Arizona Moon

by J. M. Graham

  “Shorter than what you have in your hand, Tanner, and nothing’s shorter than that.”

  “You wish you packed my gear.”

  Strader pointed to the ground where the fig and the tree were locked in a struggle. “I’ll be back in the world before the piss on your boots dries.”

  Strader was universally envied in the platoon. Not because of his experience or the responsibility he shouldered as a squad leader, but because he was coming to the end of his tour of duty. He was what everyone longed to be; he was short.

  A Marine holding his M16 over his shoulder by the barrel like a baseball bat pushed through the brush. “Reach. Blackwell is looking for you.”

  “I’m not hard to find, Burke. I’m right here in Vietnam.”

  Burke turned back the way he came. “I think the lieutenant wants you most ricky-tick.”

  Sergeant Blackwell shoved through the foliage from the clearing side, letting midmorning sunlight in to wash over the men of 3rd Squad. “Strader, Lieutenant Diehl wants you at the CP back where we crossed the creek.”

  “I’m just getting my squad set up. Give me five—”

  “I ain’t givin’ you squat, Corporal. The lieutenant wants you now, not five minutes from now. And take your gear. If Victor Charley decides we ain’t welcome on his side of the river, we may have to didi mau, and I ain’t comin’ back for your shit.”

  Strader walked a few paces past a rotting stump blanketed with moss, snatched up his pack by one strap, and slung it over his shoulder. “Did he say what he wanted?”

  Sergeant Blackwell gave Strader a look that said patience was being tested. “As a matter of fact, he did. He said he wanted you.”

  “Eat the apple but fuck the Corps,” Strader said, heading back toward the lieutenant’s position.

  Strader stood just under six feet tall, and the heat and mountainous terrain of Vietnam had whittled his weight down to a respectable 165. His blonde hair was cropped close, not in the high-and-tight Marine Corps style that might get him mistaken for a lifer, but close enough that what hair was left didn’t create a heat issue. Any career Marine could see that Strader was just passing through. He had no plans to climb the NCO ranks or maverick himself into an officer. Like most of the men in 1st Platoon, his dreams were of life after the Corps, if there was to be any.

  In fact, Strader had never planned to join the Marines at all. After high school, he spent a year working part-time jobs, raising hell with his friends, and playing Russian roulette with the Selective Service Board. One day the morning mail included greetings from his benevolent country and an invitation to become a member of the U.S. Army. It wasn’t a suggestion. He had fourteen days to get his affairs in order and deliver himself to the Federal Building in Pittsburgh. The problem had a limited number of solutions: there was no chance of a college deferment, his job wasn’t considered necessary to the national defense, and he hated the winters in western Pennsylvania, so the ones in Canada were out of the question. The only thing open to him was a verified prior commitment. The Army couldn’t claim you if you were already a member of another branch of the armed services. So a week before his report date, Strader, Raymond C., entered that same Federal Building and walked into the recruiting offices off the main lobby. His goal was to sign up with someone other than the Army, and for as little time as possible.

  Small, cramped cubicles surrounded a large room, each partition stenciled with the name of a designated branch of the military and papered with brightly colored posters that made being a member of that particular service seem fun, exciting, and above all, patriotic. Strader’s first thought was to find a spot in one of the reserve units, but as the petty officer in the Navy cubicle said, after choking back a laugh, “Unless people call your daddy Senator or Governor, you can forget that.” He also said that he could provide valuable schooling that guaranteed lucrative employment when the enlistment was over . . . and four years wouldn’t seem that long. The Air Force recruiter parroted the same sentiments and felt sure he could get Strader a first duty station somewhere warm and tropical, like Florida. The Army recruiter didn’t even look up. His quota was secure. He wasn’t about to perform and pass the hat when he already had a captive audience ready to be delivered.

  And then a gunnery sergeant welcomed Strader into the USMC cubicle. His shoes shone like they were coated with glass, and the creases in his dress blue trousers and khaki shirt looked like they could slice bread. Rows of colorful ribbons were stacked so high above one breast pocket that they threatened his collarbone. Two marksmanship medals dangling over a pocket flap proclaimed him an expert with both rifle and pistol. The sides of his head were shorn close with a crew top. And he exuded confidence. Behind him on the wall was a portrait of Lyndon Johnson and, next to it, a large photo of the sergeant shaking hands with a Marine officer with enough stars on his shoulders to qualify as a constellation. Strader noticed that none of the men on the wall looked worried. In fact, judging for self-assurance, competence, and strength, the president came in a distant third.

  “Don’t pay any attention to anything those numb nuts next door told you,” the sergeant said. “They couldn’t say shit if they had a mouthful.”

  Strader was impressed. Here was a no-nonsense man who would give him some experienced advice—direct, straightforward, and ready to be carved into granite as soon as Raymond C. scribbled his name on a promise of two years of servitude.

  Fifteen minutes later Strader left the building a future Marine private and feeling the master of his life again. It would be weeks before he realized that his life was actually like a car careening out of control, and he wasn’t even the one driving.

  Waves of heat shimmered above the clearing, and Franklin and the Chief shed their packs and flak jackets as they worked at the bases of the condemned trees. Soon, in a pyrotechnical blink of an eye, the jungle’s efforts to reclaim the clearing would be erased. The Chief’s helmet was upended at his knees, and the remains of a block of C-4 sat on the webbing inside the helmet liner, the plastic wrapping partially torn away. Franklin watched as the Chief kneaded the pliable explosive into a pancake and folded it around a knotted loop of det cord. Rivulets of sweat ran through the bristles of the Chief’s close-cropped hair and down his neck until his dog tag chain and a leather cord suspending a small pouch interrupted the flow. The pouch looked old. Bright beads sewn to the leather depicted the abstract figure of a small man running below a silver circle. Franklin watched the bag swing back and forth as the Chief leaned into his work.

  “What you got in that bag, man?”

  The Chief molded the C-4 pancake to the trunk of one of the trees, but it wouldn’t stick to the slick bark.

  Franklin pointed. “That thing around your neck. What you got in there?”

  The Chief grabbed the stag-horn handle of his knife and in one quick move brought the heavy blade down on the trunk at an angle, opening a flap like a bird’s mouth. The tree seemed to shudder, and clear juices flowed.

  Franklin shifted a few inches back from the Chief’s reach. “Then again, it ain’t none of my business what you got in there.” He busied himself with his own equipment. “You could have a million dollars in there. It ain’t my business.”

  “How’d you know there’s money in there?”

  Franklin took on the look of the unjustly accused. “Just a lucky guess.” He stowed unused chunks of his own C-4 in his bag. “You’re shittin’ me, right? You really got money in there?”

  The Chief looked up with a wry smile. “Honest injun.”

  It was difficult to tell where the Chief’s mood was going, so Franklin weighed treading lightly against his natural curiosity. “How much you got in that bag?”

  “One penny.”

  Franklin wanted to ask if it was an Indian head penny but decided not to press his luck. “Like I said, it ain’t my business.”

  “A shaman gave it to me.”

  Franklin gave the Chief a look like he knew he was being had. “A shaman
. You mean like a witch doctor? So it’s a magic penny?”

  The Chief’s look said the time for sharing was over.

  It was the first time Franklin had spoken to the Chief at any length. “Yes” and “no” answers generally ended their conversations. He decided to press a little. “A lot of bag for one penny,” he said, stealing glances so he would know to duck if he had to.

  “There’s more,” the Chief said, not looking up from his work.

  “Like what?”

  The Chief attached the pull-ring igniter to the C-4 stuffed into the tree gash. Both Marines stood and hauled their gear back toward the CP.

  “My honor,” the Chief said, slipping an arm through one side of his dangling flak jacket.

  “What?” Franklin struggled with his hands full.

  The Chief touched the leather bag and his eyes seemed to soften. “The spirit bag. It carries my honor.”

  “That a fact?” Franklin said, looking at the pouch suspiciously.

  “That’s right. It’s a fact.” The softness was gone.

  “Whatever you say, man.” The Chief was always unpredictable, and Franklin knew it was best to walk softly and live to fight another day, preferably against another enemy.

  Private First Class Franklin came from the streets of Detroit, where every other building in his neighborhood was slated for demolition. Like most black families in the area, his found frequent moves necessary. He had mocha-colored skin and, at six-three, towered over most of the members of his squad. His tall, lithe body gave him a stride that kept the platoon scrambling when he was on point; at rest he looked like an unfolded chaise longue, full of angles and joints. With his three-year enlistment, he would be a civilian back in Michigan before he was old enough to vote.

  As Strader worked his way back through his squad, a young Marine with a tattoo of a helmeted bulldog on his arm held out a worn photo for him to see.

  “Hey, Reach. Take a look at Deacon’s wife.”

  Strader slung his rifle over his shoulder and took the picture. “Damn,” was all he could say.

  “Damn straight,” the tattooed Marine said. “I’d lay comm wire across the DMZ bare-ass naked just to hear her fart over a field phone. I shit you not.”

  Another Marine stepped up and grabbed the photo. The left leg of his jungle trousers was torn from the front pocket down past the thigh, and his knee popped out as he walked. With only seven weeks in-country, Private Deacon was working hard to overcome the FNG label attached to fresh replacements, but most of the old-timers in the platoon still referred to him as a fuckin’ new guy and hadn’t bothered to learn his name.

  “Did Bronsky put in a requisition for me? I’m droppin’ shit everywhere. If I don’t get new drawers I’ll be walkin’ around in my skivvies.”

  “I put in the order yesterday,” Strader said. “And I thought I told you to shit-can the skivvies. The doc ain’t gonna send you back to the rear for a case of crotch rot, no matter how bad it gets.”

  The tattooed Marine made a grab for the photo and missed. “Come on, man. Let me have another look. You think you’re special because you’re the only one in the platoon dumb enough to have on underwear?”

  Deacon tucked the photo into the bulging cargo pocket on the untorn pant leg. “Maybe I need extra support,” he said, cupping his scrotum in one hand.

  The Marine with the bulldog tattoo picked up his M16 and held it out with one hand. “This is my rifle,” he said, then grabbed his own crotch with his free hand. “This is my gun.” He shook the M16. “This one’s for fighting.” Then he pulled up on his crotch. “And this one really wants to see that photo again.”

  “Screw you, Karns,” Deacon said, turning away.

  Strader shook his head and moved on. When he passed a Marine sitting against a tree and opening a small cigarette pack from his C rations, he stopped long enough to say, “The smoking lamp is not lit, Laney. And get your fire team squared away. We’re deep in the Arizona. Charley owns this place, and he don’t like visitors. We got less than two days left on this op, and if we can get back across the river with our asses intact, I’ll consider it a victory.”

  Laney snapped the cigarette pack under the band around his helmet.

  Strader waited. “You think you can do that?” he said.

  Laney shrugged and said, “Kohng biet.” Like most Marines he had no practical knowledge of the Vietnamese language, but he had heard those words a thousand times in dozens of villages in the Quang Nams. Whenever a Marine asked for the location of any VC, the nervous villagers would nod their heads and repeat the phrase over and over. Marines new to the boonies thought they were saying, “Cong bad,” affirming that these villagers were friendly—or at least sympathetic—instead of the words’ actual meaning, which was simply, “I don’t know.”

  “Well, you better find out before Chuck rains beaucoup shit on our heads.”

  “Don’t sweat it, Reach. We got it together.”

  Strader knew there was no time now to put Laney’s head right, so he went on, wondering what the young Marine’s parents were going to buy with his military life insurance.

  Beyond his squad Strader passed into Corporal Middleton’s 2nd Squad. Middleton stood at the top of the embankment and watched as two of his men filled canteens in the creek. “Put halizone in those canteens,” Middleton was saying. “If you don’t have enough, ask one of the docs for more.”

  The innocuous-looking little pills changed the local water into a medicinal-tasting fluid, palatable only if extreme thirst forced your hand. Given enough time, halizone pills could kill the microorganisms that racked your bowels and played havoc with your internal thermostat, but they also killed any desire to put the liquid into your mouth. Strader once asked Doc Garver if the pills made the water sterile. The corpsman laughed and said that the only thing sterile to drink in the bush was your own urine. Strader thought that was a disgusting concept, but from then on he couldn’t help looking at his own stream as though he were pissing lemonade.

  Middleton caught Strader as he passed. “Reach, can you smell that?” Middleton had a little over nine months in-country and considered himself short. Over six months gave you delusions of shortness, but over nine made it official for purposes of bragging. You were on the home stretch, short for sure.

  “What?” Strader said.

  Middleton tipped his head back and sniffed the air. Strader did the same.

  “I don’t smell anything,” Strader said.

  Middleton sniffed again. “Yep, I can smell your woman’s panties.”

  “You’re not that short, and keep you nose out of my love life.”

  Middleton had once been a member of Strader’s squad, and he credited his old squad leader for teaching him the ropes and keeping him alive when he was too new to do it himself. He was closer to Strader than to anyone else in the platoon.

  “You know what I’m going to do first when I get home, Reach?” Middleton said.

  “No, what?”

  “I’m going to fuck for six solid hours,” Middleton said.

  “Sounds like a plan. What will you do second?”

  Middleton seemed lost in thought. “Probably put down my seabag.” He slapped Strader on the shoulder as he left.

  Strader reached the CP as Bronsky pushed the radio handset up under the rim of his helmet and clapped a hand over the other ear to block out the ten million invertebrate voices that made the jungle seem to vibrate. The radioman stepped a little closer to the clearing so the short antenna would grab as much reception as it could from the sea of vegetation all around them. “Sir,” he said to Lieutenant Diehl. “Highball says they’re about a minute out. They want to be advised on the smoke.”

  “Reach. What color smoke grenades do you have?” the lieutenant said.

  Strader swung his pack to the ground. “One red and one yellow.”

  Lieutenant Diehl held out his hand. “Bronsky, tell Highball the smoke will be yellow.” He stood waiting, arm extended, until S
trader handed over the canister. “I’m glad we’re using one of yours, Reach,” he said. “It’s kind of poetic.”

  “Why is that, sir?”

  “Because a Marine should hail his own cab.”

  The lieutenant handed the smoke grenade to Franklin, who was standing off to the side with the Chief, and urged him toward the clearing. “When I signal, pop the smoke and start the fuses. And don’t take your time getting back here. We won’t be waiting for Doc to pull splinters out of your ass.”

  Franklin headed into the clearing, pulling on his flak jacket as he went. The Chief squatted where he was, always conscious of the size of the target he made.

  “I don’t know what you mean, sir,” Strader said. “What cab?”

  The lieutenant looked up at the cloudless blue sky above the clearing, appreciating the view generally denied him in the Arizona. “What is your DEROS, Reach?”

  Strader looked at Bronsky, but the radioman turned away, busying himself with an imaginary problem with the handset.

  Strader didn’t need to calculate his date of expected return from overseas. “I’ve got three days and a wake-up,” Strader answered.

  “Hear that, Doc?” the lieutenant said. “Three days and a wake-up.”

  The corpsman was sitting on the ground, using his pack for a backrest. “Don’t look for sympathy here. I’ve got five months and a wake-up.”

  The lieutenant stopped looking at the sky and turned to Strader. “This is your ride coming. When we get the supplies off the chopper, you get on.”

  Strader let his pack fall to the ground. His eyes darted about like an animal’s looking for a way out of a trap. “I can’t leave, sir. My squad’s short two rifles now. The ones I have are a headache when we’re in the rear. Out here in the boonies . . .” His mind raced to find some piece of logic that would dissuade the lieutenant, even though experience told him that two stripes never overruled one bar in the Corps. In the hierarchy of Marine Corps firepower, he was a mere peashooter.