Matterhorn Page 30

  “I’d like you to meet Paul Fracasso,” Fitch said quickly. Mellas nodded at the new lieutenant, who was still beefed up from the Basic School and was wearing Marine-issue glasses. Mellas saw Fitch glance at Hawke. Suddenly he knew. They were going to give his platoon to this guy. Hawke was being transferred. He didn’t say anything. It was what he had wanted. He’d even planted the seed with Blakely that day on Matterhorn. Now that his seed had grown to fruition, he was heartsick. He had no idea it would make him feel what he was feeling.

  “Where’s Scar?” Mellas asked, dropping his pack onto the floor.

  “Back in Quang Tri to get the company pay,” Hawke said.

  “Oh, yeah. I almost forgot we get paid for this.” Mellas took another long pull on the beer, finishing it. “Well, come on, get it over with.” He knew it was unfair of him, but he resented the newcomer like hell.

  “Right,” Fitch said, tight-lipped. “Uh, Fracasso here will take over your platoon. You’re now the company executive officer, Bravo Five. I thought you’d work out better than Goodwin.”

  “Great. Thanks.” Mellas sat down on an ammunition crate and accepted another can of beer from Cassidy.

  “Where you going, Hawke?” he asked.

  “Three Zulu.”

  “Nice,” Mellas said. He took another long drink. That meant Hawke would be working for Blakely as a staff officer in battalion operations. Blakely was no fool, that was certain. “Congratulations on your promotion, too.”

  “I’ve done my fucking time in the bush.” Hawke sounded a little peeved.

  “Didn’t say you hadn’t, Ted.” Mellas drained the beer. Cassidy handed him another one, a slight twinkle in his eye. “Thanks, Gunny,” Mellas said.

  “Go on,” Hawke said to Fitch. “You’d better tell the rest before he’s fucking incoherent.”

  “The rest?”

  “We’ve been assigned Bald Eagle-Sparrow Hawk,” Fitch said.

  “Is that like fucking Batman and Robin?”

  Fitch smiled, watching Mellas take another long drink. “It’s the code name for a company of Marines that stands by the airstrip. If someone gets in the shit, they drop us in to ‘exploit’ the situation.”

  “You can’t be serious,” Mellas said very softly.

  The look on Fitch’s face said that he was.

  Mellas’s teeth were clenched so tightly he thought he’d break them. “My fucking men can’t walk,” he said. “I can’t fucking walk.” He stood up and kicked his pack in frustration. The floor reeled beneath him.

  There was the sound of another beer being opened, and Cassidy slid the can over the table to where Mellas was standing.

  “Have another beer, Lieutenant. It’ll take the edge off.”

  Mellas looked at the beer, watching the foam slowly ooze onto the tabletop. He felt so tired. “The men getting plenty of beer?” he asked.

  “Sure,” Hawke answered. “You can thank Gunny Cassidy. He bought a bunch of cases for each squad with his own money.”

  Mellas was touched by the gesture. “Thanks, Gunny,” he said.

  Cassidy grunted. “Can’t have the kids without beer. If you’re old enough to kill a man you ought to be old enough to drink.”

  Mellas slugged down the can. “How long before we get off fucking Bald Eagle?”

  Fitch shrugged. “No telling. Until the regiment needs us someplace else or they drop us into the shit. The colonel thought it would give us a rest.”

  Mellas wanted to ask Fitch how sitting at the edge of an LZ waiting for some fat-ass to push a magic button and dump the company in the middle of a shit sandwich would be considered a rest. But he decided not to bother. What he wanted, more than anything else, was a shower. “Any clean clothes here?” he asked. Cassidy pointed to a number of open boxes stacked against the tent walls. The tent wobbled uncertainly around Mellas as he walked toward the clothing.

  “Floor a little slippery, Lieutenant?” Cassidy asked slyly.

  “You got me fucking drunk, didn’t you,” Mellas said. It took him a moment to locate Cassidy. “I’ll be fucked.” He took off his old clothes, not bothering to remove his boots. He looked a moment at his green underpants and threw them into the garbage along with the beer cans. For a moment he stood naked in front of everyone, with just his dog tags hanging on his sallow skin. He was struck by how vulnerable his body was.

  Cassidy tossed him a new set of jungle utilities. They felt stiff, heavy, and the camouflage looked oddly bright compared with the set on the floor at his feet. He pulled on the trousers without bothering with underwear. He marveled at how thin his waist had gotten, how his ribs showed.

  “Oh, and Mellas,” said Fitch, “we need a man from First Platoon to stand KP next two weeks.”

  “Thank God,” Mellas said. “You can have Shortround before he gets someone killed.” He turned to Fracasso. “Come on Fricassee, or whatever your fucking wop name is, I’ll introduce you to your platoon.”

  Simpson’s hands were still shaking as he poured another glass of bourbon and told Blakely what had happened. Blakely laughed derisively. “Of course he told you it was off the record. He’s not going to risk that star. Not now. Him and his fucking lost platoon from World War II. Look at the numbers, Colonel. We’ve got the highest men-in-the-field to men-in-the-rear ratio in the division. We’re top in the battalion on man-days per month actively involved in combat operations. Our congressional inquiry rate is right next to zero. Our kill ratio’s been climbing ever since I’ve come aboard. And don’t think the right people at division and Third Amphibious Force don’t know it.” Blakely laughed again. “If he wrote up a bad fitness report on you, we’d take the stats and blow him right into retirement.”

  Simpson smiled tightly. “I guess I shouldn’t be such a worrywart.”

  “You worry about the numbers. That’s what the people who matter worry about. Mulvaney’s an anachronism. Apples and oranges. Shit.”

  They both started laughing.

  Mellas, wearing new jungle utilities, the creases still showing, led Fracasso to a flat stretch of mud that surrounded a single tent designed to sleep ten people. There were two other tents of the same size, each taken by the other two platoons. That left more than 100 unfortunates with less rank and seniority out in the rain. Some had rigged hooches as if they were still in the bush. Others simply threw down their packs, flak jackets, and weapons, claimed a small patch of wet clay for their own, and started drinking. Mellas knew that most of them would be too drunk or stoned to rig hooches and would sleep in the rain. At least drunk or stoned they’d get a full night of sleep.

  Mellas walked over to Hamilton, Skosh, Fredrickson, and Bass. He introduced Fracasso and told them that he himself was moving up to XO to replace Hawke. Bass took it with the aplomb of the professional—another boot lieutenant to train. Mellas knew the squad leaders would take it less well. They didn’t appreciate the Marine Corps’ need to ensure that the higher ranks were filled with combat-trained officers. Once they had one broken in, they’d rather keep him.

  Mellas shouted “Squad leaders up!” and the kids, some lying on their backs and already well on their way, relayed the call happily toward the gray sky.

  Jancowitz was the first to arrive. “I hear you’re leaving us, Lieutenant,” he said.

  “Yeah.”

  “Well.” Jancowitz hesitated. “Congratulations on the promotion.”

  “It’s no promotion, Janc. I’m still drawing the same pay. I suppose I’ll get a few more coffee breaks when we’re humping, but I’ll still be humping with you guys.”

  “That’d be decent, sir.”

  Mellas felt like a turd. But this was his chance to move up. To be the executive officer this early in his tour gave him ample time to get a company.

  Connolly came up to them, slightly bleary-eyed, a can of beer in his hand. “What’s the new lieutenant like?” he almost demanded.

  Mellas thought a moment. He could screw the guy right here by saying the wrong thing. He’d noticed the Naval Academy ring on Fracasso’s finger—a lifer if he ever saw one. Jacobs arrived, just behind Connolly, with a silly grin on his face.
Mellas just hoped Jacobs had enough sense not to smoke where he’d be caught. It would mean brig time and an automatic dishonorable discharge.

  “Feeling pretty good, Jake?” Mellas asked, suppressing the little smile that crept around the corners of his mouth.

  Jacobs immediately came down a little. “P-pretty good sir.”

  Mellas smiled at Jacobs’s serious expression. “Now that I’ve got the power, if any of you jokers lose someone to the brig because they get caught smoking dope, I’ll fuck your R & R quota and send you to Okinawa with all the lifers.”

  The group laughed.

  “What’s the new lieutenant like?” Connolly asked again.

  Mellas scuffed the mud with his boot. “I think you guys have drawn a lifer. But I think he’s going to be a good one.”

  “A fucking lifer, huh?” Connolly said. They all turned to look at the new lieutenant, who was talking eagerly with Bass. Bass and Fracasso saw them and walked over. Mellas knew that the next five seconds were among the most important Fracasso would ever live. They could certainly mean his career, and maybe even his life. In the next five seconds these three teenagers would decide if they’d work with him or not.

  Fracasso was clearly nervous. The three squad leaders stared at him without any sign of welcome.

  Mellas cleared his throat. “Well, I guess I ought to make a flowery farewell speech, but I’ll be humping along with Bass in the rear of this sorry bunch of assholes every third day, so I guess maybe I won’t.” Mellas was surprised at his lack of articulation. “I, uh, I’ll miss you guys.” He couldn’t look at them. “This is Lieutenant Fracasso. He’ll be taking over.”

  Mellas pointed to each of the squad leaders and made introductions.

  “Sorry to see you here, sir,” Connolly said. “I’m already in the double digits before I get my ass out of here. I’m so short I need to stand on a helmet to take a piss.”

  Fracasso seemed momentarily taken aback, but he put his hand out to shake Connolly’s. “You’re sorry. Jesus. I’ve got over a year.”

  Connolly, followed by Jancowitz and Jacobs, shook hands. Fracasso had passed the test. It felt good to Mellas. He’d expected to be jealous. The platoon would be OK. He hadn’t realized how he’d come to like these guys.

  “One last thing before I go and Fracasso’s stuck with you for good. Every man gets a fucking shower. There’s a water point down by the river. You squad leaders make sure everyone gets there before you’re all too fucked up and drown yourselves.”

  Two hours later Mellas was sitting in the mud, another warm beer in his hand. His body felt strangely light since he’d showered. It was his first shower since coming to Vietnam. The slight drizzle that was falling felt cool and refreshing on his face. He seemed to feel each individual drop of water.

  It was dark, but all around him he saw vague shadows getting up from small circles of friends to walk away and take a piss. Then a figure would return—stumbling across one circle or another, finding its own—and sink down again into the small mass of dark shadows. Mellas thought it must have been like this with Genghis Khan and Alexander.

  Mellas could have joined the other officers and staff members in the supply tent but felt a desire to linger with the platoon. He felt a new camaraderie with these kids. He knew it was sentimental, even mawkish, and he tried not to succumb to the loss he felt at moving a step up in the hierarchy.

  His head ached badly, and he continually had to walk off into the bush to crap. Still, he was exceedingly happy. It was safe here. He hoped he wasn’t coming down with dysentery. His new jungle utilities were already damp and muddy in the seat and knees and also slightly fouled from one of his trips into the bushes. He didn’t care. If they launched the Bald Eagle the next day he could be dead. He kept pouring down beer.

  With everyone getting shit-faced, China figured it was a good time to deliver the goods to Henry to be shipped back to Oakland or Los Angeles. The heavy seabag on his shoulder was awkward and its contents jabbed against his back and side. He was sweating heavily within two minutes of leaving the little airfield where Bravo Company was bivouacked. When he pushed in past the heavy canvas flaps that formed the door to Henry’s four-man tent, he smelled mothballs still lingering in the material. He let the seabag down a little more quickly than he would have liked, and there was a metallic clunk as it hit the plywood floor. Henry was lying on his rack looking at a fuck book. He saw China and, after hesitating for just a moment, broke into a grin and got up and went through the hand dance. Two of Henry’s friends were also there, and they did the same. It was good to be back with the brothers.

  Henry found a warm beer and punched two holes in it with an opener. He raised it in a mock toast and upended it, chugging the contents in about five seconds. Then he sat down on his rack, reached under the rubber lady, and pulled out a small pouch of marijuana with some cigarettes already rolled. He lit one, took a long toke, and handed it to China.

  “I don’t do that shit,” China said. He wasn’t altogether sure it had been a friendly gesture. He’d talked with Henry before about black people enslaving themselves to drugs. Henry knew he didn’t do that shit.

  “Ah, shit, man. When you gonna get with the program, huh? This shit be just good fun. It don’t hurt nobody.”

  “Yeah, OK. You go ahead then.”

  Henry passed the joint to one of his hooch mates and pulled up another can of beer, opened it, and handed it to China. China put his hands on his hips, looking down. Then he looked up at Henry. “You know I don’t do that shit either.”

  Henry raised his eyebrows and looked over at the others. He held the can out from him, pulling his head back, and pretended to study it carefully. “What I got here, China? Devil in a can?”

  China hesitated a moment. He really wanted that beer, but he knew that the Muslim brothers didn’t drink. Then again, they weren’t getting their asses shot off in a hot fucking jungle. He also knew that he’d have to stand up to his stated ideals. “Hey, Henry, you got a soda or somethin’?” he asked, trying to be casual.

  Henry chugged the second can of beer, then walked over to the end of his bunk and pulled out a whole case of Coca-Cola. He levered open a can and handed it to China, grinning. “I got everthing, brother.”

  China took it and sat down on the rack facing Henry, the heavy seabag on the floor between his feet. He drank the warm Coke. It tasted like summer back home. The joint got smoked down to where it was too hot to handle and one of Henry’s friends put it in a silver roach clip. Henry had the last full pull before there was nothing left.

  There was small talk, catching up, what brother made it home, what brother didn’t. Then Henry fixed on China’s eyes, a signal. “Parker really try and frag that racist bastard?”

  China hesitated. “I think so.”

  Henry snorted. “Too bad he fucked up.”

  There were nods and murmurs of agreement.

  China wasn’t seeing the scene in the tent; he was seeing Parker being carried out of the perimeter in the dark, face bathed in sweat, fear in his eyes. He had tapped knuckles and given Parker a reassuring handgrip. That was the last he would ever see of Parker. He came back to the present. “I think the gunny must have spotted somethin’. He says it’s all bullshit.”

  “Bullshit to that.”

  “Yeah.” China didn’t know what to do with his empty can. “Yeah, bullshit to that.” He reached down to the seabag and unclipped the shoulder strap that also secured it’s opening. “But I got somethin’ here ain’t no bullshit.” He pulled out the barrel of an M-60 machine gun. Then he pulled out the back end, assembled it quickly, and handed it to the brother next to him. Then he pulled out an AK-47 and did the same thing. Then he pulled out a .45 pistol and handed it to Henry. Then he pulled out a second AK. He smiled. “For the brothers back home.”

  Henry pulled back the receiver on the .45 and looked through the barrel. His two friends were similarly fiddling with the AK-47s, which were rare in rear areas.

  Henry smiled, almost sadly. “Where you get this shit, China?” he asked.

  “We hi
t a big ammo dump. Me and some of the brothers been humpin’ them in pieces ever since. I got the M-60 parts just sayin’ mine worn out, little bit at a time, you know, and the .45, that’s a combat loss. It was mine. I got me a new one.”

  Henry gave a sort of hummphh.

  China looked at him. “Wha’chew mean, hummphh?”

  Henry threw the .45 onto the end of his rack. “You think the brothers back home can’t get they own firearms? Shit, man. All they need is money and they get all the fuckin’ firepower they want. Don’chew remember you lived in fuckin’ Ah-mer-i-kuh, China? We got more guns in Ah-mer-i-kuh than you mama got boyfriends she don’t know they names.”

  China struggled to master his temper. The reference to his mother was a typical dozens insult. He wasn’t about to let Henry know how close it had come to the truth. “Ever bit help, Henry.”

  “Sheeit.” Henry stood up and walked over to a heavy, ornately carved Makassar ebony dresser he’d purchased in an illicit run to Cam Lo, a matching piece for an equally heavy and ornate trunk with which he’d replaced his standard-issue footlocker. “Besides, we don’t get back to the world real soon those brothers back home have no fucking idea what to do with all that firepower. Sheeit, China. They be killin’ each other over who get to be professor of Black Studies at You Cee Ell Ay. Sheeit. Killin’ each other over who gonna be teacher to rich white girls and little China boys.” He spun a combination padlock that secured a beautiful silver hasp to one of the drawers.

  “That killin’ be done by FBI undercover agents,” China said.

  “Sheeit, China. Get real, huh? That be nothin’ but Slausens killin’ Avenues.” Henry pulled the drawer completely out, put it on the steel runway matting that served as the tent’s floor, and started taking out clothes and other articles. Then he carefully removed a false bottom and motioned China over to look at it. There were dozens of small plastic packages, some filled with marijuana, some with blocks of hash, many with a slightly different, nearly white powder China thought might be heroin. Henry then carefully replaced the false bottom. “Wha’chew think that is, China?”