Matterhorn (20 page)

Mellas placed two of the mortar shells—still wrapped in their neat cardboard tubes—under the bottom of his pack, tying them
in place with wire. By the time he’d finished stuffing all the food he could into his pack, it weighed almost sixty pounds.
In addition, he had his grenades, two bandoleers of ammunition, and four canteens of water. Still, Mellas’s burden was lighter
than that of most of the kids. He didn’t have to share the machine-gun ammunition, extra C-4, trip flares, claymore mines,
and rope. The machine gunners and radio operators carried very heavy
loads, and the mortar squad carried even more, each man lugging his own rifle and personal gear as well as seven or eight
mortar shells and a heavy part of the disassembled mortars, which included sixteen-pound bipods and awkward thirteen-pound
steel base plates as well as the long heavy mortar tubes themselves.

That night, the faint glow of red-lens flashlights shone beneath poncho liners as last letters home were written. Mellas wrote
too, trying to sound cheerful. But leaving Matterhorn filled him with cold foreboding.

T
he mood on the landing zone at the battalion CP was different. Lieutenant Colonel Simpson had opened a second bottle of Wild
Turkey and was generously passing out shots to the pared-down staff that had come up the hill with him.

“I smell ’em, goddamn it,” Simpson said, pouring Blakely and Stevens another shot. “I smell ’em.” Light from the hissing Coleman
lanterns flickered against the walls of the bunker, casting the shadows of the five officers huddled around the C-ration boxes
that served as a low map table. Blakely took his bourbon neat, but Stevens didn’t much like the stuff and mixed his with enough
7-Up to kill the taste. When the colonel started drinking, there was no clear stopping point until the colonel stopped drinking.
Junior officers didn’t stop first—that was protocol. Captain Bainford, the air liaison officer, and Captain Higgins, the intelligence
officer, sat wearily on the ground with their backs against the bunker wall, not really in the group around the map. They
were trying to stay awake. The battalion radio operators also had shots of whiskey—Simpson was certainly not unfair to enlisted
men—but they kept their distance and were quiet, monitoring the desultory radio traffic of the night.

“Well, sir,” Blakely mused aloud, “we got a compromise. Can’t complain.”

“By God, we can’t, can we,” Simpson said. “Two companies in the bush is better than none.” He paused, took another quick drink,
sighed, and smacked his lips. “Goddamn, that’s good whiskey.”

“Yes, sir,” Blakely agreed, taking another, smaller sip of his own. He knew that if they did find something in the valley
during the next few days, it would be very unlikely that General Neitzel could resist doing something about known enemy troops
operating just north of them. Matterhorn anchored the west end of Mutter’s Ridge, an avenue of attack into the populated lowlands.
No matter how intensely he felt the political pressure that was diverting nearly the whole regiment to the Cam Lo operation,
he’d have to respond. Blakely’s mind drifted to an imaginary scene at division headquarters, where he was chief of staff,
advising the general on the political complications and how they interacted with the strategic complications. He smiled at
his daydream. Simpson was right. This damned Wild Turkey got smoother and smoother.

Blakely mentally reviewed the flip-flop plan again. Originally it had been easy. Continue the original mission with two companies
in the valley snooping and pooping. Charlie flip-flops with Bravo on Matterhorn, and Alpha flip-flops with Delta on Eiger.
Then comes the idea of the Cam Lo cluster fuck with everyone pulling back to VCB to get ready for that. So that plan had to
be changed. Then comes Mulvaney’s compromise with Simpson. So now Bravo and Delta are going out to the valley instead of to
VCB. So
that
plan had to be changed. A question flickered in his mind. When was the last ration resupply for Delta on Eiger? It hadn’t
mattered before, because Delta was originally going back to VCB with everyone else. Then it occurred to him that with Charlie
moving back to VCB instead of to Matterhorn, that left Golf Battery and battalion headquarters exposed, albeit just briefly,
during the time of the flip-flop. This pushed the question of Delta’s food supply out of his mind.

“Sir,” he said to Simpson. “I’m just thinking about covering the battery. They’ll be exposed without Bravo Company for a while
until we get them moved back to VCB.”

“What are we talking about? A couple of hours? Blakely, they’re Marines. If the gooks are dumb enough to attack us, the battery’ll
hold them off, and instead of dropping Delta into the valley we’ll drop ’em back here and kill gooks from both sides.” He
put his arm around Blakely’s shoulders. “You’re a hell of a staff officer, Blakely, but you’re
a worrywart.” He took Blakely’s glass and poured more Wild Turkey into it. “Now relax. That’s an order.” He handed a full
glass to Blakely.

Blakely smiled at him and took it. “Can’t disobey an order, sir.”

“Goddamn right you can’t.”

Blakely took a drink. Damn, Simpson could sure pick a good whiskey. The glow was moving from his stomach through his arms
and legs. He felt good. The battery did have only a small window of vulnerability during which it had to protect itself. He
was being a worrywart—Simpson was right. For a brief moment Blakely wondered who was blowing the abandoned bunkers on Matterhorn,
but just then the other officers broke into laughter. Simpson had pulled out another bottle of Wild Turkey from someplace
and was grinning widely as he opened it. He’s got to be just as tired as me, Blakely thought. The colonel was right about
something else—Blakely should relax more. Besides, it would do nothing for his fitness reports if he looked like a stick-in-the-mud
and got on Simpson’s wrong side. No one liked stick-in-the-muds. Simpson needed him, too. Simpson had lots of guts; Silver
Stars don’t come easily in the Marine Corps. But Simpson wasn’t up to handling the details. Of course, that’s why Simpson
had him. Blakely took another sip, savoring it. He had to hand it to the old man: Simpson could pick whiskey. It had been
a fucking nightmare to get everything rescrewed around once Simpson got the word he could put two companies in the valley
instead of taking the whole battalion into the flats. One small change, just one, and all that fucking food and ammunition,
all set up to go one way, had to be turned around to go somewhere else. Good staff work was complicated. Blakely’s mind wandered;
he was half-listening to the jokes and stories of the other officers. He wished he were home. He wished he were asleep. He
slugged the rest of the whiskey. What was wrong with relaxing when he could? If everyone was getting drunk before the Cam
Lo operation kicked off, why be left behind? You want to be seen as a team player.

Before first light, Bravo Company assembled in heli teams at the LZ. The kids, fully loaded, heavy, encumbered, crouched in
a single line
that stretched below the crest of the hill, waiting for the choppers to come with the daylight. The artillerymen went about
their business of packing up their gear, stepping between and sometimes over the infantrymen sitting on the ground. Some looked
at the infantrymen curiously, but most tried to ignore them, not wanting to be caught up in their fate.

When Vancouver strolled across the LZ in the predawn semidarkness, however, even the studied indifference of the artillerymen
was broken.

“Where the fuck did
he
come from?”

“A fucking movie. Didn’t you know the Crotch was making a fucking movie out of this op?”

“They couldn’t get John Wayne so they got him.”

“Naww, fuck. They’re shooting background for Huntley-Brinkley.”

“Did you see what that mother was carrying? A fucking sawed-off M-60. Jesus Christ.”

“He’d never be able to hit a thing with it. It’s a bunch of gunjy bullshit.”

“I don’t know, man.”

“It’s bullshit. You couldn’t control it.”

“Who the fuck
cares
if you can control a fucking M-60?”

Mellas kept walking around to check each heli team, asking if everything was all right. He approached the last team, Bass’s.
Skosh was lying on the ground with his eyes half closed, a green towel wrapped around his neck.

“I guess we’re all set, Sergeant Bass,” Mellas said.

Bass looked at him. “I guess we are, Lieutenant.”

Embarrassed by his obvious anxiety, Mellas walked over to where Goodwin lay on his back, eyes shut, head cradled in his helmet.

Mellas whispered, so the others wouldn’t hear, “Hey, Scar.”

Goodwin grunted.

“Did you pack any underwear?”

“Naw, shit, Jack. All it does is give you crotch rot.”

“Yeah,” Mellas whispered. He fingered the pale green T-shirt that his mother had dyed for him.

“How come you call everyone Jack?”

Goodwin opened his eyes and looked at him. “It’s easier to remember their names that way.”

“Oh,” Mellas said. “Sure.”

Goodwin closed his eyes again.

Mellas walked over to where Jackson was lying with his team. Jackson looked up at Mellas, craning his neck over his immense
pack. His record player was tied on top with communication wire. “All set, Jackson?” Mellas asked for the third time.

“Yes sir.” Jackson, with that nothing-to-hide look of his, held Mellas’s eyes. Then he broke eye contact to look down the
line of tired bodies in his squad. Mellas could see that everyone in the squad had cultivated a bored waiting-for-a-bus expression
that concealed all emotions.

“Couldn’t go without your sounds, huh?” Mellas asked.

“No sir. Not hardly.”

“How much does it weigh?”

Cortell, the leader of the second fire team, who was sitting next to his friend Williams, chuckled. “Man,” Cortell said, “you
can’t carry nothin’ lighter than music.”

Jackson flipped a thick middle finger in Cortell’s direction. “Easy for you to say, you ain’t carryin’ it.” He turned back
to Mellas. “The suffering I endure so my men can have music, and Cortell makes light of it.”

“Jesus make all your burdens light,” Cortell said.

“Yeah, well he ain’t here today, Preacher.”

“Where two or more are gathered in his name, Jesus be there.” Cortell was used to the banter about his Christianity and gave
back as good as he received.

Mellas had caught Jackson’s pun, and it made him feel more secure with Jackson as a squad leader. “Why didn’t you get a little
tape recorder?” he asked Jackson.

Jackson paused, thinking. “I guess I just like to see the record go around.”

Mellas laughed but knew what Jackson meant. Somehow the cassette was foreign—Japanese—or futuristic. A forty-five record was
probably as near to home as anyone could get in the jungle.

Corporal Arran walked by with Pat tagging just behind and to his right, obviously not on heel, sniffing at whatever was of
interest to him, turning his head, panting happily in response to the various greetings of the Marines. He sniffed at Mellas’s
trouser leg, then trotted over to where Williams was sitting against his pack, his large rancher’s hands cradling the back
of his head. Williams sat up and reached out to tousle the dog’s reddish ears, smiling, obviously pleased that Pat had singled
him out. “I like dogs,” he said to Mellas. “They seem to know it.” He turned back to the dog, grabbed the loose skin on Pat’s
neck, and gently wagged the dog’s head back and forth. “Hey, big fella. Hey. What you doing in Vietnam?” The dog licked Williams’s
hand and then his cheek and Williams giggled. “You don’t know why you’re here any more than me, do you, big guy?”

Arran gave a quick low whistle and Pat trotted off after him. Mellas continued down the line of Marines, stopping when he
reached Pollini, who was retying his mortar rounds to the top of his pack. He reminded Mellas of a mouse busily trying to
set things right in a cluttered nest.

Pollini looked up at him. “Hello, Lieutenant Mellas, sir.” He had his big grin on. His face was smeared with grime.

“Pollini, don’t you ever wash?” Mellas asked quietly.

Pollini reached a grimy hand to his face, rubbed it down his cheek, then looked at it, but of course the hand showed nothing
new. His hands were the large ones of an old carpenter, with big yellow nails, yet his face under his mop of curly black hair
looked like that of a choirboy who’d fallen in the mud. He looked up at Mellas, grinning again. “I washed this morning, sir,
and shaved too.”

Jackson had walked over, mild annoyance showing on his face because Pollini wasn’t ready to go. “Shortround, you didn’t shave
this morning.” Jackson said. “You ain’t never shaved.”

“I did too.” Pollini stood up. “Ask Cortell.” He turned to Mellas. “I did shave.”

Jackson knelt down beside Pollini’s mangled pack and started tightening wire and tying down objects. “Shortround, goddamn
it,” he said, pushing a wire into place. “Lieutenant, I swear he was all wired up about three minutes ago.”

“I had to get a …” Pollini said.

Jackson stopped tying. “You had to get a what?”

“Just something.”

“Shortround, you eating your food?”

Pollini grinned. Grinning was his main defense against all bigger and more competent people. “Well, just a can of peaches.
I was on LP last night and missed breakfast.”

“Why did you miss breakfast?” Jackson turned to Mellas. “I gave him twenty minutes while we were taking down our trip flares
and claymores, sir.”

“It’s all right, Jackson.” Mellas turned to Pollini. “You know you’re going to need all the food you can carry. Why didn’t
you just go get some out of the boxes lying around the area?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“You don’t know because you’re fucking stupid,” Jackson said. “Now get your gear back together. Where are the peaches?”

Pollini dug into a large pocket. His size-small jungle utilities fit him like a clown suit. He pulled out the can and handed
it to Jackson, who stuck it back in Pollini’s jammed pack, angrily making room for it.