Arizona Moon

by J. M. Graham

  The drumming of the rain on the roof slowed to a few scattered taps, and the runoff trickled to a stop. Marines who had been in no hurry to finish while it poured took the opportunity to clear their tables and head back to their areas. Pusic watched them through the screens as they went, picking their way around the larger puddles, leisurely skirting the surrounding buildings. He could walk back to the company office now without getting soaked, so he rose to go. He turned to look for Strader, but the table was empty. Things were looking up.

  As the storm rolled away across the An Hoa Valley, the NVA troops bundled their waterproof covers and lashed them to the bamboo poles and the barrel of the recoilless—anyplace where they could provide a cushion for weary shoulders. The jungle canopy continued to leak the dregs of the storm, but not enough to convince Nguyen to delay departure. The Americans were somewhere in the valley, and he was anxious to move out of their reach. His orders demanded that he stay away from them.

  Nguyen spread a map across his knees as the others crouched around him. “We are here,” he said. His finger followed the contours of the mountains north and stopped west of Huu Chanh 1. “We will rest here tonight, and tomorrow we will push all the way to Minh Tan and boat across the Song Vu Gia.” His finger stopped on the village near the river. It looked like a great distance. “Tomorrow will be a difficult day. I suggest we cover as much ground as we can before nightfall to ease our pains tomorrow.”

  Truong pointed to the large circle drawn on the map that encompassed the entire Ong Thu mountain range and covered most of the valley from the Que Son Mountains to well beyond the confluence of the Song Vu Gia and the Song Thu Bon. “Is that circle the place the Americans call the Arizona?” he asked.

  “This circled area is the home of our R-20th Doc Lap Battalion,” Nguyen corrected him. “Thanks to them, we will have a safer passage here.” Nguyen folded the map and waved it in front of him like an emperor indicating the expanse of his domain. “This is Doc Lap’s hunting ground. Here intruders pay a bloody penalty for trespassing.”

  Truong and Pham exchanged glances. “I hope they know we aren’t the intruders,” Pham said.

  Nguyen rose and began strapping on his heavy gear. “This place has no secrets from the 20th,” he said. “Every footprint here is at their pleasure. The Americans would do well to remember that.”

  As Nguyen adjusted his load, Pham and Truong helped the others lift the heavy machine gun and situate the poles on their shoulders. “And yet the Americans are here,” Truong whispered.

  The weapon bearers shifted their loads until they settled into a reasonably comfortable position and the NVA column moved north.

  5

  The Marines wove a jagged line just east of the Ong Thu foothills. When the rain stopped, 1st Platoon stopped as well. Clustered in small groups, they worked their C rations into palatable meals. Lance Corporal Burke spent some time with Haber and DeLong showing them how to make a stove out of a cracker tin using the little P-38 can opener that came with the meals. He showed them how the trioxin heat tab would suffocate unless they cut little triangular holes around the top and bottom rims on the stove, and told them that if they hung over the stove and breathed the fumes, they would suffocate too. He made sure they left the lid partially attached to the meal tin, or B-unit tin, so it could be used as a handle to lift it away from the heat. “And make sure your stove is on level ground,” he added. “It’ll dump your meal on the deck if the balance is wrong.” He wasn’t surprised to see that Haber was opening a tin of ham and lima beans. “And don’t touch the heat tab. Just because you don’t see any flame doesn’t mean it isn’t burning. If you time it right, you should be able to cook a meal and a coffee before one tab burns down.”

  Both Haber and DeLong were still working on the obstinate tinfoil packages containing the little heat tablets. Burke pointed to their canteens. “That base water in those canteens?”

  They looked confused at the question.

  “Did you fill those canteens at An Hoa or from the stream we’ve been wading through all day?”

  “An Hoa,” they said in unison.

  “Okay, that water is safe. Don’t drink the water you get out here unless you treat it with halizone for a half hour. Do you need some?” DeLong dug into a pocket and came up with a little brown bottle with a screw top. “Good,” Burke said. “If you’re smart, the next time you write home you’ll ask your folks to send you packages of Kool-Aid. It won’t kill the halizone taste, but it covers up some of the ugly.”

  Doc Brede moved along the line of resting Marines, stopping at each position for a few seconds. He was still chewing on a flaky white roll wrapped around a slice of ham when he reached Burke and the replacements. “I hear the lieutenant gave you a promotion,” he said with a wry smile.

  Burke kept stirring the tin of turkey loaf bits on his makeshift stove. “Of all the things I can remember wanting lately, being squad leader wasn’t one of them.”

  The doc kept smiling and chewing. “You’ve got no problems. Just ask yourself ‘what would Reach do?’”

  Burke tested the temperature of his turkey with a tentative spoonful. “All I want is to do what he’s doing right now.”

  “You and every other swinging dick, me included. Hey, tell your squad to change their socks before we move out.”

  Burke swallowed a bigger bite of turkey and washed it down with a swig from his canteen, his sour expression an outraged gourmet’s review of the taste. It was the first time anyone had referred to the squad as his, and he was surprised at the weight the words carried. “What makes you think anyone has dry socks?” he said.

  “Well, tell them to wring out what they have and switch.” He looked down at the new guys working on their meals and raised his voice. “You two, hang your wet socks on your pack straps until they dry,” he said. “Change them as often as you can. Whoever said that an army travels on its stomach was full of shit.” He noticed Haber’s tin of ham and limas and handed him some processed cheese spread. “Stir this in. Maybe you can kill those motherfuckers before they kill you.” The doc took another bite of his ham roll and moved on.

  Lieutenant Diehl squatted over his own boiling tin of beans and wieners while chewing on a cheese-coated cracker. The sergeant stood nearby, shoveling spoonfuls of chopped ham and eggs into his mouth as quickly as he could, because the stink of hot ham and eggs could change your mind about eating them if you lingered. Bronsky was sitting on the ground leaning against his radio, slurping juice from a tin of peaches. He tipped the tin up, draining the last drops. “I’ve got two pound cakes I’ll trade for a fruit cocktail,” he said to anyone within earshot. Fruit cocktail was the most coveted tin in the combat meals, so there were no takers. He made a show of stuffing a little pack of C-rat Winstons into an accessory bag stuffed with Kents and Chesterfields. Everyone knew that he didn’t smoke, and also that as long as they were far from the PX, time was on his side.

  The lieutenant had his grid map laid out at his feet, its OD canvas case holding it flat. The plastic-coated map showed all the grids with the coded thrust points marked. He waved Sergeant Blackwell over. His finger wandered vaguely over the map above their present position. “You ever hear of any units working the Arizona across the river for five days and not butting heads with the 20th VC Battalion?”

  The sergeant squatted next to the lieutenant. “No. From what I understand, they always make it a point to show how jealous they can be when it comes to this mosquito-infested shit hole.”

  The lieutenant nodded and absently tapped the map. “Right. And yet here we are, alone.”

  “I don’t think we’re alone,” the sergeant said. “I guess we just ain’t wandered close enough to anything they care about protecting.”

  The lieutenant stared at the map. “Maybe. It just seems crazy to me. Something is going on.”

  Sergeant Blackwell ran a hand over his close-cropped hair. “What seems crazy to me is one platoon of Marines hoping to piss off a battalion
of VC. I’m not so sure I feel comfortable grabbing that tiger’s tail.”

  Lieutenant Diehl glanced around, making sure the Marines within earshot were occupied with their meals. “We’re an example of firepower on tap, Sergeant. We pull the tiger into the open, and superior technology rains a shitstorm down on its head.”

  The sergeant seemed skeptical. “We just have to hope that shit can rain faster than the tiger eats.”

  Diehl pointed to a spot in the foothills west of one thrust point marked with an automobile designation. “I want to be here by nightfall, about four points off Cadillac.”

  The sergeant looked at the spot, calculated the distance in his mind, and nodded. “Not a problem, sir.” He watched as the lieutenant slowly dragged his finger east. It jumped foothills effortlessly, flew across marshes, skimmed rice paddies, and dragged through villages on its way to the blue line that would be the Song Thu Bon, and beyond the river, the relative safety of An Hoa. He noticed that the first village the finger passed through out on the valley floor was just north of a small body of water and was peppered with the locations of a number of dwellings. It was clearly marked Huu Chanh 1.

  After digging his seabag out of the 1st Platoon pile in the storage tent, Strader soaked in the shower until every stain from the Arizona was washed away. He lathered and scrubbed, and scrubbed again, until his skin felt abraded and new. He changed into a laundered set of jungle utilities and switched his decrepit boots for a pair of Corcoran jump boots that he’d kept wrapped in a set of stateside utilities in the bottom of the seabag. The all-leather boots felt stiff and unforgiving compared with the supple old jungle boots that had long ago conformed to the contours of his feet. He remembered a year ago when the Corcorans felt comfortable. But like the rest of him, his feet had undergone a change. Not that anyone would notice by looking. It took the Corcorans to remind him that a change was there.

  Third Platoon’s hooch was empty now with everyone manning the bunkers west of the runway. Strader went out the back door to a piss tube buried in the ground about twenty-five yards from the building. He always felt self-conscious urinating in the open. He looked across the runway to the line of bunkers, and beyond the wire to the wild country surrounding the village of Duc Duc. All of the brush and trees outside the concertina seemed to promise that someone was there looking back. He hoped they weren’t looking over the barrel of a rifle. It would be a long shot to his position at the tube, but when you’re standing there with your fly open, you can’t shrug away the feeling of being exposed. And he knew something about long shots.

  The fading light was turning the countryside into an ominous gray mass of shadows and made the runway look like a long, black scar. The danger you could see coming at you in the daytime you now had to hear or sense. As he watched the Ong Thu Mountains vanish into the distant darkness, Strader felt guilty that he was feeling vulnerable here inside the wire while his platoon faced another night out there. He slung his M14 over a shoulder and followed the runway past the sandbagged air control tower, skirted the fuel revetments, climbed the embankment, and headed for the EM Club. Lights were coming on all over the base.

  Inside the club, Marines were jockeying for position along the bar and crowding the tables packed into the narrow room. A ceiling fan turned slow circles with just enough speed to swirl the clouds of cigarette and cigar smoke. Behind the bar, two Marines were serving cans of Budweiser from large stainless steel coolers, keeping to the daily allotment of two beers per Marine. The first sergeant who ran the club oversaw the distribution and called anyone out who tried to come back for seconds, although it was common knowledge he didn’t subscribe to those restrictions with his own consumption. Above the door, a bare lightbulb illuminated a hand-lettered sign: THROUGH THESE PORTALS PASS THE MEANEST SONS OF BITCHES TO EVER SHIT BEHIND A PAIR OF BOONDOCKERS.

  Strader pushed his way in and, when a spot opened up, made his way to the bar. The harried bartender plunked down two Buds and levered them open with a hook-nosed church key that sent a spray of foam into the air. There was no saving one to open later. Strader took his beers and made a hole for other Marines to shoulder their way in. Three of the four men at the table closest to the door got up to leave, and the group at the next table immediately requisitioned two of their chairs. Strader moved in quickly to the one open chair remaining. “Okay if I sit here?” he said to the lone Marine left at the table.

  The Marine waved a welcoming hand. “Take a load off,” he said.

  Strader leaned his rifle against the wall and drained half of the first beer. He sat with a beer in each hand, looking at the Marine across from him. “First Platoon, Golf Company,” Strader said.

  The Marine had three chevrons on each collar and a crushed empty on the table in front of him. “Fox Company, 3rd,” he said, taking a gulp from his uncrushed can. Strader noticed that his eyes were bloodshot and that getting the opening in the beer can aligned with the opening in his face took a concentrated effort.

  “Is Fox here?” Strader asked, wiping his chin with the back of his hand.

  “No. We’re at Nong Son. I’ve been in three days for dental work.” He stuck a finger in his mouth and pulled his cheek aside, revealing nothing but a slack tongue. “Abscess,” he slurred around a wet finger.

  Strader nodded in sympathy.

  The Marine drained his beer, then lowered it into the shadows beside him. When he set it back on the table it was full again. He noticed that Strader noticed. “I bought enough Tiger Piss from the mama-sans to keep my canteen full for a week. Let me know if you need to be topped off.”

  Strader shook his head. “No, thanks. I plan to be asleep in about an hour.”

  “I plan to be unconscious soon myself,” the sergeant said, taking a long pull on his refill. He followed Strader’s gaze to a mimeographed sheet tacked to the wall by the table. The ink in the machine was low, and the sergeant had to lean closer to make out the faint letters. The sweet perfume of mimeograph ink still clung to the paper, which offered such useful information as the times of reveille and retreat, the hours for mess and sick call, the uniform of the day, and chaplain’s hours. At the bottom it announced the movie scheduled for tonight: A Thousand Clowns, starring Jason Robards. He tapped his finger on the sheet. “There’s irony for you,” he said.

  Strader emptied his first can and started on the second. “What do you mean?”

  The sergeant pressed his finger hard into the sheet. “It’s a perfect example of what’s wrong with this damn war.”

  Strader had to take a closer look at the posting to see what he might have missed. “A thousand clowns?” he said with a confused look.

  “No. Here,” the sergeant said, and stabbed the paper with a dirty fingernail. “Jason Robards.”

  Strader was lost but tried hard not to show it. He’d had many senseless conversations with fellow Marines when they were drunk, and he suspected this was going to be another one.

  The sergeant gave Strader a conspiratorial glance and lowered his voice. “I heard Jason Robards got torpedoed twice in the Pacific during World War II.”

  “Okay, so?” Strader said.

  The sergeant reached into his pocket and slapped a little P-38 can opener on the table. “Well, can you explain this?” he said.

  “It’s a C-rat opener,” Strader said, sure now that drunken blathering was about to be raised to a new level.

  “Not just an opener, a John Wayne can opener.”

  “So it’s a John Wayne, so what?” Strader said.

  “John Wayne never served in the military. Lots of movie stars served in World War II. Some were in combat, too, but not John Wayne.”

  Strader finished most of his remaining beer in anticipation of a quick departure.

  “For Christ’s sake, Captain Kangaroo was a Marine during the war.” The sergeant held the can opener up and shook it so the blade flapped back and forth. “This shouldn’t be called a John Wayne. It should be a Jason Robards.”

  Strader fi
nished the rest of his beer. “Or a Captain Kangaroo,” he said.

  “Right,” the sergeant said, looking at the opener with a new appreciation.

  Strader stood and hefted his rifle from its spot against the wall. “I get your point,” he said. “For a minute I thought you were just talking bullshit.”

  The sergeant tossed the opener onto the table. “I was,” he said. “That was the point. If we can’t recognize a little piece of obvious bullshit, what chance do we have with the big sneaky ones?”

  Strader gave the sergeant his best impersonation of John Wayne’s casual, one-fingered salute and pushed through the door into the night before he could be subjected to slurred theories about life preservers and Mae West never being in the Navy.

  Just beyond the EM Club, light flickered on the makeshift movie screen as the opening credits of A Thousand Clowns scrolled up. Strader followed some Marine-shaped shadows past the projection hut to the rows of upended crates and ammo boxes. The glowing tips of cigarettes pinpointed the positions of the small group of viewers, further accentuated by sharp smacks directed at attacking insects. He stood in the back and watched Jason Robards cross a rubble-strewn lot to a New York tenement and climb the stoop to the front door.

  “Who the hell is that?” came from the shadow standing next to him. Strader turned away from the screen. “John Wayne,” he said and moved off into the night.

  When the sun dropped below the ridge, the eastern slope of the Ong Thu slipped into a tableau of opaque shadows. Under the jungle canopy, sundown was a short and merciless process. While the open fields and paddies were still bathed in gray twilight, under the trees, patches of blackness swam together like spilled ink, and the comfort of the visible world vanished.

  The NVA cadre shed their burdens and settled in for a night of rest. They could not risk cooking fires, so they peeled the banana-leaf wrapping from their tam thom rice balls and ate them cold. All down the line tired, dirty fingers picked out clumps of the sticky rice, compacted them into balls, and slipped them into mouths, savoring each bite as though it were the rarest of delicacies.