Matterhorn (32 page)

“Bye.”

He walked out the door, closing it quietly so he wouldn’t disturb her roommates, and went down the stairs.

The cab was pulling up when he heard her running barefoot down the street, still in her long shirt. He stood there, paralyzed.
She reached him, eyes brimming with tears, and gave him a hug and a quick kiss and then pulled back.

The cabby had picked up his Val-Pak and was back behind the wheel, giving them some time.

Anne sat down on the curb. “Go on,” she said softly, looking across the empty street. “Go.”

His last view of her was through the rear window of the cab. She was sitting on the dirty curb, bent over, her hands wedged
between her face and her knees, shaking with sobs.

When they pulled out of sight of her, the cabby asked, not unkindly, “Going to Vietnam?”

“Yeah.”

“Tough good-bye.”

Hamilton was saying something that brought Mellas back to the present. “There must be some women, someplace, that think it’s
OK to be over here.”

“You know any?” Mellas asked. He was uncomfortably aware of how bitter he was getting. It was as if some other person inside
him sometimes used his vocal cords. He really hated women at some level, maybe because they stayed home and couldn’t get drafted.
Maybe it was the power they held over him because of his yearning to be with one, just to talk with one.

“No,” Hamilton said.

“There it is,” Mellas said softly to the dark wall of jungle. He turned to Hamilton. “Fuck it. I’m going to check lines.”
He left. Hamilton resumed staring at his short-timer’s chart.

Around three-thirty that morning Fitch informed the actuals of the task ahead of them, the colonel’s threat to relieve him,
and the underlying threat of a court-martial. Mellas, enraged, offered to resign and go on trial with Fitch. “You get this
thing out in the open and the Marine Corps would never stand for the bad publicity. They’d back down.”

“Mellas,” Hawke said, “this isn’t some fucking sequel to
The Caine Mutiny
.” Kendall and Goodwin laughed and Mellas had to smile in spite of his anger. “We got to be at Checkpoint Echo by tomorrow
noon,” Hawke continued. “That gives us about eight hours absolute maximum humping time to make Bravo, Charlie, and Delta.”
He turned to Fitch. “Ain’t no way, Jim. I’d lose comm. Blame it on the batteries. Just skip a couple of checkpoints. We’ll
be fucking lucky if we get there by tomorrow night with straight beelining.”

Fitch again began to bite his lower lip. “You don’t think we can make them all, huh?” he asked.

“Jim, have you seen Hippy’s feet?”

Fitch sucked in his cheeks, saying nothing.

“Maybe we could prep our route with the sixties,” Kendall put in, “and lighten up on the mortar rounds.”

“The last thing you’ll shit-can is ammunition, goddamn it,” Hawke said.

Kendall began to redden.

“That’s all we’ve got left,” Mellas said.

“That’s right. And your life.” Hawke took in a deep breath. “I want to impress on you boot motherfuckers just how far our
asses are hanging out. All the grunts go to Cam Lo. So where does the artillery go, especially with no grunts to run security?
Not only did they pull them out of Matterhorn, but yesterday we abandoned Eiger. That means all we’ve got is the eight inchers
out of Sherpa. That’s at their extreme range. Things get very wobbly at extreme range.” He wiggled his hand for emphasis.
“We all know the chances for air support in a monsoon: zilch point shit. So keep your fucking ammunition.”

This was the first time Mellas understood that Hawke was afraid. It sent a tremor of fear through him. He imagined the company
strung
out in one of the rocky canyons, getting ripped apart by mortars, or struggling up a steep hillside, a .51-caliber machine
gun across the valley raking them as they scrambled for cover where there was none. Mellas erupted. “Big John Six and his
fucking Checkpoint Echo, that cocksucking son of a bitch. He’ll actually fucking kill some of us just to make his goddamned
checkpoint.”

“There it is, Jack,” Goodwin said. “You don’t make general if you don’t make checkpoints.”

The rest of the day Mellas raged inwardly against the colonel. This gave him energy to keep moving, keep checking on the platoon,
keep the kids moving. But just below the grim tranquillity he had learned to display, he cursed with boiling intensity the
ambitious men who used him and his troops to further their careers. He cursed the air wing for not trying to get any choppers
in through the clouds. He cursed the diplomats arguing about round and square tables. He cursed the South Vietnamese making
money off the black market. He cursed the people back home gorging themselves in front of their televisions. Then he cursed
God. Then there was no one else to blame and he cursed himself for thinking God would give a shit.

The day ended in despair. The country had become a series of jagged limestone cliffs that weren’t shown on the map. It was
impossible to get a bearing on anything in the dark forest. They couldn’t even find the sun through the clouds. Hunger made
their stomachs hurt and drained their limbs of strength, but they knew the only way to reach food and safety was to keep moving.

The next day was the same. As their resistance lowered, the jungle rot got more severe. Pus erupted from skin. Ringworm spread
more rapidly, and several kids began to walk without trousers to avoid the painful irritation and chafing. That caused more
cuts from the bushes and more exposure to leeches.

Pat collapsed, his legs quivering with exhaustion. Arran draped the dog on the back of his neck, holding Pat’s legs over his
shoulders, asking every hour or two for an emergency medevac. “You don’t understand.
Dogs don’t have the same stamina as people. They just don’t.” It was the third full day without food.

Pallack wondered if dogs were smarter than people.

By the next day, some kids started eating the pulpy insides of various plants, not really certain what they were consuming.
Others peeled bark from trees and chewed the inside. By early afternoon many were puking as they walked, fouling their own
clothes or leaving sour-smelling patches of bile for those behind to avoid. Nothing helped.

Hippy kept thinking of the girl who had first told him about meditating one night when he was on liberty from Camp Pendleton.
He tried to concentrate on the
now
of the pain. She had told him that if he was uncomfortable on his knees in meditation, it was only because he was thinking
about the time stretching before him. “Are you able to stand it now?” she had asked him. “Yes,” he replied. “And now?” “Yes”
he had replied again.
And now
, the pain of putting his foot down hit him, but he could stand it.
And now
, on the other foot, but again he could survive.
And now
.
And now
. The hunger was nothing.

Mallory suddenly threw his heavy M-60 machine gun into the brush and flung himself down, holding his temples. He screamed
for someone to help him. “My fucking head hurts,” he sobbed. “Jesus Christ, my fucking head. Won’t someone believe me?”

Mellas found him writhing on the ground. “It fucking hurts me, Lieutenant,” Mallory sobbed.

A cry of “Corpsman up!” passed along the column. Doc Fredrickson came running, panting with the effort. Steam rose from his
sodden clothing. “Oh, it’s Mallory,” he said, barely concealing his disgust.

“Well?” Mellas said.

“I don’t know, Lieutenant. You got the same word I did. He’s got a head problem. There’s nothing physically wrong with him.”

“You can’t help him?”

“Do I look like Sigmund fucking Freud?”

Mellas took the handset from Hamilton’s flak jacket and radioed for Sheller, the senior squid. “It’s my character Mike with
the bad head,”
Mellas said. The column kept moving. Everyone looked numbly at Mallory while stepping over him. The two Marines carrying Williams’s
body stopped when they saw him, the body swaying slightly between them. One of them spat, and they struggled off.

The radio hissed and Fitch came up. “Look, Bravo One, I can’t stop this column for anything today. I’ll send the senior squid
back, but you be prepared to provide security. You’ll have to catch up with us best you can, even if you have to drag the
son of a bitch.”

Bass arrived before Sheller. He toed Mallory. Mallory responded with a moan.

Mellas squatted down beside him. “Mallory, you’ve got to understand. We’ve got to keep moving. If you don’t move, the whole
company is in danger. I know it hurts, but just try and move. You’ve got to try.”

“You don’t understand, it fucking hurts me.” Mallory sounded like a bewildered two-year-old.

Bass threw his rifle to the ground and grabbed Mallory by the front of his shirt, pulling him up to eye level. Mallory hung
limp in his hands. Bass was screaming at him. “Goddamn it, Mallory, you fucking crybaby. We get left with shit like you and
people like Williams die. You fucking coward. Walk!”

Mallory moaned, “I can’t.”

Bass, his face contorted, smashed his fist into Mallory’s face. Mallory moaned and dropped to the ground.

“That’s e-fucking-nough,” Mellas said, furiously. “Goddamn it, Bass.”

“There’s nothing wrong with him. He’s just fucking chickenshit.”

“I’ll decide that.”

The two of them stared at each other. Bass reached down, picked up his rifle, and humped off down the trail. Skosh looked
at Mallory, puzzled, then scurried after Bass.

“I’ll talk to Bass, Lieutenant,” Fredrickson said.

“I can’t really blame him,” Mellas said. “Look, tell Bass to take the platoon. I’ll drop off with the last fire team while
the senior squid checks him out.”

Fredrickson hurried after Skosh and Bass just as Sheller arrived with Cassidy. Mellas briefed Cassidy while Sheller bent over
Mallory, talking with him. The column disappeared ahead, leaving the small group alone. The Marines chosen for security nervously
covered the trail around them. Sheller stood up, shrugging his shoulders. “I can give him a bunch more of Darvon, but he’s
been eating that shit like popcorn.”

“Well, what in fuck do we do with him?” Mellas asked. “We’re in no condition to carry him.”

“Leave him,” Cassidy said, putting his hand on Mellas’s shoulder. Sheller looked at Cassidy in surprise.

“I can’t leave him here,” Mellas said. Cassidy winked and squeezed Mellas’s shoulder. “You’ve got to, Lieutenant. We’ve got
an entire company being jeopardized by this one individual. I ain’t seeing any good Marines die because one chickenshit fucking
coward refuses to hump.”

“Well,” Mellas said slowly.

“Grab his gun,” Cassidy said to one of the Marines standing watch. “Get his ammunition too.” They stripped Mallory of his
machine-gun gear, leaving him his .45 pistol and pack.

“You can’t leave me,” Mallory moaned.

“Try me,” Cassidy said. “I can leave a piece of shit like you any day of the week.” He nodded his head up the trail. “Let’s
go before we get into trouble,” he said.

The small group set off, a couple of the Marines looking back nervously. Cassidy grimly walked forward. After about fifty
meters he stopped and nodded them into the brush. Everyone lay down. They waited about five minutes. Mallory came running
wildly around the bend in the trail. Cassidy stuck the machine gun out, tripping him, and Mallory fell forward with a cry
of fear.

Cassidy stood over him and Mallory looked up, only to have the heavy machine gun thrown at him full in the face. It chipped
his tooth. Mellas winced.

“Get up, you coward,” Cassidy said quietly.

Mallory, his lips and gums bleeding, whimpered like a dog. He picked up the machine gun and, in a strange shuffling half trot,
headed up the trail toward the rest of the company.

“What’re you waiting for,” Cassidy growled at the other Marines, “a fucking skoshi cab?” Everyone hurried back up the trail
to catch the company, fearful of being separated.

Nightfall found them halfway up the side of a deep valley with no room to form a perimeter. They dug in, looping the company
in an oval over a protruding finger. If they were hit like this, they would probably be overrun.

They dug holes just sufficient to lie in horizontally. The fields of fire were cleared only a few feet beyond their holes.
Mellas dragged himself from hole to hole, cajoling, joking, pointing out the danger, trying to encourage everyone to hack
just a little more brush, dig just a little bit deeper.

When Mellas returned later to check on progress, he found most of the brothers gathered around Jackson’s record player. Mole
was there, as well as Broyer and Cortell. Mallory’s machine gun had been positioned to cover an approach route up a small
gulley, but Mallory was gone. So was Parker.

“Hey, Lieutenant, come on and have some supper,” Cortell called out, “we’re servin’ a little Memphis soul stew.”

Mellas laughed and walked up to the group, happy to be invited to listen. His heart swelled with pride at their good humor
in the face of all the misery. They were listening to King Curtis doing “Memphis Soul Stew,” the record moving unevenly as
the tone arm jerked up and down with the warps.