Top’s posture gave no hint of tension, but Singer could feel it crackling through the company like the static of an electrical storm. He wondered when the first blinding flash would explode amongst them and who would survive. He leaned into the hill and struggled for good footing, climbing in the dim jungle light. The ache in his calves had spread to his thighs and his shoulders burned with the weight of his ruck.
For a couple hours they had been pushing without rest, racing toward some objective, hacking through tangles of jungle, clawing their way to higher ground, trading caution for speed. He knew this kind of movement could only mean trouble.
When they finally stopped at the edge of a clearing on a small plateau, Singer dropped heavily to the ground and sat there open-mouthed, struggling for air. He watched impassively as the New Guy bent over, retching with dry heaves. A few feet away, Trip paced.
“Fucking bullshit. Nine days and a wake-up. I should be in the rear packing for home.”
“Fuck you,” Singer said.
Trip looked down and smiled.
The whacking of machetes rang out around the clearing and Singer and Trip looked at each other, knowing what it meant. The frantic rhythm sang across the valley and echoed off adjacent hills, announcing their presence. The ringing of blades against bamboo covered Trip’s curses as he strolled off.
Singer heard the choppers coming even before the machetes were silent. The whump whump of incoming Hueys grew louder, drowning out the machete work, and then even Singer’s thoughts.
The first bird hovered above the LZ and Singer stood to watch the crew chief push boxes of ammo out the door, not waiting to hand them off to the work detail that rushed up below swirling blades, then jumped back to avoid the tumbling crates. Even before the last box smacked against the ground, the bird lifted sharply and sped back to the east, door gunners bent forward over their guns, searching for targets. Men ran from the clearing toward the perimeter with crates of grenades and ammo cans. Another bird moved in right behind the first. Men on the ground scrambled to clear the LZ as cartons of Cs rained to the ground.
Trip edged up beside Singer and watched the second Huey unload and depart before speaking.
“Fucking bad signs. I should be going out on one of those birds.”
“You’d let me have all the fun alone?” Singer asked.
“Damn straight. You and the New Guy.”
“God save me.”
The guy Ghost called California glided up, shirtless, bracing a wooden crate on one shoulder and an ammo box in the other hand. He dumped them close without comment. Men Singer didn’t know followed and the pile grew.
“Wait your turn,” Trip said, then took the box of Cs the New Guy had reached for.
The Shake and Bake stood beside the piles like a hapless sentry, while Singer grabbed what he wanted and went over and sat down near Trip. After checking the pins, Singer hung two grenades on his ruck because his web belt was full. Then he filled a new magazine, testing the spring before setting it in a pile. Everywhere Singer looked around the perimeter, men where stuffing ammo into web gear and rucks and there was a symphony of clicks of rounds being snapped into magazines. The last chopper was gone, along with Trip’s hope of leaving.
“You need any more?” Trip asked.
Singer looked up, his fingers still pushing rounds home. “Where you think we’re going?”
“I heard a guy say the A Shau. Claimed the 101st is in some shit.”
“Ah Shau,” Singer said, “never heard of it.”
“A Shau. A valley near Laos. NVA stronghold. Better hope it’s wrong. Even the Cav stayed out of there. If the 101st needs help, things must be bad.”
“Shiiiit.” Singer flipped a round in his fingers.
“Shit is right. I’m too fucking short for places like that.”
“I’m too young.”
“You want more ammo?” Trip asked.
“I got more than 600 rounds already, but I’ll take a couple more grenades.”
“Grab another belt of M60 rounds. I got a bad feeling about this. Check on the New Guy, too. See that he’s carrying enough.”
“Already did. He only wants to carry 200 rounds, already complaining his gear’s too heavy.”
“Fucking new guys. Make him carry 200 more, even if you have to shove them up his ass, but take his grenades. I don’t trust him.”
“Birds coming in, ten minutes ETA,” Sergeant Milner’s shrill voice came like fingernails on a chalk board. “Hurry up, we’re first out.”
Trip made a pistol shape with his empty hand and mock fired it at the departing Sergeant Milner. After shoving one last belt of ammo in his ruck, he tied it up. With the action of the gun cleaned and oiled, he fed a short length of ammo into the gun. He heaved on his ruck and slung two ammo belts over his head, shouldered the big gun, and ambled to the clearing edge.
“Load and carry these,” Singer said, shoving two hundred more M16 rounds at the New Guy, letting them drop in his lap without waiting for him to reach up to take them. “Hurry up or you’ll be sitting here alone.”
Singer shrugged on his ruck, then threw two belts of machine gun ammo over his shoulders and hurried after Trip, leaving the New Guy to catch up on his own. Nam. It don’t mean nothing, he reminded himself.
At the tree edge, he slid up beside Trip and looked expectantly across the clearing and up at the patch of placid sky. His stomach rolled. He clenched his sphincter, trying not to think about his bowels. Once they were on the ground, or when the shooting started, he’d be okay. The waiting and not knowing was often worse than the actual mission. He hoped that would be the case again, but somehow he doubted it.
He fingered the trigger guard of his M16 and ran his left hand along the strings of belted rounds across his chest, assuring himself they were there even though his shoulders felt their weight. Across the clearing, the grass stood motionless and an expectant quiet settled in, as if time stopped for just a moment on the collective wills that hoped to prevent what was coming. Someone popped a smoke grenade and a purple plume rose nearly straight up until it topped the clearing and drifted lazily east, dissipating.
Singer stood next to Trip, wordlessly waiting, wishing he could rid himself of the nausea without embarrassment. He glanced at Trip, not sure what he hoped to see, but his face betrayed nothing. The New Guy lumbered up next to them, but neither of them acknowledged his arrival. The distinctive whump, whump, whump rose from the distance, growing steadily louder, coming for them. Singer flexed his fingers, wiping one hand and then the other on his thighs. Trip brought two fingers to his lips and then planted them on his gun.
Top marched into the clearing and stood, arms raised as though beseeching the gods in a fashion his native ancestors had likely done on western plains. The Huey’s rotors pounded the sky, the thumping like tribal drums leading paint-marked warriors to a fighting frenzy. Singer’s stomach swirled and he clenched his teeth. The line of birds dominated the sky before dropping toward the clearing, six ships squeezing in, whirling blades close to clipping trees.
With a tight-lipped nod, Singer and Trip broke for the first bird as its nose flared up sharply before its skids leveled out just above the flattened grass. They mounted the bird with a smoothness that belied the loads they carried. Singer leaned out and heaved the New Guy up onto the bird as he struggled to climb the skid and risked being left behind. The New Guy rolled onto the floor in a tangle of gear, and a bandolier of ammo fell from his ruck and out the door as the Huey lifted and broke west in a sharp turn. Singer held onto the New Guy’s shoulder strap as the bird tilted and the bandolier dropped into the clearing.
The line of birds climbed and raced toward Laos, moving farther from ground Singer knew. Singer gazed out the door at the pockmarked jungle streaking past to avoid the faces of the six men around him. He squinted against the wind and tried to gather a strength that today seemed hard to come by, hoping to be brave, or at least not to fail. Far below him, just above the canopy, he
could see the Cobra escort looking small and insignificant.
The rotors whirled above his head, and he could feel the thumping of machinery, hear the blaring music and noise of the midway. Susan was beside him, her hips pressed into his in the small seat, and he could smell her perfume, a light floral fragrance made stronger by her body heat in the hot August night. They raised their hands and screamed as they started the descent, the rollercoaster quickly gathering speed, leaving their stomachs far behind them. At the bottom of the loop they lowered their hands and laughed and as they started another steep, laborious climb, slowing to a crawl, he reached over and took her hand and she leaned into him, laying her head on his shoulder. He turned and kissed her, softly at first, then harder, pressing his tongue into her mouth. He could feel himself getting hard. Then they were tumbling forward again, gaining speed, and she clung to him, screaming.
Still in a sharp dive, the pitch of the rotors changed as they turned south. The scenes of the midway and taste of her lips fled and Singer turned, startled, as the door gunner on his right opened up with his M60 at targets Singer couldn’t make out. The ground spun by below his feet. Above him, out the left side door, he could see only blue sky. The air was suddenly heavy and it was harder to breathe. His skin tingled with the electricity of some building event.
He prayed for a cold LZ. Across from him, Ghost crossed himself repeatedly and his lips moved in what Singer knew was a Spanish prayer, though he couldn’t hear it over the noise of the gun and the rotors. The New Guy, his arms splayed, gripping the chopper floor and his loose equipment, looked up at Singer as if searching for reassurance. Singer had nothing to offer, not even for himself. The Californian looked unfazed, with a closed-mouth smile and his left arm out, swaying as if balancing through a big curl. The man was odd.
The door gunner leaned out into his gun, shooting at something below and behind them. The rotors slapped the air. The ship shuddered, dropped six feet, then caught itself. Both door gunners were firing now, sweeping their guns back and forth in fast arcs.
Singer strained, listening for the ping of incoming rounds. He wished for the feel of ground and not to vomit. His body tensed against the expected impact and he unconsciously cupped his balls against the round that would come up through the floor.
The bird leveled out and treetops raced past just below them in a green blur so close he feared they might catch a skid and be hurled into the canopy in a mix of whirling blades, twisting metal, and breaking bodies. Ghost’s eyes were pressed tightly shut, his face taut, only his lips moving rapidly in a continued litany for salvation. Singer dragged his parched tongue across cracked lips. Next to him, Trip shifted the big gun and pulled one leg up under himself and looked out, stone-faced. It was unlikely he was praying or believed in anything beyond himself and maybe the big gun.
The canopy fell away suddenly and they were over a clearing in a high saddle that seemed too small to accommodate all the birds. The Huey fell into the clearing, flared, leveled off, stalled, but Singer could feel it ready to climb.
It looked too high to jump, but this was it, so he tumbled out, bodies falling beside him. The prop blast of the departing bird swept over him before he hit. Then he was running, Trip at his side, both of them firing, trying to gain the cover of the trees. Running and firing. Fear faded into some deep recess of his unconscious, his stomach was forgotten, and he felt the thrill of firing and of being alive.
Singer hardly felt the slap of branches, or the inch-long thorns that ripped his arms, or his body slamming against the ground. He quickly crawled closer to Trip and snapped a link of rounds to the machine gun. Trip stopped firing with a long string of rounds left, but kept his head down on the gun and his finger ready on the trigger.
Singer re-grasped his rifle and looked into a jungle understory that was indistinguishable from every other piece of jungle he’d lain in. The firing gave out sporadically around him until every gun was silent and he could hear his breaths, shallow and rapid. Were the NVA waiting for the Cobras and Hueys to get farther away before attacking? Or were they gathering around the LZ to wait in ambush?
In the distance, the sound of the Hueys and Cobras was fading until even straining, Singer couldn’t hold on to it. A lifeline slipped away. The LZ was deathly quiet. Small and encircled by a noose of trees. His breath, dry and raspy in his throat.
A sense of aloneness so pervasive and frightening swept over him that he turned to assure himself that Trip was still there. He listened to the silence, counting raspy breaths, groping to hear the sound of the returning Hueys. The minutes dragged by, each one a lifetime, as he waited, wondering if the Hueys or the enemy would get there first.
Trip lifted his head slightly from the machine gun and seemed to listen. “Too quiet,” he whispered without turning.
Singer’s hands sweated on his rifle. He listened for anything, hoping to hear the rhythmic whump of rotors that would mean they wouldn’t be abandoned here. A bead of sweat rolled down his nose and hung there a moment before dropping onto his rifle. There was a muffled cough to his left, followed by a soft curse, neither answered by gunfire. If the NVA were here they were waiting, biding their time. Twice he thought he’d heard them coming, the faintest of sounds at the edge of his hearing, but both times the sound disappeared so quickly it left him wondering if he’d really heard it. A fly buzzed and settled on his cheek but he didn’t dare swipe at it.
Finally the thumping of rotors was there, far away, but coming. Definitely coming. He clung to the sound until the Hueys were beating the air around him and he knew without looking that more of the company was jumping into the LZ. With the arrival of more men reinforcing the perimeter, Singer believed for the first time that morning that he might just survive. How many air assaults would he have to make in a year? How long could he beat the odds?
The choppers departed more quickly than they arrived and there was the noise of voices, movement, and the rattle of equipment as the company assembled and prepared to depart the LZ. Singer felt the ground against the length of his body, knowing he would soon give up the relative safety of his prone position to troll for the enemy.
“Welcome to the A Shau,” Trip said, greeting the new arrivals as though a self-appointed welcoming committee, though only Singer could have heard him.
Singer stood reluctantly and within minutes was moving downslope, part of a long, twisting line of tired-looking men descending uncertainly into a dark and foreboding jungle.
“Welcome to the A Shau,” Singer said, hoping he’d be around to say goodbye when they left.
17
May 22, 1968
A Shau Valley, Vietnam
They’d been lucky so far, but signs were there. The trail they cut and started down, descending into the A Shau in the midday jungle dimness, was hard-packed bare dirt, the vegetation worn back at its edges. A pathway traveled by an army.
When Trip reached it, he stopped and stood there looking reluctant to take the next step, as if on the edge of a deep abyss. Above him, Singer dug his feet in and leaned back into the slope, waiting, taking some of the weight off his shoulders, straining to see down the trail in both directions. He worried Trip was considering going it alone, breaking a trail rather than following the company down a well-traveled path in a reputed NVA stronghold. Who would he follow?
“Why a trail like that out here?” the New Guy asked from just above Singer.
“Gooks,” Singer said.
“Lots of them.”
“Couldn’t it be animals?”
“Not a chance. Be quiet and stay alert.”
Singer wiped the sweat from his face, adjusted one of the ammo belts that hung over his shoulders and then checked the safety on his rifle, clicking it off and on. Trip looked back at Singer before stepping onto the trail, concern etched in his face. Singer pulled himself up and side-stepped carefully down the slope, leaning slightly to keep the weight of his pack from toppling him forward.
While it was easier going, S
inger was certain following the trail could only lead to disaster. Being this far back in the column offered some safety to an initial assault, but with it came blindness to what was happening at the front. At any moment he expected to hear gunfire and screams from the point. They were being sacrificed in some effort he didn’t really understand anymore.
The layered jungle canopy muffled sounds and created a crushing stillness. It made him want to yell just to hear his own voice.
Ahead, the silhouettes of the forward platoon disappeared into the distance, the shadowy forms merging into the dark wall of jungle. Forms hunched under the weight of the things they carried, plodding on like overburdened pack animals on a long trail.
Singer followed, knowing no other option, each step taking more effort. The air seemed to hold little oxygen, and he worked harder for each breath. A dull ache was growing in his bones, the kind he imagined old people felt when barometric pressure changed before a storm. He flicked the safety on his rifle and looked at the uphill slopes around him where hundreds of NVA might be watching, undetected. Were they the hunter or the hunted?
The dread grew heavier than his pack and he bowed under it. He waited for the jungle to explode, resigned to it, but without little stomach for it today. Vengeful feelings lost to his fear.
The enemy was there watching, waiting. He could feel them. Yet he couldn’t catch any figure or movement around him on the slopes. He wanted to tell Top, but Singer hadn’t seen him since he moved past, heading toward the point, more than an hour ago. Top must already know the enemy is here, Singer figured.
His dread didn’t lessen when they finally left the trail that descended steeply toward a deep, foreboding chasm, where apparently even Lieutenant Creely was unwilling to lead the company. More likely it was Top who had stopped their descent.
Perfume River Nights Page 18