Perfume River Nights

by Michael P. Maurer

  “It’s done,” Trip said. “Let’s go.”

  But the man continued to smile at Singer. Mocking him. Maybe the man thought he could smile his way out of this meeting, as well. Without warning, Singer raised his rifle and smashed the butt into the man’s mouth, breaking his smile. One measured blow. The crack of the rifle against the man’s teeth was as loud as a gunshot.

  “Shit,” the New Guy said. He bent over, retching up another stream of vomit.

  Trip watched wordlessly.

  Singer pulled the gold tooth from the dead man’s mouth, then held it up in the ray of light. Eventually he closed his fist around it, squeezing it before pushing it down in his pocket. He looked at the man’s broken smile, the space where the gold tooth had been. The man’s face was dark, the beam of light gone. A current of sadness passed through him and he turned away.

  “Now it’s done,” Singer said, starting west toward the crater.

  “Cherry,” Trip called out to the New Guy. “Let’s go.”

  The New Guy came forward, giving the bodies as wide a berth as the vegetation allowed, but staring at the damaged mouth. He closed on Trip until he stood too close.

  “Why’d he do that?”

  Did the Cherry think Singer couldn’t hear him? Singer stopped and looked back at the New Guy, seeing his face for the first time. He looked too young to be there. His face was pale with soft features. His cheeks still held the chubbiness of youth. The bravado he’d tried to project in the first moments of his arrival was nowhere to be seen. Yet his eyes were bright, unlike Trip’s or so many of the others. But maybe it was just the near presence of tears. He looked like he might bolt, like he didn’t want to be there, but who of them did?

  How could Singer explain what he’d done? He wasn’t even sure he understood it. Images of his father flashed through his mind and the stories told among his father’s friends of collecting teeth from Japanese bodies in their war years in the South Pacific.

  This is war, he could say. Or he could tell him, we are all our father’s sons. But what was the point? The New Guy would never live long enough to understand. In the New Guy’s features he saw the mingling of life and death. He turned away, not wanting to be reminded of his past self or to remember the New Guy’s face.

  15

  May 6, 1968

  0903 Hours

  Vietnam

  The crater was close. He could feel it. Rhymes was calling his name again. Sergeant Edwards began pleading. Desperate, whispered words. Singer quickened his steps.

  “Shouldn’t we go back?” the New Guy asked. “What if everyone leaves?”

  Singer wasn’t going back. He was just getting started.

  The voices pulled at him and he bulled his way through the brush, forgetting caution. When he stepped, his left foot found only air where the ground should have been and he staggered. Without the tree to grab onto, he might have fallen in. He pushed the brush aside with his rifle and found one hole, then another. Christ, they were everywhere. But where the hell was the excavated dirt? How had he missed these yesterday? He must have been too focused on seeing bodies or the fleeing backs of Vietnamese.

  In the end he counted five additional spider holes, but knew there were more. You could lay beside them and never see them. How close had he been yesterday? His neck tingled with a million pinpricks and his fingers grew almost numb.

  Just beyond the enemy fighting holes through the vegetation he could make out the broken outline of the crater. Rhymes screamed. Singer heard the crawling.

  Bullets ripped through the vegetation, shredding leaves, tearing at limbs and pounding the ground. The jungle swallowed the bullets without comment and Singer smiled as he slammed in another magazine and pulled the trigger with all his might.

  Trip slid up beside Singer but didn’t fire. “What do you got?”

  “I’m going to kill them all.”

  “You see something?”

  “They’re here.”

  Trip stood still, appearing to listen to the quiet that descended when Singer stopped after the second magazine.

  “Shit, there ain’t no one here.” Trip peered into one hole, then a second. “They’re empty.”

  “They’re here,” Singer said, breathing heavily. “The crater’s right there. This is where they are.”

  “What’s going on?” the New Guy asked from behind them.

  “Nothing,” Trip said. “I’ll take the point,” he said to Singer. “You watch him.”

  “No! I got the point!”

  “Okay. Okay. Take it easy, though, I don’t want that Cherry Lieutenant or Sergeant Milner over here.”

  Singer edged around the holes, keeping the crater as his reference point. Each hole was progressively darker and deeper, yielding nothing but taunts. At the last hole he stood staring into it. If each hole was an occupied grave waiting only for the dirt to be shoveled in, which he would have done, taking joy in the labor, would he had been satisfied? How many bodies would it take to fill the emptiness? He kicked at the edge and listened to the dirt fall softly to the bottom and to the pounding in his head.

  All morning he wanted to run to it, but now when he was so near to it, he wanted to turn back, or a least wait a little longer. He moved to the crater cautiously, afraid each time he took a step the earth might explode or that his head would. When he reached the crater’s edge he stood still, surprised at how bare and common it looked. Like a million other craters that pockmarked the countryside. Why was he so afraid of it? No tears came. Yet he sagged under a sense of grief and disappointment. Had he truly expected to see Rhymes, Stick, Sergeant Edwards, and Red? What had he believed he would find?

  Shell casings littered the bottom, some of them pressed into the dirt under imprints of boots. Was it just yesterday he had stood there? The vegetation was compressed and stained where Stick had sprawled on his back, gripping the radio handset even in death, and where Sergeant Royce and Red had tended to Sergeant Edwards as he had begged for it to end.

  He bent down and picked up an AK shell casing next to the crater and rolled it in his hand, then felt the small depression where the firing pin had struck the primer, starting the explosion that sent the bullet toward its target. He looked into the end of the casing and saw nothing but darkness.

  Singer slid down into the crater, entering slower, more carefully than he had yesterday, as if he were sliding back in time. He listened for Rhymes and the voices of the others, but the crater was quiet now. Even the crawling of the enemy was absent. A slight, momentary breeze rustled the leaves at his back and he turned quickly, expecting someone to be there. He watched a leaf twist, then hang still. The smell of cordite mixed with the coppery smell of blood rose off the vegetation or up from the earth, and for a moment he could smell the battle as strongly as he had yesterday, as though gunsmoke hung over the battlefield like a permanent veil.

  From the crater he looked out to where he knew the enemy fighting holes were and thought of the men who had occupied them. The enemy rose from the holes, reaching up with hands dirty from their lives in the jungle and a night of digging, pulling themselves up and forward, coming toward the crater. Fear began to fill Singer’s mind like thick smoke seeping into a closed room, black and acrid, threatening to blot out all life. He felt the rush of his frantic firing and his desperation to kill the NVA around the crater. He ached for another chance and hated himself at the same time for what he wanted to do. He could hardly remember who he was or how he’d come to be here doing these things.

  He shook his head to erase the images, but the residue of terror clung to him like chalk on a blackboard from yesterday’s lesson.

  In a few weeks the compressed vegetation and the stains on the ground and the litter of shell casings at his feet would be mostly gone. The rains would wash away the stains, the vegetation would rebound, and the dirt from the sides of the crater would wash into the bottom, burying the casings, and there would be no memory on the land. Just another shell hole, indistinguishab
le from all the others. Memorable only to the few who were here and survived. Sergeant Royce had already fled, but Singer doubted he or Sergeant Royce could ever escape the crater.

  Above him, outside the crater, Trip and the New Guy stood with their backs to him, silent sentries with different memories of yesterday.

  He had been sure there would be answers here. But there were only the questions of how he had survived and what it might mean.

  “You finished?” Trip asked.

  On his second step up the crater wall, Singer slipped, his knee pressing into the soil, his hand catching the edge, his face near the dirt. He hung there as he had yesterday, between two worlds, neither dead nor living. It would be so easy to let go and slide back into the bottom.

  “Hurry up,” Trip said.

  Before crawling out, Singer twisted to look once more at where Rhymes smiled throughout the battle. Nothing indicated that Rhymes had ever been there except for Singer’s memory.

  “Thanks,” Singer said when he neared Trip, who was watching the New Guy like a nervous parent.

  “Fuck, let’s head back,” Trip said.

  “I’ve had enough of this place.”

  “I want to look around some more.”

  “Shit, there’s nothing here but ghosts.”

  Singer walked away, certain there was more. Only two bodies. There had to be more.

  “Goddamn it, Singer,” Trip said, hurrying to follow, motioning for the New Guy to keep up.

  Singer pushed ahead, not caring whether Trip came along or not. Not caring what happened anymore. Even if he couldn’t find Rhymes, he would find the NVA. He had killed more and he wasn’t leaving until he found them. It was one of the few things anymore that would bring him any comfort.

  “Five minutes, then we’re leaving with or without you,” Trip said.

  Twice Singer paced around the crater checking holes, uncertain of which he’d checked before. He pushed through a matted ring six feet across, where he knelt and fingered dried blood. He made a circle but found no trail.

  “Fuck,” he said and tried to spit, generating only grit.

  Again he crossed the area fifteen feet out where he thought the man should be. “Okay,” he was about to tell Trip, but then he saw the fresh-turned ground. East of the crater maybe thirty feet away was a recent dirt mound. At first he thought it might just be excavations from the fighting holes. But after he pushed through the brush he saw the shallow, disorganized scrapings and the mound’s low, elongate form.

  “Yes,” he said, kneeling beside it and laying his rifle to the side.

  There was no choice. He had to know. He considered calling Trip over but quickly dismissed the thought, already hearing his reproaches. A quick glance around assured him he was alone. With no wires or any metal to suggest a booby trap he made a move, tentative at first. The dirt was dry and loose against his fingers. He pulled a handful from the pile, holding his breath as the dirt slid off the mound. When nothing happened, he moved a second handful, and then a third, working with more confidence.

  He felt the soft flesh before he saw it, recoiling slightly at the different texture. His hands worked more quickly, exposing the man’s face. The countenance was ashen and distorted, and dirt clung to the dead flesh. The head was damaged by repeated bullet strikes. The right ear hung on a piece of skull. The bullet hole was there, high in the check just below the right eye, though the face looked much different than it had the day before. The surprised expression Singer saw at his bullet’s impact was lost in death.

  He wanted this man dead, as well as his comrade, but he didn’t feel the satisfaction he was expecting. The man had killed his friends. How could he explain it? After the wave of sorrow passed, leaving no feeling in its wake, he resumed his work of uncovering the man.

  The chest was slight, the stomach distended like a famine victim. It was more the body of a boy than a man. He had seemed so much more imposing at the crater edge with an AK-47 in his hands. His left shoulder and left arm were riddled with bullet holes, dirt caked in the dry blood.

  Again Singer paused and scanned the ground behind the body. “The fucker,” he said when he couldn’t see a second grave.

  Locked at his side by stiffened arms, he found the man’s hands, small and empty. Any gear the man had carried or worn had been stripped away. There was nothing to salvage or collect. He pried apart the man’s pockets and slipped his fingers in, not expecting much. In the man’s breast pocket he found a photo. A picture of a man and a woman that had no military value. He quickly slipped it in his own pocket so Trip wouldn’t see it.

  When he slammed his fist against the man’s chest there was a dull thud absorbed by the dead flesh. He hit the man again rather than give in to the tears pooling behind his eyes.

  “Jesus Christ, what—”

  Singer grabbed for his rifle and spun around too late. “Goddamn it,” Singer said. “I nearly killed you.”

  Trip snorted. “You’d been dead long before that.”

  The muzzle of Trip’s M60 was slightly to the side, but Singer saw the truth in it. His heart was still pounding so he could hardly speak. He knew he’d been careless.

  “What the fuck are you doing? Lucky I ain’t the lieutenant.”

  Singer tried to hide his grimy hands. “I found him like this.”

  “What is it with you and dead guys?” Trip asked. “You’ll have ghosts and that Cherry Lieutenant on our ass.”

  “When’d you get superstitious?”

  “Even a Cherry knows it’s bad luck to dig up graves. Fuck, the investigation alone would drag on for months and I’d never get out of here. I won’t let you fuck up my leaving.”

  The New Guy standing behind Trip’s shoulder blinked rapidly, but he didn’t look away.

  Singer set his rifle down and started scooping up dirt with his cupped hands to cover the man.

  “Leave him. We’re heading back,” Trip said.

  “It’ll be worse luck if we don’t rebury him.”

  “Christ. Okay. Help him,” Trip said, looking at the New Guy.

  The New Guy took a couple of steps back, shaking his head slowly. His prominent Adam’s apple rose and fell on his neck.

  “Everyone’s a fucking problem,” Trip said.

  “I got it.” Singer quickly shoveled enough dirt with his hands to cover the man’s face and most of his torso, though he could still see the man’s distended stomach and fingers of his right hand. Then Singer wiped his hands on his pants, leaving muddy smears on the sweat-soaked fatigues, and picked up his rifle.

  “Maybe we can leave now, if everyone’s fucking ready,” Trip said.

  “Just a little more,” Singer said.

  “Your time’s up.”

  “You know there’re things here.”

  “What’s a few more dead gooks? It won’t change anything. We’re still stuck in this fucking place.”

  “I need to look.”

  “You’re done.”

  The New Guy shuffled his feet. “We should go back. Tell the lieutenant.”

  “Tell the lieutenant what?” Singer asked, taking two steps toward the New Guy.

  “I just mean we should report, aren’t we supposed to—”

  “You don’t know shit. You didn’t see nothing. You don’t say nothing.” Trip said.

  Singer and Trip exchanged a look.

  The New Guy paled. His Adam’s apple bobbed.

  “You understand?” Trip asked.

  A weak nod was all the New Guy answered.

  16

  May 21, 1968

  Mountains Southwest of Hue, Vietnam

  Keep moving,” Top said.

  The New Guy had nearly stopped, his hand reaching for his knees, his mouth open, sucking air. He straightened up with obvious effort and took tired steps forward. Singer could hear his labored breathing and wondered if men could die from exhaustion.

  “Let’s go. Keep moving.”

  Top stood just off the trail, feet staggered
on the slope, his rifle held loosely in one hand, waving men forward with the other. His back was straight and his breaths even despite the climb.

  Singer slowed to keep from getting too close to Trip, who followed the New Guy. With the M60 braced on his shoulder Trip was still taking energetic steps, as if he drew strength from the big gun or from his increasing closeness to going home.

  The black gun shined from the hours Trip spent running an oily rag across its action and exterior. The crossed belts of rounds hung like deadly golden sashes, cleaner than those Singer lugged, which brought on Trip’s admonishments. How Trip kept his so spotless Singer couldn’t figure out. Singer worried first about his M16, even though he knew his job these days was to stick with Trip and when they hit the shit to be there on his left, clipping together belts of ammo to allow Trip’s uninterrupted firing.

  “The machine gun’s the most important thing,” Trip said a few days after picking up Shooter’s M60.

  Trip stopped wiping the action and looked at Singer. “We keep the gun firing no matter what. Even if you’re hit, I stay on the gun, and if I’m hit, you man the gun. You leave me be and keep the gun going. You understand?”

  “Right, the gun is more important than you or me.”

  “Keep the gun going at all costs. Without the gun we’re fucked.”

  Trip looked at Singer for a long moment as if waiting for an additional affirmation before returning to rubbing the oil rag across the M60.

  Three nights ago, Singer dreamed of Trip lying beside him, dying, as he fired the gun trying to stop the wave of NVA charging their position. He never told Trip of the dream, but he thought of it and what it meant.

  Today he followed Trip past Top, wanting to ask where they were going in such a hurry, but Top was already looking past him and waving men on, so he pushed by without a word. Wherever they were going, Top would be there.

  That was critical to Singer. Lieutenant Creely was acting again like he was in command, but how could they trust a man who failed once? Another big test had yet to come but Singer doubted the CO would pass. Trip said, “Nothing’s changed. Count on more trouble.” So Singer counted his clips, stayed close to Trip, and kept an eye on Top’s whereabouts.