Matterhorn Read online

  Nothing happened. The projector sat dumbly as the Marines waited for someone to arrive with the film.

  Fifteen minutes later the crowd was becoming restless. Voices became louder. A beer can was thrown and one Marine jumped up to take the challenge, only to be pulled down by his friends. More beer was opened. A group of blacks had formed over to the left side of the theater. A white Marine got up to take a piss and had to walk through or around them. He asked one of them to move. It was Henry.

  “Hey, motherfuck, I don’t move for nobody ’less I want to,” Henry said.

  The crowd grew quiet.

  Henry moved his face inches from the white kid’s. The white kid stepped back but could go no farther because of some chairs behind him. Several white kids stood up and moved closer to him, offering silent support. Some of the blacks rearranged themselves, forming a semicircle to the side of the two who stood staring at each other. Jancowitz noticed that Broyer and Jackson were with the group, as was China.

  Mole stood up on the far side of the open space where he’d been talking to Vancouver. The two of them looked at each other quickly, then averted their eyes. Mole started edging around the outside of the circle, keeping close to the clay wall of the pit.

  Jancowitz had seen it start before. Everyone was scared not to be with his own race. Once fighting began, sides would be drawn and no amount of time together in the bush could break the barrier. Jancowitz had no idea what he would do, but he found himself walking quickly over to where Mole was moving around the outside edge of the circle, getting himself into position. Whites, feeling the same pressure as Mole, were gradually shifting to join their own color, no one wishing to be isolated when it happened. Jancowitz hissed at Mole. “Get the fuck out of here, Mole. You too, Vancouver. Just get the fuck out of here.”

  Mole looked over at the group of brothers forming at the side of the area, then at Janc. He shook his head, sadly, and continued toward the forming sides.

  Jancowitz turned to see what Vancouver was doing. He, like Mole, understood that he was one of the best fighters and he had to support his color when the shit came down. He moved toward the group forming around the white Marine. Jancowitz could see that although they were all friends in the bush, here in civilization friendship was impossible.

  Jancowitz ran up to the projector and jerked the cord of the small gasoline generator. The cough of the engine broke the silence. Marines of both colors looked to see its cause, to see if an officer had arrived, to see if there was some way out of the impending violence. Jancowitz turned on the camera and a brilliant white square appeared on the canvas screen. Then he calmly walked in front of the stream of white light and formed a shadow picture of a bird. A couple of people laughed nervously.

  “All right, Janc,” someone called.

  “Is that all you can make is birds?”

  “Fuck, no,” he answered. He immediately began talking. “I got this girl down in Bangclap. Holy fuck you never seen a girl like this one.” The shadows suddenly became two legs, spread wide apart. “Now I been in the Nam eighteen months and twenty-seven days.” An erect penis, quivering, replaced the legs. “Of course I just got back from thirty days in Bangclap, you sorry motherfuckers.” The penis went limp and there was laughter. “But then this girl.” The legs reappeared and the penis began to slowly rise, fall, then rise again, egged on by the cheers of the Marines. “I’d lay forty miles of wire through the Au Shau Valley just to hear her piss over the phone.” The penis went erect and cheers reverberated through the group.

  The white kid who’d been trying to take a piss continued on his way with only a dark glance from Henry. Soon other kids stuck their hands into the stream of light, making their own figures on the screen, eliciting raucous and sarcastic commentary accompanied by the sounds of cans of beer being opened. Voices began to rise in a murmur of conversation.

  Jancowitz sat down, still filled with adrenaline, feeling an immense longing for Susi, her clear brown skin and long black hair. Vancouver walked up to him and handed him a beer. “That was close, Janc. We’d been in the shit for sure, ay?” Jacobs also walked up and put his hand on Jancowitz’s shoulder.

  Then the screen went dark.

  A groan arose from the crowd and people turned to look into the darkness behind them. A gunnery sergeant from base services was standing next to the projector with two large canisters of film under his arms.

  “All right, who turned on the fucking generator?” The kids who’d been making shadow pictures sank quietly into the crowd.

  There was silence.

  The man spoke again, long years of authority in his voice. “If I don’t get the wise guy that turned on this fucking generator there ain’t going to be no movie tonight.”

  A murmur of discontent rose in volume. The gunnery sergeant shifted his eyes from side to side, surprised at the rebellion in the air, but even more determined to see his job through. “I don’t care how long it takes, ladies, for one of you to come up here and tell me you started this generator, because I’ve seen this movie before. I’ll give you one more minute, and then I’m leaving.”

  “Oh, fuck,” Jancowitz said quietly. He rose, tired, and faced the man. “I started the fucking generator, Gunny. Movies were supposed to go at 1930 hours, so I thought I’d start them on time.”

  “Come up here, Marine.”

  Jancowitz slowly walked up to the gunnery sergeant. He could smell liquor on the sergeant’s breath. The gunnery sergeant took out a notebook and pen. “I want your name, rank, and unit, Marine. And then I want your ass out of the area. Is that clear?”

  Jancowitz gave him the information he wanted and walked away. Vancouver came to join him, but Janc told him to go back and watch the movie. He felt like being alone.

  As Jancowitz walked down the dark road toward the tents he thought of Susi, feeling that somehow he’d sacrificed her, or some part of her in him. Behind him he heard the movie start. He turned to see, on the screen, an unshaven man wrapped in a Mexican poncho, his arms at his sides near a pair of six-guns, a thin cigarillo clamped tautly in his mouth. The music rose in pitch as the man walked toward the corral fence, where other men were seated, all with weapons ready to use. The screen burst into violence as the man pulled his pistols and shot all the men on the fence. A mocking cheer rose from the Marines. Jancowitz turned around in disgust and continued walking. He’d been right—another fucking cowboy show.

  China, his mouth slightly open in reflection and wonder, watched Jancowitz disappear into the darkness. He realized he’d seen something very brave and wise. “Fucking Janc, man,” he kept saying to himself in his mind. “Fucking Janc.” It occurred to him that he and Janc had been in the bush together ever since he had arrived in the Nam but he’d never really talked to Janc. He suddenly wished Janc were his friend, but he knew it was impossible. He looked over to where Henry was sitting with a group of blacks, basking in their admiration. Henry seemed to grow in stature while China himself got nowhere. China’s face began to burn again at the memory of Henry’s disdain for the weapons, and of how his friends had chuckled. China knew that for now it was Henry’s game and he himself had to play ball. He’d lost way too much ground and didn’t know how he could recover it.

  While Jancowitz was walking away from the movie, Pollini was standing on a crate washing a huge aluminum pot in steaming water. Wick, the Marine from McCarthy’s platoon, was working next to him. Their heads were at the same level, although Wick’s feet were on the ground.

  “Never thought I’d love scrubbing pots,” Wick said.

  “Not me,” Pollini said. “The lieutenant told me I only had to do KP for a month.”

  “Only a month?” Wick shot back. “You get a whole fucking month? McCarthy only gave me a week. I only got two days left and if Alpha ain’t out in the pucker weeds by day after tomorrow, I got to go with them. How come you get a whole month?”

  Pollini shrugged and grinned—his response to any situation he felt he couldn’t handle.

  “I’ll tell you why you get a whole fucking month,” Wick
said, clearly angry at the injustice of the situation. “It’s because they don’t want your ass out there with them, that’s why.”

  “It was my turn,” Pollini said hotly.

  “Fuck. Your turn. Nobody gets KP for a fucking month. Ain’t nobody can kiss enough ass to pull that one off.” Wick started cleaning the huge pot again. “Shortround,” he said, “you got it made. Everyone else begging to get to the rear and you got people trying to get you there. Man, you got it made.”

  Pollini kept grinning. “Yeah. I guess I do,” he said.

  “Why’d you up and join the Marine Corps anyway, Shortround?”

  “My father was a Marine,” Pollini answered proudly. “He fought in Korea.”

  “That explains it.”

  “That explains what?”

  “Why we lost the fucking war in Korea. I bet you’re a chip off the old block, ain’t you?” Wick laughed again, enjoying himself.

  There was no response from Pollini. If Wick had looked, he would have seen that Pollini was gritting his teeth in pain and fighting to hold back tears. In Pollini’s hands was a large steel serving ladle. He whipped it around with both hands, catching Wick across the left cheek and the bone above the left eye. Wick screamed in pain, his hands reaching for his face, and Pollini picked up the pot full of hot water and threw it at him. Then he ran out of the mess tent into the darkness, swinging the heaving ladle at another Marine who was running in.

  Wick was standing up, blood and soapy water running down his face.

  “Jesus Christ,” the Marine said. “What happened to you?”

  “Shortround hit me with a fucking ladle.”

  “Sweet Jesus,” the Marine said, awed. “I’ll get the squid.”

  “I don’t want any goddamned flap over it. I’ll get my own squid to look at it.”

  “If you say so. What the fuck happened?” Other Marines on KP had crowded into the tent where the pots were washed.

  “Nothing,” Wick said angrily. “Just clear the fuck out of here and let me finish the goddamned pots.”

  “Sure.” The others left Wick alone, staring at the overturned pot that lay on the muddy floor. He reached down for it. “Sorry, Shortround,” he said quietly.

  Mellas and Goodwin decided to go to the new officers’ club at Task Force Oscar. They went to get Hawke, but Hawke had just bought a case of beer. They decided to have one warm-up drink together outside Hawke’s tent, avoiding a couple of new officers who had just arrived from Quang Tri.

  An hour later the three of them had not moved. The case was now three-quarters gone. “Can you beat that,” Hawke was saying, staring into his beer.

  “Can you beat what?” Mellas asked. His tongue was beginning to get in the way of his words.

  “I mean can you beat the fucking Three getting a medal for hanging out in a Huey when we got into that shit sandwich by Co Roc?”

  “Fucking insanity.” Mellas spat, and it landed in the half-empty case instead of nearby, where he’d aimed. “I still haven’t gotten any word on Vancouver’s and Conman’s medals.”

  “They’re snuffs. It takes longer.”

  “There it is, Jack,” Goodwin said.

  Hawke opened another can of beer and Mellas watched the foam spill satisfyingly over the sides and onto his hands. “The medal was for rallying a demoralized company and risking his life to coordinate its extraction under fire. Captain Black didn’t get zip for going in and pulling Friedlander’s ass out of the shit.”

  “Shit is right, Jack,” Goodwin said.

  “The war’s run by a bunch of assholes,” Mellas said.

  “How do you know?” Hawke asked.

  “We get fucking killed and they sit in Paris and argue about fucking square tables and round tables.”

  “Those are diplomats, not assholes,” Hawke said.

  Goodwin popped open another can of beer and lay back on the ground. A light mist fell on his face.

  “They’re in charge of the fucking war, aren’t they?” Mellas said.

  “Right, right,” Hawke said, nodding.

  “And the war is so fucked up it has to be run by a bunch of assholes. Right?”

  “That’s fucking right, Jack,” Goodwin said. Hawke agreed.

  “So . . .” Mellas said.

  “So what?” Hawke asked.

  “So . . .” Mellas finished his can of beer. “I can’t fucking remember what I was trying to prove, but the people that run this fucking war are a bunch of assholes.”

  “I’ll drink to that. Goddamned right.” Hawke leaned back, chugging the remainder of his beer.

  “I’ll drink to anything,” Goodwin said fuzzily.

  A silence followed. The damp wind moved gently through the dark, rippling tent walls, causing an occasional light leak to flutter briefly. Mellas let out a long contented burp, his head spinning happily, not really aware of where he was except that he lay in some wet grass in a light drizzle.

  The sustained heavy slapping of an AK-47 on full automatic sent the three of them flat on their stomachs, their beer cans thrown aside. People came piling out of the tents around them, running for the bunkers, some hopping as they struggled into trousers. The AK opened up again and a ricochet spun over the three lieutenants’ heads with an almost lazy hum. Hawke was clutching the case of beer, protecting it from possible damage from the bullets.

  Shouts arose from the battalion area.

  “What do you think?” Mellas asked, his head spinning. Hawke shrugged and popped open three more cans of beer. “If it’s fucking sappers, they’re after the fucking helicopters. And I ain’t a fucking helicopter. But I don’t ever remember sappers doing one-man attacks.”

  The three of them sat up, watching the confusion. Blakely went sprinting across to the COC bunker, head bent close to the ground, shouting directions to people. He disappeared into the bunker.

  “Hey, Jayhawk,” Goodwin said.

  “Uh?”

  “What kind of medal you think the Six and Three will get for this one?”

  “Navy Cross,” Hawke said, “or possibly higher.” Hawke raised his hand to his lips and gave a jeering raspberry of a bugle call.

  A small figure came creeping up behind the BOQ tent. They all froze, realizing they were without rifles; the bravado of the beer was gone. The man, his back to them, was creeping up on the tent.

  Goodwin moved very slowly, motioning to Hawke and Mellas, indicating that they should roll in his direction. He pointed into some high grass behind him.

  The figure continued to creep along the back of the tent. “Hey, Lieutenant Hawke,” the figure whispered to the tent. “Hey Lieutenant Jayhawk, it’s Pollini, sir.”

  “Shit, Jack,” Goodwin moaned.

  “Shortround, you fucking numby,” Hawke hissed. “Get over here.”

  Pollini turned around. “What are you guys doing in the bushes?” he asked loudly. He groped his way toward them. He was carrying the AK- 47 Vancouver had brought back from Mellas’s aborted reconnaissance.

  “Over here, Pollini,” Mellas whispered fiercely. “Where the hell do you think you are, Central fucking Park? Get your ass down before someone sees you.”

  “Oh, Lieutenant Mellas, sir,” he said aloud. He walked over and sat down. Hawke grabbed the AK-47 from Pollini, who smelled like a grape factory on strike in a heat wave. His eyes were clouded over and a little drool was forming at the side of his mouth.

  Mellas was furious with him. “This stunt could land you in the brig for months. What do you think you’re doing?”

  Pollini scratched his head and then said brightly. “Just shooting up the place.”

  “Why, Pollini?” Hawke asked.

  “Wasn’t that right?” he answered. “Isn’t that what a shit bird does?” He stood up, weaving badly. “Oh, here, sirs.” He dug into his pockets. Out came a loaded magazine. “Here’s what makes the little fucker go bang.” He started laughing.

  Goodwin pulled him to the ground.

  Pollini suddenly broke into sobs, the start of a crying jag. He curled up in a ball, sobbing, “I don’t want to be a shit bird. I wanted to be a good Marine. I want my father to be proud of me.”


  “Who said you were a shit bird?” Mellas asked, feeling suddenly awkward about all the times he’d poked fun at Pollini. “Hey, you can’t cry like that,” he said softly. “Hey, Pollini, don’t cry.”

  Through the sobs came the story.

  Mellas had a hand on Pollini’s back. He didn’t know what to do. He turned to Hawke. “But why would he get so upset? To go after a guy with a fucking soup ladle?”

  “His father was killed in Korea.”

  Mellas moaned. “Isn’t the shit of this war enough? We still have to deal with shit from Korea?” He shook his head slowly. Did it have to go on and on and on?

  Pollini eventually fell into a stupefied sleep. The three lieutenants finished the case of beer, watching the battalion area return to normal. Long after it was quiet, Goodwin threw Pollini over his shoulder, Mellas took the rifle, and together they walked toward the landing zone and put Pollini to bed.

  The next day Mellas took him off KP.

  The same day, the Bald Eagle was launched into combat. But not without complications.

  The battalion surgeon, Lieutenant Maurice Witherspoon Selby, USN, was sick and tired of the mud, the lack of ice, the unsanitary conditions, and the monotonous round of malaria, dysentery, ringworm, infected leech bites, jungle rot, crotch rot, sore backs, sore legs, and sore heads. He was particularly tired of PFC Mallory’s sore head. Mallory had just returned from an examination by the lone psychiatrist at Fifth Med in Quang Tri with a note saying he had a passive-aggressive personality and he’d have to learn to live with his headaches. He also had a note from the Fifth Med dentist, who had put on temporary caps and said that Mallory was fit for duty but should see about getting a bridge when he got back to the States.

  “Look, I’m busy,” Selby said to Hospitalman First Class Foster. “Just give him some more Darvon and get him out of the sick bay.”