Matterhorn (80 page)

Ten minutes later the chopper had reached the mountains and the jungle sea rolled in ever larger swells over the first of
the foothills. Mellas pulled out his map—this was now a compulsive habit—and got his bearings as a prominent peak flashed
beneath him, a river winding in a tight S-curve around it. Then they were over the next upthrust of hills, now higher and
more rugged.

Mellas untied Vancouver’s sword from the side of his pack and crawled over to an open porthole, squeezing past the door gunner,
who was watching him while at the same time idly moving his eyes back and forth across the ground below. When Mellas reached
the porthole, the blast of the air threatened to pull the patch off his eye. He tugged it back into place and then knelt,
leaning into the rushing air, holding the sword
out in front of him. Mellas looked at it for about half a minute, remembering. Then he threw the sword into the twilight.

He watched it falling behind them, twisting, catching a glint of the dying light before it merged into the vast unbroken gray-green
below. Mellas then unfolded his map and carefully marked the spot where it had fallen with a cross, printing “VS,” Vancouver’s
sword, next to it.

The door gunner shook his head. “You fucking grunts, man,” he shouted at him. “Crazy motherfuckers.”

Coming up on VCB in the early evening, Mellas felt the nostalgia that many people feel on coming home, no matter how squalid
the setting. Below him a few lights, careless of NVA rockets, blinked out from behind the blackout curtains.

When he got out of the chopper a small group of field-grade officers from division staff were there, waiting to be picked
up, with briefcases in hand and .45s in shiny black holsters. Mellas walked silently on the dark road toward the battalion
area, passing the tents where he’d awaited the launching of the Bald Eagle. A company from Nineteenth Marines was there; the
Marines were whittling, writing letters, cleaning rifles, and playing cards to counteract boredom and fear. The air was noticeably
warmer than it had been the last time he’d been at VCB.

He reached Bravo Company’s supply tent. Someone had made an attempt to straighten its sagging exterior. The interior was in
good order, with seabags stacked neatly in the back on wooden pallets to keep them off the mud. The old writing table was
there, with two candles burning on it. Three strangers sat inside.

“Can we help you, Marine?” one of them asked sharply. He was beefed up and obviously had just arrived from the world. He had
a knife stuck in his boot. Mellas wanted to groan.

“Fuck,” Mellas said. “Is this Bravo Company or what? I’m Lieutenant Mellas. Where’s Hawke and Scar?”

The three strangers stood up.

Mellas sloughed off his pack, undid his belt-suspenders, and let everything fall with a thud to the metal runway matting beneath
his feet.

“Welcome back, sir,” the man said. “We’ve heard a lot about you. I’m Staff Sergeant Irvine and this is Staff Sergeant Bentham,
and this is Lieutenant LaValley, sir.” He hesitated a moment. “We heard that you lost the eye.”

“So did everyone else,” Mellas said.

Mellas shook hands with each of them, playing the role of silent wounded hero. He could see that the new lieutenant was in
awe of him, just as he himself would have been in awe of a veteran a couple of months ago. Their reaction meant nothing to
him now, other than informing him that tales of Matterhorn had probably been exaggerated far beyond anything he could have
concocted, and that the new kids would be jittery as hell.

Mellas dug into his pack and pulled out the bottle of Jack Daniel’s. “Any word on what’s happening?”

The new lieutenant told him that they were going to Eiger and would spend about a week there guarding the artillery battery.
Charlie Company would be dropped into the river valley north of Eiger at the same time and would move north. After a week
the two companies would flip-flop. Alpha was already on Sky Cap with Delta Company sweeping the Suoi Tien Hien River valley
just to its immediate east.

“When we leaving?” Mellas asked.

“Oh-six-hundred tomorrow.”

Mellas grunted. “Then I guess I got time tonight to get fucked up.” He held the bottle up to the new lieutenant and the two
new staff sergeants. “Anybody want some? It’s your last chance.”

They each took a small shot in a coffee mug or canteen cup to show Mellas that they were friendly.

“You think the zone’ll be hot when Charlie hits it?” the lieutenant asked, holding his mug between his knees and leaning forward.

“Do I look like a fucking gypsy?” Mellas wisecracked. “Naw. I don’t think so.” He looked at the amber liquid, reflecting the
candlelight. “How’re the troops?”

“We got a lot of boots, Lieutenant.” It was the other staff sergeant, Bentham, who’d spoken up. Mellas looked at him, surprised.
He talked as if he’d been in combat before. Mellas was thankful for that. He’d probably made sergeant on his last tour, then
had gotten promoted to staff back in the world, and had been shipped out here as soon as his two years of grace were over.

“Which platoon you got?”

“I got Third Platoon. I have that until we get one more lieutenant.”

“And you two?” Mellas asked the others.

“I’ll be honchoing Second Platoon with Lieutenant Goodwin,” the staff sergeant with the knife in his boot answered.

“And I’ve got your old platoon,” LaValley said, smiling.

“They ain’t mine,” Mellas said, laughing. “You can blame all your troubles on a guy named Fracasso. Of course I’ll take credit
for anything they do that’s good.”

“From what I hear they never really had much time to feel like they were Lieutenant Fracasso’s bunch,” LaValley said.

Mellas swirled the whiskey. “Naw. He was one hell of a good guy. They were his platoon all right.” He looked at LaValley,
feeling a wave of sadness. Then he tossed down his whiskey and grinned, despite the empty hole in him that the whiskey couldn’t
fill. “Don’t you worry about it. They’ll be yours in no time. After you’ve been here awhile you can tell a winner from a loser
in one second flat. You don’t have anything to worry about.”

Mellas tried to include everyone as he spoke, and he was sure everyone felt included. But he knew that the Jayhawk could also
tell a winner from a loser. The guy with the fucking knife in his boot was going with Scar so that Scar could keep him from
doing too much damage.

“As for me,” Mellas added, “I’m going to go find a couple friends of mine and get knee-walking, commode-hugging drunk. And
if I’m at all successful you might just have to take the company tomorrow while the skipper and executive officer try to regain
consciousness.”

He left them laughing and walked outside to look for Hawke and Goodwin. He saw a lone Marine walking up the road, with a towel
around his neck and a soap container in one hand. Probably on his way to a final shower before the op.

“Lieutenant Mellas,” the kid shouted, “we heard you was back.”

It was Fisher.

“Jesus Christ, Fisher. I thought you were back in the world. What do we have to do to get
out
of this fucking place?”

“Beats me, sir. I think we have to get killed.”

They both stopped short at the words; then they both laughed.

They shook hands, grinning hugely.

“You OK? I mean, down there.” Mellas nodded toward Fisher’s crotch.

Fisher brought him up to speed on his operation and recovery from the leech.

“You mean everything works?” Mellas asked.

“I ain’t shittin’ you, Lieutenant,” said Fisher. “At least everything works in Japan. Goddamn but I’m in love with Japanese
women. They treat you real decent, sir.”

“So I’ve heard,” Mellas replied. “I’m glad you’re OK. I mean it, Fisher. I’m really glad.”

“Yeah. Thanks, sir,” Fisher said. Then his expression changed. “I heard about you guys getting in the deep shit.”

Mellas didn’t want to talk about Matterhorn. “You got your old squad back?” he asked.

Fisher understood. “What’s left of them,” he said. “It’s still Second Squad, I guess.” He kicked at a mud clot. “Shit. Sixty-seven
days to go. I’m a double-digit midget.” He grinned at Mellas. “I’m so short I can swing my legs sitting on my flak jacket.
In fact I’m so short, when I wear it, it drags on the ground. How many you got, Lieutenant?”

“Three-hundred-three and a wake-up.” He pointed his finger at Fisher’s face. “And don’t give me any shit.”

“Shit, Lieutenant, you still ought to count in months.”

Mellas laughed, genuinely glad Fisher was getting short. He thrust the boxes of cigars at Fisher for him to hand out to the
company and contined up the road. When he got to the BOQ tent he found McCarthy,
Murphy, Goodwin, and Hawke laughing around a footlocker with three bottles opened on it.

“Roll up for the magical mystery tour!” he sang. “I’m coming to take you a-way-y.”

Two officers he didn’t know groaned. One of them was trying to sleep. “Holy Christ. Another one.”

“Hey!” McCarthy shouted. “It’s Mellas. With a fucking patch!” Murphy hugged Mellas and lifted him off the floor while Mellas
held the bottle of whiskey above his head. Murphy set Mellas down and McCarthy grabbed the bottle from him. “Blessed be God,
forever,” McCarthy said, holding it up to the light. “For our good and the good of the Corps.” Mellas flipped him the bird.

“Scar and Patch,” Hawke said. “I don’t have a company. I’ve got a fucking animal act.”

“Well, take your fucking act someplace else,” the disgruntled would-be sleeper said. “I got a watch to stand in three hours.”

“No fucking stamina,” Hawke shot back. He stood and carefully put his stateside utility cover on his head, adjusting it in
a steel mirror that hung on one of the tent poles. “Come on,” he said. “Cassidy’s in Quang Tri. Let’s go over to his place
and let these fine staff officers sleep.”

Cassidy slept in a neat little room with its own exterior entry in the back of the S-4 tent. It was dark. Hawke eventually
found a candle and lit it. He sat down on Cassidy’s cot.

“By the way, Hawke,” Mellas said, “congratulations on getting the company.” He held out his hand. “It’s number fucking one
as far as I’m concerned.”

“Thanks, Mel.” Hawke leaned back on the cot. “It’s funny though. It’s like a different company.”

“I know what you mean.”

McCarthy handed Mellas and Goodwin mugs filled with whiskey. “Quit mourning over your fucking lost company,” he said. “You’re
wasting my goddamned time.”

“Then let’s get this mystery tour on the road in
my
company jeep,” Hawke said. “Who’s sober enough to drive to the O-club?”

Mellas looked around. “I guess I’m about it,” he said.

“Good,” McCarthy said. “You sit in the back and catch up with us. I’ll fucking drive.”

Soon all five of them were sitting around a table at the crude regimental O-club, a hasty barricade against reality. A small
generator hummed steadily, providing flickering light. The bare plywood walls still had the grade stamps showing. Exposed
studs oozed pitch. A battered dartboard was nailed to one of the walls.

They stuck candles directly onto the table by melting puddles of wax. Then they ordered five drinks apiece, the only way to
avoid squabbling over who would get the honor of buying the last round. McCarthy and Murphy stood at the bar while the bartender
measured out twenty-five shot glasses of whiskey and placed them on two large trays. Holding the trays out in front of them,
McCarthy and Murphy made their way between tables. McCarthy had a package of Ritz crackers in his teeth. Hawke took the crackers
and opened one end while the shot glasses were placed on the table. McCarthy went back for two pitchers of water and five
larger glasses that he set on the table in front of Hawke.

Hawke had been counting the number of crackers in the package. “Here,” he said. “Seven each. Except I get eight because I’m
the company commander.” He passed the package over to Mellas, who took his seven and passed it on to Goodwin. Hawke picked
up a pitcher and started to silently question them in turn about their preferences for how much water they wanted in their
whiskey, holding up one, two, or three fingers. When everyone had been served, he raised his glass and said, “
Semper Fi
, motherfuckers,” and threw down the first drink.

Soon Mellas was deliciously high, so that the bourbon tasted smooth and cool while simultaneously warming his belly. It was
a magical contrast. He was well aware of the moment, in spite of the bourbon. He knew that the five of them had shared experiences
no one else had shared or would share. He also knew it was unlikely that all of them would live to share such a moment again.
Indeed, he could be the one missing. All the gaiety in the world—all the shouting, all the pain-numbing drunkenness—
would not conceal that lurking thought. But the lurking thought was what made him aware that this moment was precious.

“Hey, Mel,” Hawke said, “when we get back to the world we ought to go into business or something. Shit, all five us. Wouldn’t
that be a gas?”

“With what we know, all we could do is compete with the Mafia,” Murphy said.

“The only business you could ever run is a fucking bar,” McCarthy said. “But I’d run one with you.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Hawke said, lifting his glass. “That’s it. A fucking bar.” He hiccupped. “A special fucking bar.” He
giggled. “We’ll call it the Bunker.”

“Naw,” Mellas said. “Not sophisticated enough. Call it Ellsworth.”

“Fuck you and your sophistication, Jack,” Goodwin said. “We want a fucking bar, not some fairy discotheque.”

“That’s right,” McCarthy said, “and to get a drink there you have to park your car four hundred meters away and cut through
solid bamboo and elephant grass with a machete to find it.”

Mellas thought for a moment. “Only you don’t give the customers any fucking maps,” he said. “No maps!” He started to slap
his palm on the table with each word. “No fucking maps!”

“But you could have one smoke grenade,” Hawke said. “That way if you give up, a chopper can take you back to the parking lot
free of charge.”