Matterhorn_ A Novel of the Vietnam War Part 41

'So if white people leave you alone,' Mellas said, 'where's that going to leave you guys? White people do control our society. Rich white people in fact.'

'Yeah,' Jackson said, 'and rich n.i.g.g.e.rs, too. Look who's fighting this f.u.c.king war: poor white and poor black. And the occasional G.o.dd.a.m.ned fool like you, begging the lieutenant's pardon.' He paused and his eyes went to the jungle below them. Mellas let him think. Then Jackson turned to him. 'We've got to handle our own problems,' he said. 'All you got to do is start treating us like everyone else. It's as simple as that. We don't need nothing special. Oh, yeah, we got people who are going to f.u.c.k us up. f.u.c.k us up good. They'll be p.i.s.sed off and throwing s.h.i.+t around and smas.h.i.+ng things. And you got 'em too. Look at f.u.c.king Ca.s.sidy. But we don't need any special f.u.c.king help. We're people. Just treat us like people. We're no dumber than you and we're no smarter.' He looked over at Mellas. 'Although we do do better music.'

Mellas laughed.

'Let us solve our problems the same way everyone else does,' Jackson went on. 'We might even make some mistakes. We're people, Lieutenant, just like you.' Then he made a fist and held it out to Mellas. 'We're just treated different.' He was nodding in encouragement. Mellas smiled and tapped Jackson's fist with his own, and once again they went through the hand dance. Mellas still did it awkwardly, but he laughed with pleasure.

Two rockets lashed out of the jungle, sending everyone deep into his hole. Goodwin radioed in, reporting one more wounded.

Daniels brought an artillery mission cras.h.i.+ng in from a 155-millimeter howitzer battery. Beautiful rolling volleys of sound washed over them from the jungle. Mellas grunted in satisfaction. He hadn't known that the 155s had been moved within range. 'At least they're finally doing something for us n.i.g.g.e.rs,' he said.

Stevens and Hawke had been up all night pus.h.i.+ng staff from various organizations to move a 105 battery to FSB Eiger about ten kilometers southeast of Matterhorn. It was at extreme range to support Bravo Company, but it could cover the companies moving to Bravo's aid from the south and east. They also talked the regimental staff into moving two 155s there. It was these two 155s that Daniels was directing. They'd wanted to move a 105 battery to Sky Cap, but that move was made impossible by the same fog that prevented all helicopter flights to Helicopter Hill. Eiger, at least 2,500 feet lower than Sky Cap, however, was clear of clouds and building ammunition and other supplies rapidly.

Simpson and Blakely hovered over the shoulders of the radio operators, leaping on every report that came in from Alpha and Charlie companies. They were moving at an agonizingly slow pace. 'If they don't get their a.s.ses in gear, Three Twenty-Four will beat us to it,' Simpson muttered grimly. 'How are the replacements doing?'

'They're on the LZ, sir. Everything's standing by.'

On the edge of the muddy landing zone at Vandegrift Combat Base, every new replacement who had come into the battalion was waiting in the slow drizzle. Cardboard boxes, each containing four gla.s.s containers of IV fluid in a protective wood carton, were stacked next to the kids, along with boxes of ammunition and C-rations, all covered with rubberized canvas tarps to keep the cardboard from crumbling to mush in the rain. A small water tank on wheels also stood in the rain, wrapped in a cargo net that would be hooked to the underside of one of the choppers. Rumors that Bravo Company was getting slaughtered had grown enormously. The kids were pale with fear and cold, unable to eat.

At division headquarters at Dong Ha, Colonel Mulvaney was meeting with General Gregory Neitzel, commanding officer of the Fifth Marine Division; w.i.l.l.y White, commander of the Twenty-Second Marines, the artillery regiment; and Mike Harreschou, CO of Fifteenth Marines, another of the division's three infantry regiments. An aide walked in with a slip of paper. 'Excuse me sir,' he said. 'Mike Three Twenty-Four is in contact at 743571.' The aide didn't know the protocol: whether to hand the slip of paper to Mulvaney, whose company it was, or to the general.

Mulvaney spared him the decision by grabbing the paper from his hands. 'Unknown-size force. G.o.dd.a.m.n it.' He turned to the aide. 'I want an estimate of size as soon as you can get it.'

'Aye aye, sir.' The aide left.

The general and the artillery commander quickly moved to the large map on the wall. 'Right here, w.i.l.l.y,' the general said, his finger pointing to the coordinates. 'Just about where we figured. How's that battery at Smokey doing?'

'They ought to be ready to fire within the hour, sir.'

'Good.' General Neitzel turned to Mulvaney. 'Mike, what do you think?' he asked.

'It's our gook regiment, no doubt about it.' Mulvaney went to the map and with a thick finger pointed out the locations of enemy contact. There was Charlie Company's ambush incident just to the south of Matterhorn. Then there were two firefights with Lima and Alpha companies, and Mike Company was in a fight right now. All those fights formed an arc. Mulvaney completed the circle that the arc implied, roughly outlining the area that held the NVA regiment.

'w.i.l.l.y,' the general said, 'if I were to authorize your First Battalion to pile in a few more artillery pieces, could you put them to work anyplace?'

'Yes sir. If I can get some grunts for security. We could put a battery here on Hill 427, due south of Matterhorn. Eiger could support it, and vice versa, although I'd sure like to get something up on Sky Cap again.' He stopped short of mentioning the decision to abandon all of the artillery bases in the western mountains, like Sky Cap, in order to support the political operation in the flatlands. 'It's mighty close to the G.o.dd.a.m.ned Z, though, and I'd need good security. We'd need air or maybe counter battery from Red Devil to stop getting sh.e.l.led by the gook artillery across the Ben Hai.' Red Devil was the call sign of an Army eight-inch heavy artillery unit. 'Those gook hundred twenty-twos were designed as naval guns and they can reach us, but we can't reach them with our one-oh-fives.' He paused, stroking his chin. 'a.s.suming we get political clearance to fight back.'

Neitzel grimaced. 'I'll take care of that.'

Harreschou and Mulvaney exchanged a look.

'Maybe a battery of one five fives on Lookout,' White continued. 'They'd have the reach. That would take a little longer, though.'

'How long?'

'Tomorrow afternoon?'

'Tomorrow morning,' Neitzel insisted.

'I don't know, sir.'

'We'll get you extra lift capacity with some Army CH-47s out of Phu Bai.'

'We'll try it, sir. It's fast, but we'll go for it.'

'It's crucial,' Neitzel said. He walked to the map and went over the situation with them again, as if rea.s.suring himself about the strategy. The NVA had attacked from out of Laos with three regiments, along three separate corriders, taking advantage of the pullback from the far west that had been necessitated by the political operation at Cam Lo. They had also been encouraged by the fact that just before Christmas the Army's 101st Airborne Division had been pulled from the area completely because of fierce fighting in the central highlands. What they didn't know was that the 101st had just been ordered into the Au Shau Valley. That unit could move extremely fast, given its airlift capacity. That left the Fifth Marine Division handling the two northern thrusts: the central one in the Da Krong Valley and the northern one on Mutter's Ridge. Mulvaney's Twenty-Fourth Marine Regiment had the northernmost of the three NVA advance routes, by virtue of the fact that it was already there. His Second Battalion, Two Twenty-Four, with four rifle companies, was being moved into the valley north of Matterhorn. The NVA would not want to move north against a Marine battalion that was waiting for them. They'd push up against the Marines like water hitting a dam. They'd concentrate in front of that dam, making themselves vulnerable to artillery, which was indifferent to the weather once it was in place, and to Arc Light attacks out of Guam, whose B-52s flew well above the weather and dropped their bombs using radar. Simpson's three remaining companies of One Twenty-Four were moving into a mirror-image position on the south side of Matterhorn. That would stop the NVA from moving south, just as Two Twenty-Four would stop them from moving north. Third Battalion's Mike Company was already in contact with the NVA regiment, and Three Twenty-Four's remaining companies would be hitting the NVA within hours. This would stop any forward movement east along the ridgeline. The NVA would be forced to retreat west. But Bravo Company, sitting on Helicopter Hill, blocked the only easy route to the Laotian border.

Neitzel then looked at the situation from the enemy's point of view. The NVA needed to use the high ground of the ridge. Trying to move through the jungle in the valleys below the ridge would be a nightmare for any infantry unit. If the NVA commander didn't move fast enough, he risked getting cut off, or cut in two, by a pincer movement from the Marine battalions to his north and south. As long as the NVA commander felt safe from air strikes, he could stay on the ridge, holding the high ground, making the Marines pay dearly for every hill. But he too knew that weather changes. His best option had to be to overrun Bravo Company and clear it from his path. That would be a propaganda victory and would spread all over the newspapers in America, making the whole northern thrust a political success-and political and propaganda victories, not attrition, would win the war for the north. In addition, eliminating Bravo Company would give the NVA control of the western end of Mutter's Ridge, allowing an orderly withdrawal.

General Neitzel's problem was getting everything into place in time.

He turned to the other infantry commander. 'Harreschou, I want Fifteenth Marines to bottle them up in the Da Krong.'

Colonel Harreschou nodded, trying to imagine how he was going to turn the f.u.c.king regiment inside out to get it into position in the Da Krong before the NVA broke out onto the coastal plain. He bit his lower lip. The other two colonels were silent. 'OK, sir. You know as well as I do what that's going to take.'

'I know,' the general answered. 'Like I said, with the 101st involved we think we can get some of their lift capacity. I'll s.h.i.+ft our forty-sixes north to help out Mike and you get the Army forty-sevens.'

Harreschou grunted. The big Army CH-47s had much more lift capacity than the CH-46s of the Marines, which were built smaller and had folding rotor blades to fit on carriers. That meant they'd need fewer of them than the 46s, but what if none were available and Neitzel had the 46s committed to the north? Harreschou didn't ask what he should do in that case. There was no answer and, as usual, he knew the Marines would make it work.

Colonel White cleared his throat. 'I've got a lot of firebases hanging out there, Greg.'

'I know it, w.i.l.l.y, G.o.dd.a.m.n it.' Neitzel paused. The divison's other infantry regiment, the Nineteenth Marines, had just returned from an operation in the south. They were ragged and exhausted, but they could at least hold firebases, even if they had to split companies. The artillerymen themselves could fill in on the perimeters where there weren't enough infantrymen. On the other hand, with the gook regiments engaged, they wouldn't have enough capacity to also threaten very many firebases. 'You'll have grunts from Nineteenth Marines. They're pretty beat up, but they ought to be able to provide firebase security.'

White nodded.

Neitzel turned to look at Mulvaney. 'When Bravo took that ridge away from their advanced elements it really set the gooks up. That was good work, Mike.'

'Dumb luck, Greg,' Mulvaney replied. 'And I mean dumb.' The sarcasm wasn't wasted on Harreschou, who cast a quick glance at his old friend Mulvaney. They'd been together with First Division at Inchon. In fact, Mulvaney had served as Neitzel's Three when Neitzel had Two-Nine during the Laos cl.u.s.ter-f.u.c.k; that was why he wasn't afraid to risk a sarcastic comment. w.i.l.l.y White had been to Amphibious Warfare School with Neitzel, and both of them had been young officers on Saipan. The Marine Corps was small, and personal relations often helped cut through the usual bureaucratic behavior and chickens.h.i.+t that went with all military units, including the Corps.

'Luck, I'll grant you,' the general said, not picking up on Mulvaney's sarcasm. 'If Sweet Alice hadn't gotten into the s.h.i.+t we'd have never launched the Bald Eagle. Bravo would never have a.s.saulted the ridge. s.h.i.+t, Mike, I know you're worried about Bravo up there. Sure it's risky, but that's what the gooks don't expect of us. We've been too cautious. War is risky.'

He sat down in his stuffed leather chair and leaned back, looking at the operations map, his hands clasped behind his head. 'I don't think Nagoolian has the slightest f.u.c.king idea what we can deliver around that hill once we get these batteries s.h.i.+fted around. The whole f.u.c.king sky is going to fall on him.' He looked up at Mulvaney. 'Can Bravo hold?'

Mulvaney knew that Neitzel knew what was being asked. He also knew why. They were here to kill their country's enemies. If this worked, they were going to kill a lot of them. 'They'll hold,' he said.

Neitzel watched Mulvaney intently for a moment; then he stood and walked over to the map. 'Nagoolian thought he'd trapped a company,' he said to no one in particular. He planted a large fist on the map right over Matterhorn. 'We're about to trap a regiment.' He turned to face the three men. 'Let's just pray the bad weather and Bravo hold for one more day.'

While the paperwork and helicopters s.h.i.+fted artillery batteries, materiel, and tired Marines through leaden skies, First Lieutenant Theodore J. Hawke collapsed on his bunk in the BOQ tent. Exhausted as he was, he couldn't sleep. He went over in his mind the myriad of details. Nowhere could he find a spot where he could be of any use.

Hawke sat up suddenly. Stevens, who was unlacing his boots and about to pa.s.s out, looked at Hawke, puzzled, but said nothing. Hawke began to drag equipment out from beneath his bunk.

'What the f.u.c.k you doing?' Stevens asked, yawning. He sat there with a boot in one hand.

'Packing.'

'What for?'

'It's like the nesting instinct. I get it once a month.'

'Be that way,' Stevens said. He dropped his boot to the floor and lay back with a sigh. 'My aching f.u.c.king feet,' he moaned.

Hawke smiled as he began to put on his old bleached-out jungle boots. He picked up his .45, which had been lying on the floor in its holster and was already rusting. He looked at it disgustedly. He took it out and worked the action, then snorted. From the sound of it, there would be plenty of spare rifles. He slung on his cartridge belt with its canteens and belt suspenders and reached for his helmet and flak jacket. He carefully rolled his old stateside utility cover and put it in one of the voluminous pockets on the sides of his trousers. He attached his pear-can cup to the outside of his pack.

Stevens sat up. 'You're not going up on the hill, are you?' he asked. Hawke was stuffing his poncho liner into his pack and didn't bother answering. 'What will the Three say? I mean, did you clear it with him? Leaving your post without permission is serious s.h.i.+t, Hawke.'

'Stevens, the Three needs a Three Zulu like a f.u.c.king satyr needs a d.i.l.d.o. There's two boot lieutenants up there and zero staff. Count them: zero. And a f.u.c.king herd of newbies scared s.h.i.+tless down here at the LZ. Besides, I already asked the Three.'

'Jesus,' Stevens said, obviously surprised. 'Hard to believe he let you go.'

'He didn't.'

Hawke walked out the door into the rain. He trudged down the muddy road toward the landing zone, feeling the familiar weight of the pack, the rain beginning to seep into his clothing, the mud and water squeezing in through the metal eyelets in his boots, making his socks wet. Mulvaney could keep his f.u.c.king company, he thought sadly and bitterly. There was only one company as far as he was concerned, and it was being destroyed while he did nothing but watch.

The feeling of action lasted the ten minutes it took Hawke to get down to the large LZ. Two CH-46 twin-bladed helicopters sat side by side on the airstrip, their fuselages scarred and pockmarked from hard use, their long rotor blades drooping in the rain. They looked abandoned. On the ground nearby were about forty replacements, huddled miserably beneath their ponchos.

Hawke could barely see across the little airfield. The clouds were so low to the ground that the rain seemed to materialize in the air around their heads. He realized that a chopper couldn't even find this this airfield, much less Bravo Company, more than 3,000 feet higher in the mountains. And in five hours it would be dark. airfield, much less Bravo Company, more than 3,000 feet higher in the mountains. And in five hours it would be dark.

He sat in the mud, knees pulled up beneath his poncho, and wondered what he'd just done. He was disobeying a direct order, throwing away a career, to sit helplessly on this f.u.c.king piece of wet earth. He pulled his poncho tighter around his neck.

After about ten minutes he realized that two pairs of very black, very new boots were standing in front of him. He looked up. Two kids were s.h.i.+fting their weight back and forth, uncertain about the protocol of interrupting what was obviously a bush Marine in what was obviously an attempt to enter oblivion.

'You with Bravo Company?' one of them finally asked.

Hawke contemplated them quietly, noting how well-fed they looked. Finally he said, 'Can either of you think of any other f.u.c.king reason why someone would be sitting here in the rain?'

That brought two tentative smiles.

Then Hawke noticed something. 'You got any machine-gun ammo someplace?'

One of the kids said, surprised, 'No. I'm an oh-three-eleven,' referring to the military occupational specialty code of a Marine rifleman rather than the code of a machine gunner.

'I don't give a f.u.c.k if you're a G.o.dd.a.m.ned nuclear weapons expert. Did anyone give you any f.u.c.king machine-gun ammunition to carry?' Hawke was no longer lethargic.

'Uh, no, uh-'

'Lieutenant,' Hawke filled in for him.

'Sorry, sir. I didn't know. I just-'

'Who's in charge of this cl.u.s.ter-f.u.c.k?'

'Uh, I am, sir. There's none of us above PFC, but I shot expert at Pendleton, so the guy with the radio-the one that has Sh.o.r.e Party on his sweats.h.i.+rt-he put me in charge.'

'You're through being in charge.'

'Yes sir.'

'From now on you will be known as Jayhawk Zulu.'

'Uh, yes sir. Jayhawk Zulu.'

'Can you find the battalion COC bunker?'

'I think so, sir.'

'I want you to find a staff sergeant named Ca.s.sidy. You tell him the Jayhawk wants him down on the LZ as soon as he can get here with as much machine-gun ammunition as forty very well-fed boot motherf.u.c.kers straight out of ITR can carry.' He paused. 'And I mean barely barely carry. He'll do the interpreting.' carry. He'll do the interpreting.'

The kid started to leave, but Hawke stopped him.

'And a hundred sixty canteens full of water.'

'One hundred and sixty, sir?'

'Do I have to do the f.u.c.king math for you? Four times forty. OK? Counting the two everyone has on now, that's only six each.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

'If you don't get Ca.s.sidy here before this fog lifts, I'll kick your boot a.s.s into Laos.' He smiled at the kid and then gave him the curled talons sign and roared out, 'Hawk power!' The kid gave his friend a quick glance and ran for the COC.

Within an hour Ca.s.sidy had joined Hawke at the LZ and every replacement was laden with machine-gun ammunition and water to the point where he could barely move. Hawke or Ca.s.sidy would walk up to each one and have him jump up and down. If the kid looked too lively they'd throw another belt of ammo across his shoulders until his knees were just short of buckling. Then Ca.s.sidy left and they were all sitting in the mud again, covered with ammunition and canteens.

'Don't f.u.c.king worry,' Hawke joked with them. He began to speak in a sonorous monotone. 'Come unto me all you who are burdened and heavy laden.' Smiles appeared. He quickly turned on them. 'But I ain't giving you f.u.c.king sinners any rest.' He turned to one of the replacements who had cracked a smile. 'You think I'm f.u.c.king Jesus or something? Do I look like Jesus to you?'

'Uh, no sir,' the kid said. But others were now also trying to hide smiles.

'Maybe you think I look like the Virgin Mary?'

'No, sir. Not even-no, sir!'

'Not even a little bit?'

'No, sir,' the kid roared out.

's.h.i.+t. And I even shaved this morning.'

Smiles were breaking out.

Then Hawke turned serious. 'You'll be relieved of all your burdens, believe me. All you have to do is make it from the back of the chopper to someone's hole. I don't think you'll find that too difficult under the circ.u.mstances.'

As usual, the combination of Hawke's sarcastic Boston tw.a.n.g and his natural empathy had the crowd well in hand. He kept staring out beyond the airstrip, however, looking for a break in the weather.

He saw a break at about 1500. The constant rain let up, and soon he saw the base of the hills, about a kilometer from the airstrip. He stood up, ran over to the CH-46s that sat at the runway's edge, and roused a crew member who was asleep inside.

It took him a few minutes to persuade the man to call the pilots. At one point the man asked Hawke who the f.u.c.k he thought he was.

'I'm Captain Theodore Hawke, Twenty-Fourth Regiment a.s.sistant operations officer,' Hawke lied, 'and G.o.dd.a.m.n it, if you don't get some f.u.c.king pilots in these birds ASAP I'm going to have you and them standing tall in front of Colonel Mulvaney explaining why they let one of his companies get overrun because they wouldn't fly in some ammunition when we requested it.'

'Yes, sir,' the crewman answered. By this time several other crewmen had shown up and were watching the scene silently. 'I don't know the call sign for the O-club, sir.'