Perfume River Nights

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Perfume River Nights Page 9

by Michael P. Maurer


  They medevac’d him from a jungle clearing after he was hit in the legs by small-arms fire in a brief gun battle during a platoon patrol. The fight was quickly over and only Borkman was hit. It frustrated Singer that once more he missed out on the action and the chance to fire. It seemed he wasn’t doing much except, as Bear said, burning days.

  When it happened, Bear was closer and saw it all, though he said he never saw the enemy. Borkman didn’t cry out or say a word. He just went down and lay there quietly, bleeding. He didn’t talk while Shooter dressed his wounds and Sergeant Edwards called in a medevac. Nor did he say anything while waiting for the helicopter that would carry him to an aid station. Borkman seemed as quietly resolved to his wounds and his fate as he had to carrying the radio.

  They removed the radio from Borkman’s ruck. Someone threw the ruck and web gear onto the medevac as they slid Borkman onto the floor of the Huey. The helicopter lingered on the ground for only a few seconds, just long enough for them to load Borkman on his last chopper ride. A Cobra chopper circled overhead, ready to suppress any enemy fire. Then the medevac rose and both choppers turned east, heading for the closest aid station.

  Singer watched Borkman go as he had Sergeant Prascanni, with the same sense of relief that it wasn’t him. The dustoff grew smaller, fading as he imagined his memory of Borkman would, and he wondered in that moment where Borkman was from. It didn’t bother him that he didn’t know. Maybe that was the beginning of not caring or of his own hardening. How many choppers would he watch come and go before it was all over?

  The Huey carrying Borkman was barely out of sight and Singer was still looking at the sky wondering at these things when Sergeant Edwards came over.

  “Singer, you’re my RTO. Strap the radio on your gear.”

  Rhymes and Trip were there, and Singer looked to them for help. Didn’t they know how important it was for him to stay with them? No one objected before Sergeant Edwards turned away.

  “I’ll help you strap it on,” Rhymes said. “I can take my books back if it’s too much weight.”

  “I’ve never been an RTO,” Singer said.

  “Most guys haven’t. It’s just radio com. You just have to say ‘over’ or ‘out’ after everything. It should keep you out of the worst of things, being with Sergeant Edwards.”

  “Right.”

  After Rhymes helped Singer rearrange his gear and tie the radio on, showing him the purpose of each dial, he left to rejoin the squad while Singer moved to stand beside Sergeant Edwards.

  Recalling it now, he still wasn’t sure whether Sergeant Edwards simply grabbed him for RTO because he was the first man he saw or if Sergeant Edwards thought he possessed some qualities that would make him a good RTO, whatever those might be. It didn’t matter. What did matter was that in that moment he was separated from the guys and everything changed.

  After Borkman was gone, the platoon saddled up again. Singer struggled into his ruck, surprised at its heaviness even though while they strapped it on, Rhymes had said it weighed about twenty-five pounds. When they moved out, he stood quietly beside Sergeant Edwards, his M16 loosely in his left hand, the radio handset in his right, and watched the platoon pass him.

  Rhymes, Trip, Bear, Red, Ghost, Sergeant Royce, Shooter, Stick, and the others filed by in a slow, funeral-like possession. It was as though Singer was dead and they were filing past the casket. Singer thought to say something but couldn’t find words. Most averted their eyes, or perhaps they were just focusing on the trail ahead. Rhymes nodded slightly and grinned, showing glistening white teeth. His eyes still held some life, unlike so many others which held emptiness or something akin to despair.

  “Giving up the infantry for radio work?” Trip asked, but seemed amused, not angry.

  Bear looked at the antenna above Singer’s head, winked, and raised his weapon in an enormous black hand in what Singer saw as a salute.

  Singer watched them go, tight-lipped, steeled against the loss and wondering how he could still have their backs. The PRC25 weighed heavily on Singer, but it was light compared to the ache he felt inside his chest.

  It would all be different now. He would travel next to Sergeant Edwards and set up at the platoon CP. There would be no more shared foxholes with the guys, no more promises to take care of each other, no more talk of the world or of plans upon their return. No reminiscing about girlfriends, cars, or parties. Well, there would be, but he just wouldn’t be a part of it. Sergeant Edwards would talk with him in the way sergeants talk with their subordinates, giving orders and protocols for each day.

  With the radio on his back that first day, Singer watched each man move away until they all passed, then he fell in behind Sergeant Edwards near the end of the platoon, carrying his new burdens quietly as Borkman had. That night, he pulled radio watch inside the perimeter and behind the men, as he had every night since becoming the RTO. In the morning he watched the procession of men depart without really feeling a part of it.

  His first week with the radio after Borkman was hit was quiet. They patrolled the jungles southwest of LZ Birmingham, one of a number of mountaintop firebases the brigade had built along the dirt road that wound through the mountains toward Laos. South of the river the slopes were less steep, but the climbs were difficult with the radio pushing him down. There were no signs of the men who shot Borkman or of any larger force from which they’d come. Singer handled the platoon communications uncertainly but well enough that no one complained or corrected him. Sergeant Edwards gave him orders and direction in a businesslike though not unfriendly manner, but there were no personal conversations to fill the empty hours.

  Each day Singer had watched his squad come and go on patrols and ambushes, feeling a sense of separation and a new kind of anxiety. He listened to radio coms as a new mother listens to a newborn breathe, seeking reassurance they were alive. He watched the guys working, eating, and visiting from a distance, tied to his radio and new position.

  Occasionally when Sergeant Edwards or, rarely, Sergeant Milner covered the radio, Singer walked over and visited his old squad. There was a new awkwardness Singer couldn’t understand or explain. The guys teased him good-naturedly about his “new gravy job,” as though he had sought it out and used it to escape.

  “Keep it up and you’ll be a fucking general soon,” Trip said, then walked away.

  It was clear that things were different. He didn’t walk point anymore or go out on ambushes. The bond that had existed was broken, or at least bent. He was off the team.

  This morning when the gunfire came, thinking his squad had the point, he started forward on a run and made two steps before being brought up short.

  “Stop! Where you going?” Sergeant Edwards said, already down on one knee.

  “It’s my squad.”

  “Your job is here now.”

  Singer returned, but kept looking toward the gunfire. Sergeant Edwards took the handset and called in the contact to the company CP, which was two platoons back in the company column.

  “Medic!” someone yelled, but Singer couldn’t identify the voice.

  Singer shifted his body on the ground while continuing to watch the front.

  “Who is it?” Singer asked, even though he understood Sergeant Edwards couldn’t know.

  The call for the medic passed back quickly and then Doc Odum was there, panting like a smoker. “How much farther?”

  “Maybe fifty meters,” Sergeant Edwards said.

  “Take my rifle,” Singer said, holding it out to Doc.

  “It will only get in my way. If I’m holding a rifle I’m not doing my job.”

  Then Doc was up and running, all arms and legs, just a medical bag in his hands.

  “I could go help,” Singer said.

  “Goddamn it, Singer, just man the radio,” Sergeant Edwards said.

  The second platoon moved up on the flank and after a short time the gunfire died. Doc was back beside them, blood on his hands and sleeves and a dark stain on his leg, li
kely where he’d knelt.

  “Was it Rhymes?” Singer asked.

  “A white guy—” Doc said.

  “Trip?”

  “I think they said the guy’s name was Styler. He was lucky. They’re bringing him back now.”

  “Wasn’t Sergeant Royce’s squad on point?”

  “Don’t know about that. Just the name they told me.”

  “Thanks,” Singer said.

  “Lucky I still make house calls.” Doc sat down and busied himself arranging items in his bag.

  “Medevac’s on the way,” Sergeant Edwards said.

  After the medevac left, they moved on without further contact, eventually stopping and digging in for the night.

  Now as he sat with the radio after making the sit com check, the gunfire and his fears kept replaying in his mind, as they had all afternoon. Eating at him. Building toward some explosion.

  Singer looked up to see Sergeant Edwards emerge from the darkness and settle down next to his ruck. Small amounts of moonlight filtered through the canopy, softening the night, though the moon itself was blocked from view. Sergeant Edwards’s face looked weary, showing tight lines Singer hadn’t seen before. They were the first crack he’d noticed in Sergeant Edwards’s toughness. He wondered what he might have heard at the briefing that had exhausted him and worried his mood.

  “Any news on Borkman?” Singer asked.

  “No. Don’t expect any. It looked like he’d make it.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “There’s no place for sorrow here. You don’t have any whiskey, do you?”

  “No.”

  “Does Sergeant Royce still have some?”

  “I don’t think so, Sarge.”

  “Where’s Sergeant Milner?”

  “Checking the perimeter.”

  “Good.”

  Sergeant Edwards brought bony fingers to his face and pressed them to his eyes before running them along the bump on his crooked nose, which looked to have been broken more than once.

  “Tomorrow we have the point again,” Sergeant Edwards said.

  “The captain seems to favor us that way.”

  “The captain . . .” Sergeant Edwards said, but didn’t finish the thought. He shook his head. “We’ll lay up early to pull security for a supply convoy going west.”

  “Right.”

  Singer’s resolve wavered, but then he recalled his frustration and fear of the morning, which was greater than his fear of telling Sergeant Edwards.

  “Things okay?” Sergeant Edwards asked.

  “Yeah, things are quiet, Sarge.” Singer searched for the right words and his courage. “Can I talk to you about the radio?”

  “What about it?”

  “Being separated from the guys is killing me. I’d like to go back to my squad.”

  Sergeant Edwards listened while Singer presented his case.

  7

  May 5, 1968

  0700 Hours

  Vietnam

  The morning light seeped through the jungle, bringing a soft grayness to the day. The air was damp and cool, comfortable when compared to the heat that would come with midday. Singer stood and stretched, still trying to lose the nighttime kinks from sleeping on the ground. He’d been awake since 0400 hours, when he’d started his last shift.

  Sergeant Edwards rose, wide awake, walked a short distance away, stood with his back to Singer and pissed. On his way back, he touched a boot to Sergeant Milner’s butt.

  “Better get up, Sergeant, and check on your men.”

  Then he pulled out a map and settled on the ground with his back against his ruck, knees drawn up.

  “Anything new?” he asked Singer.

  “Nothing. LP reported the same digging sounds they had earlier. Last ambush is back in without incident,” Singer said.

  It was all business with Sergeant Edwards this morning, though Singer felt a new awkwardness and tension. Their conversation last night ended without Sergeant Edwards offering any answers or promises. In the light of a new morning, Singer wondered if he’d been out of line and said too much when he asked to give up the RTO position and return to his squad.

  Singer picked up his M16 and slung a bandolier over his shoulder, thinking Trip would have already marked off and announced another day. Rhymes was maybe trying to read a couple pages before they moved out. Bear was probably sharpening his knife and hoping for the passing of a good day without contact or a casualty while working at his tough guy façade.

  Sergeant Milner was sitting up but still had a poncho liner draped across his shoulders, looking like some kind of sleepy black Buddha. It seemed like a fifty-fifty bet whether his eyes would stay open or not.

  “Can you cover the radio, Sarge? I got to shit.”

  “Make it fast,” Sergeant Milner said.

  Things seemed little different from any other morning when Singer walked down to check on his former squad. Men who’d survived another night were preparing for another day. Everyone was getting short. Well, most everyone. No one, he thought, had more than ninety days left except him and Stick and the lifers who would do their twenty years. Some guys, Trip and Bear for sure and maybe Rhymes, were under thirty days now. They could likely see the end and had started to believe coming back hadn’t been so terrible. They would make it and go home. He desperately wanted them to make it, even though he didn’t know what he would do after they were gone.

  Rhymes pulled the toothbrush from his mouth and spit white foam.

  “Hey, what’s up?”

  “Just came down to say hi.”

  “Getting the hang of the radio?” Rhymes rinsed, then touched a finger to his teeth and put his toothbrush in his pocket.

  “It’s not too tough. That was close yesterday.”

  “Yeah, we just rotated off point ten minutes before. Odd, just a couple guys who ran without much of a fight.”

  “Too close,” Trip said, then reseated a magazine and aimed at the trees. “Twenty-five and a wake-up. Boom. Then you can have this shit.”

  “How long before you go now?” Singer asked, looking at Rhymes.

  “It’s bad luck to say. Last tour guys who said too much never made it.”

  “But you’re getting close.”

  “Thirty-eight days.”

  “You probably wouldn’t trade, huh?”

  Rhymes grinned, teeth shining. “I’ll give it some real serious thought.”

  “Where’d you ditch the radio?” Trip asked.

  “Sergeant Milner’s covering, thinks I’m taking a shit.”

  “Christ, I wouldn’t trust that guy to watch a latrine.”

  “Any word?” Rhymes asked.

  “Convoy security. Just a short move. Should be an easy day. You’ll probably get some reading time. Probably routine so close to the firebases, huh? They got to take us in for a few days after this.”

  “A shower and mail would be good. Maybe some new books.” Rhymes picked up his M79, opened the breech and inspected the round, rubbing it on his shirt.

  “I got to get back,” Singer said.

  “See you on the firebase.”

  Singer checked his watch. With Sergeant Edwards likely up at the company CP already, it probably wasn’t wise to go there to see Doc Odum. He’d catch him on the firebase tonight or tomorrow and see what Doc knew. Even if he didn’t learn anything he’d at least be entertained by Doc’s wit and irreverent antics. Doc might be at the Platoon CP already, waiting for him like many mornings if Sergeant Milner didn’t run him off. Still, he could swing by Bear’s position on the way back without pissing Sergeant Milner off too much if he didn’t stay too long.

  “. . . a rest, man. I know you love the game, but damn, you tire a man out. Can’t you talk about pussy or anything else for a while?”

  Red shrunk back from Bear, his cheeks flushed. “I’m just trying to tell you—”

  “I’m telling you, enough! Damn, you and Ghost can share positions tonight. You keep a man awake with all that shit. Giv
e me baseball nightmares.”

  Singer held back, waiting.

  Bear hefted his ruck and shook it. “Hey, the 300-day man.”

  “That’s fucking cruel. I’m under 300 already,” Singer said.

  “I get confused by all those big numbers.” Bear chuckled.

  “Don’t be giving me extra days. I got enough.”

  “Anything more than a month is still a lifetime. The man let you out?”

  “I get ten minutes of exercise every day.”

  “You should come back and join the gang. We get plenty.”

  “Not my call. Your patches staying on?”

  “Yeah, they’re good. That eagle’s keeping me safe.”

  “You need it without me here.”

  “Man, what’s a skinny little white boy like you going to do?”

  Singer patted the bandolier on his chest. “I got friends.”

  “You got friends. Keep your head down and get me a bird in twelve days.”

  “Keep your ass down, too.”

  “Tell that to your man Rhymes.”

  “I will. I’m betting we get beer and mail at the firebase tonight.”

  “Don’t count on anything ’til you’re there. I’ll have one for you in the world.”

  “You can buy if we go in. Got to go or Sergeant Milner will be pissed.”

  “Man, that man was born ornery. Ornery and dumb.”

  Bear’s laugh followed Singer back to the CP, where Sergeant Milner was only mildly upset. Singer tuned him out. Nothing would ruin his good mood.

  He’d seen the guys and that made it a good day. Their moods seemed lighter, more optimistic. Maybe because they were near the road, just a stone’s throw away from Firebase Birmingham with Firebase Bastogne just a few more klicks down the road. They were in their own backyard now. Nearly safe. Maybe, like him, they all saw the prospects of mail, a beer, and maybe even a hot meal with a couple days on the bunker line. Maybe they saw themselves almost home. Burning good days ’til they could leave. Though he saw them as days lost being RTO, where he’d never see or do anything and had to satisfy himself with occasional visits with the guys. Bear was right, though, that he still had a lifetime to do and would be here long after all of them were gone.

 

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