Arizona Moon

by J. M. Graham

  Strader searched the Chief’s blood-smeared face, trying to gauge his mood. “What would you like me to call you?”

  “I think I told you before, my last name is Gonshayee.” The name came out with guttural stops and sharp hisses of air.

  “Gong . . . sha . . . ee? It couldn’t be something like Jones or Smith? What do your friends call you?” Strader couldn’t remember the Chief being close to anyone in the platoon, but he had to assume that somewhere in the Chief’s past he had to have had some kind of human interactions that could be loosely construed as friendships that might generate a nickname.

  “My people call me Kle-ga-na-ai.” Again the name came out chopped into blunt syllables with the tongue.

  Strader looked at the Chief like he was begging for a little cooperation. “Come on, man. Give me something I can work with.”

  The Chief squeezed his eyes shut and cocked his head, listening to a faint sound in his head trying to get his attention, a whistling spirit piercing the black shroud that consumed his memory. He opened his eyes to mere slits and pointed a finger at Strader. “I did tell you my name before, didn’t I?”

  “Yeah, I think you did. Right after the lieutenant asked if you wanted to shoot me.”

  “I remember that,” the Chief said happily. He looked back at Strader. “You know I wasn’t going to shoot you, right?”

  Strader checked his web belt. The magazine pouches had four snapped inside, but one was empty. There was one full in the weapon. The stacked pouches for his fragmentation grenades held nothing. He pulled the backpack close and tossed the flap open. Inside were two C-rat meals—one turkey, one ham—a pair of socks, a Kodak Instamatic camera, half a box of 5.56 ammunition for the M16, three packs of grape Kool-Aid, and a bundled jungle shirt with lance corporal chevrons on the collar. The roll of the shirt protected a leather-handled KA-BAR without a sheath. He knew it was Tanner’s pack.

  “Did you hear me, Reach? I wasn’t going to shoot you.”

  Strader tore open one of the Kool-Aid packs and dumped some of it into the remains of their water. He shook the canteen. “Yeah, I guess I knew that.”

  The Chief nodded with an expression of relief.

  Strader sniffed the water then screwed the plastic cap back on. “But you know why Diehl singled you out for the job, don’t you?”

  “Why?”

  “Because of the doubt. No one could be certain. You’re fighting two wars here, man. Nobody knows which you hate more, whites or the VC. Your back is always up. To your way of thinking, you’re surrounded by enemies, and you don’t seem to mind which one you fight.”

  The Chief drew in a lungful of air, pushing his chest out. “I’m Chiricahua Apache. We are warriors. And we’ve been at war with whites for generations. Hell, we’ve been at war with everyone. Do you know what the word ‘apache’ means? It means ‘enemy.’ We were given that name by the Zuni, who learned our true nature the hard way . . . and we adopted it as our own. Before that we were the Ndee, but ‘enemy’ was a more accurate description of who we were. Imagine that. We were named by people who feared and hated us, and we liked the name. That should tell you something.”

  Strader was dumbfounded. He couldn’t remember the Chief stringing this many words together since he joined the platoon. “This ain’t the Old West, Chief, or, ah . . . Kleg-a-neg . . . ah, shit, man.”

  The distant mountain erupted with a pitched firefight that sounded like a coming storm. The two Marines traded knowing looks. After days of wandering about the mountain and valley, their people had finally stumbled onto something big, and the something was biting them. Strader turned to crawl up the rocks.

  “Reach,” the Chief said, grabbing at Strader’s arm.

  Strader stopped.

  “Kle-ga-na-ai,” the Chief whispered, as though the distant firefight demanded a sudden quiet here.

  “Yeah, Kleg-a . . . something, right. I know.”

  The Chief pulled Strader near, as though he needed to say something confidential, something even the trees shouldn’t hear. “Kle-ga-na-ai,” he said. “It means ‘moon.’ My people call me Moon.”

  Hoang Li knew that Nguyen would lead the main unit across the face of the mountain; if he could hold his little group to their present course, he would intercept Nguyen’s path somewhere in the heights. The problem was the Americans somewhere ahead.

  The three-man cell worked their way up through the trees, spread out but within sight of each other, carrying some of the load dispensed by the survivors of the team caught in the open. All three were alert, their weapons at the ready, expecting at any second to trip over the fleeing Americans. The track cut before them was easily followed, though this in itself was a reason for caution because it was never wise to allow yourself to be led in the South. But once past the downed tree, the close cover thinned and they had to watch the ground for fresh disturbances in the soil. Hoang Li knew that if the enemy was tired enough or injured enough, or just angry enough to stop running, he and his men would walk into their rifles. Hoang pushed a hand up under his magazine pouches and touched the sore spot in the middle of his chest. He didn’t think he could count on being lucky again.

  The battle that ran its course back along the mountain did not concern Hoang much. It was a distant, grumbling storm, so Nguyen’s detachment was surely not involved. He guessed that the Americans were butting heads with some of the R-20th Doc Lap, and the thought made him smile. It was good to have company. He looked back to the line of bearers downslope, the snags and natural foot snares sapping what little energy they had to drag their heavy loads back into the heights, and signaled a halt. Everyone stopped and squatted in place. The only sounds were the muted clatter of raindrops and chittering birds flitting through high branches searching for a dry perch. Hoang’s cell partners watched him with interest, their faces coated with a glossy sheen of rain and sweat and expressions of admiration. They seemed to have a newfound regard for him. The gods had smiled on Hoang, and when he faced certain death, had aligned conditions in just the right way to spare his life. He was charmed, and a recipient of divine dispensation bore watching. While they squatted, the ominous thuds of multiplying rotors filtered up from the valley. Every pulse confirmed that they would be wise to stay close to Hoang Li.

  A movement below caught Strader’s eye, and he watched as the three NVA felt a path along the dead tree and began to thread their way upward. The three moved apart, painting the hillside with the silent sweep of their weapons. Strader sank until his eyes were level with the stone, slid his M14 slowly to his side, and swallowed hard.

  Pressed into the moss-covered stone with his three magazines of ammunition, watching the enemy move closer, each burdened by a load of lethal weapons that proved they had no lack of resources, he could see the awful decision to be made, and there was no optimistic slant that could change his estimation of the result. It would be the last decision of his life, and he would be making it for both of them.

  Strader looked down at the Chief leaning against the stone. He wondered what the Indian might decide. The Chief looked up to meet his gaze, his face mottled with patches of red and purple, one eye now as dark as a blood marble. Without speaking, the Apache drew his long knife from its sheath and moved to the narrow opening in the stones. The fissure was small. Only one could pass through at a time. Those who did would find the blade waiting. Strader nodded. Their situation was dire and they both knew it. It didn’t need analysis. They were a consensus of two without saying a word, mutually screwed by circumstances.

  Turning back to the rock rim slowly so that his movement wouldn’t attract an enemy eye, Strader saw that all their pursuers had sunk to the ground. He watched them and wondered. Had they made a decision of their own? As he looked on, the center of the three stood, his AK with its long, curved magazine held tightly, the butt working its way to his shoulder. There was something familiar about this soldier. Strader concentrated on the man’s face, the shape of his hat, the bearing of his shoulders.
He could hit him easily now where he stood, but that seemed somehow redundant. He had looked at this man over his sights before. He had put that face down. The tracker from the valley should still be in the valley, but instead he was standing below the tumble of stone, alive, alert, and promising trouble.

  An odd relief swept through Strader like a sudden chill. The decision he dreaded making slipped away. A decision deferred was a decision lost. There was no choice now. This man could and would track them through the stones. This enemy who had come back from death to stand at the edge of their seclusion would read the mountain and invade their sanctuary. The assumption of choice had been an illusion.

  Strader eased his rifle upward, inching it forward by fractions through the clinging branches until its vented muzzle pointed in the direction of the standing Vietnamese. Pellets of rain smacked the bent tree’s leaves and thumped the moss coating the rock. The drops slapped the brim of his soft cover, sending splashes into a spray, and struck the back of his shirt, soaking through the already saturated material to his skin. He aimed at the standing man. Just because a decision had been forced didn’t make it any easier.

  The path the Americans had made passed right under Hoang Li’s squat, and he could see the line vanish into the trees, heading toward an ancient rock slide. If he were the one running injured, with finite energies, that was where he would go. If they were looking for a place to rest or hide, or even fight, they would find nowhere better. Far behind him, the shuttle of helicopters sent vibrations up the mountain. The two Americans above him would soon be joined by others of their kind. Time was short. Hoang peered up the mountain and considered the possibilities. At the sound of movement on his left, along the face of the Ong Thu above the Gordian knot of ground cover, he rose to his feet and slowly pulled the butt plate of his AK toward his shoulder. It was unlikely that the Americans had come this far this soon, but their mobility always made the unlikely possible.

  Before the AK barrel reached a level aim, the forward members of Nguyen’s bearers scrambled into sight, pushing forward under the weight of their burdens as fast as their legs could carry them. Hoang lowered his weapon. His two companions were drawn to their feet as though a magnet was pulling them from above. They waved their arms frantically. The sight of the main unit drew the others waiting below with a resurgence of energy. They kicked and clawed their way up the mountain, fulfilling a natural need to rejoin their main element like errant beads of spilled mercury are drawn to the mother pool, a human quicksilver.

  The recoilless rifle rocked by on unsteady shoulders, still bound with leafy branches that gave it the appearance of an uprooted tree. The carriers nodded at Hoang Li but saved their breath for their load.

  Nguyen came from behind the decorated gun and stepped out of the column. The heavy pack board laden with recoilless and mortar rounds made him stagger on the wet ground. Before he could speak, Hoang Li lowered his head and pointed behind him. “We lost one in the valley,” he said, not looking at his commander as though the news would not be well received or might be misinterpreted as a personal condemnation.

  Nguyen’s breathing was deep and sounded painful. “And the others?” he gasped.

  Hoang Li met Nguyen’s gaze. “All here,” he said with surprising satisfaction.

  Nguyen nodded. Another man lost, but acceptance was his only option. “Good,” he said.

  Hoang seemed puzzled. Was it congratulations for leading the survivors back to the fold, or was it just an appreciation for the succinctness of the report?

  Nguyen started to turn back to the drudges passing by him. Hoang Li grabbed his arm. “Two of the enemy got away from the helicopter. I’m sure one is wounded.” He could see from the look on Nguyen’s face that this was an unwelcome problem. “We followed them this far.”

  Nguyen scanned the upper mountain, feeling the weight of feral eyes. He felt suddenly exposed. “You think they are close?”

  Hoang let his attention wander to the closest of the mossy boulders and nodded. “They could be,” he said.

  The deep roar of jet engines suddenly filled the valley, startling the birds from their dry roosts. Worried faces in the passing column sought out Nguyen’s reassurance and guidance; the American jets could be lethal. Would they seek cover or run? Only Nguyen could decide. He waved them on with an impatient swing of his arm that wordlessly demanded a jump in pace. He would not fail to move again.

  The mechanical lion’s roar from the clouds was followed by an explosion that seemed to crack the heart of the mountain, broadcasting a stutter that found the column’s feet and drove them forward with a new passion.

  “Join your comrades, Hoang,” Nguyen said, leaning in close to be heard. “These fugitives are not our concern.”

  “They killed one of our comrades,” Hoang Li said incredulously.

  A new and larger explosion made the earth jump and the trees shake.

  “We are not here to avenge our fallen, Hoang, at least not today.” Nguyen pointed at the passing bearers. “Our revenge is in these weapons. We will spend what lives are necessary to get them to their destination, and then we will have our day.”

  22

  Strader watched the enemy multiply in front of his sights. Instead of coming on, though, as he expected, the tracker turned away and met the new group of soldiers trotting by like an overloaded mule train carrying a variety of large weapons that made the first group appear unarmed. He drew his rifle back. The armament this new group was carrying would overmatch a full platoon of Marines in the field. Shooting now would be like bailing the ocean with a teaspoon.

  F-4 Phantoms hit the distant mountain, and the rocks shivered below their moss coating as though they were alive. Strader could imagine the insults to the mountain’s structure reanimating the rockslide and sweeping him and the Chief down to be ground into pulp in the confusion, carried away and buried so thoroughly that only opportunistic insects would witness their end. But the Phantom strikes were also a godsend, manna from a gray and leaking heaven that would redirect the NVA’s efforts to self-preservation. The bombs hitting the face of the mountain were loud reminders that they were also hunted; and, for prey, unnecessary distractions could be fatal. A fresh explosion with more heft shook the trees, and the little sapling suffocated by attacking vines seemed to be fighting back.

  Strader felt the Chief sidle up next to him. “Can you see them?” the Chief whispered. Strader nodded, and the Chief could see the concern in his eyes. “How many are there?”

  Strader gave a short, involuntary laugh, forced out by the overwhelming hopelessness of their situation. “If Ho Chi Minh himself isn’t there, it’s because there isn’t any room for him.” He peeked back over the rock rim.

  The Chief pulled himself up, digging his fingers into the moss until he was upright and the mountainside opened up in front of him. The column of NVA were filing by below the slide, a procession of mute stevedores shouldering their loads through the trees with determined faces as though they were on a tight schedule and their destination was just out of sight. The Chief adjusted his sagging bandage. “Do you think they’ll come for us?”

  Strader scooted down to a position where he could rake the opening to their little den with fire and turn the narrow passage into a slaughterhouse. “I don’t know. I’m hoping they have more important problems.” He leveled the barrel of his rifle on the opening. “We’ll find out soon.”

  The Chief looked down on the passing parade of weaponry, the NVA equivalent of the legions of tanks and missile launchers that rumbled through Moscow’s Red Square on holidays in an arrogant demonstration of firepower. The drooping brims of the men’s hats shed water, and their bare arms had a slick sheen that matched that of their clinging black tunics and pants. The footing became less certain with each passing bearer, and they struggled to stay upright, pushing their bundles forward.

  The Chief blinked, trying to clear away the gossamer spots that obscured his vision. A chatter of metal on metal drew his att
ention back to the trees below, where a man trotted by with ammunition tins straining his arms. He was followed by one with a large tripod balanced across the hump of his pack. Then came two bent under the weight of a heavy machine gun of large caliber, working in tandem like a brace of yoked oxen, the black receiver and finned barrel spanning the distance between them. He watched them pass, the last of the column. Even with his barely functioning vision he could see that the final two seemed fresh-faced and younger than the others. He stared at the last man and then reached up to touch the empty space over his heart, clinching the center of his wet T-shirt within the curl of his fist.

  Dancing on the sweeping arc of a rawhide pendulum around the neck of the second man was a kachina-like figure in polished beads, its lapis and turquoise body waving its arms at the perfectly fitted circle of melon shell moon. His grandmother’s tribute to little Kle-ga-na-ai summoned his namesake across the face of the deerskin pouch rimmed with knotted dogbane.

  At his birth, Gonshayee’s grandmother had unraveled two of her finest heishi necklaces and stitched the miraculous little cylinders into a tribal pictograph of a young warrior in communion with his spiritual guide in a dark heaven. A drawstring squeezed the pouch’s neck tight over a little curl of meat the consistency of dried beef, the same little curl that once connected Gonshayee to his mother’s life source and was sliced away as he entered the world. Later, the little bit of umbilical was joined by talismans and charms of Gonshayee’s choosing: a bear cub carved from a shard of horn; a black bracelet of woven horsehair; a smooth, round stone with dark spots marking the surface like the face of the full moon; and others, like the shaman’s coin—all reminders of milestones in his tribal life that he cherished as lucky pieces. But the fragile birth cord was the guarantor of his self. As long as he counted it among his effects, his path would be true and just and honorable. His value as a man and a warrior was wrapped in the little coil, the guardian of his character and protector of his spirit. It was his first and most important possession and an essential part of him.