The mood on the landing zone at the battalion CP was different. Lieutenant Colonel Simpson had opened a second bottle of Wild Turkey and was generously passing out shots to the pared-down staff that had come up the hill with him.
"I smell 'em, goddamn it," Simpson said, pouring Blakely and Stevens another shot. "I smell 'em." Light from the hissing Coleman lanterns flickered against the walls of the bunker, casting the shadows of the five officers huddled around the C-ration boxes that served as a low map table. Blakely took his bourbon neat, but Stevens didn't much like the stuff and mixed his with enough 7-Up to kill the taste. When the colonel started drinking, there was no clear stopping point until the colonel stopped drinking. Junior officers didn't stop first-that was protocol. Captain Bainford, the air liaison officer, and Captain Higgins, the intelligence officer, sat wearily on the ground with their backs against the bunker wall, not really in the group around the map. They were trying to stay awake. The battalion radio operators also had shots of whiskey-Simpson was certainly not unfair to enlisted men-but they kept their distance and were quiet, monitoring the desultory radio traffic of the night.
"Well, sir," Blakely mused aloud, "we got a compromise. Can't complain."
"By God, we can't, can we," Simpson said. "Two companies in the bush is better than none." He paused, took another quick drink, sighed, and smacked his lips. "Goddamn, that's good whiskey."
"Yes, sir," Blakely agreed, taking another, smaller sip of his own. He knew that if they did find something in the valley during the next few days, it would be very unlikely that General Neitzel could resist doing something about known enemy troops operating just north of them. Matterhorn anchored the west end of Mutter's Ridge, an avenue of attack into the populated lowlands. No matter how intensely he felt the political pressure that was diverting nearly the whole regiment to the Cam Lo operation, he'd have to respond. Blakely's mind drifted to an imaginary scene at division headquarters, where he was chief of staff, advising the general on the political complications and how they interacted with the strategic complications. He smiled at his daydream. Simpson was right. This damned Wild Turkey got smoother and smoother.
Blakely mentally reviewed the flip-flop plan again. Originally it had been easy. Continue the original mission with two companies in the valley snooping and pooping. Charlie flip-flops with Bravo on Matter-horn, and Alpha flip-flops with Delta on Eiger. Then comes the idea of the Cam Lo cluster fuck with everyone pulling back to VCB to get ready for that. So that plan had to be changed. Then comes Mulvaney's compromise with Simpson. So now Bravo and Delta are going out to the valley instead of to VCB. So that plan had to be changed. A question flickered in his mind. When was the last ration resupply for Delta on Eiger? It hadn't mattered before, because Delta was originally going back to VCB with everyone else. Then it occurred to him that with Charlie moving back to VCB instead of to Matterhorn, that left Golf Battery and battalion headquarters exposed, albeit just briefly, during the time of the flip-flop. This pushed the question of Delta's food supply out of his mind.
"Sir," he said to Simpson. "I'm just thinking about covering the battery. They'll be exposed without Bravo Company for a while until we get them moved back to VCB."
"What are we talking about? A couple of hours? Blakely, they're Marines. If the gooks are dumb enough to attack us, the battery'll hold them off, and instead of dropping Delta into the valley we'll drop 'em back here and kill gooks from both sides." He put his arm around Blakely's shoulders. "You're a hell of a staff officer, Blakely, but you're a worrywart." He took Blakely's glass and poured more Wild Turkey into it. "Now relax. That's an order." He handed a full glass to Blakely.
Blakely smiled at him and took it. "Can't disobey an order, sir."
"Goddamn right you can't."
Blakely took a drink. Damn, Simpson could sure pick a good whiskey. The glow was moving from his stomach through his arms and legs. He felt good. The battery did have only a small window of vulnerability during which it had to protect itself. He was being a worrywart-Simpson was right. For a brief moment Blakely wondered who was blowing the abandoned bunkers on Matterhorn, but just then the other officers broke into laughter. Simpson had pulled out another bottle of Wild Turkey from someplace and was grinning widely as he opened it. He's got to be just as tired as me, Blakely thought. The colonel was right about something else-Blakely should relax more. Besides, it would do nothing for his fitness reports if he looked like a stick-in-the-mud and got on Simpson's wrong side. No one liked stick-in-the-muds. Simpson needed him, too. Simpson had lots of guts; Silver Stars don't come easily in the Marine Corps. But Simpson wasn't up to handling the details. Of course, that's why Simpson had him. Blakely took another sip, savoring it. He had to hand it to the old man: Simpson could pick whiskey. It had been a fucking nightmare to get everything rescrewed around once Simpson got the word he could put two companies in the valley instead of taking the whole battalion into the flats. One small change, just one, and all that fucking food and ammunition, all set up to go one way, had to be turned around to go somewhere else. Good staff work was complicated. Blakely's mind wandered; he was half-listening to the jokes and stories of the other officers. He wished he were home. He wished he were asleep. He slugged the rest of the whiskey. What was wrong with relaxing when he could? If everyone was getting drunk before the Cam Lo operation kicked off, why be left behind? You want to be seen as a team player.
Before first light, Bravo Company assembled in heli teams at the LZ. The kids, fully loaded, heavy, encumbered, crouched in a single line that stretched below the crest of the hill, waiting for the choppers to come with the daylight. The artillerymen went about their business of packing up their gear, stepping between and sometimes over the infantrymen sitting on the ground. Some looked at the infantrymen curiously, but most tried to ignore them, not wanting to be caught up in their fate.
When Vancouver strolled across the LZ in the predawn semi-darkness, however, even the studied indifference of the artillerymen was broken.
"Where the fuck did he come from?"
"A fucking movie. Didn't you know the Crotch was making a fucking movie out of this op?"
"They couldn't get John Wayne so they got him."
"Naww, fuck. They're shooting background for Huntley-Brinkley."
"Did you see what that mother was carrying? A fucking sawed-off M-60. Jesus Christ."
"He'd never be able to hit a thing with it. It's a bunch of gunjy bullshit."
"I don't know, man."
"It's bullshit. You couldn't control it."
"Who the fuck cares if you can control a fucking M-60?"
Mellas kept walking around to check each heli team, asking if everything was all right. He approached the last team, Bass's. Skosh was lying on the ground with his eyes half closed, a green towel wrapped around his neck.
"I guess we're all set, Sergeant Bass," Mellas said.
Bass looked at him. "I guess we are, Lieutenant."
Embarrassed by his obvious anxiety, Mellas walked over to where Goodwin lay on his back, eyes shut, head cradled in his helmet.
Mellas whispered, so the others wouldn't hear, "Hey, Scar."
Goodwin grunted.
"Did you pack any underwear?"
"Naw, shit, Jack. All it does is give you crotch rot."
"Yeah," Mellas whispered. He fingered the pale green T-shirt that his mother had dyed for him.
"How come you call everyone Jack?"
Goodwin opened his eyes and looked at him. "It's easier to remember their names that way."
"Oh," Mellas said. "Sure."
Goodwin closed his eyes again.
Mellas walked over to where Jackson was lying with his team. Jackson looked up at Mellas, craning his neck over his immense pack. His record player was tied on top with communication wire. "All set, Jackson?" Mellas asked for the third time.
"Yes sir." Jackson, with that nothing-to-hide look of his, held Mellas's eyes. Then he broke eye contact to look down the line of tired bodies in his squad. Mellas could see that everyone in the squad had cultivated a bored waiting-for-a-bus expression that concealed all emotions.
"Couldn't go without your sounds, huh?" Mellas asked.
"No sir. Not hardly."
"How much does it weigh?"
Cortell, the leader of the second fire team, who was sitting next to his friend Williams, chuckled. "Man," Cortell said, "you can't carry nothin' lighter than music."
Jackson flipped a thick middle finger in Cortell's direction. "Easy for you to say, you ain't carryin' it." He turned back to Mellas. "The suffering I endure so my men can have music, and Cortell makes light of it."
"Jesus make all your burdens light," Cortell said.
"Yeah, well he ain't here today, Preacher."
"Where two or more are gathered in his name, Jesus be there." Cortell was used to the banter about his Christianity and gave back as good as he received.
Mellas had caught Jackson's pun, and it made him feel more secure with Jackson as a squad leader. "Why didn't you get a little tape recorder?" he asked Jackson.
Jackson paused, thinking. "I guess I just like to see the record go around."
Mellas laughed but knew what Jackson meant. Somehow the cassette was foreign-Japanese-or futuristic. A forty-five record was probably as near to home as anyone could get in the jungle.
Corporal Arran walked by with Pat tagging just behind and to his right, obviously not on heel, sniffing at whatever was of interest to him, turning his head, panting happily in response to the various greetings of the Marines. He sniffed at Mellas's trouser leg, then trotted over to where Williams was sitting against his pack, his large rancher's hands cradling the back of his head. Williams sat up and reached out to tousle the dog's reddish ears, smiling, obviously pleased that Pat had singled him out. "I like dogs," he said to Mellas. "They seem to know it." He turned back to the dog, grabbed the loose skin on Pat's neck, and gently wagged the dog's head back and forth. "Hey, big fella. Hey. What you doing in Vietnam?" The dog licked Williams's hand and then his cheek and Williams giggled. "You don't know why you're here any more than me, do you, big guy?"
Arran gave a quick low whistle and Pat trotted off after him. Mellas continued down the line of Marines, stopping when he reached Pollini, who was retying his mortar rounds to the top of his pack. He reminded Mellas of a mouse busily trying to set things right in a cluttered nest.
Pollini looked up at him. "Hello, Lieutenant Mellas, sir." He had his big grin on. His face was smeared with grime.
"Pollini, don't you ever wash?" Mellas asked quietly.
Pollini reached a grimy hand to his face, rubbed it down his cheek, then looked at it, but of course the hand showed nothing new. His hands were the large ones of an old carpenter, with big yellow nails, yet his face under his mop of curly black hair looked like that of a choirboy who'd fallen in the mud. He looked up at Mellas, grinning again. "I washed this morning, sir, and shaved too."
Jackson had walked over, mild annoyance showing on his face because Pollini wasn't ready to go. "Shortround, you didn't shave this morning." Jackson said. "You ain't never shaved."
"I did too." Pollini stood up. "Ask Cortell." He turned to Mellas. "I did shave."
Jackson knelt down beside Pollini's mangled pack and started tightening wire and tying down objects. "Shortround, goddamn it," he said, pushing a wire into place. "Lieutenant, I swear he was all wired up about three minutes ago."
"I had to get a…" Pollini said.
Jackson stopped tying. "You had to get a what?"
"Just something."
"Shortround, you eating your food?"
Pollini grinned. Grinning was his main defense against all bigger and more competent people. "Well, just a can of peaches. I was on LP last night and missed breakfast."
"Why did you miss breakfast?" Jackson turned to Mellas. "I gave him twenty minutes while we were taking down our trip flares and claymores, sir."
"It's all right, Jackson." Mellas turned to Pollini. "You know you're going to need all the food you can carry. Why didn't you just go get some out of the boxes lying around the area?"
"I don't know, sir."
"You don't know because you're fucking stupid," Jackson said. "Now get your gear back together. Where are the peaches?"
Pollini dug into a large pocket. His size-small jungle utilities fit him like a clown suit. He pulled out the can and handed it to Jackson, who stuck it back in Pollini's jammed pack, angrily making room for it.
Pollini suddenly looked as though he was going to cry. "I'm not stupid," he said.
"You're fucking stupid," Jackson said.
"That's enough, Jackson," Mellas said.
He turned to Pollini. "Shortround, you're just going to have to learn to think about things. The choppers are due in about five minutes and here you are farting around and eating up your food besides."
"I didn't get any breakfast." Pollini was getting stubborn, his back to the wall.
Mellas felt his nerves, already jangling, begin to fray despite the enforced coolness. "Make sure he's ready to go, Jackson," he said, deciding it would be better to drop the subject. He walked away and settled back on the ground. He shut his eyes, hoping to look as if he'd gone to sleep. He gradually became aware of a plane droning overhead, lost above the clouds. He knew it was an airplane and not a helicopter because of the smoothness of the drone and the absence of the flat slapping thud a helicopter's rotors made against the air. He looked up from where he lay, seeing nothing, scanning the area where the sound was coming from with the interest of any bored person in a distraction. For a moment he caught a glimpse of a large plane, a quick leaden flash amid the cloud cover. Then it disappeared again. It seemed to be circling in lower. When it finally broke out of the cloud cover, it was far off to the northeast, over the valley into which they were to be dropped. It was a large propeller-driven aircraft.
"Looks like a transport plane," Mellas said to Hamilton. "What do you think he's doing?"
"Fucked if I know, sir." Hamilton didn't even bother to look. He was memorizing radio frequencies and codes.
The plane turned in a lazy circle, gaining altitude up above the ridgeline that extended from Matterhorn to Helicopter Hill and into the east. When it swung around again it was directly in line with the ridge, heading straight toward them. It kept coming. Quite a few people were watching it by now. A fine faint plume fell from behind it, a darker grayish silver cloud, hardly distinguishable from the overcast backdrop. The drone grew louder. The plane continued straight on. A few more Marines rose to their feet.
"What the hell?" said Mellas. He too stood up.
The plane roared overhead, its U.S. Air Force markings clearly visible, the sound of its four turboprops deafening. Within seconds they were enveloped in a chemical mist. People were coughing, wheezing, shouting obscenities. Mellas could see Fitch, tears running from his eyes, shouting over Relsnik's radio to battalion, demanding to know what was going on and trying to get battalion to stop it. The plane was dwindling into a speck to the southwest, climbing for altitude over the Laotian border until it was lost in the clouds. The only evidence of its passing was that the whole hill reeked, as if covered with mosquito repellent.
Hamilton raised an imaginary glass to the air. "Here's to the fucking Air Force."
Mellas, his eyes still tearing, walked over to where the company CP group was sitting. Fitch was holding on to the hook, clearly waiting for a reply from battalion. "I've got Bainford, the battalion forward air controller, on it," he said when Mellas got within speaking distance.
About a minute later the handset squawked and Mellas could hear a tinny voice saying, "It's a defoliant. We put an order in for it for tomorrow, but it looks like we got a fuckup someplace. Sorry about that. It won't hurt you. It's just to kill plants. It's called Agent Orange. It's so the trees won't give any shelter to the enemy. The Air Force has used it a lot, and it won't bother humans."
"Well, it bothers me," Mellas said loudly. Fitch ignored him.
"Roger that. Bravo Six out."
Fitch turned to Mellas. "You heard him-it's for killing plants. Zoomies. God damn them." Fitch kept muttering curses as he wiped his eyes.
Hawke walked up and handed Fitch his pear-can cup, steaming with coffee.
The sound of the birds coming in from the south finally broke the nervous lethargy. Mellas rushed into his gear, rechecking ammunition and weapons, then realized that Goodwin would be going in first and sat down again.
The first bird came in fast. Its roar filled the air and its blades lashed the puddles of water in the muddy clay. Goodwin rushed across the open ground with his heli team. He slapped their backs, counting them, as he moved them into the opening jaws of the chopper's rear. The tailgate closed and he was gone. Almost immediately a second bird flew in, and then a third. Mellas saw Sergeant Ridlow, his big .44 strapped to his hip, run across the LZ. Then Mellas too was running across the LZ, Hamilton scrambling beside him, his radio buried under all his other gear. Mellas counted his team into the bird. He gave a thumbs-up to the crew chief, and they were swallowed and sliding off into space, the chopper dropping down from the hilltop to pick up airspeed. Mellas had his compass out, continually checking directions so that when they hit the ground he'd be oriented immediately.
Off to their right the looming black ridgeline that had been their constant companion on the hill, and had required a full day's effort to reach, slid by in seconds. Below it were steep jungle-covered slopes carved by large streams. The jungle stopped when it hit the valley floor and elephant grass took over. The map was a confused series of contour lines. In several places the contour lines didn't even join-the mapmakers had given up.
The deck tilted and the pitch of the blades changed. The roar of the engine increased. Mellas's throat was throbbing again. The grass rushed up toward them, changing from its illusory smoothness to its ten-foot-tall reality. The chopper hit with a crash, throwing everyone back on his rear end. The doors opened and they scrambled out, hitting the mashed grass beneath their feet at a full run. Mellas immediately headed to the left and began placing everyone in his assigned place in the zone.
Nothing happened. Smiles broke out over rifle barrels pointing outward into the grass. A few minutes later Mellas saw Fitch and Hawke running across the LZ toward the Charlie Company CP group. Mellas walked over to join them. As he did, he saw that the kids of Charlie Company were nearly exhausted and their clothing, dark and wet, was clinging to their bodies. Their jungle rot was even worse than what Mellas had seen at Matterhorn.
Mellas saw a radioman and walked toward someone who was lying on the ground but looked like a platoon commander. He looked up at Mellas wearily. His face was wide and he had a short thick mustache. There was no way of identifying rank except by intuition, but this man seemed to be in charge. "Hello. I'm Lieutenant Mellas. First Platoon Bravo Company. You guys look tired."
The man scratched his ear and grimaced. He reached out a beefy hand. "I'm Jack Murphy. Charlie One. We died two days ago and I'm having post-death hallucinations about sitting on an LZ waiting to get out of this fucking place. This is Somerville." He indicated the radioman. "He's not really here either." Then Murphy's face twitched and his head gave a brief jerk. He seemed unaware of it, as did his radio operator.
"They fucking humped us to death," said Somerville.
"What's the terrain like?"
"Awful," Murphy said. Again there was the quick sideways jerk of the head and the facial twitch. "Fucking mountains. Cliffs. Covered in fucking clouds."
Mellas pretended not to see the tic. "Hard resupply, I suppose."
"No. It was easy."
"Oh?"
"There wasn't any."
"Oh." Mellas decided Jack Murphy didn't feel like talking. But Mellas wanted information. "I heard you got hit."
"Yeah."
"What happened?"
Murphy grunted and raised himself to a sitting position. He brought his pack up with him as if it were simply part of his body. Then he lurched to his feet. He was about two inches taller than Mellas. He pointed into the elephant grass, indicating something unseen. "Out over that way the country gets real steep, lots of fucking streams and shit. You got ropes?"
"Yeah. We carry one per squad."
"Good," Murphy said. "Well, about four days from here, maybe less if you follow where we went and risk getting ambushed, there's a steep fucking hill. The gooks have dug steps out of it, so they've obviously had plenty of time to prepare bunkers. The point man and one other started up and all shit broke loose. The gooks got both of them and two others."
"You get any?"
"Who the fuck knows?" Murphy told Mellas the story. They had been strung out along a river that ran just below a hill. The terrain wasn't suitable for goats. Under the cover of their M-79 grenade launchers, they pulled the bodies back and didn't go any farther. They had to build a landing zone quickly in order to get the wounded medevaced in time. They were socked in by the monsoon and there was no good place in that impossible terrain anyway, so they humped downhill as fast as they could to get out of the cloud cover. One more died on the way down.
Murphy suddenly sat down again, worn out. "Save your fucking food." He twitched two times.
"Thanks," Mellas said. Murphy only grunted in reply.
Mellas moved on. He joined Fitch and Hawke and someone he guessed was Charlie Six, Charlie Company's commanding officer. The man wore a battered pair of glasses with tape wrapped around them. His utilities were black with water and rotten elephant grass. They clung to his body. He kept glancing nervously at the sky.
"Mellas," Fitch greeted him, unfolding his map, "just who we want to see."
"Your enthusiasm is hardly contagious," Mellas answered. Fitch didn't smile.
Hawke broke in, imitating W. C. Fields, "My boy, you do learn fast."
Fitch laughed nervously.
The conversation with Murphy had left Mellas on edge, and the W. C. Fields imitation, a form of humor he had always considered lowbrow, grated on his nerves.
"Enough, Jayhawk," he said.
"Yes, sir."
Mellas immediately regretted having said anything.
Fitch, licking his lips nervously, was oblivious of the exchange. He pointed to the map that he had laid out on the ground, and they all knelt over it. "This is about where the ammo cache is," he said. "Captain Coates here figures it's about three days if we follow their trail and risk ambush. Four or five if we take the safer way up along the ridgeline here." He bit his lip, suddenly silent. Then he looked up at Mellas. "I want First Platoon on point. We're going to make our own trail so I need someone who's good with a map. Right now we've got to clear out of the LZ fast. The gooks are probably already setting up their mortars. Follow Charlie Company's trail until I say otherwise." He licked his lips. "Tell your point man that Alpha's coming down the fucking trail with a body so don't get trigger-happy." Fitch's voice trailed off, and he gazed uncertainly into the damp rustling elephant grass. Mellas could feel Fitch's uneasiness. It was his first major operation commanding the entire company.
Captain Coates was sound asleep, slumped on his pack next to his radio operator, who was also asleep.
Mellas felt a stirring of hope. Here were two company commanders, one unsure of himself, the other giving in to exhaustion, yet both had received commands. Then why not himself? He saw himself telling people back home he had commanded a company in action, 212 men. No, 212 Marines. He looked over at Hawke, feeling Hawke's presence as an impediment, knowing the company would go to Hawke and not himself unless a captain showed up when Fitch rotated, in which case it still wouldn't go to him. He simply needed more time.
Hawke, mistaking Mellas's look for a silent question, nodded toward the sleeping commander of Charlie Company and began to fill in Fitch's instructions. "Charlie Six could only describe the cache area. He couldn't actually locate it on the map, because the map's inaccurate. So where the battalion says it is ain't necessarily so. Coates says the map is a good six hundred meters off in some places. Tonight we're going to try to make an old gook base camp they found, up here." Hawke circled his finger around, indicating a broad area. "The jungle's so thick he wasn't sure exactly where he was, but it sounds like a good defensive position. Your first sign will be brush cuttings. Either that or you'll hit Charlie's trail from the uphill side. You start seeing signs, stop and give Jim a call and he'll come up and take a look. I'll be humping way in the rear with Staff Sergeant Samms." Mellas knew that Samms, Third Platoon's platoon sergeant, was regarded as competent. But Samms was saddled with Lieutenant Kendall's poor map-reading skills until they could get Kendall over his mandatory ninety days in the bush and get him back to his motor transportation unit.
"What about the Kit Carsons?" Mellas asked, referring to the scouts assigned to the company for the operation, former NVA soldiers who had deserted and taken better pay with the Americans.
"They're on fucking strike," Hawke said. "They'll just hump along with the CP group."
"You want me to pull out now?" Mellas asked.
Fitch came back to the present and told Mellas to take his platoon about 200 meters up Charlie's and Alpha's trail and then wait for the rest of the company to wind out of the landing zone. Mellas was surprised when Fitch told him that it took about half an hour for a company to snake single file out of a zone.
"Where you walking?" Hawke asked Mellas.
"Number five." The point man would lead, followed by the dog, Pat, and Corporal Arran; another rifleman and the squad leader were at positions three and four; and then came Mellas, followed by Hamilton and the radio.
"Good. I don't want the company going off on a fucking bear hunt because some squad leader can't read his compass. You'd better know where the fuck you are all the time."
"Yes, sir." Mellas said, smiling and trying to understand why Hawke was suddenly so testy.
"Just keep on your fucking toes." Hawke wasn't smiling. "And keep your fucking compass hidden when you check it. Man with a compass is a dead giveaway for a leader."
"Sure, Hawke."
Mellas rejoined the platoon. Everyone stood up, anxious to get out of the zone, feeling exposed to enemy mortars attracted by the helicopters. Bass and all three squad leaders pointed out with some passion that First Platoon had had point at the end of the last operation. Mellas stopped the argument by saying Fitch had ordered First Platoon on point because of the critical need to navigate to the NVA base camp. They all knew that with the possible exception of Daniels, Mellas was the best one with a map and compass and accepted their fate.
There was no argument among the squads that it was Conman's squad's turn to have point for the platoon. Vancouver was eating a package of Kool-Aid powder, waiting for the go-ahead. Everyone had given up trying to argue Vancouver out of taking point for the squad.
Mellas radioed Fitch. "Bravo Six, this is Bravo One. We're ready to roll. Just follow in trace of my Bugs Bunny Grape. Over."
"One, Bravo," Pallack answered. "Skipper says to make hat. Over."
"Roger. One out." Mellas looked at Vancouver and pointed into the elephant grass. Vancouver, who had purple smeared all around his mouth, took a last pull at the torn package and handed the remainder to Mellas. He chambered a round into his sawed-off machine gun and walked into the tall grass, following Charlie Company's path. Mellas looked at the package, purple powder smeared on the torn edges, wet from Vancouver's saliva. He shrugged, downed a mouthful, and made a face at Hamilton. "God, how do you stand this shit?" His eyes squinted at the tartness, and then he felt saliva gushing into his mouth. He shook his head and moved out, Hamilton following.
Almost immediately the hubbub of the landing zone was cut off from view and hearing. The tall grass whispered around them. Soon they passed Charlie Company's two-man outpost. One bedraggled kid called out, "I hope they don't hump you like they humped us."
"Me too," Mellas called back to him. "Here, I hate this flavor." He tossed the Bugs Bunny Grape to him and the kid smiled, holding it up in the air. Then he was lost to view.
There was no sun, just gray drizzle and the wet sighing elephant grass towering above them, its lower portions already rotting, making more soil to grow more elephant grass. As they twisted and turned along the trail of smashed grass, Mellas continually checked his compass. He kept it close to his hip.
Bass, with the tail-end squad, radioed that he was just now passing Charlie's outpost. Mellas was both surprised and disconcerted by how slowly they must be going, and the platoon was less than a third of the company. He went on farther, trying to estimate how far he'd have to go in order to put enough trail behind him to accommodate the entire company. Eventually he told Connolly to stop. Word passed up to Vancouver, who was on point, and Mellas motioned everyone down, alternating directions inboard-outboard to watch both sides of the trail. He waited for Fitch's word that the company had gotten its tail out of the zone and he could move forward again. He felt isolated, seeing only one person on the trail ahead of him and no one behind him because of the elephant grass, taking it on faith that the company was indeed still there. The drizzling rain and the wet elephant grass soaked his clothes through.
The radio hissed faintly. "Move it. Over."
"Roger. Moving," Hamilton answered. "Out." Hamilton motioned to Connolly, and everyone climbed to his feet without any word from Mellas. A good radioman and squad leader functioned without the need of a lieutenant, and Hamilton and Connolly had been together for months. Mellas was occupied with a leech he'd picked up. He kept kicking at his left leg with his right foot, hoping to kill it or knock it off without having to stop and squeeze insect repellent on it.
The company jerked forward, the radio alternately telling it to stop and go. It moved like an inchworm, slowly building up a contraction somewhere in the middle, then slowly stretching out until one kid lost sight of another. Word would then pass forward or back to the nearest radio. "Break in the column." Then the radioman would call forward to the point platoon: "Hold it. We lost you." Everyone would stop. People would fume.
Then the whole rear of the column would pile up on the kids who were stopped. Word would pass up and down until it reached a radio. "We're back in contact." Then the front of the inchworm would move blindly off. Slowly each part would feel the tug of the one in front of it and each Marine would start walking again, boots barely lifted from the mud of the trail, steps short and slow. Meanwhile the back would still be piling up and stopping. By the time the back of the column would get unpiled and moving, there would be another break in the front.
"Bravo One, Bravo." The radio's curt message ended in a burst of static as Pallack's transmitter key was let up. "Alpha figures dey're four hundred to five hundred meters from d' zone, so you ought to be close. Over."
"Roger. Bravo One out."
Hamilton looked at Mellas. In the silence of the elephant grass Mellas had heard the entire conversation, even though Hamilton was the one using the handset. Mellas nodded and moved up behind Connolly, who was at number four. "Alpha's close," he whispered. Connolly passed the word up to Corporal Arran, who was walking with a much-coveted twelve-gauge shotgun at the ready next to Pat. Vancouver, who was in front of Pat and Arran, was completely out of sight in the narrow twisting confines of the muddy trail.
Everyone grew tenser. There was only a split second to decide whether the slight movement on the trail in front was friendly or unfriendly. Deciding wrong could mean death, or the death of a fellow Marine in the approaching unit.
The company pressed on in the tunnel of grass, the sky visible only directly above them, the light poor. Vancouver scarcely dared breathe. Pat moved his red-brown ears nervously, sensing the Marines' tenseness. Suddenly Pat's silvery-white hair stood up, his tail went rigid, his nose pointed, and his red ears were angled forward. Mellas motioned everyone down. Silently, the column sank into the grass. Vancouver lay down next to the trail, his gun pointed to where the trail turned a corner. Everyone waited to see whether a Marine or an NVA soldier would come around the corner. Soon the fire team on point heard the sound of someone slipping in the mud. Then a few more footsteps. Then there was an eerie silence. No movement. No sound.
Connolly, eyebrows raised, turned to look at Mellas. Mellas nodded yes. Connolly whispered, "Hey, Alpha. This is Bravo here."
A voice whispered back, "Whoa, man. Am I glad to hear you." The voice rose to a soft speaking tone. "We're there. I just heard Bravo Company." Alpha's point man emerged cautiously around the corner of the trail, crouched low to the ground, eyes darting. Vancouver raised his hand, and the kid relaxed. He pushed his rifle's selector switch off full automatic. He was drawn, and the jungle rot on his face was very bad. He didn't smile as he shuffled past the quiet Marines from Bravo Company. Soon another kid emerged around the bend, then another. Eventually a radio operator came along. With him was a tall, thin, young-looking lieutenant, his camouflage utilities clinging to his body. He was trembling with early-stage hypothermia. He stopped in front of Mellas and let his platoon go by.
"Charlie in the zone still?" His voice was hoarse, weary.
"Some were when we left," Mellas answered. "They may have all flip-flopped back to VCB by now. I didn't hear any more birds come in."
"They probably forgot we're still here. Shit. First they tell us Charlie's going to Matterhorn and we're going to Eiger. Then we heard everyone was going to VCB. Some fucking cluster fuck around Cam Lo. Now the word is we're going to Eiger again. Fucked if I can keep up. Hey, you know that fucking Irishman, Jack Murphy?"
"Just met him."
"He owes me fifty bucks' worth of bourbon. He said there was no way we could get fucked over worse than on the DMZ operation. You got a cigarette?"
"No, sorry."
Hamilton casually pulled out his own plastic container, opened the lid, and offered both the lieutenant and his radioman a cigarette. Their hands shook as they gratefully lit up. Mellas was appalled at the lack of security. A person could smell cigarette smoke for miles. The tall lieutenant blew a large cloud and sighed. He turned to one of the weary figures going by. "Who's got the fucking stiff?"
"I don't know, sir."
"Shit." He turned to Mellas. Clearly close to a collapse, he took another long draw on his cigarette. "We haven't eaten in four days." It was a flat sincere statement. Just then, around the bend in the trail came four Marines. They carried a heavy burden slung between them in a poncho hanging from two poles. One kid looked angry; the other three seemed to be in a daze, faces drawn, wet, muddy. A white, slightly puffy arm stuck up into the air from the poncho. The bearers dumped their load on the ground, breathing hard. With the poles on the ground, the poncho lay open between them, exposing a naked corpse. The angry-looking Marine spat out his words between harsh breaths.
"How much farther, Lieutenant?"
He directed the words at the tall lieutenant, but Mellas answered.
"About six hundred meters."
"Six hundred! Fuck me in the mouth. Why don't we just hump him to VCB? Dumb cocksuckers."
"Cool down," the tall lieutenant said wearily.
"They killed him, Lieutenant. They fucking humped him to death and you want me to calm down. Well, fuck you." The kid's neck showed rows of taut cords. The lieutenant handed him his cigarette, not saying anything. "Thanks," the kid said. He sat down and took a deep draw while the other members of the company stepped over him and the body; then he handed the cigarette to one of the men with him. Mellas kept staring at the body, pale and bloated against the dark mud of the trail.
"How did he die?" Mellas asked.
"Officially, it's pneumonia," the lieutenant answered. "Couldn't get him medevaced. No birds."
"Bullshit. They humped him to death." The kid said it softly.
"Pneumonia. Jesus." Mellas whistled under his breath. "And you couldn't get him out? Doesn't make sense."
"No fucking shit, doesn't make sense." The lieutenant gently toed the body. "He was a good fucking kid, too. The squid hasn't a clue. All we know is his temperature shot up over a hundred six and he started screaming. We took all his clothes off to get it down. Didn't work. We'd called for an emergency medevac when it hit a hundred four. Doc thought it was flu or something. Battalion said it wasn't an emergency." He snickered, nearly losing control. "I guess we were right."
He turned to the angry kid who was finishing the cigarette. "Who's supposed to take over?"
"Maki's team."
"OK. Leave him here. I'll tell Maki to pick him up."
The kid rounded up his fire team and they trudged down the trail. Another team arrived, slung their rifles over their backs against their packs, and picked up the two poles. They struggled down the trail, the swaying body pulling them off balance.
"Thanks for the cigarette," the tall lieutenant said to Hamilton.
"It's OK, sir."
He turned and walked down the trail, his radioman following. Mellas looked at Hamilton, who was watching them disappear. Tired kids continued to file past.
"Jesus," Mellas said.
"There it is, sir," Hamilton answered.
Mellas's insides were humming. A soft wind snaked its way through the grass, turning his wet clothing cold.
