Arizona Moon

by J. M. Graham

  One stayed by the nose while the other two moved around the truncated rotors to the starboard opening, which was leaning sharply into the ground. The jungle boot on the door gunner’s leg was still visible at the hatch. The two seemed hesitant to show themselves at the opening, and Strader watched while they worked out an angle of approach, one from the front and one from the rear. He drew a bead on the one by the nose. He was the one closest to cover. In two steps he could be behind the nose and out of sight. The other two would have to scramble for safety, giving him time to place as many shots as he could into their exposed position. At the top of the next gasp he choked off his air and focused through the rear peep sight on the NVA standing by the martini glass with olive and bubbles painted on the helicopter’s nose, perching him on the sight blade at the end of his barrel. His index finger put pressure on the trigger. He was within an ounce of tripping the hammer spring when a hand grabbed his pant leg and tugged. He looked back at the Chief’s bandaged face and bloodshot eyes. He could see that the crash had added a split lip and bloody nose to the earlier injury. “You’re ruining my aim, Chief.”

  “You don’t want to shoot now, Reach,” the Chief said. “We should wait.”

  “Are you shittin’ me?”

  “Gunships will be coming,” the Chief said, wiping a trickle of blood from his upper lip with his forearm. “I don’t think the dinks know we’re here. We just have to be cool.”

  “We’ll be passing up a chance for a little payback.”

  “I’d rather have a lot of payback, and the gunships will bring that.”

  Strader pointed toward the helicopter. “Look at them, Chief. They aren’t VC. There’s an NVA unit here somewhere, and those bastards are part of it.”

  “So, on your last day in-country you want to take on the NVA? Just you and me? Call me crazy, but I think we should wait.”

  “I’ve got two days and a wake-up.”

  “Oh. Well that’s different. After we destroy the NVA, you’ll have all day tomorrow to rest up for your trip. Don’t be a damned fool. We should wait for help.”

  Strader looked over his rifle sights again, pressing his cheek against the wooden stock. “I didn’t think you’d be someone who would want to be rescued by the cavalry.”

  The Chief spit out a bloody wad of mucus. “If my head wasn’t pounding so much I’d make sure you’d have to check your shit pile tomorrow if you wanted to see your teeth again.”

  Strader kept a steady aim. “One hour ago I was in the rear getting ready to catch the freedom bird. Now, thanks to you, I’d consider myself lucky to see my teeth smiling back at me from tomorrow morning’s dump because that would mean I had a tomorrow morning.”

  “If you pull that trigger, we can both forget about tomorrow.”

  “Chief. The prisoner doesn’t get a vote.”

  “Who’s a prisoner?”

  “You are. You’re my prisoner. I was sent to escort you back to An Hoa. I’m responsible for you. You’re the reason I’m here.”

  “But I didn’t do anything, Reach.”

  Strader looked back. There was pain in the Chief’s face, and it was more than physical pain. “Right, Chief. They were sending you back gift-wrapped for the fun of it.”

  The Chief grabbed a fistful of Strader’s pant cuff. “They were wrong. They don’t know what happened.” Releasing Strader’s cuff, he cupped the battle dressing tied to his head. “I can’t remember, but I know I wouldn’t kill Tanner and the new guy.”

  “You know, do you? You were going to shoot me yesterday.”

  The Chief looked away. Something familiar tickled at his brain, and his thoughts were frantically searching the black spot in his mind, looking for that spark of memory. “I was?”

  Strader looked back to the valley. The two NVA at the side of the helicopter flanked the door and crept closer with cautious moves. The one by the nose stood at the ready. It was obvious that they were unaware that anyone had moved clear of the crash. The one coming from the tail could see into the opening and unleashed a small burst from his AK into the door gunner’s body. The other two ducked instinctively.

  Strader pulled his rifle tight and took serious aim. Anger welled, and the passion of it guided his finger to the trigger.

  “What’s happening?” the Chief asked, pulling himself into a position where he might see.

  “They’re pissing me off, that’s what,” Strader said, his voice full of venom.

  “Don’t do anything crazy, Reach. Stay cool.”

  “Since when are you the voice of reason, Chief? I didn’t think you were the type to preach restraint.”

  “I’m not asking for restraint, man, just a little brains. My people knew how to beat the odds. Be smart. You shoot now you get one man, maybe two. You wait for the choppers, we maybe get every toe jamb in the valley. Look, my head is busted and I have to rely on yours for a little reason, and when I see you throwing away a chance to nail these bastards and live to go home, it worries me.”

  Things had turned sour so quickly that Strader hadn’t had time to consider how events were conspiring to snatch a year’s goal from his grasp. He cursed himself for thinking he’d seen the light at the end of the tunnel. The tension that was just beginning to ooze from his pores in the last twenty-four hours was back, and it was back with a vengeance. He had committed a fatal error; he let his situation allow him to think he had it made, and now he realized he’d been conned. It was like he hadn’t learned a thing during his tour, watching the carrot-and-stick dynamic beat unlucky Marines into the ground.

  A memory flashed through his mind. It was mid-July, when the heat of the day wilted the energies, and he’d spent hours of down time holed up in the dark interior of his bunker on Nong Son Mountain listening to the detailed plans Buck Henick, the short-timer of the moment, had for the minutes, hours, and days that would start when his feet hit solid ground back in the world. Buck allowed his spirits to soar higher with each passing day, until only seven were left. He even found it funny when, on a day patrol upriver, a sniper with little skill took potshots at them from high up on a three-hundred-foot ridge. He was going back to An Hoa in the morning, and his smile showed that he felt this was a fitting end to his time in the field; a last bit of excitement before leaving it all behind. After a lull, the squad broke cover and moved out again, only to be met with more wild shots. Buck’s exultant laughter could be heard as he ran for the protection of a mound of rocks by a network of rice paddies, but the laughing stopped when the luckiest shot in the world nicked the rim on the back of his helmet, entered at the base of his skull, and exited through the bridge of his nose between his eyes. His life force gone in an instant, he dropped to the ground in a sitting heap, his head bent forward, letting blood clots and white clumps of brain matter drip from his nose.

  From that moment on, Strader promised himself that no matter how short he got, he would never get caught up in the delusion of thinking he was home free. Even dwelling on what going back to the world would be like was a form of self-flagellation, an exercise in self-inflicted anguish. But sometimes, in moments of weakness when his mental vigilance waned, he took solace in daydreams placing him on the moving walkway in the LA airport, seabag in hand, heading for a connecting flight to Pittsburgh. His dress greens were sharp, his oxfords were shined, and his service ribbons put just the right flash of color on his chest. The walkway was always empty and he stood alone, statuesque, letting the airport machinery sweep him along, reveling in the sensation of walking without effort. It had seemed innocent enough, but now he could see the pitfalls of surrendering to comforting imaginings. Here he was on the ground in the Arizona. The carrot was gone, and all that was left was the stick. And it was a mean stick.

  Two of the NVA disappeared into the helicopter, leaving the third to stand alone by the buckled wheel strut, the bulk of the dead machine towering over his head. Left to his own devices, the third man let his attention wander into the field surrounding the crash site. He stepped
forward, rifle raised. A path of crushed grass led away from the debris, and he guided the front sight on his AK barrel along its wavering route.

  “Damn,” Strader said, shrinking back as though the enemy soldier was staring into his face. He knew the line of bent stalks was pointing to their position like footprints in snow.

  “I think we’re in trouble, Chief,” Strader said, drawing a bead on the curious man.

  The Chief lay with his head resting on a forearm, breathing in the dank and earthy aroma of the jungle. “No shit.”

  The NVA barked a few sharp words and his partners scrambled from the helicopter, one dragging the M60 from the port mount with its trailing belt of brass. He let it drop when he saw the interest the other two were showing in the distant trees.

  The lead man waved a hand and the other two spread out and raised their weapons. They took their first tentative steps toward the tree line.

  “Do you think you can move fast if we have to?” Strader said, gauging the rhythm of his own labored breathing so that he could choke it off on the intake long enough to fire a quick shot.

  “I don’t know. Why?”

  “We got unfriendly company headed our way.”

  The Chief raised his head and tried to see past Strader into the valley. He covered his left eye with a hand and squinted through the other. He could see two of the three figures in the distance, wavering in his vision as though they were dancing. “Damn,” he said. “I hoped we had a choice.”

  “The only choice we have now is to not be here when they arrive.”

  As Strader watched, three more NVA rounded the shattered tail of the helicopter. They were burdened with heavy pack boards loaded with RPGs and heavy rounds for some piece of artillery. One carried the long-barreled RPK with the drum magazine.

  “This day just keeps getting better and better,” Strader said.

  He looked around for some landmark under the canopy that he could fix on. Back where the foothills began to hint at the elevation to come, a tall tree with deeply corded bark stood out among the others. He pointed at it. “See that tree?”

  The Chief tried to rally his focus on the one target in a multitude of like targets fitting the terse description. “Don’t jerk me around, Reach.”

  Strader pointed again, making sure his hand was in the Chief’s field of vision giving him a sight line to follow. “That big mother on the rise there.”

  The Chief could make out a massive vertical shadow and he nodded.

  “Head for it as fast as you can. If you aren’t spotted, I’ll catch up.”

  “And if I am spotted?”

  Strader leaned into his rifle again. “I’ll take care of that,” he said. “And then I’ll be right behind you.”

  As Lieutenant Diehl broke radio contact with Sergeant Blackwell, the pounding throb of a helicopter fighting to gain altitude penetrated the jungle. Although it was more than a mile away, the sound had a physical presence that sent vibrations through the air. The bulk of the platoon had climbed high enough to smell the rotting blossom of the rafflesia, and more than one had commented that there was a corpse somewhere nearby, although no one seemed able to follow the stench to the body.

  The ground above the malodorous tree was scarred with the passage of many feet under load. A well-trod path cut through the undergrowth, heading north along the face of the Ong Thu, and a diminishing blood trail decorated its surface. The lieutenant let command know that a large unit of VC was moving north on the mountain, but with the R-20th Doc Lap Battalion active, large unit movements in the Arizona were commonplace. He positioned the remainder of 1st Platoon along the path, poised to move the instant the sergeant returned with Middleton’s squad.

  When he thought he had lost two men at the hands of one of his own, Diehl’s anger was tempered with a little self-recrimination for having misjudged the character of a Marine under his command. But now that it was plain that the enemy had struck at his people and gotten away clean, no shadow of personal failure muted his anger. His ire was hot, and he paced the path, anxious to start tracking them down. The radioman stayed as close as he could to Diehl without the risk of tripping him.

  The lieutenant’s impatience was boiling to the surface. “Get me Four on the horn,” he barked, causing Clyde to fumble awkwardly with the handset.

  Just as Sergeant Blackwell’s voice squeezed through the static, the burst of gunfire from the northern end of the valley echoed across the face of the mountain. It was followed immediately by a long, sustained rip from a heavy machine gun, punctuated by the explosion of a rocket-propelled grenade.

  “What’s happening, Four?” the lieutenant said, cutting the sergeant off, but no answer was necessary. Both he and the sergeant knew that it was just the savage disposition of the Arizona reaching out to grab them by the short hairs. They had wandered the area for most of the week with nothing to show for it but sore feet, sore backs, and sore moods, but now, with the op drawing toward a conclusion, the ugly furies that seethed just below the surface of this country had decided to rear their vicious heads. It was as though the Marine blood spilled during the night had whetted the country’s appetite. He could hear the tinny voice coming through the handset. “Highball must be taking fire,” it said.

  “Get up here ASAP, Four, and I mean yesterday. One out.”

  The lieutenant yanked the radioman down and spun the radio dials to the helicopter’s frequency. “Pounder One to Highball,” he said. The harsh hiss of open air was the only sound when he released the handset lever. He squeezed again. “Pounder One to Highball, come in.” When he released again he heard the stern and insistent voice of one of the pilots dictating a grid coordinate to command, a coordinate in a northern corner of the valley. And the only way a helicopter can have a fixed coordinate is when it’s on the ground. There was no panic in the voice, but it had the serious, practiced efficiency that comes with experience in tense situations. It was an all-business report meant to pinpoint their position, but it had an underlying, unspoken message; they were in deep trouble, and they needed help, fast.

  Lieutenant Diehl squeezed the handset with so much force he was surprised the plastic didn’t shatter in his hand. The enemy had struck his unit with impunity, and now they had downed the helicopter carrying the casualties. Although the intensity of his desire to get the VC in his gun sights was almost overpowering, he was also a bit surprised at their brashness. The 5th Marines had encountered the R-20th Doc Lap before, but it was nearly always on Doc Lap terms. If the VC felt they had the upper hand, they would hit with everything they had and keep on hitting until their resources were spent or enough firepower was brought to bear to force them to withdraw. But this was odd. Last night they eliminated the LP but ignored the platoon, though it was blind on that flank. And now they knocked Highball out of the sky when letting it pass unmolested would have been the smart move. There seemed to be too much risk for too little gain. With its forces marshaled, the 20th could hit the base at An Hoa if it suited their purposes, but this was something else. It had another feel to it.

  The two dead Marines from last night wouldn’t bring any other American units into the area, but shooting down a helicopter would. The Evil Eyes from Marble Mountain would have choppers on station in no time, and 2nd Platoon, assigned to Sparrow Hawk, would be lifted from An Hoa to the site for security. Before long, the northern corner of the valley would be alive with activity. Even now, Cessna Bird Dogs would be on the way to fly lazy circles over the mayhem, ready at a moment’s notice to summon a sortie of fast movers to rip the face of the mountain apart. Last night the VC chose to run, and now they seemed to want a fight. If that was the case, everyone was headed into a shit storm. But maybe it was something else. Maybe, in each instance, their hand had been forced. It could be that each tentative assault was just what it seemed: the reaction of an unlucky VC unit trying to extricate itself from a confrontation. The lieutenant hoped it was that, but he knew it didn’t matter either way. The helicopter was down
and the Chief was on the ground again, wounded at best, and his guilt at having wrongly accused a good Marine ensured that he would move heaven and earth to make that right.

  The lieutenant spun the dials on the radio hard, and the clatter of stops made Clyde wince. “One Actual to workhorse, over,” he said into the mouthpiece, and then held the handset up to his head.

  Bronsky’s thin voice crackled back immediately. “Four was trying to reach you, sir,” it said, interspersed with scratchy hisses.

  Lieutenant Diehl wanted to spend as little time as possible getting past Bronsky’s screening. “Give the handset to Four,” he said with enough steel in his voice to discourage any verbal response, even one that might just be following radio etiquette.

  The sergeant’s voice was on in an instant.

  “It sounds like Highball is down, Four,” the lieutenant said.

  An awkward silence followed.

  “Do you copy, Four?”

  “Sir, there’s something you should know. Reach was on that chopper.”

  “Strader? That’s not possible,” the lieutenant said.

  After another strained pause, “Gantz made it possible.”

  The Marines close enough to see witnessed a transformation in the lieutenant’s face: the usual unflappable granite visage metamorphosed into a mask of barely restrained rage. His face darkened. His hand, holding the radio handset, shook. Taut cords of muscle rippled his jaw line. “I will wipe my ass with his fucking career,” he hissed through clenched teeth.