Matterhorn: a novel of the Vietnam War Read online

  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 detour 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 re
flecting 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.

  There were perhaps fifteen minutes of silence. Then, from all around them, tiny muffled clinks came from the jungle. It was the sound of digging.

  Mellas called Goodwin on the radio. “Hey, Bravo Two, you hear people digging? Over.”

  “You ain’t lying, Jack. Over.”

  Fitch’s voice came up on the net. “Bravo Three, this is Bravo Six. How about you? Over.”

  Kendall answered softly. “Yeah. Down on the finger that Two came up the other day. Over.”

  “Shit, Jack,” Goodwin broke in. “We just got our asses surrounded. Over.”

  “You’re a military genius, Scar. Over,” Fitch grumbled.

  “How many Purple Hearts you got, Jack? That’s the sign of a fucking military genius. Over.”

  Kendall shut his eyes and tried to remember every small detail of his wife’s face, her body.

  Mellas started praying silently so Jackson wouldn’t hear him. “Dear God, I know I haven’t prayed except when I’m in trouble, but dear God, get me out of here, please get me out of here.” All the time he was praying, his mind was racing, casting about for an escape route, deciding he’d leave the wounded, leave the platoon, anything, just to reach the protection of the jungle.

  Mellas was hit by the overwhelming, shattering knowledge that it was very likely he was going to die. Here on this filthy piece of earth. Now. Life had barely started, and so terribly and surprisingly soon it would be over.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  In the morning, when the fog turned to dull gray, the Marines began to shift in their holes. Some had laid their ponchos out behind their holes to collect dew. That didn’t work, but they licked the ponchos anyway. A couple of jokes were passed. Mellas scrambled across the top of the hill to Goodwin’s hole. Goodwin was standing upright in it, only his head and shoulders exposed. He wore his belt suspenders and was testing the springs on his magazines. His face was troubled.

  Mellas squatted down next to Goodwin’s hole. “Going after your LP?” he asked softly.

  “Yep.” Goodwin climbed out of his hole and worked the action of his M-16.

  “The gooners can’t be more than a hundred meters from here,” Mellas said.

  “I know, Jack.” Goodwin turned and looked into the fog.

  It was the first time Mellas had seen Goodwin so serious. A sudden rush of feeling swept over him. “Hey,” Mellas said. “Take it easy out there, huh?”

  Goodwin turned and looked at Mellas. “We going to get our asses out of this shit sandwich?”

  Mellas shrugged his shoulders. “All we need is a clear day.”

  They both looked up at the clouds, just visible in the early light. Goodwin looked at Mellas. “I don’t know about you, but I’m fucking thirsty.” He then put two fingers to his lips, gave a shrieking whistle, and shouted out, “Hey, you
gunjy fuckers. Get your asses up here.” He turned to Mellas and grinned. “I asked for volunteers and they all said they’d go. But Roscoe and Estes were both from First Squad, so First Squad will go get them.”

  He hollered out again. “Goddamn it, Robb, get them up here.” He turned back to Mellas. “Knowing how scared they were last night, I figure they couldn’t have gone more than thirty or forty meters outside the lines.” The squad moved silently and slowly up to Goodwin’s hole.

  China was sliding the bolt on his M-60 slowly back and forth. Part of him was crying out about how stupid it was to risk his life going to retrieve a couple of dead chucks, but another part of him was making sure the machine gun worked perfectly. He looked toward the top of the hill and saw the religious nut, Cortell, sitting by the dead bodies. The fool just couldn’t see that he’d adopted the white man’s religion. But there was something about Cortell that China envied—Cortell was sure where Parker had gone. China slammed home the bolt and looked at Goodwin. Jesus, the white cracker moonshine hillbilly son of a bitch took this Semper Fi shit seriously. Here he was about to get his ass shot off doing Semper Fi bullshit while Henry was back at VCB doing business. The image of Parker trying to hold back his fear swam into China’s consciousness. He saw Vancouver heading off in the night to work his way down to the river, and Doc Fredrickson wiping Parker down to keep him cool.