Matterhorn: a novel of the Vietnam War Page 12

  There was a pause. “What about the artillery damage assessment? Over.”

  Mellas looked at Skosh. Skosh shook his head and spat, still leaning over. “I don’t know. I’m just the fucking radioman.”

  Conman spoke up. “Give them a fucking probable and get the arty off the skipper’s back. They’ll never leave us alone if we don’t, sir.”

  “I can’t give them a goddamn probable,” Mellas said. “What evidence have I got?”

  “They don’t need fucking evidence. They need an artillery damage assessment. Tell them there’s all sorts of blood trails around here. They always like that.”

  Mellas looked at Daniels. Daniels held up both hands, palms out, and shrugged. He didn’t give a shit.

  Mellas keyed the radio. “Bravo Six, this is Bravo One Actual. We got one probable. That’s all. Over.” He wasn’t going to lie so that an artillery officer could feel good.

  So the one probable became a fact. Fitch radioed it in to battalion. Major Blakely, the battalion operations officer, claimed it for the battalion as a confirmed, because Rider said he’d seen the guy he shot go down. The commander of the artillery battery, however, claimed it for his unit. The records had to show two dead NVA. So they did. But at regiment it looked odd—two kills with no probables. So a probable got added. It was a conservative estimate. It only made sense that if you killed two, with the way the NVA pulled out bodies, you had to have some probables. It made the same sense to the commander of the artillery battalion: four confirmed, two probables, which is what the staff would report to Colonel Mulvaney, the commanding officer of Twenty-Fourth Marines, at the regimental briefing. By the time it reached Saigon, however, the two probables had been made confirms, but it didn’t make sense to have six confirmed kills without probables. So four of those got added. Now it looked right. Ten dead NVA and no one hurt on our side. A pretty good day’s work.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Colonel Mulvaney, the regimental commander, ponderously made his way up the single aisle between the captains, majors, and lieutenant colonels who stood at attention waiting for him to reach his empty place at the front of the rows of folding chairs. The humid air in the tent smelled of mothballs. When he reached his chair, Mulvaney grunted to Major Adams, who crisply asked the men to take their seats.

  Mulvaney picked up the briefing sheets that had been placed on his chair and shuffled through them. His mind was on the recent discussion with the division chief of staff about the coming combined cordon and search operation at Cam Lo. It “must use ARVN troops and the local militia.” It would be “highly conspicuous and highly political” —and, in Mulvaney’s view, highly impractical. He’d been asked to give two battalions. After his vehement argument against it, including a colorful analysis of the effectiveness of ARVN, the Army of the Republic of Vietnam, he’d been ordered to give two battalions.

  Major Adams cleared his throat. Mulvaney sighed, eased his large body back into the chair, and nodded at Adams, who immediately turned to a large map and indicated with a pointer.

  “Contact occurred today at eleven-forty-seven hours, at grid coordinates 689558, between a squad-size unit from Bravo Company One Twenty-Four on a routine security patrol, and an estimated ten to fifteen Vietnamese. Two confirmed kills, one probable. No injuries reported from Bravo Company. Artillery fire was called in with two confirmed kills and one probable reported. The weather prohibited air strikes.” The major turned to face Mulvaney.

  Mulvaney knew he should ask a question. It annoyed him that Adams kept saying One Twenty-Four all the time, as if after twenty-six years in the Marine Corps he wouldn’t know that Bravo Company of his own regiment was in the first battalion. He nevertheless kept his temper, remembering his wife, Maizy, who even at the airport had cautioned him again to keep his temper, not only for the sake of the men under him but also for the sake of his career. A fucking combined operation with the South Gooks. Sitting around a goddamned village while their goon squads went in and roughed up the civilian political opposition. Again he remembered that people were expecting a question.

  “Any intelligence gathered?” he asked. “Weapons recovered?”

  Major Adams hadn’t covered that question. He quickly looked down at the second row of seats, where Lieutenant Colonel Simpson and Major Blakely, First Battalion’s commanding officer and operations officer, were leaning forward in their chairs behind Mulvaney. Blakely, immediately recognizing that Adams wasn’t prepared for Mulvaney’s question, quickly shook his head no, his lips pursed tightly. Adams, with hardly a pause, answered the colonel’s question. “That’s a negative, sir. Immediately after contact was made the friendly unit withdrew to bring in artillery fires.”

  Mulvaney grunted again. Even though it had been a quarter of a century ago, it seemed to him that only last weekend he himself had been leading patrols in the jungle. If he’d been leading the goddamned patrol and had run into a unit of unknown size, he could very well imagine getting his ass out of the area and not bothering to collect papers.

  Two kills for Bravo Company and two more for Golf Battery—with no casualties—was good enough for one day’s action. It entered his mind that with a body count of four it might be more than good enough, but he decided not to ask any questions that might put Simpson in a bad light—or himself, for that matter, for not trusting his officers. He watched Simpson writing in a notebook, his face even redder than usual, and wondered if Simpson was still drinking. When he’d been in First Division at Camp Pendleton, after Korea, Simpson had been drinking quite heavily, but then who didn’t after that damned war. They’d returned home as if they’d been on some goddamned exercise. Blakely he didn’t know. Good-looking guy. Kind you’d see at an embassy. Too young for Korea, so no combat experience. Not his fault. Still, he wished Blakely did have experience. But his record looked good. Good fitness reports. Probably champing at the bit for a battalion. Keep an eye on him. He saw Blakely whisper something to Simpson, and Simpson again wrote in the notebook.

  The intelligence briefing droned on. Sensor readings picked up at coordinates 723621. An AO, air observer, spotted two NVA in the open at coordinates 781632. Elements of Hotel Company, Two Twenty-Four, uncovered two rice caches of fifty kilos each at coordinates 973560. Mulvaney’s thoughts drifted. Why in hell is it always “elements” and not men? Who should he pick for the combined operation? He became aware of a silence and knew it was time for him to ask another question or two.

  After intelligence came the regimental Three on operations, then the medical officer, then supply, then the adjutant, then artillery, then air, then Red Cross liaison from Quang Tri, then the congressional inquiries, and finally the commanders of the battalions.

  Mulvaney watched closely as Simpson strode quickly to the front of the tent: a small man, his jungle camouflage neatly starched, his red face and hands contrasting oddly with the green material. Mulvaney knew that Simpson had been a young lieutenant in Korea at the same time he himself had been there, although they hadn’t known each other then. Simpson had apparently done a fine job—earning a Silver Star and a Purple Heart—and his fitness reports were all excellent. But the scuttlebutt was that there’d been a painful divorce along with the drinking problem. But then, hell, divorces and drinking weren’t exactly uncommon problems in the Marine Corps. Mulvaney watched Simpson pick up Adams’s pointer and turn to face him, waiting for a nod. Mulvaney could see that, as usual, Simpson was nervous as hell. You could tell right away when Simpson didn’t know what he was talking about.

  Simpson turned to the map and began speaking. After showing the dispositions of the companies, he paused a moment for effect. “As you can see, sir, with my companies spread in an arc, here, here, and here”—the pointer whapped the map crisply at each here, fixing in place 175 to 200 Marines at each whap—“and with Bravo Company providing security for Golf Battery here on Matterhorn”—whap—“I have decided it expedient that I move my tactical headquarters immediately to Matterhorn to personally direct operations. With Bravo Company making contact here”—whap—“and Alpha Compan
y here”—whap—“I’m certain we have a sizable NVA unit operating in this area. The supply and ammunition cache found three days ago by Charlie Company here”—whap—“as well as the bunker complex that Alpha uncovered last week here”—whap—“all indicate that this area will soon be highly productive. I intend to be right on the spot when the shit hits the fan. That’s why I’ve already ordered my staff to begin planning for moving my headquarters to Matterhorn.”

  Mulvaney looked blankly at Simpson. Just when he was thinking of using Simpson in the combined operation down in the flatlands, the son of a bitch had decided to get gunjy and move to the fucking bush. As if being out in the goddamned jungle and not being able to see his men was any better than being at VCB and not being able to see his men. Yet Mulvaney couldn’t talk about the operation yet. It would keep his commanders on pins and needles wondering who was going to have to pull up stakes and head for the flats while the South Gooks fiddle-farted around with their wasted goddamned villages, and his old friend and now commander of the division General Neitzel could tell the Army three-star in charge of I Corps, who could report to Abrams in Saigon, that the Marines had “cooperated fully” with the government of the Republic of Vietnam.

  Several people coughed. Simpson seemed unsure what to do and looked back at Blakely for a sign. Blakely brought his eyebrows together and nodded slightly, assuring him that it was OK just to wait.

  “That’s fine, Simpson, fine,” Mulvaney said. Bravo Company. He searched his memory. Bravo Company. Wasn’t Bravo commanded by a young first lieutenant? Fitch, wasn’t it? He’d been the one who’d found an ammo dump and all those 122-millimeter rockets on the Laotian border by Co Roc. Now Mulvaney remembered. He, Neitzel, and some of the bigger Army brass had flown out there to get in a couple of pictures, and Simpson had been hovering around the edge of the group being ignored while the brass were falling all over themselves patting Fitch on the back. Maybe Simpson just couldn’t stand not being in the limelight. Mulvaney could easily move Simpson back if he needed to. That young Fitch was lucky. Luck was one of the attributes Napoleon considered necessary for a good officer. Napoleon knew his shit. That had been the second time Fitch’s picture was in Stars and Stripes. The first time was just after he’d taken over the company from Black, when Black lost his leg. The kid had fought the company out of a real shit sandwich up on the DMZ. Jesus, that was a bum deal, Black losing his leg. A good career officer. Fitch was a reservist, if Mulvaney remembered right. Christ, they’re almost all reservists now. The regulars were all being chewed up by this . . . thing over here. Still, the kid was lucky. So far. As for Simpson’s sudden hots to get out into the bush, it never hurt to reward initiative, even if initiative came at an inopportune time. And Simpson could be right. That arc of recent firefights . . . Maybe he could compromise, pull back only two of Simpson’s companies. Who knew or cared if Simpson was going up there to control his men better or just get into the limelight? In war, action mattered, not motives. “Just don’t get your ass shot by any gook machine guns when you fly in, Simpson.”

  Mellas found Hawke making coffee in his battered cup on a stove devised from a number ten can. He was using heat tabs, which even at a distance made Mellas’s nasal passages sting.

  “I’d like to put Rider and his team in for some sort of medals,” Mellas said. “They did a hell of a job today.”

  Hawke didn’t answer right away. He was watching the small bubbles forming at the bottom of the cup and wiping at the slight tears caused by the heat tab. “This isn’t the Air Force, Mellas.”

  “No shit it isn’t. We did a hell of a job out there today.” As soon as he said it, Mellas knew he’d slipped. He felt his face starting to redden. “I didn’t mean—”

  “The fuck you didn’t mean.” Hawke looked up quickly at Mellas, eyes flashing for a moment. He resumed watching the can. Mellas knew that Hawke was letting him squirm. Then, without looking up, Hawke said, “Look, Mellas, in the Navy or Air Force they give you a medal for what the Marines consider just doing their job. In the Marines you only get a medal for being braver than just doing your job.” Then he looked at Mellas. “You get in fixes where medals are handed out because you were unlucky and had to fix things or because you were stupid and had to fix things. Be careful about what you’re wishing for.”

  “I don’t want to get on your bad side,” Mellas said. “I was just—”

  “Stow it, huh?” Hawke turned to Mellas. In a very even voice he said, “Mellas, I don’t give a fuck which side of me you’re on. I just want to find out whether you’re going to kill any of my friends or not, and right now I’m not too fucking sure.”

  The hissing of the heat tab in the stove seemed very loud.

  Mellas was the first to break. “OK, I wanted a medal. That doesn’t mean Rider and Conman shouldn’t have one.”

  Hawke eased a little in response to this honesty. “Well, you don’t lack for persistence.” He sighed. “Look. Everyone wants a medal. That’s no sin. When I first got here, I wanted one, too. It’s just that after you’ve been out here long enough to see what they cost, they don’t seem so fucking shiny.” He looked up briefly, to see if Mellas got the point. Then he poured two packages of instant coffee and two packages of sugar into the boiling water. He stirred it with a stick.

  “Sorry,” Mellas said.

  Hawke visibly softened. He handed up the steaming cup and smiled. “Shit, Mellas, drink this. It cures all ills, even vainglory and ambition. The only thing that hurts about a rebuke is the truth.”

  Mellas took the coffee and smiled. “Benjamin Franklin.”

  “Fuck no. My uncle Art, the poet.”

  “Benjamin Franklin. Art copped a lick.”

  “Yeah? Typical. You can never tell with Uncle Arthur. We’re not even certain Grandma had him with Grandpa.”

  The two were silent while Mellas took a sip.

  “Maybe we can get Rider a meritorious promotion to lance corporal,” Hawke said. “That will at least get him some more money. Of course you’ll have to write it up like it was fucking Chapultepec and Belleau Wood combined and Rider’s a potential Chesty Puller.”

  “How long should it be?”

  “Do I look like a fucking English teacher?”

  “Can’t I ask you a serious question?”

  “Why are you so fucking serious?” Hawke asked.

  “I’m not all the time.”

  “Neither am I.”

  The two of them stood there, looking at each other, suddenly seeing through their formal relationship.

  “Goodwin said you went to Harvard,” Hawke said.

  “I went to Princeton.”

  “They’re all the fucking same. Same guys with tassels on their fucking loafers, same communist fucking courses.” He passed the coffee back to Mellas.

  Mellas took two sips, trying not to burn his lips on the hot metal. He handed the cup back to Hawke. “Where did you go to college?” Mellas asked, feeling uncertain of how to proceed.

  Hawke took a careful sip and licked his upper lip. “C to the Fourth.”

  “Huh?”

  “Cape Cod Community College. I finished my last two years at U Mass.”

  Mellas nodded, squatting on his haunches, unconsciously imitating all the other bush Marines who did this to avoid getting their trouser seat wet.

  “What the fuck you doing in the Crotch anyway?” Hawke asked. “All you fucking Ivy Leaguers got enough money to get out. Doctors, psychiatrists, graduate schools, homosexual tendencies. Jesus.” He looked at Mellas suspiciously. “Are you and Goodwin shitting me about where you went to school?”

  Mellas paused for his usual careful weighing of answers. “I joined when I was eighteen, before I went to college. I grew up in a little logging town in Oregon and any guy worth a shit does his time in the service. That’s what everyone called it—the service. There wasn’t any war then and I got to go to college on a scholarship and got paid in the summers. They made me a lance corporal in the reserves and I didn’t have to do Navy ROTC.”

  “You still could have gotten out when the war started. Your kind must have all sor
ts of fucking pull with draft boards and congressmen.”

  “Not really.”

  “Bullshit.”

  Mellas hesitated. Most of his friends from Princeton did indeed have the kind of pull Hawke was talking about. He and his friends from Neawanna Union High School did not. He wanted to tell Hawke that going to Princeton was different from having a father who went to Princeton, but he didn’t. “I don’t know. It just seemed that all the other guys were going.”

  “And the president doesn’t lie. He must know something we don’t.”

  “Right,” Mellas said.

  “You still could have switched to the Navy. All the rest of your hoity-toity buddies joined the Navy, didn’t they? At least the ones that weren’t screwing their brains out and smoking dope at some peace rally.”

  “Yeah. Mostly. The ones who joined anything. A couple joined the CIA,” he added, feeling somewhat defensive about his friends. Hawke handed Mellas the steaming pear can. Mellas, smiling at the ribbing he was getting, juggled the can from hand to hand. “Maybe I’m just a fool for wanting to be different. There are so many guys trying to get into Navy OCS, the Navy’ll have fucking ensigns scraping paint pretty soon.”