Free Matterhorn by Karl Marlantes Page B

machete and smashed a hole
     in the bamboo. Soon they were in a bamboo tunnel. The ground sloped upward. It got steeper. They began to slip. The kid with
     the machete tired and another took his place. They needed an hour to go about 200 meters.
    Suddenly, Williams, the point man, went rigid, then slowly sank to one knee, rifle at his shoulder. Steam rose from his back.
     Everyone froze in position, ears straining, trying to stop the noise of their own breathing. Jancowitz quietly moved forward
     to find out what was happening. Hamilton, a good radioman, moved up too, as if he were part of Jancowitz’s body. Mellas followed.
    “You hear that, Janc?” Williams whispered. He was trembling and his forehead was tight with tension. They had stopped on the
     side of a ridge. A rivulet trickled through thick brush and plants with broad leaves. Mellas strained to hear over the sound
     of his breath and his pounding heart. Soon he could distinguish soft snorts, muffled coughlike noises, and a cracking and
     tearing of branches.
    “What is it?” Mellas whispered.
    “Gook trucks, sir,” Daniels said softly. He had slipped up behind Mellas, so quietly that this whisper frightened him. Mellas
     saw that Daniels was grinning and his mouth was smeared red with Choo Choo Cherry, which heightened the flush of his cheeks.
    “Gook trucks?” Mellas asked. “What are you talking about?” He turned to Jancowitz, who was watching him with mild amusement.
    “Elephants, sir,” Jancowitz said.
    “The gooks use them to carry shit,” Daniels said.
    By this time everyone had relaxed, and the squad was already in the inboard-outboard defense position, every two men alternating
     the direction of sight. Jancowitz pointed at Pollini and Delgado, a gentle-eyed Chicano kid whom everyone called Amarillo,
     because it was his hometown. These two reluctantly heaved themselves to their feet and crept out, one on each side of the
     squad, to act as outposts.
    “So?” Mellas asked. He was uncomfortably aware that trouble was coming his way.
    “Don’t you think we ought to call in a mission, sir?” Daniels asked.
    “A fire mission? On some elephants?”
    “They’re gook transportation, sir.”
    Mellas looked at Jancowitz. He remembered a major at the Basic School telling him to trust sergeants and squad leaders—they’d
     been there. The major hadn’t mentioned that the sergeants were nineteen-year-old lance corporals.
    “He’s right, sir,” Jancowitz said. “They do use them for hauling shit.”
    “But they’re wild,” Mellas said.
    “How do you know, sir?”
    At this point Daniels chimed in. “We shoot them all the time, sir. You deny the gooners their transportation system.”
    “But we’re at extreme range.”
    “It’s an area target, sir,” Daniels answered. An area target was one that covered a general location, such as troops in the
     field, so accuracy was less of an issue than for a single-point target, like a bunker.
    Mellas looked at Hamilton and at Tilghman, who carried the M-79 grenade launcher. They both just stared back. Mellas didn’t
     want to look sentimental or foolish in front of the squad. It was war, after all. Nor did he want to buck a standard operating
     procedure when he wasn’t really sure of his ground. He’d been told to trust his squad leaders. “Well,” he began slowly, “if
     you really do shoot them …”
    Daniels grinned. He already had his map out, and now he reached for the handset of his radio.
    “Andrew Golf, this is Big John Bravo. Fire mission. Over.”
    In his imagination, Mellas saw the battery scrambling into action as the call for a fire mission came crackling in to its
     fire control center.
    Moments after Daniels relayed the map coordinates and compass bearings, the first shell came through the jungle, sounding
     like a train speeding through a tunnel. There was a dull thud transmitted through the ground, then a louder shattering crash
     through the air. Then there was the