Perfume River Nights

by Michael P. Maurer

  “But the point—”

  “I’ll take the point myself. You and California had enough of that lately. Besides, if we get hit I want you to lead the counterattack or the retreat.”

  “Going out so late, there’s a good chance of that. We should just lay up outside the wire.”

  “Just keep the Cherries together.”

  Singer had California help him gather up the Cherries. The blanket of clouds that had hung dark and threatening throughout the day closed off any moon or starlight, producing a black, featureless night that would require physical contact to stay together. Even with experienced men this would be a tough mission, but with four Cherries and the New Guy who had nearly shot him in the A Shau, they’d be lucky if they didn’t end up lost or dead. Groping along in the blackness in the middle of the night, there was a high risk they’d be ambushed by NVA who were lying in wait for hours already for just such an opportunity.

  Before they left the firebase, he tried to impress this likelihood upon the Cherries. While they were standing just inside the wire, so close Cherries’ shoulders pressed on him from both sides, he told them this was a serious situation in which any fuck-up could cost them their lives.

  “If any of you make the slightest noise, cough, sneeze, or fart, I’ll tie you up and leave you for the NVA.”

  He felt the men beside him stiffen.

  California leaned in, nodding.

  The Cherries looked at him like he was crazy, but Singer could see that they knew he was deadly serious. He wasn’t going to have some stupid Cherry get him killed after all he’d survived already.

  “Stay close and quiet,” the Shake and Bake said, before disappearing in the night to take the lead.

  Their eight-man squad began to worm forward. The knot in Singer’s stomach was starting to burn. He hurriedly checked his grenades again, then slipped through the wire, groping blindly to stay in touch with the man in front of him. Stuck now in the center between two Cherries, Singer wished he’d insisted on point or drag. Either place he wouldn’t have felt so trapped.

  Somewhere just a few paces ahead, lost in the darkness, the Shake and Bake was blindly guiding their tightly packed group toward an objective they’d never even seen before. Half of the squad were Cherries with less than three weeks in country. The burning in Singer’s stomach, which had climbed into the back of his throat, already told him it was going to be a bad night.

  He felt his way along, stepping softly, reading the terrain with his feet, concentrating on being quiet and not stumbling. The Cherry behind him touched his back, then held on to his web gear. Three men back, California had the rear and the responsibility to see that no one got left behind and that they didn’t get hit from the rear. Far from ideal, but that’s the way they set it up. The Shake and Bake up front, California in the back and Singer in the center with Cherries and the New Guy with the radio sandwiched in between.

  Near the bottom of the slope, Singer risked a quick look up, but couldn’t see a single star. He quickly returned his focus to the Cherry’s back, barely a foot in front of him. He stepped carefully so as not to entangle their feet or to be tripped by the Cherry behind him. If they could make it to the position, they’d be okay. That would be the tough part. Once they got set up, things would be okay. Hell, if things went well, he might even kill some NVA tonight. He brightened at the thought.

  Below the firebase they moved east across rolling terrain, through broken jungle and grassy fields, avoiding the road and its promise of an ambush. Slow, agonizing meters. They clawed through the darkness, Singer raw with the tension of nighttime vulnerability and the uncertainty of reliance on Cherries. When they cut a trail that was more than just a foot path, they held up for some minutes before turning south down the trail that Singer figured would lead them to the river, if he had his directions straight. On the trail their chances of being ambushed jumped immeasurably. Singer’s muscles tightened in his back and arms and he hoped the darkness would continue to hide the squad. The Cherries, if anything, seemed to relax on the open, even ground of the trail, oblivious to the increased danger. Behind him, the Cherry removed his hand from his back and Singer felt a weight fall away.

  How many of them would make it? He chased the thought from his mind. It wasn’t his squad or his mission. It was the Shake and Bake’s to lead and bear. The men around him weren’t his to carry and never would be. He didn’t know them and didn’t want to. It was as if he patrolled alone. In a sense, he did.

  The Cherry Lieutenant and New Platoon Sergeant tried to put the weight on his shoulders, make him responsible for more men’s lives, but he refused it. That was what this late ambush was all about.

  This last-minute, midnight ambush was their idea of revenge. If he’d known they were going to make the whole squad pay, he would have agreed to go out on his own. That would have made them happy. They had probably wanted to send him out alone, but were smart enough to know they could never get away with that. It helped that they viewed him as crazy and perhaps were even afraid of him. If they were worried about their backs, they wouldn’t do shit. Fuck them. A late-night ambush was nothing. Fuck it. Even if it was a fucked-up mission, it was still good to be off the firebase with his rifle in his hands.

  Though they must be close to where they would set up, the knot in his gut had not gone away. Muscles tense, he took another small, deliberate step, envisioning the onslaught of fire that the next step would bring. Survive the first burst, then bring payback. He slipped his trigger finger inside the trigger guard.

  Up ahead Singer heard the soft gurgle of water flowing over rocks, but he couldn’t gauge the distance. In front of him, the Cherry stopped, and Singer held up. The Cherry behind him touched his back and they all stood there in the darkness in the center of the trail, unsure of what lay beyond the blackness on either side. Seconds ticked painfully past. Beads of sweats slipped off Singer’s forehead and ran into his eyes, but he kept both hands on his weapon. There was the sound of rapid, shallow breaths and the soft swirling of water, like strokes of paddles. The Shake and Bake slipped up beside Singer as if materializing out of nowhere, his black face lost in the darkness except for the white orbs of his eyes.

  “Set up here on the left,” the Shake and Bake said. “I’ll be across, next to the river.”

  “We should stay together.”

  “This is the way they wanted it,” the Shake and Bake said, then disappeared as silently as he’d materialized.

  Singer didn’t need to ask who “they” were.

  The Cherry in front of Singer shuffled ahead and Singer let him go, listening to the faint crunch of ghost-like footsteps long after the vague image of the man vanished. He felt the urgent touch of the Cherry behind him, who kept his hand there at the center of his back. Singer waited until the sounds of footsteps were lost in the sounds of flowing water and he was sure they were alone. So this was it. They would have him directing men one way or another. When the shit happened he’d probably end up yelling directions to someone anyway. It was just the formal responsibility he didn’t want.

  He turned, and with his hand in front of the Cherry’s face, he pointed, then waited for him to turn and tell the Cherry behind him and then for California to get the word. He moved left toward the trail edge, the Cherry’s hand on his back. The trail was wider than he first thought. It would easily accommodate tanks or trucks and looked to be a major river-crossing point, more like a road than a trail. He wondered why they’d never seen or used it before, except that before this they had always gone west. At the trail edge, he discovered a high berm, but in the darkness he couldn’t tell what lay beyond it. He imagined the brush and trees that in the blackness merged with the sky. They would have to feel their way into a decent site from which to cover the trail. If they moved more than a few feet away they would be unable to make out even the vaguest outline of the trail, so they would need to stay close. The Cherry stood motionless behind him and he could sense the other Cherry and California, k
nowing they were waiting for him to get them into cover. He hoped California was watching their backs.

  Singer took a deep breath and climbed up over the berm. The ground dropped away out from under him and he felt himself falling and flailed for a hand hold. Then someone had his arm and was pulling him up, dragging him back over the berm. When their faces were close he saw California grinning. Slowly he gained his feet on the trail again and took his arm from California’s grip.

  “Fuck,” Singer said, then held his rifle up in front of his face as if to confirm he still had it.

  The two Cherries had moved in close around him and while he couldn’t make out their faces, he could feel their fear.

  “Cover the trail,” Singer said, and waited for them to turn. “We’re on the edge of a fucking cliff.”

  “That don’t make sense with the river up ahead,” California said from the darkness.

  “None of this makes sense. Hold my rifle.” Singer held his rifle out and once California took it, he turned back toward the berm.

  They couldn’t stay out on the trail. It was only the impenetrable gloom that had hid them this long. But that wouldn’t help if an enemy patrol came along while they were still standing on the trail. This time he lowered himself over the berm more carefully, gripping the top with both hands, lowering his legs until his feet dangled free below him without touching ground. How far below the bottom might be, he had no idea. He lay against the sloping wall, but it wasn’t enough to hold him, so he searched blindly for a foothold. He dug his feet into the wall, bracing them, then let his hands go one at a time and found he could hold himself in position without much effort. It was far from ideal, but they’d have cover and would be able to fire-up anyone who came down the trail.

  “California?”

  “Yeah?” California leaned his head over the top of the berm.

  “Hand me my rifle, then have the Cherries slide in on each side of me.”

  It took a while, but eventually they were all settled, hanging on the slope, listening for any movement on the trail that was hidden in blackness. Singer could see nothing beyond the top of the berm. The situation made it impossible to put out a claymore, so they’d use grenades and rifles to take out anyone who came along. They set up sleeping shifts with California and one Cherry watching while Singer and the other Cherry slept. They would switch every hour to make sure those on watch stayed alert. Once he settled in, Singer found it wasn’t that uncomfortable and felt himself drifting off, cradled by the darkness and lulled by the sound of flowing water.

  The shaking raised him from a light sleep and he opened his eyes without moving to find the Cherry’s hand on his shoulder and his face close, his wide eyes darting wildly about. Singer started to lift his head to peer at the trail, but then he heard it behind him even before the Cherry gestured. The faint patting of feet. The scratching of clothing and equipment passing through brush. An enemy column. Fuck. Not on the trail, but behind them. Singer’s heart quickened and his mouth became a desert. They lay on the slope fully exposed, their backs to the enemy. Only the darkness was keeping them alive. It was impossible to tell how many enemy soldiers there were or how they were armed, but as vulnerable as they were, stretched out against the slope facing the wrong way, even one enemy soldier put them in grave danger. They had to move quickly and silently.

  Singer woke the Cherry on the other side of him, pressing his face close and holding his finger to his lips. He could see the confusion in the Cherry’s face and his eyes widen as he heard the noise. The soft footfalls behind them came in a slow, uneven rhythm, stopping and starting as though they were moving with great caution or pausing to pass some obstacle. He signaled both Cherries that they would climb over the slope together and waited for the Cherry to signal California. A metallic click, like the closing of a rifle bolt, froze them just as they started to move and they lay there with their backs to the enemy, Singer holding his breath, hoping the others would do the same and that the blackness would continue to hide them. A Cherry started to turn, but Singer put his hand on his shoulder and held him still. The footsteps and whisper of movement continued and no fire came. Singer started pulling himself up as quietly as possible. The others immediately joined and finally the four of them slid over the edge, back onto the open trail. Both Cherries tucked in closer, so he could feel their bodies next to him. Singer had only the slightest relief at having the berm between them and the enemy, knowing they were exposed in another way and that he had no idea of the landscape or how it connected with the trail they were on. If an enemy element came down the trail they’d be pinned in the open between the two groups with nowhere to go. They hunkered against the berm, their backs exposed to the trail. Singer peered into the darkness in a hopeless effort to see beyond the slope while he strained to identify every sound. Their move back over the berm had been surprisingly quiet, but not entirely without noise. The footsteps stopped. There was only the gentle flow of water.

  “Maybe an animal?” a Cherry said.

  “Shut the fuck up,” Singer whispered and again held his finger before his lips, his face inches away. He wanted to put the point of his knife to the Cherry’s throat. The Cherry, perhaps reading his thoughts, turned away and shrunk back into the blackness.

  An animal, Singer knew, would have bolted when it heard them and there would have been the sounds of the animal crashing through brush and the splashing of water if it fled across the river. He had experienced that numerous times back home when he made the wrong move on a stalk or surprised an animal he hadn’t known was there. An animal would always flee. Only men would stop and listen. Singer could feel the enemy motionless before him, hidden in the darkness, trying to identify the source of the noise he, California, and the two Cherries made sliding over the berm. Both groups were doing the same thing. Waiting. Listening. But Singer knew he had the advantage. He knew they were there. He lay motionless, sweating and struggling to decipher any sound apart from the gurgle of the river. The enemy would move eventually, and then he’d have them. Right now, complete silence was their best weapon. The enemy didn’t know what or where they were or that they themselves had been made.

  While he focused on the enemy in front and below him, he still worried about their backs and the wide trail behind them, so he had the Cherry on his left face that direction with his back to the berm, even though seeing anyone before they were on top of them was hopeless. If a patrol came down the trail now it would be big trouble, and he wasn’t sure what he’d do. He hoped he wouldn’t have to confront that dilemma.

  In the ideal ambush they knew the lay of the land, the likely approaches and escape routes, and then determined the size of the enemy patrol and engaged elements small enough to completely destroy. With enemy elements too large to overwhelm, they held their breaths and let them pass. This was far from the ideal ambush and there was no telling how large the group was, but the thought of simply hunkering down and letting them pass never occurred to Singer. They would kill as many as they could and then get the hell out of there.

  The killing was close, he could feel it. He just needed them to move again so he could key in on them and make the most of the first moments. If they didn’t get them all in the first flurry, some would inevitably recover from the initial shock of the attack and forge some kind of defense or even a counterattack. His heart raced and his breaths came in rapid pants, and he tried to slow them to be able to do this right. Sweat ran down his face and his chest pushed against the berm with each inhale. He held his rifle tense and ready, though he would primarily use grenades while the others fired. He’d already prepared, taking four grenades from his web gear and getting one from each of the guys so seven grenades lay on the ground in front of him ready to throw. As soon as they’d crawled over the berm he’d leaned his head to one side and then the other and whispered to them that when he threw the first grenade, they should each throw a grenade then use their M16s and keep firing until he told them to stop. Overwhelming firepower was wh
at they needed, or at least the illusion of it. California would understand this, but he wasn’t at all sure about the Cherries. It was difficult conveying information, and he’d wished he’d put California next to him. He indicated the slope and the drop in front of them to each of the Cherries and that they’d need to point their rifles down over the berm into the dropoff. He hoped they both understood it. Now they only had to wait.

  Waiting was always the hardest part. On his right he could feel the Cherry still as a dead man and had to resist the urge to check that he was alive. The strain of trying to hear the slightest noise was exhausting and he could feel his strength seeping away. The tension was taking a toll. So much time had passed that he was starting to doubt what he thought he had heard before. Maybe it had been an animal. Or maybe his imagination had twisted a night noise into the movement of enemy. Hadn’t that been what he wanted?

  He started to exhale then stopped suddenly halfway, holding his breath. There it was. Irregular, faint, almost inaudible. They were moving again. He focused all his energy and the sound amplified in his mind. The soft crushing of forest litter under foot, the pause in the same place where he envisioned each man stepped around brush or over a fallen log, the swish of leaves against cloth. He pinpointed it, measuring its width, estimating the distance. He was in an elevated deer stand again, hearing the footsteps of a buck coming down a trail in dim forest light, sighting down the barrel of his rifle, estimating the range, waiting for the deer to materialize, all his thoughts focused on the kill, knowing he would make the shot, that the buck would die. He felt the same certainty now. The same controlled excitement at the prospect of the kill. He thought of Rhymes, Stick, Red, Doc Odum, Trip, and his promise to Bear, and the enemy below him.

  Extending his arm, he touched the Cherry on his left, who turned back soundlessly to face the berm. He had the enemy’s line of movement marked and he laid his rifle down and pulled the pin on a grenade, squeezing it to hold the arming handle tight to the grenade until he threw it. He sensed the Cherries on either side of him moving to pull grenades. A smile crossed his face as he focused on the closest sound, not far at all, and he lobbed the grenade over the berm and immediately picked up the second and pulled the pin as the first exploded. He threw the second grenade farther out as three more grenades exploded in quick sequence, almost as one. Bright fire-balls. Crashing brush. Then California was firing and the Cherries joined in, the flashes of the muzzles blinding in the darkness. One after another, Singer hurriedly threw grenades, varying their position, trying to catch a line of retreat. Explosions flashed across their front. Just to his left, against the slope, came the explosion of an incoming grenade. The berm shielded them. He heard a second grenade thud just below the top of the berm and then a moment later the explosion below them. AK fire from a single source passed just over their heads. Singer heard the crack of a close round and ducked too late had the round been on. For a moment only the AK was firing.