Matterhorn_ A Novel of the Vietnam War Part 22

To leave the canyon and lie about their position would be suicidal. The artillery might a.s.sume the company was someplace else and drop rounds on it. Since the company was strung out in the canyon with no way of circling into a defensive position or digging into the rock, Fitch felt he had no choice but to keep moving. At one in the morning, a kid in Kendall's platoon slipped on a steeply pitched wet slab. There was a thud, a splash, and a suppressed moan. He had fractured his left tibia, and the broken bone was sticking through the skin. Fitch told Relsnik to lose communications, even if the battalion sent an air observer to act as a relay. They would wait for morning.

The company's position was so precarious that neither Hawke nor Mellas could sleep. All night, they sat huddled on a boulder, s.h.i.+vering in their damp clothes. Hamilton, however, lay sleeping on the rocks below them, his boots in the water.

'Imagine,' Hawke said. 'The first use of the column in the defense. We'll all get jobs at the Naval War College. We'll go down in military history.'

'That's what I'm afraid of,' Mellas said. 'Going down.'

The cliff rose behind them. The moon occasionally broke through the cloud layer, and a cold wind blew on their backs. The conversation came and went. Girls they knew. What they would do after they got out. Building a fortress on Matterhorn and then abandoning it. Whether the Rolling Stones were better than the Beatles. Anything but cerebral malaria.

'Did you hear that Parker tried to kill Ca.s.sidy?' Mellas asked.

'Yeah. Conman told me. It's all over the f.u.c.king company. Ca.s.sidy denies it. Says it's all black power bulls.h.i.+t, that Parker just wanted to show off.'

'You believe Ca.s.sidy?'

'I believe Parker.'

'Is there going to be trouble?' Mellas asked.

'Don't know. Depends a lot on whether Parker did it on his own.'

'You mean China?'

'I mean China if if Parker didn't do it on his own. But I don't know.' Parker didn't do it on his own. But I don't know.'

They listened to the water rus.h.i.+ng past them. Hawke, looking sad, repeatedly traced a small pentangle on the rock beside him.

'You feel bad about not getting the company?' Mellas asked.

'I don't know. Sure. Sure, I wanted the company. But now I just want out of the f.u.c.king bush.'

'Have you tried? Like getting a job at the operations center, like Stevens?'

'Do I look like a f.u.c.king Dictaphone? What the f.u.c.k you trying to do, Mellas, get rid of me?'

Mellas felt himself color slightly. He said nothing.

'Don't worry, Mellas,' Hawke said, 'you're so f.u.c.king boot, you'll still be here when I'm sucking down cool ones at O'Day's Bar. You'll have plenty of time to get a f.u.c.king company. For starters, you'll probably be Bravo Five if I ever do get my freckled a.s.s out of here. Kendall's leaving in a few weeks. And Goodwin.' Hawke chuckled softly. 's.h.i.+t, Jack,' he mimicked. 'Scar. His lines are a mess, his paperwork's all f.u.c.ked up, his radio procedure's a disaster, but the troops will follow him anyplace. Anyplace Anyplace.' Hawke blew some air through his lips. 'That's the problem with him. He's a fighter.'

'That's a problem?' Mellas felt envious of Goodwin again, but his envy fought against the warmth evoked by the image of Goodwin tugging on an earlobe and cackling about a third Purple Heart.

'In this war it is,' Hawke said. 'That's probably why it's so f.u.c.ked up. What you need in war is warriors, fighting, not little boys dressed up in soldier suits, administrating.'

'Then why don't you make Scar the f.u.c.king Five?' Mellas asked, a little more hotly than he'd intended.

'Because Goodwin would be eaten alive in three minutes. And not by the f.u.c.king NVA. You wouldn't, and you know it. In fact, I think you'd thrive on the f.u.c.king politics.'

They lapsed into silence.

After a while Hawke asked, 'You know why we're really strung out in this f.u.c.king death canyon?'

Mellas didn't know, so he just grunted.

'Because Fitch doesn't know how to play the f.u.c.king game. That's why. He's a good combat leader. I'd literally follow him to my death. But he's not a good company commander in this kind of war. He got on Simpson's bad side because he got his picture in the paper too often and never gave Simpson credit, which by the way he doesn't deserve, but that's the point. The smart guy gives the guy with the power the credit, whether he deserves it or not. That way the smart guy is dangling something the boss wants. So the smart guy now has power over the boss.'

Mellas kept his mouth shut.

'It used to be if you were out in the bush operating independently like we are, no one would second-guess the skipper. They didn't have the radio power back then. Now they do, and the f.u.c.king bra.s.s think they're they're out on patrol. And now the smallest units are run by the colonels and generals, h.e.l.l, right up to the president. Colonel and above used to be the level where people dealt with all the political s.h.i.+t like congressmen on junkets, television, reporters, you name it. But now those guys are running the show right down to this f.u.c.king river canyon and we're in the politics too. And the better the radios, the worse it's going to get. The politics is going to come right down to the company level, and people like Fitch and Scar are going to be culled out and people like you will take over.' out on patrol. And now the smallest units are run by the colonels and generals, h.e.l.l, right up to the president. Colonel and above used to be the level where people dealt with all the political s.h.i.+t like congressmen on junkets, television, reporters, you name it. But now those guys are running the show right down to this f.u.c.king river canyon and we're in the politics too. And the better the radios, the worse it's going to get. The politics is going to come right down to the company level, and people like Fitch and Scar are going to be culled out and people like you will take over.'

'What do you mean like me'?' Mellas asked quietly.

Hawke sighed. 's.h.i.+t, Mellas. I mean a f.u.c.king politician.'

Mellas stiffened. 'Is that what you think of me?'

'Yeah. That's what I think.'

Mellas said nothing.

's.h.i.+t, Mellas, don't get your feelings hurt. I didn't say I didn't like like you, for Christ's sake, or you're some sort of bad person. Although I will grant you the company you'll keep is going to be sleazier than average. Just accept that you're a f.u.c.king politician. So was Abraham Lincoln, and Winston Churchill. So was Dwight Eisenhower.' He paused. 'It ain't like they're bad people. And they all ran a pretty good war.' you, for Christ's sake, or you're some sort of bad person. Although I will grant you the company you'll keep is going to be sleazier than average. Just accept that you're a f.u.c.king politician. So was Abraham Lincoln, and Winston Churchill. So was Dwight Eisenhower.' He paused. 'It ain't like they're bad people. And they all ran a pretty good war.'

Mellas smiled ruefully. 'You really think it's all about politics?'

Hawke blew air upward. Mellas could see his breath. 'No,' he said. 'You better believe it ain't all about politics.' He tossed a pebble into the stream and then looked directly at Mellas. 'Simpson's right. All these arms caches we're uncovering can only be a tiny percentage of the total. That means there's a lot of gooks around here. A lot lot. How the f.u.c.k do you think all that s.h.i.+t gets carried in without trucks except by a lot of f.u.c.king backs?' He checked to see if he had Mellas's attention. 'The caches we've found are stashed in a line pointing east from Laos to the flats. To pull off that political op at Cam Lo we had to pull back from Laos and the DMZ. Matterhorn controls the west end of Mutter's Ridge. Whoever controls Mutter's Ridge controls Route 9. If the NVA control Route 9 they can cut off Khe Sanh and VCB from the coast. They cut off Khe Sanh and VCB and they can take Camp Carroll. Then the gooks come down Route 9 with tanks and you can kiss f.u.c.king Quang Tri, Dong Ha, and Hue good-bye. That ain't politics.'

The company started moving at dawn. It would be the eighth day without food. The kid with the broken leg was carried fireman style by friends who took turns. The senior squid gave the kid all the pills he felt his system could stand, to keep him from screaming. As the company moved forward, everyone pa.s.sed a message scratched into the rocks: FIRST THEY SHAVED HIM. THEN THEY HUMPED HIM TO DEATH.

CHAPTER TEN.

The canyon ended. The company stared upward at a wall of jungle-covered cliffs and terraces that rose out of sight in the fog. The top of the wall was Hill 1609. Their job was to turn it into Firebase Sky Cap.

Mellas's helmet fell from his head when he leaned backward and tried to see the top. He let it lie behind him and stared, stupefied, having no idea how they were going to climb the wall by nightfall. Fitch's voice came over the radio. Still deep in jungle, he could see nothing of what Mellas saw. 'Come on, Bravo One,' he said impatiently. 'Let's move it up there.'

Mellas waved a hand at Jackson, pointed firmly upward with one index finger, and put his helmet back on. Jackson, at the base of the cliff, nodded to Cortell and Broyer. Cortell gave him the finger. Broyer shoved his black plastic gla.s.ses back on his nose and took a deep breath, looking up the cliff a long time before he exhaled. Jackson slipped the squad's coil of nylon Goldline rope off his pack and pa.s.sed it up to them. The two of them roped up, and Broyer started moving, his face against the cliff, pulling the rope up after him as Cortell paid it out. There seemed no place to go. Then Broyer found a root and tugged on it. It held-but vegetable holds were dangerous, and he knew it. He hauled himself shakily up to a narrow sloping ledge and tried to get secure with his b.u.t.t up against the cliff and his boots on a nubbin of rock. He pa.s.sed the rope around his waist in a hasty belay and then whispered as loud as he dared, 'OK, I'm ready.'

Cortell followed, pulled up by Broyer. Squeezing together on the ledge, leaning back on the cliff, they tied-in to exposed roots and put a friction loop over a barely adequate b.u.mp of rock. They then dropped the rope end down again and belayed Jackson, who was followed by Mellas, then Hamilton, then Mallory's machine gun, then Mallory, then the boxes of ammunition that Mallory and Barber, his A gunner, had been carrying, and so on until the next squad arrived with its own rope. Then Jackson's squad moved ever higher, repeating the process, but with different people leading. Soon the platoon was strung out in stages all along the cliff face. Fitch kept the rest of the company hidden in the jungle just in case there were NVA on top. Mellas knew it was the right thing to do, but he now regretted that his map skills had put First Platoon at the lead so often. His face and nose were pressed against the wet cliff, and he inhaled the smells of moss and dirt. A single NVA squad on the top could kill half the platoon before the kids could scramble down to safety. A single NVA machine gun across from the canyon could probably get them all. They were f.u.c.ked.

Five hours later they were still climbing, surrounded by fog. Robertson and Jermain from Second Squad were now on point, with Jacobs close behind them, stuttering encouragement. Jermain had the squat M-79 loaded with flechettes so he could at least spray anyone looking down at them and fire the weapon one-handed without having to aim. Robertson, who as a fire team leader could have ordered someone else to take point, hadn't had the heart to give the job to anyone but himself. He was now separated from his team by Jacobs, who himself had moved closer to the point position from his normally safer one behind the first fire team. Robertson was wondering whether to keep the safety of his M-16 off or on. If it was on and he f.u.c.ked up, he'd be very likely to kill Jermain, who would certainly fall off the cliff, and, being roped into Robertson, take Robertson with him. On the other hand, if the enemy peered over the edge and Robertson didn't fire instantly on full automatic, because again he'd be one-handed, he might as well not even be carrying the d.a.m.ned weapon. He resolved the dilemma by nervously switching the safety on and off every minute or two.

Moving up the steep face of the cliff made silence impossible. If the NVA were waiting, Robertson thought, the two of them for certain-and probably the entire squad, including the lieutenant and Hamilton-would have to be written off in order to get the company out. Compared, however, with the constant draining pull against gravity and hunger, and the obstinate rock face the jungle now presented to them, death didn't seem so bad.

He saw that Lieutenant Mellas had reached a flat spot below him and was looking up. Robertson heaved himself and his heavy pack over a large rock formation. He stopped, breathing hard, perched precariously next to Jermain, who was sitting with his back against the cliff, looking upward, holding his M-79 above his head. Clearly, the small s.p.a.ce was safe for only one of them. There seemed no place he could move. His face was flushed and felt hot and full. He knew that he was crying, because he had to keep wiping tears away to look for his next handhold.

The lieutenant pointed a thumb upward, nodding encouragingly. G.o.d knows how the guys behind us with the machine guns and mortars are doing, Robertson thought. Or the poor f.u.c.ker with the broken leg and the ones carrying him. He turned to look upward into the fog. The cliff stood above him, unmovable, impossibly steep, its unseen top seemingly beyond reach. Slowly, with each breath, his anger grew: at the cliff, the bulls.h.i.+t, the hunger, the war-everything. He erupted in a frenzy of activity. He pumped his legs madly against the side of the cliff, scrambling for all he was worth on friction alone, moaning as he half-suppressed an angry scream. When he took off, he nearly shoved Jermain off the cliff, and Jermain actually raised the M-79 to club him but must have realized that he had Robertson on belay and didn't. Jermain paid out rope so that Robertson wouldn't be jerked short and fall. Robertson reached safety, just a few meters above Jermain, and apologized. Both of them were crying openly, like small children who needed to be fed and tucked into bed.

They reached the summit just before dark. It was a narrow razorback ridge of solid limestone, just wide enough for a single person to step along carefully, balanced between sheer drops on both sides. Obviously, no one had bothered to recon it. There was no possible place for a helicopter to land, much less an artillery battery.

Mellas, too, was crying with exhaustion and frustration when he radioed Fitch that there wasn't room for the rest of the company on top. Fitch regrouped the company on a small saddle just below the final cliff, packing it into a s.p.a.ce that would normally have been occupied by a platoon. The company dug in and spent the night there. The next morning they climbed the trail blazed by First Platoon, using the ropes that had been tied in place-just as tired, but more confident, knowing First Platoon held the summit.

It took the entire day, using every piece of explosive the company had left, to blast a small niche for an LZ out of the solid rock edge of the ma.s.sive sweeping cliff that plunged more than 2,000 feet into a river canyon on the north side of the mountain. They blew their final bars of C-4 just as darkness closed out any possibility of resupply.

The next morning they were hacking away at the rock with their E-tools. At around midday the fog temporarily cleared and Fitch radioed to VCB. Thirty minutes later they all silently watched a CH-46 come chundering up the long valley they'd taken days to get through. The perch they'd blasted and sc.r.a.ped from the limestone was just large enough for the chopper to put down its rear wheels. The front two-thirds of the helicopter hovered dangerously in midair as the pilot fought to hold the machine long enough to unload its cargo. This maneuver drew murmurs of respect for the pilot's skill. The tailgate came down, and a group of Marines ran out holding their helmets in the blast of air. No supplies came with them.

Marines from Third Platoon helped the kid with the broken leg aboard. The tailgate closed and the helicopter simply fell off the cliff, picking up airspeed until it could fly. It curved away and faded into the mist.

The Marines in the new group were full-fleshed and excited. Their camouflage helmet covers were conspicuously unripped, their jungle utilities bright green and brown. Hawke and Fitch walked up to them. They could see pickaxes, power saws, large new shovels, bundles of C-4, even a surveyor's transit. A stocky first lieutenant, his silver bars gleaming on his collar, came over and shook hands. 'Hi!' he said cheerily. 'We're the Pioneers from Golf Battery.'

Hawke and Fitch stared at him. Finally, Hawke spoke. 'Well, if you're the pioneers, then we're the f.u.c.king aborigines.'

An hour later the same helicopter returned, an external load of C-rations, ammunition, and explosives swinging beneath it in a net that streamed out behind it on a cable. The helicopter released the net on the tiny LZ, then, as before, looped around the mountain to hover with its rear end almost touching the LZ and the rest of it hanging in s.p.a.ce over the edge of the cliff. The tailgate flopped down to the ground and another group of replacements came tumbling out, wondering where to run. They were followed by Jancowitz, who was wearing crisp new camouflage utilities and a red silk scarf that smelled of perfume. He was holding a case of canned steaks.

'I heard you guys might be hungry,' he said.

Mellas could have kissed him but started stabbing at one of the cans with his K-bar instead.

The next day the choppers delivered hundreds of pounds of explosives, a tiny bulldozer, and three Marine engineers. It took the engineers several days to correct what the Marines of Bravo Company had thought was the mistake of selecting Sky Cap for an artillery base. What they didn't know was that long ago General Neitzel had figured out that he had the raw power to make the crooked places straight and would put his Marines where he wanted, not where nature would have allowed. The engineers simply blasted the top of the mountain down with plastic explosive and dynamite until it became wide enough to do the job.

The normal backbreaking routine of providing security for a fire support base was resumed. The long hungry march, now dubbed the Trail of Tears Op, faded into the past. Days were filled with the nerve-racking tedium of patrols and nighttime listening posts, the stupefying work of laying barbed wire, hacking out fields of fire with K-bars, digging holes, improving positions, eating, s.h.i.+tting, drinking, p.i.s.sing, nodding off, trying to stay awake. Still, it beat humping.

Sometimes Mellas would find time to sit alone at the edge of the cliff. On days when the peak was out of the clouds, he would look into North Vietnam. Black clouds moved slowly before him at eye level. Far below, he could see the jungle-covered impression of a small river that surely joined the Ben Hai River to the north. Along the way it gathered the rainfall from Sky Cap and Tiger Tooth, the huge mountain that towered above them to the southeast.

Because it took so long for security patrols to get off Sky Cap and back up, they didn't have time to cover the distance needed to reach the river, but its possibilities excited Mellas. Its winding path had the fascination of a deadly snake. Days pa.s.sed, and Mellas kept coming back to the cliff's edge to stare at the river valley and daydream of glory and recognition. Then one evening he knew what he wanted to do.

Fitch was bantering with Pallack and Relsnik in soft whispers when Mellas poked his head inside the dripping ponchos. It was too dark to see anyone.

'I've got an idea, Jim,' he said.

Fitch's voice came out of the dark. 'OK. What?'

'You know the blue line just north of here that hits the Ben Hai?'

'Yeah,' Fitch said uncertainly.

'Nagoolian's got to have all sorts of trails there. He had to in order to supply the attack on Con Thien last year. If they ever want to get Quang Tri, other than come right across the Z in tanks and get f.u.c.ked up by Navy air and Army tanks and artillery, they've only got two alternatives: hold Mutter's Ridge, which means resupply via the trails along the Ben Hai, or kick us out of Vandy and the Rock Pile, barrel-a.s.s down Route 9, hit Cam Lo, and take Quang Tri from the west.'

'Mellas,' Fitch asked patiently, 'what do you want?'

'I think we ought to recon that valley. It's like a warehouse next to a freeway.'

'The Ben Hai's no f.u.c.king freeway, sir,' Relsnik said quietly.

'But it's got gook tollbooths every f.u.c.king klick,' Pallack chimed in, 'and dey ain't asking for no quarters either.'

'I don't plan on going down the Ben Hai,' Mellas said. He turned toward Fitch's voice. 'It provides a good screening action in case someone's coming up the valley to hit us.'

'Yeah, you'd be d' f.u.c.king screen, holes all over you,' Pallack said.

Fitch was silent.

'It wouldn't hurt to show battalion we're taking some initiative,' Mellas added.

After another long silence Fitch said, 'OK. You got people crazy enough to go with you, be my guest. Take Daniels if he wants to go. How long you want to be out?'

'I figure three days.'

Mellas dug out his map, and Fitch switched on his flashlight. Faint red light illuminated the interior of the hooch. Mellas saw Pallack and Relsnik curled up next to their radios in their poncho liners.

The next morning First Platoon had palace guard while squads from Second and Third platoons went out on security patrols. Security outposts disappeared into the jungle on the south side of the mountain or set up with binoculars on the cliff faces. Work parties were formed to lay more wire, burn garbage, and dig larger latrines. Mellas asked for volunteers. As he expected, almost everyone preferred the work parties. Also as expected, Vancouver was the first to say he'd go. He talked Daniels into coming. Mellas had to send the word out again for an M-79 man. Eventually Gambaccini showed up, saying he was coming only because Ba.s.s had mentioned to him that it was his turn to volunteer. Fredrickson felt honor-bound to go along, since he was still the only platoon corpsman.

They all took four hours to sleep that afternoon. Then they blackened their hands and faces and tied down their equipment.

In the darkness it took more than three hours to reach the jungle floor, by rope most of the way. Vancouver took point with an M-16 rather than his M-60 so everybody's ammunition would be compatible. He was followed by Mellas. Next came Daniels with the radio and Gambaccini with the grenade launcher. Fredrickson took up the rear, walking nearly backward, his M-16 pointing into the blackness behind them.

They moved silently beneath towering trees that rustled in the dark above them. Eventually they reached the stream and made their way north alongside it. They used its sound both to guide them and to mask their movements.

Mellas's senses were keenly alive. A thrill surged up his spine. He felt wonderfully powerful and dangerous. Vancouver on point. Four combat-tried Marines. Daniels backed with a battery of howitzers. If the clouds broke, jets from Da Nang or possibly from carriers in the China Sea might show up to support them. They could even call in the Air Force's Puff the Magic Dragon with its fiery streams of 40-millimeter sh.e.l.ls from on high. He pictured his small team quietly stalking the enemy. A song from his college days rose in his memory, Ian and Sylvia, guitars driving, close harmony pus.h.i.+ng the wildness, singing about outlaws: They were armed. All were armed. Three MacLean boys and that wild Alex Hare. They were armed. All were armed. Three MacLean boys and that wild Alex Hare.

In the darkness Mellas could sense the stream slowing, indicating that the land had begun to broaden as they left the high peaks behind them. The underbrush also grew thicker, reducing their own already slow pace. Above, he could just make out the dark silhouettes of the huge trees against the barely perceptible lighter color of the cloudy night sky.

Suddenly Vancouver sank to one knee. Everyone quickly squatted, rifles outward in a.s.signed sectors.

'Trail,' Vancouver whispered.

Mellas moved forward in a low crouch. His hand felt packed mud. 'Take it,' he whispered.

The trail headed eastward, ever lower, and now they moved more rapidly away from Sky Cap. The trail was what Mellas had wanted. He'd been proved right. But it occurred to him that they might not be the only ones out tonight. He tried to force the nagging fear from his mind and concentrate on moving silently. Don't let water in the canteens slosh. Check the taped metal on the slings. Heel down, feel for anything that could make noise. Try to keep the breathing even. What would happen, he wondered, if they ran into a major unit? He'd stupidly a.s.sumed that only small units would be on the trails at night. But Vancouver would see the enemy first. They'd pull back in time. It would be easy to envelop the five of them, however. What if one of them was wounded?

Mellas forced himself to think more positively. They'd find a perfect ambush spot. The gooks would come down the trail, talking, unaware. Daniels would give the word and the artillery would erupt. They'd uncover intelligence that would alter the whole division's strategy or foil an attack on Quang Tri. A medal. A story in the newspaper back home. But what if they didn't get set up in time and met the gooners head-on? What if some of them were wounded and the rest couldn't run?

Something ahead snapped, and Mellas's heartbeat accelerated as the shadow of Vancouver sank quickly to the mud. Mellas went down on one knee, eyes straining. The wind moved softly through the jungle, bringing the smell of damp rot. It also rustled the trees, filling the air with a steady hiss. Trying to hear anything was maddening. The failure to hear could mean his death. The fear made his heart pound and his breathing shallow and more rapid, all in turn making it more difficult to hear. No one moved. Everyone was waiting for an order from Mellas.

Mellas wanted to look at his map. If he could see the contour lines of Hill 1609 drawn on the map, it would help him feel that it and the company were still really there. In this darkness, it was a dream. There was only this ground, this smell, this small group of humans. He slowly reached for his map. Then he realized he'd have to turn on his flashlight to see it. To appear to be doing something, he slid his compa.s.s up before his nose and opened the case. The pale green glow of the needle's tip swung drunkenly, then steadied, rocking slightly. Guilty anxiety struck him. What if the snap up ahead meant a group just like them, waiting to open up the minute there was more sound? He silently closed the compa.s.s case. What good did a f.u.c.king compa.s.s do if you couldn't see where you were? He felt a hand tap his boot. 'I don't think it was nothing, Lieutenant,' Vancouver whispered.

Mellas knew he'd have to either move forward or decide clearly that this was the enemy and pull back into a hasty defensive circle. He also knew he could not do the latter without looking foolish. Another part of him finally took command and he whispered, 'Let's go.'

They rose to their feet. Carefully, they stepped forward. Heel down. Feel for something solid. Toe. Lift heel. Next foot. Heel down. Feel for loose sticks. Toe. Lift heel. They all moved the same way. Quietly. Slowly. The march of the reconnaissance team.

This march was not in four-four time. There was no time. There was forever. Trees creaked unseen above them. Direction became meaningless. The compa.s.s needle pointed only to darkness.

The flashes from the muzzle of Vancouver's M-16 seared their eyes. Ghostly trees stood silhouetted, exposed, as if by flashbulbs. Grotesque shadows leaped into being and died as everything went black again. Green spots plagued their night vision, the explosions echoing and reechoing in their ears.

Mellas had glimpsed the grimace of pain and fear on an NVA soldier's face.