Matterhorn (62 page)

The satchel charge had left very little of the three kids who’d shared the position. Flesh was plastered against the logs
and sides of the hole. The machine gun was twisted.

Mellas could only stare at it as if it were a picture puzzle, unable or unwilling to make sense of it. Jackson stood behind
Mole, put both hands on Mole’s shoulders, and gently rocked him as he sat there, his feet dangling into the pit.

They pulled ponchos off the dead Marines’ belts, which were still attached to their pulped torsos, to provide body sacks.
They had no idea if the correct body parts would make it home to the correct wives or parents. The best they could do was
put together one head, two arms, and two legs. Helping to haul the dead up to the edge of the little LZ, Mellas noticed kids
licking their ponchos. His own tongue felt thick and cottony. He looked down to see if any moisture had collected on the ponchos
of the dead he was hauling, but quickly repressed the impulse. He reached the pile and dropped the body parts with the rest.
Mellas wondered if it had eventually been like this in the concentration camps. Had they reached the point where horror had
no force? He hurried back to his hole and licked his own poncho, tasting the rubber, getting no satisfaction.

Mole volunteered to take over the critical machine-gun position, now known to the NVA. He moved his own gun from a less critical
point to Second Squad’s position. He had to scrape blood and pieces of flesh from the walls of the pit with his K-bar.

The bodies of the dead North Vietnamese were tossed down the side of the hill with those from the previous fights. They stiffened
into awkward angles as rigor mortis set in. Soon the flies were at them.

After checking everyone for immersion foot, making sure everyone took his malaria pills in spite of the difficulty of swallowing,
and redistributing ammunition from the dead, Mellas stopped at the bunker where Kendall and Genoa were panting for air. In
the candlelight inside the dark bunker, Kendall’s smooth face was chalky white. His eyeglasses had been pulled off and he
looked younger without the protective yellow
lenses. He lay on his side, gasping like a fish out of water. Genoa was the same.

Kendall tried to smile. “I guess—someone shouted—or I did.” The words came in short tortured gasps, but Kendall wanted to
talk, to forget the fact that he was dying.

Mellas looked at Genoa, who was barely conscious although his eyes were wide and terrified. He was wheezing steadily. Sheller,
who was working on another wounded kid behind the two of them, caught Mellas’s eye, looked up meaningfully at the fog and
then at Genoa, and slowly shook his head.

Kendall gasped again, then went on. “And I—I said—It’s lieutenant—hah—” He tried to laugh but spat up blood instead.

Mellas gently wiped the blood and spittle away. Then he wiped it on his trouser legs, which were still damp from his own shit.

“Now,” Kendall continued, “wasn’t that—stupid—fucking thing.” He gasped for air. “Genoa, too—my fault—sorry.”

“You’re forgiven,” Mellas said, smiling. “I guess some people just got to learn the hard way. Besides, it couldn’t be too
stupid. You’ll get to go home and see Kristi, and Genoa will be fucking his brains out in California.” He reached out, took
Kendall’s wrist in his left hand, and put his right hand on Kendall’s forehead, as if checking a child’s temperature.

Kendall looked at Mellas, his eyes moving rapidly back and forth. He felt so alone. He looked at Genoa. They were on their
sides so that the blood and fluid would collect in the bad lung, leaving the good one to struggle for air. But the good lung
had to pump twice as fast to get enough oxygen. Both he and Genoa were straining with the effort.

“You think—any birds—today?” Kendall gasped.

Mellas grinned and sat back on his knees. “Everyone thinks I’m the fucking air traffic control around here,” he replied gently.
“Sure they’ll get in. As soon as the fog burns off.”

“Fog,” Kendall gasped. He went back to concentrating on his breathing. He wheezed, pulling in the air, panting as if he’d
just run a footrace. Sudden fear swept across his face. “I—always wondered how I’d—die,” he wheezed.

“Hell,” Mellas said. “You won’t die. A fucking chest wound is nothing to fix up.”

“Mellas—I—don’t even have a kid. I don’t—hardly know—what—it’s like—to be married—only—four fucking weeks.” It was taking
Kendall an intolerably long time to get through his thoughts. Mellas wanted to leave him and get back to redistributing ammunition
and figuring out how to cover the approaches now that Young’s machine gun was gone along with most of the ammo.

“Mellas?”

“Yeah, Kendall.”

“Mellas—don’t shit me. No choppers—I’m dead.”

Mellas bit his lip, not saying anything. He looked into Kendall’s eyes.

“Don’t shit me—OK?”

“No. I won’t, Kendall.”

Exhausted, Kendall said no more. He went on struggling for air.

Sheller came over and squatted between Kendall and Genoa, removing the IV fluid bottle from Genoa and transferring it to Kendall.
He looked over at Mellas. “We’re running out of this shit. I’ll start losing guys if we do. Where is it on the priority list?”

“At the top,” Mellas said. “Right up there with ammunition.”

“It’d better fucking get here soon.”

Mellas went back to his hole and sat there, Jackson to his left, Doc Fredrickson to his right in another hole. They stared
into the fog, listening to the sounds of digging all around them. The NVA weren’t leaving.

All they could do was sit in the fog and listen to the digging and to Kendall and Genoa panting. Mellas stared at the gray
nothingness before him. He kept trying to think of how he was going to work his way back to VCB when they got overrun.

Mellas again counted machine-gun rounds. Enough for about one minute of firing—and that included the two captured Russian
7.62s. They’d evenly redistributed the rifle ammunition and come up with about one magazine per man. It took only three quick
bursts on automatic
to empty one. Mellas wondered if he should save all his ammunition, not fire at all, and crawl away through the darkness and
terror when the NVA hit them. Marines never leave their dead or wounded. They’d never expect a single Marine to break the
code and slip by them. He’d hump right out to VCB and safety. He’d hump right out of the war.

The fantasy kept returning, with new details. But it remained a fantasy. A more dominant part of him would adhere to the code.
He’d die before he’d abandon anyone. Nor would he surrender. The lecture from the Basic School floated into his memory. “A
Marine never surrenders as long as he has the means to resist. And we teach you fucking numbies hand-to-hand combat. So if
your hands are blown off, you can surrender—only you’ll have to raise your legs.” They had laughed.

There was no getting out. From time to time, that thought would overwhelm him like a wave. There was no getting out. Worse,
he’d choose to stay and fight. He was going to die here in the mud. He was going to die and, unlike Kendall, he would never
know what it was like to be married for even four weeks. He too would never have a child, never do work that gave some satisfaction,
never see old friends again. Maybe someone would pick up what remained of his body and ship it home, but whatever inhabited
that body would end, right here, in this hole, slumped over his rifle or shitting in his pants, just like the rest of them.

All day the thirst chewed at everyone’s throat, clawed at temples, pounded the head with dehydration. Get me water. All around,
fog. Fog is water, but it gave no relief.

There was a series of loud metallic clanks. The entire hill tensed. The clanks were muted, then stopped. No one knew what
they had been.

Fitch came down and squatted by the hole, asking how everyone was doing. His eyes were sunken and dark from dehydration.

“We’re thirsty,” Mellas said. “Don’t the troops get beer and ice cream every day in Vietnam?”

Fitch chuckled. “I got good news and bad news. They’re landing two companies from Two Twenty-Four north of us this morning
and two more as soon as they can. Three Twenty-Four is being dropped in east of us. They’ll be taking hills on Mutter’s Ridge
and then we’ll get in a couple batteries of one-oh-fives.” He paused. “And Alpha and Charlie hit the valley south of us five
minutes ago.”

“No shit.” Mellas felt excitement and hope stir. “Where?”

“That’s the bad news. Because of the clouds, they had to land them two days from here—if they don’t run into the shit themselves.”

“You think they will?”

“Remember your little number game with the mortar rounds?”

Mellas said nothing.

F
orty minutes later, Charlie Company made contact with the NVA. Murphy’s platoon, on point, was ambushed in the bamboo. The
NVA rigged two ten-pound DH-10 directional mines to a tree, waited as long as they dared until the Marines got close, pulled
the pins, and ran, covering their retreat with automatic weapons fire. Duck soup, as the old expression goes.

One Marine died and another lost a leg. Murphy had to leave a squad to medevac them, effectively losing fourteen.

On the hill, the Marines of Bravo Company heard everything. Mellas ran to the CP to hear Charlie Company’s position report.
They were still six kilometers away and 4,000 feet below Bravo, with the NVA in between.

Fitch looked at Mellas. They both knew that without Charlie Company’s ammunition, there would be about one minute of fire.
Then it would be knives. Then it would be over. Fitch hung his head between his knees momentarily, then looked up. “We might
not make it,” he said.

“I know,” Mellas answered.

They couldn’t express what they were feeling. It had to do with eternity, friendship, lost opportunities—with the end.

“You ever get down around Los Angeles?” Fitch asked.

“Sure.”

“If we make it out of here, why don’t you look me up? I’ll buy you a beer.”

Mellas said he would.

“God,” Fitch whispered. “A beer.”

Fitch pulled the company into the smaller circle of holes. There were no longer enough Marines to defend the outer perimeter.
Mellas tried to ease the pain in his throat and tongue by licking the dew on his rifle barrel. It didn’t work.

“Imagine dying of thirst in a monsoon,” Mellas wisecracked to himself as he walked up the hill to see how Kendall and the
other wounded were getting along. He passed the growing stack of bodies.

Genoa was gone. Mellas knelt beside Kendall, who was panting like a runner, staring into empty space, and concentrating everything
he had on keeping up the relentless pace of his breathing. He was clearly in pain. Sheller had decided against morphine for
fear that it would sedate his breathing and kill him. Kendall nodded toward the clay, wet with blood and spume, where Genoa
had lain.

“You’re nowhere near as bad as Genoa was,” Mellas said.

“My fault,” Kendall gasped.

“We’ve already been through that. It wasn’t,” Mellas said. He hesitated, struggling with himself, wondering if he could help
or if he would just be indulging in self-pity. Then he took the plunge, hoping for the best. “Hell, I may have been the one
who shot Pollini.”

Kendall stared at him for several seconds, taking it in, breathing hard. “Tough one—hell—tough ones—bring home with us.” Then
he fell silent again except for the tortured rapid panting. But he had a slight smile on his face.

Mellas smiled back. “The skipper says they’ve got two birds on standby at VCB and another bird waiting on Sherpa.”

Kendall nodded. Mellas crawled out into the daylight before he could break down in front of him. He hurried over to the CP.
When he got there Fitch and Sheller were huddled intently, away from the radio
operators. Mellas joined them. Fitch pursed his lips, then motioned Mellas to sit down.

“You tell him, Sheller.”

The senior squid, his face no longer round, turned to Mellas. “It’s the water, sir. I’ve got kids going down with dehydration.
They’re starting to lose blood pressure and faint. We’re losing effectives.”

“So?” Mellas opened his hands and spread his arms, leaving his elbows at his ribs.
What the fuck can we do about it?

Fitch broke in. “We can take the IV fluid we’re giving to the wounded and give it to the effectives to keep them effective.”

Mellas was silent, conscious of what that meant for the wounded. He swallowed. “Who’s going to decide who doesn’t get the
IV fluid?”

“It’ll be me,” Fitch said grimly. “No one else.”

Sheller looked at Mellas, then down at Fitch’s hands, which were trembling.

“Fuck, Jim. You don’t get paid enough to make choices like that.”

“Yeah, and I’m too young and inexperienced.” Fitch laughed, on the edge of losing control. He put his hands underneath his
armpits, probably to hide the trembling. “You’re the numbers guy, Mellas. If we can’t see, and our fucking heads hurt too
much to think, and every time we stand up to shoot we feel like fainting, how the fuck are we going to defend the wounded?
How many wounded live this way versus that way?”

Mellas shook his head. “Jim, it ain’t about numbers. How are you going to decide?”

“I’ll start with the worst off.”

“Like Kendall?”

“Like Kendall.”

“Jesus Christ, Jim,” Mellas said. He was suddenly near tears, but crying was impossible. He felt his jaw tremble and hoped
the others wouldn’t notice. “Jesus fucking Christ.” Then, to his shame, he hoped to hell Fitch wouldn’t die so he himself
wouldn’t have to take over.