Matterhorn_ A Novel of the Vietnam War Part 5

He forced the qualm down and a.s.sumed a 'let's get back to business' tone of voice. 'Anyhow, what do you think about Jackson, Sergeant Ba.s.s?' He rushed on without letting Ba.s.s reply. 'I don't think he'd be too buddy-buddy. You can talk to him about it. Besides, who else have we got? With Fisher gone I've got to use Jake to fill in for him at Second Squad. Vancouver won't do anything but walk point, you know that.' Ba.s.s nodded. Everyone knew that Vancouver, a big kid who'd actually left Canada to volunteer for the Marines, was probably the best fighter in the company. He just always refused leadership roles, preferring to be the first man in the column, the most dangerous job in any rifle company. Everyone else reluctantly took point only when it was their turn. Mellas made one more effort. 'Jackson already knows everyone.' He stopped. He could see that Ba.s.s wasn't really listening. He was just politely waiting for Mellas to finish.

'Lieutenant, I think a lot of guys are going to think you put him there because he's a brother.'

'What do you think?' Mellas asked.

'I think it entered your mind.' Ba.s.s looked at him, waiting for Mellas's reply.

'All right, it did. I don't want China having any footholds,' he said, almost mumbling the last words.

Ba.s.s looked at him a moment. 'I don't like this fooling around with people because of their color. We could get in deep s.h.i.t over it.' He looked down at the half-finished letter and sighed, as if wishing himself home. 'But maybe you're right. It ain't like it used to be, that's for d.a.m.ned sure. When I signed on in 'sixty-four it was protecting American citizens and property. This s.h.i.t . . .' He suddenly became aware of Skosh and broke off. 'Skosh, get on the hook and see if any Cla.s.s Six is coming in.'

'I asked them this morning, Sergeant Ba.s.s.'

'Ask-them-again,' Ba.s.s said, enunciating each word very clearly.

Skosh began raising the CP and Mellas looked at Ba.s.s. 'You agree on Jackson, then?'

'Yeah, I agree. But no f.u.c.king buddy-buddy.'

Mellas laughed, more out of relief than humor. 'OK. No buddy-buddy.'

Mellas slipped back outside into the drizzle. The faint sounds of James Brown doing 'Say It Loud' floated from the lines. He saw Hawke coming down the hill with a cigar in his mouth. Hawke's red mustache looked incongruous beneath his wet black hair. Mellas waited for him.

'Whatever you were about to do,' Hawke said, 'don't.'

'Why not?'

'Now that the arty battery's here, the battalion CP group won't be far behind. Fitch wants your lines cleaned up.'

Mellas flared. 'My lines are cleaner than anybody else's. What am I supposed to do, put out a G.o.dd.a.m.ned red carpet so the colonel can promenade on it?'

'Hey, cool it down.' Hawke looked sideways at Mellas. 'You really do have a temper, don't you?'

'I'm just tired. I usually don't.'

'You mean you don't usually show it. All Fitch wants is the f.u.c.king gumball wrappers and Kool-Aid packages put in one spot so it doesn't look like a garbage dump down here. And n.o.body said anything about you being better or worse than anyone else.' Hawke took a long pull on his cigar. 'In fact, if you must know, your lines are probably cleaner than the other platoons'.' Mellas smiled. 'But then you've got Sergeant Ba.s.s.'

Mellas laughed. 'Get back, Hawke. Is that what you came to tell me?'

'Well, not all of it.' Hawke closed one eye and looked sideways at Mellas, tasting the tobacco on his lips. 'I thought you might want to hear how Fisher came out. Or have you been too busy?'

'How is he?' Mellas said enthusiastically, but he felt his face reddening. He hadn't thought about Fisher in any way except as leaving a hole to fill.

'They sent him to j.a.pan for more surgery.'

'What's the prognosis?'

'Don't know. Worst case, I guess, is he'll never get it up again.'

'It's the s.h.i.ts,' Mellas said. He looked away from Hawke down toward Second Squad's fighting holes. 'I still have to replace him.' He said it to himself as much as to Hawke.

Hawke surveyed Mellas coolly. 'If you don't relax, Mellas, you'll never learn to love it out here.'

The joke broke Mellas's mood, and he laughed.

'Who you got in mind?' Hawke asked, blowing a careful cloud of smoke.

'Jackson.' Mellas looked for reaction. None came. 'He's got some brains.'

'Might be all right, and then again it might not be.'

'Why not?'

'He's a brother. He's f.u.c.king black, black, Mellas.' Mellas.'

'So.'

'All the brothers in Third Squad look up to him, right?' Hawke said.

'Yeah, that's why I picked him.'

'So he sells out to the man and what do all his brothers think of him then?'

's.h.i.t.' Mellas said flatly. 's.h.i.t.' He felt hemmed in by a force like a magnetic field. He couldn't see it, but he could feel it tightening.

A voice shouted down from the CP. 'Hey, Five, we got a bird coming up the valley.'

Hawke ran up the hill, leaving Mellas alone.

When Vancouver heard the chopper coming up the valley, he stuck the machete in the earth and left it quivering as he ran up the hill.

'Vancouver, where the f.u.c.k you going?' Conman yelled. He was pulling on the end of a roll of razor wire.

'My f.u.c.king gook sword's come in,' Vancouver shouted, still running. 'I know it has.'

'What the f.u.c.k good is it to be a squad leader with someone like that around?' Conman muttered under his breath. He couldn't follow Vancouver, because he was supplying the tension for Mole-a black machine gunner from Conman's squad-to stake in the razor wire. 'Hurry the f.u.c.k up, Mole, G.o.dd.a.m.n it. I got better things to do than get the f.u.c.k cut out of me by this s.h.i.t.' The wire had indeed cut through several of the scabs that formed over the jungle rot on Conman's hands, and the blood and pus were slowly oozing over the wire, making it difficult to hold.

Mole gave Conman the finger and continued staking in the wire as methodically as he cleaned his machine gun. 'I ain't gonna f.u.c.k up this wire job 'cause you want to go read you f.u.c.king mail.' Mole looked up the hill at the chopper that was now settling down on the LZ, the roar of its turbines nearly drowning out his last words. The chopper touched earth, bouncing slightly on its big wheels. A few new kids ran out carrying the red mailbags.

Vancouver reached the LZ just as the chopper began to shudder and whine for its takeoff. He towered over a new kid and reached for the bag the kid carried. 'This First Platoon's mail?' he shouted. The sound was lost in the chopper's takeoff and the mad whirl of air. The kid clutched at the bag. He'd been told in no uncertain terms its value and what would happen to him if he failed to deliver it.

'Give me that f.u.c.king thing,' Vancouver shouted. He grabbed the bag and started opening its drawstrings.

'Vancouver, what the f.u.c.k are you doing?'

Vancouver looked over his shoulder and saw Staff Sergeant Ca.s.sidy's red face. He stood up and looked down at him. 'Oh, hi, Gunny. I'm looking for my gook sword. I ordered the f.u.c.king thing two months ago.' The new kid slowly took back the mailbag, his glance vacillating between Vancouver and Ca.s.sidy.

'Vancouver,' Ca.s.sidy said in mock weariness, 'go back down to the lines and let me take care of the mail, OK? Because if you don't, and if I ever see that f.u.c.king sword of yours, I'll break it over your f.u.c.king head. Is that clear?'

'You wouldn't really do that, would you, Gunny?' Vancouver asked.

'Try me.'

Vancouver turned and headed down the hill.

Ca.s.sidy watched him go with obvious affection. He had intercepted the sword with its ornate scabbard and complicated straps three weeks earlier and hidden it in Bravo Company's supply tent in order to keep Vancouver from getting killed trying to use it. He turned to face the five new kids who had come in on the chopper. 'What the f.u.c.k you staring at?' Ca.s.sidy asked, his smile suddenly gone. 'Do I look pretty to you?'

While most of the platoon was reading the mail for the third time, Mellas was preparing supper. He told himself it would be a while before his mail caught up with him. He was adding Tabasco sauce, grape jam, and powdered lemon tea to his can of spaghetti and meatb.a.l.l.s when he became aware of Doc Fredrickson watching him.

'Can I talk to you a minute, Lieutenant?' Fredrickson asked.

'Sure. Beats eating.'

'It's about Mallory, sir.'

'Ahh, f.u.c.k. I thought you and Ba.s.s took care of that.'

'He's still complaining about headaches,' Fredrickson said. 'I give him all the Darvon he can handle and he keeps coming back for more.'

'Is that s.h.i.t addictive?' Mellas asked.

'I don't know, sir. It's just what they give us. I think it's f.u.c.king useless.' Fredrickson leaned over and looked into the can of spaghetti. 'Maybe you ought to put some of that fake coffee cream stuff in it. It'd smooth it out.'

'You stick to medicine.'

'Anyway, I ain't sure Mallory even has headaches. But I've been watching him close, and on patrol yesterday he looked like he was hurting.'

'Him and everyone else. I've got headaches too.'

'Maybe you ought to talk to him. I talked to the senior squid, and he says sometimes people get psychosomatic stuff and it really does hurt them even if it's all in their heads anyway. It's also possible that there's really something wrong with him.'

'What-you want me to decide?'

'You're the platoon commander. If you think he's telling the truth, maybe we ought to send him back to VCB to see a doctor. Just in case something really is wrong with him.'

'OK.'.

'He's over in my hooch now.'

Mellas looked at Fredrickson out of the corner of his eye. 'All right.'

Fredrickson left and returned with Mallory, a small-boned kid with narrow hips, a thin graceful neck, and a rather large head.

'Hi, Mallory,' Mellas said, trying to be friendly. 'Doc says you're still having trouble with headaches.'

'My f.u.c.king head hurts,' Mallory said. 'I eat all that Darvon and it don't do s.h.i.t.'

'How long you had the headaches?'

'Ever since they humped us without water on the DMZ operation. I think I got heat-stoked or something.' Mallory looked quickly over at Fredrickson to see how the corpsman was reacting. Fredrickson had his poker face on.

Mellas took a spoonful of spaghetti and chewed it while he thought. 'Well, s.h.i.t, Mallory, I don't know what it is. Doc's stumped. You have them all the time?'

'I tell you my f.u.c.king head hurts,' Mallory whined.

'I believe you, Mallory. It's just that there's not much we can do about it. I suppose we could send you back to VCB for a checkup.' Mellas watched for a reaction, but Mallory only bent his head over his knees, holding it in his hands.

'My f.u.c.king head hurts.'

Mellas looked at Fredrickson, who shrugged his shoulders. 'Tell you what, Mallory,' Mellas said. 'I'll see if we can't get you back to VCB for a couple of days to see the doctor. Right now you'll just have to bear with it for a while, OK?'

Mallory moaned. 'I can't stand it. It f.u.c.king hurts all the time.'

Mellas hesitated, then sighed. 'I'll go up and talk with the senior squid,' he said.

'I already seen him. He didn't do nothing.'

'Well, maybe we can get you out. Just hang in there for a while.'

'OK, sir.' Mallory stood up and dragged himself down the hill toward the lines.

Fredrickson asked, 'What do you think, sir?'

'I don't know. I think he probably has headaches. The question is, how bad.' Mellas poked at the remains of the spaghetti. 'I'd hate to have it be some sort of brain problem and not get it checked out. We could get in deep s.h.i.t.'

Up at Sh.e.l.ler's hooch, Mellas met with some resistance-not from Sh.e.l.ler, but from Hawke and Ca.s.sidy, who were playing pinochle with him.

'He's a f.u.c.king malingerer,' Ca.s.sidy growled.

'How do you know that?' Mellas asked.

'I can smell 'em. Half the Marines on this hill have headaches and gut aches and all sorts of f.u.c.king aches, but they don't keep asking to go back to VCB.'

'Suppose he has a tumor or something. You want to risk that?'

'All he needs is a kick in the a.s.s.'

'I think Ca.s.sidy's right,' Hawke said. 'Mallory tried to get out of the DMZ op, but we never let him. He was fine after that. No complaints until now. Everyone knows we got to go down into the valley as soon as Charlie and Alpha Company are pulled out. So all of a sudden, up come the headaches.'

'Maybe it's psychosomatic,' Mellas said. 'I mean, maybe it's true he's scared. Maybe that's what gives him headaches.'

Ca.s.sidy folded his cards in his hands. 'What the f.u.c.k's psychosomatic except another fancy word for someone who doesn't want to do something that's hard and scary? Nerves don't break down-they give up. I've got a psychosomatic pain in the a.s.s with all these f.u.c.king yardbirds. Go watch the sick bay the day before we shove off on an operation. Every n.i.g.g.e.r in the battalion's waiting in line. Mallory ain't no different.'

Mellas's jaw set at the remark, but he said nothing.

'They don't all go, Gunny,' Hawke said. 'In fact, hardly any of them. But I'll grant you that Mallory probably would.'

Ca.s.sidy sighed. 'It's your f.u.c.king platoon, Lieutenant,' he said to Mellas.