Matterhorn_ A Novel of the Vietnam War Part 13

Hamilton looked at Mellas. In the silence of the elephant gra.s.s Mellas had heard the entire conversation, even though Hamilton was the one using the handset. Mellas nodded and moved up behind Connolly, who was at number four. 'Alpha's close,' he whispered. Connolly pa.s.sed the word up to Corporal Arran, who was walking with a much-coveted twelve-gauge shotgun at the ready next to Pat. Vancouver, who was in front of Pat and Arran, was completely out of sight in the narrow twisting confines of the muddy trail.

Everyone grew tenser. There was only a split second to decide whether the slight movement on the trail in front was friendly or unfriendly. Deciding wrong could mean death, or the death of a fellow Marine in the approaching unit.

The company pressed on in the tunnel of gra.s.s, the sky visible only directly above them, the light poor. Vancouver scarcely dared breathe. Pat moved his red-brown ears nervously, sensing the Marines' tenseness. Suddenly Pat's silvery-white hair stood up, his tail went rigid, his nose pointed, and his red ears were angled forward. Mellas motioned everyone down. Silently, the column sank into the gra.s.s. Vancouver lay down next to the trail, his gun pointed to where the trail turned a corner. Everyone waited to see whether a Marine or an NVA soldier would come around the corner. Soon the fire team on point heard the sound of someone slipping in the mud. Then a few more footsteps. Then there was an eerie silence. No movement. No sound.

Connolly, eyebrows raised, turned to look at Mellas. Mellas nodded yes yes. Connolly whispered, 'Hey, Alpha. This is Bravo here.'

A voice whispered back, 'Whoa, man. Am I glad to hear you.' The voice rose to a soft speaking tone. 'We're there. I just heard Bravo Company.' Alpha's point man emerged cautiously around the corner of the trail, crouched low to the ground, eyes darting. Vancouver raised his hand, and the kid relaxed. He pushed his rifle's selector switch off full automatic. He was drawn, and the jungle rot on his face was very bad. He didn't smile as he shuffled past the quiet Marines from Bravo Company. Soon another kid emerged around the bend, then another. Eventually a radio operator came along. With him was a tall, thin, young-looking lieutenant, his camouflage utilities clinging to his body. He was trembling with early-stage hypothermia. He stopped in front of Mellas and let his platoon go by.

'Charlie in the zone still?' His voice was hoa.r.s.e, weary.

'Some were when we left,' Mellas answered. 'They may have all flip-flopped back to VCB by now. I didn't hear any more birds come in.'

'They probably forgot we're still here. s.h.i.+t. First they tell us Charlie's going to Matterhorn and we're going to Eiger. Then we heard everyone was going to VCB. Some f.u.c.king cl.u.s.ter f.u.c.k around Cam Lo. Now the word is we're going to Eiger again. f.u.c.ked if I can keep up. Hey, you know that f.u.c.king Irishman, Jack Murphy?'

'Just met him.'

'He owes me fifty bucks' worth of bourbon. He said there was no way we could get f.u.c.ked over worse than on the DMZ operation. You got a cigarette?'

'No, sorry.'

Hamilton casually pulled out his own plastic container, opened the lid, and offered both the lieutenant and his radioman a cigarette. Their hands shook as they gratefully lit up. Mellas was appalled at the lack of security. A person could smell cigarette smoke for miles. The tall lieutenant blew a large cloud and sighed. He turned to one of the weary figures going by. 'Who's got the f.u.c.king stiff?'

'I don't know, sir.'

's.h.i.+t.' He turned to Mellas. Clearly close to a collapse, he took another long draw on his cigarette. 'We haven't eaten in four days.' It was a flat sincere statement. Just then, around the bend in the trail came four Marines. They carried a heavy burden slung between them in a poncho hanging from two poles. One kid looked angry; the other three seemed to be in a daze, faces drawn, wet, muddy. A white, slightly puffy arm stuck up into the air from the poncho. The bearers dumped their load on the ground, breathing hard. With the poles on the ground, the poncho lay open between them, exposing a naked corpse. The angry-looking Marine spat out his words between harsh breaths.

'How much farther, Lieutenant?'

He directed the words at the tall lieutenant, but Mellas answered.

'About six hundred meters.'

'Six hundred! f.u.c.k me in the mouth. Why don't we just hump him to VCB? Dumb c.o.c.ksuckers.'

'Cool down,' the tall lieutenant said wearily.

'They killed him, Lieutenant. They f.u.c.king humped him to death and you want me to calm down. Well, f.u.c.k you.' The kid's neck showed rows of taut cords. The lieutenant handed him his cigarette, not saying anything. 'Thanks,' the kid said. He sat down and took a deep draw while the other members of the company stepped over him and the body; then he handed the cigarette to one of the men with him. Mellas kept staring at the body, pale and bloated against the dark mud of the trail.

'How did he die?' Mellas asked.

'Officially, it's pneumonia,' the lieutenant answered. 'Couldn't get him medevaced. No birds.'

'Bulls.h.i.+t. They humped him to death.' The kid said it softly.

'Pneumonia. Jesus.' Mellas whistled under his breath. 'And you couldn't get him out? Doesn't make sense.'

'No f.u.c.king s.h.i.+t, doesn't make sense.' The lieutenant gently toed the body. 'He was a good f.u.c.king kid, too. The squid hasn't a clue. All we know is his temperature shot up over a hundred six and he started screaming. We took all his clothes off to get it down. Didn't work. We'd called for an emergency medevac when it hit a hundred four. Doc thought it was flu or something. Battalion said it wasn't an emergency.' He snickered, nearly losing control. 'I guess we were right.'

He turned to the angry kid who was finis.h.i.+ng the cigarette. 'Who's supposed to take over?'

'Maki's team.'

'OK. Leave him here. I'll tell Maki to pick him up.'

The kid rounded up his fire team and they trudged down the trail. Another team arrived, slung their rifles over their backs against their packs, and picked up the two poles. They struggled down the trail, the swaying body pulling them off balance.

'Thanks for the cigarette,' the tall lieutenant said to Hamilton.

'It's OK, sir.'

He turned and walked down the trail, his radioman following. Mellas looked at Hamilton, who was watching them disappear. Tired kids continued to file past.

'Jesus,' Mellas said.

'There it is, sir,' Hamilton answered.

Mellas's insides were humming. A soft wind snaked its way through the gra.s.s, turning his wet clothing cold.

CHAPTER SIX.

You've never been out on a rampage before, have you?' Fitch peered at Mellas over his can of pears. He was sitting cross-legged on a tuft of wet moss. Rampage was the brevity code for an ambush.

'Sure I have,' Mellas replied. 'We ambushed three cows in Virginia one night.'

'Oh, yeah.' Fitch laughed, spooning another pear into his mouth. 'I heard about that. It was just before we graduated.' He continued gulping down his pears. 'Big John Six figures we can ambush some gooks who might be heading for the base camp tonight and don't know we're here.'

'I kind of doubt it,' Mellas said. They had reached the abandoned North Vietnamese base camp just an hour before. Everyone was digging in. 'It must sound like a herd of water buffalo at a barn dance around here.'

Fitch chuckled and tossed the can into the bushes. 'You see those big cat tracks when we came in?' he asked.

'He was probably sniffing at the s.h.i.+t Charlie Company left around.'

Fitch laughed. 'The way they looked, I don't think they left him very much.'

Mellas took a quick look at the jungle. He was in no mood to talk about wildlife. Ambushes could go wrong, and they'd be way outside the lines alone in the dark.

Fitch pulled out his map and showed Mellas a crayon mark where battalion wanted to ambush. 'You don't have to take it out yourself. Ba.s.s or Conman can set up a good ambush.' He pulled his K-bar out of its sheath and began cleaning his fingernails with it.

Mellas knew the offer was another test. 'Naw, I'll go. Nothing else to do.' He began unfolding his own map, hoping Fitch wouldn't see that his hands were trembling.

Hawke walked up to them. 'I had to jump on f.u.c.king Kendall for not getting his men clearing brush.' Hawke sighed and squatted down. 'You got any f.u.c.king coffee?'

'h.e.l.l, you're the XO, Jayhawk, coffee is your job,' Fitch replied. 'What did Kendall say?'

'Said he was sorry and he'd get on it. What do you mean my my f.u.c.king job?' f.u.c.king job?'

'What else you got to do?' Mellas put in.

'Well, one thing I don't have to do is take any f.u.c.king lip from wise-a.s.s boot lieutenants, that's for d.a.m.n sure.'

Mellas laughed but regretted his dumb quip. At the same time, he was desperately trying to recall all the mechanics of that aborted ambush of cows back in Virginia.

Fitch continued cleaning his nails, then spoke up. 'I'm sending a squad from First Platoon out on a rampage.'

'What for?' Hawk said.

'The Three called me on the hook and said he wants it.'

'What for?' Hawke persisted.

'Says the Six and he both think it's a good chance to kill some gooks.'

'You mean a good chance to impress f.u.c.king regiment with how gung ho we are.'

'Maybe.'

Fitch remained quiet, knowing that there was no way out, but Hawke had to have a chance to let everyone know that he disagreed. He turned to Mellas and sighed. 'There it is,' he said. 'I'll get Two and Three to move in and take a couple of your holes since you'll have a squad out. You going out with them?'

Again the test, and the very real temptation to tell Connolly or Ba.s.s to do it. He fought it down. 'Yeah. No time like the present.'

'What? You a f.u.c.king Buddhist or something?' Hawke said.

Mellas did a double take at Hawke's comment and then filed it, reevaluating Hawke once again. He laughed. 'Naw. Lutheran. We got all eternity, but we feel guilty about it.'

'What the f.u.c.k you guys talking about?' Fitch asked, genuinely puzzled. He looked at his watch. 'You better get set in before it gets too dark to see.'

In spite of his fear, the thought of springing an ambush excited Mellas. Battalion would know immediately who had led it. He might even get a medal if they killed enough. And if he was going to lie out in the rain and cold all night, he might as well get the satisfaction of killing someone. As soon as the thought crossed Mellas's mind, he reproached himself for his callousness. He also knew he didn't have the nerve to ask anyone else to lead the ambush.

Mellas had just finished briefing Jackson's squad about the ambush -it was their turn-when Hamilton called over that there was to be an actuals meeting.

'Right now? I just left the place.'

'Right now, sir.'

Mellas walked back to Fitch's hooch, fuming. Everyone else was already there, including the two Kit Carson scouts. Their value supposedly lay in knowing the NVA intimately. Unfortunately, no one in the company spoke Vietnamese, and they spoke no English, and no Marine would trust a deserter anyway. They were another example of a brain-storm that looked good in Was.h.i.+ngton, 10,000 miles from reality.

The two Kit Carsons were squatting down trying to listen to Vietnamese music on their transistor radio.

'Hey, Arran,' Ca.s.sidy growled at the dog handler, 'tell them two f.u.c.king d.i.n.ks to turn off the d.a.m.ned noise.' Arran knew about seven words in Vietnamese-more than anyone else knew-so he always talked with the Kit Carsons. He motioned to the radio and made cutting noises with his hands. Eventually, the huskier of the two small men got the message and clicked it off. His arm was horribly scarred. The Marines figured the injury had happened when he was on the other side. He held up the radio and grinned.

'Numbah one.'

Arran glowered at him, 'Radio number ten. Number ten.' He pointed to the sky. 'Dark, NVA. Number ten.'

The Kit Carson nodded. 'Numbah ten.'

'Yeah, that's right, you stupid f.u.c.ker,' Ca.s.sidy growled. No one really wanted them along, but they were a.s.signed by Division S-2, so Fitch had let them hump along with the headquarters group in the middle of the column. The two Kit Carson's resumed talking Vietnamese in low musical voices. Fitch stood up, and everyone forgot they were there.

'As you know, Delta was following in our trace all afternoon.' Fitch looked at the ground and scuffed it. 'None of you are going to like this, but I've been talking with Delta Six on the hook and it seems battalion didn't tell him until the last minute that he was coming into the valley with us. They were low on food as it was, but they thought they were going back to VCB.' He put his hands in his back pockets and looked into the jungle. 'Anyway, they didn't get a chance to draw any extra rations.' He looked back at the group. 'So battalion told them to hook up with us and take half of ours.'

Mellas exploded, surprising himself. 'No, G.o.dd.a.m.n it. They aren't getting any of mine.'

'It isn't their fault, Mellas,' Hawke said. 'I know how you feel, though.'

'What are we supposed to do, go on half rations because battalion can't get its s.h.i.+t together?' Mellas knew he sounded like a quarrelsome child, but he didn't care. He was tired, he had an ambush to set up, and he was already slightly hungry. He'd been trying to ration the food he had to make it last through the operation.

'You'll each collect two days' rations from everyone and leave them here.' Fitch was obviously accepting no bulls.h.i.+t, so no one argued. 'And I want it done randomly. No unloading the c.r.a.p. If you were in their shoes you'd want some decent food.'

'I'll be d.a.m.ned,' Mellas said caustically. 'The law of universability.'

Goodwin looked at Mellas. 'What the f.u.c.k you talking about, Jack?'

'Moral philosophy for the Golden Rule.'

'Yeah, sure,' Goodwin said. 'Do unto others before they do you-that's the f.u.c.king Golden Rule out here, Jack.' Everyone laughed.

Mellas walked back to where he and Ba.s.s had set up the platoon command post. The bantering had relaxed his anger, but now it was coming back.

'So we got to give Delta our long rats, Lieutenant?' Ba.s.s asked as Mellas approached them. Mellas had long since given up trying to spring news on any of them. Everyone was still digging holes, except Doc Fredrickson, who was counting out malaria tablets, his own small hole already finished. If they were hit, he wouldn't use it much anyway, since he'd be tending the wounded.

'Yeah. s.h.i.+t. Coordinate with Bravo Company concerning food resupply. Coordinate with Bravo Company concerning food resupply.' His mocking tone brought a few smiles. 'And Fitch doesn't want us creaming the good stuff either.'

Hamilton looked ruefully at his pack. 'Do I give them my peaches or my pound cake?'

'Just one more glorious day in the corps,' said Ba.s.s, 'where every day's a holiday and every meal's a feast.'

'Lifer,' Fredrickson retorted.

'Loyal, industrious, freedom-loving, efficient, rugged,' Ba.s.s shot back quickly.

'Lazy, ignorant f.u.c.ker expecting retirement,' Fredrickson replied.

Mellas burst out laughing.

'No f.u.c.king comments from the junior officer section,' Ba.s.s said.

'Well, this junior officer is taking out a rampage so an almost staff sergeant can get his much-needed rest and keep up with the company tomorrow. So if you'd kindly kiss the platoon good night for me, I'll take the radio and be on my way.'

'Aye, aye, Mr. Mellas.' Ba.s.s picked up one of the radios that lay next to the ponchos where he and Skosh were going to erect their shelter. He handed it to Mellas. 'You got a code name?'

Mellas thought a moment. 'v.a.g.i.n.a.'