Arizona Moon

by J. M. Graham

  This book was brought to publication with the generous assistance of Marguerite and Gerry Lenfest.

  Naval Institute Press

  291 Wood Road

  Annapolis, MD 21402

  © 2016 by J. M. Graham

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Graham, J. M. (James M.), author.

  Title: Arizona moon: a novel of Vietnam / J. M. Graham.

  Description: Annapolis, MD: Naval Institute Press, 2016.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2016026692 | ISBN 9781682470725 (epub)

  Subjects: LCSH: Vietnam War, 1961–1975—Fiction. | Soldiers—Vietnam—Fiction. | United States. Marine Corps—Fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / War & Military. | GSAFD: War stories.

  Classification: LCC PS3607.R3375 A75 2016 | DDC 813/.6—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016026692

  Print editions meet the requirements of ANSI/NISO z39.48-1992 (Permanence of Paper).

  24 23 22 21 20 19 18 17 169 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  First printing

  This book is dedicated to all those

  who left boot prints in the Arizona and remember the costs.

  And to Linda, who rescues me daily.

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  I’d like to thank the staff of the Naval Institute Press for their invaluable help in bringing Arizona Moon to print. They include Gary Thompson, who saw potential in the manuscript; Mindy Conner, whose editorial eye identified the right words (and the wrong ones); Nick Lyle; Robin Noonan; Claire Noble; Judy Heise; and Brian Walker. I’d also like to thank Walt Lyon, the first to read Arizona Moon, and especially Linda, my better half, my personal IT department, and my constant reminder that I’m not as smart as I think I am.

  1

  QUANG NAM PROVINCE, VIETNAM

  October 1967, the Year of the Goat

  The Arizona was scarred with trails that went in every direction, but to use them meant death. This was the most heavily mined landscape in Vietnam, where the booby-trappers and minelayers had free rein to ply their deadly craft, and some had raised it to a high art. Every bit of unexploded U.S. ordnance in the An Hoa Basin found its way into the Arizona, creatively transformed into some horrific surprise for the unwary, the careless, or the unlucky. From Go Noi Island all the way south to where the Song Thu Bon twisted around the Que Son Mountains, every step was a gamble unless the boot print of the man ahead proved the spot reliable. You trusted only the ground you stood on. And even then you weren’t completely sure.

  The three-man fire team waded the shallow stream and climbed the embankment on the far side. They were the point element of Golf Company’s 1st Platoon from the 2nd Battalion, 5th Marines, out of An Hoa combat base on the fifth day of a weeklong, no-name operation beyond the Song Thu Bon. The October monsoon season alternated blistering heat with blinding downpours that kept the river running brown and fast, and everyone in the platoon miserable. The trailing man carried a PRC-25 field radio, known affectionately as the “prick.” An olive-drab towel hung around his neck, and he mopped his face with one end as he reached level ground. The morning heat that had transformed last night’s rain into steam under the jungle canopy suddenly evaporated into a wide clearing. The three Marines stood a few yards apart catching their breath, water draining from the air vents in their jungle boots.

  The point man squatted at the clearing’s edge, his M16 tucked under an arm. He looked back at the other two. “This looks like the spot,” he said. “Get Lieutenant Diehl on the horn.”

  Twisted wire from a C ration box made a makeshift hook that hung the black plastic handset from the pocket of the radioman’s flak jacket. He lifted it from the hook, held it to his ear, and squeezed. “Gimme One Actual,” he said.

  The radio hissed and a small, faint voice answered, “Roger, wait one.”

  Within seconds another voice cut through the static. “One Actual.”

  The radioman looked back into the trees as though looking in the lieutenant’s direction might be helpful. “Be advised, we have the LZ, sir.”

  The radio squelched and the lieutenant’s voice jumped the two hundred yards to the radioman’s ear with all the force and power of two tin cans on a string. “How big a landing zone is it?”

  The radioman turned back to the clearing, estimating the distance to the far side. “It’s big enough. We got some trees in the middle to deal with, but the rest is low brush and grass.”

  The other two Marines moved off to the side, being careful to stay inside the concealment of the shade. The point man took deep gulps from his canteen.

  The radioman held his M16 at his side by the sight mount as he listened. Finally he said, “Roger that,” and hung the handset back on his flak jacket. “Diehl says to get around the clearing and set up security.”

  The point man seemed disappointed at missing an opportunity to sit until the rest of the platoon caught up. “Does he want us to go across or around?”

  The middle man started along the edge of the clearing, staying just inside the tree line. “You can go across the open ground,” he said to the point man. “We’ll go around and meet you on the other side.” The radioman followed him.

  The point man calculated the shortest distance between two points of seclusion and the lack of cover in between. “Screw it,” he said and fell in behind the others.

  Far back under the jungle canopy, 1st Platoon was stopped. Nearly every man was squatting or down on one knee, taking advantage of the delay to grab whatever rest was offered. The column stretched well over three hundred feet, with each man able to see only the man ahead and the one behind; heavy undergrowth obscured all else. In the center of the column Lieutenant Diehl stood beside his radioman and watched the shorter man try to hop the heavy radio into a more comfortable position on his back, the blade antenna whipping wildly.

  “Stand still, Bronsky,” the lieutenant said. He checked the notations written on the edge of his plastic-covered map. “We need to change freqs.”

  Bronsky dropped to one knee and leaned forward so the lieutenant could see the top of the radio. Two large knobs controlled the tactical frequencies, and Lieutenant Diehl turned them until the numbers matched those written on his map. He squeezed the handset. “Pounder One to Highball, over.” He released the lever and listened to the static: nothing. He squeezed again. “Pounder One to Highball. Come in, over.” The radio hissed and gurgled, and hissed again.

  “Maybe we need the whip, sir,” Bronsky said, point
ing to the auxiliary antenna collapsed inside the narrow canvas case on the side of the radio.

  “Maybe, maybe not,” the lieutenant said, squeezing the handset again. “Pounder One to Highball.” He turned the volume knob, making the static louder.

  “Are you on the right freq, sir?”

  “What do you think?” the lieutenant said. “Have you changed the battery lately?”

  “Fresh this morning. Anyway, Clyde just came in loud and clear.”

  Birds flitted through the jungle canopy, feeding and squawking and ignoring the men below.

  The lieutenant sighed. “Pounder One to Highball.”

  The instant he released the handset lever, a voice jumped back at him. “This is Highball, over.”

  Diehl extended a hand, pulling Bronsky back to his feet. “Highball, this is Pounder One. You busy?”

  “Negative, Pounder. We’re in the air. Your wish is our command.”

  “Be advised, our ETA at WL 477336 is zero five minutes. Copy?”

  “Roger, Pounder One. Contact you this net, over.”

  “Roger, Highball. Pounder One out.” Lieutenant Diehl held the handset out to Bronsky and pushed the folded map back into the bag slung around his neck. “I need Four,” he said.

  Bronsky turned to the man squatting ten feet behind him. “Papa Sierra up,” he said just above a whisper.

  The Marine spoke into the shadows behind him. “The lieutenant wants the platoon sergeant.”

  Receding voices called, “Blackwell up.”

  In less than a minute a tall, black Marine pushed through the brush, mopping his face with an issue towel. The elastic band around his helmet held a bottle of insect repellant and a waterproof cigarette case with a pack of Marlboros inside. Perspiration darkened the waistband of his jungle pants, even soaking his web belt. “Sir?”

  “Who has the demo bags, Sergeant?”

  Staff Sergeant Blackwell squinted as though the answer had to be forced out into the heat. “The Chief has one back in 3rd Squad, and Franklin has the other one up ahead.”

  “Okay,” Diehl said, putting a hand on Blackwell’s shoulder and walking him toward a kneeling man further ahead in the column, whispering instructions like a football coach sending a man in from the bench. “Tell Franklin to put charges on every obstruction in the LZ. I don’t want anything standing higher than his ass.” He stopped and looked back. “Make that Bronsky’s ass. He’s shorter.”

  Bronsky toyed absently with the cord on the radio handset. “That hurt, sir. I’m sensitive about my height.”

  Sergeant Blackwell had learned his tact and diplomacy as a drill instructor at Parris Island. “Both your feet reach the ground. You’re fuckin’ tall enough.” He pushed through the foliage and disappeared.

  The lieutenant got the attention of the man resting at the spot where his sergeant had just disappeared. “Move out,” he said. The word spread up the column. After a few groans, the Marines rose and began moving again.

  By the time the lieutenant’s spot in the column reached the clearing, the embankment across the stream was slick with the mud of dozens of boots, and knee and hand prints decorated the slope where lost footing had been saved. Sergeant Blackwell already had the first half of the platoon setting up defensive positions around the LZ, and Franklin was busy placing a C-4 charge at the base of one of the tall trees.

  When the lieutenant got to the top of the embankment, he turned and gave Bronsky a hand up. “Find Sergeant Blackwell,” he said.

  Before Bronsky could move, the sergeant came from the shadowed edge of the clearing. “Sir?”

  “Sergeant, I want a couple of fire teams and one of the guns where they can cover this stream and the path we cut through the bush.”

  “Will do. I put the other 60 on the rise to the right of the clearing just beyond the tree line.”

  Bronsky extended a hand to the next man struggling up the embankment. Besides his pack the man carried two bags with straps that crisscrossed his flak jacket under a bandolier holding one hundred rounds of M60 ammunition. He had no rifle, but his web belt held a .45-caliber automatic pistol and four magazines. To the untrained eye he looked like all the other Marines, but he was one of two Navy hospital corpsmen assigned to 1st Platoon. As prime targets for snipers the corpsmen made a special effort to blend in, carrying their medical supplies in old demolition bags and occasionally trading their .45s for M16s, but the trip through any village, no matter how remote, would usually burst their bubble of invisibility when children would point and yell “bac-si,” the Vietnamese word for doctor. If a five-year-old could pick you out, how difficult could it be for a trained eye behind a rifle?

  Doc Garver, just under six feet tall, had always been thin, but the diet of C rations combined with long hours and little sleep had pared his weight to less than 150. His fair skin seemed incapable of tanning, and ruptured sun blisters on his forearms gave him the appearance of a pox sufferer.

  “Doc, the lieutenant says the command post is here. Doc Brede can stay with 1st Squad.”

  Bronsky moved over near the lieutenant, and Doc Garver went to the shadows by the edge of the clearing. CPs tended to get crowded, and crowds tended to draw fire. Doc Garver’s survival strategy was to be where the bullets weren’t. He might have to go there after their arrival, but it was always wise to avoid the initial salvo.

  Every few seconds a Marine came out of the jungle and crossed the stream. Each carried a bandolier of ammunition for the M60s, and some carried two hundred rounds, the linked cartridges strapping their chests like those on Mexican banditos in old westerns. One Marine hacked a branch from a tree with his machete and used it to haul new arrivals up the mucky incline. Lieutenant Diehl signaled one to wait, directing the others to break off to the left side of the clearing. The waiting man was a stocky lance corporal with a barrel chest. His face and arms were deep bronze, and his high cheekbones and broad nose framed piercingly clear eyes that could fix a man with a stare the way a mountain lion looked at its next meal. His strong chin supported a mouth often bordering on the edge of an intolerant sneer that seemed to warn people to choose their words wisely. His voice belied his forbidding countenance. The prepossessing lilt came out soft as velvet, but like his Apache forebears he was thrifty with words, and no one in the platoon could ever remember hearing him laugh.

  Born into a warrior clan in the remote Cibecue community on the White Mountain Reservation in Arizona, his warrior ethic had led him to another warrior clan—the U.S. Marines. He had no interest in saving the Vietnamese from themselves or defeating communism or propping up the domino theory. His enlistment was the fulfillment of an ancient mandate. It was simply a matter of metallurgy: he was forging an Apache manhood, and the crucible was Vietnam.

  “Chief. Go help Franklin set charges on those trees, and go easy on the C-4. I just want them down, not vaporized.”

  The Chief looked out into the clearing.

  “You hear me, Chief?”

  “Yes, General,” the Chief said, lifting the demo bag and pulling the strap over his helmet.

  “I’m not a damned general, Chief.”

  The Chief started into the clearing. “And I’m not a chief, sir.”

  Bronsky stifled a laugh but couldn’t suppress a smile. “I guess he’s the sensitive type, too, sir.”

  The lieutenant checked his watch, a black-faced chronograph he’d picked up at the PX in Da Nang. “Tell him that burning the company shitters for a week could put a nice crust on that sensitivity.”

  “Sir, pfcs don’t tell anybody anything; it’s our only perk. And Marines who want to stay healthy don’t tell the Chief anything he don’t wanna hear. I think the only reason he joined the Crotch and came to Vietnam is because he didn’t get the chance to kill cowboys in the Old West.” Bronsky watched the Chief kneel next to Franklin with a coil of det cord in one hand and a long, wide-bladed knife in the other that he used to cleave low branches. “Once when he was feeling talkative, he told me that if I
ever saw him with paint on his face, I should run.”

  It was the lieutenant’s turn to smile.

  “He was serious, sir. That Indian is fuckin’ crazy.”

  Sergeant Blackwell sent the last Marine who emerged from the jungle to a position on the left and returned to the lieutenant. “We expect to be here long, sir?”

  Diehl glanced at his watch again. “We’ll be gone in less than ten minutes. Better get the 3rd Squad leader up here quick.”

  The sergeant checked his own watch, mentally marking the spot where the minute hand would be when they were moving again. “Strader won’t like this.”

  “That’s the great thing about the system we have in the Corps. He doesn’t have to like what I say, but he damned well has to do it.”

  Along the left side of the LZ, 3rd Squad were shedding their heavy equipment. Bulky flak jackets with their layered fiberglass plates lay open so the air could dry sweat-soaked linings. Marines stripped to the waist moved in and out of the heavy brush. Cpl. Raymond Strader, the squad leader, moved among them. His pack was off, but he wore his flak jacket and helmet. A thirty-day countdown calendar drawn on one side of his camouflage helmet cover had most of the days scratched out. On the other side was a likeness of a miniature helmet dangling a pair of jungle boots that trod on the words “short timer.”

  “Reach, how long you think we’ll be here?” one of 3rd Squad asked as he passed. Some of the platoon were given monikers that suited their jobs, personalities, skills, or even physical characteristics. Corporal Strader was “Reach” because, as the designated platoon sniper, he could reach out and touch the enemy wherever he could see them. Instead of the M16 that had been newly issued to the Marines in March, Strader still carried the old M14, chambered for the larger 7.62-mm NATO round. It was heavier, but he preferred the feel of a warm wooden stock to the hollow plastic of the M16, and unlike the 16, the 14 was reliable.

  “Don’t get comfortable,” he answered. “Knowing the LT, we’ll be saddled up and moving before the supply chopper lifts off.”

  One of the Marines had his pants down around his ankles while he pissed into the tangled root system of a huge strangler fig that completely obscured its host tree. “Hey, Reach. How short are you now?”