Matterhorn (23 page)

Mellas laughed but regretted his dumb quip. At the same time, he was desperately trying to recall all the mechanics of that
aborted ambush of cows back in Virginia.

Fitch continued cleaning his nails, then spoke up. “I’m sending a squad from First Platoon out on a rampage.”

“What for?” Hawke said.

“The Three called me on the hook and said he wants it.”

“What for?” Hawke persisted.

“Says the Six and he both think it’s a good chance to kill some gooks.”

“You mean a good chance to impress fucking regiment with how gung ho we are.”

“Maybe.”

Fitch remained quiet, knowing that there was no way out, but Hawke had to have a chance to let everyone know that he disagreed.
He turned to Mellas and sighed. “There it is,” he said. “I’ll get Two and Three to move in and take a couple of your holes
since you’ll have a squad out. You going out with them?”

Again the test, and the very real temptation to tell Connolly or Bass to do it. He fought it down. “Yeah. No time like the
present.”

“What? You a fucking Buddhist or something?” Hawke said.

Mellas did a double take at Hawke’s comment and then filed it, reevaluating Hawke once again. He laughed. “Naw. Lutheran.
We got all eternity, but we feel guilty about it.”

“What the fuck you guys talking about?” Fitch asked, genuinely puzzled. He looked at his watch. “You better get set in before
it gets too dark to see.”

In spite of his fear, the thought of springing an ambush excited Mellas. Battalion would know immediately who had led it.
He might even get a medal if they killed enough. And if he was going to lie out in the rain and cold all night, he might as
well get the satisfaction of killing someone. As soon as the thought crossed Mellas’s mind, he reproached himself for his
callousness. He also knew he didn’t have the nerve to ask anyone else to lead the ambush.

Mellas had just finished briefing Jackson’s squad about the ambush—it was their turn—when Hamilton called over that there
was to be an actuals meeting.

“Right now? I just left the place.”

“Right now, sir.”

Mellas walked back to Fitch’s hooch, fuming. Everyone else was already there, including the two Kit Carson scouts. Their value
supposedly lay in knowing the NVA intimately. Unfortunately, no one in the company spoke Vietnamese, and they spoke no English,
and no Marine would trust a deserter anyway. They were another example of a brainstorm that looked good in Washington, 10,000
miles from reality.

The two Kit Carsons were squatting down trying to listen to Vietnamese music on their transistor radio.

“Hey, Arran,” Cassidy growled at the dog handler, “tell them two fucking dinks to turn off the damned noise.” Arran knew about
seven words in Vietnamese—more than anyone else knew—so he always talked with the Kit Carsons. He motioned to the radio and
made cutting
noises with his hands. Eventually, the huskier of the two small men got the message and clicked it off. His arm was horribly
scarred. The Marines figured the injury had happened when he was on the other side. He held up the radio and grinned.

“Numbah one.”

Arran glowered at him, “Radio number ten. Number ten.” He pointed to the sky. “Dark, NVA. Number ten.”

The Kit Carson nodded. “Numbah ten.”

“Yeah, that’s right, you stupid fucker,” Cassidy growled. No one really wanted them along, but they were assigned by Division
S-2, so Fitch had let them hump along with the headquarters group in the middle of the column. The two Kit Carson’s resumed
talking Vietnamese in low musical voices. Fitch stood up, and everyone forgot they were there.

“As you know, Delta was following in our trace all afternoon.” Fitch looked at the ground and scuffed it. “None of you are
going to like this, but I’ve been talking with Delta Six on the hook and it seems battalion didn’t tell him until the last
minute that he was coming into the valley with us. They were low on food as it was, but they thought they were going back
to VCB.” He put his hands in his back pockets and looked into the jungle. “Anyway, they didn’t get a chance to draw any extra
rations.” He looked back at the group. “So battalion told them to hook up with us and take half of ours.”

Mellas exploded, surprising himself. “No, goddamn it. They aren’t getting any of mine.”

“It isn’t their fault, Mellas,” Hawke said. “I know how you feel, though.”

“What are we supposed to do, go on half rations because battalion can’t get its shit together?” Mellas knew he sounded like
a quarrelsome child, but he didn’t care. He was tired, he had an ambush to set up, and he was already slightly hungry. He’d
been trying to ration the food he had to make it last through the operation.

“You’ll each collect two days’ rations from everyone and leave them here.” Fitch was obviously accepting no bullshit, so no
one argued. “And I want it done randomly. No unloading the crap. If you were in their shoes you’d want some decent food.”

“I’ll be damned,” Mellas said caustically. “The law of universability.”

Goodwin looked at Mellas. “What the fuck you talking about, Jack?”

“Moral philosophy for the Golden Rule.”

“Yeah, sure,” Goodwin said. “Do unto others before they do you—that’s the fucking Golden Rule out here, Jack.” Everyone laughed.

Mellas walked back to where he and Bass had set up the platoon command post. The bantering had relaxed his anger, but now
it was coming back.

“So we got to give Delta our long rats, Lieutenant?” Bass asked as Mellas approached them. Mellas had long since given up
trying to spring news on any of them. Everyone was still digging holes, except Doc Fredrickson, who was counting out malaria
tablets, his own small hole already finished. If they were hit, he wouldn’t use it much anyway, since he’d be tending the
wounded.

“Yeah. Shit.
Coordinate with Bravo Company concerning food resupply.
” His mocking tone brought a few smiles. “And Fitch doesn’t want us creaming the good stuff either.”

Hamilton looked ruefully at his pack. “Do I give them my peaches or my pound cake?”

“Just one more glorious day in the corps,” said Bass, “where every day’s a holiday and every meal’s a feast.”

“Lifer,” Fredrickson retorted.

“Loyal, industrious, freedom-loving, efficient, rugged,” Bass shot back quickly.

“Lazy, ignorant fucker expecting retirement,” Fredrickson replied.

Mellas burst out laughing.

“No fucking comments from the junior officer section,” Bass said.

“Well, this junior officer is taking out a rampage so an almost staff sergeant can get his much-needed rest and keep up with
the company tomorrow. So if you’d kindly kiss the platoon good night for me, I’ll take the radio and be on my way.”

“Aye, aye, Mr. Mellas.” Bass picked up one of the radios that lay next to the ponchos where he and Skosh were going to erect
their shelter. He handed it to Mellas. “You got a code name?”

Mellas thought a moment. “Vagina.”

“Can’t have it.”

“Why not?”

“Can’t be cluttering up the airways with filth.”

“Nothing filthy about the vaginas I know. I don’t know about the ones you know.”

“You ain’t been around enough to know what one is.”

Mellas slung the radio over one shoulder. He picked up his rifle. “I don’t have to get around to know what one is,” he said
cockily, “they come to me.”

“Whooo.”

Mellas laughed, but he was laughing to cover the hurt of Bass’s jibes. He was twenty-one and still a virgin, a fact that shamed
him deeply. Anne was the only woman he’d been really intimate with, and she never wanted to have intercourse. He never pushed
it. They would roll around madly until Mellas ejaculated and fell asleep. He’d wake up feeling bad because she never climaxed
the way he did. One night, she did own up to feeling guilty because she wouldn’t allow intercourse. But Mellas also felt guilty,
because he didn’t know what to do and was afraid to ask questions.

The mood over at Jackson’s squad was subdued. Mallory was slowly working the bolt back and forth on the M-60 machine gun,
making a smooth metallic clicking. He would stop periodically to hold his hands to his head as if to stop it from bursting.
Williams seemed nervous. He kept switching feet, his big hands buttoning and rebuttoning a single button on his camouflage
utility jacket.

“Hey, Williams,” Jackson kidded him softly, “it’ll stay buttoned. Don’t worry.”

Williams grinned, embarrassed. “Yeah, I guess it will.” He stopped but almost immediately began toying with it again. Broyer
gave Williams a reassuring thumbs-up sign, hidden so no one else could see it, and then pushed his glasses up on his nose
with the same hand. Williams nodded. A little smile flickered briefly on his face.

Parker and Cortell were baiting Pollini as he fumbled to put his rifle back together after cleaning it. “No, Shortround, you
put it in
t’ other
way,” Cortell said, his round face merry.

“Yeah, the
other
way,” Parker repeated.

Pollini was grinning and trying to fix the rifle, but he kept looking up at the two of them and wasn’t concentrating on what
he was doing.

“Shit, Shortround,” Parker said, “you’d fuck up a wet dream, wouldn’t you?”

“No, I wouldn’t,” Pollini said, grinning.

“You such a fuckup, Shortround, you ought to be declared a national disaster and you mother taken off the streets and given
relief,” Parker cackled.

“At least I didn’t get shaved bald,” Pollini retorted. Parker stopped smiling. The look on Pollini’s face made it clear that
he knew he’d made a mistake.

Parker took a slow step forward. “What’s that, Snowflake?” he said quietly.

Pollini looked around hesitantly. “I said at least I’m smart enough not to get shaved bald.”

Parker pulled out his K-bar.

“Hey, man,” Cortell said, “put away that shit.”

“I don’t take no shit like that,” he said to Cortell, but stayed focused on Pollini. “Maybe you and Jesus do.”

Pollini started to back away, looking for help. He fell backward into a partially dug fighting hole. Parker was on him instantly,
knocking the wind from him with his knees. Pollini gasped in tiny ineffectual breaths, his face contorted. “What’s the matter
white boy, not smart enough to breathe?” Parker had the point of his K-bar’s blade pressed against Pollini’s Adam’s apple.
Every time Pollini tried to gasp for air, the motion would jab the knife’s point against it.

There was the sound of a round being chambered and then Williams’s calm cowboy voice. “Parker, I’ll shoot you if you don’t
get off of him.”

“That’s right,” Parker said, still holding the knife to Pollini’s throat. “You protect you little sawed-off brother here.”
He looked around him, angry. “Where my own brothers, huh?”

Mallory laid his M-60 on the ground and pulled his .45 from its holster. He shoved back the action and let it snap forward,
chambering a round. His hand was shaking, but the pistol pointed at Williams.

“Now there,” Parker said. “We even up, ain’t we, Williams?”

At this point Jackson intervened. He quietly said, “OK, you two, put the shit down. This between Parker and Shortround, not
between chucks and splibs.”

“It
might
not be between chucks and splibs,” Parker said, his knife still on Pollini’s Adam’s apple.

In a tight constricted whisper Pollini wheezed, “I take it back. I didn’t mean nothing, Parker.”

“Oh, you didn’t, huh? I ought to cut you nuts off for what you said. But I’m going let you go because you so fucking stupid.
But I don’t forget things.” He looked up at Williams, who stood his ground with the M-16.

“Come on, you two,” Jackson said, ignoring Parker and addressing Mallory and Williams. “Put the shit down. We got an ambush
to run tonight.” Then he moved into the line of fire between the two of them.

Williams flicked his eyes quickly at Jackson, then lowered his rifle and put the safety on. Mallory eased the hammer of the
.45 forward.

“It just between you and me now, Shortround,” Parker said. “And I’m going to let you go, ’cause you so stupid.” He pushed
back from Pollini, smiling, and stood up. Then he jumped in the air and stomped hard on Pollini’s stomach with his boot. Pollini
cried out in pain and Williams immediately ran for Parker, slamming his rifle against the side of his head. Parker came around
in a low crouch swinging the knife, just missing Williams. Jackson tackled Williams, rolling him away from Parker’s knife
as they hit the ground, knocking the rifle aside. He stayed on top of Williams, who struggled to get free, and turned his
head to Parker. “You keep the fuck back,” he said.

They heard the sound of running feet. Bass had his heavy short-timer’s stick and was shouting. “What the fuck’s going on around
here?” The lieutenant was just behind him.

Parker put his K-bar back in its sheath.

“What the fuck’s going on, Jackson?” Bass asked. Pollini was retching in the partially dug hole.

“Nothing, Sergeant Bass,” Jackson said. “Williams and I got into an argument.”

Mellas went over to Pollini. “Who the hell got into an argument with Shortround?” he asked. He put his hand on Pollini’s shoulder.
“Who was it?”

“No one, sir,” Pollini answered. He was doubled over, tears running into the vomit on his chin. “I fell in this fucking hole.
Honest, sir.”

Bass turned to Parker. “Listen, you fucking puke—”

“It’s OK, Sergeant Bass,” Mellas said quickly.

“Sir, I know this fucking excuse for a man—”

“It’s
OK
, Sergeant Bass.”

“I’d string him up by his nuts.”

“We’ll handle this with office hours.” Mellas looked around. “Everybody here. Fighting while on duty. We’ll take care of it
when we get in. Goddamn it, I’ll bust every one of you.”

Williams and Jackson got up off the ground. Williams checked his rifle for dirt, brushing it off, moving the mechanism. Pollini
struggled to his feet. Bass picked up Pollini’s rifle, now covered with mud, and handed it to him. “You better get it cleaned
up,” he growled. He stalked back to his hole.