Matterhorn Page 43

  “How’re you doing?” Fitch asked.

  “OK, Skipper.”

  “The platoon?”

  “A few more shrapnel wounds, nothing serious. They’re tired. Real thirsty. We haven’t slept in two nights.”

  “No one else has either,” Fitch said, sighing.

  “I didn’t mean it that way, Skipper,” Kendall said.

  “Sure, I know.” Fitch smiled. “Hey, I really know. Don’t worry about it.”

  They were both silent. They could hear one of the listening posts checking out the radio before leaving the lines. “Bravo One, Bravo One, this is Milford. Comm check. Over.” Since Milford was a town in Connecticut, the speaker was one of First Platoon’s LPs.

  “I got you Loco Cocoa, Milford.” This was Jackson’s voice, saying he could hear the transmission loud and clear. “Hey, the actual says he wants to talk to you before you head out. Over.”

  “Roger One. He coming down here? Over.”

  “Wait one.” There was a pause. “That’s affirmed. He says he’ll be there in zero three. Over.”

  “Milford out,” the voice acknowledged.

  Fitch chuckled. Kendall knew that Fitch was trying to raise his spirits. “Mellas thought he wanted to be the Five,” Fitch said, “but I think he’s much happier as Bravo One Actual. He’d rather be checking out his LP than up here at the actuals meeting.”

  Kendall merely nodded. His world was in his memory. Bass waving his ornately carved stick, shouting, trying to organize the top of the hill, doing Kendall’s job. Fracasso’s body being tossed onto the helicopter. The quiet condemnation of his platoon as he led them back to Helicopter Hill.

  The awkward silence was broken when Goodwin crawled in through the doorway.

  “It’s colder than a well-digger’s ass in January,” he said. “Why I left my fucking pack behind I’ll never fucking know. Some dumb-assed idea from some fucked-up officer.”

  “Hey, Scar,” Pallack said. “You get your third Purple Heart today?”

  “You ain’t shitting, Jack.” Scar crawled over to Pallack and pulled down his filthy collar. “Look at that. A wound, right? A fucking shrapnel wound, right in the neck. I got the squid writing me up right now. That’s it, you sorry motherfuckers.” He paused for effect. “Okinawa.”

  “I can’t see no fucking wound, Scar,” Pallack said.

  “That’s because it’s fucking dark in here, Jack.”

  “You really going to take a third Heart for that, Scar?” Relsnik asked. “And go back to Okinawa?”

  “You’re fuckin’ A right. You can’t have no nervous wreck leading the troops.”

  “How’s the platoon?” Fitch broke in finally.

  “Shit, Jack. How do you think?”

  Fitch didn’t answer.

  “They’re all right,” Goodwin finally said. “We’re going to freeze our fucking nuts off tonight, though.”

  “You just hope that’s all that happens.” Fitch turned to Pallack. “See if Mellas is on his way up here yet.”

  Sheller crawled in, and they went back to bantering about Scar’s Purple Hearts until Mellas crawled through the narrow trench that led into the bunker.

  It felt warm and very secure compared with once again sitting down on the lines with the platoon.

  “Any word on relief?” Mellas asked before he had even settled into position. He pulled his muddy boots and legs up underneath him and pushed his back against the musty earth of the bunker.

  “Alpha and Charlie were supposed to be dropped into the valley this afternoon,” Fitch said. “But the weather fucked it up. Maybe tomorrow morning. They say they’re doing everything they can. Meanwhile, we just have to hold the hill. They weren’t too happy about us abandoning Matterhorn.”

  “I didn’t see any of them up there,” Mellas said through clenched teeth.

  “No one’s blaming us,” Fitch said quickly. “At least not over the radio. I told them we didn’t have enough men to hold Matterhorn and we had the stretcher cases to protect here and a smaller perimeter.”

  “So what’s he doing about it, Jack?” Goodwin asked. “If the fucking fog don’t lift we’ll be out of Hotel Twenty tomorrow night.”

  “Hotel Twenty?” Fitch asked. “Get the fuck back. Where’d you pick that up?”

  “Ain’t you been to fucking school, Jack? H two O. That’s water. You remember the stuff. You used to drink it back in the world. Turn a little fucking handle in the kitchen and it was sort of clear and had funny bubbles in it.”

  “And you didn’t have to fuck it up with halazone,” Mellas said.

  “Naw, d’fucking government fucked it up for you at d’plant,” Pallack put in.

  They laughed for a moment and then became quiet. Sheller broke the silence. “I’ve got to have water for the wounded in a safe place where I can get to it. It helps keep people from going into shock.”

  They agreed on a plan for collecting and redistributing the water, saving a portion for the wounded.

  Very faintly through the dirt they heard a cry of “Tubing!” No one spoke. A few seconds later two dull thumps reached them through the earth.

  “Must have overshot,” Kendall said.

  “No shit,” Scar answered.

  Fitch quickly broke in. “We can thank the fog for one small huss. The gooks have got to hump their mortar rounds just like us. They won’t be shooting up too many without being able to adjust.”

  “Unless there’s a lot more people packing mortar rounds than we think,” Mellas said darkly. “Listen. My fucking head seems to do numbers all day long, so I’ve been counting mortar rounds. We seem to get three at a time from three different positions. That’s nine at a crack. Today they were pumping them in about every ten to fifteen minutes. That’s about forty an hour. So twelve hours of shelling today—that’s four hundred eighty rounds. Add about forty or fifty from when they were hitting Matterhorn and you’re up over five hundred. That’s two hundred fifty men at two apiece, and at three each it’s one hundred sixty-six and two-thirds.”

  “Hey, Jack, we got some of the two-thirds thrown over the side of the fucking hill.” Goodwin laughed, as did the others.

  Mellas continued, focused on the math. “But that’s just sixty-ones. They’ve been hitting us with eighty-twos and I think some of the big shit on Matterhorn the other day could have been from a hundred-twenty. So eighty-twos weigh, what, six or seven pounds a round? The fucking hundred-twenties must weigh around thirty. So it could be a lot more than two hundred fifty guys. And that’s only counting what they’ve shot so far.” He scanned each face in the group. “So either we’ve got a company that’s all out of mortar rounds and packing their fucking bags tonight”—he paused—“or we’ve got real trouble.”

  “You know, Mellas,” Fitch said mockingly, “you should have been in intelligence instead of on this fucking hill with us dumb grunts.”

  “Military intelligence is a contradiction in terms,” Mellas said.

  “Nice fucking news, sir,” Pallack said. “Why don’t you take your adding machine and go home?”

  Contrary to Mellas’s opinion about the effectiveness of military intelligence, G2, division intelligence, had over the past several days come to the same conclusion he had. Through analyzing information from the pockets of dead NVA soldiers, sightings by air observers who had managed to get between the clouds and the ground, and the reports of reconnaissance teams huddled against the rain on hilltops with Star-lite Scopes, infrared sighters, binoculars, and their own straining ears and eyes, division was pretty sure that an NVA regiment was moving east from Laos to secure the high ground along Mutter’s Ridge north of Route 9. A second regiment was moving parallel to it through the Au Shau Valley to the south. Division assumed that there would be a third regiment moving down the Da Krong Valley between the two others, but so far there had been no sightings.

  By taking Helicopter Hill, Bravo Company had put itself directly in the northern regiment’s line of march. This forced the NVA to either blast Bravo out or isolate it like a tumor and move around it, hammering it with mortars and perhaps artillery. The only alternative was to take an extremely slow and difficult deto
ur through the jungle-choked valleys beneath the ridgeline. So G2 was betting that the NVA would attack Bravo—but not until it could mass sufficient forces.

  This was going to be a race. Division assumed that the NVA would assume that the Marines knew what was happening. The Marines considered the NVA to be professionals and gave them due respect. It was no accident that they had decided to move in when the Marine artillery was pulled back for the Cam Lo operation. The high card in the Marines’ hand, however, was that the NVA probably didn’t know how quickly the Marines could put it all back into place if they got a break in the weather. The NVA, moving within the confines of the ridgeline, would be safe as long as the clouds held. Since the North Vietnamese moved on foot, the weather didn’t affect them as much as it did the Marines, and they would be in a position to overrun Bravo in the next day or so. If the clouds lifted, the superior mobility of the Marines would enable them to intercept the NVA, fix them in place, and inflict considerable damage. The longer Bravo held out, the better the chance of a good regiment-size battle, doing considerable damage to the NVA. At worst, the Marines risked losing a company. No one liked that, of course, but a company of Marines with their backs against the wall wouldn’t be any picnic even for a far larger NVA unit. Even in the worst-case scenario, the NVA would pay a very heavy price. And in this war, attrition was what was important.

  The intelligence staff’s assessment was professionally and capably relayed up to General Neitzel and down to the regiments.

  Mulvaney had been keeping a close eye on First Battalion ever since the Bald Eagle was launched. But he also had two other rifle battalions to worry about, and even though G2’s assessment made sense, he wasn’t about to start shifting bodies all over hell and creation until he knew he really had something. He started as many balls rolling as he reasonably could, knowing he had a hundred kids with their asses hanging out. But they were Marines. That’s what they were there for. He knew G2 was right. If the NVA stopped to take out Bravo Company, a tempting target for any commander, they’d pay dearly. If he couldn’t get his other battalions into position in time, Bravo would also pay. What bothered Mulvaney was that he knew the NVA felt they were buying something worth the price: their country.

  He could no longer say the same for the Marines. That kind of clarity was a thing of the past. What was the military objective, anyway? If they were here to fight communists, why in hell wasn’t Hanoi the objective? They could easily put the communist leaders out of their misery and end all this crap. Or just throw a bunch of Army divisions across the northern and eastern borders in defensive positions, which would multiply their force capabilities at least threefold. They’d keep the NVA out of the country with about one-tenth of the casualties. The South Vietnamese could sort out the Vietcong. Hell, since Tet last year, the Vietcong were already sorted out. The Marines seemed to be killing people with no objective beyond the killing itself. That left a hollow feeling in Mulvaney’s gut. He tried to ignore it by doing his job, which was killing people.

  Major Blakely felt the same as Mulvaney, but with two notable differences: Blakely was more excited, because he didn’t have two other battalions to worry about; and this was his first war, not his third. Also, Blakely never reflected on what was being purchased or why it was being purchased. Blakely was a problem solver.

  He knew Bravo was at risk. He’d put Bravo at risk, and he didn’t particularly like the fact that he had. And although he’d seen dead kids being dragged off the choppers, he’d never actually been there when they’d died. For this reason, he found it hard to respect himself. This was a war for captains and lieutenants, and he was already too old, thirty-two. He didn’t know and felt he would never know, unless he could somehow get involved, if he had what it took to lead a platoon or a company in combat.

  Mellas would probably have said that Blakely didn’t have what it takes, but Mellas would have been wrong. Blakely would have performed a lower-level job just as well as he performed his current job—competently, not perfectly, but well enough to get the work done and stay out of trouble. He’d make the same sorts of small mistakes, but they’d have a smaller effect. Instead of sending a company out without food, he might place a machine gun at a disadvantage. But the Marines under him would make up for mistakes like that. They’d fight well with the imperfect machine-gun layout. The casualties would be slightly higher, with slightly fewer enemy dead, but the statistics of perfection never show up in any reporting system. A victory is reported with the casualties it takes to secure that victory, not the casualties it would have taken if the machine gun had been better placed.

  There was nothing sinister in this. Blakely himself would not be aware that he’d positioned the machine gun poorly. He’d feel bad about his casualties for a while. But reflecting on why or for what wasn’t something Blakely did. Right now the problem before him was to engage the enemy and get the body count as high as possible. He wanted to do a good job, as any decent person would, and now he’d finally figured out a way to do so. He might actually get to use the entire battalion in a battle all at one time, an invaluable experience for a career officer.

  Around 0300 one of Goodwin’s listening posts started keying the handset furiously. Mellas heard Goodwin’s voice come up quickly on the net. “Nancy, this is Scar. Whatja got? Key it once for every gook. Over.”

  The handset went wild. Mellas lost count.

  “Jackson, get down there and get everyone up,” Mellas said. “We got trouble.”

  “Why me?” said Jackson.

  Mellas said, “RHIP, Jackson. Besides, you won’t show up so much in the dark.”

  “You’ll live to regret this, Lieutenant,” Jackson whispered.

  “I hope I fucking do.”

  Jackson slipped off, and soon Mellas heard the urgent whispers start down the line.

  Fitch’s voice came over the air, calling to the listening post. “Nancy, this is Bravo Six. If you think you can make it in, key your handset two times. Over.”

  There was no answer.

  “OK, Nancy,” Fitch continued, “we’ve got everyone alerted. You just get down on the fucking ground and stay there until we say different. Over.”

  Nancy responded by keying the handset two times.

  A tiny dribble of dirt ran down the side of Mellas’s fighting hole, pattering against his damp back. He could see nothing beyond the small mound of earth beside his hole. A quiet wind whispered with the fog through the jungle. The radio blurted out the sounds of other handsets keying furiously. “OK, you other Lima Poppas,” Fitch radioed. “Get your asses back in if you can.”

  Mellas took the radio and crawled down to the lines to alert everyone that the LPs were coming in. Jackson was coming back up. “You do shine in the dark, Lieutenant,” he said, crawling rapidly past.

  Rider and Jermain were on LP. Everyone strained tensely. Then a whisper came: “Honda.” A voice whispered back: “Triumph.” Then there were the sounds of rapid scrambling on the hillside and a slight grunt as someone piled into a fighting hole. Then a second scramble and a second grunt. Safe.

  Mellas had just slid back into his own hole when the night was hacked open by a roar of small arms fire in the jungle below them. The fog lit up with the barrel blasts.

  “Bravo Two,” the radio crackled, “this is Nancy. They got us spotted. We’re coming in.”

  The fierce sound of the NVA’s 7.62-millimeter weapons punctuated the lighter but more rapid firing of the Marines’ M-16s.

  “Nancy, goddamn it, don’t get up and run.” Goodwin was pleading with his LP not to break cover. “You’ll get shot. Keep your cool, Jack. We’ll get your ass out of it. Over.”

  “We’re coming in, Scar, goddamn it,” the radio answered. Then the firing stopped.

  The handset keyed on and a voice different from the previous one came over the hook. It was a voice unused to the radio—a frightened, lonely voice.

  “Uh, Lieutenant Goodwin, sir,” the voice whispered, “can you hear me?” There was the brief static of the transmission key being let up.

  “
Shit, Jack. Lemon and Coke. Over.”

  The voice came back. “Roscoe’s dead, I think.” There was a long pause of blank transmission as the kid held the key down, not knowing that he was keeping Goodwin from answering. “Oh, Jesus, get me out of here, Lieutenant.” He let up the key.

  “Just start crawling backward, OK? Just keep low and start crawling backward. Over.”

  “But the radio’s on Roscoe’s back.”

  “Leave the fucking radio. Screw up the channel knobs. Crawl into the fucking weeds, dig in, and wait there. We’ll get to you. Don’t worry. Over.”

  There was a long wait. Then the handset keyed again. “I can’t get the fucking radio off,” the voice whispered, desperate.

  Goodwin’s voice became commanding. “This is an order, Jack. Switch the frequency and leave the fucking thing. They can’t circle around you, because they’d be shooting their own guys, so crawl backward away from them and lay low. Once they get into the shit with us they ain’t going to be looking for no lone Lima Poppa. As soon as it’s light and the attack’s over we’ll come get you. Now move, goddamn it. Over.”

  Again there was no answer. Then the voice whispered, “Lieutenant, please get me out of here. Please, sir.”

  Jackson moaned softly and whispered, “We can’t, you dumb son of a bitch. Just start shagging ass.”

  “Please, Lieutenant Scar, get me out of here,” the voice came again.

  Suddenly three hand grenades exploded in rapid succession, showing faint flashes through the dark jungle.

  “Nancy, Nancy, this is Bravo Two. If you’re OK, key the handset two times. Over.” Goodwin repeated the question three times before he gave up.

  The company waited, but the attack never developed.

  “That LP saved our necks,” Mellas said in the quiet that immediately followed.

  “At least for tonight,” Jackson replied.

  They both knew they lived because two men had died. This was, of course, exactly why companies put out listening posts.