19
May 23, 1968
A Shau Valley, Vietnam
When the fourth platoon finally found the rest of Charlie Company, Singer’s lungs burned and bolts of pain shot through his thighs with every step. Still, he was ready to run more.
The news of the base camp discovery and fourth platoon’s running retreat reached the company before them. Singer could see it in the worried faces and hear it in the animated discussion between Lieutenant Creely and the Cherry Lieutenant. Even Top’s brows settled low over dark eyes as he listened and his lips pressed tight as if to hold back a thought.
Singer still believed the NVA were chasing them, as apparently did Lieutenant Creely, since the company moved quickly to high ground and was given orders to dig in and set out all the claymores. Assigned to two-man positions again, Singer and Trip set up together while the Shake and Bake took the New Guy to set up with him. Trip seemed relieved to put down the jammed M60 and pound the ground with an entrenching tool. Singer and Trip took turns digging. Every time Singer thought they might be done, Trip said, “Make it deeper.” Frequently they stopped to listen for the sound of approaching NVA or concussions of distant explosions from jets and artillery that should be pounding the base camp. Instead, all they heard were the sounds of hurried digging.
“They should have shelled it already,” Singer said.
“Think anyone knows where the fuck we were? Even if they did, we’re at the bottom of the list. The 101st won’t be anxious to help a company from another division. They’ll take care of their own first,” Trip said.
“Fuck this shit.”
“Even Top can’t help us here.” Trip lifted his entrenching tool high over his head before arching his back and bringing it down, hitting with a tremendous whump. His arm and chest shook. Holding the M16, Singer watched Trip lever the tool loose and lift out dirt, piling it onto a growing berm.
Were Top’s connections out here really as worthless as the jammed M60? Singer expected the 101st artillery would obliterate the camp so their mission would merely be a mop-up. The silence was painful and nearly as frightening as the gunfire.
“Maybe it’s still coming.”
“We’re fucked,” Trip said. “Think about it. We’re an orphaned company led by a no-name lieutenant operating in another division’s AO. We’re at the fucking back of the line for support.”
Singer shivered and turned to hide his shaking hands. Tomorrow they would go up against the base camp without fighter jets, gunships, or artillery. If the NVA understood the silence, they would be emboldened by it. Laughing and waiting. Christ, they were being screwed by some petty unit rivalry. What the hell would they be dying for? He watched Trip as he swung the entrenching tool again, the muscles in his back rippling. Each other was all they had.
“My turn,” Singer said.
Trip took a couple more tired swings and climbed out of the hole, wiping his forehead, leaving a dirty smear.
“I should have shot myself before this fucked-up mission. I knew as soon as I heard Lieutenant Creely was staying after what happened May fifth that he’d volunteer us for something crazy. Someone should have told him that once you’re marked a coward, nothing you can ever do will change that. Now we’re going to die because the man can’t live with lost honor.”
“Let me dig.”
After exchanging his M16 for the entrenching tool, Singer climbed into the hole and swung the tool in a short, one-handed motion while Trip stood guard, examining the palm of each hand. Singer stopped digging and looked up when the new Shake and Bake approached their position, taking small, uncertain steps.
“Trip, get up to the CP with your M60,” the Shake and Bake said.
“There is a God,” Trip said, breaking into a broad, schoolboy smile. He handed the M16 back to Singer and picked up his M60, ruck, and web gear. “See you back in the world.”
“Just the M60 and all the M60 ammo. Leave your gear here.”
“What? I’m not going out?”
“Just the M60 and ammo was all they told me.” The Shake and Bake left with quick strides.
Trip dropped his ruck and web gear. “Fucking motherfuckers!” Trip kicked his web gear. “One tour already and they’re going to make me stay in this fucking place ’til my last fucking day.”
Singer climbed out of the hole and pulled the belts of ammo from his gear and gave them to Trip, who headed toward the CP head down and kicking at the ground.
After Trip left, Singer sat on the edge of the hole with his M16 watching the jungle. He wasn’t digging unless someone had his back. A lone Huey approached. Singer couldn’t see it, but he heard it coming and waited for the fire that would drive it away. Eventually it hovered over the CP, marking their position for the NVA, if their digging hadn’t already. He checked the magazine in his M16 again, ensuring it was full, flicked the safety switch back and forth a couple of times, then pulled his web gear and bandoliers of ammo closer.
Trudging back, Trip returned carrying an M16 and a couple bandoliers of ammo, but didn’t look cheered to have a working weapon. The chopper, he told Singer, brought in a couple more Cherries and took out a man who gave Trip his M16 and carried out the useless M60. “Can you believe they let some fucker leave?” Trip wasn’t sure if the man had reached his DEROS or come up on a timely R and R roster. Either way, Trip said, “The guy’s the luckiest fucker alive.”
After they finished digging in deeper than ever before, they settled on a guard schedule, but then sat up together in the darkness, neither of them able to sleep. Singer figured it was the same with most of the men of the company—certainly with all the men of fourth platoon who understood how narrow their escape had been and the likelihood of an attack. Neither Singer nor Trip ever lay down. When one of them had to move, they shifted position in slow motion, careful not to make any noise.
At dawn, Singer crawled off a short distance then shifted up on his knees and knelt there pissing, sighing with relief, having waited hours for the darkness to pass. Still holding his M16 in one hand, he tucked himself in with some difficulty. No way was he letting go of his rifle after yesterday, even to pee, especially since he heard that the May fifth ambush was triggered when a man from first platoon went out to relieve himself and stumbled into an NVA position. Back at their foxhole he slid in beside Trip, glad Trip had insisted on such a deep hole. If they could stay here, they might be all right.
“Thank God it’s over,” Singer said, looking up at the faint light that leaked through the canopy.
“It’s just beginning,” Trip said.
“I mean the night. I thought they’d hit us.”
“They’re waiting. They know we’ll come.”
Singer cocked his head. The dawn was as quiet as the dusk. No whistling of incoming artillery rounds. No rotors of Cobras racing toward them. No roar of approaching jets. Just the buzz of fucking mosquitoes.
Trip was right. Soon the order would come and they’d head back toward the enemy base camp. This time the enemy would be expecting them. It might be his only chance to eat, so Singer opened a can of Cs after digging around in his ruck and rejecting the first two he pulled out. This can said beefsteak, potatoes, and gravy, but the resemblance was slight. He forced himself to chew and swallow.
“Aren’t you going to eat?” Singer asked.
Normally by this time every morning Trip had already bragged about being short and announced his days, but this morning he sat in silence, rubbing his hand over his M16.
“Thanks,” Trip finally said.
Singer looked up from his Cs, stopping with the spoon halfway to his mouth. “For what?”
“I figured we were dead.”
“Yeah, me too. We never should have gone in there.”
“I’m so close to going home I can smell it, but . . .”
“Just a couple more days and you’ll be back on the block chasing skirts.”
“I’m not going to make it.” Trip picked up a handful of dirt and let it slip
through his fingers.
What were the odds of surviving one more incursion? Singer dumped out the rest of his food and covered it halfheartedly before shoving the empty can and spoon back into his ruck.
“We’ll be okay,” Singer said, though he didn’t believe it.
“Yeah,” Trip said, starting to fuss with his ruck and web gear.
The Shake and Bake squad leader moved past quickly, leaving word that they’d be moving out in fifteen minutes on a three-platoon patrol, with web gear only. Three platoons would attack the base camp. Maybe sixty men. They’d leave their rucks on the hilltop that had been the NDP and second platoon would stay behind to hold the hill and act as a small reaction force. The Shake and Bake had no answer for what would happen to their gear if second platoon had to come to their aid. His dark features were little changed by his two weeks with the company and he looked like a school kid despite his E5 stripes.
“Think he’ll be all right?” Singer asked.
“He’s a fucking Shake and Bake who ain’t seen shit. Stay together. We might have to do our own thing.”
Moisture hung in the air over the mountaintops and in the valleys as they packed up their rucks. Dim light streamed in through the hole cut in the canopy over the CP.
“Take these,” Trip said.
Singer looked up at the small bundle of envelopes in Trip’s hand. “Why?”
“Just some photos and shit. If something happens I don’t want some REMF to have my stuff. There’re some chicks would show you a good time.”
“You keep them. You’ll be home in a week.”
“I won’t make it.”
“I got your back.”
But then Singer thought of Rhymes. Maybe Trip did, too, because they both went silent. Trip still held out the stack of worn envelopes.
“Just for today. Give them back to me before I leave.”
* * * * *
In silence, Singer and Trip carried their rucks to the center of the NDP and added them to the pile. To Singer there seemed something final about the act. The piling of the dead’s gear after an attack.
Singer and Trip stood together at the perimeter in their web gear and bandoliers with the rest of fourth platoon, waiting for word to move out. Nearby, the New Guy fiddled with his web gear. The morning was even quieter than the dawn. There would be no pre-assault artillery barrage.
The news that they would have the point came as little surprise to Singer, since they were the ones who supposedly knew the location of the enemy camp, but it seemed to deepen Trip’s despair.
“Okay, let’s move out,” Sergeant Milner said, but held back. His face slackened after giving the order.
The men of second platoon were already digging new holes in which to wait out the day, in a smaller perimeter around last night’s CP. Singer watched a man digging, shirtless, his back holding a dull glow of sweat, the pile of rucks behind him. How long could they hold the hilltop against an all-out NVA assault? Even with defensive positions, the few men of second platoon wouldn’t last long. Still, Singer would have preferred his chances on the hilltop to attacking the base camp.
The guy Ghost called California was ordered by the Shake and Bake to take the point and started down the slope looking grim-faced and ashen despite a tan. In slack position, Ghost glanced around nervously as though already searching for an avenue of escape, before resignedly trailing California.
Singer stepped off to follow Ghost down the mountain to find the NVA. Without his ruck he felt light, unanchored, as if he could almost fly. His arms and legs were flailing as he tumbled into the void. He focused on Ghost’s back and his rifle that felt hard and hot against his palms. Behind him he could hear Trip, sliding at times, and trusted the New Guy and the rest of the company were following Trip, but he didn’t turn to look, concentrating instead on Ghost and on his footing.
At the bottom of the slope they moved east, as they had yesterday, only today they already knew what awaited them. Occasionally he got a glimpse of California in the distance, a phantom-like image drifting in and out amongst the trees.
Ahead of him, Ghost moved in halting steps, swinging his head from side to side too quickly to really see anything. When the understory became thicker, Singer moved up tighter to keep Ghost in sight. A light haze still hung in the canopy and, the jungle brightened little beyond the dim light of early dawn. The morning seemed dream-like. The beginning of a nightmare. This close to the point, his chances of surviving the initial onslaught were slim. The support of three platoons behind him would likely make little difference in the end, though there still was some comfort in their presence. Even if he survived, so many months of the same lay ahead of him. He pitied Trip to have made it so far just to end up like this.
He tried to calculate how far the base camp might be to measure how much time remained in his life. But he was confused by aspects of terrain and yesterday’s panicked retreat, which he figured made it seem farther away than it was. None of them knew exactly where the base camp was except in a vague sort of way and they had no idea where its outer perimeter sat. It was too much to hope for that they wouldn’t find it. The fight was inevitable. Only the number of minutes remaining was an issue for debate.
More than likely, the NVA had set an ambush between their base camp and Charlie Company’s night position and would hit them before they ever reached the camp. Somewhere very near the NVA were sitting, weapons ready, waiting for them to get closer, likely already watching them. They were living on borrowed time. The world would change at any moment. He watched Ghost and the jungle beyond him and took careful, measured steps forward.
They’d gone maybe two klicks. After crossing a narrow valley, they’d climbed a small hill and were moving down the opposite slope toward another valley. Large trees rose from the jungle floor like pillars that supported the dark shroud overhead. Tangles of vines hung from branches high above and clumps of bamboo and underbrush created short sight-lines, yet movement was mostly unrestricted.
They snaked their way down the incline, moving left then right around trees and undergrowth. Far ahead, Singer caught a brief glimpse of California cutting sharply left across the face of dense vegetation. Singer checked his left flank then looked ahead at Ghost, hoping Ghost was keeping California in sight, though he was staying so far back Singer wasn’t sure how he could.
With his rifle in both hands and the muzzle pointed at the ground, Ghost shuffled forward, with quick, jerky turns of his head. Suddenly Ghost froze. His arms started up to bring his rifle to his shoulder, but before they barely moved everything exploded. A torrent of AK and machine gun fire swept over them.
On the ground, far too exposed, Singer flattened out, returning fire while AK rounds tore up the earth beside him.
Behind him, Trip’s screams pierced the gunfire.
“I’m hit! I’m hit!”
Far ahead on the left, Singer could hear the distinctly different fire of an M16 and knew California somehow survived the initial flurry. The foreground where Ghost had stood before the gunfire was empty. Ghost had disappeared. Upslope from Trip, where the rest of the company should be, was quiet. Only he and California were returning fire. And they were far apart and isolated.
“Stop firing!” Trip screamed.
A pause came when every gun was quiet. For a moment even Trip stopped screaming. The silence was sudden and nearly as shocking as the explosion of fire. Singer gulped in air, raw against his dry throat.
Once Singer opened up again, shooting into the thick brush that hid the NVA positions, a few more M16s fired from behind him far up the slope. Immediately an NVA machine gun fired rounds raking past Singer, small puffs in the litter on the jungle floor, climbing rapidly upslope.
“Stop firing! Stop firing!” Trip screamed.
After Singer stopped, the enemy machine gun stopped as well, and again Trip rested his voice. When he fired again, the NVA answered with their machine gun.
“Stop firing! Goddamn it, that machine gun’
s right on me. Jesus, if you don’t stop they’re going to kill me.”
Again Singer held his fire and all the shooting stopped, as if he were the sole conductor of a deadly orchestra. He felt the pressure of his chest against the earth and the rapid pounding of his heart. A mosquito buzzed his face. Sweat ran into his eyes and down the bridge of his nose, but he held still, not wanting to give the NVA a better target. The next move seemed his to make.
“If we don’t fire, we won’t get out of here,” Singer said.
“Fuck, they’re going to kill me,” Trip said.
“Can you move?”
“They’ll kill me if I do.”
“Where are you hit?” Singer asked.
“My leg.”
“I’m coming back.”
“No! No! Don’t come back. You’ll draw fire on me.”
“Okay, okay, I’m staying here.”
The NVA held their fire, perhaps waiting for someone to expose themselves, knowing a wounded man was good bait. Above Trip, the Americans were quiet, as if hanging on Singer’s conversation. California was silent, either dead or hoping to become a forgotten man.
“Can you reach your leg to stop the bleeding?” Singer asked.
“No. I can’t move. If they fire again, I’m dead.”
“I’m coming to get you.”
“No! No! Stay where you are. You’ll get me killed.”
Perfume River Nights Page 22