Free Matterhorn by Karl Marlantes

plastic bottle
     of insect repellent into the wide rubber band circling his new green camouflage helmet cover. He looked at his watch as the
     tail end of Goodwin’s patrol disappeared into the jungle below. He’d never convince Fitch that he was any good if his patrol
     didn’t leave on time.
    Jancowitz grinned at Mellas. “Sir, I’d, uh …” He hesitated and then tapped the side of his soft camouflage bush cover.
    Mellas looked at Hamilton. “The insect repellent,” Hamilton said. “The white stands out in the bush. Makes a great target.”
    “Then what’s the rubber band for?” Mellas asked, shoving the bottle into his pocket.
    “Beats me, sir,” Hamilton answered. “Holds the fucking helmet together, I guess.”
    “You could put things in it like branches for camouflage,” Jancowitz said carefully.
    Hamilton giggled, and Mellas smiled tightly. It wasn’t fair. He’d seen Marines on television with squeeze bottles of repellent
     strapped to their helmets. He’d carefully noted the details. Suddenly it dawned on him that the television shots were all
     around villages, where thepeople with cameras were more likely to be, and there was no wall of dark green jungle on all sides.
    “We’re all set, sir,” Jancowitz said. “Just waiting for Daniels.” Lance Corporal Daniels was the enlisted FO, the artillery
     battery’s forward observer. Fitch assigned him to the patrols that he felt might need what little support they could get from
     Andrew Golf, the distant battery at fire support base Eiger.
    As Jancowitz led the way down to Third Squad’s sector, the sound of Marvin Gaye singing “I Heard It Through the Grapevine”
     broke the morning stillness. Mellas could see the Marines of Third Squad standing around, some nervously fiddling with their
     gear, all apparently ready before Jancowitz had gone to get Mellas. A group of black Marines were huddled together smoking
     cigarettes. At their center was a well-built, serious-looking young man who was squatting over a portable 45-rpm record player.
    “OK, Jackson, cut the sounds,” Jancowitz said briskly.
    Without looking up, Jackson raised his hand, palm toward Jancowitz. “Hey, man, cool off. The a.m. show ain’t over yet.”
    Several of the group laughed softly, including Jancowitz, who quickly glanced at Mellas to see if Mellas objected.
    Mellas didn’t know whether he should object or not. He looked back at Jancowitz and Hamilton for a cue.
    Bass broke the momentary impasse by walking up behind them. “Why don’t you play real music, like Tammy Wynette, instead of
     that fucking jungle music?”
    “Beats washtubs and broomsticks,” Jackson said, waiting for the laughter that followed. Mellas joined in awkwardly. Jackson
     looked up, hearing an unfamiliar voice. Recognizing Mellas, he immediately turned off the record player and stood up. The
     small group got serious, attentive, all business, crushing cigarettes in the mud.
    “Sorry, sir,” Jackson said. “I didn’t know you were there.”
    What struck Mellas about Jackson was that he clearly wasn’t sorry. He was just being polite. He looked at Mellas with an openness
     that declared he was quite capable of defending himself, without being defensive. Mellas smiled. “That’s OK. Hate to stop
     the show.”
    Bass, satisfied that Mellas was in good hands with Jancowitz, grunted and moved off to join Second Squad to bird-dog Jacobs
     on his first day leading a patrol.
    “Where’s Shortround?” Jancowitz asked, looking around.
    Jackson sighed and pointed toward a pair of ponchos that covered a hole dug into the side of the hill. “He had listening post
     last night. I guess he’s still eating.”
    “Shortround!” Jancowitz shouted. “Goddamn it. Get your ass down here.”
    There was a grunt. A head, still unseen, poked clumsily into the low-hung poncho. Two short legs, covered by large dirty trousers,
     backed out of the hooch. A short kid with curly brown hair and an oversize