Matterhorn (67 page)

Mellas’s own temper was starting to rise. “What am I supposed to do, feel sorry for him? I suppose I should feel sorry for
the colonel and the Three, too.”

“Look. The colonel’s an asshole. The Three’s an asshole. Fine. I agree. All I’m saying, Mellas, is don’t you ever wonder
why
they’re assholes? Do you think they enjoy spending every minute of their tiny lives worried that someone’s going to shit
on them because one of their
companies didn’t make a checkpoint on time? I’m not saying to forget that they’re assholes. I’m just saying when you call
someone a name, have some compassion. Label the shit out of them, but who they are and who you are is as much about luck as
anything else.”

Mellas and Hawke were both looking at the dirt in front of them, unable to let their eyes meet.

“I guess I forget my place sometimes,” Mellas finally said, giving Hawke the flicker of a smile.

Hawke smiled too. “Shit. Turn a good fucking sermon into a joke, Mellas.” He tucked his hands under his flak jacket and looked
at Mellas. “Mellas, you’ve got everything I wish I had. It just makes me jealous to see you so fucking give-a-shit about it.”

“
I’ve
got everything you wish
you
had?” Mellas broke into laughter that was half a cry of pain. “Hawke, I’ve got
nothing
. Jack shit.”

“You’ve got brains, you know where you’re going, how to get there. You call that nothing?”

“One minute you’re making me feel like a turd for being insensitive and now you’re telling me I’ve got talent and you’re envious.”

“I didn’t say you were fucking perfect.”

Over their laughter they heard the distant sound of mortar tubing. They hunkered down and waited. Mellas was counting seconds
to see if the flight time was the same as for the last bunch. It was different. The shells landed near the top of the LZ,
causing only a mild thud.

“Hawke,” Mellas said quietly, “you know we might be dead tomorrow.”

“Shit,” Hawke said. “Tonight.” Then he smiled. “You ain’t going to get killed, Mellas. You’ve got too far to go.”

That evening, the siege lifted. But there were no thundering hoofbeats, no flashing swords, and no bugle calls. The air simply
reached a certain temperature and humidity and the fog vanished. Matterhorn stood before them, greenish-black in the dying
light. The kids rose from their fighting holes and cheered. NVA small arms and mortar fire soon pushed
them back into their holes, but everything was changed. The helicopters could fly.

And they did. They came flying through the automatic weapons fire and the exploding mortar shells. Ashen-faced replacements
ran for the nearest holes, staggering under their loads of extra ammunition, IV fluid, water, and food. Corpsmen and friends
of the wounded ran in the opposite direction, ducking into and out of the trembling fuselages, stacking live bodies, running
for cover from the one NVA machine gun that had revealed itself on the northeast finger and was systematically stitching bullets
into the landing zone. Then the pilots pushed throttles forward and the choppers took off, curving out of sight, taking the
happy wounded with them, including a triumphant, grinning Kendall.

Just before dark a single platoon from Delta Company arrived and took a position between Mellas’s and Goodwin’s platoons.
That evening, while friendly artillery fire plastered Matterhorn and Daniels laid down protective fire that surrounded Bravo
Company and the Delta Company platoon like smoky armor, the kids drank Kool-Aid and Pillsbury Funny Faces and ate C-rations,
happily throwing occasional dirt clods at one another. As far as they were concerned, it was fucking over.

For General Neitzel, however, it wasn’t over, and time was running out. He radioed Colonel Mulvaney at VCB, urging him to
move even faster.

Mulvaney, however, knew that the window of opportunity was closing. The NVA command must have recognized its vulnerability
by now, and the gook regiment was probably heading for Laos as fast as it could go. Neitzel’s prayer that the weather would
remain bad and give him one extra day hadn’t been answered. The fog had lifted too soon. Mulvaney chuckled. Too many of those
goddamned kids in Bravo Company had been praying against Neitzel, he thought proudly. No, the NVA would see the advantage
gone and scatter to regroup in Laos, as always. The NVA could wait for years if they had to. It had been chancy all along.
“Risk,” the general had said, hoping Bravo would slow things up enough to get the entire Twenty-Fourth Regiment engaged.
It would have been a hell of a fight. But with the choppers grounded the Marines just couldn’t move fast enough.

The NVA were putting a rear guard on Matterhorn to keep the high ground as they pulled back, but otherwise the northern part
of the operation was over. With their northern flank exposed, the two units moving down the Da Krong and Au Shau valleys to
the south would also be called back. No need to push when time was on your side, Mulvaney mused. That was the problem. The
NVA had forever. The Americans had until the next election. Still, it had cost only half a company of Marines to fuck up a
major thrust. Since the entire division had been involved, all the casualties and deaths in Bravo Company would be compared
with a full division, and the daily briefing would simply say “light casualties.” The action wouldn’t even get into the newspapers.
Thwarting a major enemy offensive
before
it got going just wasn’t news. Reporters cared about hot stories and Pulitzers, neither of which resulted from battles that
involved only light casualties. Heavy casualties made hot stories and supported antimilitary politics. Over time, continual
bad news will discourage any civilian population, and Americans had the lowest tolerance on the planet for bad news. Mulvaney
grunted. He had to hand it to the gooks. They have us coming and going, he thought.

He left for evening chow, knowing there would be a lot of backpedaling in the morning. Neitzel had his dick hanging out all
over Quang Tri province and not a goddamned thing to show for it. Mulvaney chuckled again. He’d probably have to do some quick
backpedaling himself.

In Lieutenant Colonel Simpson’s tent, no one wanted to chuckle. Both Simpson and Blakely felt the opportunity trickling away,
like sand trickling through their fingers. “Hawke was right,” Simpson growled. “The place to be is in the fucking bush, not
sitting on our cans moving goddamned artillery around. Hawke was right to go up there.”

“I think he ought to be reprimanded for abandoning his duty station, if not fucking court-martialed,” Blakely said quietly
but firmly.

“You’re just an old woman, Blakely,” Simpson said. He poured himself another bourbon and tossed it down quickly. “I say we
move
the CP to Helicopter Hill. Direct the operation from right smack in the middle.”

Blakely immediately thought how that might look to an awards review board. He dismissed the idea as foolish, then thought
about it again. He knew, even if the old buzzard didn’t, that the show was just about over. With a high chance of fixed-wing
air, escape to the DMZ blocked, two battalions of Marines moving in from the south and east, and a reinforced company sitting
right smack on the NVA’s line of supply, Nagoolian would be heading back to Laos. The gooks weren’t idiots—at least, not the
North Gooks. But they probably would defend Matterhorn to cover their withdrawal. Some value might be squeezed out of that.

“Maybe you’ve got a point, sir,” Blakely said.

“Goddamned right I do,” Simpson said, pouring himself another bourbon. He offered the bottle to Blakely.

Blakely was looking at his empty glass, not at the bottle, and thinking quickly. He began talking, still staring at the glass.
“Given the casualties from Bravo Company,” he said carefully, preparing his case, “the poor kill ratio, falling asleep on
the job—the list goes on—it would look almost imperative that a good battalion commander personally take control of a leadership
situation as badly out of hand as that.”

Simpson looked at Blakely, still holding the bottle of bourbon out to him. Then he slowly withdrew it.

Blakely let him think.

“Major Blakely,” Simpson said after a long silence. “I want the CP group ready to move to Bravo Company’s position tonight.”

“Tonight, sir?”

“You heard me. Tonight. Get Stevens to gin up a bunch of arty illumination and tell Bainford we’ll only need one chopper.”
He touched the top of the bottle as if it were a talisman. “And I want an assault prepared for Matterhorn first thing in the
morning.”

“By who, sir?”

“By Bravo Company. They need to redeem their honor and get their pride back.”

The battalion CP group arrived on the hill around 2200. They immediately occupied Fitch’s bunker, moving Fitch and his CP
group into an open hole near the LZ.

Around 2300 Mellas led a reconnaissance. He moved the squad slowly and silently until he felt he was close to the enemy positions.
He called in an illumination round. In the swaying greenish light he saw the line of abandoned holes that the enemy had dug
all around Helicopter Hill. The NVA had probably withdrawn to the bunkers on Matterhorn as soon as the weather cleared, knowing
the jets would be coming.

Mellas was back by 0100. “They’ve fucking dee-deed and we’ll be out of here tomorrow,” he told Fitch and Goodwin. Goodwin
grinned. Fitch, however, was tight-lipped. He’d just crawled back from his former bunker, now occupied by Simpson and Blakely.

“What’s the matter?” Mellas asked when he noticed Fitch’s mood. “Those cocksuckers didn’t relieve you, did they?” He was suddenly
afraid his friend would be leaving. “Hawke told me about the packs …”

Fitch shook his head. “Nothing so good as that.” Goodwin and Mellas looked at each other, puzzled. Then Fitch said in despair,
“We’ve been ordered to take Matterhorn. Daylight assault at first light.”

Mellas, fearful, took a breath. “We can’t take these guys up there again,” he whispered. Goodwin stood up, outlined against
the faint light of the night sky. He was looking in the direction of Matterhorn, even though it could not be seen.

“The colonel says we’ve lost our pride, getting kicked off that hill,” Fitch said, “and now we’re going to get it back.” He
was trembling again.

“He’s insane,” Mellas said. “We’re still way under strength, even counting the new guys.”

Fitch tried to think of something to say to his two lieutenants. “We’re supposed to get fixed wing.”

Mellas and Goodwin just stared at him.

He tried again. “Maybe it’s not so insane. I mean to keep the initiative someone has to move into attack position in the dark.
The rest of Delta isn’t here yet. So it’s up to us.”

“Fuck that shit, Fitch,” Mellas said. “The only reason they can’t wait a day is because they’re afraid the fucking gooks will
leave.” He
filled his lungs with damp cool air and then let it out, trying to control his temper. “Fuck ’em and their goddamned body
counts. I’ve counted enough fucking bodies.”

Goodwin backed Mellas up. “These guys have come through too much shit to be killed by a fucking madman.” He rubbed his hands
on his bloody trousers. He’d been hit that morning but had said nothing. “Listen,” he added, “this is no joke. I know I like
to joke around, but this is serious.” He paused to make sure Fitch and Mellas understood he wasn’t kidding. “I say we kill
the motherfuckers. We wait until the shit starts coming in and then toss in a couple of frags. They can both die fucking heroes.
I’ll write them up myself.”

“I’ll help you,” Mellas said.

Fitch shook his head. “You know you can’t do that, Scar. It’s murder.”

“Murder,” Scar said bitterly. He waved his arm in an arc, indicating the hill and its remains. “What’s the difference?”

Fitch, suddenly overwhelmed, put his face in his hands and bent almost double over the map before him. “I don’t know the difference,”
he muttered. “Just don’t fucking bother me.” His hands were shaking again.

After a moment of quiet Mellas said, to no one in particular, “We can blame war on orders, which means we can blame it on
someone else. You have to take personal responsibility for murder.”

“I don’t know what the fuck that means, Mellas,” Goodwin said.

“I didn’t until a few days ago,” Mellas answered. He thought of Pollini and the dead soldier above his hole, both killed—or
murdered—by his hand.

Fitch raised his head. “There’s no way around it unless you want to commit mutiny,” he said. “I’m not about to do that. When
I get out of here I want to screw my brains out. I don’t want to go to jail.”

Mellas picked at the calluses on his hands. He kicked softly at the mud and sighed. He knew Fitch was right. “All right,”
he said, “let’s see what kind of fucked-up plan you come up with this time, Jim.” He and Fitch looked at each other and started
laughing.

Goodwin shook his head and then joined them. “It ain’t going to be the flying fucking wedge, Jack.”