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Andy smiles and moves on. It is time for the mission briefing with Dingle Berry. He joins the other squad leaders at the CP, and the lieutenant fills them in on the plan for the morning.
“The company is going to cordon off the village of Binh Duc, leaving the west side open. Third Platoon will go over the top of Hill 237 and move toward the ville down the east slope. If any VC come out of the village, they should run right into us. We have a lot more ground to cover than the other platoons, so we’ll be moving out right away. Tell your men to saddle up.”
They skirt the edges of the paddies, approaching Hill 237 on the opposite side from the village, and begin their upward climb. The hill is not a large one, but it proves to be a real ball-buster, with a steep slope and ground vegetation that is unusually thick. They go up in single file, with two men on point clearing the way with machetes.
The morning wears on, and as the sun climbs in the sky, the heat becomes unbearable. Andy’s fatigues are soaked, and sweat mingled with insect repellent runs stinging into his eyes. His mouth is parched, his tongue filling it like a dead furry rodent. He started the day with only a single canteen of water, and he has been using it sparingly, conserving it as best he can.
The column is spreading out, as the new men have trouble keeping up the pace. Directly ahead of Andy, PFC Roddy Mattison is hurting. He is sucking wind, and his knees tremble with every step. When a low-hanging vine gets caught on the top of his rucksack he does not stop, but presses on, trying to break through it. Andy sees that it is a “wait-a-minute” vine, studded with thorns, and that the thorns have become lodged in the nylon material of Mattison’s pack. The vine does not break, and its pressure gradually increases until Mattison cannot move ahead any farther. He struggles to get out of his rucksack, but the straps are now too tight. At last he flops onto the ground, too exhausted to move.
“Easy, buddy, take it easy.”
Andy’s words are kind, but in his heart he is very angry. The last thing he needs right now is to have this cherry crap out on him. Taking out his knife, he cuts the offending vine. He rolls Mattison over, and is not pleased by what he sees. The young man’s face is ghastly pale, and his eyes are dull and unfocused. Andy removes his helmet and feels his forehead. Burning up. He calls ahead to stop the column, and Willie Biggs comes back to help.
“Heat exhaustion,” Andy tells him. “We’ll have to divide up his load.”
Biggs takes Roddy Mattison’s pack. Andy takes his rifle and web gear. Checking the canteens, he finds that both are bone dry. Reluctantly, he opens his own canteen and holds it to the boy’s lips. Mattison sucks greedily, and Andy has to pull hard on the canteen to get it away from him.
“Okay, Mattison,” he says, “this hill is a motherfucker, but you can do it. Don’t make us carry you.”
“Jesus,” Mattison says, “I can’t get up. I can’t.”
But his feet are moving beneath him; his hands are pressing against the red earth. Somehow, he makes it to his feet. Relieved of his burdens, he is able to continue the upward climb. The column is moving again.
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