Matterhorn (46 page)

Jancowitz laughed out loud. He couldn’t imagine why he’d ever need one of those to get a job.

They walked along silently for a while.

“I hear there’s going to be a movie tonight,” Broyer said. “And maybe even a Red Cross girl.”

“That’s an old rumor. They don’t let Red Cross girls out of Da Nang. They say it’s too dangerous. Such horseshit. They don’t
let the fucking Budweiser and air mattresses out of Da Nang either.”

“But the movie isn’t a rumor,” Broyer said.

“I bet you it’s a fucking cowboy show.”

Broyer laughed quietly, and they walked along in silence again. Overhead they heard the gentle honking of some geese and they
both looked up at a small flock of about six moving north. They stood and watched until the geese were lost in the clouds
hiding Mutter’s Ridge.

“Makes me homesick,” Jancowitz said quietly.

“Me too,” Broyer answered.

When they rounded the last bend before their tents by the airfield, Jancowitz said, “Well, I’ll be fucked.” Arran was sitting
on the ground, leaning his back against his pack. Pat was beside him in the down position, head and reddish ears alert, panting
quietly, watching the two of them approach. Pat looked questioningly at Arran, who said, “OK.” Pat got to his feet and trotted
over to greet Jancowitz and Broyer.
He put his muzzle right in Broyer’s crotch, and Broyer giggled and started ruffling his fur. Then Pat danced away and circled
behind Jancowitz, nuzzling up against the back of his knees, causing Jancowitz to giggle as well.

“Looks like he’s singled you guys out,” Arran called.

“Yeah, the old quitter,” Jancowitz said fondly, rubbing Pat’s head. “How long did it take for him to get back on his feet?”

“Aw, about a week. We just fucked off back at scout platoon, both of us getting fat and happy.” He smiled and got to his feet,
snapping his fingers quietly. “We were already dumb.” Pat quickly moved into heel position. Arran turned to Broyer, nodding
his head toward Jancowitz. “This crazy motherfucker got you broken in yet?”

Broyer grinned. “Yeah.”

“You watch out for him, Broyer. Janc’s the only other crazy motherfucker I know besides me upped for an extension in the Nam.
Of course he did it for some chick in Bangkok, not someone who’d really stand by you.” He squatted down and grabbed Pat on
both sides of his jowls, putting his face right into Pat’s nose, moving it back and forth. “Won’t you, boy? Won’t you, you
dumb sheepdog?” He stood again. It was well known that Arran had extended his tour twice because the scout dogs couldn’t be
transferred to other handlers, and when their tour was over, they were killed. Someone back in the world had declared them
too dangerous to bring home.

“You back with us for a while?” Jancowitz asked.

“Not as long as you’re on Bald fucking Eagle, I ain’t,” Arran answered. “No need for a fucking four-legged radar set when
they dump you right in the middle of the shit.” He turned to Pat. “We’re specialists, ain’t we, Pat?” Pat wagged his tail.

“What’re you doing here, then?” Jancowitz asked.

“We’re going out with Alpha One Fifteen tomorrow. They’re getting dropped in the east end of the Da Krong Valley. Lots of
sensor activity.” He stopped short and grinned. “You ain’t supposed to hear that, otherwise I’d have to kill you.”

“The fucking gooks already know about it anyway,” Jancowitz said, not really joking.

There was an awkward silence. Janc realized that Arran had come over because he was going out in the jungle again and wanted
to say good-bye.

“You’ll be OK,” Janc finally said. “Hell, you’re the one’s got Pat.”

Arran grinned, looked down at Pat, and then looked up at the clouds, embarrassed. “Hope you motherfuckers don’t get launched,”
he said. “We’ll see you on your next op.”

They watched Arran and Pat walk off. They all knew that it could be the last time.

At dinner that evening Blakely and Simpson walked to the head of the chow line where Marines on KP slopped large spoonfuls
of food onto trays. One of the Marines splattered a speck of gravy on Blakely’s sleeve. Blakely glared at him, unable to sop
it up because both hands were holding the tray.

“Sorry, sir,” the young Marine stammered.

Blakely smiled. “It’s OK, Tiger. Just don’t get so damn eager.”

Blakely followed Simpson into the officers’ and NCOs’ mess. Someone shouted “Attention” and everyone rose. Simpson grunted
“As you were,” and everyone resumed eating, all conversation dulled temporarily until Simpson and Blakely got settled. Blakely
got up soon after they had seated themselves and poured two mugs of coffee. He returned to his seat and said to Simpson, “I
heard there was another fragging last night, down south. You hear about it, sir?”

Simpson looked up, washing down a mouthful of noodles with coffee. “Fuck, no. Who?”

“Some mustang lieutenant in Three Eleven. Three or four of the bastards rolled grenades under his rack while he was sleeping.
Someone saw them running away. Black radicals. Nothing left for evidence but monkey meat.”

“Fucking rear-area poags,” Simpson said. “If any of that shit happens around here I’ll string every black power son of a bitch
up by his nuts.” Simpson downed the rest of his coffee with a gulp. “We ought to send every black son of a bitch to the bush.
That’d stop this shit.” He
looked at his empty cup. “How about a little of that pink Portuguese stuff?” he asked.

Blakely walked over to the cabinet where the colonel’s case of Mateus was kept. He looked through the insect screen to where
the enlisted men were eating. He noticed most of the blacks together in one corner. A few fine wrinkles creased his forehead.
He broke the wine bottle’s seal, pulled the cork stopper, and poured two glasses.

“May you be ten minutes in heaven before the devil knows you’re gone,” Simpson said, raising his glass and gulping a large
swallow. Blakely was aware that Simpson prided himself on knowing many different toasts in different languages. He smiled
appropriately and drank. Simpson drank some more. “Good fucking stuff,” he said.

Blakely chose not to agree, rather than to disagree. After a moment he said, “Sir, did you ever think about maybe getting
someone to watch your quarters at night?”

“You think I’m chickenshit?”

“No sir. But that fragging was the third one in the last two months.” Blakely lowered his voice and leaned over the table.
“I heard, strictly scuttlebutt, that someone tried to kill Cassidy, the new Area NCOIC we picked up from Bravo Company. That’s
why the sergeant major told me he got the idea to transfer him.”

“Why aren’t we investigating the fucking incident?”

“Apparently the black that did it was Bravo’s cerebral malaria case. I’m not sure we want to stir that up.”

Simpson nervously twirled the pink wine in his glass. “I’m glad to see there’s some fucking justice in the world. That was
smart of Knapp.” He tossed down the wine. “I think I’ll go check out the situation at the COC.” He rose to his feet, and so
did everyone else. He waved the others down with, “As you were, gentlemen.”

Sitting alone in the tent he shared with his squad, Jancowitz didn’t need to visit the COC to know what was going on in the
regiment’s area of operation. In his mind’s eye he could see the units out in the bush setting their trip flares and putting
out their listening posts. He watched
as furtive figures, two by two, slipped beyond the lines, carrying their poncho liners and radios with them. He knew he could
relax for the moment. There would be no “exploitation” by the Bald Eagle unit until daylight. A night helicopter lift took
far too much planning. The units were on their own.

He took out his short-timer’s chart and carefully filled in another day. He’d been in Vietnam twenty-two months. Well, really
only nineteen and three quarters if you subtracted the first week of R & R in Bangkok, when he’d met Susi, and the two thirty-day
leaves. He took out his wallet and looked at the picture he’d taken of Susi when she was asleep on his bed in the hotel. He
tried to remember the smell of her hair, but that was even more difficult than remembering her face. All he could smell was
the mothballs and oil of the sagging tent.

He walked down to the open pit that had been converted to a small outdoor theater. About a hundred people were sitting there
on old crates and boxes. A slight drizzle was starting to fall, but it was warm, unlike the drizzle up in the mountains, and
Jancowitz hardly noticed it. He put his hands in his pockets and waited for the movie to begin.

Nothing happened. The projector sat dumbly as the Marines waited for someone to arrive with the film.

Fifteen minutes later the crowd was becoming restless. Voices became louder. A beer can was thrown and one Marine jumped up
to take the challenge, only to be pulled down by his friends. More beer was opened. A group of blacks had formed over to the
left side of the theater. A white Marine got up to take a piss and had to walk through or around them. He asked one of them
to move. It was Henry.

“Hey, mother
fuck
, I don’t move for nobody ’less I want to,” Henry said.

The crowd grew quiet.

Henry moved his face inches from the white kid’s. The white kid stepped back but could go no farther because of some chairs
behind him. Several white kids stood up and moved closer to him, offering silent support. Some of the blacks rearranged themselves,
forming a semicircle to the side of the two who stood staring at each other. Jancowitz noticed that Broyer and Jackson were
with the group, as was China.

Mole stood up on the far side of the open space where he’d been talking to Vancouver. The two of them looked at each other
quickly, then averted their eyes. Mole started edging around the outside of the circle, keeping close to the clay wall of
the pit.

Jancowitz had seen it start before. Everyone was scared not to be with his own race. Once fighting began, sides would be drawn
and no amount of time together in the bush could break the barrier. Jancowitz had no idea what he would do, but he found himself
walking quickly over to where Mole was moving around the outside edge of the circle, getting himself into position. Whites,
feeling the same pressure as Mole, were gradually shifting to join their own color, no one wishing to be isolated when it
happened. Jancowitz hissed at Mole. “Get the fuck out of here, Mole. You too, Vancouver. Just get the fuck out of here.”

Mole looked over at the group of brothers forming at the side of the area, then at Janc. He shook his head, sadly, and continued
toward the forming sides.

Jancowitz turned to see what Vancouver was doing. He, like Mole, understood that he was one of the best fighters and he had
to support his color when the shit came down. He moved toward the group forming around the white Marine. Jancowitz could see
that although they were all friends in the bush, here in civilization friendship was impossible.

Jancowitz ran up to the projector and jerked the cord of the small gasoline generator. The cough of the engine broke the silence.
Marines of both colors looked to see its cause, to see if an officer had arrived, to see if there was some way out of the
impending violence. Jancowitz turned on the camera and a brilliant white square appeared on the canvas screen. Then he calmly
walked in front of the stream of white light and formed a shadow picture of a bird. A couple of people laughed nervously.

“All right, Janc,” someone called.

“Is that all you can make is birds?”

“Fuck, no,” he answered. He immediately began talking. “I got this girl down in Bangclap. Holy fuck you never seen a girl
like this one.” The shadows suddenly became two legs, spread wide apart. “Now I been in the Nam eighteen months and twenty-seven
days.” An erect penis,
quivering, replaced the legs. “Of course I just got back from thirty days in Bangclap, you sorry motherfuckers.” The penis
went limp and there was laughter. “But then this girl.” The legs reappeared and the penis began to slowly rise, fall, then
rise again, egged on by the cheers of the Marines. “I’d lay forty miles of wire through the Au Shau Valley just to hear her
piss over the phone.” The penis went erect and cheers reverberated through the group.

The white kid who’d been trying to take a piss continued on his way with only a dark glance from Henry. Soon other kids stuck
their hands into the stream of light, making their own figures on the screen, eliciting raucous and sarcastic commentary accompanied
by the sounds of cans of beer being opened. Voices began to rise in a murmur of conversation.

Jancowitz sat down, still filled with adrenaline, feeling an immense longing for Susi, her clear brown skin and long black
hair. Vancouver walked up to him and handed him a beer. “That was close, Janc. We’d been in the shit for sure, ay?” Jacobs
also walked up and put his hand on Jancowitz’s shoulder.

Then the screen went dark.

A groan arose from the crowd and people turned to look into the darkness behind them. A gunnery sergeant from base services
was standing next to the projector with two large canisters of film under his arms.

“All right, who turned on the fucking generator?” The kids who’d been making shadow pictures sank quietly into the crowd.

There was silence.

The man spoke again, long years of authority in his voice. “If I don’t get the wise guy that turned on this fucking generator
there ain’t going to be no movie tonight.”

A murmur of discontent rose in volume. The gunnery sergeant shifted his eyes from side to side, surprised at the rebellion
in the air, but even more determined to see his job through. “I don’t care how long it takes, ladies, for one of you to come
up here and tell me you started this generator, because I’ve seen this movie before. I’ll give you one more minute, and then
I’m leaving.”

“Oh, fuck,” Jancowitz said quietly. He rose, tired, and faced the man. “I started the fucking generator, Gunny. Movies were
supposed to go at 1930 hours, so I thought I’d start them on time.”

“Come up here, Marine.”

Jancowitz slowly walked up to the gunnery sergeant. He could smell liquor on the sergeant’s breath. The gunnery sergeant took
out a notebook and pen. “I want your name, rank, and unit, Marine. And then I want your ass out of the area. Is that clear?”