Matterhorn (63 page)

That afternoon Fitch ordered half of the remaining IV fluid to be distributed evenly to everyone in the company. The order
was disobeyed. No one would take it. Fitch called the squids together and ordered each of them to pick five kids from every
platoon who were already ineffective or about to go ineffective because of thirst. They submitted the names. Fitch and Sheller
scurried from hole to hole, ordering those kids to drink, checking their names off the list. Others watched with very mixed
feelings.

Mellas was among the others. Thirst was driving him mad, but he hadn’t been picked. There was nothing to do but sit in his
fighting hole with Jackson, who also hadn’t been picked, and pray for a break in the weather. But the fog stayed, cloaking
them like wet gray wool.

A little later, when it became apparent that the choppers wouldn’t be able to get in, Fitch called for Goodwin and Mellas.
They found him sitting cross-legged, staring into the fog to the south. He had combed his hair and neatly rolled his muddy
shirtsleeves to his upper arms.

He motioned for them to sit. “We’re going to get the fuck out of here.” There was a mischievous glint in his eye and Mellas
couldn’t help smiling.

“How, Jack?” Goodwin asked.

“I’ve been counting bodies,” Fitch said. “Warm, cold, you name it. We pair up the walking wounded so they can help each other.
We sling the stretcher cases between four guys, one for each leg and arm. The wounded that can’t walk but can hang on will
go piggyback on the biggest guys we got. The smaller guys take the dead over their shoulders. That’ll leave us with eight
guys free, not counting the three of us, so that makes eleven.” He was looking down into the fog. “We stay here and it’s hand
to hand for sure. The wounded will get slaughtered. I say fuck that bullshit.”

He looked at each of them, trying to judge their reaction. Both of his lieutenants were steady, listening. “Scar, you and
I and four machine guns will go in front with all the gun ammo. The walking wounded get most of the rest of the ammo. They’ll
form a wedge behind us. Mellas and two others are tail-end Charlie with M-79s and all the fucking grenades in the company
to keep the gooks off our backs. Everyone else
gets half a magazine and stays on semiautomatic. We’ll be going downhill and it’ll be balls to the wall until we hit Charlie
Company. The sides of the wedges will hold ground while we hustle the wounded through. Mellas, you’ll be the plug at the other
end as we collapse the funnel.” He looked at the two lieutenants. “What do you think?”

There was a long pause.

“It isn’t exactly what strategists would call elegant,” Mellas finally said.

Fitch laughed.

“When we gonna leave, Jack?” Goodwin asked. “This place is getting on my nerves.”

“Just after dark. The gooners’ll be getting ready to attack and won’t expect it.”

“And if someone gets separated?” Mellas asked.

“We’ll wait for him. We’re all going out together.”

“You know what that means?”

“You’re goddamned right I do. And you’re tail-end Charlie, so it’s most likely you we’ll be waiting for.”

“Hell of a good policy, Jim.”

“Next to Column in the Defense, the Funnel Breakaway could be my greatest contribution to military science yet,” Fitch said.
There was a smile around the corners of his mouth. They all broke into laughter.

The laughter fed on itself. Soon the three of them were roaring, making up outrageous tactical theories. They were still laughing
when the first of the rockets came slashing up from the fog below. They scrambled for the bottom of Fitch’s hole, jumping
in together, still laughing. “Rockets,” Mellas said. “What’ll they think of next?” They all broke out laughing again. At least
the mystery of the strange clanks had been solved.

Fitch told Sheller to save just enough IV fluid for the wounded for that night, knowing that either they would be low enough
under the cloud cover to get medevaced or it would be raining. Or they’d be overrun and dead and they wouldn’t need it. So
he ordered all the rest to be given
out. Everyone got about four gulps of the flat, salty liquid. It tasted of rubber stoppers.

Mellas stayed with Fitch, listening to the radios. At one point Fitch stiffened and his head jerked up. Then Mellas too heard
the sounds of a firefight, far off to the east.

“It’s got to be someone from Three Twenty-Four,” Fitch said. On Daniels’s radio they could hear Mike Company’s forward observer
calling for everything he could get.

“The mission grid is coming now, sir,” Daniels said excitedly. “Seven-four-three-five-seven-one.”

Fitch jabbed his finger at the coordinates. More than six kilometers. Forever.

“We can’t do a fucking thing here,” Mellas said helplessly.

“Yeah,” Fitch said. “We’re the princess and they’re the dragon slayers.”

Mellas looked at Fitch. “The fucking bastards,” he said. “We’re nothing but fucking bait. Bait.” Mellas whirled and stalked
off down the hill.

An hour passed, and with it his anger. He reached down and grabbed some damp clay, making a fist, squeezing it into a ball
until his forearm trembled. Then he let the earth go, watching it plop down to the wet clay of his fighting hole. He began
to stroke the clay, moving his fingers over it lightly, caressing it. He felt a sense of beauty and longing for the damp muddy
ground that would have moved him to tears, but he was too dehydrated to cry. He yearned with all his heart to be able to see
that clay for just one more day and then one more day after that.

Jackson knew what Mellas was thinking and stared quietly ahead, not wanting to embarrass the lieutenant by watching him. Mellas
stopped feeling the ground and folded his arms over the chest of his two flak jackets. “I’m a hell of an inspiration, aren’t
I?” He gazed down at the backs of his muddy hands. He tried to wipe away tears that hadn’t come, smearing more dirt on his
face.

“We can’t all be Chesty Puller, sir,” Jackson said.

Mellas took a deep sigh, then another, blowing the air out with puffed cheeks. “Hey, Jackson, will you show me how you brothers
shake hands?”

“Huh?”

“You know. All that bap bap bap shit.”

Jackson looked at Mellas, not sure if he was serious. When Mellas didn’t look away, Jackson rolled his eyes upward and said,
“You just never tell anyone how you learned this, OK?”

Mellas grinned and held his fist out. After five times Mellas still hadn’t mastered the intricate movements.

“Almost there, Lieutenant,” Jackson said, fist out again. “Almost there.”

Mellas sighed. “It just doesn’t feel right.”

Jackson smiled. “It never will.”

“Why not?”

“You ain’t black.”

Mellas suddenly felt self-conscious, even stupid, for asking Jackson to show him the handshake. “I always thought deep down
we were the same,” he said.

“We are the same. Hell, I got two white great-grandpas, just like you. It’s just that we seen things differently so long we
ain’t able to talk about it much.”

“Try me.”

“No way, Lieutenant.” Jackson folded his arms. “You think someone’s going to understand how you feel about being in the bush?
I mean even if they’re like you in every way, you really think they’re going to understand what it’s like out here? Really
understand?”

“Probably not.”

“Well, it’s like that being black. Unless you’ve been there, ain’t no way.”

Mellas shifted his feet, pulling one boot out of the muck with a sucking sound. He saw Mole, down on the lines, stand up next
to his hole to try to piss. It wasn’t going well. Mellas couldn’t remember when he had last peed, but he did remember that
then it had been a brown dribble. He heard the sound of tubing. Mole hurriedly zipped up his fly and scrambled into his hole.
Three shells blasted the top of the landing zone. Mellas removed his hands from his ears and waited. Mole got up again to
finish trying to pee. Mellas watched him idly, along with Jackson, wondering if anything would come out.

When Mole gave up, Mellas turned to Jackson. “Hey, Jackson. Before we get split up, I want to ask you something. If you think
I’m an asshole for asking it, just try not to get mad at me for it.”

Jackson didn’t say anything.

Mellas plunged in. “I think guys like China, and maybe even Mole, are sending weapons home. Mole can’t lose as many machine-gun
parts as he says he does.”

Jackson chuckled. “I think that operation got shut down.” He looked out at the fog, his eyes twinkling. “Let’s say by better
business practices.”

“What?”

“The word among the brothers is that they’re not doing it any more, sir.”

Mellas wanted to probe but held back. It was sufficient to know that the rumor was true and that no action needed to be taken.
After a brief silence Mellas asked,“Is there going to be serious trouble? I mean back home. You know, with serious weapons.”

Jackson said nothing.

“I got this feeling that somehow I should be involved, but I can’t do a fucking thing.”

“You can’t.”

“Nothing?”

“Just leave us the fuck alone.” Jackson was looking him right in the eye and had spoken with kindness. Even though Mellas
was an officer, and white, at that moment Jackson was just someone close to his own age who shared the same hole. “You really
don’t understand it, do you?” Jackson said.

“I guess not.”

Jackson sighed. “Shit, Lieutenant. We might be dead in an hour or two, so I guess this isn’t any time for fucking around not
saying what we mean. You OK with that?”

“Not with the being dead in a couple of hours part,” Mellas answered.

Jackson snorted approval. “OK, sir.” He paused. Then he said, “You’re a racist.”

Mellas swallowed and looked open-mouthed at Jackson.

“Now hold on.” Jackson said, obviously marshaling his words. “Don’t get all excited. I’m a racist too. You can’t grow up in
America and not be a racist. Everyone on this fucking hill’s a racist and everyone back in the world’s a racist. Only there’s
one big difference between us two racists you can’t ever change and I can’t ever change.”

“What’s that?” Mellas asked.

“Being racist helps you and it hurts me.” Jackson looked out at the distance. They were both quiet. Then Jackson said, “You
know, China’s really got it right. We got to overturn a racist society. No easy thing.” He brightened. “There’s another difference
between us racists.”

Mellas kept quiet.

“Some of us racists are prejudiced and some aren’t. Now you, I’d say you’re trying not to be prejudiced. Me too, and Cortell,
and even Mole, though he’d never admit it. Hawke’s not prejudiced, flat out. Not being prejudiced is the best any of us can
do right now. It’s too late about being racist.”

“I don’t get it.”

“How many black friends you got back in the world?”

Mellas paused and looked away into the fog, embarrassed. Then he faced Jackson. “None.”

“Righhht,” Jackson said with a smile. “And me, I don’t have any white friends. We won’t be free of racism until my black skin
sends the same signals as Hawke’s red mustache. The way it is now, you can’t look at me without thinking something more, and
me, I can’t look back without the same attitude.”

Mellas was starting to understand.

“We’ll know we’re free of racism when every white person has a black friend,” Jackson said. Then he laughed out loud. “Hey,
you’re the math guy, Lieutenant. That means every black person has to have seven or eight white friends. Ooh-wee. Ain’t no
way. We’re a long way from that.” His voice went quiet. “A long way.”

“You got me good,” Mellas said. He smiled. “So what do we do?”

He waited while Jackson thought a moment. “It’s like the way you like China,” Jackson said. “You have to stop that shit.”

“What’s wrong with liking China?”

“Ain’t nothing wrong with liking China. Everyone likes China. That’s why he’s so good at his organizing shit. What I mean
is the
way
you like China. I mean he’s your nigger.”

The barb silenced Mellas.

“You know what an Uncle Tom is, right?” Jackson said, fingering the hangman’s noose around his neck. “A sort of Stepin Fetchit?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, that’s somebody’s nigger.” Jackson’s long fingers began drumming against his dirty camouflage. “That’s some chuck’s
idea who lived in Hollywood in 1935. But now we got guys like China. They wear the Afro even when it gets them in trouble.
Shit, to
get
them in trouble. And they throw shit into whitey’s face every chance they get. Well, you know something? You know who they
are? They’re the niggers of people like you, that’s who they are. Every time they stand up and tell you to get off their backs,
and that the whole fucking society is built up by racists and pigs, little white students living off daddy’s cash in Berkeley
or Harvard stand up and say ‘That’s right on,
boy
, you tell us guilty white pigs what’s happening. I am
with
you. You are
my
nigger.’ Only none of them are about to integrate any of
our
schools. None of them are about to move south and sit on the juries and stand up for the black man. And none of them are
getting shipped home in rubber bags either. In fact, soon as this war heated up, all the rich white kids forgot all about
civil rights and started worrying about getting their asses drafted.”

Jackson stopped talking. He was trembling with anger. He took a deep breath and exhaled.

“Well, I’m nobody’s nigger,” Jackson went on. “I’m not some college student’s fucking nigger and I’m not some movie man’s
fucking nigger. I’m going to be my own nigger.”

“If you’re your own nigger how come you let China talk you into refusing to take over the squad?”

“He didn’t talk me into it. I didn’t have anywhere else to go. If I take the squad, I’m the system’s nigger. If I stay where
I am, I’m China’s nigger. It’s like I can’t stand up or lay down. Anyways I turn I’m someone’s nigger. That’s why I took the
radio when Lieutenant Fracasso
offered it to me and why I’m packing it now.” He snorted. “So I ended up in between and looking like
your
nigger.” He snorted again. “Seems it’s the best I could come out and still be my own nigger.” He looked at Mellas, a hint
of inquiry on his face. Mellas understood that Jackson was trying to see how he was taking it.