Perfume River Nights

by Michael P. Maurer

  Bear insisted on standing and waved off any effort to bandage his neck.

  “Get away from me, man,” he said when Sergeant Milner tried to examine his wound.

  Singer stayed beside him, though they both were out of words. Everyone looked up as the sounds of slapping blades as a Huey grew from the east. It came alone this time, without a Cobra escort.

  They crouched below the spinning blades. Bear climbed in unassisted.

  “Take care,” Singer said loudly to be heard above the rotor noise.

  “Be careful, man.” Then Bear grinned and slapped the eagle patch on his shoulder.

  The wounded NVA was thrown onto the helicopter deck next to Bear, the man he shot. Singer heard the sharp crack when the man’s head hit the floor. Bear patted the man’s leg.

  The Huey rose in a din of a surging engine, revving blades, and a storm of churned-up road dust. The men nearest the chopper turned their faces away, fatigues whipped tight against their bodies by the wind. Squinting, Singer looked into the dust, feeling the sting on his face, and watched Bear disappear. A loneliness settled over him as the chopper receded. Even after he walked back and found Trip, the emptiness remained.

  “You can bet there’s more of them sitting in holes waiting,” Singer said.

  “As long as they stay down until we leave, I don’t care.” Trip felt the barrel of his M60.

  “They’ll sneak off when we’re gone.”

  “Let the fuckers go.”

  “We should leave an ambush behind.”

  “You want to stay?”

  “If it means getting the guys who got Rhymes, Stick, and Doc.”

  “You can never fix it. Be happy we’re leaving. We survived.”

  “Did we?”

  Trip didn’t reply.

  Without any further word, the company began moving down the road toward LZ Birmingham. Men moved and others followed. Progress was plodding, likely more from exhaustion than any special care. Trip swung the big gun at his hip, sweeping it along the jungle. Ghost had shown up and was shuffling along, head down, rifle on his shoulder. There was still no sign of Sergeant Royce, but Sergeant Milner didn’t seem worried by his absence. Top paced back and forth along their diminished column.

  Twice Singer caught himself in those first meters looking to find Rhymes and Bear, unable to orient himself without their presence.

  He couldn’t understand things. The day had started with so much promise, but he could no longer recall his elation at returning to his squad. Now there was no squad. So much had gone wrong. Had he kept the radio and stayed with Sergeant Edwards, he wondered if they all might still be alive. Or if he’d just stuck with Rhymes, might he have changed events at the crater, and would Rhymes be beside him now? How had they gotten separated? The charge. Yes, the charge. He had to figure out what happened.

  When he stopped and turned he could no longer see the ambush site. He needed to go back and check. He was forgetting something. He’d left something behind.

  “Keep moving,” Sergeant Milner said, moving past without waiting.

  13

  May 5, 1968

  1750 hours

  Vietnam

  Men on the firebase stopped their work or looked up from where they rested and watched Singer and the others pass, as though seeing something strange. Something that scared and fascinated them at the same time. Singer saw the questions on their faces that he had already asked himself many times on the trudging retreat to the firebase. What had happened today? Why had he survived when so many near him died?

  After he was assigned to a perimeter bunker with Trip, he went to the aid station and asked about Bear. The medic, a rail-thin, bespectacled guy with sandy hair and a peace medal around his neck, said Bear walked into the aid station alone and waited without question until they evac’d him.

  “He was the lightest casualty we saw today. A lucky guy,” the medic said. “Barely needed a bandage.”

  “What about the NVA?”

  “What NVA?” The medic wiped his hands on a towel he carried.

  “The wounded one that came in on the same bird.”

  “There was no NVA. I was at the pad waiting. Your friend came in alone.”

  Leaving the aid station, Singer went searching for his ruck. One of the clerks told him where to look. A mousy-looking guy with oily skin and nervous hands stared at Singer when he showed up, looking shocked before he finally found his voice.

  “Shit,” the clerk said, his hands momentarily going still. “We thought you were dead.”

  Singer merely looked at him and the man shifted nervously from one foot to the other, his hands fluttering at his sides, typing on imaginary keys.

  “Well, your gear came in KIA,” the clerk said, then walked away swiftly. Singer indeed found his ruck in the pile of equipment of those killed and reclaimed it without wondering how it had gotten there or what it meant.

  It was at the pile of gear of those killed that Singer saw Sergeant Royce for the first time since they separated at the crater. He watched Sergeant Royce pull worn envelopes from a rucksack and called out to ask him where he’d been. But Sergeant Royce hurried off, clutching the letters.

  Next he went to the company area. To hell with dealing with Sergeant Milner. Who was left in the platoon to ask? A freckle-faced kid with carrot-colored hair was sitting outside the tent paging through a journal, his feet up on a couple of stacked ammo crates.

  “You with supply?” Singer asked.

  “Yeah, why?”

  “I need ten more magazines and ammo.”

  “I can’t just give that out. Besides, it looks like you have enough,” the clerk said, eyeing Singer’s web gear and bandolier.

  “You know what happened today?”

  “We all heard.”

  “Then you know you don’t want to fuck with me.”

  “The supply sergeant won’t be happy.”

  “But you’ll get to finish your reading without a visit to the aid station.”

  Singer left with fifteen magazines and more than enough ammo. Back on the perimeter, he quietly reloaded them while Trip sat silently beside the bunker on a pile of sandbags. When he thought he had enough, he counted them. Recalling scrounging for ammo from the bodies, he loaded the rest, stacking them next to him.

  Finally he opened a can of spaghetti and picked at it cold, too weary to heat it. He set the tasteless mash aside half finished.

  With darkness settling over the firebase, Trip, in his first words of the evening, offered to take the initial watch. Singer tossed and turned before giving up and sitting on top of the bunker, watching the distant flares and tracers that were so far off in the mountains they might have been a dream. In the darkness he saw the faces of Rhymes, Doc, Stick, Red, and Sergeant Edwards and tried to recall their last words. How could he still be here? What debts did he owe?

  “You hear what they’re saying?”

  Until Trip spoke, Singer had forgotten he was there.

  “What?” Singer asked.

  “The lieutenant froze. That’s why Top was running things.”

  “Lieutenant Creely?”

  “Yeah, the general’s fair-haired boy. That West Point fucker.”

  Singer heard Trip spit and his boot grinding the dirt.

  “The CO’s dead and we’re getting cut up, and the fucking lieutenant does nothing. Worse than nothing. In the Cav we’d have shot him.”

  “We were lucky Top was there.”

  “I knew that fucker was all show.”

  “They’ll ship him out. Top will see to that. He’s probably gone already.”

  “Hell, I heard he’s still at the CP ordering people around now that we’re back on the firebase. Fucker, acting like nothing happened.”

  “If he stays, we’re in big trouble.”

  “Some chickenshit lieutenant isn’t keeping me from going home.”

  Trip spat again.

  Singer pulled a single round from a magazine and rolled it back and f
orth in the palm of his hand. Christ. They were in a bad way if the lieutenant took over the company, even if he couldn’t be blamed for everything that happened today. Now he worried about Trip, too. The threat of the solution used in the Cav was not an empty one. Trip was so determined to make it, he would kill anyone who might threaten his survival, regardless of the uniform they wore. Incompetent and dangerous officers were at the top of Trip’s list. Singer didn’t want to get caught in the fallout.

  That the lieutenant froze in battle was frightening on many levels. If he stayed they would have to follow him and rely on him when they hit the shit again. More frightening was the knowledge that even the best-schooled and most competent on the training grounds could disgrace themselves in the face of enemy fire. How did you live with such shame? It would be better to be killed. Singer hadn’t frozen, but he doubted he had fought as well as he should have. Rhymes, Stick, Sergeant Edwards, and Red were dead. He might have saved them had he been better.

  He hated Lieutenant Creely for showing how easily disgrace could come and for the fear that pressed against his chest. Pulling back the cocking arm, Singer checked his M16 again to be sure a round was chambered. He touched each grenade on his web gear, assuring himself they were there. It was bad enough the NVA were trying to kill them, but they were endangered by their own leaders. Maybe he would help Trip with his list.

  Eventually he slept, but woke early while it was still dark. At first when he heard Trip stir, he thought it was Rhymes. It was only with the rising sun that the reality of the day after settled over him.

  Trip offered his morning greeting. “Twenty-four and a wake-up and I’m out of this fucking place.”

  Hueys came just after dawn bearing men reportedly from a replacement unit in Da Nang, their eyes as bright as their weapons and their boots. Singer almost had to turn away. Had he ever looked like that?

  “It’s not very many replacements,” Singer said.

  “Get used to it,” Trip said. “There’s not a unit in Nam that isn’t under strength.”

  Singer watched with interest to see if there would be a new captain in the group. But there wasn’t an officer among them.

  A black buck sergeant looked around uncertainly before he was directed toward Sergeant Milner.

  “A Shake and Bake,” Trip said. “Got his rank from a school. Things just keep getting better.”

  After the last chopper departed, a small group of shiny uniforms was left gathered around Sergeant Milner. Ghost tried to slip back in his bunker, but Sergeant Milner caught him first, giving him a tall white guy who had a gliding dancer’s step, even laden down with gear. Later on, Singer heard Ghost call him “California.”

  Then Sergeant Milner brought a smaller guy over to Singer’s and Trip’s position. “He’s with you,” he told Trip.

  “We don’t need any new guy, Sarge.”

  Sergeant Milner was already five feet away and didn’t look back.

  “What’s it like?” the New Guy asked.

  He was a slight, wiry guy, the kind of build that would make a good tunnel rat. He bowed under the weight of his ruck, which rattled when he moved. His helmet shadowed his small face that seemed all teeth, yellow and uneven. He held an M16 in one hand at his side, looking at Trip eagerly. Singer thought of Stick’s eagerness to carry the radio.

  “You know, the fighting,” the New Guy said when Trip only stared at him. “You guys wasted some gooks yesterday, huh? Man, I’m going to—”

  “Shut the fuck up!” Trip was in the New Guy’s face, his fist twisting the Cherry’s fatigues.

  The New Guy’s mouth hung half open, wordless. His face paled and his eyes bulged. Singer watched without sympathy.

  “Hey, I didn’t mean nothing,” the New Guy squeaked, his voice an octave higher than before.

  Trip’s fist was against the Cherry’s throat. The New Guy dropped his rifle on the ground and raised up on his toes. His helmet fell and his chin shook. Singer thought of Rhymes lying in the crater and tightened his hands on his M16.

  “If you want to make it through the day, keep your fucking mouth shut,” Trip said, slowly emphasizing each word as if letting the pressure out in small measured bursts.

  “It’s not worth it,” Singer said. “Don’t fuck up your ETS.”

  Trip released the Cherry with a shove that sent him staggering backward, his ruck rattling, though the New Guy kept his footing.

  “And repack your fucking ruck so you don’t sound like a herd of cows,” Trip added over his shoulder, looking certain the Cherry wouldn’t have the balls to use his rifle. “Fucking gutless officers and guys like this. I won’t die with this fucking outfit.” Trip walked back to his M60 on the bunker top.

  The Cherry stood there shaking and rubbing his throat before stooping to pick up his rifle, all the time glancing nervously at Trip. He pulled at his uniform and web gear, then took a few quick steps toward Singer.

  “What’s wrong with that guy? He’s crazy. Hell, I only asked about the fighting.”

  Singer looked past the New Guy not wanting to commit his face to memory. “You don’t have a clue what happened yesterday. He’s seen more than you’ll ever see. Be quiet and pay attention and you’ll be okay.” Then he quickly walked away, leaving the New Guy standing there alone to figure the rest out by himself.

  At the helipad he was hoping to scrounge some LRRP rations, extra Cs, or any unattended equipment he might trade for beer. A Huey waited on the pad, its engine quiet. But any supplies that might have come in with it were already stored and secured. A crew chief was bent over one of the guns checking the ammo belt. A gunner stood off to the side talking with a grunt who carried no equipment. The grunt’s left hand was heavily wrapped in white dressing bright as a beacon in the early morning sun. When the grunt turned his head, Singer recognized the profile.

  “Hey, Sarge. Sergeant Royce,” Singer called out.

  But Royce turned his face away.

  The pilot and copilot walked up to the helicopter, said something to the crew chief that Singer couldn’t hear, then climbed into the cockpit, donning their flight helmets. The crew chief bent on one knee to look under the Huey.

  “What happened?” Singer asked when he got up next to Sergeant Royce.

  The gunner moved toward the Huey, motioning Sergeant Royce to follow. Sergeant Royce looked at the waiting Huey and the beckoning gunner, then back at Singer. Sergeant Royce’s eyes had that same lost look Singer saw in them at the crater.

  “I’ll never survive another ambush,” Sergeant Royce said, then ran toward the helicopter, his bandaged hand waving like a white flag.

  The helicopter’s rotors turned, slowly gathering speed. Singer’s mind filled with the roar of the engine and he turned away from the image and the dust that swirled around him.

  Near his position he passed a lieutenant with clean, crisp fatigues and shiny jungle boots who was walking briskly. At the bunker, Singer found Trip and the New Guy sitting in a tense, quiet truce.

  “Who was that?” Singer asked.

  “The Cherry lieutenant taking over fourth platoon. Wanted to tell us personally how excited he was. Jesus. Another fucking winner.”

  “Where the hell did he come from?” Singer asked.

  “Just came in. You should be happy.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We’re heading out in thirty. Back to the ambush site.”

  14

  May 6, 1968

  0719 Hours

  Vietnam

  It wasn’t good. Going back the same way was inviting trouble. Singer ran his sweaty palm across his thigh then returned his hand to his rifle’s grip, thumbing the safety.

  NVA were in every shadow. He was sure of it. They were waiting, knowing they’d be coming back. If he had his way they’d recon the whole way by fire, walking artillery along both sides of the road ahead of them, the lead element shooting up each stretch of jungle they moved toward and through. That would clean them out.

 
With Lieutenant Creely leading them, what chance was there of things going well? Someone had decided to give the lieutenant another chance. No one had asked him. Trip said he wouldn’t go out if Lieutenant Creely was in charge, but eventually reneged, saying he could survive twenty-four more days even with a chickenshit CO.

  Despite their shaky leader and the foolhardiness of using the same route, Singer was excited. He needed to see the place again, before too much time passed and things changed. Doing anything was better than sitting on the firebase, where there was too much idle time to think and hear the voices.

  Even now, there had to be something he could do to still save Rhymes and the others. He was convinced he would discover it there.

  The terrain looked different today, all of it altered in some way Singer couldn’t explain. The road was a red-brown slash through an expanse of formless, mottled greens that stretched to each horizon, the mountains a line of jagged teeth below a blue abyss. The early morning sun pushed out long, ghost-like shadows ahead of them.

  In the northwest, low, gray clouds hung among the peaks, a residue of yesterday’s storm. A reminder of unsettled things. He hoisted the ammo pouches on his belt, checking their weight, and counted the loaded magazines he’d hung in a bandolier. Two belts of M60 ammo for Trip’s machine gun crisscrossed his chest, adding to his load. When they found trouble, he would help Trip on the gun.

  Singer ran his fingers across each eye, pushing away the sweat, but they still burned. The scene remained unchanged. The fatigue he bore today was weightier than his pack.

  At least today they were sweeping the road, looking for mines and booby traps like the ones that killed Doc Odum and Captain Powers. Far ahead, he could see the man alone in front of the company with headphones, swinging the detecting unit back and forth inches above the road surface. Occasionally the whole company stopped while the man swung the detector slowly over the same ground, titling his head. Sometimes the man knelt and probed delicately with a bayonet.