Matterhorn (51 page)

Simpson felt the nervous chill that men feel when faced with decisions that they know can bring the fulfillment, or the ruin,
of their dreams and ambitions. He paced back and forth. He kept looking at the map. He wanted a drink but knew he couldn’t
take one in front of Blakely.

“Sir, the sensor reports confirm what you’ve suspected all along as well. Your case is airtight.”

“Goddamn it, Blakely, let me think.”

Blakely kept silent.

After about three minutes Simpson leaned over, his knuckles on the plywood table, and looked up at Blakely. “All right, by
God, we’ll do it.” His eyes were shining with excitement. Then he reached for the glass.

After making the decision to attack, Blakely and Simpson both grew concerned that sending Bravo in right away might be too
hasty. It would require a platoon to move the wounded to a safe LZ. This could entail an assault with only two platoons, which
would look bad if it failed. They could, of course, take the risk of guarding the wounded with only a squad, but if the squad
was overwhelmed, and they had evidence from Sweet Alice that a company was in the area, that would be even harder to explain.
If they tried to medevac the wounded they risked losing a chopper, and that wouldn’t look good either. They both knew that
bold moves might have been all right for Stonewall Jackson or George Patton, but this was a different kind of war. They played
safe.

The first frag order told Fitch to send a platoon to the LZ with the wounded. Fitch sent Mellas off with Fracasso, who was
jumpy after having gone into a hot zone on his first day of command. Mellas humped along in the rear with Bass, shooting the
shit, happy to be back with his old platoon. He watched with satisfaction as Fracasso led the platoon to the LZ, accomplished
the medevacs, and guided the platoon back by a different route to link up with the rest of the company, now in position closer
to the ridge. There, Fitch had set the company in on a small rise of ground, fifty meters inside the protective cover of the
jungle. The jungle edged a broad patch of elephant grass on the valley floor immediately below the approaches to Matterhorn.

This all took until nightfall, giving the NVA plenty of time to dig in on Helicopter Hill.

The second frag order came at twilight. Long before Relsnik finished decoding the order it was apparent that an assault was
being ordered.

Goodwin sauntered up to the CP group. He was eating a can of spaghetti and meatballs mixed with a package of Wyler’s lemonade
powder. “What’s up, Jack?” he asked Fitch.

“We’re going to take the hill at first light.”

“Matterhorn?”

“No. Helicopter Hill.”

Goodwin whistled. “Just like in the movies,” he said.

“Let’s hope so,” Fitch replied, spreading his map.

Looking at Matterhorn and Helicopter Hill as an attacker, Mellas wondered how he could have been so frightened when he was
defending it. Steep fingers led up to the top, divided by deep, heavily jungled gullies. To stay in contact as they advanced,
they would have to move in single file. But to move the entire company single file would take hours, exposing them to mortar
attack and a possible flanking movement. To attack from the west, north, or south exposed them to automatic weapons fire from
the bunkers on Matterhorn. To attack from the east would mean channeling their attack into a narrow front, perfect for defensive
machine-gun fire and mortars. Then there was the support problem. They’d have to rely on air.

One plan was scratched. A second was proposed, and then a third. It grew darker. They huddled over the map with their red-lens
flashlights. Every plan had a flaw. After three hours of debate they finally realized that there was no perfect plan. Somebody
was going to get killed.

Mellas sat down with his head in his hands, rubbing his eyes, wishing fervently that Hawke was still with them. He now regretted
telling Blakely that Hawke wanted out of the bush and that the battalion might lose him if Blakely didn’t act fast—this was
a big part of the reason why Hawke wasn’t with them. It was all absurd, without reason or meaning. People who didn’t even
know each other were going to kill each other over a hill none of them cared about. The wind picked up slightly, bringing
the smell of the jungle with it. Mellas shivered. He couldn’t figure out why they didn’t just quit. Yet they wouldn’t.

They finally decided to move Fracasso’s First Platoon and Kendall’s Third Platoon up a long finger that led south from the
main ridgeline, starting just east of Helicopter Hill. When they reached the main east-west ridgeline, First Platoon would
attack westward and hit Helicopter Hill from the east. They would be supported by Kendall’s platoon, which would also act
as the reserve. Kendall would set up on a little hump just behind First Platoon’s line of departure, from where they could
fire over First Platoon’s heads. Goodwin’s Second Platoon would simultaneously move up a narrower finger that paralleled the
one the main body would take and was just to the west of it. Instead of joining the main ridgeline, however, the narrower
finger led directly into the south side of Helicopter Hill. The Air Force’s defoliation had not been as successful on that
finger, so there was good cover almost to the top. Goodwin was to get on line, draping his platoon across the top of the finger
and down both sides, if possible without being detected, and attack from the south when Fitch felt the enemy was fully engaged
with First Platoon on the east side. In this way Second Platoon would be concealed longer and, once released, would be exposed
to fire from Matterhorn itself, which was directly to the finger’s west, for the shortest possible time. Approaching in the
dark would eliminate fire on Goodwin’s platoon from Matterhorn before the assault, but only if they
weren’t detected. In fact, a large part of the plan depended on Goodwin’s getting into position undetected. When daylight
broke and the assault began, Goodwin’s platoon would quickly be mingled with NVA troops on Helicopter Hill, and the NVA on
Matterhorn would probably have to hold their fire.

Of course the main issue was the defenders of Helicopter Hill itself. Still, Fitch hoped the dead branches of the defoliated
jungle just below the hill might give some concealment and cover if they could attack during the poor light of early morning.
That meant everything had to go at dawn, and, he hoped, with the clouds low to the ground. On the other hand, if clouds were
close to the ground, there was no hope for air support.

“Fucking brilliant,” Mellas said. “It took us three fucking hours to figure out we’ll just charge the motherfuckers.” It was
almost with relief that he threw himself into planning the mechanics of departure lines, timing, air coordination, and smoke
and hand signals.

They filed out into the blackness of the jungle at 0100, emerging an hour later into the high grass on the valley’s floor.
Low clouds, drizzle, and darkness hid Matterhorn and the ridgeline completely. Mellas felt as if his map and the dim red spot
of his flashlight were the only reality in a darkness that oppressed not only sight but the mind as well.

They reached the point where Goodwin’s platoon was to veer off to the west to begin moving up its assigned finger. Everyone
quietly dropped his pack. This was so everyone could save energy on the climb, free themselves for instant and fast movement
when the action started, and avoid unnecessary noise. They took only water—canteens topped to prevent the sound of water sloshing—and
two cans of food, carefully wrapped in socks to avoid the sound of cans clinking together. Ammunition was carefully placed
in cloth pockets. Faces were smeared with clay and dirt.

Even unburdened of their packs, they moved very slowly. The tiniest sounds rang out like bells. Unseen branches slapped at
their eyes. The cold fog enveloped them. The kids cursed beneath their breath as they groped for the ground in front of them.
They silently cleared limbs from their faces, biting back the need to vent their anger at the pain.
They crawled over downed trees, squeezed through thick brambles. Moving quietly in the dark takes a great deal of time. Too
much time. Dawn was breaking.

An explosion ahead of the main body sent everyone down to his stomach. A long wailing scream hung in the air. Samms, directly
behind Mellas, rose to his feet and whispered, “Shut the fucker up, somebody. Shut that son of a bitch up.” First and Third
Platoon had lost the advantage of surprise.

The scream stopped abruptly.

The stillness of the jungle after that anguished sound was like ether-laden cotton, numbing, oppressive, dangerous. Everyone
wondered what had happened to cause such pain, and how it had ended.

It had been ended when Jancowitz shut his eyes and jammed his fist into the hole left by the blown-away lower jaw of the kid
who had been on point. The shrapnel from the DH-10 directional mine had taken out his eyes and lower jaw but had left his
vocal cords intact. One foot had been ripped off as well.

Jancowitz pulled his bloody hand from the mess around the kid’s throat. A piece of jawbone with two teeth in it caught on
the opal ring Susi had bought for him. Fredrickson rushed up and pinched the spurting carotid artery with one hand while he
fumbled to stuff a thick bandage pad against the stump of the lower leg.

Jancowitz touched Fredrickson on the shoulder and shook it gently. “Let him die, Doc,” he said.

Fredrickson hesitated, then let go of the artery. The blood oozed out quickly, no longer spurting.

“Who was it?” Fredrickson asked quietly, blood smeared on his face. The face before him was unrecognizable.

“Broyer.”

Fracasso, who had been anxiously watching Fredrickson’s efforts, backed away involuntarily, bumping into Hamilton. “Excuse
me,” Fracasso mumbled.

They wrapped Broyer’s body in his poncho and put his black plastic glasses in the pocket of his utility jacket. They then
rolled the
poncho’s edges for hand grips. Fredrickson put the medevac number in his notebook along with the cause of death.

Fracasso put Jacobs’s squad on point. They continued moving awkwardly forward to get into position for the assault, knowing
there would be no surprise in their favor. Their main hope now shifted to Goodwin, if only he could work his way up undetected.

The fog swirled around them. The fear of mines dogged every step. Broyer’s body slowed them considerably.

Big John Six was frantic.

“It’s damn near oh eight thirty. They were supposed to be at their FLD three hours ago. I knew I should have shit-canned that
goddamned Fitch.”

Hawke listened, knowing that Fitch would have been extremely fortunate to make the FLD—the final line of departure—on time.
He was more worried about the weather than Fitch’s failure to kick off on schedule. Air support, holding in tight circles
within easy striking distance of the target, had to have clear weather and had to strike before running short of fuel.

Captain Bainford threw his pencil across the bunker and leaned back in his chair to look at Simpson and Blakely. He’d had
four F-4 Phantoms waiting above the clouds, but they had gone bingo fuel and had to return to base. He cursed about Fitch’s
inability to stick to a schedule. One of the radio operators picked up Bainford’s pencil.

“What about the Navy?” Simpson asked.

Bainford sighed. “I’ll try, sir. But they got to be able to see what they’re bombing, just like everyone else.” Bainford went
back to the radio, trying to drum up another flight to wait above the towering clouds that hid the western mountains.

At that moment Goodwin was quietly spreading his platoon out in a long frontal line, preparing to move from the cover of the
trees up the defoliated slopes of Helicopter Hill. He keyed the handset to signal his
arrival. Fitch checked his watch. The company had been moving nearly eight hours without rest or food. Fitch could only guess
how far away he was from his own final line of departure.

Robertson emerged from behind a thick cover of bush and caught movement in a tree from the corner of his eye. An NVA soldier
was taking a piss, holding on to a branch and making patterns on the ground below him with his urine. Robertson said, “Oh,
shit,” and fell backward, firing his M-16. At the same time, a second NVA soldier in the tree let loose with a long burst
from his AK-47. The one who had been taking a piss jumped to the ground, running hard. His friend toppled over backward with
Robertson’s bullets running up the inside of his body.

The radios crackled to life.

“We’re committed,” Fitch said. “End radio silence. Over.”

The company surged forward, still in single file, behind Fracasso, who emerged from the shelter of the jungle onto the defoliated
crest of the main ridgeline and went running across, down the north side, spreading the platoon in a single line behind him
as he went. He stopped, setting them in place, and then returned to the center, moving in a crouch behind them as they lay
looking intently at their objective.

Helicopter Hill’s bald outline wavered in the gray fog. It had changed considerably, having been made into an auxiliary LZ
by the artillery battery, the trees blasted clear for forty or fifty meters from the crest, and all the remaining trees and
brush killed by defoliating chemicals. The NVA had also built bunkers that were plainly visible near the top of the hill,
which was about 100 meters above the ridge on which Fracasso was crouched. The ridge sloped gradually upward from him toward
the west. About 300 meters from where he was, it merged into Helicopter Hill, which rose abruptly and steeply from the ridge,
like a large knuckle. From the map, and from interviewing everyone he could, Fracasso knew that the much larger bulk of Matterhorn
stood behind Helicopter Hill, about 600 meters to its west, hidden from his view. Matterhorn’s summit, with its flattened
LZ and abandoned artillery positions, was about 200 meters higher than Helicopter Hill. That was
within rifle range and Fracasso didn’t like it. For now, however, he had other things to worry about.