At the top of the rise was a trail intersection, both paths looking similarly worn. Singer went left again, on instinct, unsure where either trail led, but knowing already they were somewhere they shouldn’t be. Each step took them farther from their small, scattered platoon, deeper into the camp. They’d be lucky to be killed outright rather than taken prisoner and suffer all that would mean. This was far from any retribution he’d dreamed of. He nearly panicked, thinking of the gold tooth and photo he carried that would invite harsh reprisals, but there was nothing he could do.
Singer sucked open-mouthed at the thick air, nearly gagging. Disaster was looming larger and larger and any chance of escape faded with each step. Still, he went forward because the only other choice was one he feared more than death.
The line of thatched roofs mostly hidden by the jungle vegetation was the first evidence he saw of a base, but then he could make out the broken forms of more hooches up ahead. He fought the urge to run, struggled to swallow, then inched forward, knowing any moment things would explode. These might be his last minutes, his last memories, and he was trying to prolong them.
Another trail intersection, and he stood there peering carefully in each direction, expecting to see enemy soldiers sauntering down one of the trails. The ghostly outlines of hooches stood around them in every direction. It wasn’t possible the place was empty. Even if the main force was out on a mission, there would be a significant contingent left behind. Maybe everyone was at some central location. Things weren’t right.
Sweat ran down his face, and he stopped and wiped his trigger hand on his pants, considering his options. Should they continue along one of the trails, getting a better picture of the size and nature of the camp, or should they start searching hooches? What he really thought they should do was get the fuck out of there right now, then hit it from the air and come back in force so they could roll through it. He wanted to be anywhere else than where he was right now. The freight train was bearing down on him and his legs wouldn’t move.
Die bravely, he thought. Let people know he died bravely. He swallowed down his fear.
He was confused. Had he gone left or right at the last fork? He tried to envision the way out, constructing a mental map of the trails and what they’d seen of the camp so far. The network of trails was complicated, with so many twists and turns that he wasn’t sure exactly where they were or if he could find his way back out, even if he had all the time in the world. Which way should he go? Every direction looked equally dangerous, and he was frozen with indecision. If he didn’t move, he might live a bit longer.
The decision was made for him when Trip edged past him and started down the trail to the right, as though no longer content to follow and determined to lead them safely out or take himself home. Singer followed Trip after checking each direction again and pointing at the back trail to remind the New Guy to watch it and touching his finger to his lips for silence. He prayed the New Guy would be quiet for once. The New Guy had stared back wide-eyed, as if uncomprehending, but finally turned to look behind him in little more than a quick glance.
They crept along the trail, between walls of brush that screened them from the hooches, Trip in the lead ready with the big gun, Singer staying close behind hoping for some escape, certain there was none. The sound stopped him cold and he stood mid-step, not daring to put his weight down, listening hard. It had been a sound like that of a ripe acorn dropping from an oak tree into leaf litter in the fall. A footstep, or something dropped or thrown? Leaves hung listless. A spider clung unmoving near the center of its web, stretched across the brush, waiting. Had he really heard something?
“What was that?” Trip whispered, leaning in close.
Singer shook his head slightly, still wondering, wanting desperately for it to be nothing. He barely breathed the word. “Nothing.”
Trip turned back and took a step. Slow, deliberate.
Chattering in Vietnamese exploded like gunfire from the other side of the hedge. There was no denying it or assigning it to fear-fed imagination. The NVA were here, as Singer knew they would be from when he first saw the observation platform. The freight train hit in a crushing impact.
Before the NVA finished speaking, Trip and Singer opened up with their machine gun and M16, ending whatever it was the NVA was about to say.
Behind the hedge they saw the blur of movement, men falling hit or grabbing for weapons.
Singer tore into them with gunfire.
Trip’s machine gun stopped after the first burst.
The New Guy never fired.
Only he was shooting. “Fire! Keep firing!” Singer loaded a second magazine and slammed the trigger tight. “Fire, goddamn it! Fire!” If they didn’t overwhelm these guys and those who came to their aid, they were done.
The New Guy fired a couple shots, then quit.
Still Trip didn’t fire.
Singer looked to see if he was dead. “Fire!”
Trip pulled at the operating handle again and again without results.
“Keep firing!” Singer screamed, maybe at himself as much as at Trip and the New Guy.
The New Guy’s M16 gave up a short burp.
“Keep firing! Keep firing!” Singer burned through his fourth magazine. “They’re coming, we need the gun.”
“Fucker’s jammed.” Trip slammed his fist against the gun.
“Keep firing!”
The New Guy fired a shot, two more, then stopped.
“Fire, goddamn it.” He couldn’t stop a charge of NVA alone. These first moments were critical if they were to survive and escape.
A few more reluctant shots came from the New Guy.
“Keep firing!”
“Goddamn this fucking gun,” Trip said.
Singer heard Trip slam the M60 against the ground.
“Keep firing!” What the fuck was wrong with the New Guy? If he didn’t need him, he’d kill him.
“Keep firing!” If the NVA mustered any return fire or a charge, they’d easily overwhelm them. With a full magazine seated, Singer pulled the trigger with all his might.
“Keep firing!”
A few more shots came from the New Guy before he stopped again, as though he was rationing his ammo.
“Fire, goddamn it! Fire!” These men had to die, deserved to die for all that had happened.
Trip tugged at the operating handle and slammed the machine gun with his fist. “Goddamn this worthless fucking gun.”
“Watch the trails.” Singer sprayed bullets on the hooches. The killing wasn’t over. Only his firing was keeping them alive. This time he would kill them all before they got behind him. He dropped another empty magazine on the growing pile and pressed a full one home.
“Fire, goddamn it!” he screamed at the New Guy, terrified they would be overrun in the brief silence as he changed to a full magazine. “Keep firing!”
The New Guy fired a few more hesitant shots.
“It’s fucking hopeless,” Trip said.
“Keep firing!” Willing the enemy dead, Singer squeezed the trigger tighter. He wouldn’t allow them to recover and mount an attack. He would keep Trip and the New Guy alive where he failed the others. This was his chance for some redemption and he would not lose it.
“Cease fire, cease fire.”
“Keep firing!” Singer screamed. He would not be stopped or fooled so easily.
The New Guy started to fire again.
“Cease fire.” The strained voice was closing on them.
The New Guy held his fire.
Singer did not. “Keep firing!” It didn’t matter who was trying to stop him. He would keep going as long as he was alive and had ammo. He refused to die in this dark, fucking godless place. He held the trigger back and screamed and felt alive. Never had he been so alive.
“Cease fire! Cease fire! Cease fire!”
How long had the voice been screaming right behind him? Only now was he aware of how close it was. Still clenching the trigger, he looked back to
see the Cherry Lieutenant, red cheeks, his mouth open, trying to breathe or about to yell again. The RTO and another man were at his back, all of them with their rifles held loosely, one-handed.
His rifle was quiet, even though he still held the trigger back. Slowly he loosened his grip. He dropped the empty magazine and closed the bolt on a fresh round. The hooches were silent, the trails empty. No sounds of running feet. Just the rattle of Trip still trying to clear the jammed M60.
“What the hell’s going on?” the Cherry Lieutenant asked.
“We got NVA in front of us.” Singer remained prone with his attention back on the hooches where the NVA had been talking just minutes before. Jesus Christ, he wanted to say, we are in the middle of a fucking NVA base camp, what do you think is going on?
The New Guy started to get up, then paused, half sitting. Trip pounded and pulled at the M60.
“How many did you see?”
“Not sure, a couple.”
Singer swung his head, scanning for any movement.
“We’ve got to get out of here,” the Cherry Lieutenant said, turning back toward the direction he’d come from.
The Cherry Lieutenant wasn’t entirely stupid.
Singer, Trip, and the New Guy jumped to their feet, but the Cherry Lieutenant was already moving back down the trail with his RTO and the third man.
“Hurry. Let’s go. Let’s go,” the Cherry Lieutenant said, waving them on.
Singer noted the difference in the Cherry Lieutenant. The mask of arrogance and confidence was gone. Something the Cherry Lieutenant saw must have scared him, or the firing brought home the danger of their situation, and he was rethinking the wisdom of being in an enemy base camp with just a handful of men. Maybe he no longer saw himself being decorated for the discovery, but had a vision of himself spending his remaining years in a bamboo cage or as some unrecovered corpse left to fertilize the A Shau Valley.
Singer held up for Trip, but the New Guy ran down the trail toward the Cherry Lieutenant.
“I’m fucked.” Trip gave the operating handle a hard pull. His face was flushed and sweaty, his eyes red and irritated. “I’m going to die my last days in-country because the army can’t give me a fucking gun that works. Not even a forty-five. Every machine gunner is supposed to get a forty-five.”
“Stay next to me. I got you,” Singer said.
“I can’t even fucking defend myself.”
“I got you. Stay close.”
“I’m your fucking shadow.” Trip pushed Singer on down the trail. “Go, go. Let’s get out of here.”
Singer started running, Trip at his back. At the first turn he caught up with the Cherry Lieutenant and the three other men. Four faces pale with fear turned away in unison. Then the six of them were sprinting. The Cherry Lieutenant had the lead, pounding feet, equipment flapping, rucks bouncing heavily on their backs.
“Fuck the noise, just run,” someone near the front said.
Singer was thinking speed and distance and worried about Trip with a useless gun. At each turn he blindly followed the New Guy, trusting the Cherry Lieutenant up ahead knew the way out, thankful he didn’t have to lead. No one blocked the trail. The hooches passed in a blur.
Singer didn’t have to check to know Trip was right behind him. His heavy steps and gasping breaths were so close he thought Trip might run over him.
“Don’t leave me,” Trip panted.
“We’re together all the way.”
Any second, Singer expected gunfire would rip through their backs and they would be done running. Even carrying his M16, Singer was scared. He couldn’t imagine how Trip felt, lugging a worthless weapon that only made him a target. There was no reason to think the fight was over. When it came again, Trip would have to huddle helplessly, sharing the cover of Singer’s M16 and perhaps hoping to get a weapon off the first KIA.
They ran, making two more turns at trail intersections, but they still weren’t out of the base camp. It hadn’t seemed this far coming in. Could they be running deeper into the camp rather than heading for the way out? That thought produced a near panic that almost brought Singer to his knees.
“Go! Go!” Trip said.
Singer felt Trip’s hand push at his back and ran harder, wondering if they could outrun this nightmare. The NVA were certainly already in pursuit or waiting in ambush as they ran toward them.
The RTO stumbled and the New Guy ran into him, sending them both sprawling. Trip banged into Singer, but they caught themselves, holding each other up. They helped the RTO and New Guy to their feet and together they sprinted down the trail, closing again on the Cherry Lieutenant and the man running with him.
Just when Singer was certain they had come the wrong way, he saw them kneeling near the trail, rifles up, faces low, sighting down the barrels of their weapons. He prayed they wouldn’t fire, unnerved by the pounding feet and bodies rushing toward them.
“Hold your fire,” Singer said, as much a prayer as direction to the stillunpredictable New Guy.
The remainder of the platoon held a small defensive perimeter both sides of the trail. A couple men lifted their faces from their rifles and turned to look behind them. How long they had been waiting there, ready to flee, and why it was the Cherry Lieutenant who came to get Singer, Trip, and the New Guy once the shooting started Singer had no idea. So much of the day made little sense. At least they were together again and presented a slightly larger force with a little more firepower. They would need it, he was sure.
The Cherry Lieutenant ran through the group, barely slowing down. “Let’s go. Let’s go.”
“What happened back there?” Sergeant Milner asked.
Not even the New Guy slowed to answer. Singer ran past with Trip on his tail, both of them ignoring Sergeant Milner. The platoon was up and Singer heard the rush of men racing behind him. That their lives hung in the balance couldn’t have escaped even the inexperienced. With men behind him and Trip now, Singer was relieved their backs were covered. His heart pounded in his chest and his legs felt like they could run forever. Singer was gasping, his chest heaving, but he could run faster if those ahead would only move.
They stuck to a trail, one they hadn’t been on before. It led away from the camp and allowed them to run. No one asked where they were going or spoke of the danger of running into an ambush or a returning NVA patrol. Leaving where they’d been and to still be alive was enough for Singer and apparently the rest of them, as well.
Finally exhausted, they stopped and trailing men caught up. They gathered in a tight group with restless feet and darting eyes.
The Cherry Lieutenant hurried toward the back. “Is everyone here?”
“I guess,” Sergeant Milner said, looking at the last two men behind him.
“Make damn sure everyone stays together. Don’t lose anyone.” The Cherry Lieutenant’s words came in a breathless rush.
Singer stood with Trip at his elbow. “Fuck, we should have lit them up.”
“You were fucking crazy back there.” Trip’s laugh was hollow.
“I mean the hooches. We should have burned them, given the jets a target.” He wiped at the sweat dripping off his nose. “They’ll never find that place from the air. The Cherry Lieutenant won’t know where the fuck we were.”
“Fuck, let the gooks have it. We should all go home,” Trip said.
“Let’s go, move, move,” the Cherry Lieutenant said, jogging toward the front.
The brush whirled past. Trunks and foliage merged without detail. A branched slapped at Singer’s arm. Trip huffed behind him. He kicked his legs, propelling himself up the trail, watching the New Guy’s back. It surprised him that the New Guy could run like he was. Finally, something he was good at. The jungle had a different, more acrid smell. A scent he’d smelled before.
Where were the gunships and jets that should be hitting the camp, covering their retreat?
They were on their own, as he knew all along but had pushed from his mind. Unlike May fifth, no help wa
s coming.
They ran for a long time before finally slowing to a fast walk. Shortly after slowing down they left the trail and climbed up a hillside, hiding in the brush, watching the trail below them, waiting for the enemy who would be following them. Singer could hear the heavy breathing of the men around him as he tried to slow and quiet his own breathing. His rucksack lay heavily on his back, sliding downslope against his neck, pushing him into the earth and making it hard to rise up over his rifle. Trip had given up on trying to repair the machine gun and lay next to him clutching a grenade in each hand. The worthless M60 sat there looking deadly. Singer laid his head down briefly, resting his neck and inhaling the smell of the earth and damp, decaying leaves, a sweet smell free of the pungent odor he smelled while running.
He looked back down the trail where NVA would materialize. When they came, he would kill more. Waiting with his rifle ready was far preferable to running.
“Wait ’til they’re right in front of us. We want to kill as many as we can,” Singer whispered.
The New Guy turned and looked at Singer, his face full of bewilderment.
They lay there waiting. Watching. Trip removed the pins from one grenade, held it ready. It was a hastily arranged ambush. Not a perfect setup, but it still held possibilities. Singer felt in control again, but maybe it was just another jungle illusion.
How many had he killed in the camp? He regretted there’d been no time to inspect the hooches and check for bodies before they fled. It would have been dangerous. They didn’t have the manpower for it, or the firepower, with the machine gun down and the New Guy’s hesitancy. The uncertainty of the kill stripped him of any satisfaction.
Singer brought his head down and wiped his face on his arm, then resumed staring down his rifle at the trail. Trip swiped at an insect near his face while still clutching a grenade, a small awkward movement in slow motion. On the other side of him, the New Guy shifted his legs, the scraping of boots and knees magnified in the silence. Singer looked at him, turning his head slowly, and the New Guy stopped moving. The sweat ran into Singer’s eyes and he blinked at the irritation, trying to keep the trail in focus. He knew they were coming. They would be rushing forward, caution forgotten in the pursuit. He hoped they would be bunched up carelessly, all of them anxious to get in on the kill, but they would die as their friends in the camp had died. He just had to be patient, quiet, and still, and then give them no chance to return fire or maneuver. He knew how to be patient, having hid watching trails before. In the end, he had always won. They would come, he knew, as sure as he knew their only chance was to kill them all. He sighted down his weapon, the safety off, his finger in light contact with the trigger, waiting.
Perfume River Nights Page 21