Matterhorn: a novel of the Vietnam War Page 24

  Cortell started running for the lines. Jackson watched him go. Then he shouted, “Cortell, you stupid mother.” When Cortell reached his fighting hole he grabbed his M-16 and pulled back the action to chamber a round. He turned around, his eyes wild, and started running toward the top of the hill. Jackson tackled him from above, sending the M-16 flying.

  “I’ll kill the motherfuckers,” Cortell screamed. “I’ll kill the motherfuckers.” He kicked and writhed under Jackson’s hold, scratching at Jackson’s eyes, trying to claw his way back to his weapon. Jackson held on tight.

  Mellas was watching Bass make a cup of coffee with the last envelope of instant coffee in the platoon when they heard Cortell scream. They immediately started running. Mellas jumped on top of both Jackson and Cortell, tearing Jackson away. Cortell started to scramble to his feet, but Bass fell on him, pinning him to the ground. Cortell’s wide, normally pleasant face was contorted with pain and rage.

  Jackson, much more under control, didn’t struggle with Mellas. “I’m all right,” he said. “It’s Cortell.” Mellas looked into his eyes, then rolled off. Jackson stood and began brushing himself off, looking down at Cortell, pinned under Bass’s solid body.

  “What the fuck’s the matter with you?” Mellas asked Cortell.

  “The Gunny,” Cortell said. “I’ll kill him.” He was under control, however, and it was obvious he did not mean it.

  Bass, seeing that Cortell had regained control of himself, got up, reached out a hand, and helped him off the ground. “What’d Cassidy do?” Bass asked.

  Jackson spoke up. “Scar brought back two baby tigers and the Gunny’s up playing with them.”

  “So?” Bass asked.

  “So I told him to get them out of here,” Cortell said. “A tiger killed Williams, or don’chew remember either?”

  Bass’s face registered the pain the statement caused, but he said nothing.

  Mellas cut in. “You just can’t go telling the Gunny to do what you want. I know how you feel. You’ve got to know he’d react to that. He probably doesn’t know how it affects you.”

  “He told Cortell he ought to like jungle animals,” Jackson said quietly.

  Mellas’s head sank and he turned away momentarily. Bass muttered under his breath, then turned, heading toward the CP.

  Mellas stopped him. “It’s my problem,” he said. “Let’s get our story straight, then I’ll go up and talk to Scar about it. That’ll be easier than talking to Cassidy.”

  Jackson and Cortell told their side of the story. When they’d finished, Mellas looked at Cortell. “You still figure you’re going to kill old Cassidy?” he asked, smiling.

  Cortell smiled back, his nose running a little. “No, I guess I let him go home. Somebody stupid back there must want him.” He laughed shakily and Mellas joined in.

  Mellas found Goodwin over by his platoon area. “It’s just a couple of little baby tigers. Hey, look at them.” He knelt down to let one lick his finger. “Wouldn’t harm no one. Shit, Jack, I can’t kill ’em.”

  Mellas looked at the two tiny kittens. “Jesus, no, don’t kill them,” he said, solemnly. “We’d have mama outside the lines in a second. You’ve got to take them back to where you found them.”

  “Fuck I do, Jack. That’s a couple of fucking klicks.”

  “I’ll take them back,” Mellas said.

  “It’s OK by me, Jack. But you don’t know where to go, do you?” Goodwin smiled, enjoying Mellas’s temporary loss of composure.

  “No. I don’t.”

  “Well then, fuck.” Goodwin picked up one of the kittens. “I’ll take them back.” He paused a moment, thinking. “Ain’t no fucking gooks stupid enough to be out here anyway.”

  “Thanks, Scar,” Mellas said, truly grateful. “I owe you one.”

  “Naw. I got nothing better to do. Shouldn’t have brought them back in the first place. I didn’t think nothing about that guy of yours getting eaten.”

  Vancouver volunteered to go with Goodwin, along with several of Goodwin’s men, and they left the kittens just outside the entrance of the cave where they had found them. The group returned well after midnight, slowed by the darkness, silent and bent with exhaustion.

  While Goodwin was out, Mellas, filled with self-righteous anger, confronted Cassidy at the actuals meeting. Cassidy, forced again into the role of villain, responded to Mellas’s attack with anger of his own. “I just told the dumb fucker he ought to like the fucking animals because they’re both from the fucking jungle in the first place. They are, ain’t they? They’re so fucking proud of all this black power bullshit and if they’re supposed to be big bad African warriors, they ought to be proud about where they come from.”

  Mellas didn’t answer.

  “This Marine Corps’ gone to shit since this fucking war,” Cassidy continued. “Maybe I popped off. But a fucking private first class ain’t got no right barging in on an officer and a staff sergeant telling them his worthless opinion. No fucking discipline. No fucking pride. And they keep fucking us career professionals by sending us out into the bush for the millionth time while the fat-asses and fucking shirkers can refuse to go out in the bush any time they want. Well, I’m getting the fuck out.”

  There was an embarrassed silence. Mellas suddenly felt sorry for this man for whom the world was changing too quickly. “I guess I was a little quick too, Sergeant Cassidy,” Mellas said. “Maybe if you just told Cortell you were sorry.”

  “I ain’t fucking sorry, Lieutenant.”

  “Cassidy, things could get bad. They’re already pissed about Parker’s haircut. This on top of it isn’t going to sit too well.”

  “If they want to try any of that black power bullshit on me, Lieutenant, I’ll black power their black asses to fucking hell. They don’t scare me. I’ve handled punks before.”

  Mellas dropped it, glancing at Fitch to let him know. Fitch quickly moved on with the actuals meeting. The only news he had was that the batteries were getting so low that, in addition to all second radios being turned off, the actuals’ radios were to be turned on only when the company was moving and at night. Battalion’s last order was to make up the time lost; reach today’s checkpoint, Alpha, by late morning tomorrow; hit checkpoint Bravo by midafternoon; and be back on schedule at checkpoint Charlie by tomorrow night. There would be no resupply. The LZ had been built for nothing.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  When they moved out in the darkness the next morning, Goodwin’s platoon was on point. Mellas’s platoon had the relative safety of the middle of the column. Resigned to humping out instead of flying, the kids put one foot in front of the other in the endless dance of the infantry. For those not on point, thoughts turned to memories of better times, meals they had eaten, girls they had known or wished they had known better. For those on point, there was no past; there was only the frightening now.

  Hunger dominated people’s minds, nagging at the point men and at Goodwin, who tried to ignore his pounding brain and concentrate on the task at hand. They walked with a constant feeling of irritation and frustration. A piece of gear catching on a branch became a monstrous injustice. Bumping into someone from behind because of fatigue-dulled senses brought out unreasonable anger rather than the usual sarcastic comment.

  They reached checkpoint Alpha one hour after dusk, now a full day behind schedule. Checkpoint Alpha turned out to be the top of a hill covered with jungle, nothing more. They had eaten nothing all day, the last three-quarters can of food having been eaten the day before. It had been three days since anyone had eaten even a half ration.

  All through dinner, Lieutenant Colonel Simpson looked distracted. Major Blakely assumed that he was worried about how he’d explain the delay to Colonel Mulvaney at the next day’s briefing. He hardly seemed to notice when the enlisted waiter removed his plate and refilled his coffee cup. He only halfheartedly joined Major Blakely and Captain Bainford, the forward air control officer, in telling tales and laughing over cigars. Simpson reached for the bottle of Mateus that they’d nearly consumed during the meal and poured himself another glass, ignoring the coffee. He drank it quickly. He reac
hed into his pocket for another cigar but found the thin cardboard box empty.

  “Cigar, Colonel?” Blakely asked, reaching for one of his own.

  Simpson lit it from the candle on the table, worked up a good start with some quick inward puffs, then relaxed. Blakely lit one of his own, leaned back, and looked out of the wire mesh that protected the interior of the officers’ and staff NCOs’ small mess tent from the insects hovering just outside. At sunset, VCB was not a pretty place to have a meal. Enlisted men stood in ragged bunches in the chow line outside the mess tent. The ground was muddy. The night air stank of kerosene and burning barrels of shit collected from the latrines. A lone Huey, returning to Quang Tri, rose from the rough airstrip, was lost momentarily against the gray-green of the hills, and then emerged silhouetted against the dying light.

  “This is no fucking place to be, Blakely,” Simpson growled. He took what seemed like an angry puff of his cigar.

  “Sir?”

  “We ought to be in the bush. We got three companies sitting on their asses in the flatlands and one fucking off up in the mountains. Can’t control them. Can’t kick ass when we need to.”

  “I agree, sir, but with the battalion split like it is, companies all over the map even when we do have an operation, how are you going to control them?”

  “Matterhorn. I want to be back on Matterhorn. We’d have the whole northwest corner of the country tied up. Keep the companies down in the jungle disrupting the gooks, hitting their supply lines, destroying their caches.” He spat a piece of tobacco to the floor. “Who knows, even forays into Laos. This bombing bullshit just don’t get it. You drop a bomb and a grunt gets up and walks right through the crater, and the NVA are a bunch of grunts, some of the best. That’s why we got to send our grunts out after them.”

  “I agree,” Blakely said carefully, looking at the forward air controller with a sideways glance, “but with the goddamned political restrictions what can you do? But, I do agree, goddamn it. You go where the action is.” Blakely didn’t ask the colonel what the difference was between running four companies by radio from Matterhorn and running four companies by radio from VCB. He knew the real difference was psychological, at least for the people back at division. With One Twenty-Four’s command post on the map at Matterhorn—all by itself, in the most exposed position—people back at division would constantly be reminded that the officers who ran One Twenty-Four were bush Marines, not staff personnel hidden in thick bunkers. Blakely knew the value of image. It wouldn’t hurt at all if they got shelled every so often. He had to have real combat on his record, the kind with Purple Hearts and medals. It was the best route, maybe the only route, to the top.

  “We’ve got to get better control,” Simpson went on, almost to himself. “That fucking Fitch is a full day behind schedule. He sat on his ass all day yesterday. The entire fucking day to medevac immersion foot cases that are nothing but the result of bad leadership. Well, I didn’t let him. Teach him something.”

  Simpson poured himself another glass of wine and, rising from his chair, gulped it down. He slammed the glass against the table. “That’s good stuff. Portuguese, isn’t it? We ought to get another case of it.” He left the room and the others rose from their chairs as he went out.

  Simpson continued to drink. After two hours of restlessly flipping through the stack of papers on the makeshift plywood desk, he’d consumed nearly half a bottle of Jack Daniel’s Black. He’d been up from his chair six or seven times to look at the map tacked to another piece of plywood that leaned against the damp canvas of the tent’s side. He would touch the coordinates of Hill 1609, Bravo’s last reported position, and try to assure himself they would be OK. Then, failing to find any comfort, and feeling his responsibility for a lot of lives, he would reluctantly return to the paperwork and refill his glass.

  He knew he shouldn’t drink so much, especially alone. But he was alone a lot. After all, he was the battalion commander. It was supposed to be lonely at the top. What did he expect, the easy camaraderie of the bachelor officers’ quarters? But another voice reproved him. He ought to be on friendlier terms with the other battalion commanders in the regiment, or some of the regimental staff of his own age and rank. He’d tried. He’d asked Lieutenant Colonel Lowe, who’d been given Two Twenty-Four, over for dinner the other night. He’d broken out new cigars and some really good wine. But it had been awkward. Lowe had been playing football for Annapolis while Simpson was freezing his ass off in Korea, but here he was, three years younger than Simpson and at the same place. But that was just it—Annapolis. Simpson had worked his way through Georgia State and never had time to learn how to socialize. So he wasn’t a socializer like Lowe or Blakely. Never was. Never would be. So what? So he was alone. So what? He wasn’t here to have a good time. He was here to kill gooks.

  He pushed the mass of paperwork slowly across the desk. In the clear space, he placed the glass of whiskey and the half-full bottle. The amber liquid reflected warmly back to him. Warm light. Deep and warm.

  He kept going over Mulvaney’s comments and questions during the briefing. Why did he have to get a goddamn cartoon character jack-ass like Mulvaney? He just couldn’t be sure what Mulvaney was thinking —or what Mulvaney thought of him. Simpson had been certain that an old grunt like Mulvaney would be delighted when his headquarters were moved to Matterhorn. Mulvaney had even said it looked like there were gooks out there. Now, however, he felt he’d done something wrong, being out there and having to scramble to come back for Cam Lo. But Mulvaney had given the go-ahead. Simpson took a few more sips. Four days to open 1609. Had that been rash? God knows the men were left out there with a bunch of green reserve lieutenants. Soft on the troops. Moving too slow. There just weren’t enough regular captains to go around. The whole goddamn thing stank. Marines were shock troops.

  “Can openers,” Liddell Hart had once called them. Or was it “lock openers”? He never remembered details like that, so he could never put pithy quotes into his reports the way he knew he ought to. But he knew his fucking tactics. Why should he have to remember pithy fucking quotes? The only can we opened over here was a fucking can of worms. Malaria. Jungle rot. Politicians. The nigras up in arms with this black power crap. He slowly and carefully measured out just a little more whiskey into his glass. Just a few more months to tough this one out. A battalion in combat. Hell, he was already thirty-nine. It was a godsend, a reprieve from the twenty-year final curtain. Now he’d have a chance to make full colonel—get a regiment. He smiled at the warm glass. No, not a division. You don’t ask the gods for too much, or they’ll put you down. But a regiment was possible, if he didn’t screw this one up.

  His stomach gave a lurch and he reacted by downing the rest of the whiskey. He refilled the glass.

  Thirty-nine years old. Last chance. He knew he wasn’t smart like Blakely, or colorful like Mulvaney. But he cared. He cared about immersion foot. He cared about security and cutting his casualty rate. But how do those things get you the notice of the commanding general? It stank. It all stank. Goddamn Bravo Company out there on a limb. He should never have let Blakely sweet-talk him and Mulvaney into it. Then the screwup about the rations. He hadn’t caught it. Should have caught it. Supervise, supervise, supervise. That was the last “s” in BAMCISS: Begin planning, arrange for reconnaissance . . . or was it arrange for support? Make a reconnaissance. No, a plan. Damn. Memory never was that good. Shit. It’s simple. You just go out there and kill the goddamned enemy. If that rations thing ever got out, there’d be hell to pay.

  Blakely was transferring the supply officer who’d fucked up back to Da Nang. Not that the S-4 minded that. Hell, no. Officer clubs. Liquor. Women. Round-eyed women. There was one blond who sold cars to the troops. Cars? Hell, Mercedes Benzes. A whole year’s pay for one of them babies. Of course there’d be nothing on the supply officer’s record. No sense making it hard on the guy. Blakely was using back channels to let people know they were letting the supply officer off easy and not putting it on his record. But if word ever got out, well, he could show he too
k immediate action by getting rid of the officer. Not that it was so bad. Hell, no one got killed or anything. Besides, they’d get Bravo Company out, make it up to them. He’d have steaks for everyone when they got back. In fact, with Bravo at VCB, the whole battalion would be here at the same time. He’d have steaks for the whole battalion and a formal mess night for the officers. Had ’em ever since the Royal Marines, goddamn it. Just like in the old days. That’s the thing for morale. A mess night for the officers and steaks for the enlisted. Good fucking Marines, those kids. Not their fault. They’d like him in the end. They’d understand. No leadership. That wasn’t anyone’s fault either. You get these green-assed college kids, no experience. One day they’re screwing government office girls in Washington and a week later they’re dropped into the bush. What can you expect? Shit. They just needed some toughening up, that’s all. Maturity. That’s why he had to get back out in the bush again. Like those bunkers on Matterhorn. They’d have been slaughtered in an air raid or heavy shelling. You can’t be too careful. Sure, it was hard on ’em—goddamn right it was hard. But that’s what he was here for: to save lives. By God, all they needed was a good fucking jacking up. A little leadership.