Perfume River Nights

by Michael P. Maurer

  He struggled to bring some order to the memories, but there were so many loose pieces that just didn’t fit and it was difficult to order them. They were moving now. When had they moved out? He stumbled downslope, grabbing a tree to slow his decent, trying to remember if he’d been told where they were going and why. Focus. It bothered him that he didn’t know things that had just happened. There were so many things he couldn’t remember, like who he was before he came to this place and did these things. He wasn’t sure who he was anymore. He thought he might be losing his mind.

  There were recollections of gunfire and explosions, and the sound of choppers that he couldn’t see, and the crawling to get closer or to escape, and the impact of rounds so close he couldn’t believe he wasn’t hit. How was he still alive? Short, intense flurries of gunfire came and went. Other gunfire came in unrelenting storms that lasted forever. There were memories of times when he fired frantically trying to survive, the sound of his firing lost in the roar, so that afterwards he wasn’t even sure he had fired except for the pile of shell casings and empty magazines. One battle or many? The same day or different days? It was a puzzle he couldn’t assemble.

  There was the smell of earth and the minute detail of the ground where he lay. The leaf with the slightly curled tip and the network of veins that once brought life to the leaf, the rust-colored marks on another that looked like blood, and the stone so smooth as if it had been tumbled in a stream, but there was no stream. When had he seen these things? A dream? Maybe he was drifting in some afterlife.

  Take another step. Then another. He tried to focus on the movement and the jungle, but the memories raced through his head unchecked as if they were the present. There were recollections of explosions of grenades and the screams of wounded and the whoosh of LAWs and the close-quarter detonations and the absence of air that made it difficult to breathe. Still the NVA fired from their bunkers. Always there. Always waiting. Lieutenant Creely, his RTO, and Doc lay waiting, too, rotting in the heat, unconcerned at how long the battle might last or who else would die. Singer sucked in air, open-mouthed, feeling he couldn’t breathe. Breathe. He had to breathe or he would die. Maybe he would die anyway. Maybe he was already dead.

  The ground was level now and he followed the man in front of him, keeping the distance close. For a moment he thought it was Trip and he was going to ask him how many days they’d been here. Trip was short, he would be carefully counting each day. He would know. He had nearly called out when he heard Trip’s screams, pleading, but distant, and he remembered Trip was gone. It might be the man he’d seen sitting near him hunched over a cigarette. Had that been today? California? Was he still alive? He slowed up and let the distance increase.

  He remembered slipping through the cloud of red, yellow, green, and purple smoke and the burning in his throat and nostrils and the fear that he still could be seen. Sliding forward, trying not to lose the man in front of him, and instead losing the earth and all sense of up or down. Still, even in the haze, the NVA bullets found them. Disembodied screams and men running into each other. The colors swirled and pulsed and threatened to swallow them all. He didn’t know how he or the others escaped. When he closed his eyes, he still found himself trapped in the multicolored smoke and felt the panic rising in his throat.

  He clutched his rifle, trying to focus on where he was and his movement, but still the images rushed through his mind. Yesterday or last week? He wasn’t sure, but he was sure it was here in the A Shau that he saw the man propped up against a tree half lying, half sitting, his head hanging on his chest as if he was asleep. His face was hidden, his helmet off, his brown hair wet and matted. His web gear was unbuckled and laying open. His shirt was gone, his chest deathly white, wrapped in dressings, another dressing on his thigh where his pants had been cut open to his crotch. Smears of dull red marked his body. Two men crouched beside him, one touching his face as though trying to lift his head.

  “Do something,” the man said. “He’s dying.”

  “There’s nothing I can do.” The other man, a medic, it seemed, turned his head, and Singer could see the strain and weariness. “Thirteen hits.” The medic shook his head. “How can he be alive?” His body slumped and his head sagged.

  Singer stopped and stared sharing the medic’s exhaustion and disbelief.

  “I’ve used all my dressings. Nothing I can do.” The medic’s voice trailed off so that Singer could barely hear him.

  The medic pulled a cigarette out of a pack that he returned to his fatigue jacket pocket. The flash of a flame from a lighter and then the acrid, sweet smell of grass. It mingled with the stench of death so that it was compelling and repulsive at the same time. Singer could smell it even after he was well beyond the scene. He was sure he hadn’t dreamed it. He remembered wanting to sit down next to the dying man and share the joint, but instead he moved on, certain he was moving toward his own death. They were all dying. Some just faster than others.

  The slope had changed, but he wasn’t sure when. He was climbing now, planting his foot. The calf of his rear leg tightened, and he pulled until he dragged it ahead. Each step took a great effort, and he paused to catch his breath between each step, as if he were climbing at some great altitude where the air was thin. He carried his rifle one-handed, freeing his other hand to grab onto trees to pull himself up. He was relieved not to be burdened with the weight of a body, as he had been on so many climbs. So many things already weighed him down and made it difficult to move that the weight of a body was nearly impossible to bear. He thought about stopping, just lying down where he was and putting his head down on the ground. Sleep would be immediate and he would escape, even if only for a short time. But he kept moving mindlessly, something in him refusing to quit as though he held the hope if he just kept moving he could eventually walk away from everything. He sucked in air that burned across his throat and took another step.

  How many days ago had it been when the burst of gunfire brought the sickening whap of the impact of a bullet with soft tissue and bone and the sudden loud exhale, not really a moan or a scream, just a rapid release of air? The memory was there, drifting, unattached to any date or other event. “In the trees,” someone had yelled, and then they were all firing wildly into the canopy. A rifle fell out of the trees as if dropped from the sky and he stopped firing to watch it fall. It clattered on impact with the ground. The firing lessened and he heard a soft thud and the crack of breaking branches and finally a body tumbled out of the trees, falling sideways toward the ground, until it was caught suddenly by a rope tied to the left leg and bounced heavily before settling at the end of the rope, five meters above the ground, arms reaching toward the earth. More gunfire and the body danced. Singer remembered laughing at the sight of the man twirling on the end of the rope, but he wasn’t sure now why it had been so funny. He caught himself and looked around, wondering if he might have laughed out loud. If he had, no one took notice. The few men he could see were climbing, heads down.

  There had been other climbs like this on similar mountains when his legs protested and he sucked air, trying to keep moving, to make it to the hoped-for safety of the top. How many had he climbed? Maybe it was all the same mountain but just different days. Memories raced past like telephone poles along a highway. Pinned down by enemy fire. Near escapes. Torturous climbs with bodies that sagged and bled, resisting being carried. The waiting for medevacs that turned back in the face of heavy enemy fire. The moans and pained calls of the wounded in the night. The promises of resupplies that didn’t come. Counting his full magazine. Rationing his food and water. Digging in at night, waiting for a mortar or ground attack. More movement until gunfire erupted and they hugged the ground again. The dim dreariness of the days and the darkness of the nights.

  It would never end. He raised his head and tried to see the top where they would end their climb, but all he saw was the back of a man ahead of him and the dense foliage that had become his world. He saw the muzzle flashes so close they were ne
arly blinding and felt death pass over him, and he fired as he tried to crawl to cover. He pressed his fingers to his eyes to push away the image and the fear that made it difficult to move. That had been just hours ago, but now he wasn’t sure. He’d been here so long he wasn’t sure of anything anymore. It might have been ten days or it could have already been a month in the A Shau. The repetition of movement, gunfire, and evacuation of wounded and dead in a place without sun where there was only a small difference between night and day had swallowed time. It was lost to him as he was lost to himself.

  He recalled times of thirst, when his mouth went dry and his tongue swelled up and started to crack and his insides began to shrivel and he could feel them shrinking and twisting upon themselves and he thought he might die if he didn’t get a drink, and he knew he would kill for a glass of water. He had already killed for so much less. He had raced to the stagnant puddle that wasn’t deep enough to cover his hand, knelt beside it, pushed the film of scum and bugs aside, lowered his mouth, and sucked with all his remaining strength, tasting the decay and feeling the grit, and he remembered the river and the bodies and Trip drinking and spitting it out, raging about water fouled by death. Still he continued to suck and swallow, getting what moisture he could from the sludge. When he finished drinking, he pushed some of it into his empty canteen, getting as much mud as water, but it was better than letting his insides dry up and crumble to dust.

  When had that been? He took out his canteen and swirled it slightly, trying to measure the small amount of water remaining. Maybe there would be a resupply today. He took a mouthful and held it, prepared to spit it out. It was warm, but without grit, and he swallowed it, feeling it sweep down his throat to an empty stomach. A wave of hunger moved through him, and he tried to remember when he’d last eaten. They had been rationed to one meal of Cs per day. If he could remember the meals, he could count the days. It would be something to grab onto to order things. But all he could remember were the leaves beside the trail that he’d grabbed and eaten, chewing and choking them down despite the bitterness, trying to ease his pains of hunger. When had that been? They had made more assaults against the base camp and attempts to reach the bodies and he had been sick for days, or what seemed like days.

  It must have been the muddy water or the leaves that had burned and twisted his insides until his bowels gave out. The first time it happened he was in a firefight, the platoon circled up on a small knoll, the firing heavy, but not as heavy as it had been some days. There wasn’t much warning or time to consider the options. His stomach cramped and he felt the impending rush move down his bowels. He was up and crawling to the center of the small circle, believing the indignity of shitting his pants was worse than getting shot. Using a tree for cover, he rose to a squat and threw down his pants with no time to spare. His intestines emptied in one long, angry rush, testifying to the battle that raged in his insides. Then the bees were on him, large and swarming, looking like small birds, and he was dragging himself, bare ass, pants at his ankles, across the position oblivious to the gunfire. In that moment he was only aware of the sharp stings on his ass and bare legs and his need to escape. He nearly overran the perimeter. The bees were gone, but he was left with countless painful welts. He got his pants up and rejoined the firefight. No one had notice his ordeal with his bowels and the bees.

  On the climb back to the NDP, his intestines let loose without warning and the foul smelling liquid shot down his legs and splashed against his pant cuffs, which were tied around his ankle to slow the advance of leeches up his legs to his crotch. The stench was nauseating and hung with him as he climbed. Waves of weakness passed through him, and then another hot rush down his legs. The smell got worse and he wished he could escape himself somehow. When they set up on the hilltop no one would share a foxhole with him so he dug in alone. His bowels continued to empty without warning throughout the night. In the morning, he woke to the overbearing stench and found his pants plastered to his legs. When he stood, his legs wobbled, and it took a minute to gather the strength to move. He walked through the hours, barely noticing the sudden rush of hot liquid, waiting for the next break, even hoping for a firefight so he might lie down. The stench was constant, like a slit trench he couldn’t walk away from. Eventually he started not to notice it. It was the weakness that plagued him and had him focusing all his effort to stay standing and keep moving. After the second night he’d given in and gone looking for some help.

  “Damn, you smell like shit,” the medic said when Singer found him at the CP. “Stand back a little.”

  He was the same medic Singer had seen on the trail with the man who had been hit thirteen times. Up close now the doc looked older, his eyes without life.

  “I’ve had it for a few days now,” Singer said, making no effort to look at the name tag sewn on the doc’s fatigues.

  “You probably got an intestinal infection and a fever.”

  “Shit, tell me something I don’t know.”

  “I can give you some aspirin for the fever,” the doc said, leaning over to dig in his kit.

  “You got anything for my guts?”

  “Nothing. Sorry, I’m out of almost everything. Supposed to get resupplied but haven’t yet.”

  Singer took the aspirin and was just a few steps away from the doc when he felt the familiar streams down his legs and the accompanying weakness. Back on the perimeter, he sat alone in his foxhole and tried to ignore his condition and the smell. He hadn’t asked the doc about an evac and the doc hadn’t offered. He could still walk and shoot a rifle, so he knew he was staying. When the platoons had swapped positions he’d seen a few bandaged men moving past on the trail and knew even some wounded were being kept for the firepower.

  They were stopped again and Singer clung to a tree beside him to hold his place on the hillside. Now he smelled it. The stench was still there, but his guts were quiet and the cramping was gone. He couldn’t remember now how long since he was last sick or when he’d last eaten. They must be near the top now. He hoped the peak was unoccupied and they wouldn’t have to fight for it. He had enough of fighting. He let go of the tree and pulled at his pants legs, surprised to find that the pants were clean and not stuck to his legs. He couldn’t recall changing. They were moving again and he pulled himself up. He paused, then took another step, thinking he could rest at the top. It shouldn’t be far now.

  Memories of gunfire spurred him up the mountain toward the summit, where they would stop and dig in. Better to fight from defensive positions on the high ground. Still, if the NVA came they would easily overrun the understrength, unsupported, and worn-down company. He didn’t think they were coming, though, and comforted himself with that thought. They had their bait and seemed content to wait in their bunkers and kill a few more Americans each day as they came for the bodies. It was going to take more firepower than they had to get the NVA to give up their positions and recover Lieutenant Creely, his RTO, and Doc. He saw the deaths now like it had been this morning, but it was days, if not weeks, ago. With so many memories of other events since then, it had to be weeks ago, but he wasn’t sure it even mattered anymore. They were all trapped here in some repeating nightmare they would never escape. Or maybe he was already dead and this was the kind of afterlife soldiers were doomed to. He really was losing his mind.

  Singer dragged himself forward, gaining another meter, as disjointed memories continued to float across his mind. He had heard the story about Top, but he wasn’t sure who had told him. Whoever told him said he heard it from a guy who saw it play out at the firebase while he waited to return to the field after treatment at the rear aid station. That part was clear, and he remembered smiling when he heard the story. He smiled now recalling it. If his faith in Top had suffered with what had happened the first days in the A Shau, the story restored it.

  Top had saved another one of them. The storyteller said it was a second-tour guy who had been in the thick of the May fifth fighting. The man was sent back to the company’s fir
ebase with just two weeks to go, still recovering from his May fifth wounds. As Singer heard it, the man still favored his right leg and had trouble with his hearing, yet the executive officer was sending him back out to the embattled company in the A Shau. At least, that had been the XO’s plan until Top rode in on a helicopter to expedite the company’s resupply. Everyone near the helipad reportedly stopped to watch the heated exchange between Top and the XO, after Top told the short-timer May fifth survivor to turn in his gear and wait out his last few days there. The XO went to stop the man, but Top charged and cut him off.

  “This man has more Nam time than you have in the army. On May fifth he held off repeated enemy attacks on his lone position and helped save the company. You should hope to be so brave. If he doesn’t stay at the firebase and go home safely without harassment, you’ll be doing lone patrols up on the DMZ,” Top said. “Don’t test me. Better men than you have tried and lost,” was the last thing Top said before the XO sulked away.

  The short-timer was spared the A Shau battle and assured of going home thanks to Top. That Top had taken on a lieutenant, an XO, to do it was pure Top. It was the Top that Singer knew and admired. Singer imagined Top nose to nose with some Cherry lieutenant who didn’t understand Top’s reputation or power that went well beyond his rank. That one of the guys, a second-tour vet and survivor of May fifth, had been protected and would make it home was a small victory. But coming at a time when there was so little hope it took on greater meaning. Top was still looking after them.