Matterhorn (41 page)

Henry chugged the second can of beer, then walked over to the end of his bunk and pulled out a whole case of Coca-Cola. He
levered open a can and handed it to China, grinning. “I got
ever
thing, brother.”

China took it and sat down on the rack facing Henry, the heavy seabag on the floor between his feet. He drank the warm Coke.
It tasted like summer back home. The joint got smoked down to where it was too hot to handle and one of Henry’s friends put
it in a silver roach clip. Henry had the last full pull before there was nothing left.

There was small talk, catching up, what brother made it home, what brother didn’t. Then Henry fixed on China’s eyes, a signal.
“Parker really try and frag that racist bastard?”

China hesitated. “I think so.”

Henry snorted. “Too bad he fucked up.”

There were nods and murmurs of agreement.

China wasn’t seeing the scene in the tent; he was seeing Parker being carried out of the perimeter in the dark, face bathed
in sweat, fear in his eyes. He had tapped knuckles and given Parker a reassuring handgrip. That was the last he would ever
see of Parker. He came back to the present. “I think the gunny must have spotted somethin’. He says it’s all bullshit.”

“Bull
shit
to that.”

“Yeah.” China didn’t know what to do with his empty can. “Yeah, bullshit to that.” He reached down to the seabag and unclipped
the shoulder strap that also secured it’s opening. “But I got somethin’ here ain’t no bullshit.” He pulled out the barrel
of an M-60 machine gun. Then he pulled out the back end, assembled it quickly, and handed it to the brother next to him. Then
he pulled out an AK-47 and did the same thing. Then he pulled out a .45 pistol and handed it to Henry. Then he pulled out
a second AK. He smiled. “For the brothers back home.”

Henry pulled back the receiver on the .45 and looked through the barrel. His two friends were similarly fiddling with the
AK-47s, which were rare in rear areas.

Henry smiled, almost sadly. “Where you get this shit, China?” he asked.

“We hit a big ammo dump. Me and some of the brothers been humpin’ them in pieces ever since. I got the M-60 parts just sayin’
mine worn out, little bit at a time, you know, and the .45, that’s a combat loss. It was mine. I got me a new one.”

Henry gave a sort of hummphh.

China looked at him. “Wha’chew mean,
hummphh
?”

Henry threw the .45 onto the end of his rack. “You think the brothers back home can’t get they own firearms? Shit, man. All
they need is money and they get all the fuckin’ firepower they want. Don’chew remember
you lived in fuckin’
Ah-mer-i-kuh
, China? We got more guns in Ah-mer-i-kuh than you mama got boyfriends she don’t know they names.”

China struggled to master his temper. The reference to his mother was a typical dozens insult. He wasn’t about to let Henry
know how close it had come to the truth. “Ever bit help, Henry.”

“Sheeit.” Henry stood up and walked over to a heavy, ornately carved Makassar ebony dresser he’d purchased in an illicit run
to Cam Lo, a matching piece for an equally heavy and ornate trunk with which he’d replaced his standard-issue footlocker.
“Besides, we don’t get back to the world real soon those brothers back home have no fucking idea what to do with all that
firepower. Sheeit, China. They be killin’ each other over who get to be professor of Black Studies at You Cee Ell Ay. Sheeit.
Killin’ each other over who gonna be teacher to rich white girls and little China boys.” He spun a combination padlock that
secured a beautiful silver hasp to one of the drawers.

“That killin’ be done by FBI undercover agents,” China said.

“Sheeit, China. Get real, huh? That be nothin’ but Slausens killin’ Avenues.” Henry pulled the drawer completely out, put
it on the steel runway matting that served as the tent’s floor, and started taking out clothes and other articles. Then he
carefully removed a false bottom and motioned China over to look at it. There were dozens of small plastic packages, some
filled with marijuana, some with blocks of hash, many with a slightly different, nearly white powder China thought might be
heroin. Henry then carefully replaced the false bottom. “Wha’chew think that is, China?”

China didn’t say anything.

Henry put the false bottom back and pointed a long graceful finger at it. “That be
green
power. I can turn that into so much fuckin’ artillery we can start our
own
fuckin’ war.” He started putting the clothes and other articles back in. “You go trade them AKs to some rear-area cracker
in Da Nang for some a that soda pop you like so much. Sheeit, China.” Henry’s friends broke into chuckles. One of them reached
into a side pocket in his trousers and pulled up a wad of military payment currency, waved it just slightly while smiling
at China, and then stuffed it back into the pocket.

China felt betrayed and foolish. He saw the amused eyes of Henry’s friends looking at him. Henry had his head cocked slightly
sideways and
upward, looking at him. China held his gaze. “That shit be bad for the brothers, Henry. Malcolm X say to lay off that shit.
The Panthers say to lay off that shit.”

“Who says I be sellin’ this shit to the brothers?”

“You don’t tell me you just sellin’ it to chucks.”

“Naw. Maybe I ain’t. So what?”

“That shit be bad.”

“So we fuck up some white boys with it. People buy this shit be nothin’ but dumb fuckin’ animals anyway.”

“That’s what the mob say about sellin’ shit to the black man.”

“So now we gettin’ even.”

China set his lips tight. “You givin’ all the money to the brothers back home?”

“Wha’chew think?” Henry’s tone was edgy.

China didn’t answer. If Henry was, he’d say yes, and if he wasn’t, he’d still say yes. China knew when to drop something that
needed dropping.

He looked down at the weapons, wondering what to do with them. Henry stepped in and rescued him. “Hey, man. It cool. It all
cool. You just leave that shit with us and next time one’a the brothers get back to Da Nang we trade it for some good stuff
with the Navy and Air Force boys and keep what we get for you next time you out of the bush. You done good, brother. You tryin’.”

Henry’s patronizing tone increased the humiliation. China put on a cool exterior. “Yeah. OK. I got to get back before I get
missed too much.” He turned to Henry’s friends and went through the hand dance. “You brothers stay cool, OK?”

“Yeah. We be cool. You too, man.”

China slipped out of the tent into the warm dark. He knew that in many ways he had experienced a serious defeat, and not just
his own.

“You a lifer, Lieutenant Fracasso?” Jancowitz asked blearily. It was now well past midnight and the drinking had been going
on for hours.

Fracasso seemed uncomfortable. Getting drunk with the men the first night wasn’t how he had expected to take over command
as a new lieutenant. “What do you think, Corporal Jancowitz?” he replied.

“Shit, Lieutenant. I don’t know. Call me Janc.” Jancowitz paused a little and Mellas could almost see the thoughts muddling
around in his head the way he was muddling the beer around in the can.

“I really like the Marine Corps,” Fracasso answered carefully. “Right now I think I’ll be staying in.”

“Goddamn, sir,” Bass hooted. “It’s about fucking time we got a lieutenant with some sense.” Bass hiccupped at just the right
moment to make them all laugh.

“Some lifers are OK,” Jancowitz said with finality, “and some ain’t.”

“There it is,” said Fredrickson. “I’ll drink to that.”

“Fuckin’ A right you will, you squid asshole,” Jancowitz returned.

“I said I would and I will, you jarhead asshole.”

“And I said that’s fuckin’ A right. Aw, you’re a good fucking squid.” Jancowitz turned, smiled at everyone, and fell over
backward, out cold.

“You see, sir?” Bass said. “No fucking staying power like us lifers.”

“I guess not, Sergeant Bass,” Fracasso said. He smiled awkwardly.

They sat in beery silence for a moment. Then the silence was broken by an animal-like scream.

“Fuckin’ white-ass narco bastard. I’ll kill him. I’ll kill him!”

One of the groups in front of the large tent erupted in violent movement. Fracasso was instantly running to the fight. Mellas
was so sick and weary he barely could get to his feet, but he lurched after Fracasso.

When Mellas got there a new guy was lying flat on his back, his face bleeding badly. Mellas saw the broken stubs of his two
front teeth. Standing over him and breathing very hard was China. He had an E-tool in his hand.

“Don’t you get enough fucking fighting, China?” Jacobs screamed. He came hurtling across the small circle at China and they
both went down to the ground.

“He got a knife, brother. He got a fucking knife.”

Mellas broke through the crowd and jumped on Jacobs as hard as he could. He saw Cortell, his high forehead glistening, come
in for China and tackle him. Without any sign, both Marines stopped struggling.

“Anybody bleeding?” Mellas was breathing hard.

“Aw, shit, sir,” Jacobs said, “I ain’t got a fucking knife.” He opened his hand, pinned to his side by Mellas. It showed a
muddy harmonica. Several people laughed.

“First time I ever heard of assault with a deadly mouth harp,” Mellas said. “You two OK now?”

“Yeah,” China muttered.

“He didn’t have to hit him with the fucking E-tool,” Jacobs said.

“Fuckin’ CID,” said China. He meant the criminal investigation division. “Fuckin’ cunt don’t deserve to be alive.”

Mellas stood and helped Jacobs to his feet.

“How do you know he was from CID?” Mellas asked China, ignoring the moans of the man on the ground. Cortell still had his
hands on China’s arm.

“He’s a narc. You can smell the fuckers.”

“He ask you for some dope or something?” Mellas asked.

“Yeah. He ask me for dope.”

“Maybe he just wanted some. Did you ever think of that?”

“Why he ask
me
, huh? Why he ask
me
? A fuckin’ chuck askin’ a splib for dope. Shit, man. I don’t even do that shit.”

Mellas looked at the figure on the ground and bent down toward him. Fredrickson was already pushing in with his kit to start
patching the guy up. If he went to the battalion aid station there’d be shit to pay and the company would lose both China
and Jacobs. They were both too good to let go.

“Hey,” Fredrickson said to the man on the ground. “What’s your name, huh? You hear me?”

The man groaned a name.

“You in Bravo Company?” Mellas asked.

The man nodded.

“Were you asking about dope?”

The man shook his head.

“He’s fuckin’ lying, Lieutenant,” China cried. The man gave a hoarse scream and went for China, but both Fredrickson and Mellas
held him down. China had the E-tool positioned for a perfect butt stroke, sharp end toward the man. It probably would have
killed him.

“You’re a fucking fool,” Mellas said quietly to the man on the ground. He heard Bass clearing the Marines out, sending them
away from the fight. He turned to Jacobs and China. “I’ll see you two tomorrow about this. Now go sleep it off.”

Fracasso was standing there with his mouth wide open.

“Hey, Fracasso, don’t worry about it,” Mellas said. “They’re just letting off steam.”

He looked at the man on the ground. He had no idea whether the man was CID or not, but one thing was certain: he couldn’t
stay in the company. “Hey, look, whatever your name is, I’m going to transfer you out of the company. We can get it done,
don’t worry. You just keep quiet and this fight will never get on your record, all right?”

“I don’t make deals,” the man said, spitting out blood.

Bass shouted, “What?” He jumped on top of him. “You don’t say fucking things like that to the lieutenant, you understand?”
He started beating the man’s head against the ground, rattling his body with his short solid forearms. “You fucking understand?”
The man couldn’t answer, because his head was being pounded into the ground.

Finally Bass stopped and started talking very quietly and very quickly, straddling his chest. “The lieutenant here just offered
you two things. Your next promotion, if you want one, and your fucking life, because believe me, you fucking sneaky CID asshole,
you’d last about one fucking hour on an operation if you don’t make a deal.”

“OK,” the man croaked.

They took him to the supply tent, where Fitch was wearily catching up on paperwork by the light of a single candle. Fitch
sent him back to the rear with a letter to Top Seavers the next morning, and that was the last they ever heard of him. Bass
punished both Jacobs and China by taking them out of their place in line for KP duty.

The next day the company moved to a cluster of drooping tents that bordered a secondary landing strip. On the other side of
the strip a stream meandered through a broad valley. Vandegrift Combat Base sat in the middle of that valley, between jungled
ridges to its east and west. Across the stream on a small hill stood the bunkers and radio antennae of Task Force Oscar. No
one in the company knew what Task Force Oscar did. The Marines could hear the sound of the generator that ran the air-conditioning
and electric lights. Occasionally an Army helicopter would arrive and a high-ranking Army officer would be met by someone
in a jeep to be carried 200 meters to the air-conditioned bunker or the small officers’ club next to it. Civilians, looking
overweight and out of place in Army fatigues without any insignia, came as well; they were probably from AID and the CIA,
or journalists afraid to go out in the bush.