Matterhorn (42 page)

Upstream from Task Force Oscar was a contingent of South Vietnamese troops who apparently also did nothing. The Marines watched
them with unconcealed hostility, hating them for sitting around while others died fighting their battles, hating them because
their very existence served as part of the lie that had brought American troops to Vietnam in the first place. It was easier
to hate a visible part of the lie than it was to hate the liars, who, after all, were their own countrymen: the fat American
civilians and rear-area rangers who flitted back and forth with briefcases, sweaty faces, and shiny unused pistols. But the
Marines hated them too. Some Marines hated the North Vietnamese Army and some didn’t, but at least the NVA had the Marines’
respect.

Caught up in the work of getting the tents into shape and cleaning out trenches, the Marines of the company could forget momentarily
that they were waiting to be dropped into combat. But whenever a jeep came around the curve of the road a little faster than
normal, or a helicopter rushed over their heads, fear and apprehension would return.

Mellas took the opportunity provided by his new position to ask if he could accompany Fitch to the next battalion briefing.
Fitch agreed. The next morning the two of them entered the large tent that also served as a chapel and sat down on folding
chairs. Hawke joined them. He had
shaved off his mustache, and the sight almost made Mellas wince. It was a clear sign that Hawke was knuckling under to the
rear-area chickenshit. Hawke was also wearing shiny new boots. Mellas whistled and pointed at them. Hawke flipped him the
bird.

Major Blakely entered the tent and called everyone to attention. The colonel followed, striding briskly, nodding to Blakely
to begin the meeting. Everyone sat down. Mellas looked sideways at Hawke, conveying the disgust he felt at the formal structure
of rank and privilege. Hawke chose not to notice.

Blakely stood with his back to the rough wooden altar and announced the disposition of the companies. Then the staff NCOs
began to read out their reports. Some of them seemed nearly illiterate, but others were highly efficient and professional,
making suggestions that Mellas could see were crucial to the operation of the battalion rear. Father Riordan, the Navy chaplain,
got up and announced the coming services for the various faiths, trying to be one of the boys.

At his appointed time, Sergeant Major Knapp rose, his slightly rounded body encased in starched jungle utilities, and began
his part of the briefing. “Gentlemen, staff NCOs,” he said. “With the entire battalion moving in, the battalion commander
feels, and I agree, that we have to be extra careful about our standards of appearance. I expect the staff NCOs to have every
man looking like A. J. Squaredaway. We’ve particularly noticed the proliferation of beads, emblems, hangmen’s nooses, and
mustaches.” Knapp looked directly at Fitch and Mellas. “Mustaches are a privilege for E-5s or higher. They are to be closely
clipped and not extended beyond the outer edge of the upper lip. Now I know we don’t have as many E-5s as we do mustaches”—he
chuckled good-humoredly—“so let’s get that kind of crap cleaned up. I’ll be talking directly to all the staff NCOs as the
companies come in.” Knapp smiled, turned to Blakely, and smiled again. “That’s all I have today, sir.”

“Thank you, Sergeant Major,” Blakely said. Blakely turned to Simpson. “It’s yours, sir.”

Simpson nodded and walked up to the pulpit to address his command. His sleeves were rolled neatly, and his silver leaves shone
on his collar next to the wrinkled red skin of his neck. He reminded Mellas of
an irritable gnome. A rednecked gnome with a redneck Georgia accent, trying to act like gentry.

“Gentlemen, staff NCOs,” he began. “First Battalion’s going to get a goddamned chance to breathe. Then we’ll be pushing off
on the next operation. I can’t tell you what that operation will be, but rest assured we’ll be out in the bush either as individual
companies, performing our constant task of hitting the enemy, interdicting his supply routes, uncovering his hospitals and
ammunition caches, or”—he paused significantly—“we shall be working as we should, one entire massed battalion, kicking the
hell out of Charlie in a major strike against his north-south supply lines.” He paused to look at his men. Mellas was slumped
in his chair, picking at some jungle rot on his hand. Fitch was writing something in his notebook. Hawke stared vacantly ahead.

“Gentlemen,” Simpson continued, “we are under the happy circumstances that by tomorrow evening the entire battalion, less
one platoon guarding the Khe Gia Bridge, shall be here in Vandegrift Combat Base. I have decided it is a splendid opportunity
to hold a formal mess night, a gathering of the officers of the battalion in an evening of fellowship and camaraderie. The
mess night will go at eighteen-hundred hours, with cocktails in my quarters, to adjourn to the officers’ mess at nineteen-hundred
for a meal that I am sure Master Sergeant Hansen will have prepared to be fit for a king. I expect everyone to look their
best.”

There was silence in the tent. People smiled nervously. The staff sergeants, who weren’t invited, looked the most uncomfortable.
Mellas turned to look at Hawke and conspicuously opened his mouth to mime shocked surprise. Hawke ignored him.

Major Blakely stood up. “I’m sure the officers who will be coming in from the bush, and of course all of us here, are going
to be looking forward to Thursday night. I don’t know if the younger officers are aware of it or not, but the tradition of
mess night is one that goes back in time to our predecessors, the Royal Marines. To get a chance to do it while experiencing
the intensity of combat is something that none of us will ever forget.”

“He can say that again,” Mellas whispered, looking straight ahead. He expected some reply from Hawke but got none. Hawke had
taken out his notebook and was writing in it, an intent expression on his face.

After the meeting broke up Mellas stopped Hawke just outside the tent. “What the hell happened to your stache?” he asked.

“It fell off. What the fuck you think happened to it?”

“You didn’t have to shave your fucking sense of humor off with it.”

“Look, Mellas, the fucking Three and the colonel are on a big thing about beads, mustaches, hippy hairdos, and
hangman nooses
, so everyone in battalion had to shave. I’m in the battalion. Remember?”

Mellas’s anger at the colonel flashed to the surface. “What’s the fucking point? It’s one small thing these guys can do that
gives them some kind of pride, and these rear-area chickenshit fucks just take it away from them.”

“Look, smart guy,” Hawke said, “you push the colonel and the Three too hard and you’re going to get into trouble. They’re
already just about as pissed as they can get.”

“What they got to be pissed about?”

“Simpson went on record—more than once—about Bravo Company’s objectives. He had to eat crow every time, in front of half the
officers in the regiment, because of Bravo Company.”

“He’s the one that laid on the asinine fucking demands.”

“That’s beside the point, and you’re smart enough to know it. The point is the colonel’s been passed over for bird colonel
once already. This battalion is his last fucking chance. If he doesn’t make it, it’ll be Bravo Company’s fault. The Three
is just a younger, smarter version of Simpson, and he isn’t above making a few sacrifices to further his career either. And
I don’t mean personal sacrifices.”

“So they’re all playing politics. Nothing new to me.”

“No, by God, I’ll bet it isn’t.”

The two of them stood there facing off.

“I’m trying to tell you, don’t fuck around with the guy,” Hawke said. “First Battalion isn’t high on Mulvaney’s list right
now, and Simpson thinks Bravo Company’s the reason. You guys are going to make or break his career as far as he’s concerned.”

“Fuck him. I’ll do anything in my power to keep that cocksucker from getting promoted.” Mellas started to walk away.

Hawke grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around. “You listen to me, you hotshot Ivy League piece of shit. I don’t give
a goddamn what you do to yourself, but you’re not going to fuck up the kids in this company. Those are my fucking guys and
I’ll be goddamned if you or anyone else is going to fuck them up because of some personal vendetta. I don’t give a shit how
justified you think it is. I’ve walked a fuckload more shitty operations under that guy than you have.” Hawke was breathing
hard. “You just get one thing straight, Mr. Politician: the colonel controls the helicopters.”

Hawke released Mellas’s shirt. His hands were shaking. Mellas backed away, frightened. They stood there looking at each other,
breathing hard. Mellas realized how close they’d come to a real fight, how he’d developed a hair-trigger temper. He could
see that Hawke felt bad, too. Mellas wanted to reach out and touch him, say he’d been an ass. He couldn’t bear the thought
of Hawke not being his friend any more. The reference to his education and aspirations was especially hurtful. “I’ll talk
to Jim,” Mellas said. “We’ll clean up. I didn’t mean to be an asshole about it.”

Hawke was looking at the hills, not at Mellas. He fumbled in his shirt pocket. “I can’t find a cigar,” he said.

“It’s good you can’t find it,” Mellas said. “You want to get your ass out of here and die of cancer a few years later?”

“You believe that bullshit?” Hawk asked.

“Uh-huh.”

They looked at each other, both aware they were talking about death. Then Hawke spoke quietly. “I’m an asshole myself sometimes.
The colonel’s not the only one who’s ambitious. Sure, I wanted Bravo Company when Jim got it. I had more time in the bush,
and Jim made mistakes I’d already made and paid for, and I had to watch it happen all over again.” His eyes went blank. Mellas
sensed that he was replaying some terrible scene. Hawke snapped back. “I don’t want it to happen again. You know what that
means? What I have to do to play the game?”

Mellas nodded. “Ted, I don’t want the company. I just want out of the bush.”

“Let’s at least not lie to each other,” Hawke said.

“OK,” Mellas said softly, “I want it too.” Then he quickly added, “But I’d gladly hump under you, Hawke. Really. I don’t want
it that bad.”

“I didn’t think I did either.”

There was an uncomfortable silence. “I got to get back,” Mellas said finally.

“Sure.”

Mellas walked away, dejected. He wanted Hawke’s friendship in the worst way.

“Hey, Mel,” Hawke called. Mellas, his hands in his back pockets, turned to face Hawke. “McCarthy and Murphy are both going
to be in from the bush. You know the platoon commander who had the dead guy when we flip-flopped with Alpha and Charlie?”

“Yeah?”

“That’s McCarthy. Murphy’s the big guy who was on the LZ.”

Mellas looked a little puzzled.

“With the tic.”

Mellas nodded.

“That’s the mystery tour team. You want to come along? I’ll sponsor you.”

“Sure,” Mellas said. “But what the hell’s a mystery tour?”

“It’s a fucking
drunk
, Mellas.”

Mellas smiled sheepishly. “What time?”

When Mellas reached the company, he was greeted with more than a few sarcastic jeers.

“Lieutenant, you gonna send home for your dress blues for tomorrow night?”

“You officers getting your nails buffed so you don’t fuck up the silverware?”

“They gonna start issuing tablecloths with the C-rats, Lieutenant?”

Mellas had to take the ribbing, and he knew it. Mess night was a dumb fucking idea. He went over to his rubber lady and lay
down with a dog-eared copy of James Michener’s
The Source
, for which he’d traded
two Louis L’Amour shit-kickers. He tried to lose himself in ancient Israel.

He was interrupted by China. “Hey, sir, can we talk to you?” A tall black Marine stood behind China at the opening of the
tent.

Mellas motioned them in. “What’s on your mind?” he asked.

“Uh, sir,” China said, pointing to his friend, “this is Lance Corporal Walker. We call him Henry. He’s from H & S Company.”

“Hello, Walker.” Mellas held out his hand and they shook.

“We got ourselves a little sort of club,” China went on. “We get together ever once in a while. Play some sounds. You know.”

“Sounds nice,” Mellas said, trying to be casual. He was beginning to feel uneasy, particularly with Walker, who scared him.
He decided to be direct. “Cassidy said you had some sort of black power group you were involved in. Is that what he means?”

They both laughed. “Cassidy.” China spat the name out. “That fuckin’ redneck cracker don’t know shit from Shinola. Black power.
Sheeit. That’s a word for a political movement and that’s what it mean. Cassidy just a fuckin’ bigot.”

There was silence. Mellas wondered if he should tell them he used to be a member of SNCC, the Student Nonviolent Coordinating
Committee, which organized students to go to the South for voter registration when he was a freshman at Princeton. That was
before Stokely Carmichael threw the whites out and Mellas found other things to do with his time, like driving to Bryn Mawr.

China broke the silence. “We just got this club is all. It ain’t no fuckin’ black power harum-scarum. We got enough fuckin’
violence round here. Besides, black power ain’t about violence. It be about black people gettin’ political and economic power.
It be about self-
image
and
leadership
and gettin’ the law to treat us the same as whites. That sound scary to you, sir?”

“Sounds like a good enough thing to me,” Mellas said. He wished China would come to the point but was afraid to push him.

“Yeah, sir. It is a good thing. See, Henry here and me, we sort of run the meetins an’ make the policy, you know?” China’s
husky voice seemed to hide his inner detachment. Mellas could see a twinkle of merriment in his eyes, as if there were another
China sitting back from the conversation,
watching the three of them and laughing his ass off. “Well, sir,” China added, “we want to try and smooth out some of the
differences between blacks and whites right here in our own area. You see, sir, we get a lot of literature from the brothers
back home, and a lot of the stuff is hard stuff, man.
Hard
stuff. I mean they are advocatin’
vi
olence.”