Arizona Moon

by J. M. Graham

  Haber peeled the pack straps from his shoulders and let the bundle drop to the ground. He leaned his rifle against it and sat back with his arms wrapped around his knees, pulling them close, folding himself into as small a package as he could. His baptism of fire over the last twenty-four hours had pounded him like a heavyweight boxer. He had finally seen the elephant, and he couldn’t get the sight of it out of his brain.

  Burke moved through his squad, warning them not to get too comfortable. When he reached Haber, he looked at the new guy’s boots. “Lose the blousing springs,” he said, pointing at Haber’s ankles with the barrel of his rifle. “They ain’t worth shit in the field.”

  A wide grin spread over Eubanks’ face. “That ain’t true, man. They worth something good. Real good.”

  Burke gave him a look that said, we may be close in rank, but I’m the one in charge. “Don’t fuck with the new guy, ’Banks.”

  “I ain’t shittin’ this young man, Burke. I’ll show you what I mean.” He pointed a finger at the new guy. “What’s your name, man?”

  Haber looked at the Marine, wondering if he was being had. “Haber,” he said.

  “Okay, Haber. You miss puttin’ the long and hard to your lady?”

  “Huh?” Haber struggled to find his bearings in a surreal world that was not only horrific but incomprehensible as well.

  Eubanks put on his most serious look. “Sex, man. Fuckin’. Do you miss the feelin’ you get when you fuckin’?”

  Haber dipped his head, letting the question sink in, then looked at the Marine out of the corner of his eye. His mind was presently consumed by many concerns, but the lack of sex wasn’t one of them. He had to pull the thought of it up into his consciousness to provide the requisite response. “Yeah, I guess so. Why?”

  Eubanks pointed at Haber’s legs where the pants cuffs curled in tightly above his boots. “Unhook those bad boys.”

  Haber looked at him in confusion.

  “Come on. Pop those motherfuckers off.”

  After a brief hesitation, Haber looked up at Burke. The squad leader just shrugged and nodded.

  The blousing springs clamped the cuffs in a tight pucker against his wet skin, and Haber struggled with the hooks until both coils lay in the grass like dead snakes. Neat dents ringed each leg above the soggy tops of his socks. “Okay, they’re off.”

  Eubanks leaned forward with a knowing smile. “Scratch ’em,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Scratch your damn legs, man.”

  Haber slowly pushed his fingers up under his pant cuffs and dragged them tentatively over the indentations. Eubanks watched, nodding. A light of recognition flared in Haber’s eyes and he met Eubanks’ look with an unexpressed question.

  “That’s right. Go ahead, scratch,” Eubanks said.

  Dirty nails sought out the ridged creases and dug in. Haber dragged his fingers over the marks, increasing the intensity with each pass. His eyes closed in ecstasy and his fingers flew with manic delight. He bit his lip.

  Eubanks laughed. “See what I mean? If that don’t feel good as fuckin’, it’s so close it don’t matter.”

  Haber continued his clawing, moving his fingers about in search of fresh nerve endings. It felt good, too good. After last night and today he hadn’t thought anything would ever feel good again, but here he was, in the throes of self-induced rapture, a gratification he could not have imagined an hour ago, and he clung to it like a life raft.

  A high-pitched buzz bounced off the face of the tree line, and the Loach streaked out of the valley again, banking high over the platoon as though performing at an air show. Lieutenant Diehl had his radioman in tow, barking into the handset. He waved at Doc Garver and pointed to the empty air over the valley. Garver nodded his understanding. The plangent thump of a larger engine drifted in over the grass, and the profile of a medevac H-34 appeared high over Nam An 5. It dipped to port and headed in their direction. Damaged Marines were leaving the field, and their transportation was on the way. The doc pulled a handful of men away from their rest to lift the dead and wounded in preparation for their departure. Garver pulled Bishop to his feet and draped one of the wounded man’s arms over his shoulder, helping him hop on his good leg.

  “I’ll write and let you know what it’s like back in the world, Doc.”

  The corpsman looked at the Marine with knowing sympathy. “You won’t be going home, Bishop. All you have is a through-and-through. You’ll be back here in a couple of weeks.”

  “Come on, Doc. Gimme a break.”

  The doc gave that some thought. “Actually, that would work. If we break your leg, they would definitely send you home.”

  Bishop seemed to be considering the option.

  Karns and Price hung heavily in poncho liners in front of them, waiting in their green shrouds for their ride. Doc Garver nodded in their direction. “There’s going home,” he said, “and then there’s going home.”

  The H-34 flared just beyond the platoon and settled to the ground with a bounce. Turbulence from the rotors whipped at the Marines rushing to its side. The two bodies were slipped in first, then the ambulatory and the hobbled Bishop climbed in with help. Bishop turned back and shouted. “Keep your ass down, Doc.”

  “I’ll be here when you get back,” Garver started to say, but the sound was lost as the rpms roared for takeoff. Everyone ducked and ran, and the big machine lifted into the air, nose pointed east, away from the Ong Thu.

  Lieutenant Diehl had the platoon up and moving while the sound of the helicopter still hung in the air. The security team from the tree line scrambled to join up. In the distance they could see the Loach doing slow fishtail turns close to the ground east of the downed helicopter, like something in the grass was drawing its attention. A handful of Marines could be seen headed for that spot. Lieutenant Diehl pointed at the crash site, and the lead fire team pushed off in that direction.

  Haber, his pants rolled loosely above his boots, fell in with his squad and watched the tail of the medevac helicopter shrink away, tracking the fading heartbeat of its engine with an overwhelming sense of being left behind.

  Strader pushed back up the mountain, legs tightening with the effort, covering ground that he had just leapt over on the way down. On reaching the bottom of the rockslide he leaned against the nearest rock, catching his breath. The natural rhythm of the jungle seemed undisturbed, everything in quiet concert. He wanted to call out, warning the Chief that he was returning, but thought better of making a discordant noise. He would wait until he was closer.

  Moving up between the boulders, he pushed an index finger forward in the rifle’s trigger ring, slipping the safety off, leaving the finger to hover. A few feet from the narrow opening he tried a restrained hail that came out as little more than a hiss. “Chief,” he whispered, then caught himself. “Moon. Moon.” The silence made him nervous. He waited, listening. Primate chatter was answered by a screech somewhere in the mountain heights above. He inched forward. “Moon,” he said, irritated at being forced into a spot that made him feel both guilty and exposed.

  The ground he could see through the narrow passage seemed much as it was when he left. “Answer me, Moon,” he said vehemently. He raised the rifle, pulling the butt tight against his shoulder. In one step he was inside, sweeping the interior with the weapon. The space was empty. “Son of a bitch,” he said, the heat of the words filling the little alcove. He let the rifle sag under its own weight. At the base of the ramped stone, the pack sat soaking up the rain, the canteen perched atop the flap. He stared at this, all the evidence left of the Marine charged to his custody. Thoughts clashed in his mind, trying to sort their way to a rationale for the Indian not being there, but nothing made sense. The backpack was neatly positioned, not tossed aside in a struggle. The canteen was balanced with precision. “Damn you, Chief,” he said, mixing concern with anger, both aimed at himself.

  On closer examination he saw that the canteen was there to hold down the top flap torn fro
m a C-rat box. He slid it free. The drizzle had darkened the beige cardboard, except where the canteen covered it. Printing on the face marked the meal as ham slices; on the back, written with pencil in block capitals, was a single line, the graphite already starting to surrender to the rain: “went to get my honor back.”

  Strader stared at the note, trying to decipher its meaning. There was no sense to it; the scribbling of a damaged brain. The only thing that seemed certain was that the Chief didn’t vanish on impulse. It was an intentional move, a plan. Maybe a crazy plan, but a plan nonetheless. And all he’d needed to execute the lunatic particulars was to suck in the gullible. Strader flushed at the realization that he had been so easily duped. He took a long pull on the canteen then hung it on his web belt, swung the pack onto his back, and shoved the note into one of his cargo pockets. He didn’t know what the note meant, but he planned to ask the Chief as soon as he caught up with him.

  Back at the bottom of the slide, Strader stopped to examine the chewed ground. Overlaying the imprints of shoe-shaped tire treads and designs cobbled in Hanoi, the pattern of tapered squares surrounding a clover leaf center stood out: U.S. jungle boots. The Chief was headed north after the Vietnamese. Strader followed the trail with his eyes. It twisted and turned for twenty yards, then vanished into a curtain of green. He stared at the spot where the trail disappeared. Everything beyond that was the unknown. He’d thought he was finished with walking blindly into a questionable future.

  Sounds from the valley floor filtered up through the trees, and he longed to go in that direction and find the protection of his platoon. At least he knew they would come after him. They would pass this spot, but he wouldn’t be here. He took the Chief’s cardboard note from his pocket, folded it into a tent, and placed in on the nearest stone in plain sight, an enigmatic signpost pointing the way.

  How hard could it be to catch a man who could barely walk? How long could it take? All he had to do was overtake the stumbling Chief, get him to listen to reason, and drag him back. How hard could it be?

  24

  The dark trail lay before the Chief like a tracing on a road map, the rich, dark soil kneaded into a malleable consistency by many hurried feet. The enemy had no time for subterfuge. Their numbers were too many and their need to travel too desperate to waste time concealing signs of their passing. Their only safety was in distance, and they knew it. The circuitous trail they left behind swam in the Indian’s vision as though through steam rising above a desert highway. With every step, a painful pulse pierced his wounded temple, making him screw that swollen eye closed under the battle dressing.

  The clatter of rain in the treetops diminished, and the drips made their long fall without reinforcement. The Chief looked up, making the jungle ceiling spin. He guessed the rain was stopping. Small favors, he thought. He clutched the handle of the knife on his belt and concentrated on moving forward. Short steps, like those that might drive any daily constitutional, grew into long, loping strides. The jolt of each footfall resounded in his head. The collision of bones was jarring his damaged brain into flashes of blinding light and he went to his toes and bent his knees, absorbing his weight with muscle and sinew. He would have to think beyond the pain and the body’s need to acknowledge the cost of exertion. He would have to think beyond the pain, beyond the body’s need to acknowledge the cost of exertion. It was a trait encouraged by his people and practiced at White Mountain, a pride celebrated by the young and strong. The historical Apache on horseback was a terror; afoot he was still a formidable threat. He could cover great distances at a steady run, crossing all manner of terrain, in pursuit of game or horses, and Kle-ga-na-ai slipped into the learned reverie that monopolized the mind, letting it find the mental rhythm that pushed the pain of physical effort down until it lost all influence.

  The spirit of his mind flew free, and the black runnel of the beaten path solidified under his feet. The claustrophobic closeness of the jungle vanished. The glare of desert sunlight forced the green shadows back, opening an arid vista before him, and his feet flew along the jagged edge of an arroyo whose steep sides dropped into the dormant path of an ancient rill. The tails of his plaid flannel shirt flew out behind him like pennants in a high wind, and his feet, forsaking the traditional deerskin moccasins, smacked the hard earth with the rubber soles the Keds Shoe Company made with basketball in mind. He followed a brecha made by wild hooves, threading through sage and weaving himself into the chaparral that he knew as home. His legs were strong and quick. His breaths drew deep with the regularity of a new pump, filling his chest and driving him like a locomotive. A distant mesa shimmered in the hot air, and he felt he could reach its slope in the passing of a minute. He could run forever.

  A coil of rope hugged his waist and slapped at his right thigh because he knew wild mustangs were close, and luck and speed could snag one. But it didn’t matter if he was successful, or if he even saw one. He was the horse today. Air rushed over his face, and wet strands of his long, black hair slapped the back of his neck like a mane. He was free and wild and would never feel more alive.

  Flatlands spread out before him, the wild path marking a wavering line to follow, luring him onto the heat of eolian sands. His strength allowed no fear. His drive pushed him out onto the range, and he ran until he thought his white man’s shoes would melt. He saw a mound of dirty white and brown ahead and slowed to a stop by its side. The carcass of a dead horse lay still, the mottled hide hanging over the bony prominences like a collapsed tent. A line of large, square teeth sat atop the bare jaw like grotesque dice in a grimace of death that drew a cloud over Kle-ga-na-ai’s mood. The mechanisms of nature placed a reminder of the destination for all; the universal conclusion.

  The cloud grew, darkening the sky and moving in close to smother the light until the weight of it stuck to his face and stung his eyes. A putrid smell rose to fill the Chief’s nostrils, and his half-blind stare found the source beside the jungle path. A four-legged creature lay in the undergrowth, its decomposition defying identification beyond an ungulate of short stature, the victim of some disease or predator, or the unlucky recipient of wild artillery fire from An Hoa meant to harass and interdict. Or perhaps it was placed as an intentional obstacle to be stepped around, a repugnant cause for a designed detour.

  The suppurating flesh moved in waves as maggots crawled through the turgid body cavity, filling its dimensions with their appetites, giving the hide an impression of animation that no longer existed. Winged thrips formed a cloud above the carrion beetles that were ripping apart the flesh with their mechanical jaws. The Chief’s head swam, and he had to fight to keep himself from pitching headlong into the offal. He was suddenly weary, like he had made a long journey only to arrive at a place he would rather not be, and the skin on half of his face felt hot and stretched and tight. He moved along the path to the nearest large tree and leaned against the trunk, pressing his swollen cheek to the slippery surface. The strength of the tree, the fibrous muscle below the bark, invaded his consciousness like encouragement from a wise elder. The spinning in his head subsided. Against the steady base, his failing equilibrium found the stability to continue. He thanked the tree and pushed off.

  Less than thirty minutes after reaching the edge of the jungle, the point fire team of Lieutenant Diehl’s column entered the Sparrow Hawk platoon’s perimeter at the downed helicopter. They ducked the smashed tail section and filed past the line of bodies under wet ponchos, small puddles in the folds reflecting fragments of gray sky like shattered mirrors. An enemy’s black-clad body lay to the side, tossed unceremoniously into an awkward lump. When Haber saw the bodies, his hands and knees began to shake, driven by some involuntary trigger that had taken root in his mind and was already exercising its influence, a demonstration of power showing Haber that, like the reflexive kick resulting from a doctor’s hammer blow below the knee, there were some things he would never control.

  A pair of new boots protruding from one of the ponchos had blousing spri
ngs holding the pant cuffs in a neat tuck. He wished he could show DeLong the ecstasy of relief they offered, the rush of pleasure, but he pushed it from his mind. Just being this close to DeLong made his insides twist as though the Marine’s body were a dead planet with a gravitational pull that was sucking him in. He wanted nothing more than to get away. But he was afraid that if he lived to be a hundred years old, he might never get far enough away from this day.

  All eyes of 1st Platoon were drawn to the still ponchos, and Lieutenant Diehl ordered the men away from the helicopter, toward the tree line where they could take a meal break using the advantage of the Sparrow Hawks’ vigilance.

  While his men tromped away through the wet grass, Lieutenant Diehl left the line to meet Lieutenant Hewitt coming in his direction. “How’s it goin’, Tom?” the Sparrow Hawk commander said with a somber edge to his voice. The lieutenants always addressed one another with casual familiarity. They spent most of their time with the enlisted members of their respective platoons, and whatever conversations they had there outside the realm of military business were conducted with an underlying tone of deference to rank. There was no verbal exchange on an equal footing. There were boundaries in the military class structure that the ranks knew were crossed only at great peril. Familiarity was one of those boundaries.

  “Just another hard day in the Arizona, Mark, but we’re kickin’ ass and takin’ names,” Lieutenant Diehl answered, giving the expected response, though he felt more like the kicked than the kicker.

  “Do I have a squad around here somewhere?” Diehl asked, looking about for a familiar face.

  “Here and gone, Tom. Your Four was hot to get after your missing people.” Hewitt pointed to the tree line in the approximate spot where they left the valley. “He wanted my help, but I’m locked into security here until this machine is lifted out, and even then we’re still the reaction unit; they may call me back to the base to sit and wait for some other shit to hit the fan.”