this, and he shuddered-there hadn't been any jungle there. 'What's their condition?' he asked Simpson. 'They've been out in the bush a long time, if I remember.'

'Top-notch, sir. They could be there in four days.'

If Simpson said four days, then it would probably take eight. 'Food? Power sources for the radios? Ammo? With this Cam Lo op, you know I'm short on birds for resupply.'

'No problem, sir,' Simpson replied, enjoying the chance to show the other battalion commanders how ready his battalion was.

Blakely paled and swallowed. He hadn't bothered to tell Simspon that Bravo had given half its food to Delta almost a week ago to cover the error of pushing Delta off inadequately supplied.

'What do you think, Major Blakely?' Mulvaney asked.

Blakely didn't hesitate. 'One Twenty-Four can do the job, sir. You know what they say about the impossible.'

'Yes,' Mulvaney said quietly, turning to look at the map. 'It takes a little longer.' Sick, frostbitten Marines crowded into his memory, struggling up frozen hills, their backs bent under mortars and ammunition, the wounded strapped on litters bound to fenders and in the backs of jeeps and small trucks, clenching their teeth at each painful jolt. Then his mind contrasted that image with one of thin, sore-ridden bodies with barely enough energy to fight the jungle, let alone fight the j.a.panese. He forced his mind back to the brightly lit briefing room and the map in front of him. He figured it would be a f.u.c.king hump at that. Still, he could live with it. They had ten days before 1609 had to be secured. That left Bravo two real days of wiggle room. Something, however, nagged at him. It was like a lump beneath a sleeping bag that he couldn't quite flatten. But with that much ammo in that dump, and if he didn't follow through on it as Blakely had suggested . . . He knew he had a reputation for being too impetuous. In this new Marine Corps of careful staff work and covering your a.s.s with paper, it just wasn't the same. His old friend Neitzel had blended right in with the new Corps; that was why Neitzel had a division and Mulvaney didn't. If they hit pay dirt, it couldn't hurt his chances of becoming a general. He smiled, imagining his wife pinning on his stars. 'Oh, h.e.l.l,' he growled at himself.

'Sir?' Major Adams responded.

'Nothing, Adams. OK, Simpson, you're on. Don't let me down.'

The frag order that appended their original order to destroy the supply dump reached Bravo Company one hour after the regimental briefing broke up. It consisted of a series of checkpoints and times of arrival, nothing more, some in deep draws, others high on ridges. The line of march took no heed of the wild terrain.

Hawke began the actuals meeting. 'Gentlemen, I'd like to introduce you to our new leader, Captain Meriwether Lewis. My name is Clark, but you can call me Wm for short. We won't be skying out for a while.'

Fitch explained the frag order. 'We've got about three hours of daylight left, so we might as well get a couple of hours humping. Otherwise there's no chance of making checkpoint Alpha.'

's.h.i.t,' Mellas said. 'We just dug in. That body stinks and my platoon's out of food.'

'You ain't the Lone Ranger, Mellas,' Hawke said, 'but you might be Sacajawea. You still got point.'

Mellas gritted his teeth and took his map out of his pocket, but he had to smile at Hawke's joke. 'I don't see any point in it, that's all,' he said. People groaned and Mellas felt better. 'What about this funny-looking three-cornered hill for a position for tonight?' he said. 'We might make it before dark. Jesus, though, the river looks like it runs right through a f.u.c.king canyon.'

They discussed it briefly and Fitch gave the go-ahead. He ordered the food redistributed but would allow anyone to keep one C-ration can if he had one, mitigating any resentment on the part of those who had saved their rations. Most of the kids, like Mellas, had already eaten all the food they had. The platoon sergeants collected everything that remained. The redistributed food, now held in common, equaled about three-quarters of a can per person. Twenty minutes after redistributing the food, the company wound out of the ammunition dump, Jacobs's squad leading, Jackson's struggling with Williams's body.

They moved slowly northeastward, following a rushing stream, higher into the mountains, closer to the DMZ. The terrain grew wildly beautiful, with steep jungle-covered peaks and rushing torrents of water from the monsoon rains. Occasionally, someone would slip on a gla.s.sy, water-smoothed rock and his entire body would be covered in swift white water that immediately soaked into his pack, wetting his poncho liner. Unable to regain his feet against the force of the stream because of all his heavy gear, he would be pulled up by laughing companions. Those who got soaked, however, knew that they'd be fighting the cold all that night, trying to use body heat to dry their clothes and poncho liners.

The trees grew larger and the forest darker as they gained alt.i.tude. At one point a large flat outcropping of rock opened the jungle enough to afford them a view of their line of march. Directly in front of them was a dark, narrow valley filled with clouds, which hung close to dark peaks of barren rock. The peaks guarded a narrow, twisting river. Each Marine who pa.s.sed that open viewpoint made some nervous gesture: tightening his equipment, pausing to spray repellent on a leech, whistling aloud. The rain, which up to now had been falling in a misty drizzle from high clouds, suddenly intensified. It pounded the earth, bringing a rush of cold air.

By the time they reached the three-cornered hill, Mellas had an intense headache because of his depleted blood sugar. His body had been drained by onslaughts of adrenaline, hunger, and the constant sucking cold of wet clothing. Feeling like a sick animal, he dragged himself along by will alone.

The hill rose impossibly high in the gloom.

Jacobs looked upward. 'Who the f-f.u.c.k p-picked this?' Water from the stream at the base of the hill was dripping from his trousers.

Mellas closed his eyes. 'I did, a.s.shole.'

The point man sighed, then started crawling up the slope, pushing his rifle in front of him, grabbing roots and rocks.

Partway up Mellas heard a commotion behind him. He turned to see Hippy looking helplessly up the hill as he slid backward, his heavy machine gun held in front of his face. He started knocking into people behind him, who in turn starting to slide and knock into others. The whole slow-motion scene came to a halt against a tree and everyone untangled himself, cursing Hippy. They started upward again.

It took Mellas's platoon an hour to reach the top while the rest of the company waited in the rushing river, freezing, exposed to attack, as the light faded completely. Mellas, as the first officer in, was responsible for setting in the defense for the company and guiding the Marines into positions as they arrived. He thrashed his way through the dark jungle with a machete, outlining the perimeter. It was all he could do to keep from falling to the forest floor, never to move again. Tangled growth slapped his face, tore at his exposed skin, hid the terrain from his eyes. He kept trying to remember all the rules about placing his machine guns. His E-tool, the small folding entrenching shovel attached to his pack, caught on a branch, and the sudden imbalance with the immense weight of his pack almost pulled him over backward. He struck out at the limb, breaking it, hurting his hand and opening the scab over a jungle-rot sore on his arm. In a frenzy, he took out his K-bar and hacked the bush to pieces. Afterward his face felt hot and flushed but his back was damp and cold. His hands were swollen, and his fingers did not want to move. He pulled down his trousers and s.h.i.t watery feces that spattered on his bare legs and boots. He retched at the smell, unable to throw up because his stomach was empty.

He headed back down the hill to guide his weary platoon in. It took the rest of the company an hour to get to the top because First Platoon's trail had turned into a mudslide. When Mellas finally was able to return to his own position, he found Hamilton with the dry heaves from exhaustion and lack of food, retching painfully over the beginnings of a shallow hole.

Mellas watched him, realizing that he'd have to dig the entire hole himself. 'Here, give me that,' Mellas said bitterly, taking the small entrenching tool. 'Why don't you go see if you can rig our ponchos up for some sort of hooch?' he said more gently.

Hamilton tried to smile but began retching again. 'I'll be OK in a while, sir,' he gasped. 'Don't worry, I'll help with the hole.'

'Forget it,' Mellas said. He started digging. When Hamilton turned away, Mellas began silently crying, hacking at the damp earth in impotent fury.

Fitch had said there would be a full moon that night, and indeed the monsoon clouds had lightened just enough to permit an eerie glow above the trees when Mellas did his first hole-check. He found Hippy sitting silently on the edge of his hole. His bare feet dangled into the darkness below him and his ragged bleached-out boots sat next to the hole. 'You'd better cover those boots, Hippy,' Mellas whispered. 'I homed in on them like an airport beacon.'

'Thanks, sir,' Hippy replied. He took his boots and put them in the hole. 'Just trying to let them air a little. Thought maybe it'd keep the gooks away if they was downwind.'

Mellas laughed and sat down beside Hippy. 'Anything going on?' he whispered.

'Here? You s.h.i.tting me, Lieutenant?'

Mellas smiled. He kicked his boot out to adjust his position and hit Hippy's foot. Hippy winced. 'Hey. You got foot trouble, Hippy?'

'Naw. Nothing serious, sir.'

'Let me see them.'

'It ain't nothing, sir. Just some blisters.'

'Uh-huh,' Mellas replied. 'Let's see one, Hippy.'

Hippy drew his left foot up to the edge of the hole. Even in the ghostly light, Mellas could see that it was grotesquely swollen and discolored. It repelled him. He took a deep breath. The other foot was no different. 'The squid seen these?'

'No sir.'

Mellas exploded. 'Why the f.u.c.k not?'

Hippy hung his head.

'Hippy, you're a f.u.c.king cripple. s.h.i.t.'

'I can make it, Lieutenant,' he answered.

's.h.i.t.' Mellas stood up. 'Sure you can, if you extend six months.' Mellas took a breath and tried to cool down. Where in the f.u.c.k was he going to find another gun-squad leader as good as Hippy? 'There must be some way we can get a bird to get your a.s.s out of here.'

'Sorry, sir,' Hippy said.

'Sorry don't get it,' Mellas barked, immediately wishing he hadn't. 'Who do you want to take over the gun squad?'

Hippy touched the b.u.t.t plate of the machine gun. 'I humped that motherf.u.c.ker a long ways, sir. I want to hump it in. It's got good karma.'

'Hippy, they'll G.o.dd.a.m.ned amputate. You ever hear of gangrene?'

Hippy looked down at his feet, then giggled. 'They're pretty f.u.c.king bad, aren't they, Lieutenant?'

'Yeah. Pretty f.u.c.king bad.' Mellas waited a moment. 'Who, Hippy?'

'Mole. And let Young hump my gun.' Hippy reached down and toyed with the silver peace medallion that hung around his neck. 'This is my last op, sir. My twelve and twenty's in nine days and I'm out of the bush. Ten days after that, I sky out for home. I'm so short what you're hearing now is a tape recording.'

'We'll get you out. They've got to bring us some f.u.c.king food sometime and pick Williams up.'

In the blackness in front of Fitch's hooch the conversation was also about helicopters and food. Fitch was on the hook with the battalion watch officer.

'What's the word on our resupply?' Fitch said tightly. 'We're already on our spare power sources and we're f.u.c.king hungry. Over.'

'We're trying, but the Whiskey Oscar at MAG-Thirty-Nine says they got all the birds tied up in some big to-do in the flatlands and all the heavies are in bed, so we can't alter the priorities. Can you wait a couple of days? Over.'

Hawke, who was sitting across from Fitch, winced at the security breach about the upcoming operation.

'Wait a couple of days? G.o.dd.a.m.n it, we haven't eaten for a couple of days already and we've been on half rations the entire time we've been out here because some dumb son of a b.i.t.c.h sitting on his fat a.s.s back at Victor Charlie Bravo forgot to give Delta time to get organized. Now I want a f.u.c.king chopper out here with some food on it or by G.o.d there'll be h.e.l.l to pay when I get in. Now. I mean it, Stevens.'

'Don't use my name over the net, Bravo Six,' Stevens replied. 'You know the gooners monitor our nets. I don't want them using my name, writing weird stuff home to my wife. Over.'

'Sorry, character Sierra,' Fitch replied, realizing that if he argued with Stevens their chances for resupply would be worse. 'Look, help us out. We're starving to death. At least tell us what the f.u.c.k we're supposed to be doing out here. Over.'

'I don't know what to do about the birds, Bravo Six. Honest. As far as what you're doing out there I thought that would be obvious. If you found that much ammunition, there must be more around there someplace. h.e.l.l, division public relations put out a news release about Alpha's fight for it and everything. Over.'

'Fight for it? They were f.u.c.king ambushed.' Fitch unkeyed the handset and looked at Hawke and Ca.s.sidy. 'News story?' he said. His stomach felt weak.

'Well, that isn't the way I heard it.' Stevens started to say something else but was cut off.

'Shut the f.u.c.k up and let me think, G.o.dd.a.m.n it,' Fitch shouted back into the receiver, interrupting Stevens's transmission and probably not being totally received. Stevens apparently received enough of it to get the message, though.

'We got to have food, Jim,' Hawke said. He had been doodling a pentangle star in the mud. 'Even Lewis and Clark could hunt buffalo on the way.'

'Yes, sir,' Ca.s.sidy said, 'and I caught a couple of kids limping. I think we got some immersion foot cases that we ought to medevac. Otherwise we'll cripple some good Marines.'

'OK,' Fitch said. He put the receiver back to his ear and keyed it. 'Big John, this is Bravo Six. Make the bird request a priority, and if I don't get it tomorrow, then you tell them the next day it'll be an emergency. I got some bad cases of immersion foot we've got to take care of ASAP. Over.'

'Oh. The Six isn't going to like that. You know what he thinks about immersion foot. Over.'

'Let me worry about Big John Six. You worry about fragging us a f.u.c.king bird. Pri-or-it-y,' he enunciated. 'We'll have a zone cleared by noon. Over.'

'Noon? How are you going to make checkpoint Alpha tomorrow?'

'Frag the f.u.c.king bird,' Fitch said between clenched teeth. 'Bravo Six out.'

There was a pause, then the radio hissed again. 'Don't get sore, Bravo Six. I was just trying to tell you the score, that's all. Over.'

Fitch stared into the darkness, holding the handset away from his mouth. After a long wait, the radio hissed again.

'OK, Bravo Six. I'll see what I can do. No need to get sore. Big John out.'

The next morning they drew straws to see who would clear away enough jungle to make a landing zone. Mellas lost. Still shivering with the wet and cold, he walked dejectedly back to tell the platoon. Kendall and Goodwin went back to prepare security patrols.

The only possible place for an LZ was a small level spot just off the crest of the hill. It was, however, covered with a formidable ma.s.s of matted bamboo and elephant gra.s.s. Mellas felt physically ill. His small K-bar and dull E-tool seemed useless in the face of this clotted, dense plant life. He looked at his hands, feeling the sores of jungle rot. He looked at Jackson, knowing he could tell Jackson to start clearing while he went back to sit with Ba.s.s and monitor the single radio they now shared. He'd ordered the other radio turned off to save power. He knew, however, that he couldn't leave these kids and ever earn their respect. Still, he didn't know what to do in the face of this overwhelming green wall. He sensed Jackson beside him, getting mad. Mellas simply stared at the impossible task. His mind wouldn't focus. Clear the jungle-with no tools and no food. He closed his eyes.

Then he heard Jackson scream.

'f.u.c.king no-good s.h.i.t!' Jackson went snarling past Mellas. Mellas looked dumbly at him, thinking Jackson had cracked. Jackson threw himself like a football player making a cross-body block into the wall of bamboo and gra.s.s. The ma.s.s yielded slightly. Jackson ran back to the group, let out a whoop, and again hurled himself at the tangled ma.s.s. It bent. He backed off and jumped into it feet first, cursing it. He began jumping up and down on it, shouting an exultant chant. The bamboo broke. The gra.s.s sagged and fell. Broyer, shielding his gla.s.ses with his arms, gave a whoop and ran headlong at the dent made by Jackson.

Mellas took only a second to realize that he'd just had his first lesson in real leadership. He then charged forward, headfirst, as if going off tackle. The ma.s.s of vegetation let his head in but stopped his shoulders. He was followed by Tilghman, the M-79 man, and then Parker and Cortell. Mellas ran back, turned around, snarled, and did it again. Jacobs's and Connolly's squads, infected with the excitement of the game, went crashing into the gra.s.s too. Vancouver actually picked Connolly up and threw him like a log into the mess. Uniforms turned black with the wet rot. Hands and arms ran with blood from the rasping razor gra.s.s. But the landing zone grew.

By eleven that morning the zone was cleared. The kids lay flat on their backs, exhausted, staring at the gray swirling clouds. An hour later the clouds touched the earth. Both the landing zone and the waiting Marines looked ghostly and unreal. By late afternoon they were all shivering with the cold, dejected, quiet, still waiting for the bird. The food was all gone. Many had eaten only three-quarters of a can in the last forty-eight hours. Fog was all around them. Even Jackson could not crush the fog.

Fitch sent Kendall and Goodwin out on squad-size patrols to provide security for the landing zone, just in case. Kendall got lost and had to fire a pop-up flare for Daniels and Fitch to get a bearing on him. Everyone grumbled that the flare would tell the NVA where the Marines were, and among themselves the kids started calling Kendall Pop-Up. Kendall's platoon sergeant, Samms, sat down with Ba.s.s and b.i.t.c.hed for nearly an hour about Kendall and the policy of having every officer get experience by commanding a rifle platoon. Goodwin radioed in that he'd found something, but it was a surprise. Fitch offered Hawke twenty dollars for his can of apricots. Hawke refused.

In midafternoon, Cortell and Jackson walked up to see Hawke about the next R & R quotas. When they reached the center of the perimeter they found Lieutenant Goodwin, still loaded with hand grenades and ammunition, fondling two baby tigers. Senior Squid and Relsnik were watching Sergeant Ca.s.sidy poke playfully at the blind kittens, a smile on his face.

Cortell, who'd shared a fighting hole with Williams since they'd arrived in-country eight months earlier, saw the two tigers differently. He broke away from Jackson and walked over to the group.

'I don't think they ought to be here,' he said. His heart was starting to pound, but he was vowing to do something for Williams-anything to ease the guilty feeling that he had let Williams down.

'Well, f.u.c.k me,' Ca.s.sidy said, standing up. 'You don't think they ought to be here, do you? Do you remember me asking for your opinion?'

Cortell said nothing, wishing Jackson would speak up.

'You just walk up to your f.u.c.king superiors and tell them what you think all the time?' Ca.s.sidy asked.

'No sir,' Cortell said. The old fear of the Deep South returned, weakening his knees.