Matterhorn_ A Novel of the Vietnam War Part 26

Finally Ba.s.s stopped and started talking very quietly and very quickly, straddling his chest. 'The lieutenant here just offered you two things. Your next promotion, if you want one, and your f.u.c.king life, because believe me, you f.u.c.king sneaky CID a.s.shole, you'd last about one f.u.c.king hour on an operation if you don't make a deal.'

'OK,' the man croaked.

They took him to the supply tent, where Fitch was wearily catching up on paperwork by the light of a single candle. Fitch sent him back to the rear with a letter to Top Seavers the next morning, and that was the last they ever heard of him. Ba.s.s punished both Jacobs and China by taking them out of their place in line for KP duty.

The next day the company moved to a cl.u.s.ter of drooping tents that bordered a secondary landing strip. On the other side of the strip a stream meandered through a broad valley. Vandegrift Combat Base sat in the middle of that valley, between jungled ridges to its east and west. Across the stream on a small hill stood the bunkers and radio antennae of Task Force Oscar. No one in the company knew what Task Force Oscar did. The Marines could hear the sound of the generator that ran the air-conditioning and electric lights. Occasionally an Army helicopter would arrive and a high-ranking Army officer would be met by someone in a jeep to be carried 200 meters to the air-conditioned bunker or the small officers' club next to it. Civilians, looking overweight and out of place in Army fatigues without any insignia, came as well; they were probably from AID and the CIA, or journalists afraid to go out in the bush.

Upstream from Task Force Oscar was a contingent of South Vietnamese troops who apparently also did nothing. The Marines watched them with unconcealed hostility, hating them for sitting around while others died fighting their battles, hating them because their very existence served as part of the lie that had brought American troops to Vietnam in the first place. It was easier to hate a visible part of the lie than it was to hate the liars, who, after all, were their own countrymen: the fat American civilians and rear-area rangers who flitted back and forth with briefcases, sweaty faces, and shiny unused pistols. But the Marines hated them too. Some Marines hated the North Vietnamese Army and some didn't, but at least the NVA had the Marines' respect.

Caught up in the work of getting the tents into shape and cleaning out trenches, the Marines of the company could forget momentarily that they were waiting to be dropped into combat. But whenever a jeep came around the curve of the road a little faster than normal, or a helicopter rushed over their heads, fear and apprehension would return.

Mellas took the opportunity provided by his new position to ask if he could accompany Fitch to the next battalion briefing. Fitch agreed. The next morning the two of them entered the large tent that also served as a chapel and sat down on folding chairs. Hawke joined them. He had shaved off his mustache, and the sight almost made Mellas wince. It was a clear sign that Hawke was knuckling under to the rear-area chickens.h.i.t. Hawke was also wearing shiny new boots. Mellas whistled and pointed at them. Hawke flipped him the bird.

Major Blakely entered the tent and called everyone to attention. The colonel followed, striding briskly, nodding to Blakely to begin the meeting. Everyone sat down. Mellas looked sideways at Hawke, conveying the disgust he felt at the formal structure of rank and privilege. Hawke chose not to notice.

Blakely stood with his back to the rough wooden altar and announced the disposition of the companies. Then the staff NCOs began to read out their reports. Some of them seemed nearly illiterate, but others were highly efficient and professional, making suggestions that Mellas could see were crucial to the operation of the battalion rear. Father Riordan, the Navy chaplain, got up and announced the coming services for the various faiths, trying to be one of the boys.

At his appointed time, Sergeant Major Knapp rose, his slightly rounded body encased in starched jungle utilities, and began his part of the briefing. 'Gentlemen, staffNCOs,' he said. 'With the entire battalion moving in, the battalion commander feels, and I agree, that we have to be extra careful about our standards of appearance. I expect the staff NCOs to have every man looking like A. J. Squaredaway. We've particularly noticed the proliferation of beads, emblems, hangmen's nooses, and mustaches.' Knapp looked directly at Fitch and Mellas. 'Mustaches are a privilege for E-5s or higher. They are to be closely clipped and not extended beyond the outer edge of the upper lip. Now I know we don't have as many E-5s as we do mustaches'-he chuckled goodhumoredly-'so let's get that kind of c.r.a.p cleaned up. I'll be talking directly to all the staffNCOs as the companies come in.' Knapp smiled, turned to Blakely, and smiled again. 'That's all I have today, sir.'

'Thank you, Sergeant Major,' Blakely said. Blakely turned to Simpson. 'It's yours, sir.'

Simpson nodded and walked up to the pulpit to address his command. His sleeves were rolled neatly, and his silver leaves shone on his collar next to the wrinkled red skin of his neck. He reminded Mellas of an irritable gnome. A rednecked gnome with a redneck Georgia accent, trying to act like gentry.

'Gentlemen, staffNCOs,' he began. 'First Battalion's going to get a G.o.dd.a.m.ned chance to breathe. Then we'll be pushing off on the next operation. I can't tell you what that operation will be, but rest a.s.sured we'll be out in the bush either as individual companies, performing our constant task of hitting the enemy, interdicting his supply routes, uncovering his hospitals and ammunition caches, or'-he paused significantly -'we shall be working as we should, one entire ma.s.sed battalion, kicking the h.e.l.l out of Charlie in a major strike against his north-south supply lines.' He paused to look at his men. Mellas was slumped in his chair, picking at some jungle rot on his hand. Fitch was writing something in his notebook. Hawke stared vacantly ahead.

'Gentlemen,' Simpson continued, 'we are under the happy circ.u.mstances that by tomorrow evening the entire battalion, less one platoon guarding the Khe Gia Bridge, shall be here in Vandegrift Combat Base. I have decided it is a splendid opportunity to hold a formal mess night, a gathering of the officers of the battalion in an evening of fellowship and camaraderie. The mess night will go at eighteen-hundred hours, with c.o.c.ktails in my quarters, to adjourn to the officers' mess at nineteen-hundred for a meal that I am sure Master Sergeant Hansen will have prepared to be fit for a king. I expect everyone to look their best.'

There was silence in the tent. People smiled nervously. The staff sergeants, who weren't invited, looked the most uncomfortable. Mellas turned to look at Hawke and conspicuously opened his mouth to mime shocked surprise. Hawke ignored him.

Major Blakely stood up. 'I'm sure the officers who will be coming in from the bush, and of course all of us here, are going to be looking forward to Thursday night. I don't know if the younger officers are aware of it or not, but the tradition of mess night is one that goes back in time to our predecessors, the Royal Marines. To get a chance to do it while experiencing the intensity of combat is something that none of us will ever forget.'

'He can say that again,' Mellas whispered, looking straight ahead. He expected some reply from Hawke but got none. Hawke had taken out his notebook and was writing in it, an intent expression on his face.

After the meeting broke up Mellas stopped Hawke just outside the tent. 'What the h.e.l.l happened to your stache?' he asked.

'It fell off. What the f.u.c.k you think happened to it?'

'You didn't have to shave your f.u.c.king sense of humor off with it.'

'Look, Mellas, the f.u.c.king Three and the colonel are on a big thing about beads, mustaches, hippy hairdos, and hangman nooses hangman nooses, so everyone in battalion had to shave. I'm in the battalion. Remember?'

Mellas's anger at the colonel flashed to the surface. 'What's the f.u.c.king point? It's one small thing these guys can do that gives them some kind of pride, and these rear-area chickens.h.i.t f.u.c.ks just take it away from them.'

'Look, smart guy,' Hawke said, 'you push the colonel and the Three too hard and you're going to get into trouble. They're already just about as p.i.s.sed as they can get.'

'What they got to be p.i.s.sed about?'

'Simpson went on record-more than once-about Bravo Company's objectives. He had to eat crow every time, in front of half the officers in the regiment, because of Bravo Company.'

'He's the one that laid on the asinine f.u.c.king demands.'

'That's beside the point, and you're smart enough to know it. The point is the colonel's been pa.s.sed over for bird colonel once already. This battalion is his last f.u.c.king chance. If he doesn't make it, it'll be Bravo Company's fault. The Three is just a younger, smarter version of Simpson, and he isn't above making a few sacrifices to further his career either. And I don't mean personal sacrifices.'

'So they're all playing politics. Nothing new to me.'

'No, by G.o.d, I'll bet it isn't.'

The two of them stood there facing off.

'I'm trying to tell you, don't f.u.c.k around with the guy,' Hawke said. 'First Battalion isn't high on Mulvaney's list right now, and Simpson thinks Bravo Company's the reason. You guys are going to make or break his career as far as he's concerned.'

'f.u.c.k him. I'll do anything in my power to keep that c.o.c.ksucker from getting promoted.' Mellas started to walk away.

Hawke grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around. 'You listen to me, you hotshot Ivy League piece of s.h.i.t. I don't give a G.o.dd.a.m.n what you do to yourself, but you're not going to f.u.c.k up the kids in this company. Those are my f.u.c.king guys and I'll be G.o.dd.a.m.ned if you or anyone else is going to f.u.c.k them up because of some personal vendetta. I don't give a s.h.i.t how justified you think it is. I've walked a f.u.c.kload more s.h.i.tty operations under that guy than you have.' Hawke was breathing hard. 'You just get one thing straight, Mr. Politician: the colonel controls the helicopters.'

Hawke released Mellas's shirt. His hands were shaking. Mellas backed away, frightened. They stood there looking at each other, breathing hard. Mellas realized how close they'd come to a real fight, how he'd developed a hair-trigger temper. He could see that Hawke felt bad, too. Mellas wanted to reach out and touch him, say he'd been an a.s.s. He couldn't bear the thought of Hawke not being his friend any more. The reference to his education and aspirations was especially hurtful. 'I'll talk to Jim,' Mellas said. 'We'll clean up. I didn't mean to be an a.s.shole about it.'

Hawke was looking at the hills, not at Mellas. He fumbled in his shirt pocket. 'I can't find a cigar,' he said.

'It's good you can't find it,' Mellas said. 'You want to get your a.s.s out of here and die of cancer a few years later?'

'You believe that bulls.h.i.t?' Hawk asked.

'Uh-huh.'

They looked at each other, both aware they were talking about death. Then Hawke spoke quietly. 'I'm an a.s.shole myself sometimes. The colonel's not the only one who's ambitious. Sure, I wanted Bravo Company when Jim got it. I had more time in the bush, and Jim made mistakes I'd already made and paid for, and I had to watch it happen all over again.' His eyes went blank. Mellas sensed that he was replaying some terrible scene. Hawke snapped back. 'I don't want it to happen again. You know what that means? What I have to do to play the game?'

Mellas nodded. 'Ted, I don't want the company. I just want out of the bush.'

'Let's at least not lie to each other,' Hawke said.

'OK,' Mellas said softly, 'I want it too.' Then he quickly added, 'But I'd gladly hump under you, Hawke. Really. I don't want it that bad.'

'I didn't think I did either.'

There was an uncomfortable silence. 'I got to get back,' Mellas said finally.

'Sure.'

Mellas walked away, dejected. He wanted Hawke's friendship in the worst way.

'Hey, Mel,' Hawke called. Mellas, his hands in his back pockets, turned to face Hawke. 'McCarthy and Murphy are both going to be in from the bush. You know the platoon commander who had the dead guy when we flip-flopped with Alpha and Charlie?'

'Yeah?'

'That's McCarthy. Murphy's the big guy who was on the LZ.'

Mellas looked a little puzzled.

'With the tic.'

Mellas nodded.

'That's the mystery tour team. You want to come along? I'll sponsor you.'

'Sure,' Mellas said. 'But what the h.e.l.l's a mystery tour?'

'It's a f.u.c.king drunk, drunk, Mellas.' Mellas.'

Mellas smiled sheepishly. 'What time?'

When Mellas reached the company, he was greeted with more than a few sarcastic jeers.

'Lieutenant, you gonna send home for your dress blues for tomorrow night?'

'You officers getting your nails buffed so you don't f.u.c.k up the silverware?'

'They gonna start issuing tablecloths with the C-rats, Lieutenant?'

Mellas had to take the ribbing, and he knew it. Mess night was a dumb f.u.c.king idea. He went over to his rubber lady and lay down with a dog-eared copy of James Michener's The Source, The Source, for which he'd traded two Louis L'Amour s.h.i.t-kickers. He tried to lose himself in ancient Israel. for which he'd traded two Louis L'Amour s.h.i.t-kickers. He tried to lose himself in ancient Israel.

He was interrupted by China. 'Hey, sir, can we talk to you?' A tall black Marine stood behind China at the opening of the tent.

Mellas motioned them in. 'What's on your mind?' he asked.

'Uh, sir,' China said, pointing to his friend, 'this is Lance Corporal Walker. We call him Henry. He's from H & S Company.'

'h.e.l.lo, Walker.' Mellas held out his hand and they shook.

'We got ourselves a little sort of club,' China went on. 'We get together ever once in a while. Play some sounds. You know.'

'Sounds nice,' Mellas said, trying to be casual. He was beginning to feel uneasy, particularly with Walker, who scared him. He decided to be direct. 'Ca.s.sidy said you had some sort of black power group you were involved in. Is that what he means?'

They both laughed. 'Ca.s.sidy.' China spat the name out. 'That f.u.c.kin' redneck cracker don't know s.h.i.t from Shinola. Black power. Sheeit. That's a word for a political movement and that's what it mean. Ca.s.sidy just a f.u.c.kin' bigot.'

There was silence. Mellas wondered if he should tell them he used to be a member of SNCC, the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee, which organized students to go to the South for voter registration when he was a freshman at Princeton. That was before Stokely Carmichael threw the whites out and Mellas found other things to do with his time, like driving to Bryn Mawr.

China broke the silence. 'We just got this club is all. It ain't no f.u.c.kin' black power harum-scarum. We got enough f.u.c.kin' violence round here. Besides, black power ain't about violence. It be about black people gettin' political and economic power. It be about self-image and and leadership leadership and gettin' the law to treat us the same as whites. That sound scary to you, sir?' and gettin' the law to treat us the same as whites. That sound scary to you, sir?'

'Sounds like a good enough thing to me,' Mellas said. He wished China would come to the point but was afraid to push him.

'Yeah, sir. It is a good thing. See, Henry here and me, we sort of run the meetins an' make the policy, you know?' China's husky voice seemed to hide his inner detachment. Mellas could see a twinkle of merriment in his eyes, as if there were another China sitting back from the conversation, watching the three of them and laughing his a.s.s off. 'Well, sir,' China added, 'we want to try and smooth out some of the differences between blacks and whites right here in our own area. You see, sir, we get a lot of literature from the brothers back home, and a lot of the stuff is hard stuff, man. Hard Hard stuff. I mean they are advocatin' stuff. I mean they are advocatin' vi violence.'

'I know,' Mellas said. 'I've seen some of it.'

'Well, sir,' Henry said, 'some of the brothers they've had it right up to where they can't take no more. You know what I mean? Right up to they f.u.c.kin' throats.' Henry's anger began to show slightly.

'So Walker and I was talkin' last night,' China broke in, 'that maybe we ought to do somethin' about it, so's we'd keep some of the brothers . . .' He paused. 'Well, so we could stop somethin' like fraggin' from happening.'

Mellas's eyes darted from one face to the other, looking for a clue to help him. It had never happened to him before, but he knew the protection racket when he saw it. He decided to play dumb. 'You think someone's going to get fragged?'

'Us?' Henry said. 'Naw. Not us. But then again that might might happen. You take a guy like Parker, you know, the one they humped to death and wouldn't medevac. You remember him, Lieu happen. You take a guy like Parker, you know, the one they humped to death and wouldn't medevac. You remember him, Lieutenant?'

Mellas swallowed, wishing someone would return from chow to break up the situation. 'Parker's death was an accident. No one knew what he had. We tried to get him out as soon as we could.'

'As soon as a white white boy got sick,' China said. 'And boy got sick,' China said. 'And white white boy, he gets out.' boy, he gets out.'

'I don't want to hear any more about it, China.' Mellas said. 'Challand barely lived himself, and it had nothing to do with his color. I don't want to hear anything more about it. I had to watch Parker die.'

'What China mean, sir,' Walker said, 'is we on the edge of things around here. And lots of these guys maybe ain't so smart. And if they get f.u.c.ked with enough, they liable do somethin' that gets themselves into trouble.'

China said, 'I mean, if it's OK to grease a f.u.c.kin' gook that don't f.u.c.k wit'chew at all, then why not waste some f.u.c.kin' bigot that be f.u.c.kin' wit'chew ever day of you life? That's f.u.c.kin' common sense.'

'That's murder,' Mellas said.

'Murder,' China said. 'Sheeit. We all a bunch of murderers. What difference it make if you kill a yellow man or a white bigot? You explain it to me, Lieutenant. You went to college.'

'I don't see what all this has to do with me,' Mellas said.

'We want to smooth things out before they get too tough,' Henry said with an easy smile. 'Maybe we can stop somethin' from happenin'.'

'Go on,' Mellas said.

'China here was tellin' me that some a the brothers have a thing out for Ca.s.sidy. Maybe some of them might lose they tempers and do somethin' that'd get 'em in trouble. We want to avoid trouble is all.'

Mellas glanced quickly at the tent opening and waited for Henry to continue. Neither Henry nor China said any more. 'Well, that's part of my job,' Mellas finally said. 'Avoiding trouble. How can I help out?'

'Nothin' special,' China said. 'Maybe just talk to Ca.s.sidy and tell him to ease up on hara.s.sin' the brothers. And maybe you ask him to apologize.'

'Apologize?' Mellas snorted in disgust. 'What the f.u.c.k chance do you think I have of getting Ca.s.sidy to apologize? And for what?'

'Try knockin' a man's teeth in with a machine-gun barrel,' China said.

Henry added, 'And maybe you slip someone the word about none of the brothers havin' to serve you dinner like f.u.c.kin' slaves tomorrow night.'

'Look, Walker, I have nothing to do with that. I disagree with it, and I don't intend to go.'

'You the one wanted to know how to help out. Avoidin' trouble. Sheeit.'

'Walker, I don't have to take c.r.a.p like that from you.'

'That's right. You an officer and I a f.u.c.kin' snuff n.i.g.g.e.r.'

'I didn't mean it that way.'

'Sheeit.' Henry turned to China. 'What s.h.i.t you feedin' me? He ain't no different than the rest of them.'

Mellas's ears were burning. He looked at China.