Matterhorn (25 page)

He passed the pile of food supplies left for Delta. Then he was deep in jungle. The entire history of their stay—the holes
they’d dug so laboriously, the hooches they’d set up, the place where he’d heated a cup of cocoa and talked with Hawke and
Hamilton, the spot where he’d pissed—had been swallowed so totally that his memories seemed to be of dreams, not reality.
The company left no more mark on the jungle than a ship’s wake on the sea.

By the second day the body was little more than an inconvenience. The belly had swollen, and gas escaped occasionally from
one end or the other. Rigor mortis had set in. The kids cursed it beneath their breath when they stumbled with it or slipped.
“Goddamn you, Williams, you fat poag. You always ate too fucking much.”

Whenever the company reached a relatively open space, Fitch asked for a chopper to come over and lower a hook so they could
get rid of the body. He always got the same answer—no—though the reasons varied. Other priorities. Poor weather. Once they
sprang loose a Huey slick, but in the low clouds with rain slashing through the trees the small chopper was unable to locate
them, let alone get down close enough to lower a rope.

The carriers would curse and pick Williams up, and he’d swing from side to side down the trail with them, like a dead deer,
his discolored hands bloated and puffed up around the wire. Skin had started to come loose from the muscles and slide down
the fingers and arms, collecting where the fingers joined the hands and at the elbows, translucent and puckered like discarded
surgical gloves.

In the darkness, in the rain, they would lay him just inside the perimeter behind Third Squad’s sector. During his watch,
Cortell would
talk quietly to the body, remembering what Mama Louisa had once told him back in Four Corners—that the soul could stay around
three or four days before departing, getting used to the idea that it was dead.

On the third night Cortell crawled to the body and put his hands on the lump that was the head. “Williams, I’m sorry. I might
have done somethin’ but run. I didn’t know. I was so scared. You know how scared you can get. You and me been scared like
that. You know. I’m sorry, Williams. Oh, Jesus, I’m so sorry.” Cortell started to sob.

Jackson, in the next hole, crawled across the ground and gently pulled Cortell away from the body, urging him silently back
into his fighting hole, getting him to stop. The sobs could be heard too clearly, delineating the perimeter’s position.

And truly, on the fourth day, what was slung beneath the pole had no soul. It stank.

Late that same afternoon, the company was stopped cold. Everyone sat down inboard-outboard and leaned back wearily against
his pack. The kids took swigs of plastic-tasting water from their canteens or started de-leeching. Some dozed off. It was
soon apparent from the radio conversation that Lieutenant Kendall was lost again.

Mellas pulled out his map. There was nothing to take bearings on. Clouds hid anything the jungle didn’t hide. Mellas carefully
reconstructed the terrain they’d passed through, dead-reckoning their position. Finally, when he could stand it no longer,
he slipped out of his pack and walked back along the line of tired Marines to find Hawke and Bass.

Hamilton didn’t get up to go with him. He closed his eyes and fell asleep.

Mellas found Hawke and Bass already heating coffee in the old pear can, which Hawke carried tied to the outside of his pack
for ready access. Hawke, who was squatting Vietnamese style on the path next to the burning C-4, glanced up. “Cut me some
fucking slack, Mellas.” Hawke turned to Bass. “I don’t believe he smelled the coffee all the way up front.”

“It’s funny about him,” Bass said. “I never seen him make his own cup of coffee, but he always knows when someone else is
making one.”

Mellas laughed and sat down in the mud with them. He started unfolding his map. Just then a static-riddled voice came from
the radio handset, hooked on the strap of Skosh’s pack. It was Kendall. “Best I can figure, Bravo Six, we’re at”—there was
a pause—“from Chevrolet, up one point two and right three point four. Over.”

Fitch’s taut voice returned. “I copy.” Fitch was already a full day late in reaching the next geographic checkpoint that had
been assigned to him by Lieutenant Colonel Simpson.

Mellas pulled the map over to where Bass and Hawke could see it. The day’s radio code used cars for position reports. He found
the prear-ranged coordinates of Chevrolet and traced out Kendall’s reported position. “He’s crazy. We’d have to be over this
ridgeline. We’re by this riverbed, even if we’ve never seen it. You can feel the way the ground slopes.”

Hawke looked at the map, grunted approval, and put the finishing touches on the coffee.

The radio came to life again as someone keyed his handset. In the silence of the jungle they all could clearly hear the person
breathing. “I don’t think so, Bravo Three.” It was Fitch. “I see us just about a klick south of there by the blue line. Over.”

There was a long silence. An error could bring their own artillery down on them. Worse, it could mean hours of extra walking.

“What a dingbat,” Mellas said.

Hawke took a gulp of coffee, then handed the cup to Bass, who took a deep pull and handed it to Mellas, who did the same and
passed it over to Skosh. The coffee burned delightfully all the way into Mellas’s stomach, where he felt it radiate heat to
his body. Sharing the cup felt good. It reminded him of passing around a joint.

Hawke took another drink, put the steaming can on the mud, and took the radio handset. “Bravo Six, this is Bravo Five. Over.”

“Yeah, Five,” Fitch returned.

“Bravo One Actual and I are back here with Bravo One Assist, and we’ve decided you’re both fucked up. We’re down zero point
three and right four point five. Over.”

Daniels’s voice crackled over the air. “That’s affirmative, Skipper.”

There was short pause, and Fitch came up on the hook again. “OK, I’ll buy that. You copy that, Bravo Three? Over.”

“Roger, I copy,” said Kendall. “If that’s where we are, I got to come back out of this little draw because we’re headed the
wrong direction. Over.”

“Jesus Christ,” Bass muttered.

“Bravo Two, this is Bravo Six. You copy our pos? Over.”

“Fuck, yes, Jack. Over.”

“Look, Scar, I know you’re not due to walk point until tomorrow, but could you take it this afternoon so Three can join our
tail as we go by? Over.”

There was short pause while Goodwin weighed the request against the additional danger.

“OK, Jack. Bravo Two, out.”

Mellas left Hawke and Bass and worked his way forward to Hamilton, who gave him the handset. “Skipper wants to talk to you,”
Hamilton said. From the tone of his voice, Mellas felt something had gone wrong.

“Bravo Six, this is Bravo One Actual. Over.”

“Bravo One, where the fuck you been? You don’t go anyplace without your radio. Is that clear? Do you copy that? Over.”

Mellas flushed and looked angrily at Hamilton, who had averted his eyes and was adjusting the heavy radio to ride better on
his back.

“Roger, I copy that.” Mellas knew that everyone on the radio net was aware of his mistake. He gave the handset back to Hamilton,
saying nothing.

“I should have gone with you,” Hamilton mumbled. “Sorry, sir. I won’t let you down again.”

“Sorry won’t get it,” Mellas snapped. He reached down for his heavy pack and heaved it into place. He readjusted his ammunition
bandoleers and took a long pull of brackish halazoned water. “Oh, hell. I should have known better myself,” he said. He handed
Hamilton his open canteen.

With Goodwin leading the way, Bravo Company lurched forward. Soon they were passing the disgusted-looking Marines from Kendall’s
platoon, who sat back in the low brush, rifles at the ready, watching the rest of the company file by. With Goodwin’s platoon
up front, they made faster progress, but it was still not fast enough for Colonel Simpson or Major Blakely, who began to ask
Fitch for position reports almost hourly.

By nightfall the company was still four kilometers short of the ammunition site. The colonel radioed that the ammo was to
be blown by noon the next day or he’d have Fitch relieved. This left Fitch with the alternative he’d dreaded—moving the company
down into the river valley and taking the trail on which Alpha had been ambushed.

As he checked holes that night, Mellas felt a subtle change in the atmosphere. A pocket of warm air, isolated in the monsoon,
was going slowly toward the China Sea. By the time they were moving the next morning, heading down off the high ridgeline
that afforded some breeze and the coolness of altitude, the air felt like a wool blanket pulled over their heads.

To get down to the trail they had to break out their ropes. Hands burned red and blisters erupted as they dangled down steep
cliffs with heavy loads on their backs. Sweat stung their eyes. Tempers flared. Mellas felt as if he were having an asthma
attack in a stuffy automobile.

After two hours they reached the trail that ran down the valley floor. It formed a narrow muddy tunnel in the thick growth.
Light barely penetrated the ceiling of overhanging vegetation. Goodwin waved the two Kit Carsons out in front and the company
jerked its way forward. The rate of progress was now nearly double what it had been off the trail—however, so was the danger.

There was no longer any need to hack through bush and bamboo, but the fear of ambush still kept the pace agonizingly slow.
Mellas fumed, wondering why blowing the dump by noon was better than blowing it
that night. He wished they were up on the ridge where it was cooler and safer and the going was not much slower.

After two more hours Goodwin’s platoon moved off the trail to allow Mellas’s to take point. When he saw Goodwin, Mellas was
too hot and tired to do anything except roll his eyes and let his tongue hang out. “You ain’t fucking wrong, Jack,” Goodwin
said in an almost normal tone of voice. It seemed very loud. Those who heard him smiled.

An hour later the entire column had stopped. The kids stood dumbly in the heat, sweating, reeking, not wanting to move forward,
yet wanting to get the day over with. Then some of them sat down. Soon the entire column was taking five with no one having
given the word.

Fitch came forward. “What the fuck’s going on?”

Mellas didn’t know. He knew he should have known. He crawled forward, determined to get back in Fitch’s good graces. He reached
Jackson. Jackson didn’t know. Mellas crawled on, Hamilton crawling after him. A small clearing opened up. The two Kit Carsons
were cooking a meal, listening to their transistor radio.

Mellas was enraged. The lead Marine must have seen the Kit Carsons stop, but he hadn’t been ordered to take point. Being on
point was the Kit Carsons’ bad luck. He wasn’t about to volunteer to push past them and risk getting killed, especially since
it meant walking across an open clearing. If the Kit Carsons weren’t supposed to be cooking their meal, then an officer would
probably wonder why the whole column had stopped and come up and investigate—as in fact happened.

Mellas strode out of the cover of the jungle into the small patch of light. “Goddamn you fucking gook assholes.” He kicked
the pot of water, scattering the burning C-4. “Get out of my goddamn sight.” One of them reached for the pot, the other for
his rifle. Mellas was too angry to feel threatened. “Get the fuck out of here!” he screamed, shoving them toward the rear.
“Back. You go to CP, you stupid motherfucker. Back. Me no want you. You numbah ten.”

He radioed Fitch that he was sending the Kit Carsons back and didn’t want to see them up front again. “I don’t want any fucking
deserters fucking up my men,” he shouted over the radio.

Fitch sighed. “Just get us moving, OK? Out.”

Mellas’s contempt for anything Vietnamese grew.

Fitch sent Arran and Pat forward in hopes that Pat’s nose would help speed things along. It didn’t.

An hour later Mellas saw Mallory sitting at the edge of the trail, his machine gun across his knees, holding his head and
moaning with pain. “Come on, Mallory,” Mellas said. “We’ve only got a few more hours to go, then we’ll blow the shit up and
get our asses out of here.” The column filed wearily past them.

“My head aches, Lieutenant,” Mallory said, nearly screaming.

“I know. We’re going to try and get you to a psychologist. Maybe he’ll be able to help.”

A loud groan escaped Mallory before he could cut it off. “A psychologist? Oh, shit, man. I tell you it hurts. I’m not crazy.”

Mellas held out his hand and Mallory struggled to his feet and humped up the trail, trying to regain his position in the line.

Within minutes they were again stopped dead. No one knew why. Mellas wanted to sit down and guzzle water. A leech groped its
way toward him, one end anchored to the ground while the other end arched up, blindly sensing the air. Mellas began torturing
it with his bottle of insect repellent. Disgusted with himself, he killed it with his boot.

Hamilton walked up and offered the handset to Mellas. “It’s the skipper,” he said.

Fitch’s voice was testy. “What’s the fucking holdup now? Over.”

“I’m finding out now,” Mellas lied.

“Well, hurry the fuck up.”

Mellas groaned and struggled to his feet. Hamilton followed. They reached Jacobs, whose squad was now on point.

“What’s the story?” Mellas whispered.

“P-Pat alerted.”

“Don’t you ever pass the damned word back?”

“S-sorry, sir.” He gave Hamilton a quick knowing look, which was returned. Mellas caught the exchange. One more peevish lieutenant.

He calmed down and moved forward with Hamilton creeping
behind him, sweating under the load of the radio. They reached the dog and Arran. Arran squatted beside Pat, holding Pat’s
thick neck, his shotgun at the ready. Pat’s tongue stuck out. The dog’s lungs worked rapidly, trying to expel the heat. One
of his reddish ears was folded half down, as if it had wilted.

“Small alert, sir,” Arran whispered. “Robertson and Jermain are checking it out.” There was an uncertain pause. “Uh, sir.
Pat’s done in. We been on point two hours now.”