“Fourth has the point again—” the Shake and Bake said.
“You’re fucking kidding,” Singer said.
“We’ll be last squad in the platoon,” the Shake and Bake said.
Singer and California looked at each other, Singer feeling as though he’d just survived another long crawl under enemy fire. He imagined California felt the same.
Second squad had barely started out when Sergeant Milner came running up.
“Hold up, hold up.”
The men of second squad stopped and looked back with what might have been relief. Sergeant Milner rushed up to Singer and California, but directed his words at the Shake and Bake.
“The CO wants the same men on point. He wants to go back to where you got hit.”
The shrill voice grated on Singer’s brain. “That’s bullshit,” Singer said.
California went pale.
The Shake and Bake shuffled his feet but said nothing.
“You’re on point,” Sergeant Milner said, looking at California. “Singer’s on slack. The CO wants you to go in the same way.”
“Okay, Sarge,” the Shake and Bake said in a weak voice.
“That’s fucking nuts,” Singer said. “Let’s go in a different way, come in from a flank. They’ll be waiting for us if we go back in the same way. We’re as good as dead already.”
“The CO wants to count bodies. Get going,” Sergeant Milner said.
“What bodies? From a couple artillery rounds? The CO is—”
“That’s enough, soldier! Now move out,” Sergeant Milner said.
California started off down the slope, but then stopped and looked back at Singer as though wondering if he was coming or not. Sergeant Milner stood there scowling, as if trying to look tough, but looking mostly comical with his pudgy cheeks and double chin and remarkably clean fatigues. Singer wondered how such ineffectual men became sergeants. Trip should have killed the fucker and the CO, too. Put an end to that annoying voice and the stupidity. The seconds drew out. Sergeant Milner, surprisingly, held his ground. Singer fingered his trigger. The man was slow and would be easy to kill. Sergeant Milner would never see it coming, then he’d go for the CO. What would happen then? Where the hell was Top?
“We got it,” the Shake and Bake said, moving between Singer and Sergeant Milner. He turned to Singer. “I’ll take slack. You can follow me.”
“No, I got it,” Singer said. “The CO wants to see bodies, we’ll show him fucking bodies, even if they’re our own.”
Singer stomped off toward California, who waited until Singer was nearly next to him before turning and starting forward in uneven, shuffling steps. Together they edged back toward the ground where they’d been hit just a short time ago. California stopped repeatedly, as if resting, and kept turning and looking back at Singer and then beyond him at the men who followed before taking a few more steps..
Singer watched California measuring out his remaining life in the small steps and felt his own slipping away. He looked ahead to the next tree and picked his spot to stop, moving from one piece of cover to the next, determined not to be pinned down on open ground again. This time he would have a tree for cover or to die beside.
At one point he looked behind him to see the Shake and Bake not far away and the New Guy following him. Sergeant Milner was nowhere to be seen. The Cherry Lieutenant was missing, as well. He cursed them all, especially the CO who had lost all reason in his attempt to restore his honor. His and California’s deaths would do nothing toward that end.
What would it mean, and who would even know where they died? This was just one more obscure battle in another obscure place that only the survivors would remember. He was certain now he would not be one of those.
He edged away from a small tree and inched up to the next. Ahead, he watched California take a few tentative steps, moving even slower than before. They were getting close. Even without seeing them, he knew the enemy was there. Any moment, the end would come. He tried to make himself smaller beside the tree. In a moment he would have to move again.
California crept three steps and stopped. Singer followed, sliding up to the next piece of cover, little more than a sapling, but something, anyway. His breaths were quick and shallow. His arms were leaden, as if his rifle had taken on more weight. He flexed his aching fingers as he studied the terrain. Even moving carefully, there was no chance to prevent his death.
When he saw it, he knew exactly where they were. The big tree with the sprawling roots where the New Guy had nearly killed him and the slope that he had crawled up under fire were just ahead. A pain spread from the hollow of his gut and settled in his chest with such a force that he nearly stumbled to his knees. He sucked in a breath of putrid air, though his lungs resisted. And still his legs felt weak.
He saw California freeze and was certain he recognized the place as well and saw their deaths just down the slope. California looked over his shoulder, his face holding some question. His eyes begged some answer before slipping to a vacant gaze. Singer felt the heavy silence.
They stood there so long Singer wasn’t sure California would go any farther, until he saw him take a small step and he felt himself forced to move again. At the big tree Singer stopped and ran his left hand across its coarse bark. To stay there would bring a shame more painful than any death. He stepped away from the tree slowly, pausing beside it, looking down at the open slope and California, who stood naked and exposed, barely moving his feet. They were in their last moments.
When he escaped crawling up this slope he never thought he’d have to brave it again. It was madness to come back this same way. Now he would die going down it rather than up. Trip was luckier than he knew. Matching California’s halting steps, Singer inched on, waiting for the world to explode and life to end.
Maybe they could save themselves if they just threw themselves to the ground and fired blindly. At least it would end this painful waiting. But if he couldn’t coordinate such a move with everyone, those who weren’t in on it or were too slow would likely die. Even if he survived, he’d only be forced to rise and go forward or to crawl out again under fire. What was the use?
At the bottom of the slope he stood on the ground where he lay before certain of his death. On his left was the tree that had been so close, yet beyond his reach while under fire. He shifted toward it in disbelief that he’d made it this far. A few meters on was the thick brush from where the enemy had fired. The area was undisturbed. There were no bodies and no sign of artillery impacts. Everything looked as when he’d first found it, but now it held the memory of gunfire and Trip’s screams. A long-tailed lizard scurried across leaves and disappeared, its movement noisy in the silence. Was it possible that the NVA pulled out?
When California glanced around, Singer could see his reluctance to go further. Singer had the same thought: this was far enough. It was near where California had turned sharply left on their first incursion and perhaps he was debating that as he sidestepped toward a thin tree that offered little more than the illusion of protection.
“What the hell is going on? What’s taking so long?”
The screaming tore through the quiet. Singer spun around as if shot, shocked by the volume and suddenness of the voice behind him up the slope he just descended so carefully.
“Goddamn it, I expect to move!”
In disbelief, Singer watched Lieutenant Creely come pounding down the slope with his RTO and a handful of men in tow. The men seemed reluctant followers, making little effort to keep up. Even the CO’s RTO trailed some distance back. Still far up the slope but closing ground, the CO continued screaming.
“If you men can’t handle the point, I’ll put someone else there who can!”
“Fuck,” Singer said, reaching out with his left hand to touch the tree beside him. He slid closer to it. If California was smart, he was doing the same. The NVA were close. Probably watching, as confused as he was.
“Goddamn it, I won’t allow this!”
; The CO charged toward the point. No one spoke or moved to stop him. The CO’s RTO stopped on the hillside to the left and above the Shake and Bake. The men behind him held up, too. The CO advanced alone, never breaking stride. Singer glanced at the jungle beyond the point. California gave a helpless look and took a step back.
“I want to see the bodies, goddamn it! What’s the fucking hold-up?”
The CO stormed passed Singer and marched directly up to California. The cords of his neck were protruding and taunt and his cheeks inflamed. His eyes were wild and unblinking. His right hand was balled in a fist and he gripped his M16 tightly in his left hand, swinging it haphazardly as he moved.
Singer melted against the tree and switched off the safety on his rifle. The world was imploding. They were being led by a man who had fallen over the edge and was no longer operating in the real world. God save us, he started to think, and then abandoned the thought, having forsaken any belief in God weeks ago.
Up the side slope on his right rear he saw where the RTO and the few men who had followed the CO had taken cover, small, pale faces peering down like spectators in bleacher seats at a sporting event. They clung to the cover on the hillside. They showed no interest in coming any closer or being anywhere near the CO or the point. The CO pressed his face in close to California’s.
“What the fuck is the hold-up here?”
California looked around and shuffled back a step. But Lieutenant Creely shifted forward, glaring. His temple throbbed and his checks grew even redder.
Singer, just a few feet away, said nothing. If the enemy wasn’t already there, they were closing in on Lieutenant Creely’s yelling. He could think of nothing to stop the cascade of events.
“We’ll never find bodies the way you’re moving! Why aren’t you moving faster?”
“Sir,” California stammered in a hushed voice. “We’ve got enemy in front of us.”
“I know, damn it! I want to find the bodies! I’ll show you how to walk point. Follow me.”
Lieutenant Creely turned away from California and brought his rifle up and gripped it in both hands and stepped out, all in one quick motion. His RTO, whose duty it was to be at the lieutenant’s side, made no move to give up the safety of his hillside position.
When California gave him a bewildered look, Singer shook his head, so slightly that no one but California would have seen it. He wondered if fear was visible in his face, as it was in California’s.
“Follow me,” Lieutenant Creely had ordered, but Singer wasn’t about to follow some crazy lieutenant who was bent on getting them all killed. All the stories about Lieutenant Creely on May fifth were suddenly believable.
Singer watched frozen in horror as Lieutenant Creely rushed forward with complete disregard to his surroundings, obsessed with some fantasy of discovering enemy bodies and winning back his honor. The impossibility of such redemption was perhaps the source of his craziness. If Lieutenant Creely didn’t stop right now, the first body they’d report would be his.
No one else moved. No one called out or made any attempt to stop Lieutenant Creely. Everyone in the company stayed silent and frozen, perhaps, like Singer, in shock at what they were seeing.
Lieutenant Creely charged blindly forward, bulling through vegetation. Five feet. Ten.
The question of whether he would have to follow or not never came to Singer’s mind, though it might have if Lieutenant Creely had made more ground. But the CO’s mad rush was quickly ended.
A burst of AK-47 fire exploded from just in front of the lieutenant.
Lieutenant Creely fell forward, emitting a low, animal-like moan. His body hung there held up by the vegetation, or more likely, the structure beneath it.
The last explosions of the AK were muffled, as though the rifle was held against Lieutenant Creely’s body. Singer thought he saw Lieutenant Creely’s body bounce, but then it was still, hanging there halfway between standing and kneeling. After the first moan, Lieutenant Creely made no other sound.
Singer fired, avoiding the direction where the lieutenant’s body hung, though the enemy was firing from there. More Americans and NVA joined in until the gunfire became deafening, even more intense than earlier. Singer could feel as much as hear rounds impacting against the tree and was relieved not to have been caught in the open this time. It was in a pause in the firing that he realized that except for the CO, he was alone out front again. California was gone. He probably hightailed it in the moment Lieutenant Creely was shot, as Singer never heard him fire or saw him after that. Maybe he’d learned a thing or two from Ghost.
Singer peered around the base of the tree. Lieutenant Creely hung there unmoving about fifteen paces away. Under this intensity of fire it might as well have been a mile. Back behind the tree, Singer looked around, sizing up the situation. The Shake and Bake was up the slope closer than before with the rest of fourth platoon strung out behind him, rifles and parts of faces barely visible. To his right, higher up on the side slope, were Lieutenant Creely’s RTO and the other men the lieutenant had dragged forward. They looked jumpy and ready to bolt. Some were turned, looking back up the slope as if measuring their escape. None of them were really engaged in the firefight.
No way was he being left down here alone again. What were the chances he could crawl out of here under fire a second time? He pushed up against the tree, trying to hide his entire body, then leaned out, peering with one eye across his weapon, puzzling over the position of the lieutenant’s body and the sanctuary it gave the enemy. He held his fire, conserving his ammo.
“Hey, you behind the tree.”
Singer looked up at the side slope.
“Go get the lieutenant,” the RTO ordered, clearly speaking to Singer. No one else was anywhere near the lieutenant.
The RTO was acting as if he was in charge, but he was just the lieutenant’s radio man. He wasn’t an officer or even an NCO. He had the same rank as Singer, though Singer figured he had less time in grade, which meant Singer outranked him and thus between the two he would technically be the one in charge. But it wasn’t just the two of them. If someone was to give orders, it should have been the Shake and Bake behind Singer, Sergeant Milner, the fourth platoon’s Cherry Lieutenant, or Top, somewhere farther up the hill. But no one with rank came forward or spoke up.
“Go get the lieutenant!”
“He’s dead,” Singer said.
“He’s alive. Go get him.”
“Christ, he took a full clip in the chest. Let’s get some men down here and push through these guys.”
Singer knew that was what they should do. They should flank and maneuver on the NVA and put some pressure on them, and drive them back or kill them, not have one guy go forward and die trying to recover a body, especially a body of someone who died so stupidly. One stupid death didn’t require another. It was all crazy. Here he was, a private first class, directing strategy. The RTO should be on the radio getting a platoon leader down here with some men instead of yelling at Singer to get the dead CO. Where were the leaders, the officers, the NCOs? The situation was being left to Singer and Lieutenant Creely’s RTO to resolve. Everyone else seemed like shocked observers of a horrible accident, unable to move or speak.
“I’m telling you, go get him! You’re in trouble if you don’t get him now!”
“We’ll get him when we push through them,” Singer said. “Do your job. Get on the radio and get some help down here.”
“Fuck you! You’re screwed when we get out of here. I promise you that.”
The Shake and Bake was quiet through it all. Singer saw him slip behind a tree. Who would want to draw attention to themselves from the RTO or the NVA?
Fuck the RTO. Pinned down again, alone on the point, Singer had much bigger problems than a pissed-off radio operator. He might be screwed, but he was still alive. There was a difference between bravery and stupidity and right now the distinction seemed very clear. He hugged the tree, watching his back now as well his front.
Up
on the hillside the RTO glared at him, but hadn’t pointed his rifle. If he did, Singer was ready and knew what he had to do. The men near the RTO seemed to shrink back, perhaps fearful the RTO might single them out next.
Lieutenant Creely’s body hung there in the same position it had fallen. Everyone lay as still and silent as the dead lieutenant with the seconds ticking by and the tension building. Even the NVA seemed willing to wait, secure in their bunkers with the bait of a dead American to lure the others toward the same end.
The standoff broke when a blur of movement hurled downhill past Singer and enemy machine gun and AK fire sucked away the air. The onslaught surprised Singer and he ducked down before quickly recovering and returning fire. He fired in a measured fashion, conscious of Lieutenant Creely’s body and the running man, his shots swallowed by the roar of enemy fire.
When the figure crashed at the base of the brush structure that held the lieutenant’s body, Singer recognized the profile of the company medic whom he’d seen walking with the CP group, but didn’t know. Doc lay there next to the lieutenant’s feet, his chest heaving.
What would Doc do now? Up against the base of what had to be a bunker, the medic was momentarily sheltered from enemy gunfire, but the NVA had to know he was there and would eventually try to return to the Americans’ positions. They seemed to be waiting. How could he possibly make it back with the lieutenant’s body? Doc looked trapped. Singer watched, nearly forgetting to fire.
Finally Doc reached up and grabbed hold of the lieutenant’s web gear in what looked to be an effort to pull the lieutenant to the ground. Before he could secure his grip, a hand flashed from the vegetation just above him. A grenade dropped toward Doc. Singer watched it fall and waited for the explosion, certain Doc was a dead man. But Doc rolled hard away from the bunker, twisting over twice and curling into a ball. The grenade exploded, sending up a small plume of smoke and dirt, Lieutenant Creely’s body absorbing part of the blast. Before the concussion had settled or the smoke cleared, Doc was scrambling back next to the lieutenant.
Without help, Doc wouldn’t make it. To this point Singer’s fire was ineffective. He had to do more. If he was careful, he could fire on the bunker without hitting Lieutenant Creely. Even though he believed the lieutenant had died in the first enemy volley, he didn’t want to hit his body. Singer shifted his fire cautiously toward the bunker, trying to measure his shots and control his breaths, which was proving difficult to manage. Maybe if he was accurate with his fire he could keep the NVA off Doc.
Perfume River Nights Page 24