Matterhorn_ A Novel of the Vietnam War Part 34

Fitch started crying in small silent sobs, the tears running down his dirty cheeks and dripping on the map that lay between him and Mellas. Relsnik was transmitting medevac numbers, identifying the dead and wounded. 'Zulu Five Niner Niner One. Over.'

A bored voice came back over the radio. 'I copy Zulu Five Niner Niner One. Over.'

'That's affirm. Bravo Niner One Four Niner. Over.'

'Hey, is that a Coors too? Over.'

'That's a rog. These are all Coors. Did you copy that last? Over.'

'Roger, I copy Bravo Niner One Four Niner. Give me the next one. Over.'

And Relsnik did, reading them off one by one. The numbers would eventually lead a somber man, sickened by the job he had to do, to some woman's door, to let her know that her husband or son would be coming home wrapped in rubber. The body would arrive in the early morning hours so that the people at the airport wouldn't be disturbed.

As he listened to Relsnik's voice-Pollini, Poppa Seven One Four Eight; Jancowitz, Juliet Six Four Six Niner-Mellas retreated inside himself. How could it be possible? He a.n.a.lyzed his own moves from the moment he had started helping Pollini with the M-16. He'd warned him. But Pollini had gone up. He'd heard Pollini cry, 'I'm hit.' Can a man with a head wound do that? But where else was Pollini wounded? What difference did that make? But Pollini had been lying with his head downhill. How did he get that way? An M-16 would surely have exploded his head, wouldn't it? But what did a 7.62-millimeter NVA bullet do?

Mellas kept part of his mind focused on the physical. Was it his bullet or not? That was a yes-or-no question, and he had to decide on the answer. The question that was not yes-or-no was why he had been there with Pollini in the first place. He could have stayed with the CP group. But he'd wanted to help. He'd also wanted to see what the experience was like. He'd found it unbelievably exciting. He'd wanted glory. He could have left Pollini there. Maybe Pollini would still be alive if he had. But he'd wanted to help. He'd wanted a medal. He was the one who had gotten soft and let Pollini off KP. If he'd stuck to his guns, Pollini would be alive at VCB. But Pollini had wanted to be with the company and do his share. Mellas could also have let Fredrickson, or someone else, crawl after Pollini, or waited until the fighting was over. But he'd wanted to do his share. He'd also wanted a medal.

Mellas tried to imagine Goodwin in the same situation. There would have been no conflict. Scar would have wanted to help and and he'd have wanted a medal. Helping and a medal were both good things. The fact that Pollini was dead didn't make the desire for a medal wrong, did it? What's f.u.c.king wrong with wanting a medal? Why did Mellas think it was bad? Why was he so confused? How did he get this way? From where did he dredge up all these doubts? Why? he'd have wanted a medal. Helping and a medal were both good things. The fact that Pollini was dead didn't make the desire for a medal wrong, did it? What's f.u.c.king wrong with wanting a medal? Why did Mellas think it was bad? Why was he so confused? How did he get this way? From where did he dredge up all these doubts? Why?

He sighed. He simply wasn't Goodwin. He was himself-and filled with self-doubt.

Mellas's reverie was broken by the faint sound of voices crying, 'Tubing.' Fitch and Mellas looked at each other, waiting silently for the explosions.

'Wait one, we got incoming,' Relsnik said to the battalion radio operator. He put the handset down beside him. Pallack curled up a little. There was no sound. Then they felt the vibrations through the earth. Then, no sound again.

'Sounds like they hit down the south side,' Mellas said, wanting to break the silence.

'The gooners can't adjust in the fog,' Fitch said. 'Just keeping us honest, I guess.'

They waited a minute longer. Silence. Fog. Relsnik picked up the handset and continued reading the list of medevac numbers. First and Second platoons had each lost six. Five kids were in serious need of a medevac and another twelve, though not in danger of dying, were fairly useless. Then there were fourteen who had received slight flesh wounds or nicks from shrapnel. They included Mellas, whose right hand had taken some of the blast from Jancowitz's grenade. It looked as if he'd fallen on gravel.

Normally, small wounds wouldn't be reported, but Fitch had had enough of normality. He told the senior squid, Sh.e.l.ler, to report every nick and scratch on the hill so the medical bureaucracy could grind out Purple Hearts for as many Marines as possible. 'Two Hearts and they're out of the bush. Three and they go to Okinawa to sort socks. I'll be G.o.dd.a.m.ned if I'll stand in their way quibbling over how wounded they got to be to qualify. Every f.u.c.king scratch, you understand?'

Sh.e.l.ler undertook the task with grim pleasure.

'Wait one,' Relsnik said. He turned to Fitch. 'Battalion wants a confirmation on that body count.'

Fitch sighed. 'We haven't killed any more. Tell them it still stands at ten confirmed and six probable.'

'Roger that.' Relsnik keyed the handset. 'Big John, this is Big John Bravo. That's affirmative. Ten confirmed and six probables. Over.'

There was a pause, followed by a new voice. 'Wait one. I'll put him on.' Relsnik sighed and handed the handset to Fitch. 'It's the Three.'

'This is Bravo Six. Over,' Fitch said.

He held the handset close to his ear, making it difficult for the others to hear, but his answers indicated that apparently the body count was too low. 'That's affirmative. We did send people out beyond the holes to count. Sir, we were attacking fortified bunkers. Over.'

The handset blurted static, and the Three's voice came over. 'Look, Bravo Six, they had to be hurting to leave those two open-belt seven-point-six-twos behind.' Relsnik had radioed in about the two captured machine guns. One had been taken by Vancouver. The other was the one that Jancowitz had died taking. 'I think you easily have twice the probables you've reported. Over.'

'Tell him you killed d' whole f.u.c.king Three Hundred Twelfth steel division, Skipper,' Pallack said. Fitch held a hand up, annoyed, trying to listen to the Three.

'Yes, Big John Three, you're right on that. Over.'

'OK, Bravo Six. We'll see what we can do here. How's everything up there? Over.'

'We only got enough ammo for one heavy counterattack, and we need water. How we looking on those medevac birds? Over.'

'We've got them standing by, Bravo Six. Over.'

'I've got five emergencies up here. If they're not out before dark they're going to be dead. You tell the f.u.c.king zoomies that. Over.'

Blakely's voice was curt, controlled. 'Bravo Six, I suggest you leave the air evacuations to the forward air controller. I understand you've had a tough day, but you know as well as I do that flying in this kind of weather is idiotic. Over.'

Mellas burst out, 'What the f.u.c.k is sending a company of Marines out in this kind of weather?'

Fitch waited for Mellas to finish before he keyed the handset. 'I understand. Anything else? Over.'

'We're preparing a frag order for you ASAP. Big John Three out.'

At the top of the hill wraithlike figures moved slowly toward the trench where the dead lay in rows, their weather-bleached boots sticking out from beneath dark ponchos made slick by the fog. Cortell waited for them there. His head was bandaged. When he felt that all who were coming had gathered, he pulled out a small pocket Bible and read some verses aloud. Jackson was silently mouthing, 'Janc, why did you do it?' Fraca.s.so stood uneasily behind Cortell. At the Naval Academy, no one had ever talked about what to do afterward.

Fraca.s.so had asked Jackson to take over the squad. Jackson refused. Puzzled, Fraca.s.so talked things over with Ba.s.s, who told him the probable cause. So Fraca.s.so switched Jackson and Hamilton, giving Hamilton the squad. Jackson hoisted the heavy radio over his flak jacket. He'd made his deal; he'd stick with it.

The daylong twilight faded. The medevac birds weren't coming. Kids who'd been drinking their water in antic.i.p.ation of a resupply were sorry they hadn't been more sparing. Down in the bunker where they had pulled the serious cases, Sh.e.l.ler watched helplessly as the dwindling IV fluid drained into the wounded. When the other corpsmen left the bunker to dig in for the night, he quietly slipped the IV tubes from two unconscious kids and poured the fluid into the bottles hanging above the others.

Merritt, a rifleman from Goodwin's platoon, was watching him. He was one of three wounded who were still conscious. 'What are you doing, Doc?' he whispered. His torn clothes were plastered to his body by drying blood. Dirt was in everything, and there was no way to clean it out. The squids just poured antiseptic in with the dirt. A candle flickered, disturbed by the damp air as Sh.e.l.ler sat down. 'Just changing your oil and water,' he said, smiling.

'You took it from Meaker.'

Sh.e.l.ler nodded.

Merritt stared up at the slightly rotting logs that formed the roof of the bunker just four feet above his head. He smelled blood and abandoned fermented fish sauce and rice. 'Is it wrong to want to go home so badly?' he asked.

Sh.e.l.ler, smiling gently, shook his head. Merritt took a labored breath. The pain in his intestines, where he'd been hit by two bullets, one shattering his pelvis, nearly drove him into blissful unconsciousness. But he fought off entering that dark realm, afraid he would never want to come back.

'Does it mean Meaker will die?'

Sh.e.l.ler looked over at the two kids he'd picked for death. He didn't want to answer Merritt's question. He wanted to lie, even to himself. 'I think you'll all make it,' he said.

'Don't f.u.c.king lie to me, Squid. I don't have time for it.' Again Merritt took a quivering breath, biting back the scream that wanted to erupt whenever he filled his lungs. 'If I'm going to live because of Meaker, I want to know it. And I want to live.'

Sh.e.l.ler put his hand on Merritt's uniform. 'The thing is, we might be wasting plasma on Meaker. He keeps bleeding inside and I can't stop it. You're not bleeding as fast as he is.'

Merritt looked at Sh.e.l.ler. 'I'll never forget it, Squid. I f.u.c.king promise.' Then he turned his head toward Meaker's unconscious body. 'Meaker, you dumb son of a b.i.t.c.h,' he whispered. 'I ain't never going to forget it.'

Meaker died three hours later. Sh.e.l.ler and Fredrickson dragged him out of the bunker and stacked him on the foggy landing zone with the rest of the bodies.

In the battalion operations center Simpson and Blakely debated whether or not to press the attack against Matterhorn the next day. The kill ratio looked bad-thirteen Marine KIA against only ten confirmed NVA bodies. If they could continue the action, there was a chance that they could get the ratio up to something more reportable. But how many of the enemy were on Matterhorn? Was it a full force or just a rear guard-or an advance guard? Fitch could report only that he saw movement in the bunkers, but there was no way of telling how many NVA were inside them. And now it was pitch black up there. At this moment, the NVA could be reinforcing or withdrawing.

'There's only one way to find out,' Simpson said grimly. 'We've got to attack. At first light.'

Blakely knew Simpson was right. If the NVA reinforced during the night, an a.s.sault by Bravo Company would surely go badly, but those were the breaks. They were there to kill gooks. If they ran into a buzz saw, Mulvaney would get the whole f.u.c.king regiment involved and finally kick some a.s.s up there. If the gooks had taken off for the border and it was only a rear guard, then Bravo could handle it and Simpson would look foolish not to have pressed the attack, even if it was just to get more information. That was the right move. No one could second-guess them. If they kept Bravo sitting on the hill, that could be perceived up at division as a lack of initiative.

There was the problem of artillery and those G.o.dd.a.m.n bunkers they'd left behind. The 105 batteries had all been pulled back to support the Cam Lo operation. The 8-inch howitzers on Sherpa had barely been able to reach the valley to the south of Matterhorn. Moreover, even if they could be moved closer, a direct hit from an 8-inch sh.e.l.l would probably not collapse one of those bunkers. Blakely had seen Bravo Company build them. Maybe it had been hasty to pull out of there so fast. Those were the breaks. In any case, it wouldn't look like an unsupported attack, especially since Bravo had been the one to f.u.c.k up the air support during the initial a.s.sault and no one had lodged any complaints. And if Bainford could keep some fixed-wing on station and they did get a break in the clouds they could lay in some snake and nape and watch those kill ratios climb.

At 2335 Fitch received the order to attack Matterhorn.

The lieutenants stumbled and crawled to Fitch's bunker through the foggy blackness. Their faces appeared in the entry hole lit by Fitch's red-lens flashlight. First Goodwin, haggard but still quipping. Then Fraca.s.so, shaken, wearing his partly shattered gla.s.ses. Finally Kendall, apprehensive, knowing it was his turn for the next dangerous task.

Again they argued and struggled over how to take the hill. They interviewed all the kids who could remember anything about the details of the bunkers they'd built, the layout and hidden gates of the razor wire they'd put in place. Again they were hampered by terrain and weather. But now they were also hampered by their own wounded and dead. 'We can't take the wounded with us on the a.s.sault,' Fitch said. 'We've got to secure this hill.'

'And split our forces exactly like the f.u.c.king gooks did?' Mellas argued. 'That's the only reason we were able to get up here in the first place. We've got to pack our wounded with us.'

'Maybe we could leave a squad?' Goodwin said.

'A squad can't cover this whole f.u.c.king hill,' Fitch said. 'Besides, if they got in trouble we'd have to send back a platoon from Matterhorn to help them, if we had a platoon to send back. Then we'd be split in three, one on each hill and one in the saddle between them. All three would get the s.h.i.t kicked out of them.'

'There it is,' Fraca.s.so said, suddenly understanding the phrase.

They finally agreed with Fitch. An entire platoon plus the command post group would stay with the wounded on Helicopter Hill. Two platoons would a.s.sault Matterhorn. If the two a.s.saulting platoons got into trouble, Fitch could send two squads from the platoon guarding the wounded. This would leave just a single squad guarding the wounded. If both a.s.saulting platoons were in trouble, however, that risk had to be taken.

'Why not just wait until we have enough horses for the job?' Mellas asked.

'The Six feels we'll loose the initiative.'

'You mean he's afraid the gooks will dee-dee and we'll be stuck with thirteen dead and forty wounded and only a worthless hill and ten confirmed to show for it,' Mellas said.

'There it is,' Fitch said.

They settled on a plan that would use the fog and their knowledge of the terrain to their advantage. Two platoons would work their way through the razor wire in the darkness and attack just before dawn. It was Kendall's turn for the hard stuff. Goodwin and Fraca.s.so called Fitch's flip of the coin to see who would join Kendall. Fraca.s.so lost.

'Who did you put in Janc's place?' Mellas asked Fraca.s.so.

'Hamilton. Jackson wouldn't take it. So I made him my radioman.'

'They're both good men,' Mellas said.

Everyone was silent, looking at the map in the circle of dim red light.

'Maybe all the gooks have dee-deed across the border,' Fitch said.

'Yeah,' Kendall answered.

Vancouver was the first to touch the wire. He gently pushed it upward, testing it, searching for the gate he knew was there. The wire resisted. He backed down. He crawled slightly to the left and tried again. Connolly, Jacobs, and Hamilton were doing the same thing.

The rest of First Platoon waited, heads buried in the damp earth, almost afraid to breathe. Fraca.s.so listened anxiously for a static burst, which would signal that Kendall and Third Platoon were through the wire and in position.

Kendall had led his platoon quietly west through the jungle, aiming for the south side of Matterhorn. He stopped and looked at his compa.s.s. The luminescent needle swayed, then steadied. It always pointed north. Always. But what good did that do if he didn't know whether the hill was in front of him or to his right? He gulped and shoved the compa.s.s back into its pouch on his belt. Cold panic welled up in his stomach. If they were going south . . . No, they were going west, toward Laos. But if the ridge ran south, it could be leading his platoon prematurely up the slope of Matterhorn before they could get into position on the south side. He tapped the shoulder of the kid ahead of him. 'Bear a little to the left,' he whispered.

Kendall's platoon began heading away from Matterhorn.

Hamilton suddenly felt the wire give easily. He felt further and located one of the stakes around which the wire was loosely secured. He crawled backward, leaving tiny sc.r.a.ps of a C-ration box as he went. The dull white of the cardboard could be seen up to a foot away.

The word pa.s.sed back to Fraca.s.so. Then, as agreed, Connolly began to crawl through the gate, remembering each turn as he went, leaving a trail of cardboard. Vancouver followed, pushing his machine gun before him; his sword was tied firmly to his leg so it would make no noise. The rest followed, praying that the fog they'd cursed so many times in the past would now save them, praying against all odds that no one would be waiting for them beyond the wire, praying that the NVA had retreated in the night.

Samms, at the rear of Kendall's column, figured out that Kendall was headed away from Matterhorn. Furious, he started keying the handset to get Kendall's attention. Fraca.s.so mistook the keying of the handset to mean that Kendall was in place. He tapped the person in front of him. Three taps. Third Herd's in place. The taps went up the line.

Connolly emerged from the far end of the gate and began crawling to the right. The blackness, the crawling, the fear-none of it would ever end. At the same time, he didn't want it to end. What followed would be far worse.

Kendall heard the handset keying furiously and knew that he'd been caught doing something terribly wrong. He immediately stopped. The word pa.s.sed up in low whispers.

'We're going the wrong f.u.c.king way.'

Kendall, crushed by a sense of failure, groped backward along the column. His radio operator followed. They met Samms, and there was an intense flow of barely audible words. 'What the f.u.c.k are you doing? I ought to shoot you right here. Now, G.o.dd.a.m.n it, you are going to follow me until we reach the f.u.c.king wire, and if I hear so much as a f.u.c.king sound you're going to get blown away.' Kendall dropped back into the center of the platoon. Samms led the way, retracing their steps.

Dawn would arrive in minutes. The Marines of First Platoon were lying in the mud, trapped between the wire and the enemy bunkers, waiting. Fraca.s.so was frantic. Kendall was supposed to begin the attack. What the f.u.c.k was Kendall doing? He looked at his watch, holding it so close to his eyes that the dial was blurred. In a few minutes the light would start coming.

All along the line, there was anguished perplexity. What happened to Third Herd? Why were they waiting in this f.u.c.king death trap?

Fraca.s.so wanted to cry. He wanted to turn around and crawl back through the wire, but he knew that the platoon would never make it out before daylight. Halfway in, halfway out, he'd lose most of them.

Then Fraca.s.so noticed the faint white of the dial of his watch, mingling with the glow of its phosph.o.r.escent hands. Daylight had not waited.

'Holy Mary, pray for us now,' he whispered. And at the hour of our death. And at the hour of our death. He lurched to his feet and roared as he threw the grenade he had been holding in his right hand. All along the line, the platoon threw their grenades as hard as they could, aiming for their former bunkers. Explosions ripped across the hill, lighting fierce and frightened faces. Fraca.s.so, firing his M-16 on full automatic, ran screaming up the hill, covering the short distance between them and the bunkers in about five seconds. He lurched to his feet and roared as he threw the grenade he had been holding in his right hand. All along the line, the platoon threw their grenades as hard as they could, aiming for their former bunkers. Explosions ripped across the hill, lighting fierce and frightened faces. Fraca.s.so, firing his M-16 on full automatic, ran screaming up the hill, covering the short distance between them and the bunkers in about five seconds.

'They're f.u.c.king empty!' he shouted as he approached the first one. 'They're f.u.c.king empty!' The entire platoon surged along beside him, and everyone felt a great weight lift from his back.

Then, from the new holes just above the old bunkers where the NVA unit, reduced in size, had moved during the night, bright fire blazed out of the gloom. Fraca.s.so, singled out by at least five riflemen as the leader, went down instantly.

When the fire erupted from above the empty bunkers everyone wanted to crawl underground. Several kids, in fact, went down on their knees. Had the others done the same, the attack would have stopped, and the outcome would have been a disaster. But the attack went on-not because of any conscious decision, but because of friendship.

Jackson went running forward, more to see if Fraca.s.so was alive than for tactical reasons. Vancouver saw Jackson heading for the lieutenant and decided that even if the platoon were in a hopeless s.h.i.t sandwich he'd be G.o.dd.a.m.ned if he'd let Jackson run forward alone. So he kept going. Connolly, seeing Vancouver charging forward, did exactly the same, although his mind cried out to him to merge with the great welcoming earth beneath his feet. He wouldn't abandon a friend to go it alone. Neither would any of the others.

Jackson, who'd been nicked on the arm by the concentration of fire on Fraca.s.so, saw Vancouver surging ahead, sh.e.l.l casings flying from his machine gun. Jackson couldn't let him go alone, nor did he see any advantage in trying to crawl back through the wire. He kept running forward, though forgetting to fire his weapon.

A man in good condition can run 100 meters in about twelve seconds. Uphill, with rifles and ammunition, a flak jacket, a helmet, water, grenades, heavy boots, and maybe a last can of pecan roll, the run takes a lot longer. There were approximately twenty-five meters between the old bunkers and the new fighting holes from which the NVA soldiers were firing. It took approximately five seconds to cross that deadly ground. In that time, one-third of the remaining thirty-four in the platoon went down.

Then attackers and defenders joined together and bellowing, frightened, maddened kids-firing, clubbing, and kicking-tried to end the madness by means of more madness.

Vancouver jumped into a hole with two small NVA soldiers, firing his machine gun right up against their chests, his muzzle blasts lighting the three of them as if by strobe lights. One of them, before he died, put a bullet through Vancouver's left arm, shattering the bone above the elbow. Vancouver clawed his way out of the hole, mad with pain but trying to reach the top of the hill. When he emerged from over the lip of the flattened top of Matterhorn, he saw the commander of the NVA unit shouting his men across the LZ to aid those defending the east approach.

Vancouver saw the NVA officer look at him in surprise. Even in the predawn gloom Vancouver could see that the officer was no older than Mellas or Fraca.s.so. The young man reached for his pistol, which was tied with a lanyard around his neck and rested in a shoulder holster. Several others, seeing the large Marine, his arm dripping blood, turned their AK-47s on him.

Vancouver, unable to raise his machine-gun barrel because of his crippled arm, went to ground beneath the lip of the LZ. He rolled to the left, freeing the ammunition belt to enter the gun's receiver. He rested the barrel of the gun on the lip of the LZ and pulled the trigger. The officer went down, wounded, and a knee of one of the soldiers firing at Vancouver was shattered. Vancouver began to pump short steady bursts across the flat LZ, forcing the NVA reinforcements to work their way around the hill the long way.

The NVA officer, shouting, crawled to reach a former artillery pit. Soon two soldiers carrying a drum-canister machine gun joined him. The officer directed their fire against Vancouver. A burst of bullets tore the earth around Vancouver's eyes, forcing his head down as the bullets sucked across the flat table between them. As Vancouver's head went down the officer shouted something and a group of his men rushed across the LZ.

Vancouver suddenly understood the game.