Matterhorn (57 page)

The time was only 1015.

They redistributed water, food, and ammunition from the dead, including the NVA. Some Marines kept the NVA water in separate
canteens from their own. Others just dumped the two together. It made little difference. Machine gunners met and split their
remaining rounds evenly.

All day they sat or stood in their holes, staring at the fog. Every so often someone would shout “Tubing!” and they would
squeeze down, knees up to their helmets, waiting for the sounds that would let them know they weren’t the ones who were hit.

By evening, as a result of the hammering by the NVA mortars, Mellas’s mind was running out of control. At some point he’d
taken a second flak jacket off a dead body and put it on over his own. His mind wouldn’t stop calculating: if one flak jacket
will take fifty percent of the flak, then two will take seventy-five percent. If I wear three, that will be eighty-seven and
a half percent, and four will be ninety-three and three-quarters percent. He would keep this up until his fogged mind could
divide no further; then, for some reason, he would start up again. If one will block half, then two will block three-quarters
… He tried to shut the calculations off. He walked from hole to hole talking to people. But then he would hear the tubing,
and he would know more shells were on their way. He would scramble for the nearest hole and once again go through the numbers,
waiting for the explosions. He remembered a lecture about how mortars are fairly ineffective against troops that are dug in.
But the lecturer hadn’t mentioned the psychological effect on the troops.

At dusk Fitch called an actuals meeting in the bunker. Kendall arrived before the others, very subdued. Word about his fuckup
had spread all
over the hill. He looked guiltily at Relsnik and Pallack and mumbled a greeting to Fitch. He sat down in the darkness, his
arms holding his knees close to his chest, to wait for the others to arrive.

“How’re you doing?” Fitch asked.

“OK, Skipper.”

“The platoon?”

“A few more shrapnel wounds, nothing serious. They’re tired. Real thirsty. We haven’t slept in two nights.”

“No one else has either,” Fitch said, sighing.

“I didn’t mean it that way, Skipper,” Kendall said.

“Sure, I know.” Fitch smiled. “Hey, I really know. Don’t worry about it.”

They were both silent. They could hear one of the listening posts checking out the radio before leaving the lines. “Bravo
One, Bravo One, this is Milford. Comm check. Over.” Since Milford was a town in Connecticut, the speaker was one of First
Platoon’s LPs.

“I got you Loco Cocoa, Milford.” This was Jackson’s voice, saying he could hear the transmission loud and clear. “Hey, the
actual says he wants to talk to you before you head out. Over.”

“Roger One. He coming down here? Over.”

“Wait one.” There was a pause. “That’s affirmed. He says he’ll be there in zero three. Over.”

“Milford out,” the voice acknowledged.

Fitch chuckled. Kendall knew that Fitch was trying to raise his spirits. “Mellas thought he wanted to be the Five,” Fitch
said, “but I think he’s much happier as Bravo One Actual. He’d rather be checking out his LP than up here at the actuals meeting.”

Kendall merely nodded. His world was in his memory. Bass waving his ornately carved stick, shouting, trying to organize the
top of the hill, doing Kendall’s job. Fracasso’s body being tossed onto the helicopter. The quiet condemnation of his platoon
as he led them back to Helicopter Hill.

The awkward silence was broken when Goodwin crawled in through the doorway.

“It’s colder than a well-digger’s ass in January,” he said. “Why I left my fucking pack behind I’ll never fucking know. Some
dumb-assed idea from some fucked-up officer.”

“Hey, Scar,” Pallack said. “You get your third Purple Heart today?”

“You ain’t shitting, Jack.” Scar crawled over to Pallack and pulled down his filthy collar. “Look at that. A wound, right?
A fucking shrapnel wound, right in the neck. I got the squid writing me up right now. That’s it, you sorry motherfuckers.”
He paused for effect. “Okinawa.”

“I can’t see no fucking wound, Scar,” Pallack said.

“That’s because it’s fucking dark in here, Jack.”

“You really going to take a third Heart for that, Scar?” Relsnik asked. “And go back to Okinawa?”

“You’re fuckin’ A right. You can’t have no nervous wreck leading the troops.”

“How’s the platoon?” Fitch broke in finally.

“Shit, Jack. How do you think?”

Fitch didn’t answer.

“They’re all right,” Goodwin finally said. “We’re going to freeze our fucking nuts off tonight, though.”

“You just hope that’s all that happens.” Fitch turned to Pallack. “See if Mellas is on his way up here yet.”

Sheller crawled in, and they went back to bantering about Scar’s Purple Hearts until Mellas crawled through the narrow trench
that led into the bunker.

It felt warm and very secure compared with once again sitting down on the lines with the platoon.

“Any word on relief?” Mellas asked before he had even settled into position. He pulled his muddy boots and legs up underneath
him and pushed his back against the musty earth of the bunker.

“Alpha and Charlie were supposed to be dropped into the valley this afternoon,” Fitch said. “But the weather fucked it up.
Maybe tomorrow morning. They say they’re doing everything they can. Meanwhile, we just have to hold the hill. They weren’t
too happy about us abandoning Matterhorn.”

“I didn’t see any of them up there,” Mellas said through clenched teeth.

“No one’s blaming us,” Fitch said quickly. “At least not over the radio. I told them we didn’t have enough men to hold Matterhorn
and we had the stretcher cases to protect here and a smaller perimeter.”

“So what’s he doing about it, Jack?” Goodwin asked. “If the fucking fog don’t lift we’ll be out of Hotel Twenty tomorrow night.”

“Hotel Twenty?” Fitch asked. “Get the fuck back. Where’d you pick that up?”

“Ain’t you been to fucking school, Jack? H two O. That’s water. You remember the stuff. You used to drink it back in the world.
Turn a little fucking handle in the kitchen and it was sort of clear and had funny bubbles in it.”

“And you didn’t have to fuck it up with halazone,” Mellas said.

“Naw, d’fucking government fucked it up for you at d’plant,” Pallack put in.

They laughed for a moment and then became quiet. Sheller broke the silence. “I’ve got to have water for the wounded in a safe
place where I can get to it. It helps keep people from going into shock.”

They agreed on a plan for collecting and redistributing the water, saving a portion for the wounded.

Very faintly through the dirt they heard a cry of “Tubing!” No one spoke. A few seconds later two dull thumps reached them
through the earth.

“Must have overshot,” Kendall said.

“No shit,” Scar answered.

Fitch quickly broke in. “We can thank the fog for one small huss. The gooks have got to hump their mortar rounds just like
us. They won’t be shooting up too many without being able to adjust.”

“Unless there’s a lot more people packing mortar rounds than we think,” Mellas said darkly. “Listen. My fucking head seems
to do numbers all day long, so I’ve been counting mortar rounds. We seem to get three at a time from three different positions.
That’s nine at a crack. Today they were pumping them in about every ten to fifteen minutes. That’s about forty an hour. So
twelve hours of shelling today—that’s
four hundred eighty rounds. Add about forty or fifty from when they were hitting Matterhorn and you’re up over five hundred.
That’s two hundred fifty men at two apiece, and at three each it’s one hundred sixty-six and two-thirds.”

“Hey, Jack, we got some of the two-thirds thrown over the side of the fucking hill.” Goodwin laughed, as did the others.

Mellas continued, focused on the math. “But that’s just sixty-ones. They’ve been hitting us with eighty-twos and I think some
of the big shit on Matterhorn the other day could have been from a hundred-twenty. So eighty-twos weigh, what, six or seven
pounds a round? The fucking hundred-twenties must weigh around thirty. So it could be a lot more than two hundred fifty guys.
And that’s only counting what they’ve shot so far.” He scanned each face in the group. “So either we’ve got a company that’s
all out of mortar rounds and packing their fucking bags tonight”—he paused—“or we’ve got real trouble.”

“You know, Mellas,” Fitch said mockingly, “you should have been in intelligence instead of on this fucking hill with us dumb
grunts.”

“Military intelligence is a contradiction in terms,” Mellas said.

“Nice fucking news, sir,” Pallack said. “Why don’t you take your adding machine and go home?”

Contrary to Mellas’s opinion about the effectiveness of military intelligence, G2, division intelligence, had over the past
several days come to the same conclusion he had. Through analyzing information from the pockets of dead NVA soldiers, sightings
by air observers who had managed to get between the clouds and the ground, and the reports of reconnaissance teams huddled
against the rain on hilltops with Star-lite Scopes, infrared sighters, binoculars, and their own straining ears and eyes,
division was pretty sure that an NVA regiment was moving east from Laos to secure the high ground along Mutter’s Ridge north
of Route 9. A second regiment was moving parallel to it through the Au Shau Valley to the south. Division assumed that there
would be a third regiment moving down the Da Krong Valley between the two others, but so far there had been no sightings.

By taking Helicopter Hill, Bravo Company had put itself directly in the northern regiment’s line of march. This forced the
NVA to either blast Bravo out or isolate it like a tumor and move around it, hammering it with mortars and perhaps artillery.
The only alternative was to take an extremely slow and difficult detour through the jungle-choked valleys beneath the ridgeline.
So G2 was betting that the NVA would attack Bravo—but not until it could mass sufficient forces.

This was going to be a race. Division assumed that the NVA would assume that the Marines knew what was happening. The Marines
considered the NVA to be professionals and gave them due respect. It was no accident that they had decided to move in when
the Marine artillery was pulled back for the Cam Lo operation. The high card in the Marines’ hand, however, was that the NVA
probably didn’t know how quickly the Marines could put it all back into place if they got a break in the weather. The NVA,
moving within the confines of the ridgeline, would be safe as long as the clouds held. Since the North Vietnamese moved on
foot, the weather didn’t affect them as much as it did the Marines, and they would be in a position to overrun Bravo in the
next day or so. If the clouds lifted, the superior mobility of the Marines would enable them to intercept the NVA, fix them
in place, and inflict considerable damage. The longer Bravo held out, the better the chance of a good regiment-size battle,
doing considerable damage to the NVA. At worst, the Marines risked losing a company. No one liked that, of course, but a company
of Marines with their backs against the wall wouldn’t be any picnic even for a far larger NVA unit. Even in the worst-case
scenario, the NVA would pay a very heavy price. And in this war, attrition was what was important.

The intelligence staff ’s assessment was professionally and capably relayed up to General Neitzel and down to the regiments.

Mulvaney had been keeping a close eye on First Battalion ever since the Bald Eagle was launched. But he also had two other
rifle battalions to worry about, and even though G2’s assessment made sense, he wasn’t about to start shifting bodies all
over hell and creation until he knew he
really had something. He started as many balls rolling as he reasonably could, knowing he had a hundred kids with their asses
hanging out. But they were Marines. That’s what they were there for. He knew G2 was right. If the NVA stopped to take out
Bravo Company, a tempting target for any commander, they’d pay dearly. If he couldn’t get his other battalions into position
in time, Bravo would also pay. What bothered Mulvaney was that he knew the NVA felt they were buying something worth the price:
their country.

He could no longer say the same for the Marines. That kind of clarity was a thing of the past. What was the military objective,
anyway? If they were here to fight communists, why in hell wasn’t Hanoi the objective? They could easily put the communist
leaders out of their misery and end all this crap. Or just throw a bunch of Army divisions across the northern and eastern
borders in defensive positions, which would multiply their force capabilities at least threefold. They’d keep the NVA out
of the country with about one-tenth of the casualties. The South Vietnamese could sort out the Vietcong. Hell, since Tet last
year, the Vietcong were already sorted out. The Marines seemed to be killing people with no objective beyond the killing itself.
That left a hollow feeling in Mulvaney’s gut. He tried to ignore it by doing his job, which was killing people.

Major Blakely felt the same as Mulvaney, but with two notable differences: Blakely was more excited, because he didn’t have
two other battalions to worry about; and this was his first war, not his third. Also, Blakely never reflected on what was
being purchased or why it was being purchased. Blakely was a problem solver.

He knew Bravo was at risk. He’d put Bravo at risk, and he didn’t particularly like the fact that he had. And although he’d
seen dead kids being dragged off the choppers, he’d never actually been there when they’d died. For this reason, he found
it hard to respect himself. This was a war for captains and lieutenants, and he was already too old, thirty-two. He didn’t
know and felt he would never know, unless he could somehow get involved, if he had what it took to lead a platoon or a company
in combat.

Mellas would probably have said that Blakely didn’t have what it takes, but Mellas would have been wrong. Blakely would have
performed a lower-level job just as well as he performed his current job—competently, not perfectly, but well enough to get
the work done and stay out of trouble. He’d make the same sorts of small mistakes, but they’d have a smaller effect. Instead
of sending a company out without food, he might place a machine gun at a disadvantage. But the Marines under him would make
up for mistakes like that. They’d fight well with the imperfect machine-gun layout. The casualties would be slightly higher,
with slightly fewer enemy dead, but the statistics of perfection never show up in any reporting system. A victory is reported
with the casualties it takes to secure that victory, not the casualties it would have taken if the machine gun had been better
placed.