Matterhorn (70 page)

Mellas didn’t wait for an answer. He handed the receiver to Jackson. Why Jermain? Why the one who volunteered while the shit-birds
stayed in the rear? Why were his friends dying? There seemed only one way out of the nightmare. The single machine gun was
the way.

“Gun up,” Mellas yelled. “Get a fucking gun up here.” Somehow he had to draw the machine gun’s fire.

A new kid ran forward with an M-60; an ammo humper scrambled after him with the heavy steel boxes of ammunition belts. The
gunner’s eyes were wild with fear and pain. He had been shot in the left calf. Mellas could see flecks of blood coming off
his soaked trouser leg. Still he came lurching forward, running hard. He lunged in on top of Fredrickson, then rolled over
just as the ammo humper piled on top of them. His eyes were very white against his black face. It occurred to
Mellas that if this kid weren’t here he would probably be hotdogging on his high school’s basketball court.

“You start shooting that fucking bunker. That one right there,” Mellas shouted, pointing straight ahead. “Don’t let up.” The
new kid nodded. He moved, leaving blood behind. Mellas could see it spurting rhythmically. An artery, he thought abstractedly.
Maybe the kid had three or four more minutes of consciousness.

The kid leaned the M-60 over the log, cradling it against his shoulder. The machine gun barked. Then it settled into the disciplined,
barrel-saving short bursts of the trained gunner. Mellas felt relief. He silently thanked some instructor at Camp Pendleton.

The NVA gunner answered. The duel grew in intensity. The roar increased. The two new kids just kept firing, eyes squinted
almost shut, as if squinting could protect them from the bullets.

Mellas redirected Jake’s M-79 fire to a second bunker just to the left of the NVA machine gun. He intended to use the projectiles
to blind the people inside with smoke and mud. “You keep firing at the fucking entrance. No place else, no matter what I do,”
he said. Jacobs nodded and loaded another projectile. Mellas pulled a grenade from his suspenders and whispered, “Dear God,
help me now.” He felt that this was possibly his last moment of life, here behind this log with these comrades, and knew it
was indescribably sweet. A longing sadness arose with the fear, and he looked one more time at his comrades’ intent faces.
He wet his lips and said good-bye, silently, not wanting to leave the safety of the log and their warm bodies.

Then he stood up and ran.

He ran as he’d never run before, with neither hope nor despair. He ran because the world was divided into opposites and his
side had already been chosen for him, his only choice being whether or not to play his part with heart and courage. He ran
because fate had placed him in a position of responsibility and he had accepted the burden. He ran because his self-respect
required it. He ran because he loved his friends and this was the only thing he could do to end the madness that was killing
and maiming them. He ran directly at the bunker where the grenades from Jake’s M-79 were exploding. The bullets from the M-60
machine gun slammed through the air to his right, slashing past him, whining like tortured cats, cracking like the bullwhip
of death. He ran, having never felt so alone and frightened in his life.

He passed the large gap in the barbed wire and kept going. The bunker was only fifty meters above him now. He kept waiting
for the bullet that would end the run and would let him rest. He almost wanted that bullet so he wouldn’t have to continue
with the awful responsibility of living. But he ran. He zigzagged. He twisted. His breath came in painful gasps. He saw a
shallow hole just above the bunker and to its right. He prayed. He pictured himself striving for it, saw himself from above,
small and puny on the vast terrible hillside, his legs churning. The hole loomed large above him. He hit the hole and rolled,
catching a glimpse of movement from the corner of his eye. He twisted around, bringing his M-16 to bear at the same time,
and was on the point of pulling the trigger, knowing he was doomed. Then the movement solidified into a person wearing a bloody
head bandage. It was Cortell—with three new kids. They had followed him.

Mellas came to his feet, releasing the spoon on the grenade he’d been carrying. He rushed toward the door of the bunker, praying
that Jacobs would have the sense to stop firing as he closed in on it. Mellas reached the door and ran past the bunker, throwing
the grenade inside. He rolled to the right as Cortell came running after him, dropping in a grenade of his own. The two grenades
went off almost simultaneously.

Mellas rolled to his feet. He looked behind him in bewilderment—and then with joy. Jackson was running toward him. Behind
Jackson was another fire team. To their right, another group was charging the machine-gun bunker while it still received the
new gunner’s disciplined fire. The whole platoon was swarming up the hill after him. Far off on the right flank of the assault,
Mellas saw Second Platoon scrambling to keep up, Goodwin running in front, waving them forward.

Mellas’s heart surged with wonder.

Bullets were now flying uphill from the Marines and downhill from the NVA. They were so thick that at one point Mellas heard
two bullets collide and then ricochet with a singing buzz parallel to the crossing fire. The air was filled with roaring and
screaming. Then farther
down the slope Mellas saw, looking like rag dolls, those who hadn’t survived or wouldn’t survive. Some twitched fitfully.
Two were crawling toward the defilade. The others lay still, in awkward positions.

Three minutes had passed since the opening shot.

From Helicopter Hill it looked like a textbook assault. In fact, it was. Blakely was pacing up and down in excitement. Simpson,
his eyes pressed to his binoculars, was clenching his jaw so tightly that his neck muscles stood out in cords.

Mellas was running hard to his right, shouting as he went, trying to get his platoon to move toward Goodwin’s. The fight had
disintegrated into the mad actions of individuals. Noise, smoke, confusion, and fear prevailed. Mellas rounded a slight knob
and saw Goodwin about 100 meters away, running parallel to the hill with the radio receiver in his hand, his radio operator
scrambling after him to keep the cord slack.

Jackson handed Mellas the receiver. “It’s Scar, sir.”

Mellas could barely make out what Goodwin was saying, because of the noise and Goodwin’s wild panting. “There’s a gun—edge
of the LZ—fucking us up good, Jack.” There was more machine-gun fire. Mellas saw Goodwin go down and then get up. “Got to
get the motherfucker—with grenades,” Goodwin shouted. “Don’t move toward it.”

Just as Goodwin was speaking, Mellas saw Robertson pop up from a shell hole and disappear across the lip of the LZ. He was
amazed to see Robertson so high above the rest of them. Goodwin was moving upward beneath the lip of the LZ with five others,
carrying two grenades each. They couldn’t see Robertson; they had no idea he was there. Mellas reached for the receiver. Just
as he started to shout, “Goddamn it, Scar, I’ve got a man up there,” Goodwin sprinted forward, away from his radio. The five
Marines followed in a rush.

Robertson popped up, running across the LZ toward the same bunker Goodwin’s group was after, in full view of everyone except
them.
Robertson reached the bunker’s top just as twelve hand grenades came sailing over the lip of the hill. He tried to stop short,
his arms flailing in the air. He threw his own grenade away and tried to sprint to safety. The grenades began going off in
a sustained explosion, obscuring him.

Mellas, still holding the handset, shut his eyes. The smoke cleared slightly. The machine-gun opened up again. Mellas heard
Goodwin cursing over the radio.

Then Robertson appeared again. All alone, inside the ring of enemy fighting holes, exposed, he ran back to the machine-gun
bunker. He dropped in two grenades, then stood calmly taking a third from his suspenders. He pulled the pin and tossed it
in. Just then, fire and smoke erupted from the bunker beneath him. He sank to his knees, twisting slightly, and fell out of
sight.

Mellas knew he was dead.

“Robertson got the bunker, Scar. I watched it go up,” he radioed.

Goodwin immediately started moving his platoon forward.

Then, from Helicopter Hill, Mellas became aware of a faint sound of cheering. The cheering filled Mellas with white-hot rage.
He turned to look behind him. Marines were firing at bunkers, trying to maneuver up on them from the sides. The North Vietnamese
were obviously finished but still kept firing at the Marines from holes on the lip of the LZ.

Mellas’s fury gave him the cunning of an animal. He forgot everything that had happened before this moment. He knew only that
he wanted to kill. He didn’t care who or what he killed.

He shouted at Hamilton over the radio. “Goddamn it, get fucking moving. These bastards are going to start running off this
hill and I fucking want them. Move! Move! Move! I want these fucking gooks killed. You hear me? Over.”

“Aye aye, sir,” Hamilton’s voice crackled back. Hamilton was gasping for breath.

Mellas headed for the open holes above the covered bunkers. He knew that now the work would be dirty and methodical. There
would be no more cheering. It occurred to him how much the NVA must hate them, not to get up and run.

Jacobs joined Mellas and Jackson. His face was streaked with black powder, mud, and sweat. His Instamatic dangled against
his flak jacket.

Mellas was directing fire teams and individuals, watching as position after position was destroyed. He moved cautiously, in
quick rushes, with long waits in between. Jackson and Jacobs followed his every move.

Suddenly a man rose from a hole above them and threw a grenade.

Mellas was transfixed by the sight. The small black object seemed to hang suspended in the air above him.

“Grenade! Chi-comm!” Jackson yelled. Mellas saw the grenade explode. Two small objects hurtled past his head, one on each
side. Then the world went black as the explosion enveloped him. It slammed him backward, nearly pulling his head from his
neck. He sank to the ground, giving in to the blackness; the sounds of the firing and confusion whirled away from him. Dying
was a huge relief. For the first time, he felt safe.

Jackson crawled forward to reach Mellas and called for Doc Fredrickson. Mellas’s face was covered with blood, powder burns,
and bits of solder. Jackson shouted again, but Fredrickson was out of hearing, moving among the bodies left behind in the
initial wild run up the hillside. Jackson started shaking Mellas. “Sir, sir. You OK?” He kept looking around for help. The
radio was yammering in his ear, but now he or Jacobs, not Mellas, had to make the decisions.

Jacobs crawled up to Jackson.

“J-Jesus. I-is he all right?”

Jackson was still shaking Mellas and saying, “Sir. Sir.” He turned to Jacobs. “I don’t know. I think he’s dead. Fuck.”

Jacobs cursed.

“It’s your fucking platoon now, Jake. What we going to do?”

Jacobs had no idea. A burst of rifle fire sent bullets snapping above his head. He saw Fredrickson running to another body
far below. Then the NVA soldier in the hole above them popped up again and threw another grenade.

“Chi-comm!” Jacobs shouted. He and Jackson grabbed Mellas by the legs and tore down the hillside, dragging him facedown. As
they ran down the hill the grenade followed them inexorably, moving with gravity, as if linked to them. Jackson finally figured
it out and shouted, “Stop!” He and Jacobs dug their heels in. They buried themselves against the inert Mellas and the deadly
canister bounced on past them. It exploded about half a second later, just below them. Neither of them was hurt.

Jacobs turned Mellas over, faceup. He tore open both of Mellas’s flak jackets and put an ear to his chest. “I can’t hear fuck.
God
damn
it.” Then Jacobs pulled off Mellas’s helmet, took his canteen out, and poured grape Kool-Aid all over Mellas’s face, washing
some of the mess away. He kept shaking the canteen, emptying the remaining drops on Mellas’s eyes, which were shut tight with
black powder, solder, blood, and dirt.

The world again became black for Mellas. He felt the cool stickiness and smelled the sweet grape odor of the Kool-Aid. Then
there was the sound of firing and screaming all around him in the darkness. He felt, rather than heard, someone shouting and
pulling at his flak jackets and helmet. He tried to move. He couldn’t. He tried to open his eyes and finally managed to open
one. He saw gray light. The nightmare was continuing. He could not wake up. He wanted to return to oblivion. There were sounds
of voices shouting, heard as if underwater. He again came back to the gray light. He knew that he had something to do with
or for those voices. He became aware of Jackson lying on top of him, shielding him from fire. He realized that the grenade
had been faulty, splitting in two down its soldered seam instead of shattering into deadly pieces. He became aware that Jacobs
was shouting over the radio, lying on his back next to him and Jackson, staring upward at the sky, probably talking with Fitch.
“Ah, f-fuck, Skipper, I think he’s Coors. G-grenade. Right in the face. No c-corpsman. What do I do now? Over.”

“Will you get off me?” Mellas said quietly to Jackson. “I can’t fucking move.”

Jackson rolled off, tangling the handset cord around Mellas’s neck, so that the handset was nearly pulled from Jake’s hand.
This forced Jake to look at Mellas.

Jake saw Mellas open one eye. “J-jesus fuck, Lieutenant,” he said in relief. “I thought I was g-going to have to take the
platoon.”

“Thanks,” Mellas said. “It’s nice to know you’d miss me.” Mellas’s face felt raw, as if there were no skin on it. He couldn’t
open his right eye. He assumed he’d lost it.

He noticed the purple liquid on his hand as he tried to wipe his eyes clean. “I told you I hate fucking Bugs Bunny Grape,”
he said.

Jackson was looking up the hill. His eyes opened wide. “Oh, fuck,” he whispered. “Chi-comm!” A third grenade came bounding
down the hill. Jackson and Jacobs pulled Mellas with them, tripping over each other. They hit the dirt as the grenade exploded.
A sudden concussion hit them. There was a puff of dirty smoke, and then the smell.