“Don’t move!”
The couple didn’t move except for the old woman’s shaking. But their looks seemed a tired defiance. He feared they saw his weakness and tried to hide it with a determined face. In his peripheral vision he watched the dark opening of the hut, willing Bear to reappear.
The old man’s feet moved again, maybe setting himself for a break. Singer waved his rifle and tried to warn the man with his eyes of what he’d do, though unconvinced himself.
Damn. Should he shoot him if he ran or made a move forward? What if they made a break in opposite directions?
What would everyone think if on his first patrol he let an old couple run away? He didn’t want to shoot them, but he couldn’t be seen as scared or weak, a liability to the group. Not everyone had a weapon one could see. Wasn’t that what the Americal Division sergeant had said?
He’d shoot them. He would, if that was what he had to do. Resigning himself to this brought a different fear. He swiped the sweat from his eyes and tried not to let his rifle shake. Finally Bear emerged, ducking to pass through the doorway, rescuing Singer as much as the old couple. Singer lowered his rifle and gasped for breath as if he’d just made it to the surface from some great depth.
Bear stormed past without a word. The foray inside the hut had not softened Bear’s eyes or the tightness in his face.
Singer wiped his trigger-hand across his belly and followed at a distance, keeping his questions to himself. What ghosts had the return to Vietnam awakened in Bear and the others? What fears and angers had been raised that none of them would speak of? He thought himself different, maybe even above some of it. But he couldn’t escape the thought that he was looking at himself in a time to come.
The faces of the old couple stayed with him even after they left the village, as did the fear of what he might have done and the fear of how easily he had resigned himself to it. In the end he shot no one and no shots had been fired in the village, but the damage left in the wake of their visit was impossible to gauge.
The sun now was past the middle of the sky and it was much hotter than when they started. The men’s fatigues were dark with sweat. They moved west, well beyond the village, into tall brush and then towering trees. The shade offered a surprising coolness, and Singer could feel the wetness on his back with a slight chill. They moved on a well-worn trail packed hard by lifetimes of travel, under a canopy of trees that shut out the sun. The slope was gradual at first and then grew steeper, forcing the men to lean into the climb. Singer’s pack grew heavier as they climbed and the hours passed. The excitement he had felt crossing the rice paddies had faded long ago, left behind in the village with the old couple. Now he only felt the weariness in his legs and the weight on his back. The trees ended abruptly, as did the trail, and the sun exposed a ground that looked tortured and dead. Trees sheared off with splayed ends, leaning at odd angles. Ground torn and rolled over on itself. Holes of red-brown earth.
They continued to climb more gradually beyond the shattered earth and then across a saddle of low grass that clutched at their tired feet. The mountain fell off steeply to their right, into a cascade of boulders worn smooth by water that ran during the wet season, finally pooling in the paddies in the valley. Singer moved, tiredly waiting for a break. His weapon, which had been held high at the start of the day, hung lower from heavy arms, mirroring the others.
Singer watched men move through the saddle below him and saw it happen. Sergeant Prascanni stumbled and fell forward, hitting hard, his rifle and right arm trapped strangely under his body and his left arm sprawled out beside him. Oddly, he never reached out to break his fall. Everyone behind Sergeant Prascanni began to stop in accordion-like fashion, though the point kept moving unaware.
Two, maybe three seconds later, the sound arrived, a single bang so distant and diffused it was hard to recognize it for what it was. Weak echoes between mountains masked its source.
“Sniper,” Trip yelled, and was already down.
“Medic! Medic!” someone yelled. Then another joined him in the call.
Men went to the ground, though some like Singer were slow to get down, confused by the distance, time delay, and the muffling of the shot. Sergeant Prascanni made no move to crawl or rise. The fingers of his visible left hand were still.
With a medic bag in his right hand, Doc Randall ran past Singer in a half crouch, dropping down beside Sergeant Prascanni. Sergeant Edwards’s voice, strong and even, without panic, ordered a medevac, though Singer could hear the urgency just short of pleading.
While they waited, an eerie quiet descended over the mountain. There was only the one shot. With the time between Sergeant Prascanni falling and the shot, it seemed unreal. Singer had seen that same thing duck hunting on big water. A flock of birds, barely visible, would fly over a distant marshy point and some of them would tumble silently from the sky. He would see the splashes before the sounds of the shots reached him. It had been interesting then, even entertaining.
The men lay where they fell, looking off at the distant hills or watching the treeline below them. Singer glanced at Rhymes, just behind him downs-lope, staring off at the mountains and turning his head back and forth, his M79 pointing more up than out.
“Shouldn’t we fire?” Singer asked.
“No way to tell where he is. Could be on any of these mountains. More than a mile away, judging by the delay,” Rhymes said.
“We just lie here?”
“He’ll shoot again. Watch for a muzzle flash.”
They lay there waiting for the next shot, watching for a target. Singer could hear Ghost praying a Spanish litany, which stood out against the silence on the mountainside. A petition for salvation or a requiem for the sergeant, Singer wasn’t sure. Singer thought of Sergeant Prascanni talking of the magic of the Italian song that gave his wife no chance.
Singer heard the bird before he saw it. Whump, whump, whump. It broke over the trees below and to his left, climbing, swinging hard toward the swale where a man stood both arms raised, setting low with its nose pointed downhill, grass swirling and flattening in the rotor’s wash. The right-door gunner aimed his gun at the closest hillside, which loomed above their heads. The pilot held the ship there, light on the skids, looking ready to go.
Four men, Shooter and Doc Randall in the lead, broke toward the chopper before the skids had settled, each holding a corner of a poncho bearing Sergeant Prascanni. The poncho sagged with the weight, the center almost dragging. Singer watched for signs of life, wondering if Sergeant Prascanni was still alive. There was no movement he could see.
The gunner frantically waved the men forward. The chopper’s right front window shattered. The chopper tail swayed and the bird lifted slightly. The pilot raised his head, apparently unharmed, and the bird steadied. The sound of the shot, when it came, was covered by the rotor noise and the sound of guns some men fired, but no one yelled to ID the target. Singer watched and waited on Rhymes’s word, though Trip fired at the mountains despite the distance.
The crew chief was there pulling at the poncho as the four men pushed Sergeant Prascanni onto the chopper, then sprinted away. Singer could see the crew chief return toward his gun, the gunner screaming, and the motionless form on the poncho. The Huey’s engine revved and the ship lifted sharply, slipping forward. Both door gunners opened up, firing their M60s, and Singer watched the tracers disappearing into the mountainsides, wondering if it would pin the sniper down, if not kill him.
The right-door gunner’s foot exploded in a spray of color, and he stopped firing. Seconds later, Singer was sure he heard the faint echo of the shot amongst the guns and engine noise. The sound of the engine changed as if the bird was struggling, and Singer wondered if it was hit. The chopper continued gaining air, then fell slightly and pitched right and struggled east at altitude. Singer lay in the grass listening for the whump, whump, while in his mind hearing Sergeant Prascanni’s love song fade away. Then the guns went silent, the chopper was gone, and everything wa
s quiet.
Across the valley on the hillside a black cloud rose, and then another and another until the hill was covered in black smoke. Artillerymen at the Americal base were firing their big guns. The sounds of the exploding artillery rounds drifted to Singer first as individual booms, then quickly grew to a continuous roar. The men got up and moved forward as the rounds were still exploding.
Just that morning, Singer had heard Sergeant Prascanni announce, “Fifty-nine days and a wake-up.”
Despite trying, Singer suddenly couldn’t repeat one line of the Italian words or even hum the melody. This bothered him somehow more than the knowledge that one of them was gone.
4
March–April 1968
Vietnam
The truck jolted forward and started a slow acceleration. Singer grabbed the sideboard, jostling against the men beside him. Children scattered when the truck lurched into motion, though some ran along beside it. In less than a hundred yards, they were stopped again. The truck behind them braked too hard and skidded, stopping just a couple feet behind the men who sat at the rear, their legs dangling over the edge.
“Fucker,” someone said.
A rifle was raised and pointed. The driver leaned away and held up his hand, as if that might stop a bullet.
Singer strained to look down the road and see the lead truck in the convoy to gain some clue as to their erratic progress up Highway One.
“This is bullshit,” Trip said. “In the Cav we’d have gone in choppers and be there already. At this rate it’ll take three days to get there.”
“You’re in a big hurry to get to the fighting,” Bear said.
“We’re sitting ducks on this fucking road.”
“Better keep an eye out, then, instead of whining about your choppers. You ain’t in the Cav no more.”
Bear looked out beyond the line of Vietnamese moving down the road in the opposite direction, surveying the fields that stretched toward mountains too distant to be a threat.
“That’s for damn sure,” Trip said. “I wonder if the 82nd has anything besides trucks.”
The trucks rolled forward, gaining speed, and dust rose up along the convoy. In the procession at the side of the road, people carrying loads on yokes, bicycles, and carts covered their mouths and moved without pause in what seemed an endless line plodding south. A woman stooped with age and the weight she carried bent lower in a coughing fit then set down her load and squatted, twisted fingers holding the yoke vertical like a cane. It made Singer wonder if she’d get up. A white-haired man with eyes hidden amongst wrinkles balanced on wobbly legs and peed to no one’s obvious concern, then shuffled onward, on a trek that looked to be his last. Children ran along dangerously close to the big truck’s tires before turning back to continue moving south, while other children joined the chase.
“Where are they going?” Singer asked.
“Away from the fighting,” Rhymes said.
“They aren’t bringing much.”
“That’s all they have or all they can carry.”
Singer couldn’t see the end the procession or where it might begin. “Is it bad in Hue?”
“It might be over before we get there,” Rhymes said.
Singer secretly hoped it wasn’t so he could see some part of it. Some real fighting. He hid his smile at the thought. Even though he’d heard Sergeant Prascanni was dead, it didn’t seem like it except that he was gone. There hadn’t really been a fight. And the way Sergeant Prascanni went down, with no sound at first and far enough away so Singer couldn’t see the blood or the wound, made it seem as if he had just fallen. Though certainly the sniper’s bullet, which Rhymes said was a large caliber, would have done massive damage. Singer hadn’t even had a chance to fire his rifle, which was what he was waiting for.
No one spoke of Sergeant Prascanni’s death. Certainly no one said anything about how it made them feel. Something, though, had changed, subtly. Mostly it was just that things were subdued, more quiet, as though no one knew what to say or were thinking of their own vulnerability, resolving to hold their breath through their remaining days. It wasn’t outright anger, but the men seemed more irritable. Rhymes was the steadiest and least unchanged by it. Bear and Trip were at each other more. Just small things, grating and poking, always stopping just short of something ugly. Red, perhaps in deference to the mood, had given up promoting Rose as MVP, which left him mostly silent. Sergeant Royce seemed withdrawn, preoccupied with something. He gazed at in the distance no matter where they were. Shooter went on lugging the big gun and sharpening his knife. Stick, who Singer had heard saying, “It wasn’t fair,” seemed sullen and downcast.
It was a long stretch before the truck stopped again, though they’d never built up much speed. With the line stalled, the dust settled except for that stirred by the hundreds of feet moving past. The children were there again, all but climbing on the trucks, hands out, some silently pleading with eyes that were difficult to resist. Others offered English platitudes of GI being number one or petitions for a dollar. Singer dug out a can of Cs, crackers with a condiment, and tossed it to the side so the smaller kids might have a chance. Then he watched them scramble on the ground, fighting for possession before rising and rushing back beside the truck, arms outstretched again. The scene reminded Singer of times as a boy when he had fed ducks at a local park, the ducks crowding around in a tight group, quacking loudly, stretching their necks, begging for food, and pushing at each other for the best position. They would all scramble, fighting madly over the pieces of bread he threw. Singer lobbed another can and watched the children dive for it.
“Don’t give them Cs,” Trip said.
“The kids are hungry. Go ahead,” Rhymes said.
“They’ll use the cans for booby traps. I seen it.” Trip said.
“They’ll find things even without our help,” Rhymes said.
Bear leaned over the side and dropped a candy bar into a boy’s open hands, then looked at Trip.
“I ain’t sharing mine when you guys are hungry,” Trip said.
“Didn’t expect you to,” Bear said.
The truck crept forward, settling into an even but slow speed. Smells were stirred up with the dust, and Singer swiped at his nose in a gesture that held no hope of removing such pervasive odors. The swish of water he ran around his mouth did nothing to eliminate the grit that still clung to his tongue and teeth. Maybe it was the smells and grit that really had Trip wishing for choppers. They passed a group of kids trailing a woman pushing a bicycle with bundles and pots tied to it. Two small girls paused and turned, wide-eyed, holding hands, dirty smiles spread on their faces. Singer smiled back, thinking the girls’ grins were just for him.
“Cute, huh?” Singer said.
“Yeah, cute,” Bear said without conviction.
“Their faces, smiles,” Singer said.
“You won’t think they’re so cute when one of them throws a grenade at you or you trip a booby trap made from a C-rat you gave them.”
Singer was quiet a moment, feeling the heat in his cheeks.
“But you threw—”
“A candy bar to fuck with Cav boy.”
“You think they’re VC?”
Bear leaned closer fixed a stare on Singer. “Where are their fathers?”
“What?”
“See any men all morning, other than the ones older than my grandpa?”
Singer studied the procession. When it dawned on him that all day he’d seen only women, children, and old men, he turned to Bear with a question on his lips.
“One army or another,” Bear said. “You won’t ever see the men. Some are out right now setting booby traps or hiding weapons.”
“Shit,” Singer said.
“Jesus Christ, you new guys are all alike, slower than an inbred mule.” Trip edged closer. “I hope you live long enough to learn something.”
“What can we do?” Singer asked.
“That’s the big question. Now the man’s starting
to understand. You don’t know who’s who and you can’t just kill them all,” said Bear.
“There’s an idea!” Trip said, pointing his rifle back and forth as though spraying the line with gunfire. “Let God sort them out.”
The truck lurched, bringing an end to the conversation—or maybe it was over already. Singer looked at Trip and then at Bear, uncertain if he knew them. They were both starting to sound like Shooter. Is that what was destined to happen to all of them if they stayed long enough? He had his ideals and understood right and wrong. He’d never be like them. He wanted to push away, to get out and walk, but he was stuck there between them, pinned against the sideboards.
Smoke billowed from the vertical exhaust with a sudden acceleration that had Singer grabbing at the sideboard with his left hand. He rode in quiet, thinking about where they were going, where events would take them, and what it might mean for each of them. He tried not to think about Sergeant Prascanni, but he could still see him falling, thinking he had only tripped, never seeing the impact of the shot, nor any blood, and not understanding until seconds later when he heard the far-off shot and Trip had yelled, “Sniper.” Would all his understanding of this time be like that? Delayed seconds or even years until some realization cracked from the distance across his consciousness, bringing clarity to earlier events?
Occasionally he could hear one of the other men on the truck talking, though the words were swallowed by the noise of the convoy. The light was already fading when they turned off the main road onto a dirt trail that angled west. After a short, bone-shaking distance, they stopped in the shadow of a sea of bunkers, tents, radio antennas, and equipment piles. They were on the southern edge of a low, expansive hill. Rice paddies stretched out below them, dark in the shadow of western mountains. The last bit of light rose up from behind the mountain peaks, shooting up into the sky in a brilliant display that was not without some beauty.
The men dismounted slowly on unsteady legs, and the trucks moved off toward the security of the base behind them. The base was new or had expanded in recent days beyond old perimeters, as there were no bunkers or wire where the men stood. They were the new southern perimeter. They spread out by fire teams, dug shallow fighting holes in the last of the day’s light, and set out trip flares and claymores before eating cold Cs. Darkness settled in over the men with the quiet uneasiness of night in a combat zone. The men sat together at each position, staring into the shadows before beginning the first guard rotation.
Perfume River Nights Page 5