Arizona Moon

by J. M. Graham

  Truong and Pham shared a spot against the sprawling roots of a dipterocarp tree with foliage finally reaching the sky more than forty meters above their heads. They sat in silence, hungrily devouring their portions of rice. Pham paused to drink from his canteen. “I’ve been having dreams,” he said, watching Truong lick the rice from his fingers.

  “About home?”

  “No,” Pham said, holding up a large pinch of rice. “About food.”

  Truong smiled. “You dream of dry banh chung without the mung paste or meat?”

  “That’s not funny. I dream of ban cuon.”

  “Ban cuon?” Truong said with a disappointed expression.

  “Yes. I feel the dumplings in my fingers. I see the steam rising. I taste the onions and pork and mushrooms. The sauce stings my tongue. My eyes water.”

  “When I think of all the food you could be dreaming of, food that isn’t sold by any street vendor in the city, I want to cry also. Why not dream of lobster or a juicy filet?”

  Pham seemed embarrassed. “Well, ban cuon isn’t the only food in my dreams.”

  The tone of the conversation was piquing Truong’s interest, or at least his taste buds. “What other culinary delights invade your sleep?” he asked, as though he were a blind man asking a poet to describe a sunset.

  Pham dropped another bit of rice into his mouth. “It doesn’t matter,” he said.

  Truong stopped in mid chew. “My salivary glands say it does matter. And make it good. I need a tasty story to go with this rice.”

  “You won’t be satisfied,” Pham said.

  Truong held up the remains of his rice ball. “Do I look satisfied now? You have my permission to torture my appetite.”

  Pham wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Pho,” he said, not daring to look at Truong.

  “Pho,” Truong said in disbelief. And after a long pause, “What broth on the noodles?”

  Pham sniffed as though the aroma of his dreams were hanging in the air. “I think, beef,” he said.

  Truong nodded slowly. His mind was debating with his appetite, and it appeared pho was something they could both work with. “One thing is certain. No one will ever accuse you of having extravagant tastes.”

  “I wasn’t describing my tastes, only my unconscious dreams.”

  “Well, your unconscious mind is certainly plebeian.”

  Pham bit into a hard biscuit and pointed the jagged edge at Truong. “Maybe so, but every cold meal I eat tastes like ambrosia dipped in nuoc mam when I close my eyes.”

  Nguyen stopped at the base of their tree and knelt down, placing the butt of his AK-47 in the dirt. Pham and Truong were the unknown quantities in his unit, and he wasn’t comfortable with them pairing up. It had the potential to double the impact of their inexperience. He pointed a finger at Truong. “You stay close to Sau and his group tomorrow. This is a dangerous place and we have a long way to go before we reach the river. We won’t sleep again until we’re north of the Vu Gia.”

  “What about me?” Pham asked.

  Nguyen fixed Pham with a hard stare. “You’ll be with me.”

  Sau and another man came out of the shadows, their faces hovering in the dark above their cartridge vests like ancient masks carved from granite. Nguyen spoke to them in hushed tones. He pointed down the slope, and the two disappeared into the darkness, moving silently through the foliage with practiced efficiency; the wind made more sound in passing. Little communication was needed. They knew what had to be done and how to do it.

  Pham and Truong couldn’t help comparing themselves with the other men in the unit, and the comparison made them feel like children. These were men who ate on the run. They didn’t appear to tire, and if the situation demanded it they didn’t stop for sleep or food or water. They could be absolutely motionless for hours or march without rest. It seemed that only death would stop them, and Pham and Truong weren’t sure even that would do it.

  Nguyen stood and lifted his rifle. “The sentries are posted, so get some sleep. We’ll be moving before daylight.” With that, Nguyen turned and faded into the night.

  Once he was gone, Pham and Truong felt the night close in. Although they knew that the other men were all around them, they heard and saw no one, making the two neophytes feel alone in the jungle. Fear and worry might have kept them awake, but since they came south exhaustion ruled their nights, and they let the darkness flow over them like a warm cloak. Before long, they slipped into a fitful sleep.

  6

  First Platoon continued to cut a meandering line through the foothills as the setting sun lengthened the shadows. The point fire team chose their course more by the path of least resistance than to avoid the likelihood of danger. When the light faded to a wisp of existence the lieutenant called a halt, sending Sergeant Blackwell to spread the word up the column to hold position and wait. The Marines immediately knelt or squatted, thankful for the respite. Their clothing and gear were still wet, and they knew to expect an uncomfortable night when they finally went to ground and their body temperatures began to fall.

  In the center of the column, the lieutenant glanced at the luminous dial on his watch. He wasn’t interested in the time—there was no schedule to be maintained—the visibility of the dial against his wrist was setting the timetable. When the wrist disappeared and only the dial was visible it would be time to move again. One of the hard lessons learned in jungle combat was never to be caught in your last daylight position when night fell. If it was possible for you to be seen, you assumed you were being watched, and when the night made you invisible, you moved. In a while, the lieutenant reached out and touched Bronsky’s arm, and word went down to Sergeant Blackwell to get the column up and moving again.

  If Private DeLong found following the Chief in daylight stressful, following him in total darkness pushed him to the edge of panic. He cursed himself for every slight noise he made, not because he feared he might give away his position but because it masked any sounds coming from the Chief, and he was using his ears to keep track of the Marine ahead of him. Though the air was cooling, sweat poured from his face. He was startled by the hushed voice of Lance Corporal Burke close behind him. “Tighten up the intervals.” Stumbling, DeLong pushed ahead until his outstretched hand met the E-tool hanging from the Chief’s pack. The Chief turned sharply and slapped his hand away. For once DeLong was happy about the darkness because he couldn’t see the expression on the Chief’s face. If the looks he had received during the day were any indication, the one he was getting right now would be downright terrifying.

  The going was slow and difficult, with each Marine feeling his way through the jungle as though he were blindfolded. Stumbles and falls were followed by a flurry of curses that covered everything from the stinking country to the Corps to the God responsible for jungles and darkness and all discomfort in general.

  The lieutenant knew that moving through the Arizona in the dark was a potentially lethal game of blind-man’s buff, so when he felt their last position was far enough behind them, he called another halt and told the sergeant to set up a night perimeter with the CP in the center. The Marines stripped off their packs, and those who had them dug out jungle utility shirts and put them on. The squads quickly worked out a two-hour watch schedule. Sergeant Blackwell went whispering squad to squad, selecting men for the listening posts that would be set up below and above the platoon. He leaned in close, almost finding his victims by Braille. The LPs were an early warning device designed to save the rest of the unit from deadly surprises. They were the canaries in the coal mine. And though the concept was sound, it it seldom worked out for the canaries.

  Third Squad was at the head of the column when they stopped, and in the highest position when the sergeant felt his way into their area. “Burke,” he whispered with as much authority as a whisper could command.

  “Over here,” Burke answered.

  The sergeant poked blindly into the spot the voice came from until he reached an obstruction wearing
a flak jacket. “I need an LP up the mountain about a hundred feet,” he said into the darkness.

  “Anyone in particular?”

  “It’s your squad,” the sergeant said. “But make it a three-man LP. Send one of the new guys along. He can use the experience, and with three, maybe somebody can get some decent sleep.”

  “Send three and make one a new guy. Are you sure it’s my squad, Sergeant?” Burke asked, feeling safely anonymous in the dark.

  “Maybe you want me to radio the base and get Strader to make the decision for you.”

  It was difficult to have a conversation with someone when you couldn’t see faces. You couldn’t get a read on someone’s intent. What seemed to be anger might be sarcasm. Then again, it might not. “It’s my squad,” Burke relented, turning to the invisible men around him. “Tanner, Chief, take one of the FNGs and set up an LP about one hundred paces upgrade.”

  A steady stream of bitching in a Southern drawl issued from Tanner’s position. “Shit, Burke. Why me? I thought we was close.”

  “We’ll still be close, Buck. At least as close as a hundred paces can be. But do me a favor, make the paces long ones.”

  Tanner made a show of temper gathering his gear, but it was completely wasted because no one could see it. Even Tanner couldn’t see it himself. “Shit, man. I hope you ain’t gonna let a little power go to your head.”

  “I don’t have any power. I just have headaches.” Burke tried to sense the spot in the blackness in front of him where the Chief might be. “Chief. Where the hell are you?” He was startled when a voice as smooth as whipped butter sounded in his ear. “Here,” was all it said.

  Burke reached out but felt nothing. It was like talking to a ghost. “Collect one of the new guys and head up the mountain. And stay sharp.” He had often seen the Chief dragging the blade of that big stag-horn knife across a whetstone, honing it to a razor’s edge, and he immediately regretted using the word “sharp.” Now that he was squad leader, he would have to choose his words more carefully.

  The Chief took a few steps and reached down into the dark, catching hold of the collar of a flak jacket. “Which one are you?” he asked.

  A voice feigning enthusiasm drifted up. “DeLong,” it said.

  The Chief tugged, pulling the Marine to his feet. “Let’s go.”

  Haber pushed DeLong’s rifle into his hands as he was hauled away. The two privates weren’t on the buddy program, but they had been traveling the same path together since Okinawa and took some comfort in a shared misery. Being the new guy in an established unit was difficult, which made a companion going through the same experience invaluable. Now, as the three Marines moved off into the night, he was the single odd man out for the first time, and his relief that the Chief’s hand had found DeLong’s collar and not his was a reason for considerable guilt.

  The LP detail left the perimeter, crossed a shallow ravine, and started up a lower slope of the Ong Thu. The Chief led the trio, followed by DeLong and then Tanner, who was keeping an audible count of his steps.

  “Thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three.”

  Each number made DeLong flinch, and his apprehension grew with the count. The idea that the growing numbers emphasized how far they were from the platoon was somehow a secondary concern to the actual sound of the counting that seemed to say over and over to anyone listening in the darkness, “Here we are.” He wished Tanner would be quiet but didn’t feel he was in a position to say so. Suddenly, the Chief stopped and came down a few paces. He reached through the open front of Tanner’s flak jacket and grabbed a fistful of T-shirt. “Shut the fuck up, Anglo,” he hissed, the kind of hiss that could make a snake change its mind about biting. Then he was climbing again with DeLong and Tanner playing catch-up. After a few yards Tanner muttered, “He made me lose count.”

  Sau squatted in front of a large tree hosting a cluster of tetrastigma vines on their climb to daylight. And just as the vines used the tree, a parasitic rafflesia plant clung to the vine. Though Sau knew little of plants, he knew death, and the enormous rafflesia flower gave off an odor many likened to a rotting corpse. When the breeze shifted with the vagaries of the forest, Sau had to cover his nose with his hand.

  He used the stock of his rifle planted between his feet for balance, unwilling to sit or lean against the tree. To stay awake on sentry when you needed sleep, you took an uncomfortable position and stayed in it. His comrade sat a few feet away with his arms folded across his knees and his head balanced on his arms. He would be allowed to sleep until it was his turn to assume an uncomfortable position.

  The wind changed direction and swept up from the valley, and Sau closed his eyes and let the coolness wash the plant stench away. But something rode in on the wind, something different. He gripped his rifle barrel with both hands and slowed his breathing so the sound of it wouldn’t interfere with anything he needed to hear: mosquitoes buzzed through the thermal waves rising from his skin; something with small teeth chewed to his left; and the breeze from the valley twisted leaves on their branches until they snapped. Sau held his breath and cupped a hand behind one ear. Something snapped again. Then something crunched.

  Sau turned his head slowly and gave a slight whistling chirp, no more than the sound of a distant bird or a small rodent. The other sentry’s head snapped up, and he reached immediately for the grip on the AK at his side.

  “Nghe ma,” Sau whispered, alerting his companion to listen to the movement.

  Both men raised their weapons and slowly and soundlessly pushed the safety levers into the middle position. Each man gripped the front stock with some force. In full automatic the heavy AK would climb, and this would be a problem firing downhill.

  The newly awakened sentry aimed blindly into the dark and waited until sounds in the trees below drew his barrel to its target. Sau was right. There was movement.

  They waited motionlessly, letting the sounds pull their rifle sights like divining rods are pulled to water. Their fingers hovered over triggers and the butt plates pressed tightly into their shoulders. Their heads moved as if on gimbals, ears jockeying for better reception. The sounds were close, but they didn’t seem to be coming any closer. And then, suddenly, the movement was gone, leaving only the squealing conversations of wildlife and the pounding hearts of the two NVA, who now had to determine their aim by memory alone.

  “Luu-dan,” the sentry said, the word barely audible on his breath, and Sau felt the wooden post of a hand grenade touch his knee.

  Sau pushed it away. “Nguyen,” he said, “now,” and the sentry evaporated into the night, soundless as a wraith.

  The rising moon found random openings in the cloud cover and shot beams of gray light through the canopy, projecting a faint and flickering show on the jungle floor. Sau watched down the barrel of his rifle as the interplay of moon and cloud repeatedly gave the gift of vision and then swept it away.

  The sentry was back within minutes with Nguyen close on his heels. He resumed the vigil while Nguyen and Sau moved behind the malodorous tree.

  “Do we have trouble, Sau?” Nguyen asked, trying to hide the apprehension in his voice.

  “There was definite movement that stopped on the mountain just below us,” Sau said, watching the play of moonlight across Nguyen’s face.

  “How close?”

  Sau moved his head in closer for emphasis. “Twenty meters, maybe less.”

  Nguyen halved the volume of his whisper. “Just twenty meters?”

  “They could be closer,” Sau said.

  Nguyen stood silently, letting the impact of the information penetrate his sleep-fogged mind. Recriminations flooded in. They should have moved during the storm. They should have moved in the dark. They wouldn’t be here now if they had only kept moving.

  “How many are there?” he asked.

  “Not many,” Sau said, wiping sweat from his eyes. “Probably two. I think it is a watch post for their unit. We work in pairs. They work in pairs.”

  “And y
ou say they are as close as twenty meters?”

  “Or closer.”

  “Then their main unit is not far,” Nguyen said, more a voiced thought than a communication.

  A prolonged break in the clouds bathed the undergrowth in dancing shards of light, and Sau peeked around the tree. “I think we will find out how far in the morning.”

  “We cannot be here in the morning,” Nguyen said firmly.

  “If we move now they will hear,” Sau said.

  Nguyen turned the options over in his mind. “So we can fight them now in the dark or wait and fight them in the light of morning. Either way, we will have carried these weapons all this way for nothing.”

  Sau glanced around the tree again. “There may be another way,” he said.

  Nguyen grasped Sau’s shoulder and pulled him around. “If you have an idea, you won’t ever find me more willing to listen.”

  “If their sentries weren’t so close we could move on, and there is a chance the main unit would not hear us.”

  “But they are close,” Nguyen said.

  Sau drew his thumb across his own neck under his chin. “Then we change that.”

  Nguyen seized on the idea like a drowning man to a lifeline. “It will have to be done silently, without alerting the other Americans.”

  “It will be difficult,” Sau said.

  “But it can be done?”

  Sau shrugged resignedly. “Do we have a choice?”

  7

  The three Marines settled on the flattest piece of real estate they could find—six feet of level ground with a couple of small trees that didn’t eat up the space. “Who wants the first watch?” Tanner asked, making himself comfortable with his back to one of the trees. “Nobody? Okay, I’ll take it.” The first watch was the easiest because everybody was still alert and the dark and the boredom hadn’t had time to work on the need for sleep. In three or four hours it would be a different story. “Hey, new guy. Do you have a wristwatch?”