Matterhorn (77 page)

“For my
self
? No sir.”

“OK, then. The colonel wants to see you. He’s over by Delta’s CP. I want to talk with Lieutenant Fitch alone.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Hawke left to see Simpson.

When he’d gone, Blakely told Fitch that Simpson was transferring him out of the battalion. It was only out of kindness and
in recognition of his recent assault that Simpson wasn’t going to relieve him of his command for cause. Fitch could consider
himself transferred once they got back to VCB. Goodwin would take over until Mellas got back, and Mellas would have the company
until they could get a regular.

Over at Delta Company’s CP, Simpson said he was putting Hawke in for a Bronze Star.

When Hawke rejoined Fitch and Pallack next to Fitch’s old bunker, he heard cries of “Tubing!” People everywhere scurried into
holes. The mortar rounds came crashing in. Marines huddled in their holes, holding on to their helmets, praying, trying not
to think, hear, or feel. Hawke crouched low next to the bunker entrance, staring out at his old company.

Fitch and Goodwin walked side by side, leading the company silently off the hill. The Marines of Bravo Company followed, in
silence, giving no apparent thought to the mortar shells, walking with their rifles slung on their shoulders. Exhausted, they
were as indifferent as if the falling shells were rain.

Some Marines from Delta Company poked their heads up from their holes and watched their comrades, as Hawke was doing. Some
shook their heads and muttered, “Crazy motherfuckers.” Some let out a low whistle. Most were silent.

Emotion constricted Hawke’s throat. He suddenly understood why the victims of concentration camps had walked quietly to the
gas chambers. In the face of horror and insanity, it was the one human thing to do. Not the noble thing, not the heroic thing—the
human thing. To live, succumbing to the insanity, was the ultimate loss of pride.

The next afternoon, after the battalion staff was withdrawn, the company was ferried back to VCB. It was Sunday. Father Riordan,
the battalion chaplain, thought it would be comforting to hold a memorial service. The colonel and the Three readily agreed,
even though regular services had already been held that morning.

Goodwin had to bully everyone into going. Supply dropped off new uniforms. The company walked down to the canvas bag showers
next to the stream. Unfortunately, when they washed off the dirt and crusted blood and pus, their jungle rot oozed fresh pus
onto their new uniforms. Still, it was a pleasure to be able to squeeze the pus out and watch it run clean and yellow-white
and soak into the clean crisp cotton of the new jungle utilities. There was bitching, but the clean water, the new clothes,
and a hot meal held it to a minimum.

At 1550 Fitch and Goodwin walked over to the muddy area where the troops were pitching their shelters. “OK. You got ten minutes
to get over to the chapel,” Fitch said. “We’ll see you there. After chapel, you’re on your own until oh eight hundred tomorrow.”
He looked around. His company was pitifully small. Then he looked down, unable to talk, his shoulders slumped.

“Look, you guys,” he added. He tried to smile. No words would come. His nose began to run. The muscles in his throat ached.
Then he reached up and took his cap off. “Look …” he croaked weakly.

People rose from the ground. Those with caps on took them off and remained standing, some with hands folded in front of them,
looking at Fitch standing there beneath the leaden sky.

Fitch put his cap on and walked toward the chapel.

At the service Father Riordan led everyone in a hymn. Most of the blacks didn’t know it and neither did half the whites.

Riordan introduced Simpson.

Simpson surveyed the freshly washed young faces in front of him, feeling a stir of pride and valor. He stood with both hands
behind his back, his legs slightly apart, and told them how proud he was of every one of them, how proud of those who had
sacrificed everything. “It was a textbook assault. In the very best traditions of the Marine Corps.” He paused, searching
for words that could convey how he felt. “I don’t know if you know it, but I keep a bulletin board in my quarters that has
all my units listed on it. If one of my units does a particularly outstanding job, I put a gold star
next to it so everyone that walks in there can see it. I’ve only put two gold stars up there the entire time I’ve been in-country.
Well, this morning I added two more. One for the eighty-one-millimeter mortars, my personal weapon of opportunity, and one
for Bravo Company.” He looked at the faces looking up at him. “There’s never been a prouder commanding officer.” He sat down,
holding back the tears that flooded his eyes.

Father Riordan stood.

“Let us bow our heads in prayer.” He waited for the shifting and rustling to stop. “Our Heavenly Father, we ask thee to take
the souls of these departed young men who in the past several days have died for their country, giving that last greatest
gift that any man can give that others might have the taste of freedom, the chance to worship thee in the way in which they
…”

Whispering had already started in the back of the tent. “Hey Gambaccini, you wops listen to this shit all the time?”

“This is a fucking travesty to Jesus.”

“Our colonel’s a fucking gold star mother.”

“Hey, Scar, can we get the fuck out of here?”

“… comfort and solace to the dear ones left behind by these our departed comrades in arms. Let them know that their sacrifice
was not in vain, but grant, loving Father …”

“Fucking loving Father wasn’t cutting
us
any slack up on the hill.”

“I ain’t angry with God, but He sure as shit must be pissed at me.”

“Cortell, you get up there and show that mackerel how to preach, man.”

There were also some who said nothing, like Mole and China.

The colonel retired at about midnight, thinking it had been a pretty good day. At 0200, shadowy figures crept to the downhill
side of his quarters. In front, the Marine assigned as security guard fought hard against dozing off. He heard someone shout
down on the mud path by the supply bunker. “Whoooeee, we can be some kind of
fucked
up.” Then another one joined in. “Hee ya.
Sheeit
, man.” Laughter floated up the path. He watched two black Marines slapping hands. The guard smiled.

The iron pipe caught the guard across the side of his face, caving in his jawbone and dislodging five teeth. A second one
came from the other side, catching him above the eye. He sank to his knees and was hit again across the neck. His moan was
stifled by a dark hand, and he was gradually lowered to the muddy ground.

There was a quick flurry of activity. The two supposed drunks ran out of sight. The two pipe wielders ran in the opposite
direction. Someone coolly lifted the flap of the colonel’s tent and tossed in a grenade. Then he, too, ran quickly into the
darkness.

The clunk of the grenade on the floor startled Simpson awake. He made a muffled, frightened grunt—and ran. He fell over the
tent’s ropes and slipped in the mud in the dark, desperately trying to beat the explosion. He dived into the mud outside,
covering his head.

Nothing happened.

He looked up, feeling foolish in his muddy underwear. He saw his security guard slumped on the ground. “Duty officer!” he
shouted.

The heavy door of the COC bunker opened and a shaft of light spilled onto the ground before the blackout curtain closed it
off. Stevens came running.

“Get a fucking corpsman,” Simpson shouted. “My guard’s been bushwhacked.”

“You all right, sir?”

“Get a fucking corpsman.”

Stevens turned around to one of the battalion radio operators who was running up to him. “You heard him, get a squid.” The
kid went running for the battalion aid station.

Simpson was trembling. “Someone tried to fucking frag me. I heard the grenade come in. It was a dud.”

“Holy shit, sir,” Stevens said. The two men stood watching the colonel’s tent. “You sure it’s a dud, sir?” Stevens finally
asked, afraid the colonel would ask him to go look.

Simpson stood still a moment, his muddy underwear turning cold. “Fuck yes.”

Others were coming out of the COC bunker. One had a flashlight. Then two others came running from the aid station. The corpsman
also had a flashlight. Simpson took the light and walked into his quarters.

Lying on the floor was a grenade with the primer taken out. Wrapped around it was a sheet of paper. Simpson took the paper
off and smoothed it out. It was a mimeographed company roster, with names, ranks, serial numbers, and tour rotation dates.
It was Bravo Company. Names had been heavily crossed out with a ballpoint pen. Neatly typed next to them were words like murdered,
crippled, maimed, blinded …

Simpson crumpled the paper. Blakely burst into the room. “You all right, sir?” he asked.

“Yes, goddamn it. A lot of good your fucking security guard did.”

“He’s pretty badly beat up, sir.”

“He deserves it. Probably asleep. I ought to fucking court-martial the puke.” He handed Blakely the grenade.

“The primer’s out,” Blakely said.

Simpson looked at him coldly.

“I’ll get it in for prints,” Blakely said.

“Don’t bother. You know the chances of that.” Simpson turned on the light. He handed Blakely the crumpled paper.

Blakely swallowed. He handed the roster back to Simpson. “Sir, I suggest action be taken immediately.”

“What?” Simpson asked.

“Disarm Bravo Company until we get them out in the bush again. Collect all grenades, all weapons. Put extra men on guard duty.
My quarters too.”

“OK. Get Staff Sergeant Cassidy in here. They were his men. And get Lieutenant Goodwin up. It’s his company.”

Within half an hour Cassidy was standing with three Marines from H & S and sadly surveying the pathetically small tent city
of ponchos and prone bodies that was his old outfit. Some kids were sleeping exposed to the rain where they’d passed out drunk.
Then he set his jaw.
Goodwin had refused to help him. “OK. Everybody up. Wake up in there. Everybody out of the rack.”

Kids groaned. Some looked at their watches: 0300. Fear struck. Somebody was in the shit so bad that they were being sent in
again. The fear raced through the squalid mud compound. But Marines must be in trouble. They’d go.

“Someone in the shit, Sergeant Cassidy?” someone asked.

“Yes,” he replied grimly, “Bravo Company.”

Kids shivered in the drizzle. Some pulled on flak jackets for warmth.

“I want to see all the acting platoon commanders,” Cassidy said. Three former squad leaders walked up to him: China, for Second
Platoon; Connolly, First; and Campion, Third. Three concerned faces looked at Cassidy.

“Someone beat the colonel’s guard tonight. Almost killed him.” He looked straight at China as he talked. “A good fucking Marine.
Three more days until he would have rotated out of this fucking place. And some assholes beat the shit out of him because
he drew guard duty. Some real proud dudes.”

China stayed cool. Connolly and Campion exchanged glances.

“A dummy grenade was tossed into the colonel’s quarters. It had the Bravo Company roster on it.” He paused. “With some modifications.”

“Like what, Gunny?” Connolly asked.

Cassidy was still looking at China. “Like the ones who’d died for their country had their names crossed out and the word ‘murdered’
was typed in.”

“You think someone from Bravo Company did it, Gunny?” China asked, wide-eyed.

Cassidy hated China but at the same time admired his cool. “I don’t think anything,” he said. “I’ve got orders to collect
all grenades, weapons, claymores, everything. I want them stacked up in piles right here, by platoon.”

“What kind of shit is this, Gunny?” Connolly said. Others had gathered around the group of four and echoed his protest.

“Just do what you’re told, Conman.”

“I earned that fucking rifle.”

“Yes, you did. You all did.” Cassidy clenched his teeth. He looked at their drawn, haggard faces, their dead eyes. He looked
around him at the squalor, saw the kids he’d humped with through the heat and cold, now shivering in the darkness, puzzled,
angry. He wanted to cry out to them to make this easier on him.

But no one moved.

“Am I going to have to take them away from you?” Cassidy asked.

“You ain’t wrong, Gunny,” Connolly said. He walked over to his hooch, pulled out his rifle, and threw it in the mud. He then
sat down and stared at it.

“Pick it up, Conman.”

“Fuck you, Cassidy.”

Cassidy strode over, towering above Connolly, who continued to stare at the muddy rifle. Then Connolly wrenched around, reached
into the sagging hooch, and pulled out Vancouver’s modified machine gun. He threw it into the mud. “There. The fucking asshole
can have that too.” Tears welled up in his eyes and he tried, unsuccessfully, to blink them away.

Cassidy stared at the gun lying in the mud.

“I want all the grenades too, Conman,” Cassidy finally said.