Matterhorn (11 page)

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 meatballs 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, fuck. I thought you and Bass 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 shit addictive?” Mellas asked.

“I don’t know, sir. It’s just what they give us. I think it’s fucking 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 fucking head hurts,” Mallory said. “I eat all that Darvon and it don’t do shit.”

“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, shit, Mallory, I don’t know what it is. Doc’s stumped.
You have them all the time?”

“I tell you my fucking 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 fucking 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 fucking 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 shit.”

Up at Sheller’s hooch, Mellas met with some resistance—not from Sheller, but from Hawke and Cassidy, who were playing pinochle
with him.

“He’s a fucking malingerer,” Cassidy 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 fucking 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 ass.”

“I think Cassidy’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.”

Cassidy folded his cards in his hands. “What the fuck’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 ass with
all these fucking yardbirds. Go watch the sick bay the day before we shove off on an operation. Every nigger 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.”

Cassidy sighed. “It’s your fucking platoon, Lieutenant,” he said to Mellas.

“And I’ll send him to VCB.”

“Fine, sir. I’ll let you know when the next bird comes in. Get his ass up to the LZ. Don’t be too surprised if he doesn’t
come back until after we go into the valley.”

A chopper bringing in water for the artillery battery came in the next morning, and Mallory flew to Vandegrift Combat Base,
VCB. He returned three days later, along with a note to the senior squid from the battalion’s navy surgeon, Lieutenant Selby.
“I see nothing wrong with this Marine that would keep him from performing his normal duties.” Sheller walked it down to Mellas
and Fredrickson, and Mellas called Mallory up and handed it to him.

“Sheeit,” Mallory said after reading it. “Sheeit. I tell you my fucking head aches.” He avoided looking at Mellas.

Mellas wanted to ask why one visit to the battalion aid station had taken three days. But he let it go, since Jancowitz had
already dressed Mallory down in front of the whole squad and put him on listening post two nights to make up for the two days
he’d probably fucked off back in the rear smoking dope. “You’ll just have to live with it, Mallory,” Mellas replied. “It’s
probably psychosomatic. We all get afraid of things and sometimes the body tries to keep us from doing them. You’ll just have
to get over it.”

“You’re saying it’s in my fucking head?” Mallory whined. His tone of voice was an accusation that lumped Mellas with all the
others who wouldn’t help. “I tell you it’s real, man. It fucking hurts me so I can’t hardly think.”

“Mallory, it’s psychosomatic. You’ll just have to get used to it. We can’t do anything for you. We tried.”

“Sheeit.” Mallory turned away, still holding the doctor’s note in his thin hand.

T
he battalion’s coming in tomorrow,” Fitch said tightly. “Let’s get ’em cleaned up.” A loud salvo from the arty battery exploded
behind them, making everyone flinch. “That means haircuts, shaves, the works. No mustaches unless they’re corporals or higher.
Big John Six’s orders.”

Mellas wearily walked back to the platoon. Hamilton saw him coming and shouted down to the holes below for the squad leaders.
Another salvo rocked the hill, obliterating all other sounds. He reached his hooch and sat down, staring blankly into the
fog. Eventually the three squad leaders arrived. Jancowitz, filthy, was still in his gear from a patrol. On his face, sweat
mixed with fine drops of precipitation. Connolly squatted down with his hands resting across his knees, Vietnamese style.
Jacobs, still nervous about his job as temporary squad leader, already had a green notebook and a ballpoint pen ready. The
next to arrive was Bass, breathing hard from chugging up the slope. He squatted on the ground, looking over toward Doc Fredrickson’s
hooch, annoyed because Fredrickson hadn’t made it to the meeting on time. “He’s up at the LZ with Senior Squid,” Mellas said.
“They’re counting pills for a reorder when the battalion gets here.”

“Battalion?” Bass asked, cocking his right eye.

“Tomorrow. The birds are already fragged. That means we’ve got to get everyone squared away.”

Jancowitz and Connolly nodded, having been through it before.
Jacobs was scratching away in his notebook. “H-h-haircuts, Lieutenant?” he asked.

“Yes, Jake,” Mellas said, with just a tinge of sarcasm.

“With what? Our fucking K-bars?” Bass asked.

Jancowitz giggled. “I thought you fucking lifers just grew short hair.”

“You keep mouthing off,” Bass replied, “and I’ll cut yours with a goddamn E-tool and then shove it so far up your butt you’ll
be eating pussy with the blade.”

“I don’t see why in hell not,” Jancowitz replied, undaunted. “We manage to do everything else with our E-tools.”

“Rumor has it,” Mellas broke in, “that Cassidy managed to get some clippers from the arty people that’ll get passed around,
and they’ve got plenty of water, too. So everyone shaves. And about the shaving—no stashes unless you’re E-5 or above.”

“Bullshit, sir!” Jancowitz looked betrayed. “I’m a fucking squad leader and squad leaders can have stashes. It’s always been
that way.” He’d written to Susi about it.

“Janc, the word is E-5 and above.”

“No one can see yours now,” Bass said. “Why do you care?”

“I promise you I won’t go anywhere near the LZ. No one’ll see me.” He looked at Bass and Mellas. Neither one could help him.

“Cut off the stashes and get anyone who needs a haircut a haircut,” Mellas said quickly, giving no chance for rebuttal. “That’s
that. Who’s got the patrols tomorrow?” Connolly and Jacobs each raised a finger. “OK, I’ll be going with Conman. Bass will
be going with Jacobs.” Mellas outlined the patrol routes and together they targeted preparation fires by the artillery and
mortars. Mellas was good with maps, he knew it, and it didn’t go unnoticed by the platoon—their lives depended on it. Fredrickson
showed up and handed out the daily dose of malaria tablets, and they split up.

Mellas was eating some glutinous C-ration beef and potatoes mixed with applesauce and some of Bass’s carefully rationed Worcestershire
sauce when Jancowitz came trudging back up the hill, this time with
Parker behind him. Bass, who was heating water for coffee, looked over at Mellas. “I’ll bet you a can of peaches that Parker
doesn’t want his hair cut,” he said.

“Shit,” Mellas said.

“RHIP,” Bass said, smiling, with half-closed eyes.

The two arrivals reached the little level spot that the platoon CP group shared. Mellas swallowed another spoonful before
acknowledging their presence.

“OK, Janc, what’s the problem?”

“Parker wants to request mast, sir.”

“How come, Parker?” Mellas asked, looking at him.

“I ain’t getting no haircuts.”

“What the fuck did you say?” Bass stood up, jaw thrust out, the tin can of hot water in his hand. “You’re talking to the lieutenant,
Parker.” To Mellas, it hardly seemed the time to enforce military etiquette, but he let Bass go on.

“Sir, I don’t need no haircuts and I want to see the skipper for mast,
sir
,” Parker repeated.

Bass sat down. Requesting mast with the skipper was every Marine’s privilege. Mellas looked at Parker’s hair. It was curly,
nearly an Afro. There was very little doubt that the battalion CP would find it too long, not just because of the Marine Corps’
preference for extremely short hair, but also because of the political implications. “OK, Janc,” he said, “I’ll take it from
here. Thanks.”

Jancowitz nodded and headed back down the hill, where Hippy, clippers in hand, was sizing up another customer who was sitting
on his gun emplacement with a towel around his neck. Mellas motioned toward a piece of broken ammunition pallet. “Sit down,
Parker. Let me finish dinner.” Parker sat down, somewhat hesitantly, looking at Bass. Almost everyone was afraid of Bass because
of his unpredictable temper. Bass finished his coffee and moved off toward his hooch without saying anything.

“You know, Parker, that the skipper will have to tell you to get your hair cut.”

“Why’s that?” he said, looking at the thick mud on his boots.

“Because it’s too
long
, Parker. We got the battalion coming in tomorrow and that’s the way it’s got to be.”

“I requested mast, and I got my right to see the skipper, and you can’t stop me.”

“Jesus Christ, Parker. I’m not trying to stop you from seeing the skipper. I’m just trying to save you a walk up the hill.”

“I request mast.”

“Let’s go, then.” Mellas threw the remaining glob of food into an empty cardboard box whose sides were collapsing from constant
exposure to the rain. He turned to Parker for one last try. “Parker, the skipper works under the same rules as everyone else.
It’s going to have to get cut.”

Parker took off his bush cover and grabbed at a few strands of his hair. “It ain’t no longer than Bass’s. He just greases
the shit down. His motherfucking hillbilly hair could be five feet long and no one say shit about that.” Something told Mellas
that if he were a good officer he’d never let Parker get away with talking that way to him. Still, Parker’s argument was valid,
even though a losing one.

“Let’s go see the skipper,” Mellas said tautly. He turned and continued up the hill, slipping in the mud, aware of Parker
watching his clumsy progress.

Fitch, Hawke, and the two radio operators, Pallack and Relsnik, were jammed together under the ponchos playing jungle bridge.
It was their forty-fifth game in a series of 300, officers versus enlisted men. Sergeant Cassidy sat nearby on an ammo box.
He was just outside the opening of the hooch carving on the stave Fisher had brought back, indifferent to the rain.

“What’s the trouble, Lieutenant?” Cassidy asked.