Perfume River Nights

by Michael P. Maurer

  “You’re almost there now,” the New Captain said to someone behind Singer after Singer had moved by. “Keep—”

  Boom!

  A huge explosion above Singer drowned out the New Captain’s words and had Singer on the ground, clinging to the slope. His mind raced to grasp what was happening. More rounds whistled overhead. There was no mistaking the sound.

  “Incoming!” someone yelled.

  Three thunderous explosions came in quick succession, and Singer could feel the earth below him shudder. He pressed himself tighter against the ground.

  The New Captain was screaming, “Cease fire, you morons! Get that artillery out of my ass!”

  Frantic screams for a medic came from somewhere upslope.

  The earth shook with two more booming explosions, on the side slope now, that seemed to heat the air, then suck it away. Shards of metal ripped through the vegetation, shredding limbs and slamming into trunks with sickening thuds.

  “We’re being killed by our own artillery,” someone yelled.

  Singer tried to bury himself inside the earth.

  “Medic! Medic!”

  Ghostly screams sounding somewhere between desperation and despair rained down the slope.

  “I’m on the right hill. Goddamn it, you’re shelling my NDP. Cease fire, for Christ’s sake!” the New Captain screamed into the handset.

  Another round exploded and then the air was still. Singer held his breath and listened for the whistling of the next rounds, unable to do anything but wait and trust his fate to chance.

  The New Captain shoved the handset at his RTO and ran upslope past Singer and out of sight. Singer hung there in place, waiting. No one moved. There was nowhere to go, no escape. Indistinct voices above him, some angry, drowned each other out. Then the sound of chopping, machetes hacking wood.

  “Fuck,” California said, “whose side are those fuckers on?”

  “Were those ours?” the Cherry below Singer asked.

  “One-seventy-fives out of Bastogne.” Singer rolled over and sat up.

  “Just another day in the Nam,” California said.

  “Why are they shelling us?” the Cherry asked.

  “Routine H and I. Someone’s fuck-up,” Singer said, then looked up at California. “Maybe they figured out you were stealing their beer.”

  “Fuck, I only took a few cans, nothing to get so pissed about.”

  “You think it’s over?” the Cherry asked, staying prone.

  “I figure they owe us a few cases now,” California said.

  “It’s never over,” Singer said. “Never.”

  Singer heard the helicopters hovering, but couldn’t see them. The sounds of a Cobra roared and ebbed as it circled the hill. There was no enemy fire and the birds came and left unmolested, but Singer knew the enemy was watching, biding their time. Singer scanned the ammo and grenades that hung on his body. He was waiting.

  A gecko called off to Singer’s left. “Fuck youuuu.” Another answered from below in the valley. “Fuck youuuu. Fuck youuuu.”

  “Fuck you, too,” Singer said.

  The last of three birds was already away and it was nearly completely dark by the time Singer reached the top. The canopy was broken where the casualties were extracted and light of a nearly full moon filtered down, illuminating a small section of their NDP as if a spotlight was being shined on them. Shadows moved at the edge of the light. The Shake and Bake gave him his position with the Cherry in thick brush and trees on the edge of a gradual drop, instructing them unnecessarily to dig in. California would be one hole over with another Cherry. Rumor was that five men were killed from the group that had just gotten to the top. Had the company been a little quicker getting up the mountain, there would have been a lot more of them killed. Singer was thankful for the delays he’d earlier cursed.

  Despite the difficulty of digging amidst the roots, Singer dug in deeper than usual, pushing the Cherry to dig more each time he stopped. After setting out a claymore, Singer laid out four grenades on the lip of the hole next to the claymore trigger. He checked the chamber and magazine on his M16, then sat back wearily, nearly spent, and ate a can of cold franks and beans, too tired to heat it. The Cherry ate in silence after Singer ignored his attempts at conversation. The shifting moonlight cast eerie shadows through the vegetation, creating the sense of movement. Behind him, Singer could still hear the sounds of men settling in or an ambush heading out. A muffled voice. A bolt being closed. The rustle of a pack. A soft cough. The metallic scrape of magazines. The snap of a round being seated. Singer took a drink, wiped at his teeth with his finger, and drank again before returning the canteen to his pack.

  “You got first watch,” Singer said. “Wake me if you hear anything or if you even think you hear anything.” Singer moved his web gear next to his pack, making sure he could get at his ammo pouches easily. “Don’t fall asleep. If you can’t stay awake, wake me, and we’ll sit up together.”

  “Okay,” the Cherry said.

  “And don’t blow the claymore unless you’re sure we’re being attacked. We only got the one, we want to make it count.”

  “Got it.”

  “You got a shotgun round in that thing?” Singer pointed toward the Cherry’s M79. “HE rounds aren’t worth a shit in here.”

  The Cherry broke the weapon open, silently exchanged rounds, then snapped it shut again.

  “Set a couple shotgun rounds out so you’re ready.”

  The Cherry dug in his bag of rounds and set three out next to him.

  Singer saw Rhymes with the expended round in his chamber and no chance to reload, dying with the odd smile on his face.

  “I’m okay,” the Cherry said. “I’ve done this before.”

  Singer looked up, trying not to focus on the Cherry’s face, but he couldn’t help but see that the man’s eyes still held some life. “Right.” Singer took off his watch and handed it to the Cherry. “Wake me if there’s anything strange.”

  He bunched up his poncho liner for a pillow, pulled a bandolier of ammo close, hugged his M16, and fell asleep.

  “Medic! Medic!”

  Singer sat up, startled from his sleep by the calls for help. The Cherry glanced at Singer, then turned back toward the darkness that shrouded the front of their position, looking unalarmed. The screams had been vaguely familiar and Singer strained his memory while he listened, waiting for the man to call again. Minutes passed. The only sound was the soft hum of insects.

  “Did you hear anything?”

  “Nothing. Everything’s quiet,” the Cherry said, sounding bored.

  Singer felt his chest for wetness, but his fingers were dry despite the real sense that he’d been shot. He struggled for each breath, not convinced he wasn’t hit. The night was strangely still and dark, with none of the moonlight he remembered from before he fell asleep.

  “Nothing? You sure?”

  “No . . . yeah, I mean, it’s been like this. Quiet.”

  He heard the screams for help again, but this time he knew they were in his mind. He recognized the voice. A coolness swept up his back and goosebumps rose on his arms.

  25

  August 1968

  Vietnam

  Singer knelt to examine the body. The air was already foul with the stench, and he tried to hold his breath as he looked at the man’s uniform, quickly feeling the pockets, anxious to finish. He’d left the worst body for last, moving quickly through the chore of checking the others, barely noting the injuries or even that they were men. But this one was different. The man’s legs were gone, his body ending mid-thigh in ragged bone and shredded flesh. Singer looked around the NVA’s body now, but saw nothing of the man’s legs or feet. They were simply gone. The blast from the claymore ripped them away, tore open the man’s bowels, and punctured his chest and arms. Somehow only the man’s face was undamaged. He had a broad nose, small dark eyes clouded in death, and thick lips that would have been attractive on a woman. The boyish face was turned to the side, as
though trying to look away in the last terrible second.

  His legs wobbled when he stood and he felt lightness in his head, as if he’d risen too quickly. The wreckage of bodies lay around him. Some had nearly gotten past, shot and tumbling forward, carried by their momentum, falling at the very edge of the hole he and California fought from.

  He closed his eyes, bowed his head, and drew the back of his hand across his forehead. Nothing had changed when he opened them.

  So much of it blurred together in the aftermath. Men charging at them with seemingly little regard for their own lives, the rapid crack of AKs, grenades exploding, machine gun fire, the whoosh of RPGs, the flashes of light, and the figures caught and frozen in the moment. And the sound of his M16 and California’s beside him. Frenzied chaos. Yet he saw each target clearly, almost in slow motion, and he swung on each steadily until there were no more.

  In the immediate aftermath, he was so excited and alive he had to restrain himself from cheering. He was certain he’d smiled. But as the smoke of battle drifted off and flies gathered to the carnage, he was no longer sure of where the evil lay in what had happened.

  The payback that he’d wanted for so long was strewn all around him. Yet it hadn’t brought any of the guys back. If anything, they seemed more distant than ever. Despite the number of enemy dead, he felt none of the satisfaction he’d expected. Instead, as he stood among the ruined forms of men, he felt a sadness nearly akin to regret. Recalling his desires and his excitement within the battle gave rise to a new feeling that couldn’t be anything but shame.

  He moved away, leaned over beside a large tree, and retched. He straightened up and wiped at his mouth, then looked around sheepishly, hoping no one saw or heard him. California was gone, already medevac’d along with the others. All around the perimeter they were counting and examining bodies from the previous night’s attack, when the company defenses were breached and they were nearly overrun. With California medevac’d, he was left by himself to check the scene in front of their fighting hole. He wiped at his eyes and felt the first of the tears that he knew weren’t for the dead around him, for California, or for any of the others.

  The tears led to soft sobs that he gave up trying to restrain. He cried for all that he had done, for what he’d become, and for his belief in lies. That there was glory in killing and that you could kill without inflicting self-harm were two of the biggest lies. What had brought him to this end? How had he slipped so far from goodness?

  He heard another helicopter settle into the LZ that had been cut to evacuate the dead and wounded. More senior officers coming in to survey the scene. There had been a parade of them already, walking the area with the New Captain, their photographers in tow, taking pictures of each other with captured weapons. Posing together like alumni chums after a homecoming game victory. The company’s overnight fight—or maybe their unexpected survival—was big news.

  None of it meant anything to Singer. Survival, yeah, that meant something. It meant everything. But the stream of officers and photographers meant nothing. They were no better than the scavengers already gathering to clean the bones of the enemy dead that would be left behind where they’d died.

  California was gone, but the memory and questions remained. Last night, California had been crazy. In the early stages of the attack he had fought like a wild man, throwing grenades and firing his rifle. Laughing even. Singer was sure that he’d heard him laugh during the fighting. Then, when the company perimeter was breached and the fighting was closer behind them, he’d left.

  “I’ve been saving these,” California said, pulling out two grenades.

  The battle at their position had diminished after they’d blown the claymore and never regained any of its initial fury, instead shifting left around the perimeter. Now there were explosions and gunfire behind them, clearly inside the company’s defenses.

  “You got this,” California said.

  A question or a statement?

  Before Singer could seek clarification, California shoved the two grenades into his pockets and grabbed a nearly empty bandolier and, still carrying his rifle, crawled out the back of the foxhole.

  “Goddamn it, stay here,” Singer said.

  An explosion silhouetted California, already up and running in a crouch, before Singer quickly turned back to continue firing to the front. The muzzle flash of an AK. A figure rose, started right, illuminated in a blast, and Singer fired and the figure fell. He shifted his fire without pause into the shadows.

  A thunderous series of blasts and Singer buried his face as the ground shuddered with the close impacts. Artillery rounds were exploding, closing in around the hilltop. The FO must still be alive, Singer figured, or maybe it was Top. Somebody had done a hell of a job walking the artillery in to the outside edges of the perimeter. The only safe place on the hill from the exploding artillery was inside the small circle of Charlie Company’s foxholes. The artillery was saving them. Singer could almost forgive those guys for the accident last month.

  He lifted his face, staying low, his firing more controlled, short bursts as he worked toward the end of his ammo. Fighting inside the perimeter behind him died down to just a few scattered explosions and isolated gunfire as the last intruders were routed out. Sporadic M16 and M60 fire came from around the perimeter, mixed with only occasional AK fire. Artillery rounds slacked and shifted out from the hill, trailing off down toward the valley on what Singer knew would be likely escape routes. The NVA looked to be mostly dead or retreating. Only a few hardcore soldiers or drugged troops were still continuing the fight.

  It was then, near the end, that California came crawling back, dragging more ammo and a useless left arm. He dropped the ammo that he carried, along with his rifle in his right hand, and slid awkwardly into the foxhole.

  “Did you miss me?”

  “You’re an asshole. Don’t ever leave like that again or I’ll shoot you.”

  “I had things to do.” California grinned. “Besides, I was saving your ass.”

  “What the hell do you mean?”

  “You’ll see. I brought you more ammo, didn’t I?”

  Singer looked at California’s left arm. The forearm swung freely from a shattered elbow, the hand was pale, and the fingers slightly curled.

  “You’re hit.”

  “I can’t feel a thing.” California lifted his arm and his forearm dangled at ninety degrees, swinging slightly, his fingers without movement. “I’m going home.” California fired his M16. “Going home, motherfuckers.”

  “Damn it, sit down and let me look at it.”

  Singer put a field dressing clumsily on the elbow, but without a decent splint and more wrap, he was unable to stabilize the arm. Later the medic rewrapped it and California sat among the more severely wounded, waiting his turn to get out.

  “See you in the world,” Singer had said after he walked with California to the CP, where they were gathering the wounded.

  “Yeah, the world. I’ll save some for you,” California said.

  One man over from California, the Cherry Lieutenant lay without a shirt, his chest and stomach heavily bandaged and his eyes closed.

  California looked over at him. “More fun than sex, eh, sir?”

  The Cherry Lieutenant’s eyes stayed closed and he remained motionless, his breathing shallow.

  The New Platoon Sergeant with his handlebar mustache lay among the dead.

  * * * * *

  Alone now at his foxhole, Singer tried to ignore the enemy dead scattered nearby, wishing he had dragged the closest ones away from the hole and out of sight. There was no ignoring them. It was difficult to make sense of it all or understand what any of it meant, except that he was alive. Somehow he had survived again, unscathed when so many around him were dead or wounded.

  Other things were troubling, as well. California’s disappearance during the battle. The New Platoon Sergeant’s death. The Cherry Lieutenant wounded and appearing near death. With California wounded and le
aving, maybe none of it mattered. Questions hung over the events that he didn’t want to ask. Things he didn’t want to know.

  His gaze kept returning to the bodies. So much death. He couldn’t deny his hand in it or the things he felt. How could battle be so alluring and the consequences so repelling?

  He waited to head out, anxious to get away from this place and to leave the dead to the jungle. Payback. It was never as he envisioned it. Just another lie or self-delusion. At the CP, there was no sign yet that they were leaving soon. Eventually they would saddle up and leave the hilltop, as if it never mattered. He doubted it would be as easy to leave the killing. It was the only time he ever felt alive.

  A light drizzle started, fighting its way through the sheltering canopy. At first there were just a few dark spots on the soil and the odd drop hanging on the leaves. Then it came in torrents, filling the air, pounding the earth, washing away the blood and offal. The world blurred and colors faded. Would it wash away his guilt? Singer put his head back, closed his eyes, opened his mouth, and held out his empty hands, palms up, letting the rains drench him.

  In the days that followed, Singer repeatedly touched his chest, looking at his fingers each time still expecting to see blood, certain he’d been hit. But there was nothing except the sense of the rounds’ impacts and the ache of the wounds. The voice kept calling, “Medic, I’m hit, medic.” Now he heard it in his waking hours as well as in his sleep. Pleadings in his own voice from some distant place within him.

  Maybe he always knew whose voice he was hearing but had been afraid to admit it. He understood clearly that it was a remnant of himself, of whatever was left of him that was decent, begging to be saved.

  Still his anger festered and with it came the desire for more chances, more killing, even when he knew it would bring nothing except his own death. Or maybe it was already too late and everything he was before was dead already. Maybe being dead was better than this place somewhere in between.

  His headaches now were nearly constant. He started consuming aspirin that brought only intermittent relief.