Matterhorn_ A Novel of the Vietnam War Part 33

Fredrickson hesitated, then let go of the artery. The blood oozed out quickly, no longer spurting.

'Who was it?' Fredrickson asked quietly, blood smeared on his face. The face before him was unrecognizable.

'Broyer.'

Fraca.s.so, who had been anxiously watching Fredrickson's efforts, backed away involuntarily, b.u.mping into Hamilton. 'Excuse me,' Fraca.s.so mumbled.

They wrapped Broyer's body in his poncho and put his black plastic gla.s.ses in the pocket of his utility jacket. They then rolled the poncho's edges for hand grips. Fredrickson put the medevac number in his notebook along with the cause of death.

Fraca.s.so put Jacobs's squad on point. They continued moving awkwardly forward to get into position for the a.s.sault, knowing there would be no surprise in their favor. Their main hope now s.h.i.+fted to Goodwin, if only he could work his way up undetected.

The fog swirled around them. The fear of mines dogged every step. Broyer's body slowed them considerably.

Big John Six was frantic.

'It's d.a.m.n near oh eight thirty. They were supposed to be at their FLD three hours ago. I knew I should have s.h.i.+t-canned that G.o.dd.a.m.ned Fitch.'

Hawke listened, knowing that Fitch would have been extremely fortunate to make the FLD-the final line of departure-on time. He was more worried about the weather than Fitch's failure to kick off on schedule. Air support, holding in tight circles within easy striking distance of the target, had to have clear weather and had to strike before running short of fuel.

Captain Bainford threw his pencil across the bunker and leaned back in his chair to look at Simpson and Blakely. He'd had four F-4 Phantoms waiting above the clouds, but they had gone bingo fuel and had to return to base. He cursed about Fitch's inability to stick to a schedule. One of the radio operators picked up Bainford's pencil.

'What about the Navy?' Simpson asked.

Bainford sighed. 'I'll try, sir. But they got to be able to see what they're bombing, just like everyone else.' Bainford went back to the radio, trying to drum up another flight to wait above the towering clouds that hid the western mountains.

At that moment Goodwin was quietly spreading his platoon out in a long frontal line, preparing to move from the cover of the trees up the defoliated slopes of Helicopter Hill. He keyed the handset to signal his arrival. Fitch checked his watch. The company had been moving nearly eight hours without rest or food. Fitch could only guess how far away he was from his own final line of departure.

Robertson emerged from behind a thick cover of bush and caught movement in a tree from the corner of his eye. An NVA soldier was taking a p.i.s.s, holding on to a branch and making patterns on the ground below him with his urine. Robertson said, 'Oh, s.h.i.+t,' and fell backward, firing his M-16. At the same time, a second NVA soldier in the tree let loose with a long burst from his AK-47. The one who had been taking a p.i.s.s jumped to the ground, running hard. His friend toppled over backward with Robertson's bullets running up the inside of his body.

The radios crackled to life.

'We're committed,' Fitch said. 'End radio silence. Over.'

The company surged forward, still in single file, behind Fraca.s.so, who emerged from the shelter of the jungle onto the defoliated crest of the main ridgeline and went running across, down the north side, spreading the platoon in a single line behind him as he went. He stopped, setting them in place, and then returned to the center, moving in a crouch behind them as they lay looking intently at their objective.

Helicopter Hill's bald outline wavered in the gray fog. It had changed considerably, having been made into an auxiliary LZ by the artillery battery, the trees blasted clear for forty or fifty meters from the crest, and all the remaining trees and brush killed by defoliating chemicals. The NVA had also built bunkers that were plainly visible near the top of the hill, which was about 100 meters above the ridge on which Fraca.s.so was crouched. The ridge sloped gradually upward from him toward the west. About 300 meters from where he was, it merged into Helicopter Hill, which rose abruptly and steeply from the ridge, like a large knuckle. From the map, and from interviewing everyone he could, Fraca.s.so knew that the much larger bulk of Matterhorn stood behind Helicopter Hill, about 600 meters to its west, hidden from his view. Matterhorn's summit, with its flattened LZ and abandoned artillery positions, was about 200 meters higher than Helicopter Hill. That was within rifle range and Fraca.s.so didn't like it. For now, however, he had other things to worry about.

Kendall and Samms set Third Platoon into position, packing everyone on the small hump behind First Platoon in tiers, thankful they had gone into the hot zone first the day before yet feeling guilty and anxious for the Marines of First Platoon, who lay silently on the ground in front of them. Mellas joined Fitch and the command post group on the top of the little hump.

Ba.s.s and Fraca.s.so moved from kid to kid patting rumps or legs, checking equipment, going over the smoke and hand signals for the twentieth time, comforting them with the thought of jets standing by even though everyone knew the clouds would keep the jets away. Maybe the skipper won't send us in without air, they thought. That hope died when Fitch picked up the hook. 'OK, Bravo One. Pop smoke when you want fire. Good luck. Over.'

'Aye, aye, Skipper,' Fraca.s.so answered. Everyone lay staring ahead at the dead shrubs and defoliated trees on the hill. Fraca.s.so looked down the line to where Ba.s.s was crouched with Skosh. Ba.s.s was looking at him, waiting for the signal to go. Fraca.s.so crossed himself. Then he stood up and waved his arm forward toward the hill. Ba.s.s imitated his signal for those who couldn't see Fraca.s.so. Every Marine rose to his feet, switched off his safety, and walked forward. There would be no running. To reach the summit of the hill in a state of exhaustion would mean almost certain death. They walked, waiting for the enemy to open fire.

Mellas, watching First Platoon's backs, kept asking in a whisper, 'Why? Why? Why?' At the same time, immense excitement gripped him. He turned to Fitch. 'You don't need me here. I'm going with First Platoon.' And not knowing why himself, he ran to catch up with the slowly moving platoon.

Running to rejoin them, he felt overwhelming joy. It was as if he were coming home from a las.h.i.+ng winter storm to the warmth of his living room. The sky seemed brilliantly blue and clear, although he knew it was overcast. If he didn't move his legs faster, his heart would outpace his feet and burst. His heart, his whole body, was overflowing with an emotion that he could only describe as love.

He came up beside Ba.s.s, panting from the run, and settled in on the southern downhill side of the ridge, a few meters to Ba.s.s's right. Ba.s.s had placed himself between Jacobs's squad, on his left, and Jancowitz's squad, which held the middle position of the line and was draped over the ridge. Fraca.s.so had given Jancowitz the middle position because of the skill and experience it would take to keep the squad from splitting in half if gravity and fear pulled people in its middle downhill from the ridgeline. Fraca.s.so had placed himself just off the ridgeline on the northern side. There he could see where Jancowitz's right flank met Connolly's squad, which held the far right of the line, and endeavor to keep the two squads from splitting apart. At the same time he could pop up over the top of the ridge and see where Jacobs's squad was, although he was relying heavily on Ba.s.s to keep them formed up with the rest of the line.

They were about 100 meters from the base of the hill when a machine gun opened up from low on the hill, lacing a long line of bullets directly down the crest of the ridge, swaying slightly to both sides of the crest. The line of Marines hesitated only for a moment, ducking more from instinct than anything else. The three squad leaders, Ba.s.s, and Fraca.s.so immediately pushed forward to maintain the deliberate walking pace. The whole line continued forward with no one right on the ridge's crest where the machine-gun bullets kicked up mud. The gun was well placed. It denied the easiest approach to the hill, forced the attackers onto steeper ground on the sides of the ridge, and widened the gap between them.

Fraca.s.so ran forward of the line, just off the north side of the ridge, where the machine-gun bullets flew over his head. Hamilton ran beside him with the heavy radio. Then Fraca.s.so popped a red smoke grenade and Hamilton radioed for Third Platoon to open up behind them.

The morning air was shattered by the combined fire of forty rifles and three machine guns. First Platoon surged forward, now running in short bursts of speed, the kids throwing themselves to the ground to fire upward, then moving again, ever higher. The ground on the side of the hill was churning with the bullets being poured into it by Third Platoon. The Marines of First Platoon hit the steep bank, the line of advance folding in on itself in a crescent, and moved up the slope in disciplined short bursts-a movement that had been drilled into the Marines from their first day at boot camp. Some of them were shouting to keep their spirits up; some were shouting from sheer excitement. A few fired their rifles up the slope, but most simply held their fire, knowing that the angle was poor.

About twenty-five meters up the hillside Fraca.s.so popped a green smoke to signal Third Platoon to stop firing. Fitch called off the fire of Third Platoon to avoid hitting his own men.

There was a second or two of silence.

Then Helicopter Hill exploded with the steady, ear-splitting fire of heavy machine guns and the flat clatter of the solid automatic AK-47 and semiautomatic SKS rifles of the North Vietnamese Army. Now the ground beneath First Platoon's feet spat up dirt and mud, some of it tinted dark red.

Mellas ran forward, throwing himself behind rocks, scrambling across exposed patches, and then lunging again for any sort of cover from the fire pouring down on them. All of his being was wound up in his pumping heart and the rapidly rising heat of the blood coursing through his brain and legs. The kids were running and dodging in groups of two and three. Fraca.s.so was trying hard to keep the platoon together. Connolly's squad, on the north side of the ridge, was bunched together, leaving a large gap between it and Jancowitz, who had half his squad on one side of the ridge and half on the other. Jacobs, on the south side, had his squad moving forward in rushes, two fire teams shooting while the third scrambled forward.

The NVA, no longer pinned down by Third Platoon's fire, maintained its own fierce fire. The world seemed to turn over as Mellas watched soft flesh run against hot metal. What, moments before, had been organized movement now disintegrated into confusion, noise, and blood. The attack might have looked as if it were still being directed by the leaders, but it wasn't. It went forward because each Marine knew what to do.

Mellas was transported outside himself, beyond himself. It was as if his mind watched everything coolly while his body raced wildly with pa.s.sion and fear. He was frightened beyond any fear he had ever known. But this brilliant and intense fear, this terrible here and now, combined with the crucial significance of every movement of his body, pushed him over a barrier whose existence he had not known about until this moment. He gave himself over completely to the G.o.d of war within him.

A burst of machine-gun bullets cracked over his head as he ran parallel to the contour of the hill to try and help get the squads back together again. He heard screams for a corpsman. He ran toward the sounds and found Doc Fredrickson already there. Two kids were down, one still breathing raggedly, the other shot through the upper teeth, a gaping exit hole in the back of his head. The two remaining fire team members were still moving upward against the fire. Mellas ran after them. He saw Jacobs crouching behind a small outcropping as he moved forward against a machine-gun emplacement.

Young scrambled up beside Jacobs, set the bipod at the end of his machine-gun barrel on a small hump, and began a steady fire against the NVA machine gun. This enabled the two remaining kids from the fire team to keep crawling up the hill, grenades in their hands.

'Where's Jermain?' Mellas shouted at Jacobs. 'We need a f.u.c.king M-79.' Jacobs turned and looked down at Mellas, who was just below him. He pointed. Mellas raced away, using the steepness of the hill for cover. Bullets pa.s.sed over his head. He found Jermain crawling cautiously upward through the thick bushes, his stubby M-79 grenade launcher pushed out in front of him.

'We need grenades,' Mellas shouted. 'Machine-gun bunker. Jacobs is going after it.' Mellas turned around, not even looking to see if Jermain would follow and not thinking for a moment that he wouldn't. Jermain ran after him.

The earth was spattering on the front of the small hump and on both sides of Young. His teeth were bared and his face was contorted with fear as he and the NVA machine gunner locked on each other, bullets flying between them. But Young continued firing in short disciplined bursts so as not to overheat his barrel, leaving the others free to move. Jermain shouted at Robertson and two new kids in his fire team above him to get down. Then he stood up, exposing himself to the fire, and began to pump grenades at the opening of the bunker. The NVA machine gun stopped firing.

Then Robertson and the two other kids crawled to their knees and scrambled up to the side of the bunker to finish it off. Mellas was already running away, having done all he could. He didn't see one of the kids crumple to the ground, shot in the back from a hidden hole to the right of the bunker. Robertson rolled forward into the cover of the bushes, throwing both his grenades into the open hole and killing the two North Vietnamese who were firing from it. Without grenades, however, he was now ineffective against the bunker with the machine gun. He lay on his back and cradled his rifle on his chest. The machine gun opened up again. Young responded. This left Jacobs to figure out what to do next.

Mellas ran behind Jancowitz's squad. They were bunching up, making it easier for the NVA gunners, and the terrain was forcing them, unwitting, toward the easier but far more deadly approach of the top of the ridgeline. Mellas saw Ba.s.s and screamed at him, 'Get those stupid f.u.c.kers off that ridgeline.' Ba.s.s nodded, gasping for air, and ran forward, Skosh d.o.g.g.i.ng his heels with the radio.

Mellas moved straight up the hill. Pollini was there, frantically trying to clear his weapon. Pollini kept looking above him, not at his weapon, jamming the action over and over again.

It took no time for Mellas to figure out the trap. The bushes directly in front of Pollini had been cut away from the ground level up to about two feet, and then the branches had been left in their normal state. It was a clear field of fire for a machine gun that would chop down the advancing man's legs, causing him to fall into the bullets. 'Give me that f.u.c.king rifle, Shortround,' Mellas shouted. His voice was barely audible above the noise. Pollini handed Mellas the rifle as if it might explode any second. He looked at Mellas wildly, then looked downhill to what seemed like safety. Then he grinned at Mellas. 'It's jammed, sir.'

Mellas quickly saw that Pollini hadn't seated his magazine completely and the upper edge was blocking the pa.s.sage of the bolt. Mellas shook his head and snapped the magazine into place. He fired a short burst. The hot sh.e.l.l casings poured out, hitting Pollini on the side of the face. That snapped Pollini back to the situation at hand. He grinned and reached for his rifle, once again looking uphill through the tunnel of cleared brush.

'You OK, Shortround?' Mellas asked.

Pollini smiled, gulped, and nodded. 'Yeah. f.u.c.king stuck, huh, sir?'

'Yeah, well, it's unstuck now. You watch it. There's a f.u.c.king machine gun right above you.' Mellas moved away, looking for Jancowitz.

Pollini scrambled to his feet and darted up the hill. He ran straight up the carefully cleared path, disappearing from Mellas's view before Mellas could tackle him.

The machine gun opened up, and Mellas lunged behind a small lip as the bullets chopped up mud and branches. The gun stopped. In the brief silence he heard Pollini shout, 'I'm hit. I'm hit.'

Mellas hugged the earth when the gun started again, hoping Pollini would crawl back. He didn't.

Ba.s.s came around the side of the hill. 'Who's. .h.i.t?' he asked.

'Shortround,' Mellas said, crawling backward toward Ba.s.s, who was leaning on his side against the steep slope. Skosh was crouched at his feet trying to listen to the radio, one hand over his exposed ear.

Ba.s.s looked up the hill. 'There's a f.u.c.king machine gun up there, sir.'

'I know. Shortround's alive. I heard him yell.'

'Me too,' Ba.s.s said. 'But it's suicide to get him from here. We'll work around it. It's dug in but it's not in a bunker like the other one. Maybe a Mike twenty-six.'

Doc Fredrickson came scrambling into the relative safety beneath the hill's crest where the three of them crouched. He leaned back against the hill, chest heaving, and stared down the long ridgeline where several bodies lay exposed. He wasn't listening to the conversation.

Mellas turned to Ba.s.s and grinned. 'What do you think, Sergeant Ba.s.s? Is it worth at least a Navy Commendation medal if I go get him?' Mellas intended this as a joke but realized he was partially serious.

Ba.s.s looked at him. He was not in a joking mood. 'You'll get killed up there, Lieutenant. Don't do it.'

Mellas was suddenly determined to get a medal; moreover, it was his fault that Pollini wasn't on KP duty back at VCB. He turned to Fredrickson. 'Wait here until I get him down.' Fredrickson was still catching his breath and didn't respond.

Ba.s.s said, 'OK, sir, I'll try and give you some cover. If you get killed I'll put you in for a posthumous Bronze Star.'

'It's a deal.'

Up until this moment, Mellas had felt as though he were in a movie. Now, faced with the consequences of his decision, he sensed that the film was about to break in two: sudden, searing white light, and then nothing.

He watched Skosh and Ba.s.s crawl slowly into place to his left. He nodded at them and they raised their rifles over the lip of the hill and opened up. Mellas whirled to his feet and went charging over the small crest, throwing his body forward on the ground, firing blindly uphill, hoping to keep the machine gunner's head down as he crawled forward.

Pollini was sprawled on his back, feet pointing uphill toward the machine gun. Mellas. .h.i.t the ground below Pollini's head. He reached up and tried to pull Pollini downhill by dragging on his utility s.h.i.+rt at the shoulders. The machine gun opened up as soon as Mellas stopped firing. Mellas tugged but couldn't get sufficient leverage to move Pollini's weight. He cursed. He tugged again. He couldn't move him. Bullets snapped past his ears. He fired a last desperate burst from his M-16 directly over Pollini's body and scrambled up beside him. He turned himself around and threw himself on top of Pollini, hugging him face-to-face. Wrapping his arms around him he jacked the two of them sideways on the steep hillside and then quickly rolled downhill, pulling Pollini on top of him as he rolled. Mellas felt bullets impacting all around him. With every roll he hoped it was Pollini and not him who would catch the bullet.

Suddenly the earth gave way and he fell over the embankment. Fredrickson was waiting there. He pulled Pollini free. Pollini's breathing had stopped. There was blood coming from his mouth. Ba.s.s and Skosh came running around the corner of the embankment and the three of them watched in silence. The objective of taking the hill and the terrific noise and confusion raging about them were forgotten as they watched Fredrickson try to save Pollini's life.

Fredrickson was blowing air into Pollini's mouth, spitting out blood and vomit between breaths. He did this for at least a minute, then looked up at the other three, defeat on his face. He moved aside some matted, b.l.o.o.d.y hair on the top of Pollini's head and exposed a small round hole. Mellas remembered that, at the top of the hill, Pollini's helmet had been behind him on the ground.

'There's nothing I can do for him, sir,' Fredrickson said, grief and helplessness showing on his face. 'He's got a bullet inside his head someplace. I don't see no exit hole.'

Mellas nodded and looked at Ba.s.s and Skosh.

'f.u.c.king Shortround,' Skosh said quietly and turned away, his jaw working, looking uphill.

The machine gun opened up, its heavy rounds slamming through the air. They heard grenades going off. Then silence. Then the machine gun opened up again.

Mellas forgot about Pollini and ran off toward the sounds. He came upon Amarillo, who was crawling forward, and joined him.

Sweat ran down Amarillo's face. 'Janc, sir,' he said. 'He is going after that gun. He has Jackson's team with him.'

Mellas could see nothing of Jackson or Jancowitz. He looked behind him. A new kid was hunched over in a little ball, a bullet through his shoulder and neck. Mellas didn't even know his name.

Amarillo saw Mellas looking at the dead Marine. 'He is too boot from ITR. He goes running up against the machine gun.'

Mellas didn't answer. Both of them overcame their desire to stay hugging the earth and scrambled forward.

Jackson was moving his team in small rushes, closing in on the gun. No Marines were firing. 'Where's Janc?' Mellas shouted.

Jackson pointed ahead. 'He took off around the side, sir. We don't know where the f.u.c.k he's at.' Mellas now understood why no one was shooting.

They heard roaring bursts of fire and yelling to their left, but Mellas barely registered this. It was Goodwin's platoon, just released by Fitch.

In the midst of the roaring they caught glimpses of Jancowitz's head above the bushes. He was running directly along the contour of the hill, taking the NVA machine gun from the side. He fired a burst from his M-16. A man next to the machine gunner turned his AK-47 on Jancowitz, but Janc kept running forward.

Jackson saw the gunner turn the machine gun toward Jancowitz. He scrambled to his feet and charged up the hill screaming, 'Janc, you stupid motherf.u.c.ker. You crazy stupid motherf.u.c.ker.'

Jancowitz released the spoon of his grenade as the gunner got the machine gun turned around and opened up on him. Janc seemed to throw the grenade and go down simultaneously, bullets bursting out of the back side of his flak jacket. Then his grenade went off-like a sudden hand clap in an empty room.

Cortell went running after Jackson, firing quick bursts at the gun pit. Then, as if jerked by an unseen hand, Cortell's neck snapped backward and his helmet went spinning into the air behind him. He sank to his knees, staring stupidly at his rifle, which he was holding horizontally in front of him. Then he collapsed forward, ending up with his bare head on the ground like a Muslim at prayer.

Jackson kept running forward, trying to reach Jancowitz. Mellas reached Cortell and rolled him over on his side. Cortell's knees were still folded up against his stomach in a fetal position. Blood was running off his forehead and his hair was matted with it. He was gritting his teeth in pain. 'Janc got him, sir,' Cortell wheezed. 'Janc got him. Oh, Janc. Oh, Lord Jesus.' Mellas grabbed Cortell's gauze bandage package from his belt, ripped open the paper, and slapped it on what looked like a furrow starting at his forehead and going back over the top of his ear. He put Cortell's hand on the bandage, pressing it down hard. 'Don't f.u.c.king move it,' he said.

He turned back uphill. He pa.s.sed Jancowitz's body. Blood was still oozing from beneath the back of his flak jacket. A dark black patch was slowly spreading into both trouser legs. Three facts registered simultaneously: the machine gun was silent, Jancowitz was dead, and the opening had to be exploited. Mellas turned to his left and saw Goodwin already moving toward him with an entire squad. Goodwin, his natural fighting instincts functioning faster than Mellas was thinking, was already rus.h.i.+ng into the gap where the machine-gun fire used to be. Within seconds he and five other Marines were behind the line of holes and bunkers. China, scrambling up the steep slope with the heavy machine gun against his chest, slammed into the earth at the edge of the former NVA machine gun's position. He began laying fire over the NVA fighting holes to Goodwin's right. Mellas immediately saw what China was doing. He kept running. He shouted at Goodwin, who didn't seem to hear him. He ran. He made hand signals at the Marines behind him, redirecting them behind China, taking advantage of the fact that the enemy could no longer stand up long enough to take aim and fire because of the stream of China's bullets. He caught Goodwin's eye, pointed at him, and then pointed left. He pointed at his own chest and then pointed right. Chaos slipped momentarily into order.

With Second Platoon now pouring through the gap and coming at the NVA from behind them, it seemed as if a heavy weight had been removed. 'They're on the top! I see Scar on the top!' The cry pa.s.sed all around the hillside. Fraca.s.so and the Marines of First Platoon surged forward. Mellas was exhilarated. All his fear had left him. He ran straight up to the hill's crest, Marines appearing all along the line in small groups and surging through the line of holes. Those NVA soldiers who hadn't been trapped in position were moving in rapid but disciplined flight down a finger to the northwest. What just seconds before had been mad scrambling now turned into methodical and cautious destruction. Grenades were rolled into holes and tossed into the openings of the crude log bunkers. As each NVA position fell, the one next to it became vulnerable. Any NVA soldier trying to break for the jungle was immediately killed by fire from several directions.

Mellas met Goodwin at a short trench leading to the dark opening of a bunker. Both had their grenades out. They looked each other in the eye briefly, then Goodwin nodded and they both swung in front of the opening, threw their grenades, and dived to the side as the blast came ripping out of the entrance. They crawled in together, firing short bursts on automatic. Mellas was flat on the deck and Goodwin was just behind him in a crouch so that they could fire their rifles at the same time.

There was no one inside.

Mellas started to laugh and rolled over on his back, looking up at the roof of the gloomy bunker.

'You two guys having fun, ay?' Vancouver was peering through the entrance at them, smiling. His face was streaked with sweat; his machine gun was steaming. His sword was sheathed. 'Nagoolian went thataway.' He pointed toward Matterhorn.

Mellas crawled out and sat on top of the bunker, his legs quivering so that he was unable to stand. The battle was over. There were pitifully few dead enemy soldiers to show for it.

Goodwin moved off to set in his platoon. Ridlow, wounded in the leg, lay on the hillside, pallid with shock, and waited to be helped up to the LZ. Mellas, still shaking, trotted down the hill to guide in the Marines of Third Platoon, who were racing forward to set up for a possible counterattack.

Mellas pa.s.sed Pollini. His eyes were frozen open. He remembered Pollini's voice as he cried out, 'I'm hit.' How could he cry out if he'd been shot in the head? A guilty sickening thought wrenched Mellas's stomach. Pollini's head had been pointing downhill. Could he he have shot Pollini when he was firing wildly upward, trying to keep the machine gunners' heads down? have shot Pollini when he was firing wildly upward, trying to keep the machine gunners' heads down?

Mellas stared at Pollini's blank eyes. He sat down beside him, wanting to ask, wanting to explain what he'd done: that he really had wanted to save him, not just add a medal to his list of accomplishments. He had pulled Pollini off KP because he wanted to do right by him. He hadn't meant for him to end up dead. But he could say none of it. Pollini was dead.

Mellas tried to put down the thought that he could have killed Pollini. It must have been the gook machine gun. He wanted to leave the doubt behind, buried with the bullet in Pollini's brain, but he knew he never could. If he made it out alive he'd carry this doubt with him forever.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

Victory in combat is like s.e.x with a prost.i.tute. For a moment you forget everything in the sudden physical rush, but then you have to pay your money to the woman showing you the door. You see the dirt on the walls and your sorry image in the mirror.

Thick fog made twilight of midmorning. It hid the Marines on Helicopter Hill from the sniper fire now coming from the bunkers that Bravo Company had built on Matterhorn. But the fog also kept the helicopters from evacuating the wounded. The Marines dragged their dead friends to a shallow pit near the top of the hill. Mellas and Fitch sat in the dark interior of the bunker Goodwin and Mellas had taken. The fog hung silver-gray in the entrance hole.