Perfume River Nights

by Michael P. Maurer

  Maybe Trip, when he flinched at the sight of the mountains, was seeing Laos or imagining what they would have to go through to get there. Did he know something the rest didn’t?

  Beside Singer was Rhymes’s sleeping form, so hard to discern in the blackness that he kept looking toward it every few minutes, resisting the urge to reach out for reassurance. He tried to concentrate, listening for the soft stroke of a paddle, the stir of a swimmer, or the movement of grass which swimmers might make pulling themselves from the water, imaging himself on a deer stand listening for a footstep or scrape of a branch. The stillness was so complete Singer wondered if he could hear at all. His mind wanted to drift. He turned his head slightly, scanning the nothingness, struggling to avoid being hypnotized by it.

  He tried not to think about the fear he felt sometimes. Tonight was one of those times when he felt it, the hole in his gut and the dryness in his mouth. Perhaps it was the new position, trapped on a small river island. Or maybe it was the images of the damaged town and Citadel, weeping women digging in rubble, and the coffin he couldn’t push from his mind. If only a breeze would come up it might chase away the smell of death, if not the images.

  He lifted his hand from his M16, pushed his arm out his sleeve until his watch was visible, then held it close to his face trying to make out the time. Only ten minutes had passed since he last checked. He was certain it had been an hour. In the dark stillness it was easy to believe he was alone. The last survivor on the planet. Was the form beside him real?

  “Wake me if you hear anything,” Rhymes had told him. He thought of waking him, telling him he had heard something. Then they could sit up together and he wouldn’t feel alone or afraid. It was just the strangeness of everything and not knowing what to expect. He couldn’t let it get to him.

  He tried to think of mornings in a duck blind, sitting in the darkness with a gun in his lap waiting for dawn and the first sound of wings. He hadn’t been scared then, but this was so different. He gazed into the blackness, determined to see the river bank and anchor himself. If he could see the riverbank maybe the aloneness, the feeling of floating, would fall away. But his vision gave out only a few yards in front of him.

  That night passed into another, and the days into a week. The monotony of nighttime guard challenged Singer’s ability to stay alert. Daytime patrols provided more images of destruction and grief, their repetitiveness already threatening to harden him. But the fear and uncertainty had lessened with each night, though his anxiousness for what he imagined they were there for grew.

  On one of their patrols, Singer got two ducklings, just weeks old, from a woman they encountered with at least fifty jammed into a basket, a yellow, peeping mass. She let him hold one and it sat there in his hand, turning its small yellow head to examine him with one eye, then peeping in acknowledgement or petition. It sat while he stroked its back with two fingers, the touch of down and the small heartbeats soothing so that he had to keep it.

  “You can’t eat those. They’re too damn small,” Bear said.

  Quickly he made a deal and left with two ducklings peering from his pocket as he continued the patrol.

  “Jesus,” Trip said. “Get a dog if you want a pet.”

  Back at the island, Rhymes helped Singer pick seeds and catch bugs to feed them. The ducklings ate easily from their hands and took to waiting for the next morsel. They ventured into the river, slipping from the bank and looking near panic, peeping frantically, before climbing out two meters downstream. They took to following Singer around, which was a problem when they had formations, which Sergeant Milner liked to call often. But the problem was solved when on the third day they disappeared. “Maybe the river or some animal,” Rhymes said. Singer suspected Trip was involved in their demise, though he denied it.

  The evening the ducklings disappeared brought some excitement, at least for Singer, with the announcement that it was their last night and tomorrow they would move. The news had little effect on Rhymes, who clung to the comfort of his reading whenever he could. If he marked off each day as one closer to leaving, he kept it to himself, unlike Trip who announced it maybe to assure himself rather than for the public display. Like Bear and a few others, Trip seemed content with the island duty and the relative peacefulness of post-Tet Hue. Trip muttered to himself at the news, and then he and Bear shared a glance, perhaps each unhappy that they shared a common thought.

  The blanket of clouds brought an early nightfall that didn’t dampen Singer’s spirits. He settled down in his island foxhole that had nearly become a familiar home, entertaining scenes of battles and heroic rescues of grateful villagers that played out absent of any fear. Tonight he had no doubts. Rhymes had already lain down after abandoning his book, well beyond the point Singer thought it might be possible to read.

  * * * * *

  With a start, Singer woke bolting upright, frightened. He groped for his weapon and pushed the poncho liner off his shoulder. His fatigues clung to his body in a wet clamminess and his heart pounded like he was in a sprint. He looked about, trying to chase his confusion and determine what had scared him.

  “You all right?” Rhymes asked.

  “Yeah.”

  But he still didn’t have his bearings. The first rays of dawn reflected off the river though the island trees, and the concrete tower threw long shadows over them. The blackness was gone, replaced by browns, grays, and the green of the distant riverbank.

  He remembered being woken by gunfire in the night and Rhymes touching his arm and whispering, “Don’t fire. Don’t give our position away.” Then Rhymes put a grenade in his hand, the pin still in. “Use this if you hear them. Let the handle fly before you throw it.” They lay side-by-side, listening, but nothing else happened and eventually Singer fell back asleep.

  Now, in the dawn, Singer studied the riverbank and its marsh grasses for a long time, as though trying to memorize it for a test. He took a drink of warm, stale water from his canteen, trying to wash the night from his mouth and his mind.

  When they gathered in the courtyard near the houses, Shooter sauntered up to Trip. Shooter’s pants were wet up to his knees and his boots were leaking water.

  “Way to light them up, Ace,” Shooter said. “The Marines found a body in the reeds and a sampan a half-klick further down. Three rounds in the chest. One burst and you ripped him. Impressive when you couldn’t see your hand in front of your face.”

  “I heard the rhythm, had to be paddle strokes. Counted. Measured,” Trip said.

  “Yeah, but one blind burst and you nail the guy. I underestimated you. A young gook, too. Good shooting.” Shooter shook Trip’s hand.

  “I won’t have that shit. The man had no weapon,” Sergeant Milner said. “He was a civilian. I won’t—”

  “His weapon’s on the bottom of the river. Be my guest recovering it,” Trip said.

  “I won’t allow indiscriminate fire.”

  “I’m going home. I ain’t getting zapped by some dink.” Trip brought his M16 up across his chest.

  “You need some fire discipline, soldier.”

  “A kill’s a kill, Sarge. One dead gook’s as good as another. Weapon or no weapon, they all go in the same column,” Shooter said. “One more for our side.”

  “Without a threat, we don’t shoot.”

  “What do you call a nighttime probe? Next time I hear something I’ll let you take care of it,” Trip said.

  “You’ll follow the rules or else.”

  Bear stepped in next to Sergeant Milner. “The man was Viet Cong. No fisherman’s out in the middle of the night like that. Drag the river, I bet you find an AK. Hell, I’d have shot him, too. Lighten up, Sarge, this is the Nam. There are no rules.”

  Sergeant Milner slid away from the arm Bear tried to lay on his shoulder and went back to the house that had become the platoon CP, Bear’s laugh following him.

  “I’m going home,” Trip said. “That guy better not get in my way.”

  Late that morning they
left the island as they arrived, single file over the trestle with the same number as they’d brought. Two Marines beside the quad-50 watched them leave, giving them a thumbs up. When they arrived at a field where the river ran south along the expanse of grass and sinkholes, a few with cattails that to Singer looked the same as those at home, the rest of the company was there waiting in three bunches with the command group forming a fourth side. White birds with long legs, but necks shorter than a blue heron, lifted from the field in twos and threes, circled and resettled. Some rode the backs of buffalo, white passengers atop massive black ships.

  At a familiar sound, Singer searched the southern skies and never looked away as a line of specks grew into Hueys that settled down before them, idling without urgency.

  “Finally, fucking helicopters,” Trip said. “Wonder where they got these.”

  In the first group, Singer raced for the assigned bird and settled on the floor with the others, who were talking nonchalantly. Singer guessed it was nothing new to them and maybe at some point would be the same for him. But now he felt the thrill of having just climbed onto an amusement park ride and looked from one open door to the other waiting for lift off, not caring if the others saw his grin.

  The Huey’s blades chopped the air, the engine pounded above his head, and the air streamed through the cabin while the ground sped by below them. Singer saw the river, a grass field, pockmarked hills with trees that hid the ground, but hardly any human structures or signs of habitation. At times he could see another of the Hueys flying beside them, men seated, legs hanging from the door just above the skids, the helmeted gunner swiveling his head, peering at the ground, both hands set on his weapon.

  They crossed the river, heading west toward a sea of rising green peaks stretching toward the horizon. To the south the river split, and they headed toward the westward branch before circling a dominant peak with bunkers, artillery pieces, tents, and bare earth that marked a more permanent army encampment.

  Singer leaned over to ask Rhymes what firebase this was, but Rhymes either didn’t know or didn’t hear him, as he didn’t respond. No one paid much attention to their arrival, as if it were a common thing. They stood around waiting for the last group. Below the firebase, the river meandered through a mottled green landscape that looked almost tranquil. A single-lane dirt road ran between the river and the mountain, climbing from the east, running past the base of the mountain winding south, then north, then disappearing behind the next mountain.

  After a brief wait in which Captain Powers, Charlie Company’s commanding officer, probably conferred with the firebase commander, they left the firebase on foot heading northwest. They descended easily, then crossed open ground in the blaze of sunlight before finding shade under an increasingly thick canopy at the start of a difficult climb. After a few hours of seemingly endless ups and downs, they flopped to the ground on a side slope. Singer’s legs felt like they were still climbing, his body like he was in a steam cooker. He set his helmet in his lap, making his head dizzy with the lightness.

  “Keep drinking water,” Rhymes said “Just a little at a time. Stay alert. This is where the NVA live.”

  Singer looked around him and put his helmet back on.

  “We should have stayed in Hue,” Bear said from downslope.

  “Fuck, we should have stayed home,” Trip said.

  “I could maybe grow to like you,” Bear said.

  “Now you’re scaring me,” Trip said.

  Even Rhymes smiled. Bear might have let go with one of his raucous laughs had they been back in Hue or even on a firebase, but here he merely showed large teeth and creases beside widened eyes.

  At times Singer heard the whack of a machete, dull, reverberating blows, and he saw Trip cringe and swing his weapon from side to side as though expecting an attack. A long time later, as Singer climbed through sharp stumps of bamboo, where he was careful not to fall, fearing he’d impale himself, he began to understand why Bear and some of others disliked the mountains. Only one day and he already hated the darkness. He could climb hills all day in sunlight—or at least he believed he could, though he had never climbed mountains before nor experienced such heat. There were enemies here besides the NVA that could bring a man down. Still, he was hopeful to find them, though the thought waned with his fatigue and recovered itself after he rested.

  He knew things had become more serious since Rhymes didn’t dig out a book during breaks but held onto his M79. Besides this, and Bear’s withheld laughter and Trip’s flinching at each sound, Red had gone silent again, appearing to withdraw inside himself. Ghost looked restless and spooked, bouncing around like a nervous colt while others sat and rested. If he prayed, he did it silently.

  Top was often there beside the column as they climbed, watching, as if studying each man, taking some measure. Then he’d come climbing past, acting stronger and younger than all of them though Rhymes said he’d fought in Korea and had heard he’d turned down a field command.

  The first days in the mountains were spent patrolling, sometimes as a company but usually as platoons, searching for an enemy that seemed either absent or unwilling to be found. In the evenings they dug in on some mountaintop in a defensive perimeter, waiting and listening for the enemy, staring into the darkness, alone with their thoughts. They went out on ambushes and listening posts that brought Singer a new sense of the night and a different anxiousness. In the morning they moved on to new country, new mountains and new valleys that looked the same as those they left.

  Sweat streamed down Singer’s face and soaked his fatigues. Dirt clung to his skin and clothes, weariness grew in his bones, and he wondered if the others felt it, too. Trip counted days, claiming fewer than forty-seven, as Singer guessed everyone was doing except him and maybe Stick. With too many days left to consider, Singer let the days pass untallied.

  In late afternoon one day, Singer sat on a rocky edge, his feet hanging over the side, looking over the treetops of the valley they had worked through the past week without finding anything or taking any casualties. With Rhymes and Trip slated for a listening post, he was sharing the night position with Bear, who sat cross-legged next to the shallow fighting hole they had given up on digging any deeper. Bear was heating water over a heat tab in an old C-ration can for instant coffee. His M16 lay beside him, on top of a bandolier of magazines. He had his shirt off and his muscular, hairless chest shone in the sunlight, still glistening with sweat. It had been a tough climb. Sometimes the men above had had to help the men below scramble ahead, holding out their hands or extending an M16 to pull men up the steep slope. Once on top, Singer found a commanding view that almost made the day’s long climb worth it. The NVA, if they had ever used it, weren’t here now and left no signs of earlier occupancy.

  They had reached the summit late in the afternoon and held up for the day, stopping earlier than usual. It was a rare break that Singer hoped would give his aching body some relief. He relaxed when he didn’t draw an ambush or LP assignment and could spend the night on the perimeter. With some luck, fourth platoon had drawn a rocky open side of the mountaintop with a steep drop that made it an unlikely approach. That and the days without contact had Singer feeling complacent, letting go of some of the vigilance Rhymes constantly reminded him to maintain.

  Below him, a mosaic of shadows played through the treetops. Black holes amid the green gave a hint of the jungle floor far below. The sky was a deepening blue with soft, loose swirls of clouds stretching out over the mountains. A line of distant choppers moved silently across the horizon. The soft murmur of the voices of men in other positions drifted to Singer, the evening so tranquil he almost forgot where he was. He touched his M16 to hold to reality. Drifting away would be dangerous.

  He took his helmet off, again lightheaded without the weight, and then removed his shirt. Singer’s hands and arms were a dark brown, in sharp contrast to his starkly white torso. His ribs had begun to show so that each one was defined and easily counted. Though leaner
, he’d grown tougher with the days of mountain patrols and the climbs—even like the one he’d just made—were more bearable. Still, the fatigue that came with the long days of battling the terrain and too little sleep was always there.

  A few days earlier the first mail from the States had finally caught up with them and he remained cheered by it and the promise of more. That day they’d stopped early on a grassy plateau that seemed to hold few perils and waited for a scheduled resupply. A large, red mail bag came in on the bird that brought in Cs and water. Men clambered toward the bag, leaving the food and water piled for the moment. It was a bright moment in which even the dourest seemed encouraged. Field discipline broke down, with only a small contingent of men staying on the perimeter, but no one said anything. Shooter was one of those who stayed in position, perhaps knowing his name wouldn’t be called. Men crowded around Sergeant Milner, who held the red bag. Singer saw expectation in faces that he imagined mirrored his own.

  The bag included a letter for Sergeant Prascanni, and Sergeant Milner called his name before realizing his mistake. They all stood quietly and awkwardly for a beat before Sergeant Milner hurriedly called another name.

  Singer walked away with a letter and box of cookies from Susan, a letter from Kathy, and one from his mom. His brother hadn’t written since Singer asked his mom to tell his brother to stop preaching at him. His mom’s letter was filled with mundane small-town gossip and news about food she was baking. He smiled at Kathy’s inappropriate humor about Susan and her sexual comments meant to cheer him up. The cookies were hard as rocks, but no one refused and the box was quickly empty. After reading Susan’s letter twice, he put it in his helmet liner. He shredded and buried the other letters and box wrapping so as to leave nothing for the enemy.

  Rhymes received a few books from his father, which had him as excited as Singer had ever seen him. The cache included two more books of poetry and a Steinbeck novel, Of Mice and Men. When Rhymes said he’d have to bury some and hope to get back to them, Singer offered to carry some if he didn’t have to read them. Apparently even Rhymes could only carry so many books along with the bulky and heavy M79 rounds. Trip got one letter, which he said was all he needed. Red got a Cincinnati baseball schedule, which he ran around showing everyone but wouldn’t let anyone hold. Singer listened as the last letter was announced and saw Stick melt away, empty-handed and with downcast eyes.