Arizona Moon

by J. M. Graham

  After that the two men sat without speaking, listening to the cacophony of crashing rain on the leaves surrounding them.

  A few meters away, Truong crouched with Co and Sau under a tarp stretched over one of the bamboo poles from the heavy machine gun. The corners were pulled taut like a tent and provided excellent cover for the three men and the gun. They were dry and comfortable and hoped the rain would last hours.

  Sau was working a wad of betel nut under his upper lip, and his wide grin showed an expanse of blood-red teeth. Probing his mouth with a calloused finger, he tried to find a comfortable position to lean against the gun.

  Truong dug into a canvas bag with a wide strap that hung across his neck and removed a square package wrapped in heavy plastic over white linen tied with a cord. He looked nothing like the hard-edged veterans he sat with. Like Pham, he had interrupted his studies at Hanoi University to move equipment south. When the urgent call for help before the Lunar New Year swept the city, he, like many others, was caught up in the fervor.

  Co watched Truong untie the cord and carefully unwrap the plastic and the white linen folded around the treasures. “You might get them wet,” he warned.

  Truong turned the small stack of books over in his hands, examining each in turn. “I wanted to check,” he said. The top book had a scuffed green binding with the printed lettering on the spine worn away. It was the classic Tale of Kieu by Nguyen Du, a precolonial tale of love and lust for power. The book was a gift from his mother, and Truong had committed many of the verses to memory. He loved the Vietnamese authors, but the present political climate in the North repressed the publication of anything that did not align with communist doctrine. The Lament of the Warrior’s Wife and Complaint of the Royal Concubine went from a prominent place on his parents’ bookshelf to a bottom drawer in a back room. When he’d studied in Paris, though, all expression was open and Truong read all the censored authors with abandon. These writers may have been caged at home, but their books flew freely in the West. And as his professeur de littérature had pointed out, his tastes went much further west than the curriculum had intended.

  The two remaining books had garish dustcovers illustrated for the pulp trade in America. They were French translations, driven into that language by popular demand. The first showed a Sioux Indian on horseback with a feathered shield racing alongside a locomotive belching a trail of black smoke. Truong turned the book in his hands. The dustcover was worn, and small rips curled the paper at the edges. He held the book so Co could see the title. “The U.P. Trail, by Zane Grey,” Truong said with a certain reverence.

  “U.P.”? Co asked.

  “The Union Pacific. A railroad. They were a powerful force that drove the true Americans from their homeland for the sake of progress. The Sioux Indians, though proud and defiant, could not stand against a superior technology.”

  Co gave a nod of commiseration.

  The other book’s dustcover blazed orange and showed a cowboy astride a rearing horse on a rocky mesa. The title peeked below the cover’s curling edges: Frère de les Cheyennes. Thuong held the book up. “Brother of the Cheyenne,” he said, and pointed at the author’s name. “By George Owen Baxter. A name used by the famous Max Brand.”

  “This Max Brand did not use his own name?” Co said.

  Truong carefully stacked the books and began rewrapping them. “Even Max Brand was not his name. He was Frederick Faust.”

  Co shook his head as though expelling unwelcome information by centrifugal force. “So, this American was afraid to use his real name?”

  Truong seem offended. “He had no fear, but German family names were not held in high regard during the Great War in Europe and he wanted to sell his writing. But in World War II he used his fame to get assigned as a frontline correspondent, even though he was well beyond a suitable age. He didn’t have to go, but he went—and he was killed in Italy in 1944.”

  “The Italians killed him?”

  “No. The Germans did.” Truong seemed embarrassed.

  Co covered his mouth with a hand, but a muffled laugh squeezed through his fingers. “Maybe he should just have used his real name.”

  Truong pushed the books into the bag and closed the flap. “I see you are familiar with irony.”

  Co’s shoulders heaved against his stifled amusement.

  At the other end of the heavy gun, the steady breathing and sagging head showed Sau was asleep.

  “The point is, the native people of America fought against the Europeans. They defended their homeland against overwhelming odds. They fought with bows and arrows against rifles. They matched horses against locomotives and spears against artillery. I admire these people. They were brave and noble before the dragon.”

  Co scratched his chin in thought. “And you think we have a common bond with these people because we now face this dragon?”

  Truong placed the bag as a pillow and lay back. “We share a common interest, a common enemy.”

  “Since we are not presently fighting red men on horses, I can only assume that these brave warriors did not slay the dragon.”

  “No. But like all the dragons that have come to Vietnam, they are blind.”

  “Blind?” Co asked.

  “Yes. They underestimate us. They disregard our tenacity, and they ignore the simple fact that we will not lose because we will not quit. You remember, the French dragon lured the Viet Minh into Dien Bien Phu where they were sure they could destroy them with impunity because we could not put heavy guns into the mountains above them; but we did what they refused to expect.”

  Co leaned back against the machine gun. “So, you think that is what we are now doing to the American dragon—something unexpected?”

  Truong tried to banish the worried expression from his face. “I do,” he said.

  They sat in silence for a while, then let the rhythmic beat of the rain on the tarp lull them into restless sleep.

  4

  First Platoon moved across the jungle floor, following the serpentine path cut by the point fire team. Shifts in terrain forced them to cross the stream many times. The rain seemed to grow heavier by the second, but the platoon pushed on to the northwest, working their way deeper into the Ong Thu range. Earlier, just before the rain, when their circuitous path took them to the edge of the trees, they could see smoke from village cooking fires in An Bang 3. Now they were back under the triple canopy again, fighting the rain and mud and heat. The Marines took comfort in the rain’s ability to drive flying insects to cover, but they knew that when the rain stopped, the mosquitoes would be back with a vengeance, looking for a warm meal.

  The rain fell straight and hard, drenching everything from the crown of the canopy to the root systems deep below the jungle floor. It gushed down the foothills, collecting in ever-larger channels, to the stream that would carry it to the Song Thu Bon. And it soaked the Marines of 1st Platoon. Water poured from the rims of their helmets, ran down their arms, and dripped from their hands and weapons. Every plant they pushed aside dumped more water on their clothing. It soaked their jungle pants and followed the contours of their legs into their muddy boots. Everything they wore became heavier and more uncomfortable. Wet clothing clung to bodies, making movement a strain against the unforgiving fabric. The wet straps and heavy web gear rubbed wet skin raw. Flesh absorbed the water, wrinkling fingers and toes, making every minor abrasion a reason for the epidermis to peel away. Every step pushed the platoon further into the painful adventures of immersion foot. Those with experience hoped the rain would end soon so they would have time to dry out a little before nightfall, because nothing was more miserable than spending the long night soaked to the skin, wide awake with teeth chattering from the cold.

  The FNGs, Haber and DeLong, were finding the going especially difficult. Each step drained their energy and every muscle protested even the slightest rise in the terrain. Although they weren’t yet aware of it, the rain was a godsend because it temporarily masked the heat. All too soon the r
ain would end, the heat would rise, and the jungle would become a steam bath, jacking their body temperatures up until they would feel like their helmets were the only things stopping their heads from exploding.

  The lead fire team rotated the point frequently as the calluses on their hands turned spongy and peeled away against the dripping handles of their machetes, leaving pink patches of raw nerve endings. Haber followed DeLong in the column, and DeLong struggled to keep sight of the Chief’s back as he pushed through the brush. Visibility was poor, and the crashing rain smothered the sounds of the Marines’ movement, giving rise to spurts of panic when the path veered or the Chief increased his speed and DeLong thought he had lost the column. Within a few steps he would find a sign or catch sight of the Chief disappearing through the foliage ahead and a wave of relief would sweep over him. He had wanted to call out when the panic tightened his chest, but the others in 3rd Squad moved through the bush without speaking, and he didn’t want to be the one to break the silence. It was one thing to be a rookie; it was another to embarrass yourself making a rookie mistake. He wondered how the terror of thinking he was lost would compare to the humiliation of having the platoon blame him for actually losing the way. He made a silent prayer as he went, not to keep himself safe, but that he wouldn’t make a mistake that would shame him in the eyes of the other Marines.

  Lieutenant Diehl radioed forward for the platoon sergeant and Blackwell stepped aside, letting the men file past him until the lieutenant reached his position. They leaned into each other as they walked so they could hear above the rain. “Meal break in fifteen, Sergeant,” the lieutenant said, tapping the crystal on his watch. “Let’s hope this rain stops by then.”

  Sergeant Blackwell nodded. “We’re moving into some steep ground.”

  “It’ll get a lot steeper,” the lieutenant said, resting a reassuring hand on the sergeant’s shoulder.

  “I was hoping this was gonna be a cakewalk.”

  The lieutenant gave the sergeant his best all-American grin. “So far, it has been.”

  Five minutes after 3rd Platoon’s corpsman woke Strader from a sound sleep, he had his boots laced over his crusty socks and had pulled a wrinkled olive drab T-shirt from his pack, grabbed his soft cover, and was out the door into the pouring rain with his M14 slung over his shoulder. Leaping puddles, he moved away from the runway and toward the mess hall. The rain pounded the corrugated roofs, as though the drops were pebbles, and flew off the eaves in streaming arcs that made each building look like a fountain. The bunker sandbags had a polished sheen. A few other stragglers in ponchos were headed for a meal, and Strader wished he had taken the time to dig his rain gear out of the storage tent. But he was already drenched, and he was sure that soaking his rancid clothing in rainwater could only be a good thing.

  By the time he reached the mess hall the line had moved inside, and he grabbed a partitioned metal tray with a wire hook on one corner and ducked through the door. Inside, wet ponchos hung through rifle straps or rolled into tight bundles dripped a wet pattern on the floor that followed the steam tables down the right side of the building. Big stainless steel coffee urns stood along the back wall. Strader followed the queue, collecting a strip steak, corn, mashed potatoes with a ladle of gravy, and a section of fruit cocktail. At the end, he dipped his canteen cup into a bin of ice and then filled it with water.

  The personnel gathered for mess sat in groups segregated by assignment, MOS, or rank. The tanks and amtracs sat together. The 155 battery crews kept to themselves, their ears attuned to voices calling for a fire mission. The corpsmen from the battalion aid station made a small group at one table, sometimes joined by other docs assigned to the companies. Marines from line duty came and went in rotation, and the office personnel sat at the end of the sergeants’ table by the urns where staff sergeants and gunnery sergeants voiced their gripes to first sergeants over coffee and cigarettes. The lower ranks secretly called it the lifers’ table because they knew that these were the Marines who ran everything. The officers might give the orders, but the sergeants made the orders happen. They knew how things worked and how to get things done. When something was wrong with the green machine, the sergeants were the wrenches the officers used to fix it. The sergeants themselves identified more with the hammer than the wrench. You could tighten up a problem, or you could hit the problem so damned hard that it would fix itself.

  First Sergeant Gantz looked up when Strader passed. He pinched his nose with one hand and covered his coffee cup with the other. “Damn, Marine,” he said, “do you have to stink like that?”

  Strader stopped and let the miasma that surrounded him spread. “I blame it all on Charley,” he said.

  A gunnery sergeant on the other side of the table wrinkled his nose and waved Strader on. “Victor Charley doesn’t have to smell you,” he said.

  Strader lingered longer than any of them appreciated. “I guess I could use a hot shower.”

  The first sergeant jerked his head toward the other end of the mess hall as though Strader’s odor was giving him spasms. “Keep moving, and make sure that shower happens real soon.”

  Strader finally started to move again. At the end of the sergeants’ table, Corporal Pusic looked up from his tray with a disdainful glance at Strader’s condition, as though he hadn’t seen it earlier. There was plenty of empty space on either side of him, but Strader just nodded and moved on.

  Halfway through the mess hall, a squad from Golf’s 3rd Platoon was in from the lines and wolfing down their meals like starving dogs. Strader slipped in next to a lance corporal with the ace of spades drawn on the back of his flak jacket and a mouth bulging with half-chewed strip steak.

  “Reach,” he mumbled, spraying little bits of meat across the table.

  Strader already had his face buried in his upturned canteen cup of ice water, and rivulets of cool heaven were running down his neck to join the rainwater in his T-shirt. He gulped and gulped until the cold made it too painful to swallow. His cup hit the table with a clunk that sent a splash of ice over the rim. “How’s it goin’ Ace?” he said. “The Crotch treatin’ you right?”

  “The Corps couldn’t love me more if I was Chesty Puller.”

  Strader sliced off a piece of meat and forked it into his mouth. Ace finished chewing his wad of steak and started to shovel in another load. “Doc tells me you’re too short to talk to.”

  “No, but you’ll have to talk fast,” Strader said, gulping more water. “Things cool here?”

  Ace had to chew awhile before the chunk of steak in his mouth was small enough to talk around. “Chuck’s been probing the line on and off, especially on the north end of the runway. Nothing serious, though. They just fire off a few rounds every once in a while to make sure we aren’t getting any sleep. They did light up the CAP unit in the vill a couple of nights ago. They had a mad minute going until 2nd Platoon went to the rescue. Other than that it’s been samey same.”

  Ace watched with amusement as Strader drained the rest of his water then crunched a shard of ice between his teeth. “You must be really short to be worried about being on this side of the wire. How much time you got?”

  Strader added a spoonful of corn to the fragments of ice he was chewing. “Three and a wake-up.”

  Ace washed down his steak with a gulp of coffee and showed Strader his best grin, studded with bits of strip steak. “I guess you’ll be sleeping in your flak gear tonight.”

  “I ain’t gonna get twitchy, Ace. I got nothing to worry about with you on line, right?”

  The squad from 3rd Platoon had to get back to the perimeter so other Marines could get a shot at a hot meal. They gathered their gear and pulled away from the table. Ace had to finish his beans and coffee on the fly. “You know I’ll kick ass, Reach. But if they get past me, you’re on your own.” He caught up to the squad dunking their trays in the rinse barrels outside, and they disappeared in a splash of puddles.

  Strader went back to his food, taking his time cutting his
steak into bite-sized pieces and chewing slowly. He was in no hurry. He could take all the time he wanted. He could go through the line again and sit until the mess sergeant threw him out. And he would have done that, but he wanted to use the showers while it was still daylight. He just hated being caught in the dark in nothing but a towel and flip-flops.

  First Sergeant Gantz leaned down the table toward Corporal Pusic and cocked his head in Strader’s direction. “You know that Marine, Pusic?” he said.

  Corporal Pusic turned in his seat to look at Strader as though he had no idea who the sergeant was referring to. “Oh, yeah, that’s Corporal Strader.”

  “Is he one of yours?”

  Corporal Pusic hesitated before answering, his mind racing to search every possible scenario his answer could create that would cause Sergeant Gantz to bring a world of hurt into his life. He was stymied. “Yeah. He’s Golf, 1st Platoon.” He couldn’t imagine that anything Strader did would reflect badly on him. But he also knew the vagaries and unpredictability of sergeants. He waited for the other shoe to drop, but the sergeant just rapped on the table with his knuckles and went back to his coffee, leaving Pusic to feign an inordinate level of interest in his meal. He didn’t want to do anything to provoke the wrath of the sergeants. He had cultivated a very beneficial relationship with them. They were especially useful when the officers of Golf Company came to him with a problem or an assignment. And when problems were solved and assignments were successfully completed, the officers saw Pusic as an indispensable cog in the company wheel. Although the credo of the Corps was that every Marine was a rifleman first, Pusic wanted to be needed right where he was, and he didn’t want anything to tip the delicate balance away from that. If he had anything to do with it, no one would ever even consider that he might be useful elsewhere.