Matterhorn Page 38

  Blakely began calculating lift capacities and artillery positions. They were too far inland for naval support, even from the New Jersey and its big sixteen-inchers. It would take time to move the artillery to compensate for the inconsistent air support, but they could do it. That meant they had to get Nagoolian to stick while they shifted artillery around—if he could get Mulvaney to go along with it.

  He came back to the present at the COC, aware that Simpson was ready to act, but that was about all. “Sir, before we see Mulvaney, maybe we’d better have a sketch of a plan worked out,” Blakely said. “This could involve a lot more than just the battalion, you know, if your hunches about the gooks prove correct.”

  “Yes, by God, you’re right.”

  The two of them walked out of the COC and over to Simpson’s tent. Simpson reached for a bottle of Wild Turkey and poured himself a shot. “This could develop into something really big,” he said, smiling, trying to hide his nervousness. He got a glass out for Blakely, but Blakely refused. Simpson suddenly felt embarrassed. He hadn’t really been thinking about the booze; it was just a natural thing to offer someone a drink. Now he didn’t know whether or not to drink the shot he’d poured. God, he couldn’t be drinking—not when a company had recently been in contact with the enemy and was maybe about to go into the assault. He put the bottle away, looked at the shot glass sitting on his table, ignored it, and walked over to the map. “We’ll have to move some artillery batteries if we’ve got a sizable force there,” he said, trying to regain his command of the situation. He felt like a fool.

  “Sir,” Blakely said, “what do you think the chances are of Mulvaney letting you commit the battalion to retake Matterhorn?”

  “What do you mean? You mean he might turn us down?”

  “Not if we do it right.” Blakely walked over to Simpson’s map. “Look, sir, Matterhorn is at the ultimate limits of our artillery protection, as you just pointed out, but it’s well within range of the gooks out of Co Roc or anywhere else inside Laos. But we can’t attack their artillery without political OK.”

  “That’s no problem,” Simpson said. “We’ll get it. We’ll be suppressing fire to help one of our units on this side of the border.”

  “It’s not the approval that’s the problem, sir,” Blakely said. “It’s the process. To get approval we’ll have to submit all our reasons why we want it, before we need it.” He paused. “Or we’ll have to have some good reason for needing it when we want it.”

  Simpson reached for the shot glass and tossed down the whiskey. This fucking political bullshit, he thought. Goddamn, did it fuck things up. He wasn’t exactly sure what Blakely had just said, but he was certain he didn’t want to submit a plan to division that involved moving artillery batteries that would be firing into Laos. The recon team was already rescued, and its leader just thought there was a company around. That wasn’t good enough. It would look stupid and it wouldn’t go. Goddamn these fucking politicians. He knew the fucking gooks were right where he’d always figured. Now he couldn’t do anything about it. He slammed the empty shot glass down on the plywood. “Fuck!” he said. “We’ll have to just fly ’em back home, won’t we?” He looked at Blakely but saw no dismay or anger. “Or don’t you think so?” he asked, looking at his operations officer through narrowed eyes.

  “Like I said, sir, a reason for needing it when we want it.”

  “Go on.”

  “Mulvaney’s an old grunt. Nothing but an overweight platoon commander with birds on his shoulders. He’d leap at a chance to get in there and kick ass if he had any excuse at all. But he’s not about to take any major plan in to division. You know the scuttlebutt as well as I do. He’s none too popular up there. On the other hand, our job is to kill gooks. If we let an opportunity like this go by, we could look pretty chickenshit. You’ve got complete tactical control. You don’t need to talk to anyone to do something that doesn’t commit other forces you don’t control or screw up your current mission. Your log shows fifty gooks. You’ve got a fresh company, and you know Fitch is probably overestimating the number anyway. It’s more like twenty-five or thirty. On the record you’ve got a three-to-one superiority, and probably a five-to-one. We’ve got all we need to take them. If we find out there are more and we already have a company in action? Then you’ve got a story you can take to Mulvaney.”

  Simpson was pacing back and forth, nodding nervously as he listened to Blakely. “Yes, goddamn it, I see,” he kept saying.

  “I say we commit Bravo now, a perfect exploitation of the success you had this afternoon. If we’ve got gooks up there, like you’ve been telling everyone, then we’ll find out for sure when Bravo hits Helicopter Hill. If things get too tight, we’ll just walk them back to that LZ Fitch told us about and yank them out.”

  Simpson stopped pacing and looked at the map.

  “If we wait around,” Blakely went on, “we’ll end up watching Nagoolian fade across the border. You’ll never prove your case. Commit Bravo and prove your point. Then Mulvaney’s got to let you commit the rest of the battalion to support them. Once Bravo’s engaged, it’ll be just what Mulvaney needs to get his ass off the dime: a bunch of grunts fighting like hell and a bunch of grunts waiting to wade in and help them. Otherwise he’s liable to back off, worry about patrolling his fucking firebases. He’s still in Korea taking hills. It’s attrition that counts in this war. Turf doesn’t mean jack shit.”

  Simpson felt the nervous chill that men feel when faced with decisions that they know can bring the fulfillment, or the ruin, of their dreams and ambitions. He paced back and forth. He kept looking at the map. He wanted a drink but knew he couldn’t take one in front of Blakely.

  “Sir, the sensor reports confirm what you’ve suspected all along as well. Your case is airtight.”

  “Goddamn it, Blakely, let me think.”

  Blakely kept silent.

  After about three minutes Simpson leaned over, his knuckles on the plywood table, and looked up at Blakely. “All right, by God, we’ll do it.” His eyes were shining with excitement. Then he reached for the glass.

  After making the decision to attack, Blakely and Simpson both grew concerned that sending Bravo in right away might be too hasty. It would require a platoon to move the wounded to a safe LZ. This could entail an assault with only two platoons, which would look bad if it failed. They could, of course, take the risk of guarding the wounded with only a squad, but if the squad was overwhelmed, and they had evidence from Sweet Alice that a company was in the area, that would be even harder to explain. If they tried to medevac the wounded they risked losing a chopper, and that wouldn’t look good either. They both knew that bold moves might have been all right for Stonewall Jackson or George Patton, but this was a different kind of war. They played safe.

  The first frag order told Fitch to send a platoon to the LZ with the wounded. Fitch sent Mellas off with Fracasso, who was jumpy after having gone into a hot zone on his first day of command. Mellas humped along in the rear with Bass, shooting the shit, happy to be back with his old platoon. He watched with satisfaction as Fracasso led the platoon to the LZ, accomplished the medevacs, and guided the platoon back by a different route to link up with the rest of the company, now in position closer to the ridge. There, Fitch had set the company in on a small rise of ground, fifty meters inside the protective cover of the jungle. The jungle edged a broad patch of elephant grass on the valley floor immediately below the approaches to Matterhorn.

  This all took until nightfall, giving the NVA plenty of time to dig in on Helicopter Hill.

  The second frag order came at twilight. Long before Relsnik finished decoding the order it was apparent that an assault was being ordered.

  Goodwin sauntered up to the CP group. He was eating a can of spaghetti and meatballs mixed with a package of Wyler’s lemonade powder. “What’s up, Jack?” he asked Fitch.

  “We’re going to take the hill at first light.”

  “Matterhorn?”

  “No. Helicopter Hill.”

  Goodwin whistled. “Just like in the movies,” he said.

  “Let’s
hope so,” Fitch replied, spreading his map.

  Looking at Matterhorn and Helicopter Hill as an attacker, Mellas wondered how he could have been so frightened when he was defending it. Steep fingers led up to the top, divided by deep, heavily jungled gullies. To stay in contact as they advanced, they would have to move in single file. But to move the entire company single file would take hours, exposing them to mortar attack and a possible flanking movement. To attack from the west, north, or south exposed them to automatic weapons fire from the bunkers on Matterhorn. To attack from the east would mean channeling their attack into a narrow front, perfect for defensive machine-gun fire and mortars. Then there was the support problem. They’d have to rely on air.

  One plan was scratched. A second was proposed, and then a third. It grew darker. They huddled over the map with their red-lens flashlights. Every plan had a flaw. After three hours of debate they finally realized that there was no perfect plan. Somebody was going to get killed.

  Mellas sat down with his head in his hands, rubbing his eyes, wishing fervently that Hawke was still with them. He now regretted telling Blakely that Hawke wanted out of the bush and that the battalion might lose him if Blakely didn’t act fast—this was a big part of the reason why Hawke wasn’t with them. It was all absurd, without reason or meaning. People who didn’t even know each other were going to kill each other over a hill none of them cared about. The wind picked up slightly, bringing the smell of the jungle with it. Mellas shivered. He couldn’t figure out why they didn’t just quit. Yet they wouldn’t.

  They finally decided to move Fracasso’s First Platoon and Kendall’s Third Platoon up a long finger that led south from the main ridgeline, starting just east of Helicopter Hill. When they reached the main east-west ridgeline, First Platoon would attack westward and hit Helicopter Hill from the east. They would be supported by Kendall’s platoon, which would also act as the reserve. Kendall would set up on a little hump just behind First Platoon’s line of departure, from where they could fire over First Platoon’s heads. Goodwin’s Second Platoon would simultaneously move up a narrower finger that paralleled the one the main body would take and was just to the west of it. Instead of joining the main ridgeline, however, the narrower finger led directly into the south side of Helicopter Hill. The Air Force’s defoliation had not been as successful on that finger, so there was good cover almost to the top. Goodwin was to get on line, draping his platoon across the top of the finger and down both sides, if possible without being detected, and attack from the south when Fitch felt the enemy was fully engaged with First Platoon on the east side. In this way Second Platoon would be concealed longer and, once released, would be exposed to fire from Matterhorn itself, which was directly to the finger’s west, for the shortest possible time. Approaching in the dark would eliminate fire on Goodwin’s platoon from Matterhorn before the assault, but only if they weren’t detected. In fact, a large part of the plan depended on Goodwin’s getting into position undetected. When daylight broke and the assault began, Goodwin’s platoon would quickly be mingled with NVA troops on Helicopter Hill, and the NVA on Matterhorn would probably have to hold their fire.

  Of course the main issue was the defenders of Helicopter Hill itself. Still, Fitch hoped the dead branches of the defoliated jungle just below the hill might give some concealment and cover if they could attack during the poor light of early morning. That meant everything had to go at dawn, and, he hoped, with the clouds low to the ground. On the other hand, if clouds were close to the ground, there was no hope for air support.

  “Fucking brilliant,” Mellas said. “It took us three fucking hours to figure out we’ll just charge the motherfuckers.” It was almost with relief that he threw himself into planning the mechanics of departure lines, timing, air coordination, and smoke and hand signals.

  They filed out into the blackness of the jungle at 0100, emerging an hour later into the high grass on the valley’s floor. Low clouds, drizzle, and darkness hid Matterhorn and the ridgeline completely. Mellas felt as if his map and the dim red spot of his flashlight were the only reality in a darkness that oppressed not only sight but the mind as well.

  They reached the point where Goodwin’s platoon was to veer off to the west to begin moving up its assigned finger. Everyone quietly dropped his pack. This was so everyone could save energy on the climb, free themselves for instant and fast movement when the action started, and avoid unnecessary noise. They took only water—canteens topped to prevent the sound of water sloshing—and two cans of food, carefully wrapped in socks to avoid the sound of cans clinking together. Ammunition was carefully placed in cloth pockets. Faces were smeared with clay and dirt.

  Even unburdened of their packs, they moved very slowly. The tiniest sounds rang out like bells. Unseen branches slapped at their eyes. The cold fog enveloped them. The kids cursed beneath their breath as they groped for the ground in front of them. They silently cleared limbs from their faces, biting back the need to vent their anger at the pain. They crawled over downed trees, squeezed through thick brambles. Moving quietly in the dark takes a great deal of time. Too much time. Dawn was breaking.

  An explosion ahead of the main body sent everyone down to his stomach. A long wailing scream hung in the air. Samms, directly behind Mellas, rose to his feet and whispered, “Shut the fucker up, somebody. Shut that son of a bitch up.” First and Third Platoon had lost the advantage of surprise.

  The scream stopped abruptly.

  The stillness of the jungle after that anguished sound was like ether-laden cotton, numbing, oppressive, dangerous. Everyone wondered what had happened to cause such pain, and how it had ended.

  It had been ended when Jancowitz shut his eyes and jammed his fist into the hole left by the blown-away lower jaw of the kid who had been on point. The shrapnel from the DH-10 directional mine had taken out his eyes and lower jaw but had left his vocal cords intact. One foot had been ripped off as well.

  Jancowitz pulled his bloody hand from the mess around the kid’s throat. A piece of jawbone with two teeth in it caught on the opal ring Susi had bought for him. Fredrickson rushed up and pinched the spurting carotid artery with one hand while he fumbled to stuff a thick bandage pad against the stump of the lower leg.

  Jancowitz touched Fredrickson on the shoulder and shook it gently. “Let him die, Doc,” he said.

  Fredrickson hesitated, then let go of the artery. The blood oozed out quickly, no longer spurting.

  “Who was it?” Fredrickson asked quietly, blood smeared on his face. The face before him was unrecognizable.

  “Broyer.”

  Fracasso, who had been anxiously watching Fredrickson’s efforts, backed away involuntarily, bumping into Hamilton. “Excuse me,” Fracasso mumbled.

  They wrapped Broyer’s body in his poncho and put his black plastic glasses in the pocket of his utility jacket. They then rolled the poncho’s edges for hand grips. Fredrickson put the medevac number in his notebook along with the cause of death.

  Fracasso put Jacobs’s squad on point. They continued moving awkwardly forward to get into position for the assault, knowing there would be no surprise in their favor. Their main hope now shifted to Goodwin, if only he could work his way up undetected.

  The fog swirled around them. The fear of mines dogged every step. Broyer’s body slowed them considerably.

  Big John Six was frantic.

  “It’s damn near oh eight thirty. They were supposed to be at their FLD three hours ago. I knew I should have shit-canned that goddamned Fitch.”

  Hawke listened, knowing that Fitch would have been extremely fortunate to make the FLD—the final line of departure—on time. He was more worried about the weather than Fitch’s failure to kick off on schedule. Air support, holding in tight circles within easy striking distance of the target, had to have clear weather and had to strike before running short of fuel.

  Captain Bainford threw his pencil across the bunker and leaned back in his chair to look at Simpson and Blakely. He’d had four F-4 Phantoms waiting above the clouds, b
ut they had gone bingo fuel and had to return to base. He cursed about Fitch’s inability to stick to a schedule. One of the radio operators picked up Bainford’s pencil.

  “What about the Navy?” Simpson asked.

  Bainford sighed. “I’ll try, sir. But they got to be able to see what they’re bombing, just like everyone else.” Bainford went back to the radio, trying to drum up another flight to wait above the towering clouds that hid the western mountains.

  At that moment Goodwin was quietly spreading his platoon out in a long frontal line, preparing to move from the cover of the trees up the defoliated slopes of Helicopter Hill. He keyed the handset to signal his arrival. Fitch checked his watch. The company had been moving nearly eight hours without rest or food. Fitch could only guess how far away he was from his own final line of departure.

  Robertson emerged from behind a thick cover of bush and caught movement in a tree from the corner of his eye. An NVA soldier was taking a piss, holding on to a branch and making patterns on the ground below him with his urine. Robertson said, “Oh, shit,” and fell backward, firing his M-16. At the same time, a second NVA soldier in the tree let loose with a long burst from his AK-47. The one who had been taking a piss jumped to the ground, running hard. His friend toppled over backward with Robertson’s bullets running up the inside of his body.