He noticed the purple liquid on his hand as he tried to wipe his eyes clean. I told you I hate fucking Bugs Bunny Grape, he said.
Jackson was looking up the hill. His eyes opened wide. Oh, fuck, he whispered. Chi-comm! A third grenade came bounding down the hill. Jackson and Jacobs pulled Mellas with them, tripping over each other. They hit the dirt as the grenade exploded. A sudden concussion hit them. There was a puff of dirty smoke, and then the smell.
They started to scramble back up toward the hole. Jackson pulled out a grenade and flipped it in a hook shot, arching it over the edge of the lip in front of the hole. It exploded.
They waited a moment. Mellass head finally cleared.
Again a deadly black canister came sailing over the lip in reply, and the three of them scrambled for safety. Jacobs started parallel to the hill but slipped. He clawed at the steep slope to try to stop his downward momentum. The grenade was sliding down the hill with him. Jacobs cried out in frustration and terror. His fingers raked the muddy clay; his boots churned against the embankment. His eyes grew wide. I cant f-fucking st-stop! he cried.
The grenade went off. Mellas and Jackson both turned their faces to the earth. When they turned around again, half of Jacobss neck was laid open by the shrapnel. They ran down the hill, grabbed him by his shirt and web belt, and dragged him sideways to a tiny depression in the ground, hoping it would give them shelter. Blood was spurting from Jacobss throat. He was trying to stop it with his hands. Mellas pushed them aside and put his own hand into the long narrow hole, feeling the warm throbbing of the blood, the tiny bubbles of air escaping from Jacobss lungs. Jacobs could make no sound. Only his eyes could express the terror of that last moment.
Mellas cried out and shoved his filthy fist hard against the severed carotid artery, trying to stanch the blood. Then the light went from Jacobss eyes and the terror vanished. Mellas rolled away from him. He looked at Jackson in bewilderment and anguish. Blood dripped from his hand. Jake? Jake? he said, questioning, accusing, grieving.
Another chi-comm rolled down the hill. They threw themselves to the ground, and the grenade exploded. They were still alive, for no particular reason. Jackson went yelling up the hill, the heavy radio, seemingly forgotten, on his back. He had a grenade in his right hand and a rifle in the left. Mellas, with sudden clarity, saw the solution. One of them should not duck. He ran to Jacksons left. Jackson hurled the grenade with a moaned curse, then hit the dirt, waiting for it to explode. Mellas did not hit the dirt. He kept running. The grenade went off. Mellas felt invulnerable to it. As the smoke cleared, Mellas threw himself to the ground just at the edge of the lip. A young North Vietnamese soldier pushed his head out of the hole. There was another kid with him, but that one was slumped, inert, against the back wall of the hole. The young NVA soldier pulled another grenade. He cocked his arm back to throw it. Then he saw Mellass bloodied, blackened face and the rifle pointed squarely at him.
Mellas watched the young mans face change from determination to horror to resignation. Still Mellas did not pull the trigger. Just dont throw the fucking thing, he whispered, knowing the young North Vietnamese soldier could not hear or understand him. Just dont throw the fucking thing and I wont shoot. Just give up. But Mellas saw hatred fill the young mans face. That hatred had kept him in his hole, fighting, beyond any possible hope of survival. And even now, Mellas thought, the kid must have guessed that if he didnt throw the grenade Mellas wasnt going to shoot. But he threw the grenade anyway, his lips curling back from his teeth.
Fuck you, then, Mellas thought bitterly as the grenade sailed toward him. He pulled the trigger and the M-16 responded on full automatic. The bullets ripped through the kids chest and face, blowing the backs of his lungs and brain out. Mellas put his head down on top of his rifle and moaned, I told you not to throw it, you fucking asshole. The grenade exploded, scattering shrapnel all along Mellass left side. He was still wearing two flak jackets, so only his buttocks and legs took the jagged metal.
Jackson found him there, still lying on top of his rifle, a few seconds later.
You all right, Lieutenant?
Mellas nodded. He painfully rose to a half crouch, using his rifle to push himself up. Marines were gathering beneath the lip of the landing zone. All that remained to be dealt with were a few isolated holes on top, where small groups of North Vietnamese had taken cover.
Theyre running! he heard someone shout. Theyre fucking running!
At last.
His eye felt as if a nail were being hammered into it. His legs were burning. He limped up to the two dead North Vietnamese soldiers who had been throwing grenades at them. They looked about fifteen or sixteen years old. He poked one with his rifle and there was a movement, a twitch. He pulled the trigger, forgetting that he still had his M-16 on automatic, and fired three bullets through the kids head before he could stop.
His rage was gone, and in its place was an inert, sick weariness. Mellas now knew, with utter certainty, that the North Vietnamese would never quit. They would continue the war until they were annihilated, and he did not have the will to do what that would require. He stood there, looking at the waste.
Below the west ridge, Hamiltons work was just beginning. Theyre coming off the hill, he shouted. Goddamn it, hurry. Lets go! He and Mole emerged from the jungle onto the defoliated ridge. They threw themselves down, and the rest of the squad scrambled to join them. Hamilton was pointing excitedly at a small group of figures who were trotting in an orderly fashion off Matterhorn. Mole set the bipod of the gun down on the earth. His A gunner crawled next to him holding the long belt of bright copper bullets away from the feeder assembly. Mole began to fire. Two of the figures went down. The others scattered.
Were getting some, Lieutenant, Hamilton said happily over the radio. He saw a small hillock just in front of them. He tapped Mole on the shoulder. It would be a perfect place to command the entire finger. He stood up and ran, the radio on his back. Mole started after him.
A rocket-propelled grenade slashed violently out of the jungle where the NVA had taken cover. It exploded in front of Hamilton, killing him instantly.
Mole shouted Hamiltons name. He tossed his gun to his A gunner, grabbed Hamiltons body, and dragged it back to their original safe position. The rest of the squad followed him. Mole wasnt about to get his ass killed because some fucker went bloodthirsty on them.
The fight for the LZ moved into its final phase. The south and east slopes were covered with Marines methodically killing anything that moved. Fitch and the CP group were walking up the south slope. Hawke and Connolly, who had captured the NVA machine gun, were covering the exposed northern slope, firing at the retreating enemy with careful short bursts. Three groups of NVA, unable to escape, had set up positions in the old Golf Battery artillery pits. One of the groups had a machine gun that was keeping the Marines at bay, covering the top of the hill with its fire.
Mellas radioed Hawke. Im sending a baseball team around to the north to get behind that fucking gun. Youll see character Charlie with a bandage on his head instead of a helmet. Dont shoot his ass. Over. Mellas looked up at Cortell, who was nodding, his filthy bandage unraveling slightly.
You tell him to pop some smoke when he gets there so we dont shoot him. Over, Hawke returned.
Mellas relayed the message, and Cortell nodded again. Mellas pulled his last smoke grenade from his belt suspender and gave it to Cortell.
There was a sudden explosion nearby. The three of them flinched. There was yelling in Spanish. Amarillo had thrown two grenades into a bunker just below them and was now crawling rapidly inside. There was a brief spatter of shots from his .45. Everyone waited anxiously, watching the entrance of the bunker.
The familiar camouflage of the Marine jungle utility emerged, back first. Amarillo was pulling a shrapnel-mutilated body out of the bunker behind him. The shots had all been fired into the mans s
kull.
Then a ricochet from the NVA machine gun spun crazily over their heads. OK, Cortell. Get going, Mellas said.
Cortell crawled off to join his squad. Mellas poked his head above the hole he and Jackson shared with the two dead North Vietnamese boys. He pulled one of the bodies down, stuffed it into the bottom of the hole, and stood on it to get a slightly better view. The LZ was deserted save for Robertsons body, which lay sprawled by the side of the blasted machine-gun bunker.
No trees remained on Matterhorn. The thick bushes that he and Scar had first tumbled into when they arrived were burned away. The entire beautiful hill was shorn, shamed, and empty.
Mellas saw Goodwin poke his head briefly above the lip of the LZ. Goodwin ducked down again when machine-gun and rifle fire from some nearby positions opened up on him. Goodwin radioed Mellas.
How we gonna get that fucker, Jack?
Mellas explained that Cortell was working his way behind the position. It would be a matter of time. The remaining enemy were trapped.
Occasionally a Marine would pop up, apparently desultorily, unload half a magazine in the direction of the enemy machine gun, and get back down.
Mellas saw Cortells red smoke. He stood up, shouting, Dont shoot. Cease firing. Cease firing. Goodwin did the same.
Cortells bandaged head appeared momentarily above the crest. The seven kids left in the squad jumped above the lip of the LZ, threw seven grenades at the machine-gun position, and jumped down, out of sight. The gunner started to turn the barrel to meet the new threat. The grenades went off in and around the shallow pit, causing a series of shock waves that hammered Mellass eardrums.
Immediately Goodwin was rushing across the LZ toward the smoke from the explosions. A stunned NVA soldier struggled to turn the machine gun on Goodwin but couldnt move fast enough. Goodwin, like a panther making a kill, was on top of him, firing his M-16. The remaining NVA in nearby gun pits stood up, weaponless, eyes filled with terror, and raised their hands. They were cut down in seconds as every available weapon on the hill turned on them.
Mellas, still standing on the dead boys body, slumped his head forward and rested his bloody, stinging face on the cool clay. Jackson leaned back, resting his radio against the side of the hole. We won, Jackson said.
Mellas simply nodded inside his helmet liner. His helmet was motionless against the clay. He reveled in the feel of the cool earth against his chin and mouth. Soon, however, the wind made his damp utility shirt too cool for comfort. He dragged himself from the hole and started shouting at various fire team leaders to organize the defense in case of a counterattack. Then he remembered Hamilton, waiting in ambush down below.
Bravo One Three, Bravo One. Sorry I rushed you in so much. Why dont you get up here and set in from eight to ten. Twelve is due north. Over.
There was a long silence.
One Three, this is One Actual. Did you copy? Over.
Moles voice came over the radio, trembling. Character Hotel is Coors. Over.
Mellass hands started shaking. Any others? Over.
We got two minor Oleys. Over.
Can you get everyone in without help? Over.
Yeah. Over.
One out. Mellas handed Jackson the handset.
The hill was theirs.
Jackson leaned over and put his head in his hands.
Mellas limped to the edge of the LZ and watched Mole struggle up the hill with Hamilton slung over his back.
Mole dumped Hamilton at Mellass feet. Sorry, sir. I know you was tight. He walked away, leaving Mellas standing over Hamiltons body.
Mellas silently emptied Hamiltons pockets. He found a letter from Hamiltons mother. In it shed written, Dont you worry, Buster, youll be home soon and it will be all over. Mellas hadnt known Hamiltons nickname was Buster. He felt he had never known Hamilton at alland never would know him.
Mellass left leg throbbed with the shrapnel, and his right leg burned. Blood caused his trousers to stick. He felt a sharp, pulsing pain in his blinded eye. If only he could sit down, just sit down and do nothing. But the defenses had to be set in.
He struggled to his feet. An explosion slammed against him. He hit the dirt, rolling next to Jackson. They both looked up to see greasy smoke drifting across the LZ. Someone was shouting for a corpsman. Mine! A mine, someone shouted from Goodwins sector. The place is fucking mined!
Jesus shit, Mellas muttered.
He stood up again. The land around him had become toxic. He didnt know where to step.
Still, the company had to be set in. Mellas went to his knees, crawling so he could see the signs of a buried mine or trip wire as he went from hole to hole. The kids, too, just wanted to sit. Mellas joked with them, cajoled them, threatened them. Eventually they started to dig into the hill, throwing dead bodies from holes, re-digging half-buried trenches. Others were struggling up the hill with dead Marines or helping to move the wounded so they could be evacuated. Fitch called for volunteers to clear a small section of the hilltop for a medevac bird. Soon a line of Marines formed and slowly crawled across the area with their K-bars in front of them, probing for mines, watching for trip wires. One kid was blown open from the abdomen when his knee set off a pressure device his knife had missed. They threw what remained of him onto the pile.
Fitch called an actuals meeting. Mellas made his way around the rim of the LZ. Smoke choked and nauseated him. It drifted sluggishly from the hill to join the heavy gray clouds rolling endlessly away toward Laos.
Nice work, Mel, Fitch said. He was haggard and drawn. Hawke and Goodwin were both sitting with their elbows resting on the inside of their knees. They were staring into space.
Hamilton got killed, Mellas answered. He used to carry my radio. He had no idea why he was talking. He just had to tell someone. Is Conman OK? he asked Hawke.
Hawke nodded.
Fitch looked at Mellas more closely. You need to be medevaced, he said.
Mellas didnt answer. With his good eye, he was looking across at Helicopter Hill. He saw people with bright green uniforms looking at them through field glasses.
The fucking bastards cheered, Mellas said very softly.
Hey, Hawke said, touching Mellass shoulder. Its OK. They didnt know.
Relsnik walked over with the radio and gave Fitch the handset. Big John Six, Skipper, he said.
The colonels voice was crisp, businesslike. Roger, Bravo Six. I want a full body count and after-action report. We have your medevac birds standing by. That zone of yours safe yet? Over.
Not yet. Over, Fitch said flatly.
Magnificent. I wish Id had a movie camera, thats all I can say. Big John Six out.
Fitch tossed the handset onto the ground next to Relsnik. He wishes hed had a fucking movie camera, he said. He stared across the little dip toward Helicopter Hill.
Mellas followed Fitchs gaze, his mind filled with tumbling images. The company too weary to go on, but going on. Watching helplessly as the bombs fell on the far side of the hill. The stupid cheeringas if combat were a Friday night football game. Simpsons incredible order, on the long march to Sky Cap, that there would be no more medevacs. Hippy, crippled. The insane pushing. The stupidity. The blood pumping from the new machine gunners leg. Jacobss throat. For what? Where was the meaning?
Mellass good eye focused on the little figure in the clean jungle utilities. He saw only the colonel. The 600 meters separating them shrank to nothing. Mellas decided to kill him.
He limped slowly away from the group. Hey, Jack, Goodwin shouted, but Fitch put a hand on his arm, holding him down. Hawke watched Mellas, a puzzled expression on his face. Mellas walked down the hill through Hawkes lines. He barely acknowledged the greetings of Conman and the Third Platoon as they dug in.
Just beyond the lines, Mellas chambered a round and put the rifles sel
ector on safety. He pushed into the brush, down onto the finger, moving closer to the other hill, not caring about the danger. He found a log and adjusted his sights for the distance, taking pleasure in the fact that he was doing just what hed been taught on the rifle range. He settled in. The flat gray morning seemed eternal. Time was meaningless. There was only the small figure of the colonel, high above him now on the defoliated hillside. He pushed the selector to full automatic. With the tracers, Mellas was sure to get him. He leaned over the rifle, twisting his neck sideways so his good eye was sighting down the barrel. The colonel turned away from him. Mellas waited. He wanted the bastard to see the tracers coming at him before they ripped him apart, so hed know, just as Jacobs had known. The colonel was still talking. Mellas waited as patiently as an animal. Time stopped. Only this one task. Wait for the bastard to turn around so he could see the bullets coming. Then Simpson started to turn.
Mellas heard someone yell hoarsely behind him. Hawke landed on him in a headlong dive, forcing the rifle forward as Mellas jerked the trigger. The bullets tore the earth in front of them. Mellas, in a fury, reached out to hit Hawke. Hawke rolled away, kicking hard, knocking the rifle from Mellass hands. Mellas swung his fist, hitting Hawke square in the face, and stood up to look for his rifle. Then Hawke was on his feet, standing in front of him, breathing hard, his rifle pointed just to Mellass side but obviously ready to defend himself.
Matterhorn: a novel of the Vietnam War Page 57
