Matterhorn_ A Novel of the Vietnam War Part 24

'No. Let's go.'

Before they came upon Bravo Company, Mulvaney had been telling Odegaard one of his better sea stories. He didn't finish it and was silent all the way back to regimental headquarters. During the briefing, he said little. Toward the end the subject of who would supply the company for Bald Eagle-Sparrow Hawk duty came up. Bald Eagle was a company held on constant alert, combat loaded, at the edge of the VCB airstrip. It was there to instantly reinforce any unit in trouble or to exploit a tactical advantage. Sparrow Hawk was a platoon within that company for the smaller jobs, like getting recon teams out of trouble. No one liked the duty. The Marines spent their days doing make-work while ridden with anxiety because at any instant the company could be launched into combat.

'We had it last, sir,' the commander of Third Battalion said.

'That makes it your turn, Simpson,' Mulvaney said.

'Aye, aye, sir,' Simpson said, writing it in his green pocket notebook, clearly unhappy, as it would leave him with only three companies.

After the briefing, Mulvaney headed for the door as soon as he saw Simpson and Blakely about to leave. 'Why don't you stop by for a drink, Simpson?' he said.

Blakely, clearly not invited, nervously stubbed out his cigarette.

'It'd be my pleasure, sir,' Simpson responded. 'When would be convenient?'

'Right now.' Mulvaney walked away.

Mulvaney was pouring two shot gla.s.ses of Jefferson's Reserve when Simpson pushed through the flap of his tent. 'You use water?' he asked, reaching into his little refrigerator. Simpson said he'd have it straight.

Mulvaney poured himself some water and dumped the shot of bourbon into it. He raised his gla.s.s. 'To the Corps,' he said.

'To the Corps,' Simpson echoed. He tossed down the drink in a single motion and, seeming to realize what he'd done, nervously wiped his mouth with his hand.

'Sit, sit.' Mulvaney motioned toward a chair. Simpson sat. Mulvaney leaned against the edge of his desk. He took another slow drink, then looked at Simpson. 'We are engaged in a s.h.i.tty war,' he said slowly. 'A s.h.i.tty little war that is tearing apart the thing I love. Do you love the Marine Corps, Simpson?'

'Yes sir, I do.'

'I mean do you really love it? Do you go to bed with it at night, wake up with it in the morning, see its sour side, see it when it's sick and tired, not just when it's glorious? Do you think about it all the time? Or do you think about where it's going to get you?'

'Well, sir, I . . .'

'Unh-unh. I'll tell you, Simpson. You think about where it's going to get you. You use it. Either that or you let someone else use you so it'll get them them somewhere. I don't know which is worse.' somewhere. I don't know which is worse.'

'I, uhm . . .'

'Shut up.'

'Yes, sir.'

'And don't worry. It's all my nickel. And none of it's going into your f.u.c.king fitness report.'

Mulvaney walked over to look at a framed photograph on the wall. It showed a Marine platoon in summer uniforms on a cold, rainy day. On it was written 'New Zealand, July 1942.' Mulvaney nodded toward it. Without looking at Simpson he said quietly, 'Half of those guys are dead.' He paused briefly. 'A lot of them my fault.'

He turned to look at Simpson. 'America uses us like wh.o.r.es, Simpson. When it wants a good f.u.c.k it pours in the money and we give it a moment of glory. Then when it's over, it sneaks out the back door and pretends it doesn't know who we are.' Mulvaney swirled the ice, watching it dissolve. 'Yeah, we're wh.o.r.es,' he continued, almost to himself now. 'I admit it. But we're good ones. We're good at f.u.c.king. We like our work. So the customer gets ashamed afterward. So hypocrisy's always been part of the profession. We know that.' Mulvaney narrowed his eyes and looked at Simpson. 'But this time the customer doesn't want to f.u.c.k. He wants to play horsy and come in through the back door. And he's riding us around the room with a f.u.c.king bridle and whip and spurs.' Mulvaney shook his head. 'We ain't good at that. It turns our stomach. And it's destroying us.'

Mulvaney was silent. Simpson looked at the bottle on the desk, then quickly back to his own empty shot gla.s.s.

'Did you look at Bravo Company when they came in today?' Mulvaney asked.

'I talked with their skipper, Lieutenant Fitch, sir.'

'Did you see them, Simpson?' Mulvaney's voice started to rise.

'No sir.'

'They looked like s.h.i.t.'

'Yes sir. I'll get right on it, sir. I'll talk with Lieutenant Fitch. I've been thinking of relieving him ever since he was on Matterhorn.'

'It ain't Fitch, Simpson.' Mulvaney took a deep breath and another drink. 'They've been used. Badly. How long they been out in the bush?'

'By bush do you mean on a fire support base doing routine patrols or actually in the jungle on an operation?'

'I mean how long without regular food, regular sleep, safety, baths, vitamins vitamins . . .' The last word was a dangling question and an accusation. 'I don't care what the f.u.c.k you have to do to get it, but I'm going to inspect Bravo Company's garbage cans tomorrow night, and I want them full of orange peels and apple cores.' . . .' The last word was a dangling question and an accusation. 'I don't care what the f.u.c.k you have to do to get it, but I'm going to inspect Bravo Company's garbage cans tomorrow night, and I want them full of orange peels and apple cores.'

Simpson pulled out his green notebook and wrote something down.

'G.o.dd.a.m.n it, Simpson, put that away. If you can't remember this . . .'

'Yes sir.' Simpson put the notebook back in his pocket.

Mulvaney turned from Simpson. When he spoke, he again addressed the photograph. 'Simpson, I'm tired. I'm tired of being used. Killing for pay and politics is prost.i.tution enough, but doing it this way sickens me. It sickens my soul, what's left of it.' He slowly turned and pointed a thick forefinger at Simpson. 'But you, you and that f.u.c.king Three of yours, you're one of the customers this time. But let me tell you something. I'll be G.o.dd.a.m.ned if I'll let my troops play the customer's f.u.c.king game, even if the bra.s.s are.'

Mulvaney was breathing heavily; his face was hot. He leaned over the desk. 'The next time you tell me one of your companies is in good shape before I send them on an operation, by G.o.d you better not be lying. Now, get out of here. You're dismissed.'

Simpson put his cap on and left, trembling.

Mulvaney swept the empty gla.s.ses from his desk with a cry of frustration. He sat down and watched the ice form puddles on the floor. Then he walked over to the picture on the wall and stood there looking at it for a long time.

Mellas arrived on the last chopper. With the others on his heli team, he shuffled along silently in a fog of fatigue. A particularly bad patch of his jungle rot was oozing pus. He wiped it on the sides of his trousers, where it mingled with the acc.u.mulations of many weeks. The trousers hung loosely from his waist. He'd lost twenty-five pounds. He was a bush Marine. He and his team walked as if they owned the LZ, but they were unaware of it. Mellas felt as though he was getting sick.

They arrived at the supply tent. Small groups of kids from the other platoons were lying out in the front on the wet clay, drinking beer. Mellas pushed aside the heavy canvas tent flap and walked in. Fitch, Hawke, Ca.s.sidy, and Kendall were there, along with a new second lieutenant. The new lieutenant looked up at Mellas and smiled, eager to please. Mellas, tired, ragged, hair touching his collar, did not smile back.

'Lieutenant,' Ca.s.sidy said, 'you look like you could use a beer.' He reached underneath the table and pulled out a rusty can of Black Label. 'Sorry it's just Black Mabel, but the good stuff gets picked off in Da Nang.' He punched two triangular holes in the top and handed the beer to Mellas. Mellas took a long pull. The beer was warm, but it had the taste of good memories. He felt the stinging carbonation as it went down his throat. He chugged the entire can and sighed. 'Thanks, Gunny.' Ca.s.sidy was already opening another can for him.

Fitch was looking quite dapper again. His hair was cut and parted neatly on the side and he wore clean jungle utilities. Hawke looked clean, but it wasn't in him to look dapper. Mellas noticed that he was wearing a first lieutenant's bars.

'I'd like you to meet Paul Fraca.s.so,' Fitch said quickly. Mellas nodded at the new lieutenant, who was still beefed up from the Basic School and was wearing Marine-issue gla.s.ses. Mellas saw Fitch glance at Hawke. Suddenly he knew. They were going to give his platoon to this guy. Hawke was being transferred. He didn't say anything. It was what he had wanted. He'd even planted the seed with Blakely that day on Matterhorn. Now that his seed had grown to fruition, he was heartsick. He had no idea it would make him feel what he was feeling.

'Where's Scar?' Mellas asked, dropping his pack onto the floor.

'Back in Quang Tri to get the company pay,' Hawke said.

'Oh, yeah. I almost forgot we get paid for this.' Mellas took another long pull on the beer, finishing it. 'Well, come on, get it over with.' He knew it was unfair of him, but he resented the newcomer like h.e.l.l.

'Right,' Fitch said, tight-lipped. 'Uh, Fraca.s.so here will take over your platoon. You're now the company executive officer, Bravo Five. I thought you'd work out better than Goodwin.'

'Great. Thanks.' Mellas sat down on an ammunition crate and accepted another can of beer from Ca.s.sidy.

'Where you going, Hawke?' he asked.

'Three Zulu.'

'Nice,' Mellas said. He took another long drink. That meant Hawke would be working for Blakely as a staff officer in battalion operations. Blakely was no fool, that was certain. 'Congratulations on your promotion, too.'

'I've done my f.u.c.king time in the bush.' Hawke sounded a little peeved.

'Didn't say you hadn't, Ted.' Mellas drained the beer. Ca.s.sidy handed him another one, a slight twinkle in his eye. 'Thanks, Gunny,' Mellas said.

'Go on,' Hawke said to Fitch. 'You'd better tell the rest before he's f.u.c.king incoherent.'

'The rest?'

'We've been a.s.signed Bald Eagle-Sparrow Hawk,' Fitch said.

'Is that like f.u.c.king Batman and Robin?'

Fitch smiled, watching Mellas take another long drink. 'It's the code name for a company of Marines that stands by the airstrip. If someone gets in the s.h.i.t, they drop us in to exploit' the situation.'

'You can't be serious,' Mellas said very softly.

The look on Fitch's face said that he was.

Mellas's teeth were clenched so tightly he thought he'd break them. 'My f.u.c.king men can't walk,' he said. 'I can't f.u.c.king walk.' He stood up and kicked his pack in frustration. The floor reeled beneath him. can't f.u.c.king walk.' He stood up and kicked his pack in frustration. The floor reeled beneath him.

There was the sound of another beer being opened, and Ca.s.sidy slid the can over the table to where Mellas was standing.

'Have another beer, Lieutenant. It'll take the edge off.'

Mellas looked at the beer, watching the foam slowly ooze onto the tabletop. He felt so tired. 'The men getting plenty of beer?' he asked.

'Sure,' Hawke answered. 'You can thank Gunny Ca.s.sidy. He bought a bunch of cases for each squad with his own money.'

Mellas was touched by the gesture. 'Thanks, Gunny,' he said.

Ca.s.sidy grunted. 'Can't have the kids without beer. If you're old enough to kill a man you ought to be old enough to drink.'

Mellas slugged down the can. 'How long before we get off f.u.c.king Bald Eagle?'

Fitch shrugged. 'No telling. Until the regiment needs us someplace else or they drop us into the s.h.i.t. The colonel thought it would give us a rest.'

Mellas wanted to ask Fitch how sitting at the edge of an LZ waiting for some fat-a.s.s to push a magic b.u.t.ton and dump the company in the middle of a s.h.i.t sandwich would be considered a rest. But he decided not to bother. What he wanted, more than anything else, was a shower. 'Any clean clothes here?' he asked. Ca.s.sidy pointed to a number of open boxes stacked against the tent walls. The tent wobbled uncertainly around Mellas as he walked toward the clothing.

'Floor a little slippery, Lieutenant?' Ca.s.sidy asked slyly.

'You got me f.u.c.king drunk, didn't you,' Mellas said. It took him a moment to locate Ca.s.sidy. 'I'll be f.u.c.ked.' He took off his old clothes, not bothering to remove his boots. He looked a moment at his green underpants and threw them into the garbage along with the beer cans. For a moment he stood naked in front of everyone, with just his dog tags hanging on his sallow skin. He was struck by how vulnerable his body was.

Ca.s.sidy tossed him a new set of jungle utilities. They felt stiff, heavy, and the camouflage looked oddly bright compared with the set on the floor at his feet. He pulled on the trousers without bothering with underwear. He marveled at how thin his waist had gotten, how his ribs showed.

'Oh, and Mellas,' said Fitch, 'we need a man from First Platoon to stand KP next two weeks.'

'Thank G.o.d,' Mellas said. 'You can have Shortround before he gets someone killed.' He turned to Fraca.s.so. 'Come on Frica.s.see, or whatever your f.u.c.king wop name is, I'll introduce you to your platoon.'

Simpson's hands were still shaking as he poured another gla.s.s of bourbon and told Blakely what had happened. Blakely laughed derisively. 'Of course he told you it was off the record. He's not going to risk that star. Not now. Him and his f.u.c.king lost platoon from World War II. Look at the numbers, Colonel. We've got the highest men-in-the-field to men-in-the-rear ratio in the division. We're top in the battalion on man-days per month actively involved in combat operations. Our congressional inquiry rate is right next to zero. Our kill ratio's been climbing ever since I've come aboard. And don't think the right people at division and Third Amphibious Force don't know it.' Blakely laughed again. 'If he wrote up a bad fitness report on you, we'd take the stats and blow him right into retirement.'

Simpson smiled tightly. 'I guess I shouldn't be such a worrywart.'

'You worry about the numbers. That's what the people who matter worry about. Mulvaney's an anachronism. Apples and oranges. s.h.i.t.'

They both started laughing.

Mellas, wearing new jungle utilities, the creases still showing, led Fraca.s.so to a flat stretch of mud that surrounded a single tent designed to sleep ten people. There were two other tents of the same size, each taken by the other two platoons. That left more than 100 unfortunates with less rank and seniority out in the rain. Some had rigged hooches as if they were still in the bush. Others simply threw down their packs, flak jackets, and weapons, claimed a small patch of wet clay for their own, and started drinking. Mellas knew that most of them would be too drunk or stoned to rig hooches and would sleep in the rain. At least drunk or stoned they'd get a full night of sleep.

Mellas walked over to Hamilton, Skosh, Fredrickson, and Ba.s.s. He introduced Fraca.s.so and told them that he himself was moving up to XO to replace Hawke. Ba.s.s took it with the aplomb of the professional-another boot lieutenant to train. Mellas knew the squad leaders would take it less well. They didn't appreciate the Marine Corps' need to ensure that the higher ranks were filled with combat-trained officers. Once they had one broken in, they'd rather keep him.

Mellas shouted 'Squad leaders up!' and the kids, some lying on their backs and already well on their way, relayed the call happily toward the gray sky.

Jancowitz was the first to arrive. 'I hear you're leaving us, Lieutenant,' he said.

'Yeah.'

'Well.' Jancowitz hesitated. 'Congratulations on the promotion.'

'It's no promotion, Janc. I'm still drawing the same pay. I suppose I'll get a few more coffee breaks when we're humping, but I'll still be humping with you guys.'

'That'd be decent, sir.'

Mellas felt like a t.u.r.d. But this was his chance to move up. To be the executive officer this early in his tour gave him ample time to get a company.

Connolly came up to them, slightly bleary-eyed, a can of beer in his hand. 'What's the new lieutenant like?' he almost demanded.

Mellas thought a moment. He could screw the guy right here by saying the wrong thing. He'd noticed the Naval Academy ring on Fraca.s.so's finger-a lifer if he ever saw one. Jacobs arrived, just behind Connolly, with a silly grin on his face. Mellas just hoped Jacobs had enough sense not to smoke where he'd be caught. It would mean brig time and an automatic dishonorable discharge.

'Feeling pretty good, Jake?' Mellas asked, suppressing the little smile that crept around the corners of his mouth.

Jacobs immediately came down a little. 'P-pretty good sir.'

Mellas smiled at Jacobs's serious expression. 'Now that I've got the power, if any of you jokers lose someone to the brig because they get caught smoking dope, I'll f.u.c.k your R & R quota and send you to Okinawa with all the lifers.'

The group laughed.

'What's the new lieutenant like?' Connolly asked again.

Mellas scuffed the mud with his boot. 'I think you guys have drawn a lifer. But I think he's going to be a good one.'

'A f.u.c.king lifer, huh?' Connolly said. They all turned to look at the new lieutenant, who was talking eagerly with Ba.s.s. Ba.s.s and Fraca.s.so saw them and walked over. Mellas knew that the next five seconds were among the most important Fraca.s.so would ever live. They could certainly mean his career, and maybe even his life. In the next five seconds these three teenagers would decide if they'd work with him or not.

Fraca.s.so was clearly nervous. The three squad leaders stared at him without any sign of welcome.