Matterhorn_ A Novel of the Vietnam War Part 6

'And I'll send him to VCB.'

'Fine, sir. I'll let you know when the next bird comes in. Get his a.s.s up to the LZ. Don't be too surprised if he doesn't come back until after we go into the valley.'

A chopper bringing in water for the artillery battery came in the next morning, and Mallory flew to Vandegrift Combat Base, VCB. He returned three days later, along with a note to the senior squid from the battalion's navy surgeon, Lieutenant Selby. 'I see nothing wrong with this Marine that would keep him from performing his normal duties.' Sh.e.l.ler walked it down to Mellas and Fredrickson, and Mellas called Mallory up and handed it to him.

'Sheeit,' Mallory said after reading it. 'Sheeit. I tell you my f.u.c.king head aches.' He avoided looking at Mellas.

Mellas wanted to ask why one visit to the battalion aid station had taken three days. But he let it go, since Jancowitz had already dressed Mallory down in front of the whole squad and put him on listening post two nights to make up for the two days he'd probably f.u.c.ked off back in the rear smoking dope. 'You'll just have to live with it, Mallory,' Mellas replied. 'It's probably psychosomatic. We all get afraid of things and sometimes the body tries to keep us from doing them. You'll just have to get over it.'

'You're saying it's in my f.u.c.king head?' Mallory whined. His tone of voice was an accusation that lumped Mellas with all the others who wouldn't help. 'I tell you it's real, man. It f.u.c.king hurts me so I can't hardly think.'

'Mallory, it's psychosomatic. You'll just have to get used to it. We can't do anything for you. We tried.'

'Sheeit.' Mallory turned away, still holding the doctor's note in his thin hand.

CHAPTER THREE.

The battalion's coming in tomorrow,' Fitch said tightly. 'Let's get 'em cleaned up.' A loud salvo from the arty battery exploded behind them, making everyone flinch. 'That means haircuts, shaves, the works. No mustaches unless they're corporals or higher. Big John Six's orders.'

Mellas wearily walked back to the platoon. Hamilton saw him coming and shouted down to the holes below for the squad leaders. Another salvo rocked the hill, obliterating all other sounds. He reached his hooch and sat down, staring blankly into the fog. Eventually the three squad leaders arrived. Jancowitz, filthy, was still in his gear from a patrol. On his face, sweat mixed with fine drops of precipitation. Connolly squatted down with his hands resting across his knees, Vietnamese style. Jacobs, still nervous about his job as temporary squad leader, already had a green notebook and a ballpoint pen ready. The next to arrive was Ba.s.s, breathing hard from chugging up the slope. He squatted on the ground, looking over toward Doc Fredrickson's hooch, annoyed because Fredrickson hadn't made it to the meeting on time. 'He's up at the LZ with Senior Squid,' Mellas said. 'They're counting pills for a reorder when the battalion gets here.'

'Battalion?' Ba.s.s asked, c.o.c.king his right eye.

'Tomorrow. The birds are already fragged. That means we've got to get everyone squared away.'

Jancowitz and Connolly nodded, having been through it before.

Jacobs was scratching away in his notebook. 'H-h-haircuts, Lieutenant?' he asked.

'Yes, Jake,' Mellas said, with just a tinge of sarcasm.

'With what? Our f.u.c.king K-bars?' Ba.s.s asked.

Jancowitz giggled. 'I thought you f.u.c.king lifers just grew short hair.'

'You keep mouthing off,' Ba.s.s replied, 'and I'll cut yours with a G.o.dd.a.m.n E-tool and then shove it so far up your b.u.t.t you'll be eating p.u.s.s.y with the blade.'

'I don't see why in h.e.l.l not,' Jancowitz replied, undaunted. 'We manage to do everything else with our E-tools.'

'Rumor has it,' Mellas broke in, 'that Ca.s.sidy managed to get some clippers from the arty people that'll get pa.s.sed around, and they've got plenty of water, too. So everyone shaves. And about the shaving-no stashes unless you're E-5 or above.'

'Bulls.h.i.+t, sir!' Jancowitz looked betrayed. 'I'm a f.u.c.king squad leader and squad leaders can have stashes. It's always been that way.' He'd written to Susi about it.

'Janc, the word is E-5 and above.'

'No one can see yours now,' Ba.s.s said. 'Why do you care?'

'I promise you I won't go anywhere near the LZ. No one'll see me.' He looked at Ba.s.s and Mellas. Neither one could help him.

'Cut off the stashes and get anyone who needs a haircut a haircut,' Mellas said quickly, giving no chance for reb.u.t.tal. 'That's that. Who's got the patrols tomorrow?' Connolly and Jacobs each raised a finger. 'OK, I'll be going with Conman. Ba.s.s will be going with Jacobs.' Mellas outlined the patrol routes and together they targeted preparation fires by the artillery and mortars. Mellas was good with maps, he knew it, and it didn't go unnoticed by the platoon-their lives depended on it. Fredrickson showed up and handed out the daily dose of malaria tablets, and they split up.

Mellas was eating some glutinous C-ration beef and potatoes mixed with applesauce and some of Ba.s.s's carefully rationed Worcesters.h.i.+re sauce when Jancowitz came trudging back up the hill, this time with Parker behind him. Ba.s.s, who was heating water for coffee, looked over at Mellas. 'I'll bet you a can of peaches that Parker doesn't want his hair cut,' he said.

's.h.i.+t,' Mellas said.

'RHIP,' Ba.s.s said, smiling, with half-closed eyes.

The two arrivals reached the little level spot that the platoon CP group shared. Mellas swallowed another spoonful before acknowledging their presence.

'OK, Janc, what's the problem?'

'Parker wants to request mast, sir.'

'How come, Parker?' Mellas asked, looking at him.

'I ain't getting no haircuts.'

'What the f.u.c.k did you say?' Ba.s.s stood up, jaw thrust out, the tin can of hot water in his hand. 'You're talking to the lieutenant, Parker.' To Mellas, it hardly seemed the time to enforce military etiquette, but he let Ba.s.s go on.

'Sir, I don't need no haircuts and I want to see the skipper for mast, sir, sir,' Parker repeated.

Ba.s.s sat down. Requesting mast with the skipper was every Marine's privilege. Mellas looked at Parker's hair. It was curly, nearly an Afro. There was very little doubt that the battalion CP would find it too long, not just because of the Marine Corps' preference for extremely short hair, but also because of the political implications. 'OK, Janc,' he said, 'I'll take it from here. Thanks.'

Jancowitz nodded and headed back down the hill, where Hippy, clippers in hand, was sizing up another customer who was sitting on his gun emplacement with a towel around his neck. Mellas motioned toward a piece of broken ammunition pallet. 'Sit down, Parker. Let me finish dinner.' Parker sat down, somewhat hesitantly, looking at Ba.s.s. Almost everyone was afraid of Ba.s.s because of his unpredictable temper. Ba.s.s finished his coffee and moved off toward his hooch without saying anything.

'You know, Parker, that the skipper will have to tell you to get your hair cut.'

'Why's that?' he said, looking at the thick mud on his boots.

'Because it's too long, long, Parker. We got the battalion coming in tomorrow and that's the way it's got to be.' Parker. We got the battalion coming in tomorrow and that's the way it's got to be.'

'I requested mast, and I got my right to see the skipper, and you can't stop me.'

'Jesus Christ, Parker. I'm not trying to stop you from seeing the skipper. I'm just trying to save you a walk up the hill.'

'I request mast.'

'Let's go, then.' Mellas threw the remaining glob of food into an empty cardboard box whose sides were collapsing from constant exposure to the rain. He turned to Parker for one last try. 'Parker, the skipper works under the same rules as everyone else. It's going to have to get cut.'

Parker took off his bush cover and grabbed at a few strands of his hair. 'It ain't no longer than Ba.s.s's. He just greases the s.h.i.+t down. His motherf.u.c.king hillbilly hair could be five feet long and no one say s.h.i.+t about that.' Something told Mellas that if he were a good officer he'd never let Parker get away with talking that way to him. Still, Parker's argument was valid, even though a losing one.

'Let's go see the skipper,' Mellas said tautly. He turned and continued up the hill, slipping in the mud, aware of Parker watching his clumsy progress.

Fitch, Hawke, and the two radio operators, Pallack and Relsnik, were jammed together under the ponchos playing jungle bridge. It was their forty-fifth game in a series of 300, officers versus enlisted men. Sergeant Ca.s.sidy sat nearby on an ammo box. He was just outside the opening of the hooch carving on the stave Fisher had brought back, indifferent to the rain.

'What's the trouble, Lieutenant?' Ca.s.sidy asked.

Fitch looked out of the opening and started to rise.

'Oh, no, you don't, Skipper,' Pallack said, turning to Parker. 'Hey, Parker, you got to hold on. D' enlisted are about to take another game off d' officers.' He turned back to the game and slapped down a card, hard. 'You f.u.c.king dummies. Hee, hee. Look at dat queen.' Parker's jaws were working beneath his dark cheeks. Fitch grimaced and threw down a card.

Parker spoke up. 'Sir, I got the right for mast.'

'You got the privilege, privilege, Parker,' Ca.s.sidy growled. 'You don't just walk in on the company commander and tell him you want mast.' Parker,' Ca.s.sidy growled. 'You don't just walk in on the company commander and tell him you want mast.'

Parker stood his ground. 'I got the right for mast.' Ca.s.sidy stood up. Hawke quickly threw a card and Pallack swooped up the little pile and then slapped down another, laughing. Hawke looked at Fitch and shrugged. Fitch threw in the rest of his cards, and Pallack and Relsnik shook hands and pulled out their pens and notebooks, both recording the score so there was no chance of error, making cracks about how anyone could be so dumb at playing cards and still manage to become an officer. The card game had eased the tension between Ca.s.sidy and Parker by giving Ca.s.sidy a chance to look away, which he took.

Fitch crawled out of the hooch and stood. 'OK, Parker. Let's go inside Hawke's hooch and talk things out.' Fitch's manner was easy and direct, and Parker seemed to relax a little. They crawled into Hawke's hooch.

Mellas walked back to his own hooch. People were out by the wire setting in trip flares for the night. A late cooking fire was visible down at Conman's squad, and Mellas shouted for it to be put out. It disappeared. The lines were quiet.

Mellas started to write a letter in the remaining twilight but was interrupted by Skosh, who'd packed the radio over with him. 'It's the Six,' he said. He squatted down and casually began reading Mellas's letter, which Mellas s.n.a.t.c.hed away from him.

Fitch's voice crackled over the net. 'Your character Pappa who was just up here has twenty minutes to get his f.u.c.king hair cut. Then I want to see him. You copy?'

'I copy.' Mellas sighed and handed Skosh the hook. 'Why do I have to fart around with G.o.dd.a.m.ned haircuts in the middle of the jungle because some colonel is going to show up?'

Skosh shrugged his shoulders. 'Just another inch of green d.i.l.d.o, sir.'

Mellas walked down to Jancowitz's area. Parker was talking with Mole who, like many of the brothers in the battalion, wore a noose of heavy khaki nylon rope around his neck. Mellas guessed that it had something to do with lynching but was afraid to ask. The rest of the blacks from Third Squad stood around them. They fell silent when they saw Mellas approaching.

Everyone's hair had been cut except Parker's. Jackson spoke up, his broad face relaxed, his eyes calmly engaging with Mellas's. 'Sir, I think they're f.u.c.king with the brothers over these haircuts.' It was stated with no apparent anger.

Mellas tried hard for the same tone. 'Jackson, no one has any choice in the matter. Curly hair doesn't look regulation and we've got the Big Six coming in tomorrow and Lieutenant Fitch is on the spot. I really don't want to hear anything more about it.'

'Yes, sir,' Jackson said, turning away.

Mellas looked at Parker. 'You know you've got about fifteen minutes, right?'

'Yes, sir,' Parker mumbled.

'OK. Get it done and get up to the skipper and we'll forget the whole G.o.dd.a.m.n silly thing.'

It was almost dark when PFC Tyrell Broyer saw Gunny Ca.s.sidy and Sergeant Ridlow from Lieutenant Goodwin's platoon coming down the hill. Ca.s.sidy was holding a pair of hair clippers. Broyer nervously adjusted his gla.s.ses even though they didn't need adjusting. He glanced at Parker, who shared their two-man fighting hole. Ca.s.sidy and Ridlow disappeared into Ba.s.s's hooch and Broyer heard them laughing.

Parker, his hair still uncut, leaned against the rear of the fighting hole, staring into the jungle. His rifle rested on a plastic sandbag and his arms were crossed in front of him.

'Hey, brother,' Broyer said quietly, 'I think we got trouble coming down the hill about your hair.'

Parker grunted and spat. 'G.o.d and country bigot motherf.u.c.kers.'

Broyer looked back at the hooch above him. Sergeant Ba.s.s was crawling out, his beefy arms showing below his neatly rolled-up sleeves. Ca.s.sidy emerged behind Ba.s.s, his face set hard. Next came Ridlow. Parker gave a quick sideways glance over his shoulder and immediately turned away, stone-faced. Broyer wanted to run for help but didn't know where to go. He excused his inaction by recalling that he couldn't leave his hole during the evening 100 percent alert. He s.h.i.+fted his feet nervously.

The group of sergeants gathered silently around them.

'It's time, Parker,' Ca.s.sidy said. 'I see you decided you'd rather have it done by a pro.'

Parker clenched his teeth.

'You f.u.c.king answer, t.u.r.d, when you're spoken to,' Ba.s.s said.

Ba.s.s had moved in front of the fighting hole and was glaring directly into Parker's face. Ridlow stood to his right, his boots next to Parker's face. Ca.s.sidy was to Ba.s.s's left. Ba.s.s motioned for Broyer to get out of the hole and Broyer scrambled out, still not knowing where to go. He saw the rest of the squad watching in silence.

'Did you f.u.c.king hear me, you puke?' Ca.s.sidy asked.

'Yes sir,' Parker mumbled.

'I didn't hear you, Parker,' Ba.s.s said, smiling.

'Yes, sir, sir,' Parker spat out.

'How would you like it, Parker?' Ca.s.sidy asked. 'Parted on the left? What do you think, Sergeant Ba.s.s? What would Sa.s.soon do?'

'Maybe on the left,' Ba.s.s said. 'No, make it down the center. A reverse Mohawk.'

'I think we ought to take his f.u.c.king head off,' Ridlow growled.

Ca.s.sidy squatted down and leaned forward to whisper in Parker's ear. 'Parker, you f.u.c.king t.u.r.d, so help me G.o.d if you make one f.u.c.king wrong move I'm gonna screw your head off and s.h.i.+t in it. I don't know what the f.u.c.k's wrong with these f.u.c.king officers in this company to take the c.r.a.p that pukes like you hand out all the time, but if I had my way I'd have your a.s.s strung up to the nearest f.u.c.king tree. You don't request mast about a f.u.c.king haircut. You request mast when something is really wrong. And you don't disobey orders. Now you sit up real nice on the edge of this hole and get your hair cut like a man, or so help me G.o.d I'll personally beat holy f.u.c.k out of you and leave you for the f.u.c.king maggots where you belong. You understand?'

Ba.s.s had also squatted down to look directly at him. Parker glanced around. The others in the squad were peering at him from their holes. They had all gotten their hair cut. Broyer heard the sound of Ca.s.sidy squeezing the hair clippers. He looked at Ba.s.s's heavy forearms. His knees were shaking and there was a racing feeling inside him.

'I just want to say my hair ain't no longer than some chuck that grease it down. That's all I want to say.'

'Good. Now you've said it,' Ca.s.sidy said. 'And I want to say I don't want a puke like you in my Marine Corps. I just want to say that. You aren't worthy of the name. Now, I'll give you three counts to sit your a.s.s on the edge of this fighting hole. One . . .'

Parker moved.

Broyer, still standing next to the fighting hole, took a breath. He looked around. He saw the lieutenant standing by Ba.s.s's hooch. Like everyone else, he was watching Ca.s.sidy clip Parker bald.

As soon as they stood down from the evening alert Broyer took off for Second Platoon to find China. It was the first time he'd been in another platoon's area, and he was a little surprised to see trash lying around the fighting holes. Walking by a hooch he heard a loud guffaw and then a hearty laugh. Lieutenant Goodwin's blond head stuck out of the hooch. Broyer scurried by, feeling out of place and hoping to avoid a confrontation. He walked up to a brother he didn't know, pushed his gla.s.ses back up on his nose, walked up to the man, and went through the now familiar handshake. He asked where China hung out. The brother pointed toward a small hooch, half hidden beneath a huge felled tree, barely two feet from a machine-gun position. He went over and saw China and two brothers leaning against the trunk of the tree on the side away from the hooch. They were eating supper. Their voices reminded him of summer nights in Baltimore.

China greeted him, going through the handshake. 'Hey, brother, glad you could come by. Meet my friends.'

One of them offered Broyer a C-ration can filled with hot coffee. He took it and sat down, gingerly holding the folded-down lid so the heat wouldn't burn his fingers. When he started to tell them about the haircut, he was surprised at the anger that spilled out. 'And then the chickens.h.i.+t motherf.u.c.kers shaved him bald. They shaved him f.u.c.king bald bald. And we just stood there and watched those motherf.u.c.kers.'

When Broyer finished, China sprang to his feet. 'You tell Parker get his a.s.s over here soon as he can. And don't worry, we won't be standin' 'round much longer no more. We got the power.' He was pounding his fist on the log. 'We got the power. We gonna do some f.u.c.kin' over our own pretty soon.'

Broyer hurried away, feeling understood, feeling China's will and strength.

China sat down against the log and sighed. He reached out to heat up another cup of coffee. The two others, knowing that China would speak when he had something to say, began to talk to each other, extinguis.h.i.+ng the fire when darkness finally fell.

Broyer relayed China's message to Parker, and when Parker got off watch that night he made his way over to Second Platoon's area. He had to half-crawl, half-crouch up to the top of the LZ and then head back down to Second Platoon to avoid being shot by accident. In the blackness it took him about an hour.