Matterhorn_ A Novel of the Vietnam War Part 28

'Of course.' They sat and Mellas toyed briefly with his cap, going over the words he'd already worked out. He waited for Knapp to say something first to break the silence, in this way putting himself at a slight power advantage by establishing an unconscious obligation on Knapp's part to make the situation agreeable. Mellas understood clearly that a second lieutenant nominally outranked but never outpowered a sergeant major. A sergeant major in the United States Marine Corps took s.h.i.t from no one. This was going to be tricky.

Mellas could tell that Knapp was scrambling to remember which company he was from. Finally Knapp said, 'I thought you folks were going to have to bail out that recon team. Close.'

'Too close,' Mellas replied. 'I'd almost rather get launched right off the bat instead of standing by on that airfield.' Mellas laughed casually. He'd have stayed on the airfield forever, and he knew it.

'I know what you mean, sir.'

Again, Mellas waited.

'So, how can I help, sir?'

'Sergeant Major, it's about Staff Sergeant Ca.s.sidy, our company gunny.'

'I can't imagine he's giving you a problem.'

'Well, I don't know how to put this exactly, but I'm afraid for his life.'

'How so?' The sergeant major leaned back, squinting slightly at Mellas, obviously not liking where this might lead.

'Can we treat everything I say in complete confidence?'

Sergeant Major Knapp hesitated. 'As long as it's not in violation of the Uniform Code of Military Justice,' he said carefully.

'OK.' Mellas paused for effect. 'On the last operation an attempt was made on Staff Sergeant Ca.s.sidy's life. The person involved, PFC Parker, blurted it out the morning he died of cerebral malaria. Ca.s.sidy never said a word about it. I never asked him. There is, therefore, no charge. Since the party involved is dead, I see no reason to make an inquiry. Do you?'

The sergeant major hesitated. 'That might be a violation of the code.'

'There would be no witnesses. No formal charge. It would only draw attention to racial unrest between one of your staff sergeants and a black PFC who died because a medevac bird was refused the day before by a battalion order.'

The sergeant major jerked his head backward, almost imperceptibly. 'Yes. I see what you mean.'

Mellas continued. 'I have it from certain sources close to radical black elements that Staff Sergeant Ca.s.sidy is still in danger.'

Knapp took a deep breath through his nose, his lips compressed tightly. He exhaled. 'Can I ask why, sir?'

'Staff Sergeant Ca.s.sidy isn't exactly tactful in the way he gets his job done.' Mellas smiled. 'Particularly with blacks.'

Knapp smiled back. 'I know what you mean.'

'I think the best thing would be to transfer him out of the company,' Mellas said. 'They're asking for certain changes and an apology from Ca.s.sidy. I don't think I need to tell you the chances of that happening.'

'He'd do it if he was ordered to.'

'Yes,' Mellas said. 'And what would that mean for the authority of the rest of the staff NCOs?'

'Yes. I see.'

Mellas let that sink in before going on. 'Ca.s.sidy doesn't need to know anything about the transfer. It would defuse the situation. If we investigate, who knows where it will lead us?'

'And Lieutenant Fitch? What does he think of this?'

'You and I are the only ones who know. You can see what a bind that would put Fitch in, and the colonel, too, for that matter. The colonel would be obligated to start a formal investigation.'

'Yes. I see, sir.' Knapp drummed his neatly trimmed nails on the plywood table. He rubbed the back of his neck. 'I could use someone to handle work parties here in the rear. The lines will probably have to be expanded, bunkers built. There's a lot to running a place like this, you know.'

'I can sure see that, Sergeant Major. It's amazing how much has to get done and f.u.c.k all recognition for it.' Mellas laughed lightly. 'I remember being a guard on my football team and reading in the papers that somehow it was the halfbacks who scored all the points, not the team.'

Knapp looked pleased by the remark. 'Yes, sir. It ain't any different here either.'

Mellas smiled. 'Nope, no different,' he said. 'No matter where you go, it's still high school.'

The sergeant major laughed. Mellas repressed a smile at the irony of Knapp's laughing at a statement that actually was about him.

'OK. I'll see what I can do, sir,' Knapp said. 'No promises. But we'd sure hate to have the death of a good Marine on our hands.'

'That's the way I feel, Sergeant Major. I knew you'd understand.'

'I appreciate your stopping by, Lieutenant.' He stood as Mellas did, and they shook hands. The sergeant major walked with Mellas to the door of the tent.

'There's one other thing, Sergeant Major,' Mellas said.

'Sir?'

'It might be a little awkward if any blacks had to wait on tables at mess night.'

The sergeant major's smile disappeared. 'If they've drawn KP, they'll do what they're told. We don't play favorites here.'

'Of course not,' Mellas said. 'And I admire that you would accept the responsibility for a fragging rather than compromise your principles. Any board of inquiry would approve.'

The sergeant major's breath was coming faster. He swallowed visibly. 'I didn't mean I'd risk a fragging.'

'Of course you didn't,' Mellas said. 'I know that, Sergeant Major. I know you don't like being put in this jam any more than I do. It's a tough place to be. I really do appreciate your help on this. Thank you, Sergeant Major.'

Mellas turned and went out of the tent. He carefully adjusted his stateside utility cover and headed back to the airstrip. He had no doubt about what the sergeant major would do.

Several hours later Mellas and the other officers were running through the rain to the large chapel tent. Hawke and McCarthy, the latter apparently none the worse for the gla.s.s in his rear end, were standing outside in the drizzle. Hawke shook his head silently. An enlisted man from McCarthy's platoon in Alpha Company, wearing a white coat dredged up from Da Nang, trudged past them carrying a large pot of soup. He managed to work enough of his right hand loose to give McCarthy the finger.

'Suck out, Wick,' McCarthy hissed back at him. The kid disappeared inside.

Candles lighted the interior, casting a flickering yellow glow over everything. Tables were arranged in a large U shape and covered with white cloths. The battalion communications officer stuck his head out the door. 'You better get in and find your place cards. We're all supposed to be standing by when the colonel arrives. Blakely's orders.' He scurried back inside.

Hawke sighed and walked in. The others followed.

The tent's ventilation flaps had been closed because of the rain, and it was uncomfortably warm inside. Several enlisted men waited in the rear, standing by their pots of food, sweating beneath their starched white coats. Mellas noted that there were no blacks among them.

Shortround, at the very end of the line next to a large pot of string beans, grinned broadly when he saw the lieutenants from Bravo Company enter the tent. Mellas was happy to see him but suppressed a grin and just nodded quickly. Hawke gave the hawk power sign and Shortround returned it, wiggling his fingers next to his hip, smiling proudly to be included in Hawke's private joke.

Mellas found his place card opposite Hawke and between Captain Coates, the skipper of Charlie Company, whom he'd last seen pa.s.sed out on the wet LZ, and a new lieutenant from Alpha Company. The new lieutenant and Coates exchanged pleasantries with Mellas, to which he barely replied. This was Mellas's way of showing that he was here against his will and was not enjoying himself. The conversation lagged, and an awkward silence followed.

The tension was released when the Three walked in the tent, calling everyone to attention. Blakely's jungle utilities were starched stiff and his major's leaves shone in the candlelight. He stood ramrod straight and cut an impressive figure. There was no doubt in Mellas's mind that the f.u.c.king prig would be a general one day.

Simpson strode in, flushed with excitement and pride. 'Gentlemen, be seated,' he said crisply. The benches rumbled on the plywood floor as about thirty officers sat down. Blakely gave a brief talk on the tradition of mess night and raised his gla.s.s in a toast, and the official drinking began.

By the time they were through dessert, they had, for the most part, finished at least a bottle of wine each. Conversation had risen to a clamor punctuated by outbursts of laughter. No one noticed the colonel rise from his chair to give a toast, except Major Blakely, who clinked his gla.s.s to get the tent quiet.

Just like the f.u.c.king Rotary Club, Mellas thought darkly.

All the voices died down except McCarthy's. He was well into his second bottle of wine and was telling a new second lieutenant his favorite story about the Three. 'But we're f.u.c.king out here, out here,' the skipper says. And I don't care what your G.o.dd.a.m.ned map says, we're out here out here and you're and you're back there back there and I tell you we see f.u.c.king lights on Hill 967.' But this f.u.c.king a.s.shole tells us it's impossible and over the and I tell you we see f.u.c.king lights on Hill 967.' But this f.u.c.king a.s.shole tells us it's impossible and over the radio radio for s.h.i.t's sake that we can't see what's in front of our f.u.c.king faces . . .' for s.h.i.t's sake that we can't see what's in front of our f.u.c.king faces . . .'

The new lieutenant was tugging at McCarthy's sleeve and urgently nodding toward the head table. McCarthy turned darkly and leaned back, folding his arms. The Three announced that the colonel had something to say. His eyes never left McCarthy.

Simpson, mildly and happily drunk, gave a quick official smile. He spilled a little of his wine as he leaned forward with his hands on both sides of his plate. Then he stood straight, bringing his gla.s.s up with him. 'Gentlemen. First Battalion Twenty-Fourth Marines has made a fine name for itself here in Vietnam. I am both humble and proud to address you, the officers who have contributed so greatly to that record.' He lowered his voice and looked down at his dessert plate, where the ice cream that had been flown in from Quang Tri that afternoon was melting. 'And to remember those officers who contributed their most precious possession, sacrificing all they had, that the record might remain proud and n.o.ble.'

'He means the ones that got wasted,' Mellas whispered to the new lieutenant next to him without turning his head. Captain Coates touched Mellas's boot with his own.

'We took command of this battalion at the commencement of Operation Cathedral Forest,' the colonel continued, 'a drive deep into the DMZ that resulted in significant findings of materiel, significant contact, and significant kills. From Cathedral Forest to Wind River, at the gateway to Laos. I'm sure many of you recall with fondness our friends from Co Roc.' About half of the officers laughed. Hawke wasn't one of them.

'Well, we got our own artillery. Fire Support Base Lookout, Puller, Sherpa, Margo, Sierra, Sky Cap.' The colonel paused. 'And Matterhorn.' He looked at his silent officers. 'We're building fountainheads of steel right in the gooks' backyard. We're denying him the use of his own transportation network, forcing him to go farther and farther west, making his resupply more and more difficult for his operations in the populated provinces to our south.' Simpson paused here and changed his tone. 'We've been sitting on our a.s.ses around Cam Lo and in my opinion abandoned our mission.' He leaned across the table. 'Well, gentlemen, we are through through with the political bulls.h.i.t. From now on we'll be back at our real job, closing with and destroying the enemy. Wherever he may be. And gentlemen, I know where he is. I know.' He was leaning on his arms and looking intently at them, his eyes darting back and forth. Then he stood up for effect, head high, shoulders back. with the political bulls.h.i.t. From now on we'll be back at our real job, closing with and destroying the enemy. Wherever he may be. And gentlemen, I know where he is. I know.' He was leaning on his arms and looking intently at them, his eyes darting back and forth. Then he stood up for effect, head high, shoulders back.

Mellas raised his eyebrows, looking at Hawke across from him.

'He's around Matterhorn,' the colonel continued. His eyes glittered. He leaned forward again, his small red hands in fists on the table. 'Yes, G.o.dd.a.m.n it, Matterhorn. The gooks are there. Hiding. And by G.o.d we're going to walk in there someday and kill every one of the yellow sons of b.i.t.c.hes. We were ordered off Matterhorn, against my will, and against my own and my operations officer's best judgment, to fulfill the wishes of some fat-a.s.sed politicians back in Washington. But every sign'-he emphasized his words with his fist-'every single piece of intelligence, every little contact'-he pushed back and smiled-'my f.u.c.king nose'-he touched it-'tells me that the NVA are in there, and in force. And that area is ours, gentlemen. We paid for it. In blood. And we'll get our due.'

'That's bulls.h.i.t,' Mellas whispered to the new lieutenant. 'There's nothing up there but leeches and malaria.'

Coates elbowed Mellas in the ribs and glared at him. Hawke was staring stonily at his fork.

'We had to leave Matterhorn before our work there was finished,' Simpson continued, 'and Marines never leave their work unfinished. I promise you this, gentlemen: I'll do every G.o.dd.a.m.ned thing I can to get this battalion where it belongs. That's where the fighting's going to be. That's where I want to be. That's where Major Blakely wants to be, and I know that's where every Marine in this battalion wants to be.'

At this point McCarthy quietly belched, out of earshot of the head table.

'So, gentlemen,' the colonel went on, 'I'd like to propose a toast to the best G.o.dd.a.m.ned fighting battalion in Vietnam today. Here's to the Tigers of Tarawa, the Frozen Chosen of Chosin Reservoir. Here's to the First Battalion Twenty-Fourth Marines.'

The officers stood, echoing the toast. Then they sat down with the colonel, who received congratulations on his fine toast from Blakely.

Coates turned to Mellas, his eyes dancing with deep humor. 'Cool down, Lieutenant Mellas. Colonel Mulvaney will never let him near the place. You don't commit an entire battalion to an area covered by enemy artillery that we can't go after because of political reasons. Add to that uncertain air support because of the weather. That's why Mulvaney pulled us out in the first place. Return to Matterhorn? Nevah hoppin.'

Mellas was surprised. 'Here I thought you were a lifer,' he said, smiling.

'I am, Lieutenant Mellas. But I ain't stupid. And I I also know how to keep my mouth shut.' also know how to keep my mouth shut.'

Mellas awoke the next morning to hard rain slashing against the tent. Relsnik, on radio watch, was hunched in his poncho liner staring out into the dark. Mellas's first thought was hopeful. With rain like that, no choppers would be able to fly. Anyone who got into the s.h.i.t would have to rely on something besides the Bald Eagle to get rescued. He wrapped the snoopy around his shoulders, never wanting to leave its security. He remained in a snug ball but was slowly losing a fight with his bladder. He gave up and ran out into the rain to p.i.s.s.

When he got back inside the tent, Fitch was up, starting coffee.

'No way we can get launched today,' Mellas said.

Fitch squinted into the darkness. He turned to his radio operator. 'Hey, Snik, see if you can get a weather report out of battalion.'

The weather report wasn't good. It was supposed to stop raining by midmorning. That meant the choppers could fly.

An hour later Mellas was at the supply tent, doing paperwork that ranged from writing press releases for local newspapers about the activities of local boys to handling inquiries about paternity suits from Red Cross workers to straightening out paycheck allocations to divorced wives, current wives, and women illegally claiming to be wives, mothers, and mothers-in-law. To Mellas it seemed as if half the company came from broken homes and had wives or parents who were drunks, dope addicts, runaways, prost.i.tutes, or child beaters. Two things about this surprised him. The first was the fact itself. The second was that everyone seemed to cope with it so well.

A runner dropped off a small stack of papers and radio messages from battalion. Included were orders transferring Staff Sergeant Ca.s.sidy to H & S Company. Mellas marveled at Sergeant Major Knapp's efficiency. He looked back into the gloom of the tent where Ca.s.sidy and two helpers were trying to straighten out a mess of equipment and steeled himself for what had to follow. 'Hey, Gunny,' he said, feigning excitement and getting up from the table, 'you've got orders out of the bush. Look at this.' He walked back with the triplicate orders.

Ca.s.sidy looked at Mellas in surprise. 'What? Let me see 'em.' He furrowed his brow, reading the order slowly. It was a routine set, transferring a lot of people. His name was singled out by a neat rubber-stamped arrow. The words ORIGINAL ORDERS were stamped in bold capitals across the mimeographed sheet. 'Well, I'll be f.u.c.ked,' he said.

'Where are you going, Gunny?' one of the Marines asked. Both of them were grinning broadly, happy that anyone was escaping the bush alive.

'Well, I'll be f.u.c.ked,' Ca.s.sidy said again. He sat down. 'H & S Company. I didn't know nothing about it.' He looked up at Mellas. 'I don't see nothing about my replacement.'

'He's probably coming in from division or someplace.'

Ca.s.sidy said, 'Well, sir, I'd like to go see what I'll be doing. No one told me nothing. I swear.'

'Sure, Gunny, go ahead. I'll honcho this.'

Ca.s.sidy sent the two Marines to chow, with orders to send two replacements back afterward. Then he walked off to see his new company commander.

Vancouver was one of the two Marines who managed to w.a.n.gle work in the supply tent rather than fill sandbags in the rain. He and the other kid were soon rummaging through the damp, often mildewed bags of personal gear left behind by Marines who had rotated home or been killed.

'Hey, Vancouver,' the other kid said. 'Here's something that's yours.'

When Vancouver saw the long rectangular box he felt a foreboding. It was his sword. It had been a funny shtick when he ordered it. He thought it had been lost for good. Now he said-but it was as if he heard someone else's voice saying-'Jesus Christ. Hey, it's my f.u.c.king gook sword. It's been here all along.' He was tearing at the paper, pulling the long handle and sheath from the narrow box. He grabbed the hilt and, with a ringing sound, drew the sword from its sheath.

Mellas had turned at the sound of Vancouver's cry.

'Look at this mother, Lieutenant,' Vancouver crowed. He was standing on top of two seabags, his feet spread apart, holding the sword in front of him. He took a quick slash at the air. 'I'm gonna get some now,' he said through clenched teeth.

By late afternoon word of Vancouver's sword had made its way through the entire battalion. A friend of Jancowitz's from H & S stopped by the sandbag detail to tell Jancowitz about it. Jancowitz had a feeling of despair which he couldn't identify and which he quickly forced back into the reservoir of other feelings he'd fought down for the past year and a half. 'Crazy f.u.c.ker,' he said, smiling. 'He'll get some, too. You wait and see.'

'Yeah, he might,' his friend told him, 'but the gooks ain't hardly going to use swords. They ain't no f.u.c.king savages.'

'Yeah, but Vancouver is,' Jancowitz retorted. People laughed. His friend grinned and set off down the road. Jancowitz turned sadly back to his pile of dirt.

All day Bravo Company dug in the clay, filling the green plastic bags, trying to forget that at any second an officer in an air-conditioned bunker in Dong Ha or Da Nang could call in the helicopters that would carry them to some unknown spot in the jungle where they would die. They tried with every shovelful to forget that at any moment the company jeep might come tearing across the narrow airstrip, with Pallack shouting that someone was in the s.h.i.t and Bravo Company was going to bail them out.

Jancowitz was as anxious as everybody else. He tried to think of Susi, but he was having a hard time remembering her face. He was embarra.s.sed to take out his wallet in front of everyone and look at her picture, so he remained torn between wanting to do just that and not wanting to appear foolish. The guys would laugh and say she was just another f.u.c.king bar girl. He couldn't have taken that. He'd signed on for an extra six months of fear and filth just to spend thirty days with her. He threw himself into filling the next sandbag.

At 1700 they folded their E-tools and walked in twos and threes back toward their tents. Broyer had joined Jancowitz, his eyegla.s.ses steaming slightly from the perspiration dripping from his forehead. 'Hey, Janc,' he said, wiping the gla.s.ses on his shirttail. 'What we got an a.s.sistant general for anyway?' He was referring to the one-star general who resided at Task Force Hotel and whose red flag with a single gold star on it they had stared at all day while filling sandbags for his bunker. He put the gla.s.ses back on. They promptly slid forward. Annoyed, he pushed them back onto his nose, but then they started to steam up again.

Jancowitz didn't answer. He was thinking of Susi, trying to block out the smell of oil that had been sprayed on the road and the smoke that came from the efforts of a lone Marine who was burning s.h.i.t with kerosene in three sawed-off steel barrels. Eventually, though, Broyer's question worked its way into his consciousness. He looked at Broyer. When Broyer showed up on Matterhorn, Jancowitz had been worried about his thin frame and hesitant way of talking. But he didn't worry about Broyer anymore-a good f.u.c.king Marine. 'f.u.c.ked if I know, Broyer. General Neitzel probably needs someone to handle his paperwork.'

'Way I hear it, he needs someone to handle his fighting. First order he gave was for everyone to b.u.t.ton their utility shirts. Sheeit.'

Jancowitz smiled, listening to Broyer, who was trying to make his 's.h.i.t' sound cool. Jancowitz had been in-country when the previous general had arrived and had heard the same kind of b.i.t.c.hing. Jancowitz had his own criterion for whether or not a general, or any other officer for that matter, was any good, and that was the number of times he saw the officer out in the bush with the snuffs. That's why he liked Colonel Mulvaney. He'd been out on the lines at VCB one night, raining like h.e.l.l, dark as a motherf.u.c.ker, when he heard this jeep coming up. He thought it was Hawke. So he hollered out, 'What the f.u.c.k you doing out here?' He about s.h.i.t his pants when it turned out to be Mulvaney, the commander of the whole Twenty-Fourth Marine Regiment. The old f.u.c.ker had proceeded to ask him if he'd killed any rats, inspect his rifle, and tell him he was doing a good job.

'Lieutenant Mellas doesn't give a s.h.i.t if we don't b.u.t.ton our utility shirts,' Broyer went on.