Matterhorn (40 page)

“Where you going, Hawke?” he asked.

“Three Zulu.”

“Nice,” Mellas said. He took another long drink. That meant Hawke would be working for Blakely as a staff officer in battalion
operations. Blakely was no fool, that was certain. “Congratulations on your promotion, too.”

“I’ve done my fucking time in the bush.” Hawke sounded a little peeved.

“Didn’t say you hadn’t, Ted.” Mellas drained the beer. Cassidy handed him another one, a slight twinkle in his eye. “Thanks,
Gunny,” Mellas said.

“Go on,” Hawke said to Fitch. “You’d better tell the rest before he’s fucking incoherent.”

“The rest?”

“We’ve been assigned Bald Eagle–Sparrow Hawk,” Fitch said.

“Is that like fucking Batman and Robin?”

Fitch smiled, watching Mellas take another long drink. “It’s the code name for a company of Marines that stands by the airstrip.
If someone gets in the shit, they drop us in to ‘exploit’ the situation.”

“You can’t be serious,” Mellas said very softly.

The look on Fitch’s face said that he was.

Mellas’s teeth were clenched so tightly he thought he’d break them. “My fucking men can’t walk,” he said. “
I
can’t fucking walk.” He stood up and kicked his pack in frustration. The floor reeled beneath him.

There was the sound of another beer being opened, and Cassidy slid the can over the table to where Mellas was standing.

“Have another beer, Lieutenant. It’ll take the edge off.”

Mellas looked at the beer, watching the foam slowly ooze onto the tabletop. He felt so tired. “The men getting plenty of beer?”
he asked.

“Sure,” Hawke answered. “You can thank Gunny Cassidy. He bought a bunch of cases for each squad with his own money.”

Mellas was touched by the gesture. “Thanks, Gunny,” he said.

Cassidy grunted. “Can’t have the kids without beer. If you’re old enough to kill a man you ought to be old enough to drink.”

Mellas slugged down the can. “How long before we get off fucking Bald Eagle?”

Fitch shrugged. “No telling. Until the regiment needs us someplace else or they drop us into the shit. The colonel thought
it would give us a rest.”

Mellas wanted to ask Fitch how sitting at the edge of an LZ waiting for some fat-ass to push a magic button and dump the company
in the middle of a shit sandwich would be considered a rest. But he decided not to bother. What he wanted, more than anything
else, was a shower. “Any clean clothes here?” he asked. Cassidy pointed to a number of open boxes stacked against the tent
walls. The tent wobbled uncertainly around Mellas as he walked toward the clothing.

“Floor a little slippery, Lieutenant?” Cassidy asked slyly.

“You got me fucking drunk, didn’t you,” Mellas said. It took him a moment to locate Cassidy. “I’ll be fucked.” He took off
his old clothes, not bothering to remove his boots. He looked a moment at his green underpants and threw them into the garbage
along with the beer cans. For a moment he stood naked in front of everyone, with just his dog tags hanging on his sallow skin.
He was struck by how vulnerable his body was.

Cassidy tossed him a new set of jungle utilities. They felt stiff, heavy, and the camouflage looked oddly bright compared
with the set
on the floor at his feet. He pulled on the trousers without bothering with underwear. He marveled at how thin his waist had
gotten, how his ribs showed.

“Oh, and Mellas,” said Fitch, “we need a man from First Platoon to stand KP next two weeks.”

“Thank God,” Mellas said. “You can have Shortround before he gets someone killed.” He turned to Fracasso. “Come on Fricassee,
or whatever your fucking wop name is, I’ll introduce you to your platoon.”

Simpson’s hands were still shaking as he poured another glass of bourbon and told Blakely what had happened. Blakely laughed
derisively. “Of course he told you it was off the record. He’s not going to risk that star. Not now. Him and his fucking lost
platoon from World War II. Look at the numbers, Colonel. We’ve got the highest men-in-the-field to menin-the-rear ratio in
the division. We’re top in the battalion on man-days per month actively involved in combat operations. Our congressional inquiry
rate is right next to zero. Our kill ratio’s been climbing ever since I’ve come aboard. And don’t think the right people at
division and Third Amphibious Force don’t know it.” Blakely laughed again. “If he wrote up a bad fitness report on you, we’d
take the stats and blow him right into retirement.”

Simpson smiled tightly. “I guess I shouldn’t be such a worrywart.”

“You worry about the numbers. That’s what the people who matter worry about. Mulvaney’s an anachronism. Apples and oranges.
Shit.”

They both started laughing.

Mellas, wearing new jungle utilities, the creases still showing, led Fracasso to a flat stretch of mud that surrounded a single
tent designed to sleep ten people. There were two other tents of the same size, each taken by the other two platoons. That
left more than 100 unfortunates with less rank and seniority out in the rain. Some had rigged hooches as if they were still
in the bush. Others simply threw down their packs, flak jackets, and weapons, claimed a small patch of wet clay for their
own,
and started drinking. Mellas knew that most of them would be too drunk or stoned to rig hooches and would sleep in the rain.
At least drunk or stoned they’d get a full night of sleep.

Mellas walked over to Hamilton, Skosh, Fredrickson, and Bass. He introduced Fracasso and told them that he himself was moving
up to XO to replace Hawke. Bass took it with the aplomb of the professional—another boot lieutenant to train. Mellas knew
the squad leaders would take it less well. They didn’t appreciate the Marine Corps’ need to ensure that the higher ranks were
filled with combat-trained officers. Once they had one broken in, they’d rather keep him.

Mellas shouted “Squad leaders up!” and the kids, some lying on their backs and already well on their way, relayed the call
happily toward the gray sky.

Jancowitz was the first to arrive. “I hear you’re leaving us, Lieutenant,” he said.

“Yeah.”

“Well.” Jancowitz hesitated. “Congratulations on the promotion.”

“It’s no promotion, Janc. I’m still drawing the same pay. I suppose I’ll get a few more coffee breaks when we’re humping,
but I’ll still be humping with you guys.”

“That’d be decent, sir.”

Mellas felt like a turd. But this was his chance to move up. To be the executive officer this early in his tour gave him ample
time to get a company.

Connolly came up to them, slightly bleary-eyed, a can of beer in his hand. “What’s the new lieutenant like?” he almost demanded.

Mellas thought a moment. He could screw the guy right here by saying the wrong thing. He’d noticed the Naval Academy ring
on Fracasso’s finger—a lifer if he ever saw one. Jacobs arrived, just behind Connolly, with a silly grin on his face. Mellas
just hoped Jacobs had enough sense not to smoke where he’d be caught. It would mean brig time and an automatic dishonorable
discharge.

“Feeling pretty good, Jake?” Mellas asked, suppressing the little smile that crept around the corners of his mouth.

Jacobs immediately came down a little. “P-pretty good sir.”

Mellas smiled at Jacobs’s serious expression. “Now that I’ve got the power, if any of you jokers lose someone to the brig
because they get caught smoking dope, I’ll fuck your R & R quota and send you to Okinawa with all the lifers.”

The group laughed.

“What’s the new lieutenant like?” Connolly asked again.

Mellas scuffed the mud with his boot. “I think you guys have drawn a lifer. But I think he’s going to be a good one.”

“A fucking lifer, huh?” Connolly said. They all turned to look at the new lieutenant, who was talking eagerly with Bass. Bass
and Fracasso saw them and walked over. Mellas knew that the next five seconds were among the most important Fracasso would
ever live. They could certainly mean his career, and maybe even his life. In the next five seconds these three teenagers would
decide if they’d work with him or not.

Fracasso was clearly nervous. The three squad leaders stared at him without any sign of welcome.

Mellas cleared his throat. “Well, I guess I ought to make a flowery farewell speech, but I’ll be humping along with Bass in
the rear of this sorry bunch of assholes every third day, so I guess maybe I won’t.” Mellas was surprised at his lack of articulation.
“I, uh, I’ll miss you guys.” He couldn’t look at them. “This is Lieutenant Fracasso. He’ll be taking over.”

Mellas pointed to each of the squad leaders and made introductions.

“Sorry to see you here, sir,” Connolly said. “I’m already in the double digits before I get my ass out of here. I’m so short
I need to stand on a helmet to take a piss.”

Fracasso seemed momentarily taken aback, but he put his hand out to shake Connolly’s. “
You’re
sorry. Jesus. I’ve got over a year.”

Connolly, followed by Jancowitz and Jacobs, shook hands. Fracasso had passed the test. It felt good to Mellas. He’d expected
to be jealous. The platoon would be OK. He hadn’t realized how he’d come to like these guys.

“One last thing before I go and Fracasso’s stuck with you for good. Every man gets a fucking shower. There’s a water point
down by the river. You squad leaders make sure everyone gets there before you’re all too fucked up and drown yourselves.”

Two hours later Mellas was sitting in the mud, another warm beer in his hand. His body felt strangely light since he’d showered.
It was his first shower since coming to Vietnam. The slight drizzle that was falling felt cool and refreshing on his face.
He seemed to feel each individual drop of water.

It was dark, but all around him he saw vague shadows getting up from small circles of friends to walk away and take a piss.
Then a figure would return—stumbling across one circle or another, finding its own—and sink down again into the small mass
of dark shadows. Mellas thought it must have been like this with Genghis Khan and Alexander.

Mellas could have joined the other officers and staff members in the supply tent but felt a desire to linger with the platoon.
He felt a new camaraderie with these kids. He knew it was sentimental, even mawkish, and he tried not to succumb to the loss
he felt at moving a step up in the hierarchy.

His head ached badly, and he continually had to walk off into the bush to crap. Still, he was exceedingly happy. It was safe
here. He hoped he wasn’t coming down with dysentery. His new jungle utilities were already damp and muddy in the seat and
knees and also slightly fouled from one of his trips into the bushes. He didn’t care. If they launched the Bald Eagle the
next day he could be dead. He kept pouring down beer.

With everyone getting shit-faced, China figured it was a good time to deliver the goods to Henry to be shipped back to Oakland
or Los Angeles. The heavy seabag on his shoulder was awkward and its contents jabbed against his back and side. He was sweating
heavily within two minutes of leaving the little airfield where Bravo Company was bivouacked. When he pushed in past the heavy
canvas flaps that formed the door to Henry’s four-man tent, he smelled mothballs still lingering in the material. He let the
seabag down a little more quickly than he would have liked, and there was a metallic clunk as it hit the plywood floor. Henry
was lying on his rack looking at a fuck book. He saw China and, after hesitating for just a moment, broke into a grin and
got up and
went through the hand dance. Two of Henry’s friends were also there, and they did the same. It was good to be back with the
brothers.

Henry found a warm beer and punched two holes in it with an opener. He raised it in a mock toast and upended it, chugging
the contents in about five seconds. Then he sat down on his rack, reached under the rubber lady, and pulled out a small pouch
of marijuana with some cigarettes already rolled. He lit one, took a long toke, and handed it to China.

“I don’t do that shit,” China said. He wasn’t altogether sure it had been a friendly gesture. He’d talked with Henry before
about black people enslaving themselves to drugs. Henry
knew
he didn’t do that shit.

“Ah, shit, man. When you gonna get with the program, huh? This shit be just good fun. It don’t hurt nobody.”

“Yeah, OK. You go ahead then.”

Henry passed the joint to one of his hooch mates and pulled up another can of beer, opened it, and handed it to China. China
put his hands on his hips, looking down. Then he looked up at Henry. “You know I don’t do that shit either.”

Henry raised his eyebrows and looked over at the others. He held the can out from him, pulling his head back, and pretended
to study it carefully. “What I got here, China? Devil in a can?”

China hesitated a moment. He really wanted that beer, but he knew that the Muslim brothers didn’t drink. Then again, they
weren’t getting their asses shot off in a hot fucking jungle. He also knew that he’d have to stand up to his stated ideals.
“Hey, Henry, you got a soda or somethin’?” he asked, trying to be casual.