Perfume River Nights

by Michael P. Maurer

  “Okay, okay.” Singer lay there, trapped as much by Trip as the NVA.

  The NVA patience gave out. Enemy fire raked the hillside.

  “Oh, shit,” Trip screamed.

  Singer fired back, aware that some of the men above him were firing, too.

  “Stop firing. Please. Stop firing. Oh, Jesus, stop.”

  Only when the NVA stopped did Singer quit firing. Despite Trip’s pleading, he couldn’t let enemy fire go unanswered. The area grew quiet once more in a repetitive pattern from which Singer took no hope.

  “Hey, Point,” Singer yelled. “You still with us?”

  “I can’t move,” California said, a quaver in his voice.

  “You hit?”

  “No, but they’re right on top of me.”

  “Hang in there,” Singer said, not sure how any of them would get out of this.

  They lay there, each side firing sporadically, neither side advancing or gaining any advantage. Singer and the others fired only when the NVA fired. Each time, Trip screamed for them to stop. Singer tried to close his mind to it, torn between the need to fight and Trip’s pleadings. He would have to do something about Trip before he could fire at will. He wanted to go back to him, but Trip was adamant he shouldn’t, terrified it would bring enemy fire that would kill him. Singer was stuck, rendered ineffective, uncertain what to do.

  After each volley, Singer’s position felt more lonely and exposed. No one was on either side of him. Ahead of him, far too close, was a tangle of brush that hid the NVA. Ten feet to his left was a large tree that looked inviting, but trying to get there might mean dying, so he burrowed into the ground where he was.

  California was so far off to the left front that any kind of support or connection was completely lost. Ghost had let California get too far ahead and then disappeared in the first volley of fire, breaking any link between them. California was pinned down closer to the enemy and even more alone than Singer.

  Up the slope behind Singer and Trip, where the New Guy was, a few men of fourth platoon had formed a small perimeter, taking cover behind trees, roots, and rocks, but they weren’t coming any closer.

  During one of the exchanges of fire, Trip suddenly stopped screaming. Dead, Singer thought. He sagged as if he’d been hit. But when he twisted his neck to look, he saw the Shake and Bake crawling upslope to the impromptu perimeter with Trip on his back. Singer leaned into his rifle with new recklessness. Able to fire without restraints was a help, though he still had no idea how he’d get out.

  Enemy fire was intense, and he remained exposed. Some of the enemy fire was so close he could feel the air stir and dirt kicked up on him. And then there was California. For him to move to California would be suicide, and even if he could make it, the two of them would be stuck, isolated far from the main body. The NVA fire wasn’t showing any signs of weakening. They needed more people up front if they were to have any hope of suppressing the enemy fire. It didn’t look like any squads were coming forward to reinforce his position and put more effective fire on the enemy. Who above him would see that need and order it?

  “Pull back!” someone, whom Singer didn’t recognize, yelled from far up the slope.

  Singer looked off toward where he knew California was trapped. “I can’t,” Singer yelled. “I got a man out in front of me.”

  He waited, but the upslope voice never answered. No one moved or offered any help. Fuck, worse than leaderless again. Trip was right. They both should have refused to go out with a CO who’d already failed. With gritted teeth he held the trigger back even after his M16 was empty. When the quiet resettled, he made a plan.

  “Hey, California,” Singer yelled, forgetting not to use any name. “You still there?”

  The “Yeah” in response sounded uncertain.

  “Think you can crawl straight back from where you are?” Singer thought it was the best way out for California. For him to try to come back to Singer would be impossible. He’d never make it.

  “Maybe.”

  “Don’t come back this way. Go straight back from them and then circle around to us. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “I’ll put out covering fire from here and try to keep them off you. Go after I fire.”

  Singer opened up without waiting for any acknowledgement from California, and the men in the small perimeter above him started firing as well. The NVA poured fire on the hillside and Singer kept his head low while he burned through one magazine after another, trying to buy California the time he needed.

  If the NVA had forgotten about California with his lying quietly and not firing, he had again exposed his position by yelling back and forth with Singer. Still, when the shooting started, it seemed all of it was directed at Singer and the men above him. Maybe California had a chance.

  He imagined California turning and crawling quietly away, gaining distant between himself and the NVA guns inch by inch. Then he heard running and breaking brush and finally yelling behind and above him

  “It’s me! It’s me! Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!”

  Then the running stopped.

  “I made it,” California yelled breathlessly. “I made it.”

  Singer nearly smiled with relief. At least California had made it and he wouldn’t have to go forward to get him. Crawling back to help Trip was one thing, but crawling up within a couple feet of the enemy where California had been was an entirely different matter.

  Now only he was left.

  Trip’s retrieval and California’s escape left him alone out in front of the company, closer to the NVA positions than his own. He was the closest and most exposed target for the NVA. He stopped firing and laid his head down on the ground, smelling the dirt and the decay of the jungle floor. No one would be coming to help him, and he couldn’t stay here forever. It was a miracle that, despite all the fire and his exposed position, he had not been hit. If he had more time he would ponder that longer, but right now he had to think about getting out of here. He didn’t like it, but it was move or die. Perhaps it would be both.

  He twisted his head around awkwardly and looked back over his shoulder at the American positions up the slope. He could see the partially hidden faces, small and distant, staring down at him from their positions of relative safety. No one was offering advice or encouragement. They hugged their cover and stared, their thoughts masked by the distance though Singer could feel their fear that mirrored his own.

  It didn’t look good. Only scant cover existed between him and the American positions. The upslope route would compound his exposure to NVA fire, but there was no other way. He fought the urge to stand and run, pushing away the desire to rush to the cover of the perimeter and the comfort of having men beside him. How far would he get running before machine gun and AK fire caught him and brought him down? A few steps, or maybe even halfway if he was really lucky. Running was just too exposed, too dangerous. His best chance would be to crawl. With the help of covering fire, he might make it. He looked up the hill again, trying to measure the distance and the effort it would take. It was a long crawl that would be tough, if not impossible, to do all at once. He would have to do it in stages, a little at a time. He searched for resting places that offered even the smallest bit of cover, but there were none. He rested his head briefly, closing his eyes, telling himself when he opened them he would go.

  “Give me some covering fire. I’m coming back.”

  The men above him opened up and immediately the NVA answered with fire more intense than any so far. For a moment Singer didn’t move, but just listened to the roar of gunfire. He could do this. He turned on his belly, keeping his face in the dirt, and pushed off, inching forward, pressing his body against the ground, trying to blend in with the jungle floor. He pushed his M16 ahead of him in his right hand and then reached out and pulled with his left, pushing alternately with each leg. It was slow going as he concentrated on keeping his head and ass down and tried to make himself the smallest target possible. Bullets ripped throu
gh the air in both directions and he inched along through the middle of it, pushing and pulling, willing himself to stay down when he wanted nothing more but to get up and run away from it all and not stop running until it was all so far behind as to seem like some distant nightmare. He could feel the bullets impacting the ground near him, or he imaged their impacts, and even while he crawled he tensed his entire body against the force of the rounds that would strike him at any moment and pound him into the ground. His legs and arms ached and his breath came in torturous gasps that hurt his lungs. Dirt clung to his mouth and nostrils and he spit repeatedly, trying to clear the dirt, but only succeeded in taking it deeper into his throat. The firing waned and he risked raising his head slightly and was discouraged at how far off the men above him still were. Yet he had managed to get this far without being hit. Maybe he had a chance. He lay there feeling large and obvious on the open hillside, needing to move quickly again, trying to catch his breath, knowing every eye was on him, all of them likely wondering how he was still alive and if he would make it. He couldn’t wait any longer.

  “Give me some more fire.”

  With the first shots, both sides joined in until the volume of fire was again deafening and rounds raked up the hillside. He started moving, pushing off hard with his coiled leg, pulling the other up, switching his weight from side to side and reaching with his arms, clawing at the dirt, the air abuzz around him. The slope was slightly steeper here and he strained against the incline. When he looked up he could see the faces above him, closer now, but still a good crawl away, leaning into their rifles, firing just over him with focused determination. He pushed and pulled himself forward, gaining a few more feet then stopped, exhausted, a long ten yards below the makeshift perimeter. When he looked back down the slope, he saw how far he’d come and was encouraged to realize that he had survived this far and was almost there. He was going to make it. One more push.

  A large tree with wide, sprawling roots stood near the center of the perimeter and was his focus as he crawled uphill. He stared at it now as he prepared for his last move to safety. On the left side of the tree, the Shake and Bake looked out where he knelt, his rifle slightly off his shoulder, the muzzle pointed downslope but over Singer’s head. Other men huddled behind cover nearby, but Singer looked at the tree and the salvation it promised. The Shake and Bake brought his rifle to his shoulder. Before the Shake and Bake took aim, their gaze met. What was it Singer saw? Urgent pleading? Sadness of a last goodbye? Fuck it, he was almost home.

  “When the shooting starts, I’m coming in around the right side of the big tree.”

  He said it loud enough so that everyone on the line would hear him, but he looked directly at the Shake and Bake, wanting to be certain he understood his plan. He was too close to making it to die at the hands of his own men. Before he could say it again to be sure everyone knew what he was going to do, someone started shooting and everyone joined in and there was little chance to be heard above the gunfire.

  The M16 fire was frighteningly close and he ducked his head, raising just his eyes to keep sight of his goal. The Shake and Bake’s face was pressed against his rifle, so Singer could no longer see his eyes and had to guess that he understood and would adjust his fire as Singer got up to the tree. Singer could see the muzzle flashes and slight recoil and the blur of casing spitting out the side of the Shake and Bake’s M16. He could hear the cracks of the AKs and the pounding enemy machine gun reaching up at him. He crawled with the urgency of a man trying to cheat death. Three yards. Five. The safety of the tree was just above him. Survival he’d thought impossible during the past hour was nearly in reach.

  In desperation, he rose to his hands and knees. He flew at the tree as fast as he could, hoping he didn’t catch an NVA bullet up his ass. To his left, he could see the muzzle of the Shake and Bake’s M16 sticking out beyond the tree, bouncing with its steady fire, but the Shake and Bake was obscured by the tree and the angle. The right side of the tree was empty and waiting. Singer raced toward it, hands and knees paddling furiously. A yard away he allowed himself to believe he’d made it.

  But in that last second an M16 loomed in front of his face. He saw the muzzle, large and round. In the dark hole of the bore he saw his death. The rifle thrust out blindly from behind the tree. Inches from his face, there was no escaping the bullets about to explode out the muzzle. So close, and now he was dead. The muzzle would be his last earthly vision. He wished he could have seen the sun one last time.

  The rifle exploded, and he heard the burst of rounds and the world went silent except for the pounding in his ears.

  He could see the wide-eyed face of the New Guy, his weapon pointed in the air, the Shake and Bake’s hand under the barrel holding it up so that the New Guy was unable to lower it. He realized he was behind the tree and still alive. The Shake and Bake and the New Guy stared at him as if he were an apparition.

  When he closed his eyes, he saw the barrel of the M16 rising violently and firing just as it rose above his eyes. Gingerly, he lifted his helmet off his head and examined the hole in the top front and the second hole a few inches behind that. He touched his head and examined his hand, afraid of the blood he would see, but there was only dirt from his crawl. He turned his helmet over and pushed his letters aside to see the inside of his helmet liner was smooth and unbroken.

  The Shake and Bake released the New Guy’s rifle and the New Guy turned away against the tree. He did not look at Singer or fire his rifle despite the impact of enemy rounds against the tree. Singer looked at the Shake and Bake, the understanding in his eyes, but couldn’t form words in his mind, much less bring them to his lips, before the Shake and Bake turned back toward the enemy and fired. Singer’s head hurt and the loud ringing in his ears muffled the sounds of the battle and of any words he might have said. He wanted to tell someone he was alive and see if they believed him, but he wasn’t sure who to tell or who around him might even care.

  “Jesus,” Singer finally said, not sure himself if it was a curse or a prayer.

  He lay back on the ground looking up at the dark canopy, studying the leaves, content to let the others fire.

  * * * * *

  An artillery round whistled overhead and Singer ducked lower, bracing against the explosion that took some time in coming and was softened by the distance and the jungle. His head hurt, and he wished he had some Darvon or even aspirin. He didn’t remember the company pulling back, but they must have because he was on a different hill, the cover thicker here. He pushed himself up on his hands and knees.

  “Where you going?”

  It took a few seconds for Singer to bring California’s face into focus. “To check on Trip.”

  “They already took him out. Ghost, too.”

  “What?”

  “Medevac been here and gone. Brought a basket down through the canopy. You lay there and listened to it.”

  Another artillery round came whistling in and Singer dropped prone, waiting for the explosion that seemed to come from a different valley.

  “Fuck.”

  He looked up at the canopy, imagining where Trip had gone, staring for a long time. Trip had known somehow. Now he wished he’d taken the photos and letters.

  “How were they?”

  “Ghost’s dead. That fucker left me hung out down there. When I got out and atop the hill I found him sitting with his back to a tree, his rifle on his lap. He grinned when he saw me as if it had been a fucking joke. The joke was—”

  “Trip? What about him?”

  “Okay, I guess. Medic was with him. Had a bandage on his thigh.”

  Singer laid his face down into the leaf litter. Christ, his head was pounding. He removed his helmet and touched his fingers to his head, then examined them again.

  “The Shake and Bake says we’re going back.”

  “Where?” Singer asked, knowing the answer.

  “Down there, soon as this is over.”

  “They’ll put a different platoon on point.
We had our time.”

  “I don’t think I can do that again.”

  “Fuck, you and me both.”

  They lay there, Singer waiting for the barrage that would come once the artillery was adjusted on target, hoping when it came it would go on forever.

  “You hear that?” Singer asked.

  California looked at him as if puzzled, or straining to listen. “Nothing.”

  “That’s what I mean. How many rounds you count?”

  “Maybe five.”

  “Five exactly,” Singer said. “Now nothing. No jets, no gunships, and five lousy fucking rounds. What a fucked-up operation.”

  “There’s got to be more,” California said, looking around as if he’d lost something.

  “Don’t count on it. They sent us out here and now forgot us.”

  Singer checked his bandolier and ammo pouches, counting and shifting his loaded magazines to his right side. He was okay, but he’d have to be careful. He knew how fast he could burn up his ammo.

  “Where’s the rest of the squad?” Singer asked.

  “Shake and Bake is on our right with the guy who came in with me. That’s all of us.”

  Singer thought for a minute trying to count, recalling the names. Could the squad be just four guys, three of them new? “Who else got hit?”

  “Don’t know. I didn’t see anyone else.” California rolled over and sat up. “Maybe they’ll pull out.”

  “Who?”

  “The gooks.”

  “You see that base camp yesterday? This is home. They aren’t going anywhere. Even if they wanted to leave, they’re trapped as much as we are. We’ll have to dig these fuckers out one bunker at a time. Doesn’t look like we’re going to get any help doing it, either.”

  “I can’t do it again.”

  “What choice do we have? At least we’ll be in the back this time.”

  Singer didn’t want to think about it anymore. The talking made his headache worse so he sat there, letting the silence tick by.

  When the Shake and Bake came over with the New Guy at his side, Singer and California stood up.