Perfume River Nights

by Michael P. Maurer

  Instead of following the trail further down, they turned right and began to climb. Trip shifted the big gun to his shoulder, set his right foot upslope, paused as if gathering strength, then pulled himself up with his free hand. He repeated the process, reminding Singer of a climber on an alpine slope, making progress so agonizingly slowly that when he’d watch the documentary in his high school history class he’d wondered if the man had frozen stiff in mid-step.

  Before starting the climb, Singer stared down the trail, a narrowing dim line merging into a black void, thankful he didn’t have to go there. He followed Trip, moving his rifle across his body to keep the muzzle out of the dirt, finding himself struggling against the steepness of the slope and having to use the same slow process as Trip to pull himself up.

  The steepness offered a small hope that if the NVA were going to reach them, they would have to make the same brutal climb. The top might save them. If the NVA weren’t waiting for them at the top already. For a moment, Singer had the vision of grenades being rolled down the slope, exploding around him. He trembled at the thought. He clung to a thick vine and wiped the sweat from his eyes, and hung there, his mouth open, his chest heaving with shallow, rapid breaths until the image passed. Below him, the New Guy clawed his way up using both hands, his rifle slung across his shoulder, followed by indistinct figures, the last of the company. Singer forced himself to move.

  Hand over hand they climbed, inching their way higher. Singer’s legs burned, screaming in protest at each step. He fought against an agonizing fatigue and the weight of his pack that pushed him down, threatening to stop his progress. He thought of a minor wound, a medevac, a hospital bed, and of being able to rest.

  A lizard called from above them, “Fuck you, fuck you,” and another answered from an opposite mountain, “Fuck you, fuck you.” More joined the chorus, calling as he climbed. If he hadn’t known it was lizards, he might have believed it was the NVA taunting them. It had nearly the same effect.

  The dimness of the jungle grew gradually, nearly imperceptibly, until Trip was a dark, formless shape above him that he had to strain to see, forcing him to push even harder to stay close and not lose contact. A rock shelf blocked his way and he struggled to get over it, believing he couldn’t go any farther.

  Then a hand was there, reaching out of the darkness, open, palm up, thick fingers extended. He grabbed it and the hand tightened around his and he could feel the strength as it pulled him up over the ledge. He saw Trip’s face, a tired smirk, and he was on his stomach, on level ground for the first time in hours. He lifted his head and vomited.

  “Some mountain,” Trip said.

  “Let the fuckers come up this.”

  Singer pushed himself up to his knees and sat there his mouth open, gasping. “Is this the top?”

  “Not sure, but we’re stopping here. Where’s the New Guy?”

  “Behind me.”

  Trip peered over the ledge into the darkness. “Shit.”

  “He was behind me.”

  “Hey,” Trip said. “Hey, up here.”

  There was nothing, just the oppressive gloom. Singer sloughed off his ruck and moved to the edge, holding his M16 ready. Trip pulled a grenade and held it, its pin still in place.

  “Goddamn it. If that new fucker’s lost . . .” Trip said. “Hey?”

  There was a soft thud, then the sound of rocks falling. Something that sounded like a whimper.

  “Up here.”

  “Is that you?” a weak voice asked out of the darkness downslope.

  “You better hope it is. Get your ass up here.”

  Trip waited, not putting down the grenade until he saw the New Guy’s face, then pulled him over the ledge with too much force.

  “You better keep up. Fuck around and get yourself lost ain’t no one going to look for you.”

  “Give me a hand,” a soldier said at the ledge, and Singer grabbed his hand.

  “It was dark,” the New Guy said, his eyes wide and moist.

  “Fuck, it’s always dark,” Trip said.

  “What’s the hold-up?” asked a disembodied voice from the darkness that was unmistakably Sergeant Milner. “Get a perimeter set up, two-man positions.” He pointed at the New Guy. “You, shift right. Pair up with the man over there.” The New Guy shuffled off without a word.

  “Where’s second squad? We need to send out an ambush.” Sergeant Milner said.

  “Don’t know, Sarge, just got here,” Trip said.

  “I want the M60 over there.”

  Trip picked up the gun and his ruck and moved off quickly, gesturing with a slight motion of his head for Singer to follow. They walked past dark forms sprawled amidst the trees and rocks, holding their weapons, a few already eating Cs. The hilltop held the murmur of movement, whispered words, and the muffled sounds of shifting equipment.

  Here,” Trip said, dropping his ruck and the gun. “Watch out for Sergeant Milner or he’ll be trying to send us on some crazy nighttime mission. If he wants an ambush, he should go. This short fucker ain’t doing anymore nighttime patrols.” Trip pulled the machete from the side of his pack and hacked at brush and a small tree.

  Singer sat down hard, still breathing heavily, putting his back against a tree. “I didn’t spend all day climbing just to go back down. Let them come to us.” He pulled a grenade from his web gear and set it in front of him, then lined up another until he had six grenades laid out. Then he dug the claymore out of his pack.

  Trip set his M60 in position and lined it up to fire downhill, checking that he could move it without getting hung up. He set it aside and swung his long blade once more, then checked the gun’s movement again before sheathing the machete. He strung an additional length of rounds and laid belts of ammo near the gun. He handed his grenades to Singer, who added them to the pile.

  “I’m too tired to dig in,” Singer said. “That hump kicked my ass.”

  “We’re okay. With all the rocks and roots you couldn’t dig, anyway,” Trip said. “I’ll put out the claymore.”

  “No, I’ll do it, you’re short.”

  “I’ll check the next position to see how we’re tied in and tell them we’re going out in front to set a claymore.”

  When Trip got back and on the gun, Singer moved cautiously, dropping down below their position with his M16 and the claymore, feeling his way, mindful of his bearings. On his knees, he set the claymore on a likely approach, angling it for maximum effect, imagining the carnage and the payback for Rhymes, Doc, Red, and Stick. After inserting the fuse, he camouflaged it carefully and then ran the wire, hiding it as he went back to his position. He set the trigger near the grenades and sat down next to his ruck.

  “How’s it look?” Trip asked.

  “It’s an easier route than we came up,” Singer said. “The slope won’t slow them down much, but I put the claymore in a good spot.”

  “Keep the trigger handy.”

  Singer dug a can of Cs from his ruck and held it up close to his face before running a P38 around the lid and spooning out a mouthful. It was as tasteless as paste and about the same consistency. He swallowed with the help of a slug of water from one of his canteens, then took another spoonful of food.

  “Have a burger for me when you get home,” Singer said.

  “Right after the steak and beers, count on it,” Trip said. “Eight and a wake-up. I should be in the rear stacking forms or sorting supplies and waiting for my bird. This is the last fucking mountain I’m ever going to climb.”

  “What will you do?”

  “My old man will want me to work, but after this I don’t know. Maybe get me a fast bike and see some country. Fuck, I don’t know. I know I won’t spend years bent over the same damn machine like my old man.”

  “A bike and open country sounds good. No trees, no mountains, just flat country and sunshine. I don’t ever want to see woods again. I hate this fucking darkness. How do those fuckers live in this dreary place? I want to be able to lie on my back, look up
and see the sun. If I can see the sun, everything will be okay.”

  When Trip went quiet, Singer imagined he was thinking about the steak and beer he would have in just a few days or girls back home he only alluded to in crude sexual references. A number of girls wrote him, perfumed letters which came in distinctly different envelopes, often including photos. Trip would read them and get that half smile, half smirk of his and stare at the photo before adding it to the small bundle he carried and guarded judiciously. Yeah, maybe he was thinking about the girls.

  Nine days and Trip would be gone. Singer thought of the 247 days he had left and couldn’t even imagine it. How many more patrols would he make? How many more mountains would he have to hump? How many more cans of shitty food would he have to eat? Singer put the empty can from his Cs in his ruck and wrapped his poncho liner over his shoulders against the evening mountain chill, pulling his M16 onto his lap.

  “I’ll take first watch,” Trip said. “Get some sleep, I’ll wake you in two.”

  Singer curled up on his side in his liner holding onto his rifle, his head on his ruck. “Singer, Singer,” Rhymes called him, his voice faint and distant. Soft pleadings. “Hold on, I’m coming,” Singer told him.

  “Singer, it’s your shift,” Trip whispered.

  “What?”

  “Wake up. Your shift.”

  “Okay, okay.” Singer sat up and rubbed his eyes. “What time is?”

  “2210.”

  “Everything quiet?”

  “Yeah.”

  Trip handed Singer the watch and claymore trigger and lay down behind the gun. Sat up and pulled a rock from under him and lay down again. “Wake me for my shift at 2400.”

  Singer pulled his rifle into his lap and a bandolier nearer, then sat blinking, trying to clear his head. He could already hear Trip’s sleep-breathing, slow, shallow exhalations, though he could barely make out his sleeping form, a dark, vague shape amongst other vague shapes. It seemed even darker now, if that was possible. The slope was indiscernible. Shapes merged, blurred, disappeared, and reemerged only through his imagination. The darkness was monotonous and he shifted his eyes back and forth to relieve the fatigue. He shook off the poncho liner, hoping the chill would help keep him awake. He held the watch up to his face: 2225.

  He opened his eyes with a start and quickly raised his head, blinking at the darkness that refused to retreat. The watch read 0147 hours. Shit. He started to shiver and needed to pee but was afraid to move. How long had he been asleep? Trip was still curled where he’d first lain down, his breathing slow and nasal. It wasn’t that, but there’d been something. Shit, how had he fallen asleep? He strained to hear anything out of the normal, knowing he was lucky to still be alive. There it was, or was it his imagination?

  Singer leaned over and touched Trip sleeping form beside him, “You hear that?”

  Trip raised his head. At the noise he screamed, “Blow the claymore! Blow the claymore!”

  The claymore boomed, shattering the night, a flash of brilliance, debris raining against the trees.

  Trip opened up with the M60 in frantic burst, the muzzle blast lighting their position. A claymore blew on their right. Singer threw a grenade. A brief quiet reigned before someone down the line fired a short burst from an M16. Singer listened, ready.

  Singer spun toward the rear, feeling the trigger pressure along with terror. They wouldn’t get in on him again.

  “Jesus,” Sergeant Milner shrieked. “Don’t shoot. Don’t shoot.”

  Singer let out a breath and lowered his rifle.

  Sergeant Milner hung there a moment, a dark shape on the edge of Singer’s vision, like he was debating returning to the safety of the platoon CP and forgetting about everything until the morning. He straightened up a bit and edged closer, still looking frightened. “What happened here?”

  Singer looked at Trip.

  “We had a probe,” Trip said.

  “Show a little fire discipline. It was probably nothing.”

  “Right, Sarge, just like May fifth was nothing. If we’d had a little less fire discipline then, some of the guys might still be alive.”

  Sergeant Milner sagged, his mouth hanging half open, before he turned away without a word.

  “Fuck that guy,” Trip said. “You see him May fifth? You see him shoot his rifle even once? He did nothing. Now he’s going to tell us we shouldn’t fire. Fuck him. I’m going home. No way I’m getting zapped my last days in country. No fucking way.”

  “Christ, what was that?” Singer asked.

  “Don’t know. Gooks feeling us out. Whatever, they sure took off.”

  “Moved across the line pretty fast.”

  “Probably a group spread out, unsure where we were.”

  “But they never fired.”

  “Why give themselves away until they’re ready? They were just feeling us out, seeing what kind of response they’d get.”

  “Shit, that was close.”

  “Too fucking close. You were supposed to wake me at 2400.”

  “I was—”

  Don’t fall asleep again. Get me—”

  “I was—”

  “Don’t fucking sleep. Get me up if you can’t stay awake. We could’ve had our throats slit. Happened in the Cav. Gooks slit the throats of three guys on the perimeter. We found them dead in their foxhole in the morning. No one heard a thing.”

  “Fuck. I’m sorry, I don’t know what happened.”

  “Don’t let it happen again. Sleep all you want after I’m gone, but not before.”

  “I’m awake if you want to sleep.”

  “No more sleep tonight. They’ll be back. They know where we are now.” Trip clipped two more ammo belts to the one trailing from the gun, then felt the barrel. “Be sure to shoot low, downhill, or you’ll shoot over them.”

  Singer released the magazine from his M16 and pressed down on the round, assuring himself it was full, then checked the chamber before slowly pushing the magazine back home, letting go when he heard the quiet snap of the catch. He pulled the grenades closer, rearranging them one by one while Trip lay silently at his gun.

  “Who will you see first?” Singer asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “When you get home, which girl?”

  “Fuck, I don’t know, maybe I’ll just shuffle the deck and take them one at a time as they come up.”

  Singer could see Trip’s teeth and tell he was smiling again. “Sounds like a serious problem.”

  “Yeah, but I plan to give it my full attention.”

  “Save some for me.”

  “Sure, come out when you’re done and I’ll hook you up. Easy.”

  “Count on it, then.”

  They settled back into silence, Singer thinking about home and the prospect of heading out to see Trip after the war. Maybe he’d even look up Rhymes’s family, Doc’s, too. What would he tell them? He listened to the night and stared into the darkness, taking comfort that Trip was beside him doing the same. Shadows formed in the darkness, taking on strange shapes that flowed, seeming alive. He strained against the blackness, trying to find the outline of things, something to hold onto that would orient the world, but the blackness was fluid. Reality and imagination merged. They were coming for him. He knew it. Moving up the slope with determined faces, carrying AKs and RPGs, intent on killing him. He opened the bolt of his M16, felt the round, then pushed it forward before fingering the grenades, as if counting them to be sure they were all still there.

  “Do you hear that?” Singer asked.

  Trip cocked his head slightly, but didn’t answer.

  “The crawling?”

  “No,” Trip said, “Nothing.” But he shifted up tighter behind the gun.

  It wasn’t the wind or his imagination. It was real, even if Trip couldn’t hear it. Bodies dragging themselves forward over hard earth. They were coming for him again. He pointed his rifle toward the sound, his hands sweaty despite the mountain chill.

  He turned q
uickly to find only empty blackness. Too slow. He had to be faster. Could he do it again? Could he make the same kind of lucky shot? He doubted he could and that unnerved him. Next time they’d kill him. He checked his rifle’s chamber again then tested the magazine to be certain it was seated properly. When dawn finally came, he was exhausted.

  18

  May 23, 1968

  A Shau Valley, Vietnam

  With the dawn the slope slowly materialized into jumbled boulders, tangles of vines and stems amid massive trees, all in shades of gray. Nighttime blackness gave birth to a pervasive gloominess. Shapes took form, but details remained lost in the depths of perpetual shadow. When it never really got light, Singer cursed the jungle and felt the thread of hope evaporate. He tried to imagine the sun, an invisible god that inside the jungle tomb was nearly beyond knowledge or memory. To die here, entombed in the darkness, would be to die without salvation, without hope. If he could only look up at the face of God, feel it’s warmth on his face, he could give himself up to death. But not here. Not in this godless darkness.

  Trip met the dawn with silence. Singer waited for his proclamation of his few remaining days, but Trip never gave it. Instead, he ran his oily rag back and forth across the gun.

  Since May fifth, Singer felt like he and Trip were the lone survivors of a shipwreck drifting about, looking for solid ground. Trip was nearly there. Seeing anyone survive and leave intact made it seem possible. If Trip could make it, maybe Singer could, too.

  With his grenades hung back on his web gear, Singer retrieved his belts of machine-gun ammo and draped them on his pack.

  “I’m going down to check the claymore,” Singer said. “Maybe there’ll be something.”

  Trip nodded without looking up.

  At the claymore site there were no indications of what had approached last night: no bodies, abandoned equipment, or blood. Just a shattered piece of jungle: sheared stems, frayed and ragged ends, the litter of torn leaves and leafless branches.

  “What does it matter?” Trip said when Singer told him.

  It was the Shake and Bake who gave them the bad news, his dark face soft and slack. Too green to know the truth of it. “Platoon patrols. Ten minutes. Be ready.”