Matterhorn (22 page)

“Just keep on your fucking toes.” Hawke wasn’t smiling. “And keep your fucking compass hidden when you check it. Man with
a compass is a dead giveaway for a leader.”

“Sure, Hawke.”

Mellas rejoined the platoon. Everyone stood up, anxious to get out of the zone, feeling exposed to enemy mortars attracted
by the helicopters. Bass and all three squad leaders pointed out with some passion that First Platoon had had point at the
end of the last operation. Mellas stopped the argument by saying Fitch had ordered First Platoon on point because of the critical
need to navigate to the NVA base camp. They all knew that with the possible exception of Daniels, Mellas was the best one
with a map and compass and accepted their fate.

There was no argument among the squads that it was Conman’s squad’s turn to have point for the platoon. Vancouver was eating
a package of Kool-Aid powder, waiting for the go-ahead. Everyone had given up trying to argue Vancouver out of taking point
for the squad.

Mellas radioed Fitch. “Bravo Six, this is Bravo One. We’re ready to roll. Just follow in trace of my Bugs Bunny Grape. Over.”

“One, Bravo,” Pallack answered. “Skipper says to make hat. Over.”

“Roger. One out.” Mellas looked at Vancouver and pointed into the elephant grass. Vancouver, who had purple smeared all around
his mouth, took a last pull at the torn package and handed the remainder to Mellas. He chambered a round into his sawed-off
machine gun and walked into the tall grass, following Charlie Company’s path. Mellas looked at the package, purple powder
smeared on the torn edges, wet
from Vancouver’s saliva. He shrugged, downed a mouthful, and made a face at Hamilton. “God, how do you stand this shit?” His
eyes squinted at the tartness, and then he felt saliva gushing into his mouth. He shook his head and moved out, Hamilton following.

Almost immediately the hubbub of the landing zone was cut off from view and hearing. The tall grass whispered around them.
Soon they passed Charlie Company’s two-man outpost. One bedraggled kid called out, “I hope they don’t hump you like they humped
us.”

“Me too,” Mellas called back to him. “Here, I hate this flavor.” He tossed the Bugs Bunny Grape to him and the kid smiled,
holding it up in the air. Then he was lost to view.

There was no sun, just gray drizzle and the wet sighing elephant grass towering above them, its lower portions already rotting,
making more soil to grow more elephant grass. As they twisted and turned along the trail of smashed grass, Mellas continually
checked his compass. He kept it close to his hip.

Bass, with the tail-end squad, radioed that he was just now passing Charlie’s outpost. Mellas was both surprised and disconcerted
by how slowly they must be going, and the platoon was less than a third of the company. He went on farther, trying to estimate
how far he’d have to go in order to put enough trail behind him to accommodate the entire company. Eventually he told Connolly
to stop. Word passed up to Vancouver, who was on point, and Mellas motioned everyone down, alternating directions inboard-outboard
to watch both sides of the trail. He waited for Fitch’s word that the company had gotten its tail out of the zone and he could
move forward again. He felt isolated, seeing only one person on the trail ahead of him and no one behind him because of the
elephant grass, taking it on faith that the company was indeed still there. The drizzling rain and the wet elephant grass
soaked his clothes through.

The radio hissed faintly. “Move it. Over.”

“Roger. Moving,” Hamilton answered. “Out.” Hamilton motioned to Connolly, and everyone climbed to his feet without any word
from Mellas. A good radioman and squad leader functioned without the need of a lieutenant, and Hamilton and Connolly had been
together for
months. Mellas was occupied with a leech he’d picked up. He kept kicking at his left leg with his right foot, hoping to kill
it or knock it off without having to stop and squeeze insect repellent on it.

The company jerked forward, the radio alternately telling it to stop and go. It moved like an inchworm, slowly building up
a contraction somewhere in the middle, then slowly stretching out until one kid lost sight of another. Word would then pass
forward or back to the nearest radio. “Break in the column.” Then the radioman would call forward to the point platoon: “Hold
it. We lost you.” Everyone would stop. People would fume.

Then the whole rear of the column would pile up on the kids who were stopped. Word would pass up and down until it reached
a radio. “We’re back in contact.” Then the front of the inchworm would move blindly off. Slowly each part would feel the tug
of the one in front of it and each Marine would start walking again, boots barely lifted from the mud of the trail, steps
short and slow. Meanwhile the back would still be piling up and stopping. By the time the back of the column would get unpiled
and moving, there would be another break in the front.

“Bravo One, Bravo.” The radio’s curt message ended in a burst of static as Pallack’s transmitter key was let up. “Alpha figures
dey’re four hundred to five hundred meters from d’ zone, so you ought to be close. Over.”

“Roger. Bravo One out.”

Hamilton looked at Mellas. In the silence of the elephant grass Mellas had heard the entire conversation, even though Hamilton
was the one using the handset. Mellas nodded and moved up behind Connolly, who was at number four. “Alpha’s close,” he whispered.
Connolly passed the word up to Corporal Arran, who was walking with a much-coveted twelve-gauge shotgun at the ready next
to Pat. Vancouver, who was in front of Pat and Arran, was completely out of sight in the narrow twisting confines of the muddy
trail.

Everyone grew tenser. There was only a split second to decide whether the slight movement on the trail in front was friendly
or unfriendly.
Deciding wrong could mean death, or the death of a fellow Marine in the approaching unit.

The company pressed on in the tunnel of grass, the sky visible only directly above them, the light poor. Vancouver scarcely
dared breathe. Pat moved his red-brown ears nervously, sensing the Marines’ tenseness. Suddenly Pat’s silvery-white hair stood
up, his tail went rigid, his nose pointed, and his red ears were angled forward. Mellas motioned everyone down. Silently,
the column sank into the grass. Vancouver lay down next to the trail, his gun pointed to where the trail turned a corner.
Everyone waited to see whether a Marine or an NVA soldier would come around the corner. Soon the fire team on point heard
the sound of someone slipping in the mud. Then a few more footsteps. Then there was an eerie silence. No movement. No sound.

Connolly, eyebrows raised, turned to look at Mellas. Mellas nodded
yes
. Connolly whispered, “Hey, Alpha. This is Bravo here.”

A voice whispered back, “Whoa, man. Am I glad to hear you.” The voice rose to a soft speaking tone. “We’re there. I just heard
Bravo Company.” Alpha’s point man emerged cautiously around the corner of the trail, crouched low to the ground, eyes darting.
Vancouver raised his hand, and the kid relaxed. He pushed his rifle’s selector switch off full automatic. He was drawn, and
the jungle rot on his face was very bad. He didn’t smile as he shuffled past the quiet Marines from Bravo Company. Soon another
kid emerged around the bend, then another. Eventually a radio operator came along. With him was a tall, thin, young-looking
lieutenant, his camouflage utilities clinging to his body. He was trembling with early-stage hypothermia. He stopped in front
of Mellas and let his platoon go by.

“Charlie in the zone still?” His voice was hoarse, weary.

“Some were when we left,” Mellas answered. “They may have all flip-flopped back to VCB by now. I didn’t hear any more birds
come in.”

“They probably forgot we’re still here. Shit. First they tell us Charlie’s going to Matterhorn and we’re going to Eiger. Then
we heard everyone was going to VCB. Some fucking cluster fuck around Cam Lo. Now the word is we’re going to Eiger again. Fucked
if I can keep up. Hey, you know that fucking Irishman, Jack Murphy?”

“Just met him.”

“He owes me fifty bucks’ worth of bourbon. He said there was no way we could get fucked over worse than on the DMZ operation.
You got a cigarette?”

“No, sorry.”

Hamilton casually pulled out his own plastic container, opened the lid, and offered both the lieutenant and his radioman a
cigarette. Their hands shook as they gratefully lit up. Mellas was appalled at the lack of security. A person could smell
cigarette smoke for miles. The tall lieutenant blew a large cloud and sighed. He turned to one of the weary figures going
by. “Who’s got the fucking stiff?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Shit.” He turned to Mellas. Clearly close to a collapse, he took another long draw on his cigarette. “We haven’t eaten in
four days.” It was a flat sincere statement. Just then, around the bend in the trail came four Marines. They carried a heavy
burden slung between them in a poncho hanging from two poles. One kid looked angry; the other three seemed to be in a daze,
faces drawn, wet, muddy. A white, slightly puffy arm stuck up into the air from the poncho. The bearers dumped their load
on the ground, breathing hard. With the poles on the ground, the poncho lay open between them, exposing a naked corpse. The
angry-looking Marine spat out his words between harsh breaths.

“How much farther, Lieutenant?”

He directed the words at the tall lieutenant, but Mellas answered.

“About six hundred meters.”

“Six hundred! Fuck me in the mouth. Why don’t we just hump him to VCB? Dumb cocksuckers.”

“Cool down,” the tall lieutenant said wearily.

“They killed him, Lieutenant. They fucking humped him to death and you want me to calm down. Well, fuck you.” The kid’s neck
showed rows of taut cords. The lieutenant handed him his cigarette, not saying anything. “Thanks,” the kid said. He sat down
and took a deep draw while the other members of the company stepped over him and the body; then he handed the cigarette to
one of the men with him. Mellas kept staring at the body, pale and bloated against the dark mud of the trail.

“How did he die?” Mellas asked.

“Officially, it’s pneumonia,” the lieutenant answered. “Couldn’t get him medevaced. No birds.”

“Bullshit. They humped him to death.” The kid said it softly.

“Pneumonia. Jesus.” Mellas whistled under his breath. “And you couldn’t get him out? Doesn’t make sense.”

“No fucking shit, doesn’t make sense.” The lieutenant gently toed the body. “He was a good fucking kid, too. The squid hasn’t
a clue. All we know is his temperature shot up over a hundred six and he started screaming. We took all his clothes off to
get it down. Didn’t work. We’d called for an emergency medevac when it hit a hundred four. Doc thought it was flu or something.
Battalion said it wasn’t an emergency.” He snickered, nearly losing control. “I guess we were right.”

He turned to the angry kid who was finishing the cigarette. “Who’s supposed to take over?”

“Maki’s team.”

“OK. Leave him here. I’ll tell Maki to pick him up.”

The kid rounded up his fire team and they trudged down the trail. Another team arrived, slung their rifles over their backs
against their packs, and picked up the two poles. They struggled down the trail, the swaying body pulling them off balance.

“Thanks for the cigarette,” the tall lieutenant said to Hamilton.

“It’s OK, sir.”

He turned and walked down the trail, his radioman following. Mellas looked at Hamilton, who was watching them disappear. Tired
kids continued to file past.

“Jesus,” Mellas said.

“There it is, sir,” Hamilton answered.

Mellas’s insides were humming. A soft wind snaked its way through the grass, turning his wet clothing cold.

Y
ou’ve never been out on a rampage before, have you?” Fitch peered at Mellas over his can of pears. He was sitting cross-legged
on a tuft of wet moss. Rampage was the brevity code for an ambush.

“Sure I have,” Mellas replied. “We ambushed three cows in Virginia one night.”

“Oh, yeah.” Fitch laughed, spooning another pear into his mouth. “I heard about that. It was just before we graduated.” He
continued gulping down his pears. “Big John Six figures we can ambush some gooks who might be heading for the base camp tonight
and don’t know we’re here.”

“I kind of doubt it,” Mellas said. They had reached the abandoned North Vietnamese base camp just an hour before. Everyone
was digging in. “It must sound like a herd of water buffalo at a barn dance around here.”

Fitch chuckled and tossed the can into the bushes. “You see those big cat tracks when we came in?” he asked.

“He was probably sniffing at the shit Charlie Company left around.”

Fitch laughed. “The way they looked, I don’t think they left him very much.”

Mellas took a quick look at the jungle. He was in no mood to talk about wildlife. Ambushes could go wrong, and they’d be way
outside the lines alone in the dark.

Fitch pulled out his map and showed Mellas a crayon mark where battalion wanted to ambush. “You don’t have to take it out
yourself. Bass or Conman can set up a good ambush.” He pulled his K-bar out of its sheath and began cleaning his fingernails
with it.

Mellas knew the offer was another test. “Naw, I’ll go. Nothing else to do.” He began unfolding his own map, hoping Fitch wouldn’t
see that his hands were trembling.

Hawke walked up to them. “I had to jump on fucking Kendall for not getting his men clearing brush.” Hawke sighed and squatted
down. “You got any fucking coffee?”

“Hell, you’re the XO, Jayhawk, coffee is your job,” Fitch replied. “What did Kendall say?”

“Said he was sorry and he’d get on it. What do you mean
my
fucking job?”

“What else you got to do?” Mellas put in.

“Well, one thing I don’t have to do is take any fucking lip from wise-ass boot lieutenants, that’s for damn sure.”