Arizona Moon

by J. M. Graham

  Pusic moved to where he could see over the tail of the downed chopper and watch the aerial ballet. Phantoms flying close air support were always an awesome spectacle. The fighters’ turbojet engines made the ground quake, and it took a special effort not to suck your head down into your shoulders when they split the air overhead at mach speeds. The other members of the squad looked up for a second, then went about the business of collecting gear from the helicopter. They had witnessed the Phantoms’ aerobatics before and didn’t need to watch them to appreciate their presence. A sense of ease ran through ground troops when two such formidable weapons were on station. They also knew that any VC in proximity were already burning up their sandals trying to get clear. The only question was whether they could run fast enough and far enough to avoid the Phantoms’ reach.

  Right now, the task at hand overrode all else. Belts of M60 ammunition from the crew compartment, crew weapons, and maps and personal gear from the cockpit were added to a growing pile in the grass. The ground Marines’ only nagging concern was that the F-4s might not know exactly where the U.S. troops were. Often, the distance between friendly and enemy was negligible, and not one of the weapons of death in the Phantoms’ arsenal could discriminate between them.

  The second Phantom closed on the spot where the air-to-surface missiles struck, then lifted and banked to port. A 500-pound general purpose bomb with a fuse extender fell away from the undercarriage. The long nose guided the bomb’s trajectory like the point of a knight’s lance, ensuring that detonation would be aboveground. The blast was enormous. Trees shook and shed their leaves, and a shock wave spread out from the blast’s center like ripples in an arboreal pond. All the Marines in the valley felt the impact of the distant explosion through the soles of their boots. The first Phantom streaked back in and another GP struck the mountain a little higher up than the first. Again the trees shuddered and leaves fell and the ground telegraphed a spasm of its pain to the valley floor.

  Until that moment Pusic hadn’t been able to think of a worse place to be than in the miserable, wet valley next to the still congregation of bodies and their dead machine, but the mountain sounded like Hell itself had split open, and for a second he was grateful to be where he was.

  The Phantoms spun in turn on their deadly G-force merry-go-round delivering high explosives to the face of the Ong Thu. They would continue until their arsenal was exhausted or the FAC in the Cessna called them off like a handler calling off a pair of attack dogs.

  One of Lieutenant Hewitt’s CP caught Sergeant Blackwell’s attention. “The lieutenant wants you,” he said, indicating the spot where the officer was trying to block the jets’ roar, covering one ear with a hand and pushing the radio handset up tight against the other, barking into the mouthpiece like a DI on a drill field to make himself heard above a cluster bomb ripping a hole in the high slope.

  Lt. Mark Hewitt stood a little shy of five feet eight inches with muscular shoulders and thick forearms. Like Lieutenant Diehl he had been a collegiate wrestler. Back in those days he worked the weight room until his opponents would groan when they found themselves matched with the “little guy.” He was fair skinned, and his arms below the faded green sleeves of his T-shirt bore patches of red with white edges of peeling skin where the Southeast Asian sun was trying to congeal his freckles into one solid mass. He made up for his lack of height with a no-nonsense attitude and a single-minded focus on his position as platoon commander. He was a decisive leader who never showed a second of hesitation or doubt and would not tolerate either in his men.

  After Hewitt was finished screaming into the handset he turned to Sergeant Blackwell. “My people say they found a spot just inside the tree line with a bunch of freshly spent 7.62 brass,” he said, pointing to the tree line where Blackwell could make out Marines stepping into the open.

  The sergeant nodded. “We’ve got two men missing from this crash. One is wounded, and the other carries a 14.”

  The lieutenant’s face revealed sympathy. “That could explain it; maybe they’re on the run.” He looked away and didn’t hint that it could be anything else. “My sergeant found lots of tracks leading toward high ground, but I’m not sending my people after them. We’re ordered to set up security here until this bird is stripped and lifted out, and I’m guessing that won’t be until sometime in the morning.”

  “I don’t think I can wait, and I know my two missing people can’t.”

  The Bird Dog flitted just above the valley floor, the pilot watching the Phantoms’ exercises through the transparent window in the wing above his head. He directed the Phantoms to move their strikes higher and five hundred yards north. He assumed the direction would be to high ground, but this was just speculation, and he knew he was shooting blind. The jungle canopy cloaked both the terrain and movement on the mountain, and he knew he could direct sorties all day with no guarantee that the expended ordnance would hit anything but trees.

  Sergeant Blackwell moved to the opening in the helicopter and shoved an arm into the shadows, drawing out a pack. “Second Squad, mount up,” he said. When he got close enough to where Middleton stood he tossed the pack into Pusic’s arms.

  “What’s this for?” Pusic said.

  “I noticed that you didn’t have your pack with you. I guess you were planning on a short trip.”

  Pusic dangled the pack by its strap like it was something distasteful. He wondered which of the men on the ground had owned it, then decided he didn’t want to know.

  “You said you wanted Strader and the Chief,” the sergeant said. “Well, let’s go get them.”

  The sergeant was right. Pusic was planning on a short trip, and it was already longer than he thought prudent for his health. “I’m here with the Sparrow Hawk platoon,” he protested. “I should stay with them.” He was on the ledge of that green building again, and now the ledge was crumbling under his feet. What little stability there was in his situation—and there was precious little—was dissolving, threatening to leave him hanging in thin air.

  “Bronsky,” the sergeant said, “get me Golf CP in An Hoa. Let’s find out what role the pogue played in this fuck-up. He sure as hell didn’t volunteer for this trip.”

  Pusic wanted to intervene. If there was something he could say that would stop the radioman from reaching An Hoa without admitting his part in Strader’s situation he would say it, but the words weren’t there.

  The corpsman from the Sparrow Hawk platoon was helping Doc Brede with his pack. They knew each other well enough to use first names. All the corpsmen were members of a small, exclusive fraternity in the battalion. There were only two for each platoon. When they found time in the chow hall they sometimes shared some unique, personal slant on field treatment that had been successful for them, but mostly they just exchanged knowing glances filled with futility. Being the first responders in combat put them in an untenable situation, and they knew it. They were there because the Navy physicians’ medical degrees were far too valuable to risk in ground combat. The corpsmen’s job was to keep the wounded alive long enough to reach the golden hands of the overworked surgeons, and to stay alive while doing it. They did this whenever possible, but sometimes, they knew, it wasn’t possible to do either.

  Bronsky passed the radio handset to the sergeant while the last of the Phantoms’ munitions struck the Ong Thu. The explosions echoed across the valley, leaving Blackwell bellowing into the handset while the jets swept a blistering arch and rose up through the cloud ceiling to disappear like winged specters, leaving only the roar of their engines as an ethereal proof of their existence.

  “Pusic, right?” the sergeant said, holding out the handset. “Sergeant Gantz wants to speak with you.”

  Pusic stepped up and took the handset, tentatively holding it to an ear. He didn’t want to hear anything Sergeant Gantz had to say, but he couldn’t refuse. Sergeant Blackwell moved away, not to give the clerk privacy but because he already knew the outcome of the conversation.

  Frankl
in came around the tail of the helicopter and stopped where the bodies compressed the wet grass. “Are we going after Reach and the Chief?” he said, tugging at the straps on his pack.

  Middleton cocked his head toward Sergeant Blackwell and shrugged. “Don’t ask me. I’m only the squad leader.”

  Franklin smiled, knowing how much Middleton hated to have his authority usurped.

  Sergeant Blackwell held out his M16 by the sight mount as though it was the handle on a piece of luggage. “Let’s pretend the Crotch is a democracy. Who votes for going after our people?” A short pause followed while he waited for the voices of the constituents. “How about it, Middleton. Do we go?”

  Middleton nodded.

  “What about you, Franklin. Put your two cents in.”

  “The Chief always makes me nervous, but if you’re goin’ after Reach, I’m cool with that.”

  The sergeant smiled and let the M16 swing down at his side. “Now don’t you feel good about having participated in the democratic process?”

  Franklin shifted his weight from foot to foot, as though he was either embarrassed or anxious to stop being a stationary target. “We was goin’ no matter what we said, right?”

  “That’s right, Franklin. In case you assholes didn’t notice, this green machine is not a democracy. If the Marines wanted you to have a vote, they would have issued you one.”

  Pusic gave the handset back to Bronsky and stood there waiting for a bolt of lightning to reach down from the gloom and strike him dead; the way things were going, it wasn’t an unlikely possibility.

  Sergeant Blackwell watched him standing there like an orphan with the borrowed pack dangling at his side and put on his best Cheshire Cat smile. “Gantz tells me you’re a good man and that he can’t remember a time when you didn’t complete an assignment. He says he’s sure you won’t come back without completing this one. I don’t know if that means that he has confidence in you or that if you don’t find Strader and the Chief, he doesn’t want you back at all. Either way, you belong to me.”

  Pusic stepped over, dragging the pack limply through the grass. “Gantz is just a sergeant,” he said pompously. “He can’t make decisions that impact the whole company, not without the captain’s okay.” He knew as soon as he said it that his self-important tone wouldn’t sit well here.

  “Really?” Sergeant Blackwell said, his grin showing real pleasure. Besides wanting to pop Pusic’s delusions of grandeur, being a staff sergeant himself, he didn’t like to hear someone in his rank structure being described as ineffectual. “Tell me the last time you heard of a captain taking a corporal’s side against a first sergeant.” He didn’t wait for an answer. “That’s right. Never happened, never will. So don’t give me a ration of shit.” He softened his smile and put his hand on Pusic’s shoulder as though he were Father Flanagan welcoming a wayward child to Boy’s Town. “As of now you are our own personal rear echelon mother fucker.” The smile disappeared. “So, get your REMF ass in gear, strap that pack on your back, and fall in behind the radio. What are you complaining about, anyway? You’ll finally get to see how the 0311s live, because as of now you are one.”

  Pusic didn’t move, couldn’t move. Gantz had thrown him to the wolves and now he was being abducted by the pack.

  “That’s an order, Corporal. You disobey it and I’ll show you how much power a sergeant can have in the field.”

  Pusic resignedly pushed an arm through one of he pack straps, then balanced his M16 between his knees and struggled with the other. Bronsky lifted the pack and helpfully guided the strap onto the clerk’s shoulder with a slap. “Don’t mess with the sergeant, man,” he said. “He’s in a piss poor mood. This morning he took my .45 and stuck it in the Chief’s face and threatened to blow his brains out. And he wasn’t kidding.”

  “So he’s not that fond of the Chief either?”

  “It ain’t that. He just thought the Chief killed Tanner and the new guy last night. Now he thinks maybe the VC did it.”

  Pusic gave the radioman a puzzled look. He’d always known that he left sanity behind when he landed in Vietnam, but he’d always been able to keep the madhouse at arm’s length. Now, here he was, getting his own personal glimpse at the inner workings of Bedlam. “Killed two guys?” he said, shrugging the pack into a more comfortable position.

  “Well, Diehl and Blackwell say no, but I’m not so sure.”

  Sergeant Blackwell looked back along the fuselage to see if his people were ready. “Franklin. Your fire team is on point. Follow that wide path through the grass to the tree line, and don’t bunch up.” This last was said with enough volume so everyone could hear.

  Second Squad of Golf Company’s 1st Platoon began moving away from the downed chopper in prescribed intervals until their elongated line stretched halfway to the jungle.

  Doc Brede handed the casualty tags to the Sparrow Hawk corpsman with an apologetic look. “These are for the chopper crew. Make sure they get on the right . . .” He couldn’t think of a description that wasn’t so final and cold. “You know . . . where they belong. I gotta go.”

  “Yeah, don’t worry. Catch you later.”

  It was funny how simple terms that slipped easily from the tongue took on an ominous overtone in Vietnam. Back in the world you might say “see you later” or “I’ll be right back” with a negligent assurance that didn’t elicit another thought. The element of doubt was absent. But in-country, nothing in the future held even a hint of a guarantee. “See you later” was just a wish. The target of the remark wasn’t even important. Only the idea of being around to make good on it was.

  The impermanence of life in the field was also fertile ground for superstitions to take root. Everyone seemed to have something in his possession that lent an artificial comfort to his travails—a symbol of religious faith, a memento from home, some talisman that accompanied a stroke of luck that could rub off on the present, anything that might exert a supernatural influence. For Doc Brede it was a book. Not a specific book, but whatever book he was reading. There was a point, beyond the first pages, where your mind was absorbed by the story. You slipped into another reality and lived there until the end. It would be unthinkable to leave that reality unfinished. Even the vagaries of fate must see that. So Doc Brede would never finish a book before going into the field. The story would have to be finished later. And the only way for it to be finished was for him to come back and finish it. Dying was something you did when there was nothing left to do. And he always had to finish a book. Even now, stuffed into his seabag in the company storage tent in An Hoa, the remaining chapters of H. G. Well’s The Time Machine sat waiting for his return. He also planned ahead. In his field pack, crammed in next to his jungle shirt and extra tee, he carried a paperback Steinbeck novel with the bookmark creeping its way into the volume. If it wasn’t finished before the next trip, it would be left behind to wait, a mystical assurance that he would return. That he must return.

  21

  Every step Strader and the Chief took disturbed something winged or clawed that escaped their presence with a rustle of feathers or a scratch on stone. What little noise the Marines made went ahead of them like a warning, and any creature with speed in its makeup scampered aside.

  The huge stones they were moving through had cool, damp surfaces carpeted with green moss that was soft to the touch. The two Marines struggled up through the angular slabs until the Chief tugged at Strader’s arm. He was too winded to speak, but looked up with a haggard face and pointed to a niche in the stone with enough clearance for them to pass through. Beyond the opening, a pocket of natural space provided protection on all sides. The Chief slid down into the scuppers, his head in his hands.

  Strader climbed up to where the weight of vines dragged a sapling over to touch the stone rim and peeked through the tangle of branches. A panoramic view of the mountain below lay before him, giving a clear field of fire all the way to the fallen tree at the foot of the slope. He was satisfied. He slid down to the Ch
ief’s side. “They’ll play hell getting us out of here.”

  The Chief looked around at the stone enclosure that had waited for decades, possibly centuries, for two needy Marines to come along and find it useful. “We’ll play hell getting ourselves out of here.”

  Strader squatted down, standing the M14 between his knees, and rested his forehead against the barrel. “What the hell am I doing here?”

  “You signed on the dotted line, Reach. The shores of Tripoli and all that.”

  “I mean, I was home free. I was packing my bags and making peace with the guys in the rear with the gear.” He held up two fingers in a miniscule measurement. “I was this close to a mixed drink with ice served by a stewardess on an air-conditioned jetliner, looking forward to Vietnam being nothing more than a last-page story in a newspaper.” He shook his head in disbelief.

  “Oh, you mean what are you doing here?” the Chief said, watching Strader trying to come to terms with his predicament. “And maybe you think I’m to blame for that.”

  Strader took a long, hard look at the Chief as though seeing him clearly for the first time. “Aren’t you, Chief?”

  The Chief looked away, embarrassed at his inability to give a straight answer. “I don’t know. I don’t remember. I don’t . . . think so. But I do know one thing.” He fixed Strader with a hard stare. “We’ll get along a lot better if you stop calling me Chief. I don’t call you Governor or Mayor.”