Arizona Moon

by J. M. Graham

  From their position on the valley floor, the squad used hard-earned experience to work out a scenario for the noise up on the mountain. The first burst was definitely from Chinese weaponry, so it was clear that Lieutenant Diehl and the rest of the platoon had stepped in it. The reports were deep with a hollow ring, so the enemy was firing away from the valley. The second burst, after the pause, was the return fire from the platoon, exclusively M16 initially, but joined shortly by a sustained blast from an M60 and punctuated by the muted thump of the M79 and its sudden explosions. The sounds of Chinese weapons mixed with those of U.S. origin blended into a discordant mishmash that grew more raucous by the second.

  Though the besieged platoon was short one squad, it still had two squads remaining, along with both M60s, and could bring substantial firepower to bear on the enemy. The squad in the valley stood listening to their platoon high on the Ong Thu fighting to gain fire superiority.

  Middleton waited by Sergeant Blackwell’s side, a question on his face. “What do we do?” he asked.

  The sergeant gave the handset back to Bronsky. He knew the lieutenant would have his hands full now. From the sound of things, the VC on the mountain weren’t breaking off. They were meeting the Marines shot for shot. He looked across the valley to the green slope of the northern Ong Thu and the broken helicopter on the ground. He wondered what they had all fallen into. “We follow our orders and get to the chopper,” he said, looking into the trees and longing to know the situation hidden within them. “Tell Franklin to move out, on the double.”

  Nguyen led his unit into the upper reaches of the foothills, away from the valley with the downed helicopter, driving the men hard to get into the big trees where it was easier to move. The chatter of AK-47s announced his runners’ arrival at the helicopter, but he didn’t pause. When Nguyen felt that the elevation was sufficient and going higher would only slow their progress, he directed the column northward, out of the morass of ground cover into a sea of broad leaves with pliable stalks and pulvinus joints that allowed the leaves to track the daylight and the men to brush them aside with ease.

  As he changed the direction of march, an exchange of gunfire came from the valley; a shot, then a burst followed by a sustained blast from the RPK. He knew that the first group, caught in the open, had joined up with the runners and were dealing with the situation at the helicopter. He also knew from the sounds that there were American survivors.

  In a while he would be passing across the mountain face above the crash site. With luck he would collect Hoang and his people there and disappear into the Ong Thu. With luck. He felt he was beginning to rely too much on the fickle mystery of luck. So he added hope. He hoped his luck wouldn’t run out.

  Pham and Truong kept the heavy machine gun moving, keeping pace with the more seasoned soldiers. The exchange in the valley prodded them to keep their legs pumping, and they dug in their sandal edges under the balance of the gun. But it wasn’t just the gunfire giving them the boost of power. In the weeks since they had dropped from the tailgate of the truck, they had undergone a physical transformation that neither would have previously imagined possible. Hard labor and scanty rations had chiseled their soft flesh. In the beginning, a few hours under their pack boards took them to the limits of their endurance. Their bodies ached. Their hands chafed. Dehydration made their heads throb. When they looked at the others in the unit, who carried heavier loads but seemed unaffected, they felt weak and inferior. But now, with many kilometers behind them, molded by the strain of their efforts, they had become more like the hardened men around them.

  They pushed forward in between Sau in front and Co bringing up the rear of the column. The older men ignored the firing around the helicopter; they had a direction in which to move their equipment and they weren’t interested in distractions. Pham looked to the veterans as barometers of imminent danger, and the men with experience showed no concern. He wondered if there would ever come a time when his nerves would be attuned to the shocks of war. Could he attain such control? He looked at Sau’s back bent toward the incline of the mountain, his calf muscles knotted under the weight on his back. Maybe Sau felt the same jolt of fear. Maybe he had just learned to conceal it, to hide his reaction. Pham couldn’t imagine the effort it would take to do that.

  When the firing broke out far behind them on the face of the Ong Thu and the exchanges fed on one another exponentially until the noise congealed into full battle, Sau looked back over his shoulder and smiled. Pham was surprised to see the emotion on that leathery face. When Sau noticed he was being observed his smile grew. “We are not alone, my friend,” he said, leaning back into his work. Pham gripped the barrel of the machine gun balanced on his shoulder and pushed harder to keep up. It may have been only a simple pleasantry, but being addressed as “friend” was like a dose of sweet oil on his aching muscles.

  The 20th Doc Lap Reinforced VC Battalion struggled to maintain a roster of four hundred troops but seldom kept up with their losses. As a result, the battalion had to frequently impress local villagers into their ranks, much to the dismay of the villagers, regardless of their political persuasion. Being primarily farmers, the villagers were more concerned with the seasons and weather than the ebb and flow of political ideologies. They survived by the grace of their rice crops. If they had any allegiance at all, it was to fellow villagers who toiled in the paddies at their sides. Visits by troops were always problematic, no matter what uniform they wore.

  The Americans they looked at with a suspicion that barely hid a tentative curiosity, especially from the young, but at least the oversized foreigners seldom used the villages as a free-market supply depot. They were usually passing through on their way to somewhere else, their columns stretching far beyond the borders of the little hamlets. It was understood that these men could erupt into a storm of destruction if the situation moved them, but as a rule, they were looked on as a sort of traveling circus on the march. The children saw them as irresistible entrepreneurial opportunities, and when their pidgin bargaining became a nuisance, the Americans told them to didi and called them little gooks. That seemed odd to the villagers. A gook, to them, was a foreigner in their country, and they certainly weren’t gooks. In their minds, the Americans were the gooks. The children would protest, “Me no gook, you gook,” but the Americans would laugh and shake their heads. There didn’t seem to be any place in Vietnam for understanding. It was that kind of war.

  The troops of the Army of the Republic of Vietnam looked on the villagers as lowly peasants and treated them with disdain. Their visits were always a lesson in coercion and intimidation, and anyone who did not answer their questions with complete candor could expect a fist or rifle butt or bullet, especially if the ARVNs were traveling with the Americans and wanted to demonstrate the depth of their commitment without doing anything actually dangerous. When they had an American audience, they seldom missed an opportunity to act like warriors—as long as their targets were unarmed and could deliver nothing more lethal than scornful looks. When the ARVNs left a village, they took anything they wanted with them.

  The NVA sent cadres to educate the villagers, spouting their doctrine and laying down the rule of law: follow or die. Villages were required to lend support to the patriots from the North in any way that was deemed necessary, and that included sharing their crops with the freedom fighters who risked their lives to rid Vietnam of the foreign scourge and their lackey nguy puppets in Saigon. The NVA expected their quota of rice at harvest, no exceptions, and instructed the villagers to be grateful for the opportunity to give it. The cadres led the little populations in songs designed to arouse their patriotic fervor, such as “Liberate the South” and the alliance anthem, “The Voice of Mountains and Rivers,” and took note of any voices that didn’t demonstrate the proper enthusiasm. Village leaders who complained or rejected the cadre’s demands were visited in the night, and the morning sun would illuminate their mutilated bodies stretched out in the center of the village square for a
ll to see.

  The R-20th Doc Lap visited the villages when they had need, and their need was always for food or men. They would slip in at night without warning, before the young and strong could disappear into the bush, and pick and choose to fill their rosters and their bellies. The villagers were adept at hiding what they didn’t want to give, but the 20th’s quartermasters were equally adept at finding what they wanted. Each of their visits left the villagers a little poorer and their families a little thinner.

  The Americans always found it odd that there were only children and old men and women in the villages they passed through when humping the boonies. How could all these children exist when all the adults looked to be octogenarians? They assumed the actual parents were VC, off in the jungles awaiting their chance to strike, but more likely they disappeared at the approach of any troops under any flag, leaving behind only those whose age provided a modicum of protection.

  This war, like the ones past and the ones to come, was just one more thing for the people to endure, like the typhoons that pounded their villages and spilled the river beyond its banks, drowning their hopes in nature’s madness. But the wind and rain would stop and the river would recede, leaving the earth more fertile than before, and the farmers would go on tending their crops. The wars left the earth barren and the villagers impoverished. To survive was to prevail. The trick was to survive.

  As Sau’s group scrambled along the path after burying Binh, elements from the R-20th Doc Lap moved in behind them, choosing positions that provided a little cover and gave a tactical advantage over the course cut by the fleeing NVA unit.

  An entire squad of the R-20th, three cells strong, squatted silently where the trampled foliage from the fleeing NVA’s passage dipped down toward the valley floor. The downward curve let the track fall away from the horizontal trajectory, giving at least three of the VC a straight sight line back into the jungle where hurried feet had crushed the plant stalks into the mountain. They pulled back into the overlapping leaves until there was no trace of their existence. They would be the first to see if hurried boots followed. They would be the first to see the helmeted faces. They would be the first to fire. Three more squads waited in invisible spots just meters above them, nervously fingering the triggers of their AK-47s and SKSs, checking their ammunition with the regularity of an obsessive-compulsive, making sure, again and again, that nothing forgotten would weaken their effort and bring them shame. The still, wet air clung to their uniforms and fed nervous perspiration to sting their eyes and make dry lips taste salty. They would wait. They would wait with restrained patience until the day wore away to nothing or someone came along to fulfill their expectations.

  19

  The point fire team swept through the clouds of gnats swarming above the broken plant stalks, drawn to the sweet, dripping juices. Their microscopic wings stuck to wet faces and arms and were ground to flyspeck under flak jacket collars. They stuck to eyelashes and were sucked in and spit out of mouths in gritty gobs propelled by invective.

  Patches of stratocumulus clouds swept over the Ong Thu, fracturing the sunlight beating on the canopy into a mottled kaleidoscope of green patches. To those on the ground the flickering points of sunlight looked like stars against the darker canopy.

  Burke set Laney’s fire team on point with Karns at the head and Deacon, clothed in his new trousers, bringing up the tail. The virgin waistband on Deacon’s pants had crisp ridges that were finding vulnerable spots on his hips. His skivvies were buried back at the night position along with all the cardboard, used toilet paper, and discarded ham and motherfuckers.

  Karns was developing a limp from the constant rubbing of soggy socks between jungle boots and skin the texture of gelatin. Walking the constant slope of the mountain twisted the boots and ground tender feet raw. The docs would give Karns hell for not changing his socks enough, but if they went through all the feet in the platoon, including their own, they wouldn’t see enough difference to attract either praise or condemnation. The only two types of socks the platoon had had available for nearly a week were wet and sopping wet. Karns squeezed the butt of his M16 under one arm, the sweep of the barrel controlled by a sweaty hand on the pistol grip. The other hand dangled a machete slick with plant sap. With each step it felt like the skin under his toes was peeling away, leaving only bloody bone to scratch for a hold inside his boots.

  A cloudbank with a black underbelly rolled over the mountain range, absorbing the sun and throwing the Ong Thu’s canopy into shadow. It was an ominous prediction that today’s rain would be early.

  “Shit,” Karns said, taking a swipe with the machete at an arching stalk with a broad leaf, sending it flopping. His feet hurt, and the elephant grass cuts on his forearms stung with sweat and attracted the interest of insects with big appetites. He could hear Laney swatting the same little feeders finding meals on his own arms. Looking back, he made sure Laney saw the displeasure on his face.

  Laney noticed. “What?” he asked, but he brushed his hand silently over his itching arm instead of slapping, though it didn’t give the same satisfaction. “Keep your damn eyes on point.”

  The squads of the R-20th Doc Lap held their silent positions, some sitting cross-legged, some squatting on their heels, all cradling their weapons in their arms. The front man of the cell aligned with the trail caught the first faint sign of movement, helmets in line bobbing in random cadence, emerging from the deeper darkness created by background and distance. The man’s whole being involuntarily shrank, as though the slightest opening in the leaves would leave him exposed and vulnerable. His movement alerted the rest of the cell, who raised their weapons slowly, by millimeters. Tense fingers took up the trigger slack on Chinese AKs, meshing their internal parts, roughly formed and with crude tool marks, but slipping into concert as efficiently as their Russian progenitors. Sear to hammer to spring, the pieces found their places and drew to a stop, set to trip. Sweat stung wide eyes denied a blink because the flutter of an eyelid might betray their position.

  The knowledge of the approaching enemy swept through the VC squads that hooked above the trail. They couldn’t see the path, but they were never meant to. The cells below would spring the trap with a withering burst, then suddenly stop. Those above would wait through the inevitable lull for the return fire and let those sounds guide their aim. There would be little but leaves and soft green stems between them and their targets, and with luck their rounds would find warm homes. They raised their barrels and pointed them into the green, imagining those places where noises would beckon.

  Below, the front man of the critical cell carried the burden of responsibility. He would decide when. He would choose the spot, the closest he would let the enemy come. The snare could not be tripped too soon and spoil the impact of the fire from the high ground. But these Marines could not be allowed too close because they had firepower you did not want to meet at close quarters. A poor decision now might sacrifice the waiting cell as well as the comrades hidden above.

  His sights lay on the lead American swatting at wet leaves with a machete. He watched the man come, searching for that spot, that perfect spot that would satisfy everyone, the spot beyond which his nerves would take control of his finger. He settled on a broad leaf drooping to the churned dirt, its thick veins, close enough to count, fanning out to the ragged edges. A drip fell from the leaf as the AK butt pressed into his shoulder. He could let the Marine come that close, but no closer. The front post sight on his weapon wavered over the approaching figure. Not one step closer.

  20

  Karns dug the edges of his jungle boots into the slippery surface of the hillside, bending his ankles uncomfortably to hold his grip. He walked like a tightrope artist trying to keep a precarious balance as he poked at the foliage with the tip of the machete. The path ahead was clear except for a broad, thick leaf bending down from above and casting a jagged shadow on the ground. Beyond the leaf Karns could see the path angling down toward the valley, and he adjusted his grip
on the smooth handle riveted to the wide machete blade, readying for a backhand swing that would part the leaf stalk on the bias. He swung. The well-honed blade caught the stalk on the upswing, and the leaf head shuddered then floated in a looping turn to settle on the path like an expended parachute. The force of Karn’s swing threw his arm wide; before he could pull it back, the world exploded.

  The arboreal hum was shattered by ear-piercing cracks that fed on their own echoes, stripping the mist out of the air and filling all the space in the jungle with noise, so much noise that there wasn’t room for anything else. The noise of AK-47s spitting out the contents of their magazines occupied the entire sound spectrum. But even as the first firing pin struck the first round in the first AK, Marines were already diving for the security of Mother Earth.

  Life for the Marines in the Arizona was always tense and spring loaded. You stayed wired tight so your reaction time would be instantaneous and you could leave the Arizona with the life that carried you in. The platoon went to ground like dominoes, but the first down, and with the least effort, was Karns. The opening round struck his chest just inside the loose zipper of his flak jacket. The second shot went in under his left collarbone and shattered the shoulder blade behind, flinging him around and dropping him in a heap. His helmet bounced back and got in Laney’s way as he was trying to become one with the earth. Laney frantically scooped it aside and pushed his chest into the trail. The only thing between his bare chest and the dirt was his dog tags, and he cursed the Marine Corps for making them so thick.