Perfume River Nights

by Michael P. Maurer

  They must be moving up to send off the point, Singer figured. On past days when Singer had the point, Sergeant Edwards always came up, trailing Borkman and offering some words on the day. It was usually something like, “Stick to the high ground,” “Watch it today,” “Take it slow,” or “Stay sharp.” Things he already knew, but valued nonetheless. Still, it always felt in some ways like a goodbye. It seemed something Sergeant Edwards felt compelled to do, perhaps knowing the vulnerability of the point and that he might never see the man again. This morning Singer guessed he might have told the point, “Take a good look before you move out on the road. We’re close to home, but don’t get careless.”

  The line started moving and they slowly found the spacing and rhythm. Singer fell into his usual place behind Rhymes with Trip at his back, as though he never left. Quickly they moved to the place from where Sergeant Edwards had sent off the point and now stood with Stick watching them pass, waiting to fall in somewhere to the rear of the platoon. Surprisingly, Top was there too, his fatigues somehow looking crisp and clean like the first day in the field rather than the eighteenth, watching each man move by. Just before they reached them, Top said something and Singer saw Sergeant Edwards turn back toward Top and give a one-word response. Standing near the two sergeants, Stick, his helmet cocked low to one side, looked bright and energized, still flashing the smile he didn’t often offer.

  “Hey, Top, we going in tonight?” Bear asked.

  Sergeant Edwards grimaced.

  “I hear you like the field, Bear,” Top said.

  “Not me, Top. I’m a city boy. I need buildings and concrete. No black man likes camping.”

  But they were already past and Singer was unsure if Top heard it. They followed the winding path the point was setting over fairly even terrain, moving north toward the intersection with the road. Diffused light found its way through the canopy without offering a hint at the sun’s direction, though Singer took heart in it nonetheless.

  They moved slowly, able to be careful today, unhurried by off-scene commanders or overzealous lieutenants. Singer placed each foot with care, looking up to catch Rhymes’s back before checking each flank.

  Rhymes carried his M79 at his side, the large muzzle pointed at the ground. It was a familiar sight that today brought renewed comfort. Singer laughed to himself, thinking about being with Rhymes again. He wasn’t sure why it was so funny. Perhaps it was watching Rhymes with his many cleaning rituals again or the things he said, like, “Dirt will kill you,” that he didn’t mean to be funny, which made them even funnier. Still, nothing seemed to rattle him. He was steady and reliable, without bullshit. When Rhymes said he was going to open a bookshop when his time was done, you could believe it. After all this was over, maybe Singer would look him up and help out at the bookstore, as Rhymes had invited him to do. But Rhymes always said no comics, so he’d have to start reading other things. Up ahead Rhymes paused, looking back as if reading Singer’s thoughts.

  “You okay?” he asked softly when Singer got close.

  “Yeah, great.”

  Then they hurried ahead, closing the ranks. He watched Rhymes disappear behind a wall of vegetation and reappear like a ship dropping out of sight in a big wave. Each time Rhymes disappeared, Singer’s stomach fell and he held his breath, waiting to see Rhymes’s back again.

  After a short time, Rhymes halted and Singer held his place, as he knew Trip would behind him. They stood in their positions, watching to either side and listening. The sound of rotors far to the east filtered through the leafy cover. After that passed, the jungle was quiet again, without even the voice of any animal or the buzz of any insect. Everyone was waiting.

  Singer guessed the point man had hit the open strip next to the road, where chemical spray and Rome Plows had removed the vegetation for maybe fifty yards back to deny the enemy cover close to the road, reducing the chance of ambushes.

  “I don’t like this.” Trip had edged up closer so Singer could hear him.

  “Must be at the road,” Singer said.

  “It’s taking too long.”

  “Maybe they sent a team out to look before we all go out.”

  “We should stay in the cover. Every time we go up and down that road I feel like a duck trolled across a shooting gallery.”

  “Here we go.”

  “We should stay in the cover.”

  In just a few meters, Singer could see the brightening ahead where the jungle gave way in an abrupt line not found in nature. The flood of light silhouetted Rhymes and the man beyond him. Featureless, shadowy forms were framed in the glow in a way that, in another place, he might have stopped and admired.

  At the edge, Singer stopped momentarily and squinted against the stark brightness. The point was already on the road, moving west, with men of the first three squads trailing back toward Singer in a staggered double column. The cheer of the sunlight was inviting, and the scene looked serene if he ignored the weapons each man carried and didn’t think of the enemy that might be hidden at the jungle’s edge. Singer saw the advantage, as Trip said, of skirting the jungle edge rather than parading down the center of the road. On the edge they would have quick access to cover, and he would still have his consoling sunshine.

  “Spread it out more and watch where you step,” Trip said at his back.

  “Hasn’t it been swept for booby traps?” Singer asked.

  “I doubt it. We’re the first today. If the convoy comes quick we can be in long before dark.”

  “Yeah, this shouldn’t take long.”

  Singer trailed down the slight grade, over rough ground and low grass until he was on the road, a graded red dirt lane that cut through the walls of jungle on either side.

  From the road he eyed the jungle, troubled that it formed a dark green curtain he couldn’t see beyond. The closest cover was a long ways off. He preferred to be in the treeline watching the road than on the road watching the treeline. In the daytime darkness of the jungle he often wished for the sunlight, prayed for it. But now, exposed in the sunlight, he wished for the cover of the jungle, or at least the edge of it.

  His shadow stretched before him nearly to Rhymes, who settled his foot on a spot he studied with seemingly as much concern about the dust as about booby traps.

  Trip scuffed his feet along, almost dragging them. Singer turned to see him run an olive-drab towel across his face.

  “Christ, it’s hot. We should have stayed under cover.”

  Singer tasted the grit and heat of the morning, felt it building and reflecting up from the road. His back was clammy and his fatigues blotched with growing pools of sweat. He lifted his canteen and held the warm water in his mouth, swishing it about before swallowing. But he felt the grit again almost immediately.

  The jungle looked placid and cool, little different from one meter to the next. Meters and meters of road edge. They’d been over this ground before without results. They’d have to go farther from the firebases than this if they were going to find the enemy. But today was one of those routine things they did regardless of prospect for results. A thousand NVA could be watching them from the jungle and they’d never know it. Their passing, though, was likely unnoticed by anyone and they wouldn’t see a single NVA today.

  The air was still, the sky blue and cloudless, with little promise of change, like a Midwestern day in the heart of summer. Beyond the point man the road disappeared in a slight right-hand curve. Distant, shadowy mountain peaks marked the horizon and Laos.

  He watched the flanks as Rhymes did, but there wasn’t much to see. Tangles of trees, brush, and vines disclosed nothing. It was only when a person got close that one could see the breaks where sunlight and a man might pass.

  Turning and walking backward for a step, Singer saw Trip, his eyes and rifle pointed at the near side of the jungle, and the entire company trailing down the road. The farthest men looked like miniatures. A cluster of antenna marked the company CP in front of the last platoon. Not far back was Stick a
cross from Sergeant Edwards, striding with the radio, the handset held ready. He turned back quickly before either of them made eye contact.

  In little more than a klick they’d lay up in the shaded jungle edge to await the convoy, resting and eating until it passed and they could retire to the FB. Most of the short-time second-tour guys would likely be happy marking an easy field day, moving one more day closer to going home. He and Rhymes would share a position, rest through the heat of the day, eat Rhymes’s brownie, drink some Kool-Aid, and visit about their girlfriends and about plans after the war. At the FB they’d clean up, share care packages and mail, and reaffirm their friendships. These were good prospects that already allowed Singer to forget about Stick and the radio.

  After a few days’ break they’d get serious again and go back out hunting. Singer was still waiting for the first good fight and the chance to prove himself. Nothing had come of the man he’d seen near the stream. No one knew. It was days ago and a long way back in the mountains, and he left it there. The man had surprised him and he had froze. Back home they called it buck fever when someone had a deer in front of him but couldn’t for some reason bring himself to shoot. Next time he wouldn’t hesitate.

  8

  May 5, 1968

  0817 Hours

  Vietnam

  The jungle offered no warning. They had walked almost a klick past nondescript forest, sweating and kicking up dust while their shadows grew shorter in the dirt of the road. It was the kind of morning and movement that could easily lull someone into complacency and daydreams, and Singer had to keep bringing himself back to watching the jungle. But there’d been nothing alarming or even unsettling before the first shots came.

  Singer dove to the ground at the first cracks of the AKs that came from behind him, from the stretch of road they just walked. An M16 might have fired first, but it was quickly overwhelmed by the sound of AKs and then machine guns. The firing grew rapidly as countless weapons joined the battle, sweeping westerly toward Singer and the fourth platoon like a wildfire carried on a strong headwind.

  He wasn’t hit even though he’d been a fraction slower diving to the ground than Rhymes, Trip, and Bear, whose reactions seemed still tightly wired from their first Nam tour.

  With the shock of the first rounds, he looked back east toward the sound and saw a few men from Charlie Company running the last few meters into the jungle south of the road, then disappearing. After that the road and open ground between the two borders of trees lay empty.

  The closest fire to fourth platoon was light and sporadic. But about hundred meters back, the gunfire was heavy and still growing. This looked like the fight he’d been waiting for and his heart raced as he worked on his first magazine, firing three or four shot bursts toward the tree line. He couldn’t see any muzzle flashes or targets so he kept his fire low in the jungle edge some fifty meters or more away where the enemy was most likely positioned.

  When his first magazine went empty, he jettisoned it and pressed home a full one, doing it quickly but without panic. Then, staying prone, Singer began firing again, measured shots minus any real urgency. It surprised him that he wasn’t afraid, more exhilarated than frightened. This was not unlike lying on the range at Fort Bragg firing downrange at distant human silhouettes, with an added rush of a real enemy. Rhymes’s M79 boomed near him, and he saw the round explode just short of the tree line. He looked at Rhymes and smiled, feeling the thrill of the engagement, but Rhymes had the M79 action open and was intent on shoving in a new round. A stream of tracer rounds from Shooter’s M60 strung out across the distance, disappearing into the jungle and creating a red rope-like line linking the two positions.

  Singer pressed the trigger, feeling the rounds rip from his M16 and the exhilaration ripple through his body. He watched Rhymes’s next round explode in the trees. They were on it now.

  The sounds of battle just down the road grew to a constant roar of gunfire, but they seemed beyond the worst of it and only a few rounds came into their position. As the firing rolled west, incoming rounds kicked up dirt in front of Singer. He heard the zing of bullets and ducked instinctively but days late, had the rounds been on target.

  He continued firing, still unsure of any targets. At one point he looked to find Trip or Bear, not so much for reassurance as for affirmation of the excitement he was feeling. But both were bent over their weapons, sighted at the jungle. He wanted to tell them this was what he was waiting for, what he’d been talking about, and perhaps affirm their solidarity in the effort as they did in a football huddle.

  When the magazine was empty Singer fed another, firing short bursts at the trees, thinking he was being effective. This was good shit. Now he understood what Shooter had said about it being fun. This was more exciting than any of the shows he’d ever seen or anything he’d imagined.

  Heavy explosions tore through the ambush site one hundred meters back. At the sound, Singer looked left. First one, then two together, a pause, then a fourth larger than the first three. Singer heard them along with everyone else, but was too far away to feel the concussion. Clouds of smoke and dirt rose up out of the jungle. Rifle and machine gun fire continued unabated, and Singer couldn’t imagine what kind of hell the rest of the company was catching. By comparison, it was quiet at fourth platoon’s position. The real battle was going on just a few hundred meters down the road, and he wanted to be a part of it. While he was firing and there were occasional incoming rounds, their position was more one of spectator than participant. Back down the road he could hear the battle raging. He drew his legs up and listened for Sergeant Edwards, waiting for an order to move.

  On his left he could hear Sergeant Edwards’s voice, louder and speaking faster than normal but without alarm. He imagined Stick lying there, the radio on his back, not firing but ready to take back the handset and monitor calls.

  “Hang on. We’re coming,” Sergeant Edwards said. “Red fox four out.”

  Singer let up on the trigger and looked to the voice. He saw Sergeant Edwards pass the handset back to Stick, grab his M16, and stand up, oblivious to the incoming fire.

  “Let’s go! The company’s in trouble. Drop your rucks. Let’s go!”

  Men rose quickly and without question, running back toward the heaviest fire. Shooter was the first up and running. Bear was right behind him and then his graceful speed carried him past Shooter, who was running with labored strides carrying the machine gun. Shooter was yelling, cursing his slow legs, Bear for passing him, or the NVA, Singer couldn’t tell which. Sergeant Edwards stood with Stick at his side waving the men forward, yelling, “Let’s go, Let’s go,” all the time offering a stationary target.

  When Sergeant Royce passed, Sergeant Edwards grabbed his arm and yelled above the explosions and rifle fire so everyone nearby heard.

  “The company’s pinned down on the south side of the road and caught in a crossfire from the north. We got to hit the north side and break it.” Then he let go and waved the others on.

  At the first order, Singer pulled the release on his ruck and rolled out of it, struggling for a moment to free his right arm and regain his rifle. Then he was on his feet, running back into the ambush kill zone they passed through moments before. He watched Bear out in front leading the group and admired his athleticism and bravery that seemed at such odds with his tirades about the war. Seeing Bear out front, Singer ran harder, and soon he was passing men and closing on Shooter, who had fallen back in the group.

  “Let’s get these fuckers,” Shooter yelled.

  Singer was aware of men running with him, not of their identities, just that other bodies were in motion around him. Initially he didn’t think about Rhymes and Trip, who had been beside him as they all started to run. It was all too chaotic and too hurried. Singer just ran toward the gunfire and explosions, not thinking really about the danger, just that everyone else was running, too, and that it was exhilarating.

  This was it. Finally, he was doing something important. It didn’t m
atter that, except for a few of the men with him in fourth platoon and Doc Odum, most of the men of the company were nameless faces he knew nothing about. They all wore the same uniform and were fellow paratroopers. He would help save the team.

  The roar of the battle grew as he moved toward its center. He could smell it now, that burned powder smell left in the wake of exploded firecrackers and something else, like the pungent smell of burnt hair. Adrenaline fueled his legs and his heart raced with the exertion and excitement. He gripped his M16 with both hands, swinging it from side to side with his running motion, too focused on speed to fire.

  He glanced back, trying to locate Rhymes or Trip, but didn’t dare pause. Toward the back of the group, Ghost jogged in a jerky motion, his head pulled down tight into his shoulders and one hand atop his helmet, pulling it tight to his head. Sergeant Milner labored just behind him, belly bouncing, helmet tilted back as if he might lose it. At the rear Sergeant Edwards ran, his face dark, eyes lost under the brim of his helmet. Just behind him Stick dashed, open-mouthed, arms and legs flailing, radio bouncing with his strides. But Singer couldn’t pick out Rhymes or Trip before turning back to the front to see that he was falling back in the group. He dug in and kicked harder.

  An explosion tore the road open just ahead of Bear, sending up a geyser of dirt. A cloud of smoke and dust billowed above the road. Bear and Red stumbled, then caught themselves. Singer saw them disappear into the cloud of dirt. The shockwave washed over him, and he felt the heat change and for a moment he was blind or he’d closed his eyes and there was only the tremendous roar, and he wondered if this was the end.

  Still, he saw Shooter go down as if it were in slow motion. Shooter landed awkwardly on his right leg and then his left seemed to catch, as if trussed to the ground. His head and chest rode forward over his extended leg until he was stretched out, floating above the road. His left hand flew up toward his chest and then flailed against the air as he fell forward and crashed into the ground. The big gun slammed against the road and skidded away from him in the dirt. His right hand stretched out toward the gun, fingers flicking the air. His face lifted slightly from the dirt but then fell back as if his head was too heavy to lift. Throughout it all he never uttered a sound, or none that Singer heard, though he might have said something that was smothered by the deafening gunfire.