Matterhorn: a novel of the Vietnam War Page 30

  Because it took so long for security patrols to get off Sky Cap and back up, they didn’t have time to cover the distance needed to reach the river, but its possibilities excited Mellas. Its winding path had the fascination of a deadly snake. Days passed, and Mellas kept coming back to the cliff’s edge to stare at the river valley and daydream of glory and recognition. Then one evening he knew what he wanted to do.

  Fitch was bantering with Pallack and Relsnik in soft whispers when Mellas poked his head inside the dripping ponchos. It was too dark to see anyone.

  “I’ve got an idea, Jim,” he said.

  Fitch’s voice came out of the dark. “OK. What?”

  “You know the blue line just north of here that hits the Ben Hai?”

  “Yeah,” Fitch said uncertainly.

  “Nagoolian’s got to have all sorts of trails there. He had to in order to supply the attack on Con Thien last year. If they ever want to get Quang Tri, other than come right across the Z in tanks and get fucked up by Navy air and Army tanks and artillery, they’ve only got two alternatives: hold Mutter’s Ridge, which means resupply via the trails along the Ben Hai, or kick us out of Vandy and the Rock Pile, barrel-ass down Route 9, hit Cam Lo, and take Quang Tri from the west.”

  “Mellas,” Fitch asked patiently, “what do you want?”

  “I think we ought to recon that valley. It’s like a warehouse next to a freeway.”

  “The Ben Hai’s no fucking freeway, sir,” Relsnik said quietly.

  “But it’s got gook tollbooths every fucking klick,” Pallack chimed in, “and dey ain’t asking for no quarters either.”

  “I don’t plan on going down the Ben Hai,” Mellas said. He turned toward Fitch’s voice. “It provides a good screening action in case someone’s coming up the valley to hit us.”

  “Yeah, you’d be d’ fucking screen, holes all over you,” Pallack said.

  Fitch was silent.

  “It wouldn’t hurt to show battalion we’re taking some initiative,” Mellas added.

  After another long silence Fitch said, “OK. You got people crazy enough to go with you, be my guest. Take Daniels if he wants to go. How long you want to be out?”

  “I figure three days.”

  Mellas dug out his map, and Fitch switched on his flashlight. Faint red light illuminated the interior of the hooch. Mellas saw Pallack and Relsnik curled up next to their radios in their poncho liners.

  The next morning First Platoon had palace guard while squads from Second and Third platoons went out on security patrols. Security outposts disappeared into the jungle on the south side of the mountain or set up with binoculars on the cliff faces. Work parties were formed to lay more wire, burn garbage, and dig larger latrines. Mellas asked for volunteers. As he expected, almost everyone preferred the work parties. Also as expected, Vancouver was the first to say he’d go. He talked Daniels into coming. Mellas had to send the word out again for an M-79 man. Eventually Gambaccini showed up, saying he was coming only because Bass had mentioned to him that it was his turn to volunteer. Fredrickson felt honor-bound to go along, since he was still the only platoon corpsman.

  They all took four hours to sleep that afternoon. Then they blackened their hands and faces and tied down their equipment.

  In the darkness it took more than three hours to reach the jungle floor, by rope most of the way. Vancouver took point with an M-16 rather than his M-60 so everybody’s ammunition would be compatible. He was followed by Mellas. Next came Daniels with the radio and Gambaccini with the grenade launcher. Fredrickson took up the rear, walking nearly backward, his M-16 pointing into the blackness behind them.

  They moved silently beneath towering trees that rustled in the dark above them. Eventually they reached the stream and made their way north alongside it. They used its sound both to guide them and to mask their movements.

  Mellas’s senses were keenly alive. A thrill surged up his spine. He felt wonderfully powerful and dangerous. Vancouver on point. Four combat-tried Marines. Daniels backed with a battery of howitzers. If the clouds broke, jets from Da Nang or possibly from carriers in the China Sea might show up to support them. They could even call in the Air Force’s Puff the Magic Dragon with its fiery streams of 40-millimeter shells from on high. He pictured his small team quietly stalking the enemy. A song from his college days rose in his memory, Ian and Sylvia, guitars driving, close harmony pushing the wildness, singing about outlaws: They were armed. All were armed. Three MacLean boys and that wild Alex Hare.

  In the darkness Mellas could sense the stream slowing, indicating that the land had begun to broaden as they left the high peaks behind them. The underbrush also grew thicker, reducing their own already slow pace. Above, he could just make out the dark silhouettes of the huge trees against the barely perceptible lighter color of the cloudy night sky.

  Suddenly Vancouver sank to one knee. Everyone quickly squatted, rifles outward in assigned sectors.

  “Trail,” Vancouver whispered.

  Mellas moved forward in a low crouch. His hand felt packed mud. “Take it,” he whispered.

  The trail headed eastward, ever lower, and now they moved more rapidly away from Sky Cap. The trail was what Mellas had wanted. He’d been proved right. But it occurred to him that they might not be the only ones out tonight. He tried to force the nagging fear from his mind and concentrate on moving silently. Don’t let water in the canteens slosh. Check the taped metal on the slings. Heel down, feel for anything that could make noise. Try to keep the breathing even. What would happen, he wondered, if they ran into a major unit? He’d stupidly assumed that only small units would be on the trails at night. But Vancouver would see the enemy first. They’d pull back in time. It would be easy to envelop the five of them, however. What if one of them was wounded?

  Mellas forced himself to think more positively. They’d find a perfect ambush spot. The gooks would come down the trail, talking, unaware. Daniels would give the word and the artillery would erupt. They’d uncover intelligence that would alter the whole division’s strategy or foil an attack on Quang Tri. A medal. A story in the newspaper back home. But what if they didn’t get set up in time and met the gooners head-on? What if some of them were wounded and the rest couldn’t run?

  Something ahead snapped, and Mellas’s heartbeat accelerated as the shadow of Vancouver sank quickly to the mud. Mellas went down on one knee, eyes straining. The wind moved softly through the jungle, bringing the smell of damp rot. It also rustled the trees, filling the air with a steady hiss. Trying to hear anything was maddening. The failure to hear could mean his death. The fear made his heart pound and his breathing shallow and more rapid, all in turn making it more difficult to hear. No one moved. Everyone was waiting for an order from Mellas.

  Mellas wanted to look at his map. If he could see the contour lines of Hill 1609 drawn on the map, it would help him feel that it and the company were still really there. In this darkness, it was a dream. There was only this ground, this smell, this small group of humans. He slowly reached for his map. Then he realized he’d have to turn on his flashlight to see it. To appear to be doing something, he slid his compass up before his nose and opened the case. The pale green glow of the needle’s tip swung drunkenly, then steadied, rocking slightly. Guilty anxiety struck him. What if the snap up ahead meant a group just like them, waiting to open up the minute there was more sound? He silently closed the compass case. What good did a fucking compass do if you couldn’t see where you were? He felt a hand tap his boot. “I don’t think it was nothing, Lieutenant,” Vancouver whispered.

  Mellas knew he’d have to either move forward or decide clearly that this was the enemy and pull back into a hasty defensive circle. He also knew he could not do the latter without looking foolish. Another part of him finally took command and he whispered, “Let’s go.”

  They rose to their feet. Carefully, they stepped forward. Heel down. Feel for something solid. Toe. Lift heel. Next foot. Heel down. Feel for loose sticks. Toe. Lift heel. They all moved the same way. Quietly. Slowly. The march of the reconnai
ssance team.

  This march was not in four-four time. There was no time. There was forever. Trees creaked unseen above them. Direction became meaningless. The compass needle pointed only to darkness.

  The flashes from the muzzle of Vancouver’s M-16 seared their eyes. Ghostly trees stood silhouetted, exposed, as if by flashbulbs. Grotesque shadows leaped into being and died as everything went black again. Green spots plagued their night vision, the explosions echoing and reechoing in their ears.

  Mellas had glimpsed the grimace of pain and fear on an NVA soldier’s face.

  They crawled backward, hearts pounding, panting with adrenaline. Mellas bumped into Daniels, who was pushing out to his assigned sector. He felt other boots touch his legs as Fredrickson and Gambaccini reached the circle. Mellas quickly whispered names. Everyone checked in OK.

  The radio was frantically keying the check-in signal. Daniels keyed back the OK signal. The radio stopped.

  “I only saw one, Vancouver,” Mellas whispered.

  “That’s all I saw.”

  “Let’s get the fuck out of here,” Gambaccini whispered.

  “Got to check the body for documents,” Mellas whispered grimly.

  “Oh, fuck, man.”

  They heard a moan.

  “Oh, shit, he’s alive,” Fredrickson whispered.

  “Now what do we do?” Gambaccini asked.

  “Pump some more rounds into him,” Daniels said.

  “It’ll give away our position,” Mellas whispered quickly. “Throw a Mike Twenty-Six.”

  “There can’t be just one of the fuckers out there,” Vancouver said. “He’s got to have friends behind him.”

  “I want the fucking documents. We need them for intelligence.”

  “Oh, shit, Lieutenant, fuck the fucking documents.”

  “Shut up, Gambaccini.”

  Mellas thought furiously. “Vancouver, go ahead and grease him with a grenade.” That way the enemy would not be able to locate them. “When I give the word, we all move toward the blue line.” He waited a moment. “Ready?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Go.”

  Vancouver rose to one knee and threw the grenade. An arc of brilliant fire erupted down the trail as they scrambled for the river.

  Again, they waited.

  “Did you get him?” Mellas whispered.

  “I don’t know.”

  They waited.

  Fitch came up on the radio, asking them to break radio silence. Mellas told him the situation in terse, barely audible whispers. They continued to wait.

  “There’s got to be more of the fuckers. Let’s get out of here, Lieutenant.”

  “Goddamn it, Gambaccini, I want the documents.”

  Mellas, too, wanted to run, but he knew that bringing in solid information would make him look good. “I don’t think there’s any more of them,” Mellas whispered. No one answered, since no one had been addressed. It was clearly Mellas’s problem. The others would do as they were told. “Let’s go check him out,” Mellas finally said.

  They crawled forward through the rotting sticks and fungus of the jungle floor. When they reached the body, Vancouver quickly pulled at the AK-47 that was attached to it with a shoulder sling. The man moaned.

  “Fuck,” Daniels whispered. “He’s still alive.”

  Mellas sent Vancouver and Gambaccini to guard the approaches up and down the trail and went through the wounded soldier’s pockets. He scanned the contents of the man’s wallets with his red flashlight, trying to ignore the soldier’s eyes, which were rolling with fear, pinkish brown in the red light. He was no older than Daniels or Gambaccini.

  Fredrickson cut the kid’s uniform open, revealing three bullet holes in his abdomen. There were gaping exit wounds in his lower back. Shrapnel from the grenade had smashed through his left leg and shattered his shinbone. Fredrickson looked up at Mellas. “He won’t last but an hour or two. Less if we try to move him. Those are his guts coming out of the exit holes and I think that’s part of his pancreas. The charts never look the way it really is, so it’s hard to say.”

  Mellas wet his lips nervously. If only he could locate the soldier’s unit. They could bring the sky down on it.

  “We’re going to pull back and wait for him to move,” he said.

  “What?”

  “We’ll pretend we’re leaving. I want to see which way he crawls for help.”

  Mellas stuffed the wallet into his pocket and cut off the kid’s shoulder patches with his K-bar. The kid’s eyes darted left and right with fear as Mellas worked around him with the large knife. Mellas thought about cutting off the belt buckle but hesitated, wanting to appear more professional. “OK. Let’s go,” he whispered. He switched off the red light. It was like heat being taken away.

  “You forgot the belt buckle, Lieutenant,” Daniels said. “Ten cases of Coke in Da Nang, minimum.” Daniels groped for the buckle in the dark and quickly cut it loose.

  They moved off about fifty meters and Mellas formed them into a tight circle. After ten minutes of silence they heard a moan and then a very ordinary sound.

  “Shit,” Vancouver whispered, almost in disbelief. “He’s fucking crying.”

  Mellas shut his eyes.

  The crying didn’t stop and was soon mixed with pleading foreign words. The sound cut through Mellas like a shaft of steel. The sobbing rose and fell in intensity. The pleading continued, a child crying for help, afraid to die.

  “Jesus Christ, shut the fuck up,” Mellas whispered aloud. The others were silent, waiting for Mellas’s lead. “Shit,” Mellas finally said. “Let’s go find him.”

  The youth had managed to crawl nearly thirty meters from where they’d left him. Mellas turned on his flashlight, shielding it with his hand. The soldier had ground dirt into his mouth, and it had mixed with blood-flecked saliva in his teeth. He watched the Marines, eyes wide, lips pleading silently.

  “Well, sir, it looks like his friends are east of here,” Fredrickson said.

  “Yeah,” Mellas whispered.

  There was an uncomfortable silence.

  “Do you think he’ll live?” Mellas asked.

  “Won’t make much difference anyway.”

  “How come?”

  “Tigers. It’s a pretty easy piece of meat.”

  “He’d die before then, wouldn’t he?”

  “Fucked if I know. I’m just an HM-three.”

  Suddenly the kid broke down and an anguished cry escaped his lips, followed by more frightened choking sobbing.

  Fredrickson switched the safety off of his M-16. “It won’t be the first time, sir,” he said.

  “No, don’t.” Mellas switched off his own safety. He pointed the barrel directly at the kid’s head. The kid looked up at him, crying loudly, mucus running from his nose. Mellas switched the safety back on. “We can’t,” he whispered.

  “Lieutenant, do him a favor. He’s going to die.”

  “We don’t know that.”

  “I fucking know it.”

  “Maybe we could get him back.”

  Fredrickson sighed. “We’d trail his guts all over the place. Even if he did live, we’d just have to turn him over to the ARVNs and they’d kill him slower than the tigers.”

  “We don’t know that for certain.” Mellas toed the kid gently.

  Fredrickson placed the barrel of his rifle against the kid’s head.

  “Don’t shoot him,” Mellas said coldly. “That’s an order, Fredrickson.” He backed away from the boy. “He might make it. Maybe his buddies are real close.”

  “If they are,” Gambaccini said, “let’s get the fuck out of here.”

  “You going to leave him, Lieutenant?” Fredrickson asked.

  “He might live,” Mellas said. “There’s a chance one of his guys could pick him up. They must have heard the firing.” He struggled for more reasons. “It’d be murder.”

  Nobody said anything. The jungle had gone silent. Mellas no longer had any illusions about their vulnerability. They were alone, just as this single crying stranger at their feet was alone, their reason for being here probably not much different from his.

  “East, si
r?” Vancouver asked. “The way he was heading?”

  Mellas didn’t say anything. The others shifted nervously.

  “Let’s get the fuck out of here,” Gambaccini finally whispered. “I’m cold.”

  There was a tense silence. Mellas could hear them all breathing, smell the sweat rising off them in the darkness. He felt Daniels next to him with the large PRC-25 on his back, scratchy whispers coming from the handset. Mellas rubbed his face, feeling the slight growth of his beard.