Matterhorn: a novel of the Vietnam War Page 9

  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 not,” 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 a
cknowledging their presence.

  “OK, Janc, what’s the problem?”

  “Parker wants to request mast, sir.”

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

  “I ain’t getting no haircuts.”

  “What the fuck did you say?” Bass stood up, jaw thrust out, the tin can of hot water in his hand. “You’re talking to the lieutenant, Parker.” To Mellas, it hardly seemed the time to enforce military etiquette, but he let Bass go on.

  “Sir, I don’t need no haircuts and I want to see the skipper for mast, sir,” Parker repeated.

  Bass sat down. Requesting mast with the skipper was every Marine’s privilege. Mellas looked at Parker’s hair. It was curly, nearly an Afro. There was very little doubt that the battalion CP would find it too long, not just because of the Marine Corps’ preference for extremely short hair, but also because of the political implications. “OK, Janc,” he said, “I’ll take it from here. Thanks.”

  Jancowitz nodded and headed back down the hill, where Hippy, clippers in hand, was sizing up another customer who was sitting on his gun emplacement with a towel around his neck. Mellas motioned toward a piece of broken ammunition pallet. “Sit down, Parker. Let me finish dinner.” Parker sat down, somewhat hesitantly, looking at Bass. Almost everyone was afraid of Bass because of his unpredictable temper. Bass finished his coffee and moved off toward his hooch without saying anything.

  “You know, Parker, that the skipper will have to tell you to get your hair cut.”

  “Why’s that?” he said, looking at the thick mud on his boots.

  “Because it’s too long, Parker. We got the battalion coming in tomorrow and that’s the way it’s got to be.”

  “I requested mast, and I got my right to see the skipper, and you can’t stop me.”

  “Jesus Christ, Parker. I’m not trying to stop you from seeing the skipper. I’m just trying to save you a walk up the hill.”

  “I request mast.”

  “Let’s go, then.” Mellas threw the remaining glob of food into an empty cardboard box whose sides were collapsing from constant exposure to the rain. He turned to Parker for one last try. “Parker, the skipper works under the same rules as everyone else. It’s going to have to get cut.”

  Parker took off his bush cover and grabbed at a few strands of his hair. “It ain’t no longer than Bass’s. He just greases the shit down. His motherfucking hillbilly hair could be five feet long and no one say shit about that.” Something told Mellas that if he were a good officer he’d never let Parker get away with talking that way to him. Still, Parker’s argument was valid, even though a losing one.

  “Let’s go see the skipper,” Mellas said tautly. He turned and continued up the hill, slipping in the mud, aware of Parker watching his clumsy progress.

  Fitch, Hawke, and the two radio operators, Pallack and Relsnik, were jammed together under the ponchos playing jungle bridge. It was their forty-fifth game in a series of 300, officers versus enlisted men. Sergeant Cassidy sat nearby on an ammo box. He was just outside the opening of the hooch carving on the stave Fisher had brought back, indifferent to the rain.

  “What’s the trouble, Lieutenant?” Cassidy asked.

  Fitch looked out of the opening and started to rise.

  “Oh, no, you don’t, Skipper,” Pallack said, turning to Parker. “Hey, Parker, you got to hold on. D’ enlisted are about to take another game off d’ officers.” He turned back to the game and slapped down a card, hard. “You fucking dummies. Hee, hee. Look at dat queen.” Parker’s jaws were working beneath his dark cheeks. Fitch grimaced and threw down a card.

  Parker spoke up. “Sir, I got the right for mast.”

  “You got the privilege, Parker,” Cassidy growled. “You don’t just walk in on the company commander and tell him you want mast.”

  Parker stood his ground. “I got the right for mast.” Cassidy stood up. Hawke quickly threw a card and Pallack swooped up the little pile and then slapped down another, laughing. Hawke looked at Fitch and shrugged. Fitch threw in the rest of his cards, and Pallack and Relsnik shook hands and pulled out their pens and notebooks, both recording the score so there was no chance of error, making cracks about how anyone could be so dumb at playing cards and still manage to become an officer. The card game had eased the tension between Cassidy and Parker by giving Cassidy a chance to look away, which he took.

  Fitch crawled out of the hooch and stood. “OK, Parker. Let’s go inside Hawke’s hooch and talk things out.” Fitch’s manner was easy and direct, and Parker seemed to relax a little. They crawled into Hawke’s hooch.

  Mellas walked back to his own hooch. People were out by the wire setting in trip flares for the night. A late cooking fire was visible down at Conman’s squad, and Mellas shouted for it to be put out. It disappeared. The lines were quiet.

  Mellas started to write a letter in the remaining twilight but was interrupted by Skosh, who’d packed the radio over with him. “It’s the Six,” he said. He squatted down and casually began reading Mellas’s letter, which Mellas snatched away from him.

  Fitch’s voice crackled over the net. “Your character Pappa who was just up here has twenty minutes to get his fucking hair cut. Then I want to see him. You copy?”

  “I copy.” Mellas sighed and handed Skosh the hook. “Why do I have to fart around with goddamned haircuts in the middle of the jungle because some colonel is going to show up?”

  Skosh shrugged his shoulders. “Just another inch of green dildo, sir.”

  Mellas walked down to Jancowitz’s area. Parker was talking with Mole who, like many of the brothers in the battalion, wore a noose of heavy khaki nylon rope around his neck. Mellas guessed that it had something to do with lynching but was afraid to ask. The rest of the blacks from Third Squad stood around them. They fell silent when they saw Mellas approaching.

  Everyone’s hair had been cut except Parker’s. Jackson spoke up, his broad face relaxed, his eyes calmly engaging with Mellas’s. “Sir, I think they’re fucking with the brothers over these haircuts.” It was stated with no apparent anger.

  Mellas tried hard for the same tone. “Jackson, no one has any choice in the matter. Curly hair doesn’t look regulation and we’ve got the Big Six coming in tomorrow and Lieutenant Fitch is on the spot. I really don’t want to hear anything more about it.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jackson said, turning away.

  Mellas looked at Parker. “You know you’ve got about fifteen minutes, right?”

  “Yes, sir,” Parker mumbled.

  “OK. Get it done and get up to the skipper and we’ll forget the whole goddamn silly thing.”

  It was almost dark when PFC Tyrell Broyer saw Gunny Cassidy and Sergeant Ridlow from Lieutenant Goodwin’s platoon coming down the hill. Cassidy was holding a pair of hair clippers. Broyer nervously adjusted his glasses even though they didn’t need adjusting. He glanced at Parker, who shared their two-man fighting hole. Cassidy and Ridlow disappeared into Bass’s hooch and Broyer heard them laughing.

  Parker, his hair still uncut, leaned against the rear of the fighting hole, staring into the jungle. His rifle rested on a plastic sandbag and his arms were crossed in front of him.

  “Hey, brother,” Broyer said quietly, “I think we got trouble coming down the hill about your hair.”

  Parker grunted and spat. “God and country bigot motherfuckers.”

  Broyer looked back at the hooch above him. Sergeant Bass was crawling out, his beefy arms showing below his neatly rolled-up sleeves. Cassidy emerged behind Bass, his face set hard. Next came Ridlow. Parker gave a quick sideways glance over his shoulder and immediately turned away, stone-faced. Broyer wanted to run for help but didn’t know where to go. He excused his inaction by recalling that he couldn’t leave his hole during the evening 100 percent alert. He shifted his feet nervously.

  The group of sergeants gathered silently around them.

  “It’s time, Parker,” Cassidy said. “I see you decided you’d rather have it done by a pro.”

  Parker clenched his teeth.

  “You fucking answer, turd, when you’re spoken to
,” Bass said.

  Bass had moved in front of the fighting hole and was glaring directly into Parker’s face. Ridlow stood to his right, his boots next to Parker’s face. Cassidy was to Bass’s left. Bass motioned for Broyer to get out of the hole and Broyer scrambled out, still not knowing where to go. He saw the rest of the squad watching in silence.

  “Did you fucking hear me, you puke?” Cassidy asked.

  “Yes sir,” Parker mumbled.

  “I didn’t hear you, Parker,” Bass said, smiling.

  “Yes, sir,” Parker spat out.

  “How would you like it, Parker?” Cassidy asked. “Parted on the left? What do you think, Sergeant Bass? What would Sassoon do?”