Matterhorn Page 24

  “You don’t even like the president,” she said. Exasperated, she whirled back to face the sink of dirty dishes. “You told me yourself that he’s just a manufactured image. It’s not like making a promise to a person.”

  “Yeah, but he’s the president. American presidents don’t lie to Americans.” He felt foolish talking to her back. “He’s like the representation of the—I don’t know, of the Constitution, for Christ’s sake. I swore to uphold the Constitution of the United States. I raised my hand and swore, so help me God.”

  She twisted around, her hands still on the edge of the sink. “You were a high school kid. You were seventeen.”

  “I was still me.”

  She turned back. “Oh, God,” she said to the wall.

  He looked dumbly at the pot and cups in his hand. Why was she mad at him? It was a sacred oath—and two of the guys he’d gone through training with at Quantico were already dead.

  “Waino,” she said, still looking at the wall, “Johnny Hartman got his doctor to say that knee he hurt in football would go out all the time. Jane’s brother got his doctor to say that he was gay.”

  He said nothing.

  She let out a long sigh. Her shoulders moved just that little bit back down to where they normally sat. He realized that she’d been holding her breath. She went into her quiet voice, the one that he knew there was no arguing against. “You got into Yale Law School. You were deferred . In three years the war could be over, and if it isn’t, you’ll do your time as a lawyer. People would kill to get to where you are.”

  “People are getting killed. Better people that Johnny Hartman and Jane’s brother.”

  She turned, this time slowly. She was trembling. The tears welling from her green eyes struck him dumb and made him feel guilty. “Yes!” she hissed. “Yes, yes, yes, yes! And you sent in the letter without even talking to me about it. You didn’t even think to talk to me about it.”

  A month after that he was at the Basic School in Quantico, Virginia. He found it difficult to write to her, knowing that Marine training was totally foreign to her. She responded infrequently, saying that her new career kept her busy. Once, after he’d been in Quantico nearly three months, he called her to say that he could get up to New York on a three-day pass. She said that she had already planned something in Vermont. Two months after that he had his orders to Vietnam. He called her and said he had to see her before he shipped out. She said OK, but warned him not to plan on spending the night.

  Beefed up from the training, hair cut to the skull, and in the uniform of a Marine second lieutenant, he made the long train ride from Virginia to New York. When he got to her apartment, her roommates told him that she was out on a date. He waited awkwardly, knowing that her roommates were trying to entertain him. Finally they went to bed. When she got home, she made tea. After an awkward half hour she told him he could sleep on the couch and she went to bed.

  He’d been so frightened and desperately in need of comfort that he crawled into bed with her anyway. After two uncomfortable hours with her back to him, he gave up on sleep. He got up in the dark and struggled into his uniform in the over-heated apartment, the wool sticking to the sweat on his body. She watched him silently. He called a cab and packed his Val-Pak. When he was folding it together on the floor, he looked up to see her sitting on the side of the bed. She was wearing a long man’s shirt. It didn’t hide her panties. Apparently she didn’t care.

  “When’s your plane?”

  “Oh-five-thirty.” He wished that he hadn’t slipped into military time.

  “You hungry?”

  He stood up, pulled the Val-Pak upright, and lifted it. “No.”

  “Well . . .”

  “Yeah.” He couldn’t take his eyes off her. He never could. “Bye.”

  “Bye.”

  He walked out the door, closing it quietly so he wouldn’t disturb her roommates, and went down the stairs.

  The cab was pulling up when he heard her running barefoot down the street, still in her long shirt. He stood there, paralyzed. She reached him, eyes brimming with tears, and gave him a hug and a quick kiss and then pulled back.

  The cabby had picked up his Val-Pak and was back behind the wheel, giving them some time.

  Anne sat down on the curb. “Go on,” she said softly, looking across the empty street. “Go.”

  His last view of her was through the rear window of the cab. She was sitting on the dirty curb, bent over, her hands wedged between her face and her knees, shaking with sobs.

  When they pulled out of sight of her, the cabby asked, not unkindly, “Going to Vietnam?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Tough good-bye.”

  Hamilton was saying something that brought Mellas back to the present. “There must be some women, someplace, that think it’s OK to be over here.”

  “You know any?” Mellas asked. He was uncomfortably aware of how bitter he was getting. It was as if some other person inside him sometimes used his vocal cords. He really hated women at some level, maybe because they stayed home and couldn’t get drafted. Maybe it was the power they held over him because of his yearning to be with one, just to talk with one.

  “No,” Hamilton said.

  “There it is,” Mellas said softly to the dark wall of jungle. He turned to Hamilton. “Fuck it. I’m going to check lines.” He left. Hamilton resumed staring at his short-timer’s chart.

  Around three-thirty that morning Fitch informed the actuals of the task ahead of them, the colonel’s threat to relieve him, and the underlying threat of a court-martial. Mellas, enraged, offered to resign and go on trial with Fitch. “You get this thing out in the open and the Marine Corps would never stand for the bad publicity. They’d back down.”

  “Mellas,” Hawke said, “this isn’t some fucking sequel to The Caine Mutiny.” Kendall and Goodwin laughed and Mellas had to smile in spite of his anger. “We got to be at Checkpoint Echo by tomorrow noon,” Hawke continued. “That gives us about eight hours absolute maximum humping time to make Bravo, Charlie, and Delta.” He turned to Fitch. “Ain’t no way, Jim. I’d lose comm. Blame it on the batteries. Just skip a couple of checkpoints. We’ll be fucking lucky if we get there by tomorrow night with straight beelining.”

  Fitch again began to bite his lower lip. “You don’t think we can make them all, huh?” he asked.

  “Jim, have you seen Hippy’s feet?”

  Fitch sucked in his cheeks, saying nothing.

  “Maybe we could prep our route with the sixties,” Kendall put in, “and lighten up on the mortar rounds.”

  “The last thing you’ll shit-can is ammunition, goddamn it,” Hawke said.

  Kendall began to redden.

  “That’s all we’ve got left,” Mellas said.

  “That’s right. And your life.” Hawke took in a deep breath. “I want to impress on you boot motherfuckers just how far our asses are hanging out. All the grunts go to Cam Lo. So where does the artillery go, especially with no grunts to run security? Not only did they pull them out of Matterhorn, but yesterday we abandoned Eiger. That means all we’ve got is the eight inchers out of Sherpa. That’s at their extreme range. Things get very wobbly at extreme range.” He wiggled his hand for emphasis. “We all know the chances for air support in a monsoon: zilch point shit. So keep your fucking ammunition.”

  This was the first time Mellas understood that Hawke was afraid. It sent a tremor of fear through him. He imagined the company strung out in one of the rocky canyons, getting ripped apart by mortars, or struggling up a steep hillside, a .51-caliber machine gun across the valley raking them as they scrambled for cover where there was none. Mellas erupted. “Big John Six and his fucking Checkpoint Echo, that cocksucking son of a bitch. He’ll actually fucking kill some of us just to make his goddamned checkpoint.”

  “There it is, Jack,” Goodwin said. “You don’t make general if you don’t make checkpoints.”

  The rest of the day Mellas raged inwardly against the colonel. This gave him energy to keep moving, keep checking on the platoon, keep the kids moving. But just below the grim tranquillity he had learned to d
isplay, he cursed with boiling intensity the ambitious men who used him and his troops to further their careers. He cursed the air wing for not trying to get any choppers in through the clouds. He cursed the diplomats arguing about round and square tables. He cursed the South Vietnamese making money off the black market. He cursed the people back home gorging themselves in front of their televisions. Then he cursed God. Then there was no one else to blame and he cursed himself for thinking God would give a shit.

  The day ended in despair. The country had become a series of jagged limestone cliffs that weren’t shown on the map. It was impossible to get a bearing on anything in the dark forest. They couldn’t even find the sun through the clouds. Hunger made their stomachs hurt and drained their limbs of strength, but they knew the only way to reach food and safety was to keep moving.

  The next day was the same. As their resistance lowered, the jungle rot got more severe. Pus erupted from skin. Ringworm spread more rapidly, and several kids began to walk without trousers to avoid the painful irritation and chafing. That caused more cuts from the bushes and more exposure to leeches.

  Pat collapsed, his legs quivering with exhaustion. Arran draped the dog on the back of his neck, holding Pat’s legs over his shoulders, asking every hour or two for an emergency medevac. “You don’t understand. Dogs don’t have the same stamina as people. They just don’t.” It was the third full day without food.

  Pallack wondered if dogs were smarter than people.

  By the next day, some kids started eating the pulpy insides of various plants, not really certain what they were consuming. Others peeled bark from trees and chewed the inside. By early afternoon many were puking as they walked, fouling their own clothes or leaving sour-smelling patches of bile for those behind to avoid. Nothing helped.

  Hippy kept thinking of the girl who had first told him about meditating one night when he was on liberty from Camp Pendleton. He tried to concentrate on the now of the pain. She had told him that if he was uncomfortable on his knees in meditation, it was only because he was thinking about the time stretching before him. “Are you able to stand it now?” she had asked him. “Yes,” he replied. “And now?” “Yes” he had replied again. And now, the pain of putting his foot down hit him, but he could stand it. And now, on the other foot, but again he could survive. And now. And now. The hunger was nothing.

  Mallory suddenly threw his heavy M-60 machine gun into the brush and flung himself down, holding his temples. He screamed for someone to help him. “My fucking head hurts,” he sobbed. “Jesus Christ, my fucking head. Won’t someone believe me?”

  Mellas found him writhing on the ground. “It fucking hurts me, Lieutenant,” Mallory sobbed.

  A cry of “Corpsman up!” passed along the column. Doc Fredrickson came running, panting with the effort. Steam rose from his sodden clothing. “Oh, it’s Mallory,” he said, barely concealing his disgust.

  “Well?” Mellas said.

  “I don’t know, Lieutenant. You got the same word I did. He’s got a head problem. There’s nothing physically wrong with him.”

  “You can’t help him?”

  “Do I look like Sigmund fucking Freud?”

  Mellas took the handset from Hamilton’s flak jacket and radioed for Sheller, the senior squid. “It’s my character Mike with the bad head,” Mellas said. The column kept moving. Everyone looked numbly at Mallory while stepping over him. The two Marines carrying Williams’s body stopped when they saw him, the body swaying slightly between them. One of them spat, and they struggled off.

  The radio hissed and Fitch came up. “Look, Bravo One, I can’t stop this column for anything today. I’ll send the senior squid back, but you be prepared to provide security. You’ll have to catch up with us best you can, even if you have to drag the son of a bitch.”

  Bass arrived before Sheller. He toed Mallory. Mallory responded with a moan.

  Mellas squatted down beside him. “Mallory, you’ve got to understand. We’ve got to keep moving. If you don’t move, the whole company is in danger. I know it hurts, but just try and move. You’ve got to try.”

  “You don’t understand, it fucking hurts me.” Mallory sounded like a bewildered two-year-old.

  Bass threw his rifle to the ground and grabbed Mallory by the front of his shirt, pulling him up to eye level. Mallory hung limp in his hands. Bass was screaming at him. “Goddamn it, Mallory, you fucking crybaby. We get left with shit like you and people like Williams die. You fucking coward. Walk!”

  Mallory moaned, “I can’t.”

  Bass, his face contorted, smashed his fist into Mallory’s face. Mallory moaned and dropped to the ground.

  “That’s e-fucking-nough,” Mellas said, furiously. “Goddamn it, Bass.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with him. He’s just fucking chickenshit.”

  “I’ll decide that.”

  The two of them stared at each other. Bass reached down, picked up his rifle, and humped off down the trail. Skosh looked at Mallory, puzzled, then scurried after Bass.

  “I’ll talk to Bass, Lieutenant,” Fredrickson said.

  “I can’t really blame him,” Mellas said. “Look, tell Bass to take the platoon. I’ll drop off with the last fire team while the senior squid checks him out.”

  Fredrickson hurried after Skosh and Bass just as Sheller arrived with Cassidy. Mellas briefed Cassidy while Sheller bent over Mallory, talking with him. The column disappeared ahead, leaving the small group alone. The Marines chosen for security nervously covered the trail around them. Sheller stood up, shrugging his shoulders. “I can give him a bunch more of Darvon, but he’s been eating that shit like popcorn.”

  “Well, what in fuck do we do with him?” Mellas asked. “We’re in no condition to carry him.”

  “Leave him,” Cassidy said, putting his hand on Mellas’s shoulder. Sheller looked at Cassidy in surprise.

  “I can’t leave him here,” Mellas said. Cassidy winked and squeezed Mellas’s shoulder. “You’ve got to, Lieutenant. We’ve got an entire company being jeopardized by this one individual. I ain’t seeing any good Marines die because one chickenshit fucking coward refuses to hump.”

  “Well,” Mellas said slowly.

  “Grab his gun,” Cassidy said to one of the Marines standing watch. “Get his ammunition too.” They stripped Mallory of his machine-gun gear, leaving him his .45 pistol and pack.

  “You can’t leave me,” Mallory moaned.

  “Try me,” Cassidy said. “I can leave a piece of shit like you any day of the week.” He nodded his head up the trail. “Let’s go before we get into trouble,” he said.

  The small group set off, a couple of the Marines looking back nervously. Cassidy grimly walked forward. After about fifty meters he stopped and nodded them into the brush. Everyone lay down. They waited about five minutes. Mallory came running wildly around the bend in the trail. Cassidy stuck the machine gun out, tripping him, and Mallory fell forward with a cry of fear.

  Cassidy stood over him and Mallory looked up, only to have the heavy machine gun thrown at him full in the face. It chipped his tooth. Mellas winced.

  “Get up, you coward,” Cassidy said quietly.

  Mallory, his lips and gums bleeding, whimpered like a dog. He picked up the machine gun and, in a strange shuffling half trot, headed up the trail toward the rest of the company.

  “What’re you waiting for,” Cassidy growled at the other Marines, “a fucking skoshi cab?” Everyone hurried back up the trail to catch the company, fearful of being separated.

  Nightfall found them halfway up the side of a deep valley with no room to form a perimeter. They dug in, looping the company in an oval over a protruding finger. If they were hit like this, they would probably be overrun.

  They dug holes just sufficient to lie in horizontally. The fields of fire were cleared only a few feet beyond their holes. Mellas dragged himself from hole to hole, cajoling, joking, pointing out the danger, trying to encourage everyone to hack just a little more brush, dig just a little bit deeper.

  When Mellas returned later to check on progress, he found most of the brot
hers gathered around Jackson’s record player. Mole was there, as well as Broyer and Cortell. Mallory’s machine gun had been positioned to cover an approach route up a small gulley, but Mallory was gone. So was Parker.

  “Hey, Lieutenant, come on and have some supper,” Cortell called out, “we’re servin’ a little Memphis soul stew.”

  Mellas laughed and walked up to the group, happy to be invited to listen. His heart swelled with pride at their good humor in the face of all the misery. They were listening to King Curtis doing “Memphis Soul Stew,” the record moving unevenly as the tone arm jerked up and down with the warps.

  Mellas was too tired to push the platoon to dig deeper. He joined with them and the music.

  “Man, I’ll never turn my nose up at a can of ham and moms again,” Mole said, his body swaying slightly to the music. Mellas felt uncomfortable, not knowing what to say.

  “Yeah,” Cortell said softly, “and sprinkle it with a dash of”—he paused for effect, bringing his shoulders up—“canned ham and eggs. Oooh, man.”

  Mellas laughed. “And a full course of Tabasco sauce to kill the taste,” he said.

  There were murmers of “O-kay, Lieutenant” and “You got it,” soft voices overcoming misery.

  “I know Jesus said man does not live by bread alone, Lieutenant,” Cortell went on, “but I never expected to have to prove it, man.”

  “Hey, how many records you got, Jackson?” Mellas asked.

  “All depends on the table of organization, sir,” Jackson said. “We got Second Fire Team with Cortell carrying the hard core, some Otis, a little James Brown.” Jackson stopped and gave a pretty good imitation of James Brown doing an “eehhh” at the end of one of his lines.

  “Whoa, bro.” Mole laughed and touched his fist to Jackson’s.

  “And he got Wilson Pickett too,” Jackson continued, “with yours truly packing the Marvin Gaye. Parker and Broyer now, they got the rest of the Motown. And Mallory, he’s packing, uh . . .” Jackson noticed Mellas looking at Mallory’s unattended machine gun. “Uh, he carries the instrumentals like King Curtis and Junior Walker.”