Matterhorn Page 8

“I think it entered your mind.” Bass looked at him, waiting for Mellas’s reply.

  “All right, it did. I don’t want China having any footholds,” he said, almost mumbling the last words.

  Bass looked at him a moment. “I don’t like this fooling around with people because of their color. We could get in deep shit over it.” He looked down at the half-finished letter and sighed, as if wishing himself home. “But maybe you’re right. It ain’t like it used to be, that’s for damned sure. When I signed on in ’sixty-four it was protecting American citizens and property. This shit . . .” He suddenly became aware of Skosh and broke off. “Skosh, get on the hook and see if any Class Six is coming in.”

  “I asked them this morning, Sergeant Bass.”

  “Ask—them—again,” Bass said, enunciating each word very clearly.

  Skosh began raising the CP and Mellas looked at Bass. “You agree on Jackson, then?”

  “Yeah, I agree. But no fucking buddy-buddy.”

  Mellas laughed, more out of relief than humor. “OK. No buddy-buddy.”

  Mellas slipped back outside into the drizzle. The faint sounds of James Brown doing “Say It Loud” floated from the lines. He saw Hawke coming down the hill with a cigar in his mouth. Hawke’s red mustache looked incongruous beneath his wet black hair. Mellas waited for him.

  “Whatever you were about to do,” Hawke said, “don’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Now that the arty battery’s here, the battalion CP group won’t be far behind. Fitch wants your lines cleaned up.”

  Mellas flared. “My lines are cleaner than anybody else’s. What am I supposed to do, put out a goddamned red carpet so the colonel can promenade on it?”

  “Hey, cool it down.” Hawke looked sideways at Mellas. “You really do have a temper, don’t you?”

  “I’m just tired. I usually don’t.”

  “You mean you don’t usually show it. All Fitch wants is the fucking gumball wrappers and Kool-Aid packages put in one spot so it doesn’t look like a garbage dump down here. And nobody said anything about you being better or worse than anyone else.” Hawke took a long pull on his cigar. “In fact, if you must know, your lines are probably cleaner than the other platoons’.” Mellas smiled. “But then you’ve got Sergeant Bass.”

  Mellas laughed. “Get back, Hawke. Is that what you came to tell me?”

  “Well, not all of it.” Hawke closed one eye and looked sideways at Mellas, tasting the tobacco on his lips. “I thought you might want to hear how Fisher came out. Or have you been too busy?”

  “How is he?” Mellas said enthusiastically, but he felt his face reddening. He hadn’t thought about Fisher in any way except as leaving a hole to fill.

  “They sent him to Japan for more surgery.”

  “What’s the prognosis?”

  “Don’t know. Worst case, I guess, is he’ll never get it up again.”

  “It’s the shits,” Mellas said. He looked away from Hawke down toward Second Squad’s fighting holes. “I still have to replace him.” He said it to himself as much as to Hawke.

  Hawke surveyed Mellas coolly. “If you don’t relax, Mellas, you’ll never learn to love it out here.”

  The joke broke Mellas’s mood, and he laughed.

  “Who you got in mind?” Hawke asked, blowing a careful cloud of smoke.

  “Jackson.” Mellas looked for reaction. None came. “He’s got some brains.”

  “Might be all right, and then again it might not be.”

  “Why not?”

  “He’s a brother. He’s fucking black, Mellas.”

  “So.”

  “All the brothers in Third Squad look up to him, right?” Hawke said.

  “Yeah, that’s why I picked him.”

  “So he sells out to the man and what do all his brothers think of him then?”

  “Shit.” Mellas said flatly. “Shit.” He felt hemmed in by a force like a magnetic field. He couldn’t see it, but he could feel it tightening.

  A voice shouted down from the CP. “Hey, Five, we got a bird coming up the valley.”

  Hawke ran up the hill, leaving Mellas alone.

  When Vancouver heard the chopper coming up the valley, he stuck the machete in the earth and left it quivering as he ran up the hill.

  “Vancouver, where the fuck you going?” Conman yelled. He was pulling on the end of a roll of razor wire.

  “My fucking gook sword’s come in,” Vancouver shouted, still running. “I know it has.”

  “What the fuck good is it to be a squad leader with someone like that around?” Conman muttered under his breath. He couldn’t follow Vancouver, because he was supplying the tension for Mole—a black machine gunner from Conman’s squad—to stake in the razor wire. “Hurry the fuck up, Mole, goddamn it. I got better things to do than get the fuck cut out of me by this shit.” The wire had indeed cut through several of the scabs that formed over the jungle rot on Conman’s hands, and the blood and pus were slowly oozing over the wire, making it difficult to hold.

  Mole gave Conman the finger and continued staking in the wire as methodically as he cleaned his machine gun. “I ain’t gonna fuck up this wire job ’cause you want to go read you fucking mail.” Mole looked up the hill at the chopper that was now settling down on the LZ, the roar of its turbines nearly drowning out his last words. The chopper touched earth, bouncing slightly on its big wheels. A few new kids ran out carrying the red mailbags.

  Vancouver reached the LZ just as the chopper began to shudder and whine for its takeoff. He towered over a new kid and reached for the bag the kid carried. “This First Platoon’s mail?” he shouted. The sound was lost in the chopper’s takeoff and the mad whirl of air. The kid clutched at the bag. He’d been told in no uncertain terms its value and what would happen to him if he failed to deliver it.

  “Give me that fucking thing,” Vancouver shouted. He grabbed the bag and started opening its drawstrings.

  “Vancouver, what the fuck are you doing?”

  Vancouver looked over his shoulder and saw Staff Sergeant Cassidy’s red face. He stood up and looked down at him. “Oh, hi, Gunny. I’m looking for my gook sword. I ordered the fucking thing two months ago.” The new kid slowly took back the mailbag, his glance vacillating between Vancouver and Cassidy.

  “Vancouver,” Cassidy said in mock weariness, “go back down to the lines and let me take care of the mail, OK? Because if you don’t, and if I ever see that fucking sword of yours, I’ll break it over your fucking head. Is that clear?”

  “You wouldn’t really do that, would you, Gunny?” Vancouver asked.

  “Try me.”

  Vancouver turned and headed down the hill.

  Cassidy watched him go with obvious affection. He had intercepted the sword with its ornate scabbard and complicated straps three weeks earlier and hidden it in Bravo Company’s supply tent in order to keep Vancouver from getting killed trying to use it. He turned to face the five new kids who had come in on the chopper. “What the fuck you staring at?” Cassidy asked, his smile suddenly gone. “Do I look pretty to you?”

  While most of the platoon was reading the mail for the third time, Mellas was preparing supper. He told himself it would be a while before his mail caught up with him. He was adding Tabasco sauce, grape jam, and powdered lemon tea to his can of spaghetti and meatballs when he became aware of Doc Fredrickson watching him.

  “Can I talk to you a minute, Lieutenant?” Fredrickson asked.

  “Sure. Beats eating.”

  “It’s about Mallory, sir.”

  “Ahh, fuck. I thought you and Bass took care of that.”

  “He’s still complaining about headaches,” Fredrickson said. “I give him all the Darvon he can handle and he keeps coming back for more.”

  “Is that shit addictive?” Mellas asked.

  “I don’t know, sir. It’s just what they give us. I think it’s fucking useless.” Fredrickson leaned over and looked into the can of spaghetti. “Maybe you ought to put some of that fake coffee cream stuff in it. It’d smooth it out.”

  “You stick to medicine.”

  “Anyway, I ain’t sure Mallory even has headaches. Bu
t I’ve been watching him close, and on patrol yesterday he looked like he was hurting.”

  “Him and everyone else. I’ve got headaches too.”

  “Maybe you ought to talk to him. I talked to the senior squid, and he says sometimes people get psychosomatic stuff and it really does hurt them even if it’s all in their heads anyway. It’s also possible that there’s really something wrong with him.”

  “What—you want me to decide?”

  “You’re the platoon commander. If you think he’s telling the truth, maybe we ought to send him back to VCB to see a doctor. Just in case something really is wrong with him.”

  “OK.”

  “He’s over in my hooch now.”

  Mellas looked at Fredrickson out of the corner of his eye. “All right.”

  Fredrickson left and returned with Mallory, a small-boned kid with narrow hips, a thin graceful neck, and a rather large head.

  “Hi, Mallory,” Mellas said, trying to be friendly. “Doc says you’re still having trouble with headaches.”

  “My fucking head hurts,” Mallory said. “I eat all that Darvon and it don’t do shit.”

  “How long you had the headaches?”

  “Ever since they humped us without water on the DMZ operation. I think I got heat-stoked or something.” Mallory looked quickly over at Fredrickson to see how the corpsman was reacting. Fredrickson had his poker face on.

  Mellas took a spoonful of spaghetti and chewed it while he thought. “Well, shit, Mallory, I don’t know what it is. Doc’s stumped. You have them all the time?”

  “I tell you my fucking head hurts,” Mallory whined.

  “I believe you, Mallory. It’s just that there’s not much we can do about it. I suppose we could send you back to VCB for a checkup.” Mellas watched for a reaction, but Mallory only bent his head over his knees, holding it in his hands.

  “My fucking head hurts.”

  Mellas looked at Fredrickson, who shrugged his shoulders. “Tell you what, Mallory,” Mellas said. “I’ll see if we can’t get you back to VCB for a couple of days to see the doctor. Right now you’ll just have to bear with it for a while, OK?”

  Mallory moaned. “I can’t stand it. It fucking hurts all the time.”

  Mellas hesitated, then sighed. “I’ll go up and talk with the senior squid,” he said.

  “I already seen him. He didn’t do nothing.”

  “Well, maybe we can get you out. Just hang in there for a while.”

  “OK, sir.” Mallory stood up and dragged himself down the hill toward the lines.

  Fredrickson asked, “What do you think, sir?”

  “I don’t know. I think he probably has headaches. The question is, how bad.” Mellas poked at the remains of the spaghetti. “I’d hate to have it be some sort of brain problem and not get it checked out. We could get in deep shit.”

  Up at Sheller’s hooch, Mellas met with some resistance—not from Sheller, but from Hawke and Cassidy, who were playing pinochle with him.

  “He’s a fucking malingerer,” Cassidy growled.

  “How do you know that?” Mellas asked.

  “I can smell ’em. Half the Marines on this hill have headaches and gut aches and all sorts of fucking aches, but they don’t keep asking to go back to VCB.”

  “Suppose he has a tumor or something. You want to risk that?”

  “All he needs is a kick in the ass.”

  “I think Cassidy’s right,” Hawke said. “Mallory tried to get out of the DMZ op, but we never let him. He was fine after that. No complaints until now. Everyone knows we got to go down into the valley as soon as Charlie and Alpha Company are pulled out. So all of a sudden, up come the headaches.”

  “Maybe it’s psychosomatic,” Mellas said. “I mean, maybe it’s true he’s scared. Maybe that’s what gives him headaches.”

  Cassidy folded his cards in his hands. “What the fuck’s psychosomatic except another fancy word for someone who doesn’t want to do something that’s hard and scary? Nerves don’t break down—they give up. I’ve got a psychosomatic pain in the ass with all these fucking yardbirds. Go watch the sick bay the day before we shove off on an operation. Every nigger in the battalion’s waiting in line. Mallory ain’t no different.”

  Mellas’s jaw set at the remark, but he said nothing.

  “They don’t all go, Gunny,” Hawke said. “In fact, hardly any of them. But I’ll grant you that Mallory probably would.”

  Cassidy sighed. “It’s your fucking platoon, Lieutenant,” he said to Mellas.

  “And I’ll send him to VCB.”

  “Fine, sir. I’ll let you know when the next bird comes in. Get his ass up to the LZ. Don’t be too surprised if he doesn’t come back until after we go into the valley.”

  A chopper bringing in water for the artillery battery came in the next morning, and Mallory flew to Vandegrift Combat Base, VCB. He returned three days later, along with a note to the senior squid from the battalion’s navy surgeon, Lieutenant Selby. “I see nothing wrong with this Marine that would keep him from performing his normal duties.” Sheller walked it down to Mellas and Fredrickson, and Mellas called Mallory up and handed it to him.

  “Sheeit,” Mallory said after reading it. “Sheeit. I tell you my fucking head aches.” He avoided looking at Mellas.

  Mellas wanted to ask why one visit to the battalion aid station had taken three days. But he let it go, since Jancowitz had already dressed Mallory down in front of the whole squad and put him on listening post two nights to make up for the two days he’d probably fucked off back in the rear smoking dope. “You’ll just have to live with it, Mallory,” Mellas replied. “It’s probably psychosomatic. We all get afraid of things and sometimes the body tries to keep us from doing them. You’ll just have to get over it.”

  “You’re saying it’s in my fucking head?” Mallory whined. His tone of voice was an accusation that lumped Mellas with all the others who wouldn’t help. “I tell you it’s real, man. It fucking hurts me so I can’t hardly think.”

  “Mallory, it’s psychosomatic. You’ll just have to get used to it. We can’t do anything for you. We tried.”

  “Sheeit.” Mallory turned away, still holding the doctor’s note in his thin hand.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The battalion’s coming in tomorrow,” Fitch said tightly. “Let’s get ’em cleaned up.” A loud salvo from the arty battery exploded behind them, making everyone flinch. “That means haircuts, shaves, the works. No mustaches unless they’re corporals or higher. Big John Six’s orders.”

  Mellas wearily walked back to the platoon. Hamilton saw him coming and shouted down to the holes below for the squad leaders. Another salvo rocked the hill, obliterating all other sounds. He reached his hooch and sat down, staring blankly into the fog. Eventually the three squad leaders arrived. Jancowitz, filthy, was still in his gear from a patrol. On his face, sweat mixed with fine drops of precipitation. Connolly squatted down with his hands resting across his knees, Vietnamese style. Jacobs, still nervous about his job as temporary squad leader, already had a green notebook and a ballpoint pen ready. The next to arrive was Bass, breathing hard from chugging up the slope. He squatted on the ground, looking over toward Doc Fredrickson’s hooch, annoyed because Fredrickson hadn’t made it to the meeting on time. “He’s up at the LZ with Senior Squid,” Mellas said. “They’re counting pills for a reorder when the battalion gets here.”

  “Battalion?” Bass asked, cocking his right eye.

  “Tomorrow. The birds are already fragged. That means we’ve got to get everyone squared away.”

  Jancowitz and Connolly nodded, having been through it before.

  Jacobs was scratching away in his notebook. “H-h-haircuts, Lieutenant?” he asked.

  “Yes, Jake,” Mellas said, with just a tinge of sarcasm.

  “With what? Our fucking K-bars?” Bass asked.

  Jancowitz giggled. “I thought you fucking lifers just grew short hair.”

  “You keep mouthing off,” Bass replied, “and I’ll cut yours with a goddamn E-tool and then shove it so far up your butt you’ll be eating pussy with the blade.”

  “I don’t see why in hell no
t,” Jancowitz replied, undaunted. “We manage to do everything else with our E-tools.”

  “Rumor has it,” Mellas broke in, “that Cassidy managed to get some clippers from the arty people that’ll get passed around, and they’ve got plenty of water, too. So everyone shaves. And about the shaving—no stashes unless you’re E-5 or above.”

  “Bullshit, sir!” Jancowitz looked betrayed. “I’m a fucking squad leader and squad leaders can have stashes. It’s always been that way.” He’d written to Susi about it.

  “Janc, the word is E-5 and above.”

  “No one can see yours now,” Bass said. “Why do you care?”

  “I promise you I won’t go anywhere near the LZ. No one’ll see me.” He looked at Bass and Mellas. Neither one could help him.

  “Cut off the stashes and get anyone who needs a haircut a haircut,” Mellas said quickly, giving no chance for rebuttal. “That’s that. Who’s got the patrols tomorrow?” Connolly and Jacobs each raised a finger. “OK, I’ll be going with Conman. Bass will be going with Jacobs.” Mellas outlined the patrol routes and together they targeted preparation fires by the artillery and mortars. Mellas was good with maps, he knew it, and it didn’t go unnoticed by the platoon—their lives depended on it. Fredrickson showed up and handed out the daily dose of malaria tablets, and they split up.

  Mellas was eating some glutinous C-ration beef and potatoes mixed with applesauce and some of Bass’s carefully rationed Worcestershire sauce when Jancowitz came trudging back up the hill, this time with Parker behind him. Bass, who was heating water for coffee, looked over at Mellas. “I’ll bet you a can of peaches that Parker doesn’t want his hair cut,” he said.

  “Shit,” Mellas said.

  “RHIP,” Bass said, smiling, with half-closed eyes.

  The two arrivals reached the little level spot that the platoon CP group shared. Mellas swallowed another spoonful before acknowledging their presence.

  “OK, Janc, what’s the problem?”

  “Parker wants to request mast, sir.”

  “How come, Parker?” Mellas asked, looking at him.