Arizona Moon

by J. M. Graham

  The earliest gray tint of morning began drawing faint shapes from the jungle shadows, and the birds filled the trees with their raucous symphony as 3rd Squad started up the mountain.

  Vo stood beside the two sentries at the rafflesia vine and watched as the small group emerged, struggling under the weight of Binh’s limp body. He brushed past the expectant gun barrels aimed down the hill and took hold of Binh’s arm. The three bearers’ breathing was hoarse and labored from the climb, in marked contrast to Binh’s shallow, wet wheezes. Sau’s own gasps left little room for words. “Is Nguyen gone?”

  Vo draped Binh’s arm over his shoulder and lifted, causing a weak groan. Whether it was weak because Binh knew his sounds could endanger the group or because he no longer had the ability to project sound was anyone’s guess. “Yes, and we will need to hurry to catch them,” Vo said. He looked at Binh’s face, eyes rolled back to white crescents. “Should he be moved?” The two sentries handed their weapons to Sau and Co and lent fresh energies to the effort while Duong pressed the sodden towel to Binh’s wound.

  Sau cradled the RPD machine gun in his arms in relief; compared with Binh, its weight seemed insignificant. “He shouldn’t be moved, but he must be; he will be.”

  With that, the men lifted Binh and swept him along, his head lolling lifelessly. They followed the path of their comrades along the slope of the Ong Thu and left the beautiful flower of the rafflesia and its stink of death behind them.

  10

  The eerie predawn grayness gave the mountain landscape the feel of a faded black-and-white photograph. Burke’s squad moved through it carefully, expecting the worst and sweeping the trees with their eyes over the sights of their rifles. Flanks were out and pushing through the underbrush muzzles first. The platoon below them was prepared for an enemy assault, and the climbing squad was more than concerned that they could be caught in no-man’s-land in the middle of a firefight. Even if the LP became spooked by their approach and cut loose, the platoon might take it for an attack and pour everything into the mountainside.

  Bronsky moved up the middle behind Burke and Haber. He kept the radio handset to his ear, making sure the lieutenant was on the other radio. The squad spread out over enough ground so there was a good chance one of them would stumble into the LP. Burke suddenly called a halt. They were a good distance from the platoon now, and everyone stood still, listening to the jungle taking its first morning breaths.

  Bronsky moved close to Burke. “Maybe we should call out and let them know we’re coming. I don’t like the idea of surprising the Chief. He scares me when he’s calm. I hate to think what he’s like when he’s startled.”

  “We’d be letting anybody else know, too. Don’t you think there’s someone out there more hostile than the Chief?” Bronsky wiped his face, and Burke noticed for the first time that the radioman had his .45 automatic in his hand. The handgun was Bronsky’s only weapon, and Burke couldn’t remember the last time he saw it out of its holster.

  “I don’t know,” Bronsky said. “But I’ll tell you one thing. If we have to fight someone when we get up there, I hope it’s just the VC.”

  Burke waved a hand and the squad crept upward. Bronsky looked back down the mountain, but they had traveled out of sight of the platoon and nothing seemed to be there but a lethal potential.

  It felt like they had been climbing for an hour, but they were less than five minutes from the platoon when one of the flanks waved Burke over. The flank man had his helmet off and was wiping his forehead with the back of his arm when Burke got close enough to see the expression on his face.

  “What?” Burke said. The Marine’s clenched jaw muscles rippled and he just pointed with his rifle and shook his head. Broad leaves hid a small level spot with trees, but before Burke could push them aside, a sickly sweet odor filled his nostrils. The smell was not unknown to him. He looked to the flank man, but the Marine wouldn’t meet his gaze. Bending the leaf stalks slowly, Burke caught sight of a pair of legs in jungle boots stretched out on the ground in a casual pose; beyond them a body lay face-up, eyes staring blankly at the trees. “What the hell,” he said, pushing through the leaves, snapping the butt of his rifle to his shoulder, and sweeping the space with his aim.

  Tanner lay against the tree in the weak gray light with his legs spread and the front of his flak jacket caked with congealing blood. His head hung awkwardly to the side; an ugly red gash at the throat showed white rings at the parted windpipe. DeLong lay on his back by Tanner’s feet, skin as white as parchment and his eyes flat and blank. Beside the tree, the mound that was the Chief lay, his face a streaked mass of red drying to brown flakes at the edges. Insects drawn to an easy meal were already beginning to land on the bodies.

  Burke tore his eyes away from the sight. “Get security on this spot,” he said, loudly enough for everyone to hear, then, “Bronsky.”

  The rest of the squad moved around the LP and formed a loose semicircle above with their weapons trained uphill. Bronsky and Haber stepped in and froze. Haber seemed transfixed, unable to look away from DeLong. He took short, deep breaths and gulped like something was working its way up that needed holding down, something that had to be controlled because if it got loose he could never get it back again.

  Burke noticed. He had seen that look on fresh faces before. Vietnam was something you had to work into gradually. In a month or six weeks, a new guy’s mind would have built up a tolerance to the sights of combat, but when circumstances dumped a full measure of horror in front of you without warning on your second day in the field, it could fill your mind beyond its carrying capacity. This Marine was getting too much, too fast. “Hey . . . ,” he said, unable to think of a name to match the face. He stepped up and touched Haber’s shoulder, trying to break the trance. “Which one are you?”

  Haber didn’t hear him. His senses were entirely devoted to vision. His mind was recording the pale nightmare that could only inhabit this transitory space between night and day. The image of DeLong was searing itself into his brain so it could be projected onto the inside of his eyelids for the rest of his life every time he closed them, and the promise of dawn would never be the same.

  Burke shook his shoulder. “Whichever one you are, go over on the right and stay alert.”

  Haber looked at Burke like he was speaking in a foreign language.

  Burke spoke slowly and gestured this time. “Go over there and cover the right flank.”

  Haber turned and moved away like a somnambulist.

  Bronsky still stood with his .45 in one hand and the radio handset in the other. “His name is Haber, and he’s the one that’s still alive.” He looked down at the Chief’s right hand, still gripping the stag-horn knife with its long, bloody blade. “Son of a bitch,” he said.

  Burke lifted the M16 from Tanner’s legs and held it up. “Look at this. The buffer assembly is completely broken.”

  The radio hissed a whisper and Bronsky held the handset to his ear. “Yes, sir, it’s bad.” He stooped to see the matted blood adhering to the hair on the side of the Chief’s head and noticed an almost imperceptible rise and fall to the chest inside the flak jacket. “We need the docs up here, quick!”

  The corpsmen made short work of the distance between the platoon and the LP by giving no consideration to stealth or noise. Speed was their only concern. Sergeant Blackwell was close on their heels, pleading with them between breaths to slow down and at least pretend to demonstrate a little caution. Within a few seconds of their arrival both corpsmen were working at the Chief’s side, having quickly determined that there was nothing to be done for Tanner and DeLong. Doc Brede removed the Chief’s web belt and slid the stag-horn knife back into its sheath while Burke helped Doc Garver peel away the flak jacket. There were no other apparent body wounds, so they concentrated on the bloody patch above his right ear, dabbing and peeling and probing until they could get a clear idea of the damage.

  Burke and Sergeant Blackwell hovered over them. Not that they were
so interested in seeing the corpsmen ply their trade. That was a spectacle Marines generally avoided; it was difficult to function if you considered the realities of combat, but it gave them an acceptable target for their attention and provided an excuse for not looking at the other bodies.

  “This isn’t a stab wound,” Brede said, looking up into the sergeant’s face. “The others were cut, but not the Chief. Something slammed into the side of his head.”

  Bronsky picked up the broken M16 and held it out. “Something like this?”

  Blackwell took the weapon, examining the butt stock. “What do you mean? Are you saying Charley didn’t do this?”

  Bronsky leaned toward the sergeant and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial level, as though the Chief might be listening. “I can only see what I see. No dead dinks and a scary-ass Indian with a bloody knife in his hand.”

  Blackwell looked at the M16 again.

  “And there’s that,” Bronsky said. “The Chief has a dent in his head and Tanner with a busted rifle in his lap.”

  Blackwell quickly squatted beside Brede. “I need to talk to him, Doc,” he said.

  The corpsman pushed back the Chief’s eyelids and flicked a flashlight across his eyes. “Not a chance. He’s out cold.” He lifted the corner of the battle dressing tied over the wound and looked into an ear. “There’s no spinal fluid leaking from his ears, but that doesn’t mean the skull isn’t fractured. I really don’t like his pupil response.”

  “You mean he isn’t going to wake up?”

  Brede stashed the flashlight in his bag. “He has serious damage. I can’t say when he’ll be conscious again.”

  Bronsky leaned over the sergeant’s back. “So you don’t know if he’ll be out for a minute or a month?”

  The corpsman was unrolling a bundle on the ground next to the Chief, a portable nylon litter with six loop handles. “That’s about right,” he said.

  “Then fill him with morphine,” Bronsky said. “He’s a ticking time bomb.”

  “Can’t give him morphine with a head wound.”

  The sergeant moved back so the two corpsmen could lift the Chief onto the litter.

  “What if he wakes up in a bad mood?” Bronsky said.

  Doc Brede gripped the Chief’s wrist, timing his pulse while his partner began filling out casualty tags for Tanner and DeLong.

  Sergeant Blackwell took the radio handset from Bronsky and squeezed. “Give me One Actual,” he said. The lieutenant came on immediately. “I’ve got two routine and one priority to go,” the sergeant said. “And it ain’t pretty. No, sir. If they were here, they’re long gone.” Blackwell moved away from Bronsky, stretching the handset cord out to its limits. “By ‘if’ I mean maybe this isn’t enemy related. There’s no sign of Victor Charley, but the Chief had a knife in his hand and the others were split open. That’s right, he’s the priority, but he’s unconscious and Doc Brede doesn’t know when that will change.” Blackwell moved back toward Bronsky as though the tension on the cord were reeling him in. “Right, sir. I’ll make sure he’s secure. Roger, out.”

  The sergeant returned the handset and caught Burke’s attention. “We’re taking them down. Get the web gear from Tanner and the new guy and strip the belts clean.”

  With Doc Brede’s help, Burke got the belts free of the bodies and removed the ammo pouches, canteens, and personal battle dressing packs. It was an unpleasant task, and Burke and the corpsman didn’t look at each other as they worked. Each felt like he was committing a violation, and it was best accomplished without thought and without considering whose body they were manhandling or the life that had inhabited it only hours earlier. They felt they should apologize for taking their things, or say how sorry they were that they were dead, but they said nothing. They worked as unobtrusively and efficiently as they could and hoped that would be enough.

  The web belts were adjusted and fitted around the Chief’s torso at chest and stomach level, pinning his arms to his sides. While Doc Brede made sure the belts wouldn’t interfere with breathing, the sergeant untied the Chief’s bootlaces then knotted them together. Glancing up, he saw disapproval on the corpsman’s face. “This is bullshit,” the doc said.

  The sergeant tugged on the laces, making sure the knots would hold the Chief’s ankles together. “It’s only a precaution,” he said. “As much for his safety as ours.”

  Brede pointed over to Tanner lying on the portable litter Doc Garver had provided and DeLong cocooned in a poncho liner. “The Chief wouldn’t do that,” he said. “He might kick the shit out of them when they got back to the platoon, but he wouldn’t screw up an LP, no matter what.”

  “Come on, Doc,” Bronsky said. “You ever look into his eyes when he’s pissed? I’ll bet it was just like the last thing General Custer ever saw.”

  “Knock it off,” the sergeant said. “I didn’t ask for any opinions.” He pointed at the packs and equipment on the ground. “Burke, get your squad to police up their gear and follow us down with the bodies.” Before he heard an answer, the sergeant swung the Chief’s pack and web gear over his shoulder and grabbed the stretcher loops at the foot end. The docs each took a side and lifted, then started down the slope on unsteady feet.

  Burke distributed the gear and sent Tanner’s body down with his escort. “Sling your weapon,” he told Haber as he stood with Bronsky by the bundled poncho liner. “Bunch the liner up so you have something thick to grab.” Bronsky took the feet, and the three lifted DeLong into the air, stretching the poncho liner tight. “If you start to lose your grip, say so, and we’ll set him down. Okay?” Everybody nodded and they left the little flat space with the two trees.

  The sun cleared the Que Son Mountains in the east and dumped warm light into the An Hoa Valley, filling the rice paddies with morning reflections and flooding the treetops of the Ong Thu. Golden shafts pierced the canopy, spearing the rich mountain soil at random spots, not by the sun’s design but simply as the day’s first targets of opportunity.

  The portable litters provided reliable grips for the bearers, but the three carrying the poncho liner fought a constant battle to maintain handholds. They bunched and twisted the edges of the liner, trying to find enough material to give their straining hands a good grip. Bronsky, at the feet, had the lightest burden, leaving the bulk of the load to Burke and Haber, who immediately discovered a newfound respect for the concept of dead weight. They had to set the body down frequently to establish better handholds, and Haber concentrated an inordinate amount of attention on the liner to avoid looking at the stiffening cargo it carried.

  Haber felt ashamed that he couldn’t look, although he knew nothing good would be gained from it. But there was a deeper shame that came from last night’s relief that DeLong was the one chosen for the LP. Plain luck had decided who was being carried and who was doing the carrying, and the idea that serendipitous events were likely to be the controlling factor in his relationship with life and death here left him rattled. When he shipped out, Haber’s father, in a clumsy attempt to be comforting, said that life was a crapshoot and that he could die crossing the street. Haber knew that was true, no matter how remote the possibility, but this was the first time he had witnessed the mortal dice being tossed, and the guilt at coming up a winner was eating his insides. In the midst of his self-recriminations he was barely aware that he had received his first wound in Vietnam. It was deep, extremely slow healing, and didn’t even leave a mark.

  The group carrying Binh moved along as close to a run as they could manage. Initially Binh would flinch with each jolt, but eventually his body went slack, leaving his head to swing wildly on loose sinews. Sau called a halt to check on him. Binh’s rheumy eyes were only partially open and unseeing. Sau pulled one of the sentries aside. “Go on ahead and tell Nguyen to prepare a place for Binh.”

  The sentry looked over at Binh and back to Sau in confusion.

  Sau placed a hand on his shoulder and moved him away from the group. “Binh’s final place,” he said. �
��Go, quickly.”

  11

  The procession of Marines stumbled and slid down the mountainside under their heavy loads, arriving at 1st Platoon’s level breathless and back-weary. They placed the two bodies apart from the Chief, and Lieutenant Diehl gave them a cursory inspection. His jaw tightened, setting his facial muscles rippling. This wasn’t the first time he had lost men under his command, but it always hit him as a personal failure. The prospect of dying in combat was an accepted risk among the troops, but being responsible for men who died in combat took some time and practice to reconcile. The idea that these deaths were caused by one of his own seemed to question the quality of his leadership and his ability to judge the character of the men he led, and as he looked down on the Chief’s blood-streaked face, he couldn’t see how he had made such an error. He couldn’t believe he had been that wrong. “What can you tell me, Doc?” the lieutenant asked Brede, who was wiping the Chief’s bloodstained face with a damp wad of gauze.

  “Not much, sir. Blunt force to the head above the right ear.” The corpsman slipped a hand under the battle dressing. “There’s damage—a depression and a sharp ridge of bone. He definitely has a skull fracture. If he was conscious I might have some idea—slurred speech, confusion, even vomiting—but all I’m seeing is shallow breathing and weak pupil response.” The corpsman took the point of a safety pin and pushed it into the Chief’s arm above the wrist, getting no reaction. “It ain’t good, and he’s been unconscious for a long time. I can’t find cerebrospinal fluid leaking from his ears, nose, or mouth and there’s no blood in his eyes, but that doesn’t mean there’s no intracranial hemorrhage.”

  The lieutenant looked up to the web of branches supporting the jungle canopy. “Can he be cable-lifted out of here on a jungle penetrator?”

  Doc Brede looked at Doc Garver, who scrunched up his nose as though he’d just caught a whiff of something foul. “I wouldn’t do that, sir,” he said. “That’s a rough ride, and I’m guessing the inside of his skull isn’t smooth anymore. He gets jarred around enough and sharp bone could cut into his brain causing a hemorrhage. He could have a stroke. It could kill him.”