Arizona Moon

by J. M. Graham

  The line of NVA moved out of sight. The Chief craned his neck beyond the rock rim in hope of catching another glimpse, but they were gone.

  Strader sidestepped through the narrow opening, keeping the muzzle of his rifle low so it wouldn’t stick out and give advance warning that he was there. He leaned far enough forward so one eye could make out the natural path down through the stones. It was empty. He pulled back into the safety of the enclosure.

  The Chief had slipped down to the foot of the inclined stone and was sitting there, bleary-eyed, his head wavering like the capital of a flagpole in a strong wind. “Gone?” he said as Strader backed in.

  Strader crouched down, resting the rifle across his thighs, the barrel pointed toward the opening. “Maybe,” he said. “I guess with all the other attention, we’ve become a low priority.”

  The Chief leaned back, resting his head against the soft moss. “An army of NVA against the two of us; they better run,” he said.

  Strader smiled at the bravado. “We’ll wait awhile in case they have a rear guard, then head back to the valley.”

  The Chief raised his head, then let it sink back to the stone. “My head is spinning so much it feels like the whole damn mountain is moving. I don’t think I can walk. You’ll probably have to carry me down.”

  Strader looked at the Chief as though he’d just heard the final proof that the Indian had brain damage. “Like hell I will. You crawled up here, you can crawl back.”

  “No can do, white man. I go piggyback or not at all.”

  “I’m not gonna lug your ass down this mountain like a donkey carrying you on some canyon tour. We’ll go down the way we came up.”

  The Chief shook his head, then regretted the movement. “I’m too sick to put one foot in front of the other. This is a good spot. Leave me here. You’ll move faster without me anyway. You can be back here with the platoon in no time. It won’t be the first time they carried me off this anthill today.”

  “I can’t leave you here.”

  “Sure you can. Just head back the way we came until you run into a bunch of guys dressed like we are.”

  “Don’t give me a ration of shit, Chi—I mean Moon. I’m responsible. I can’t leave you here.”

  “Responsible for what? Me? You mean I’m your prisoner, don’t you?”

  “I mean that Gantz will bust my ass back to boot if I don’t come back with you.”

  The regularly spaced explosions ended and the roar of jet engines faded to a distant rumble. The Phantoms were already blistering the air beyond the bridge at Phu Loc on their way back to Da Nang, leaving behind bald and smoking patches of mountain as the only evidence of their presence.

  “I didn’t say to leave me here permanently. I expect you to come back. I’m counting on you coming back. Hell, you’re not really leaving me. I’m sending you . . . for help.”

  Strader searched the Chief’s face with a skeptical eye. It was one thing if the Chief was truly unable to walk, but if he was making some noble sacrifice so a fellow Marine’s short-timer calendar would end well, it wasn’t going to fly. The swelling from the head wound had spread across the Chief’s face, giving his blood-red eye a pudgy wink. “You’re sending me? Who the fuck do I look like to you, Lassie?”

  The Chief squinted. “For all I know, you do. I can’t really see you that well.”

  Strader reached out to lift the Chief by the arm but had his grip torn free.

  “You’re not listening to me, Corporal. I’m not asking you for permission to stay. I’m telling you that I’m staying.” The Chief pulled the long knife from its sheath and let the blade rest against his wet pant leg. “Like you said, I really don’t care who I fight. I don’t know how much energy I have left, but if I have to use every last bit of it fighting you, I will.”

  Strader stepped back a pace, feigned disappointment on his face. “So, I guess this means we’re enemies again . . . Moon.”

  The Chief let the knife slide from his leg to rest under his hand on the mossy stone. A long, exasperated breath gushed out. “No, it doesn’t. It means that one friend shouldn’t have to threaten another to get some help.”

  “This is the Corps . . . Moon. No one gets left behind.”

  “You’re not abandoning me. It’s going to take more than one man’s sweat to get me off this mountain alive. I’m just asking you to go and get me some sweaty Marines. Is that too much to ask?”

  Strader watched the Chief’s head waver as though its weight was becoming too much for his neck to support. If he lost consciousness on the way down the mountain, it would be nearly impossible to carry him. Maybe he could be dragged, but even that would be a chore with someone the Chief’s size, and his head wound would likely sustain further damage. It could be the Chief had a valid point.

  The Chief’s clear eye detected the hint of doubt lurking behind Strader’s stubborn expression. “I’ll be safe here,” he insisted. “Just make sure nothing happens to you. You’re the only one who knows where I am.”

  The legions of insects stunned to silence by the explosions returned to their rhythmic chant, an almost subterranean hum like electric circuits pulsing just below the surface of the jungle. Strader crawled past the Chief and peeked over the rock rim. The enemy was nowhere to be seen. “I think Charley skyed up. They probably expect mean green company. If we just sit tight and wait, the platoon will be along eventually.”

  The Chief looked at Strader like someone tired of explaining the complexities of long division to a moron. “I don’t have time to wait. I’ve got a clock ticking in my head, and it’s running down.” He reached out and grabbed a handful of Strader’s shirt. “I need to be somewhere else, and soon, or I won’t be anywhere.”

  Strader wrapped a hand around the Chief’s thick wrist and pulled the clutching fingers free. “Okay,” he said. He pulled the canteen from its pouch and took a long pull on the Kool-Aid-fortified liquid. He wiped his mouth and handed the canteen to the Chief. The Chief’s hand missed the canteen on its first try. Strader took note.

  The Chief took a drink, letting the two oddly discordant tastes of halizone and sweet grape fight for dominance as they slipped into his roiling stomach. “I’ll keep the canteen here with me,” he said, struggling to thread the cap onto the neck.

  “You move one inch from this spot and I’ll personally put you in a world of hurt.”

  The Chief set the canteen on the ground between his feet. “I’m there already, shithead.”

  A weak smile spread across Strader’s face. “I have a name, too, and it isn’t shithead.”

  A similar smile, though lopsided, crossed the Chief’s swollen features. “Yeah, I know. It’s Raymond. How many mail calls have we been through together? Maybe you should ask yourself how I could know your name but you didn’t know mine.”

  “Probably because everyone who called the mail stumbled over your name like it was a trip wire. I think it came out different every time.” Strader stuck out his hand and let it hang there. The Chief looked at it as though it had a bad odor. “Come on, make it official,” Strader said. The Chief pushed his right hand into the one waiting and gave it a limp squeeze.

  Strader squeezed back. “Moon, I’m Ray.”

  The Chief looked up at Strader with the biggest scowl he could force his facial muscles to produce. “Ray, I’m Moon. Now go get me some damned help.”

  Strader let the Chief’s hand drop. “I’ll do what I can, but you listen up. If you hear shooting after I go, assume that you have to find your own way home.”

  “I’m filled with confidence.”

  “I shit you not, Marine. I would have bet that I’d be catching three squares in the chow hall and packing my bags today. Instead, I’m here. So nothing is a sure thing.”

  “I’m betting on you.”

  A nagging tug in the back of Strader’s mind didn’t stop him from sliding through the narrow opening and following the natural path down through the stones.

  At the bottom of the slid
e, the path made by the NVA turned the soil into a black furrow that might have been cut by a plow. Strader crouched by the last boulder, letting the creature voices establish a pattern in his ear. The jungle seemed empty. The enemy column had kept moving, he was sure of that, but maybe a rear guard was near. Too often they were there when there was nothing to be seen. He scanned the trees high and low. He stretched beyond the rock and pointed his rifle down the path after the enemy column. Nothing. He could wait a bit, hoping for anyone near to make a mistake and expose himself, but there was no time for that.

  Strader ran, bent at the waist, letting caution hold little sway over the speed of his steps. He passed through the trees like an open-field runner without blockers. He soared above the ground cover like a hurdler, landing heavily with the magazine pouches slapping his hips, expecting gunshots at any moment. He tightened his jaw muscles against the imminent impact of AK rounds striking his body. Nothing. His legs churned, and the slope and gravity increased the length of his stride until he was at the edge of control.

  The trees seemed to converge on his path, and he twisted and contorted his body to keep his shoulders from making a disastrous contact. Then the fallen tree was there, crushing the ground plants, and Strader slowed so he could high-step the branches pushing out from the trunk like outriggers. His breath came in hoarse gasps. At the upended roots he stopped and looked back. The community of tall trees conspired to block any distant view, and the rockslide was a blur of green and earth tones, hidden but for slivers of clear air between the standing trunks. From where he stood the hidden tumble of stone seemed a lost place, a place were an abandoned man could be hidden forever.

  Guilt lay on his chest like a tangible weight. The Corps never left men behind. They would marshal hundreds to retrieve a single body, and they would face any resistance to make that retrieval. Marines would willingly risk their lives to recover a fellow Marine already dead. It was a promise, a pact that bound one Marine to another. Whether you had breath or not, you would be reunited with the whole, and each man found comfort in that credo.

  Strader wondered what the platoon would say when they found that he had left the Chief alone on the mountain. He could already see the disappointment on the lieutenant’s face. Just this morning he had been home free, and now he was facing humiliation and shame that would live in the minds of men he respected and thought of as brothers. He looked down beyond the fallen tree to the path cut through woven twigs and whiplike tendrils, then back to the indistinct smear of mountain above the trees. He couldn’t go on. If the Chief needed to be carried, he would carry him. If he was going to be branded a failure with the Corps, it would be for attempting the impossible, not for denying a fundamental tenet of the Marines. If the impossible needed to be done, he would do it or die trying with a clear conscience.

  23

  Middleton’s squad filed out of the valley and, after a momentary pause to examine the spent cartridges at the tree line and trade congenial insults with the Sparrow Hawk platoon, threaded their way into the foothills, the point fire team in hushed discussion over which of the many tracks would be the best to follow. The enemy had obviously entered the trees on line, then slowly congealed into a single column with their own scouts picking the line of advance heading for high ground. Middleton stayed on the heels of his lead team, pushing Franklin to keep a steady pace.

  Pusic scrambled along behind Bronsky’s bobbing radio, his pristine boots slipping on the wet path blended to muck by those who had passed before. He kept looking back at the line of Marines stringing out to the rear and the light from the open valley fading away behind them. He shuddered. Each step drew him further from the light.

  Franklin slipped back to third position where his voice could carry to Middleton with whispers. “Does the LT know we’re doin’ this?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “It should. You’re in charge. If Diehl gets pissed about being left out of this decision, he’s gonna chew some squad leader ass, and that ass is ridin’ about three feet above your boots.”

  Middleton looked back over his shoulder. The squad was struggling with the slick ground, never getting a full stride without slipping, cursing under their breath at each stumble and slide—and looking vulnerable. It was best to move in the Arizona in large numbers, and a squad was not a large enough number. “You see that trigger-happy brother with the stripes in front of the radio? He’s the one in charge here. If this thing turns into a cluster fuck, he’ll be the one with the chewed ass.”

  Franklin looked back with a big grin. “I hope you’re right,” he said.

  “Are you really worried that I might be wrong?”

  “No. I’m worried that we won’t survive this cluster fuck.”

  After a short pause to examine a new scattering of 7.62 brass where the path cut through a stand of thick trees, the squad dug in their heels and pushed upward. It seemed evident that their people were on the run, fighting a rearguard action.

  Pusic examined the squad with a critical eye as they moved onto steeper terrain: their stained and frayed pants rolled at the drawstring cuffs above mud-caked boots; their flak jackets sun-faded nearly to beige sucking up the rain, turning their shoulders dark; their tattered helmet covers littered with marker graffiti. He wondered how good these Marines were at their jobs. None seemed to be worried about moving deeper and deeper into a forest that was closing in on all sides with a claustrophobic intensity. He tried to estimate their ages, but their bedraggled clothing and dirty faces made it difficult. He himself would be twenty-one in January with nearly nine months in-country and guessed that with the exception of Sergeant Blackwell, he was the oldest in the line—the oldest and the least experienced. Most of the others would be denied a beer on a barstool back in the world, but here their faces were ageless. They were the age of all Marines at war, and their casual attitude indicated that they were conditioned to live in the moment. He hoped that would change if something happened, but until then he would assume that their nonchalance was a necessary economy of emotion, because eternal vigilance had a price.

  The trees grew taller as they went deeper into the jungle, raising the ceiling to a green canopy that seemed to be spitting down on them. Pusic felt even more out of his element in this insular world. An Hoa was all brown or tan or tinged red from the dust thrown up by the wheels of the passing parade of giant green machines. No plant life survived to grace the compound with color. But in this place, the trees and other plants convened in a primeval tangle, coloring everything with the dripping green of their dominance.

  Pusic had seen the country outside the wire from the back of the occasional six-by shuttling between An Hoa and Phu Loc. There were huts and paddies and footpaths, the ground always showing the hand of people. But the muddy boot prints ahead of him were the only sign that humans had ever been here. In this place, man was not a consideration; he was an intruder. As twists and turns took the column further up the mountain, Pusic noticed some squad members peering back. At first he thought they were just being cautious, but the furtive glances seemed aimed at him.

  The path entered a tangled thicket with a hole cut in it. Franklin’s fire team came to a stop, and the entire column hung stationary on the mountainside. Some squatted. Others just stood, thankful for the rest from climbing. Franklin didn’t like the idea of being caught in that sheath of vines under fire, and he balked at entering. He looked back until he caught Middleton’s eye. “Go around or through?” he asked with no more volume in his voice than was needed. Middleton scanned the expanse of impenetrable brush that spread out like a wall before them. If he’d read the sergeant’s mood correctly, going around was not an option. He pointed a finger at the hacked branches and stabbed the air for emphasis. Franklin shrugged and ducked into the opening.

  Burke’s inherited squad led the platoon out of the tree line just south of the lake, skirting the marshy ground beyond the reed and bamboo stands. Behind them came the others, struggling with the wounded and tw
o dead loads wrapped in poncho liners. Bishop hobbled along between two Marines, his arms draped over their shoulders, one leg avoiding the ground and still trailing the loose leads of the stained battle dressing. Some of the insects that flitted and danced over the still surface of the lake interrupted their routine, drawn to the sweat and blood.

  An OH-6 Loach came out of the east and banked its skids to the mountain, buzzing a curved path over the lake like a turbo-charged bee, the helicopter’s speed exaggerated by its lack of altitude. It swung a tight arc over the platoon, then turned back toward the valley.

  The lieutenant called a halt. The casualties were moved to a single spot, a combination staging area and morgue, and Doc Garver moved among them, uncovering and covering the dead and checking dressings on the wounded. There were two dead now. Despite his best efforts, Karns had not survived the trip. His failing body drank up all Doc’s serum and morphine, but it wasn’t enough.

  A fire team stayed just inside the tree line for security while the rest of the platoon found comfortable spots and lay back on their packs, their helmets tossed to the ground, letting the drizzle cool their sweat-soaked heads.

  Haber moved to a clear spot and dropped to his knees. Playing the part of the surviving FNG, he leaned into his M16, using it as a stay to keep him from pitching forward onto his face. Nearby, a black private named Eubanks watched with casual interest. “Hey, man. Drop the pack and take a load off while you can,” he said. “We’ll be movin’ again soon.” Some Marines resented the FNGs because their inexperience presented a danger to everyone. Others took pity and offered advice that was not only beneficial but demonstrated the wide expanse between themselves and a needy novice.