Matterhorn_ A Novel of the Vietnam War Part 18

'Then I suggest you mind your own business. I thought you'd f.u.c.king like jungle animals.'

Cortell's nostrils flared and his face went pallid. His hands and legs burned. He felt Jackson's hand on his elbow, pulling him gently back, away from Ca.s.sidy and away from an inner precipice. Cortell was breathing hard, staring at Ca.s.sidy, who was staring right back at him. 'I'll kill those motherf.u.c.kers,' Cortell said.

'Over my dead body,' Ca.s.sidy said.

'You want it that way?'

'You threatening to kill me, Cortell?' Ca.s.sidy asked.

'Come on, Cortell,' Jackson said. Cortell heard him as if through a long tunnel. Jackson turned to Ca.s.sidy and added quietly, 'He ain't threatening to kill you, Gunny. It's about Williams, his f.u.c.king friend.'

Cortell slapped angrily at Jackson's hand, pulling himself from its grip.

'Come on, on, Cortell,' Jackson hissed. 'You gonna get your a.s.s locked up.' Jackson pulled him around, Cortell jerking back and Jackson jerking him forward. Cortell somehow managed to break free of his rage by stepping outside himself. He became aware of himself being angry. Then he realized that he and Jackson were pulling at each other. His mind went spinning through images of Jesus and the money changers, Peter cutting the servant's ear, Jesus hanging on the cross, G.o.d crying for his lost child. He remembered who he was and where he was and allowed Jackson to grip his elbow and walk him down the hill, leaving Ca.s.sidy standing in front of the silent group. Cortell,' Jackson hissed. 'You gonna get your a.s.s locked up.' Jackson pulled him around, Cortell jerking back and Jackson jerking him forward. Cortell somehow managed to break free of his rage by stepping outside himself. He became aware of himself being angry. Then he realized that he and Jackson were pulling at each other. His mind went spinning through images of Jesus and the money changers, Peter cutting the servant's ear, Jesus hanging on the cross, G.o.d crying for his lost child. He remembered who he was and where he was and allowed Jackson to grip his elbow and walk him down the hill, leaving Ca.s.sidy standing in front of the silent group.

Then he remembered Four Corners, Mississippi, and Gilead, four miles down the dirt road, where the white people lived. He remembered driving down the tree-lined streets, trying to look inconspicuous in his grandfather's old 1947 Ford, carefully wiped clean of dust. He remembered his grandmother having made sure his shirt was white and ironed. Then he remembered his older cousin, Luella, walking back home on the dusty road from Gilead, hot and exhausted in her housemaid's uniform, to nurse her baby who'd been left with Luella's mother the whole fourteen hours of her absence, aching to ease her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and her heart. Then he remembered hours and hours of holding his urine and the white high school boys who stared at him with hard eyes when he came to the cotton storage shed without 'proper business,' only wanting to pa.s.s a message to his uncle who worked in the yard out back. In his memory now they all looked like Ca.s.sidy.

Cortell started running for the lines. Jackson watched him go. Then he shouted, 'Cortell, you stupid mother.' When Cortell reached his fighting hole he grabbed his M-16 and pulled back the action to chamber a round. He turned around, his eyes wild, and started running toward the top of the hill. Jackson tackled him from above, sending the M-16 flying.

'I'll kill the motherf.u.c.kers,' Cortell screamed. 'I'll kill the motherf.u.c.kers.' He kicked and writhed under Jackson's hold, scratching at Jackson's eyes, trying to claw his way back to his weapon. Jackson held on tight.

Mellas was watching Ba.s.s make a cup of coffee with the last envelope of instant coffee in the platoon when they heard Cortell scream. They immediately started running. Mellas jumped on top of both Jackson and Cortell, tearing Jackson away. Cortell started to scramble to his feet, but Ba.s.s fell on him, pinning him to the ground. Cortell's wide, normally pleasant face was contorted with pain and rage.

Jackson, much more under control, didn't struggle with Mellas. 'I'm all right,' he said. 'It's Cortell.' Mellas looked into his eyes, then rolled off. Jackson stood and began brushing himself off, looking down at Cortell, pinned under Ba.s.s's solid body.

'What the f.u.c.k's the matter with you?' Mellas asked Cortell.

'The Gunny,' Cortell said. 'I'll kill him.' He was under control, however, and it was obvious he did not mean it.

Ba.s.s, seeing that Cortell had regained control of himself, got up, reached out a hand, and helped him off the ground. 'What'd Ca.s.sidy do?' Ba.s.s asked.

Jackson spoke up. 'Scar brought back two baby tigers and the Gunny's up playing with them.'

'So?' Ba.s.s asked.

'So I told him to get them out of here,' Cortell said. 'A tiger killed Williams, or don'chew remember either?'

Ba.s.s's face registered the pain the statement caused, but he said nothing.

Mellas cut in. 'You just can't go telling the Gunny to do what you want. I know how you feel. You've got to know he'd react to that. He probably doesn't know how it affects you.'

'He told Cortell he ought to like jungle animals,' Jackson said quietly.

Mellas's head sank and he turned away momentarily. Ba.s.s muttered under his breath, then turned, heading toward the CP.

Mellas stopped him. 'It's my problem,' he said. 'Let's get our story straight, then I'll go up and talk to Scar about it. That'll be easier than talking to Ca.s.sidy.'

Jackson and Cortell told their side of the story. When they'd finished, Mellas looked at Cortell. 'You still figure you're going to kill old Ca.s.sidy?' he asked, smiling.

Cortell smiled back, his nose running a little. 'No, I guess I let him go home. Somebody stupid back there must want him.' He laughed shakily and Mellas joined in.

Mellas found Goodwin over by his platoon area. 'It's just a couple of little baby tigers. Hey, look at them.' He knelt down to let one lick his finger. 'Wouldn't harm no one. s.h.i.t, Jack, I can't kill 'em.'

Mellas looked at the two tiny kittens. 'Jesus, no, don't kill them,' he said, solemnly. 'We'd have mama outside the lines in a second. You've got to take them back to where you found them.'

'f.u.c.k I do, Jack. That's a couple of f.u.c.king klicks.'

'I'll take them back,' Mellas said.

'It's OK by me, Jack. But you don't know where to go, do you?' Goodwin smiled, enjoying Mellas's temporary loss of composure.

'No. I don't.'

'Well then, f.u.c.k.' Goodwin picked up one of the kittens. 'I'll take them back.' He paused a moment, thinking. 'Ain't no f.u.c.king gooks stupid enough to be out here anyway.'

'Thanks, Scar,' Mellas said, truly grateful. 'I owe you one.'

'Naw. I got nothing better to do. Shouldn't have brought them back in the first place. I didn't think nothing about that guy of yours getting eaten.'

Vancouver volunteered to go with Goodwin, along with several of Goodwin's men, and they left the kittens just outside the entrance of the cave where they had found them. The group returned well after midnight, slowed by the darkness, silent and bent with exhaustion.

While Goodwin was out, Mellas, filled with self-righteous anger, confronted Ca.s.sidy at the actuals meeting. Ca.s.sidy, forced again into the role of villain, responded to Mellas's attack with anger of his own. 'I just told the dumb f.u.c.ker he ought to like the f.u.c.king animals because they're both from the f.u.c.king jungle in the first place. They are, ain't they? They're so f.u.c.king proud of all this black power bulls.h.i.t and if they're supposed to be big bad African warriors, they ought to be proud about where they come from.'

Mellas didn't answer.

'This Marine Corps' gone to s.h.i.t since this f.u.c.king war,' Ca.s.sidy continued. 'Maybe I popped off. But a f.u.c.king private first cla.s.s ain't got no right barging in on an officer and a staff sergeant telling them his worthless opinion. No f.u.c.king discipline. No f.u.c.king pride. And they keep f.u.c.king us career professionals by sending us out into the bush for the millionth time while the fat-a.s.ses and f.u.c.king shirkers can refuse to go out in the bush any time they want. Well, I'm getting the f.u.c.k out.'

There was an embarra.s.sed silence. Mellas suddenly felt sorry for this man for whom the world was changing too quickly. 'I guess I was a little quick too, Sergeant Ca.s.sidy,' Mellas said. 'Maybe if you just told Cortell you were sorry.'

'I ain't f.u.c.king sorry, Lieutenant.'

'Ca.s.sidy, things could get bad. They're already p.i.s.sed about Parker's haircut. This on top of it isn't going to sit too well.'

'If they want to try any of that black power bulls.h.i.t on me, Lieutenant, I'll black power their black a.s.ses to f.u.c.king h.e.l.l. They don't scare me. I've handled punks before.'

Mellas dropped it, glancing at Fitch to let him know. Fitch quickly moved on with the actuals meeting. The only news he had was that the batteries were getting so low that, in addition to all second radios being turned off, the actuals' radios were to be turned on only when the company was moving and at night. Battalion's last order was to make up the time lost; reach today's checkpoint, Alpha, by late morning tomorrow; hit checkpoint Bravo by midafternoon; and be back on schedule at checkpoint Charlie by tomorrow night. There would be no resupply. The LZ had been built for nothing.

CHAPTER EIGHT.

When they moved out in the darkness the next morning, Goodwin's platoon was on point. Mellas's platoon had the relative safety of the middle of the column. Resigned to humping out instead of flying, the kids put one foot in front of the other in the endless dance of the infantry. For those not on point, thoughts turned to memories of better times, meals they had eaten, girls they had known or wished they had known better. For those on point, there was no past; there was only the frightening now.

Hunger dominated people's minds, nagging at the point men and at Goodwin, who tried to ignore his pounding brain and concentrate on the task at hand. They walked with a constant feeling of irritation and frustration. A piece of gear catching on a branch became a monstrous injustice. b.u.mping into someone from behind because of fatigue-dulled senses brought out unreasonable anger rather than the usual sarcastic comment.

They reached checkpoint Alpha one hour after dusk, now a full day behind schedule. Checkpoint Alpha turned out to be the top of a hill covered with jungle, nothing more. They had eaten nothing all day, the last three-quarters can of food having been eaten the day before. It had been three days since anyone had eaten even a half ration.

All through dinner, Lieutenant Colonel Simpson looked distracted. Major Blakely a.s.sumed that he was worried about how he'd explain the delay to Colonel Mulvaney at the next day's briefing. He hardly seemed to notice when the enlisted waiter removed his plate and refilled his coffee cup. He only halfheartedly joined Major Blakely and Captain Bainford, the forward air control officer, in telling tales and laughing over cigars. Simpson reached for the bottle of Mateus that they'd nearly consumed during the meal and poured himself another gla.s.s, ignoring the coffee. He drank it quickly. He reached into his pocket for another cigar but found the thin cardboard box empty.

'Cigar, Colonel?' Blakely asked, reaching for one of his own.

Simpson lit it from the candle on the table, worked up a good start with some quick inward puffs, then relaxed. Blakely lit one of his own, leaned back, and looked out of the wire mesh that protected the interior of the officers' and staff NCOs' small mess tent from the insects hovering just outside. At sunset, VCB was not a pretty place to have a meal. Enlisted men stood in ragged bunches in the chow line outside the mess tent. The ground was muddy. The night air stank of kerosene and burning barrels of s.h.i.t collected from the latrines. A lone Huey, returning to Quang Tri, rose from the rough airstrip, was lost momentarily against the gray-green of the hills, and then emerged silhouetted against the dying light.

'This is no f.u.c.king place to be, Blakely,' Simpson growled. He took what seemed like an angry puff of his cigar.

'Sir?'

'We ought to be in the bush. We got three companies sitting on their a.s.ses in the flatlands and one f.u.c.king off up in the mountains. Can't control them. Can't kick a.s.s when we need to.'

'I agree, sir, but with the battalion split like it is, companies all over the map even when we do have an operation, how are you going to control them?'

'Matterhorn. I want to be back on Matterhorn. We'd have the whole northwest corner of the country tied up. Keep the companies down in the jungle disrupting the gooks, hitting their supply lines, destroying their caches.' He spat a piece of tobacco to the floor. 'Who knows, even forays into Laos. This bombing bulls.h.i.t just don't get it. You drop a bomb and a grunt gets up and walks right through the crater, and the NVA are a bunch of grunts, some of the best. That's why we got to send our grunts out after them.'

'I agree,' Blakely said carefully, looking at the forward air controller with a sideways glance, 'but with the G.o.dd.a.m.ned political restrictions what can you do? But, I do agree, G.o.dd.a.m.n it. You go where the action is.' Blakely didn't ask the colonel what the difference was between running four companies by radio from Matterhorn and running four companies by radio from VCB. He knew the real difference was psychological, at least for the people back at division. With One Twenty-Four's command post on the map at Matterhorn-all by itself, in the most exposed position-people back at division would constantly be reminded that the officers who ran One Twenty-Four were bush Marines, not staff personnel hidden in thick bunkers. Blakely knew the value of image. It wouldn't hurt at all if they got sh.e.l.led every so often. He had to have real combat on his record, the kind with Purple Hearts and medals. It was the best route, maybe the only route, to the top.

'We've got to get better control,' Simpson went on, almost to himself. 'That f.u.c.king Fitch is a full day behind schedule. He sat on his a.s.s all day yesterday. The entire f.u.c.king day to medevac immersion foot cases that are nothing but the result of bad leadership. Well, I didn't let him. Teach him something.'

Simpson poured himself another gla.s.s of wine and, rising from his chair, gulped it down. He slammed the gla.s.s against the table. 'That's good stuff. Portuguese, isn't it? We ought to get another case of it.' He left the room and the others rose from their chairs as he went out.

Simpson continued to drink. After two hours of restlessly flipping through the stack of papers on the makeshift plywood desk, he'd consumed nearly half a bottle of Jack Daniel's Black. He'd been up from his chair six or seven times to look at the map tacked to another piece of plywood that leaned against the damp canvas of the tent's side. He would touch the coordinates of Hill 1609, Bravo's last reported position, and try to a.s.sure himself they would be OK. Then, failing to find any comfort, and feeling his responsibility for a lot of lives, he would reluctantly return to the paperwork and refill his gla.s.s.

He knew he shouldn't drink so much, especially alone. But he was alone a lot. After all, he was the battalion commander. It was supposed to be lonely at the top. What did he expect, the easy camaraderie of the bachelor officers' quarters? But another voice reproved him. He ought to be on friendlier terms with the other battalion commanders in the regiment, or some of the regimental staff of his own age and rank. He'd tried. He'd asked Lieutenant Colonel Lowe, who'd been given Two Twenty-Four, over for dinner the other night. He'd broken out new cigars and some really good wine. But it had been awkward. Lowe had been playing football for Annapolis while Simpson was freezing his a.s.s off in Korea, but here he was, three years younger than Simpson and at the same place. But that was just it-Annapolis. Simpson had worked his way through Georgia State and never had time to learn how to socialize. So he wasn't a socializer like Lowe or Blakely. Never was. Never would be. So what? So he was alone. So what? He wasn't here to have a good time. He was here to kill gooks.

He pushed the ma.s.s of paperwork slowly across the desk. In the clear s.p.a.ce, he placed the gla.s.s of whiskey and the half-full bottle. The amber liquid reflected warmly back to him. Warm light. Deep and warm.

He kept going over Mulvaney's comments and questions during the briefing. Why did he have to get a G.o.dd.a.m.n cartoon character jack-a.s.s like Mulvaney? He just couldn't be sure what Mulvaney was thinking -or what Mulvaney thought of him. Simpson had been certain that an old grunt like Mulvaney would be delighted when his headquarters were moved to Matterhorn. Mulvaney had even said it looked like there were gooks out there. Now, however, he felt he'd done something wrong, being out there and having to scramble to come back for Cam Lo. But Mulvaney had given the go-ahead. Simpson took a few more sips. Four days to open 1609. Had that been rash? G.o.d knows the men were left out there with a bunch of green reserve lieutenants. Soft on the troops. Moving too slow. There just weren't enough regular captains to go around. The whole G.o.dd.a.m.n thing stank. Marines were shock troops.

'Can openers,' Liddell Hart had once called them. Or was it 'lock openers'? He never remembered details like that, so he could never put pithy quotes into his reports the way he knew he ought to. But he knew his f.u.c.king tactics. Why should he have to remember pithy f.u.c.king quotes? The only can we opened over here was a f.u.c.king can of worms. Malaria. Jungle rot. Politicians. The nigras up in arms with this black power c.r.a.p. He slowly and carefully measured out just a little more whiskey into his gla.s.s. Just a few more months to tough this one out. A battalion in combat. h.e.l.l, he was already thirty-nine. It was a G.o.dsend, a reprieve from the twenty-year final curtain. Now he'd have a chance to make full colonel-get a regiment. He smiled at the warm gla.s.s. No, not a division. You don't ask the G.o.ds for too much, or they'll put you down. But a regiment was possible, if he didn't screw this one up.

His stomach gave a lurch and he reacted by downing the rest of the whiskey. He refilled the gla.s.s.

Thirty-nine years old. Last chance. He knew he wasn't smart like Blakely, or colorful like Mulvaney. But he cared. He cared about immersion foot. He cared about security and cutting his casualty rate. But how do those things get you the notice of the commanding general? It stank. It all stank. G.o.dd.a.m.n Bravo Company out there on a limb. He should never have let Blakely sweet-talk him and Mulvaney into it. Then the screwup about the rations. He hadn't caught it. Should have caught it. Supervise, supervise, supervise. That was the last 's' in BAMCISS: Begin planning, arrange for reconnaissance . . . or was it arrange for support? Make a reconnaissance. No, a plan. d.a.m.n. Memory never was that good. s.h.i.t. It's simple. You just go out there and kill the G.o.dd.a.m.ned enemy. If that rations thing ever got out, there'd be h.e.l.l to pay.

Blakely was transferring the supply officer who'd f.u.c.ked up back to Da Nang. Not that the S-4 minded that. h.e.l.l, no. Officer clubs. Liquor. Women. Round-eyed Round-eyed women. There was one blond who sold cars to the troops. Cars? h.e.l.l, Mercedes Benzes. A whole year's pay for one of them babies. Of course there'd be nothing on the supply officer's record. No sense making it hard on the guy. Blakely was using back channels to let people know they were letting the supply officer off easy and not putting it on his record. But if word ever got out, well, he could show he took immediate action by getting rid of the officer. Not that it was so bad. h.e.l.l, no one got killed or anything. Besides, they'd get Bravo Company out, make it up to them. He'd have steaks for everyone when they got back. In fact, with Bravo at VCB, the whole battalion would be here at the same time. He'd have steaks for the whole battalion and a formal mess night for the officers. Had 'em ever since the Royal Marines, G.o.dd.a.m.n it. Just like in the old days. That's the thing for morale. A mess night for the officers and steaks for the enlisted. Good f.u.c.king Marines, those kids. Not their fault. They'd like him in the end. They'd understand. No leadership. That wasn't anyone's fault either. You get these green-a.s.sed college kids, no experience. One day they're s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g government office girls in Washington and a week later they're dropped into the bush. What can you expect? s.h.i.t. They just needed some toughening up, that's all. Maturity. That's why he had to get back out in the bush again. Like those bunkers on Matterhorn. They'd have been slaughtered in an air raid or heavy sh.e.l.ling. You can't be too careful. Sure, it was hard on 'em-G.o.dd.a.m.n right it was hard. But that's what he was here for: to save lives. By G.o.d, all they needed was a good f.u.c.king jacking up. A little leadership. women. There was one blond who sold cars to the troops. Cars? h.e.l.l, Mercedes Benzes. A whole year's pay for one of them babies. Of course there'd be nothing on the supply officer's record. No sense making it hard on the guy. Blakely was using back channels to let people know they were letting the supply officer off easy and not putting it on his record. But if word ever got out, well, he could show he took immediate action by getting rid of the officer. Not that it was so bad. h.e.l.l, no one got killed or anything. Besides, they'd get Bravo Company out, make it up to them. He'd have steaks for everyone when they got back. In fact, with Bravo at VCB, the whole battalion would be here at the same time. He'd have steaks for the whole battalion and a formal mess night for the officers. Had 'em ever since the Royal Marines, G.o.dd.a.m.n it. Just like in the old days. That's the thing for morale. A mess night for the officers and steaks for the enlisted. Good f.u.c.king Marines, those kids. Not their fault. They'd like him in the end. They'd understand. No leadership. That wasn't anyone's fault either. You get these green-a.s.sed college kids, no experience. One day they're s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g government office girls in Washington and a week later they're dropped into the bush. What can you expect? s.h.i.t. They just needed some toughening up, that's all. Maturity. That's why he had to get back out in the bush again. Like those bunkers on Matterhorn. They'd have been slaughtered in an air raid or heavy sh.e.l.ling. You can't be too careful. Sure, it was hard on 'em-G.o.dd.a.m.n right it was hard. But that's what he was here for: to save lives. By G.o.d, all they needed was a good f.u.c.king jacking up. A little leadership.

He threw down the rest of the whiskey, grabbed his utility cap, and pushed through the blackout curtains into the night. Guided by the whitewashed stones that lined the path, he crossed over to the COC, the combat operations center. He pushed open the heavy door, surprising the watch officer, who was reading Playboy, Playboy, and the three radio operators, two of whom were playing chess. The third was listening to the top-forty countdown from AFVN, the Army radio station in Quang Tri. Everyone scrambled to his feet. and the three radio operators, two of whom were playing chess. The third was listening to the top-forty countdown from AFVN, the Army radio station in Quang Tri. Everyone scrambled to his feet.

'Get me Bravo Six,' Simpson barked.

One of the radio operators began calling. Pretty soon Pallack's voice answered, and then Fitch came up. His voice was faint as a wraith.

'This is Big John Six. I want to know why you deliberately disobeyed an order and are sitting on your a.s.s at checkpoint Alpha a full day behind schedule. I want a f.u.c.king good explanation or G.o.dd.a.m.n it you can explain yourself to somebody on Okinawa, because by G.o.d I'll have any commander's a.s.s that can't do the job. Over.'

The radio operators glanced sideways at one another. The watch officer began going over radio messages that had come in from division.

There was a long pause. 'Did you copy me, Bravo Six?' Simpson insisted. 'Over.'

'Roger, sir. I copied.' There was a break in the transmission. 'We were fogged in all day. I kept waiting for that bird I'd requested. I have some bad cases of immersion foot, a body, and we're out of food. It was my judgment we could move faster if we had those problems taken care of. I'll take full responsibility for the delay. Over.'

'You bet your a.s.s you will. But that don't help me explain it to Bushwhacker Six. Over.'

'I understand, sir. Perhaps if we knew what our mission was it would help the men move. Over.' The distance and weak batteries made Fitch's voice waver and break.

'Your mission is to find, close with, and destroy the enemy. That's the mission of every f.u.c.king Marine.' Simpson unconsciously pulled back his shoulders. He was aware of the staff watching him. 'Now G.o.dd.a.m.n it you get to finding and destroying or I'll have you relieved for cause. You copy me, Bravo Six?'

'Roger. Copy.'

'It's imperative-imperative-that you reach Checkpoint Echo by noon on Thursday. You'll await further orders there. Imperative. You understand? Over.'

The radio was silent. Checkpoint Echo was where two rivers joined, the one coming from the mountains over which they were struggling and the other rushing down from another chain of mountains to their east. Fitch came up. 'Sir, I'm looking on my map here and Checkpoint Echo is across the other side of some very steep stuff. Look, in this terrain I just don't think we can make it that soon. Over.'

'Wait one.'

Simpson darted over to the map, putting one finger on Bravo's position, neatly indicated by a pin with a large letter B on it. He then put his finger on the coordinates of Checkpoint Echo. His two fingers were approximately eight inches apart. Fitch was obviously shirking.

Simpson picked up the handset. 'What are you trying to pull on me, Bravo Six? You be at Echo by noon or you'll spend your first month in Okinawa getting my foot out of your a.s.s. You copy?'

'I copy.'

'Big John Six, out.'

In the damp and cold, thirty kilometers from VCB, Fitch lightly tossed the handset to the ground and stared into the dark. Relsnik fumbled for it and picked it up.

Hawke whistled. 'Maybe when he sobers up he'll forget what he said.'

Fitch grunted.

'Hey, forget it,' Hawke continued. 'What's he gonna do, Jim, cut your hair off and send you to Vietnam?'

Fitch smiled, grateful for Hawke's support, and wondered why he wouldn't be happy to be relieved. Just get out of everything. Still, he felt terrible. His fitness report would kill him. Any hope of getting a decent a.s.signment once he left Vietnam would be crushed. To have started out so well, a company commander, and then be s.h.i.t-canned back to the rear was something he couldn't bear. Fitch knew the Marine Corps well enough to realize that the word would get around. And in an organization as small as the Marines, he'd never be able to outrun it. No amount of explaining would help. It would only look like excuses. The real story, known by Hawke and the platoon commanders, would remain locked up in the jungle until they rotated home. By then it wouldn't matter. Fitch would be a joke.

Down on the lines Mellas and Hamilton sat on the back edge of their fighting hole. Hamilton had borrowed Mellas's red-lens flashlight to fill in another square on his short-timer's chart. It was a drawing of a delicate Vietnamese girl, her right leg c.o.c.ked up above her head, exposing her v.a.g.i.n.a. Two hundred small numbered segments twisted around the girl in a spiral, ending with day zero on the sweet spot. 'You know, Lieutenant,' Hamilton said, 'I truly think this girl here is beautiful. I mean I really do. She looks just like a girl I used to know back home.'

'Get back, Hamilton. They all look the same from that angle,' Mellas said, remembering a joke he'd heard. Then he felt that he'd somehow profaned the beautiful girl on Hamilton's short-timer's chart.

Hamilton leaned back on his elbows. 'I wanted to marry her ever since the eighth grade.'

'Why didn't you?'

'She married some guy who's an engineer at the plant. He had a draft-exempt job.' Hamilton drifted off into his own world for a while, then returned. 'I was with this friend of mine, Sonny Martinez. We'd come down from Camp Lejeune to their wedding. Sonny speaks pretty good English, but still a little f.u.c.ked up. Anyway he gets Margaret's husband's attention at the reception and asks him, You been in Army before, hey?' No, I haven't' this guy answers. Why you not go to Army?' Hamilton's voice turned pompous and slow. Well, you see I have a very important job and, well, it's too important a job for me to go in the Army.' Well Sonny just shut up the rest of the day and I wanted to jump across the table and beat the b.a.s.t.a.r.d's eyeb.a.l.l.s out.'

Mellas laughed.

Hamilton raised his invisible toast gla.s.s. 'Here's to Margaret and her f.u.c.king husband.' He was silent for a moment. 'Why is it that a.s.sholes like that always end up marrying the outstanding chicks?'