Arizona Moon

by J. M. Graham

  Pusic stared as though making no sense of Strader’s words. “Slow, easy breathing, right?”

  “That’s right. When the shooting is over, it’s always good to be breathing.”

  Pham and Truong struggled with Nguyen’s weight between them. They crashed and stumbled down the mountain, ignoring the moans from their leader, trying to get beyond the explosion of firing that ripped into the trees behind them. Hoang Li and his remaining devotee dragged their other cell member’s body by the straps of his magazine vest, bouncing him along the ground, barreling through clusters of plants with no concern for the remains of their comrade. Their only goal was to remove the evidence of his death from the battlefield and deny the Americans a single number for their tally. His partner kept glancing over at him with a reproachful expression. Hoang Li’s mystical umbrella was apparently flawed, or maybe his god didn’t extend coverage to others. Either way, the evidence hanging between them proved the man would have to find his own way to survival, and he felt betrayed.

  There was remorse in Hoang Li’s heart. Not for the lifeless weight plowing the soft earth between them but for allowing himself to be lured into contact with a larger unit. The single shooter had drawn him in with the bait of revenge, and now he would be lucky to escape with his life.

  A new element joined the firing on the mountain behind them. The echoes of the exchange reverberated through the trees, and Hoang Li saw a chance to escape. They might live. He might live.

  Nguyen awakened at the sound of the firing and groaned a demand for Pham and Truong to put him down. His insides felt like they were filled with broken glass and every jostle was death by a thousand cuts. Once he was down, Pham wiped away the frothy blood from Nguyen’s mouth and Nguyen grabbed his wrist. “Do you hear? They have not forgotten the importance of the cause. The dau tranh is everything.”

  Hoang Li and his comrade stumbled down and drew up beside them. “Why are you stopping?”

  “Listen,” Nguyen said in a voice that sounded wet and strangled. “That is the R-20th. They have taken a hand. They are buying time for us with their lives. Do not waste that gift.”

  Hoang Li pointed downhill with his rifle and began pulling the dead body again.

  “Hoang Li,” Nguyen gurgled. “It is on you now. You must finish.”

  Pham and Truong lifted Nguyen again and, despite his wet protests, started down. His coveted binoculars, wrapped and tucked in their shabby case, swung freely from the lanyard around his neck, and he tried reaching them without luck. All the strength he had left was devoted to pain. But the binoculars were important. They were the only sign of his station among the troops. They verified his status and worth. He felt there was something to be regained by just holding them again, feeling their weight, and he needed the comfort of this identity once more. The rocking, jarring movements that cut like razors faded to an ache, and the black edges of his vision grew lighter until they burned white as an arc light. He knew his eyes were closed but felt like he was staring into a bright sun, a warm, soothing sun that smothered his pain and his worries and promised the rest he needed.

  When they reached the path, Hoang Li and his partner moved past the piles of cargo waiting for their return and carried their comrade to the group of bodies hidden below. They stripped away his useful equipment and set him down at the end of the morbid queue. There was no time for mourning. The firing above was growing more intense. They clawed their way back to the path as Pham and Truong arrived and leaned Nguyen against a discarded pack, searching for some sign of life.

  Pham pressed an ear to Nguyen’s chest, and Truong wet his fingers and held them in front of Nguyen’s mouth to feel for expelled air. Neither wanted to admit what both already knew.

  Hoang Li pulled the young men back and went roughly through his commander’s pockets. He took his ammunition and his map case. He took an old, scratched compass and a French cigarette lighter. He found a whistle wrapped in a handkerchief and faded photos of loved ones stained around the edges. He kept the whistle and gave the photos to Pham.

  The two young soldiers felt they were witnessing a desecration rather than a pragmatic necessity of war. Hoang Li tried to lift the lanyard holding the binoculars case over Nguyen’s head, but the dead owner’s hand still gripped the case tightly. He pried the fingers free and slipped the lanyard over his own head. The mantle was passed, the succession was confirmed, though Pham and Truong thought it looked more like a coup.

  Hoang Li pointed down the mountain to the spot waiting for Nguyen, and the two young soldiers lifted their dai uy’s slack body and carried him to join the macabre collection. They made room next to Co and set the two friends with shoulders touching.

  “Who is at fault here?” Truong said, a worried expression on his face.

  Pham looked up the mountain to where busy hands were collecting the waiting gear. “There is enough blame for all,” he said.

  Having assumed command, Hoang Li shoved equipment into his cell members’ arms, snapping orders with a new authority. He stepped off the path and looked down on the two heads protruding above the foliage. “Come up now,” he yelled above the gunfire. “We have a long way to go.”

  Pham’s and Truong’s faces showed their disenchantment with their new commander. At their feet lay the evidence that the dau tran demanded only sacrifice. The cause had no rewards, took no responsibility; it only issued demands.

  33

  Strader and Pusic kept their eyes on the high side of the mountain, expecting more NVA to appear, but the firing seemed more distant. It looked like Pusic’s three were just a flanking movement not yet missed, the main unit being somewhere further out and higher up. In seconds the jungle ahead of them began to move, almost imperceptibly at first, and then bobbing Marine helmets made sporadic dashes through the empty spaces between the trees, firing uphill as they moved. Strader watched them come, knowing that the enemy would be following from the high ground.

  “Pusic,” he said, pointing to the dark areas above, deceptively empty. “Suppressing fire uphill. Full auto.”

  “I don’t see anything,” Pusic said.

  “Just do it.” Strader knelt and touched the Chief’s shoulder. “We may be in trouble again.”

  “I thought the squad chased all our troubles away.”

  “Well, it looks like the troubles are chasing them back.”

  Pusic tucked the butt stock into his shoulder and flicked the select fire switch to full automatic. But he didn’t pull the trigger. Instead he glanced back at Strader with a look that said he didn’t need or even want to fire, that maybe it was outside his job description and that he wouldn’t mind if Strader took the weapon.

  Strader could see the uncertainty in Pusic’s eyes. “I told you, I’ve fired my last shot. Now hit that damned mountain with everything you have and get our people back here.”

  For an outcast, “our people” sounded good to Pusic; it felt inclusive.

  Strader shrugged. “What’s the problem? You already have a dog in this race, Marine, so get the job done and let’s get the hell out of here.”

  Pusic leaned back into the M16. The dark and empty spaces above seemed dangerous simply by virtue of their existence in this hellish place, and though he could see nothing in those spaces, for some reason Strader’s words carried all the weight he needed. He squeezed, sending the rifle into a spasm, the buffer assembly kicking back, countering the recoil, easily sending the rounds anywhere Pusic pointed the barrel.

  The squad was returning in rotating fire teams. When three riflemen were moving, the rest were firing, keeping the enemy’s heads away from their rifle sights; it was fire team assaults in reverse. Sharp voices barked the timing of leaps: who went when and where and how far. Sergeant Blackwell’s and Corporal Middleton’s directions stood out over the replies of team leaders, and the trees themselves seemed to be expelling bodies in spurts.

  The first fire team scrambled over the downed tree in seconds and joined Pusic in firing up the moun
tain. The arrival of the second team brought Sergeant Blackwell and Bronsky with the radio. The sergeant had the handset pressed to one ear. “Copy that location,” he said over the noise. He flipped the handset back to the radioman and waved the first fire team away from the dead tree and back toward the valley.

  Middleton and the last fire team were loping toward the trunk, and an injured Marine’s arms were stretched over Franklin’s and the doc’s shoulders as he limped and half-dragged a hastily bandaged leg. Those already at the tree fired above and behind them. Middleton jumped the tree while the others circled the root end.

  “The lieutenant wants us across that bare spot back there.” The sergeant indicated a direction with his thumb. “Get your people moving.”

  Pusic kept firing as the second fire team pulled back. The sergeant noticed him and raised his eyebrows at the Chief and Strader.

  “I know,” the Chief said. “You can’t take him anywhere.”

  Strader was still having trouble looking at the sergeant without breaking into a grin. He pointed wordlessly over the trunk to the three bodies on the slope.

  “The pogue?”

  “That’s killer pogue to you, Sergeant, and he saved your ass.”

  The sergeant stared at Strader in disbelief then shook his head. “Doc,” he said, “keep moving, and don’t stop for anything until you’re across that bald area.”

  The remaining fire team kept sniping at any spots in the trees that seemed to be spewing green tracers, with Pusic keeping an honest pace.

  The sergeant squatted behind the trunk, using the excuse of conversing at eye level for ducking rounds that were beginning to send wood chips flying. “What are you two shitbirds waiting for, an engraved invitation?”

  “He doesn’t think he can go,” Strader said, nodding at the Chief.

  “I didn’t ask what he thinks. I’m telling him what he’s going to do. Now get your malingering asses up and get moving.”

  Strader grabbed one of the Chief’s arms and struggled to lift him. “Pusic. Give me a hand with Moon.”

  “Who?” Pusic said, pulling himself away from the tree.

  “Just get on his other side and lift. You want to get the hell out of here, don’t you?”

  “More than anything.”

  They each took an arm and lifted while the Chief groaned in protest. They looped his arms over their shoulders and moved away from the trees. The sergeant and the last fire team fired into the trees with an intensity meant to discourage any heroics from the other side, and the explosion of fire put a burst of energy into Strader and Pusic.

  “A little help, Moon,” Strader said, struggling under the Chief’s weight.

  The big knife dangling in the Chief’s right hand slapped menacingly against Pusic’s arm.

  “Hey, watch the damned knife, Chief,” he said, feeling like a horse being goaded with a riding crop.

  “As long as I’ve got it, it’s you who needs to watch it. And the name is Moon.”

  Bronsky and the sergeant trotted by, ducking away from the second fire team’s zone of fire shielding their retreat. “Get the lead out, Strader,” the sergeant barked. “You’re not a civilian yet. I’ll let you know when you’re off the clock.”

  The squad moved tree to tree, turning to fire and then moving on, making sure the enemy behind them would have to gamble their lives to move close.

  Strader watched the Marines around him interact, meshing in a common purpose like the teeth of matching gears, and felt oddly at ease. He remembered standing beside the runway in An Hoa last night, looking out into the darkness and wondering about his long-awaited homecoming with all its familiar faces and places, and feared that this place, this awful place with these men, this bruised and bleeding society of Marines, might be the only place he would ever feel at home again.

  Hoang Li, bent under the enormous load he carried, harangued the others for their lack of speed, though he knew they were beyond what any reasonable commander would consider their carrying capacity. They had gathered up all the documents of identification from the dead, including photos, letters, and insignia. It was assumed that the bodies would be found and searched, but there would be nothing there to satisfy the taste for military information, or even for souvenirs. They would be counted, but that was all.

  The firing on the mountain behind them continued unabated, but the sound receded. No one was following them, that was evident, but the combatant sides lost in the trees were not disengaging. They seemed locked together in some mutual need to bring things to a conclusion, a driving taste for blood that comes with the realization that a weakness has been discovered.

  The main unit of bearers far ahead twisted and turned along the muddy path, rising and falling with the contours of the topography, until the trail split, one spur leading down toward the valley and the other climbing an awkward angle in the crook of the mountain’s bend. They waited there for Nguyen’s return. It would be his decision whether to move downward and head for Minh Tan 1 and the crossing, or climb north and look for a notch in the crest that would let them through to the other side. The high route would lose a day, so none of the tired men waiting was willing choose a direction. The risk was too great.

  When the small band of survivors arrived, all eyes remained on the empty path behind them. When finally their eyes settled on the new arrivals, not one would meet their gaze . . . and they knew. Nguyen would be making no decisions.

  “Portion the loads,” Hoang Li shouted, and the overburdened shed their equipment with groans. The others seemed confused at the authority in his tone. As the equipment was quickly portioned out in equitable amounts, worried eyes searched Hoang Li’s face. Hoang Li moved down the line, checking that nothing would be left behind, trying to appear resolute while everyone knew that all the qualified heirs to Nguyen’s command lay back in the jungle, aligned side by side in a makeshift queue to the hereafter, leaving a pretender in charge. Though every face showed concern, no one objected.

  Hoang Li eyed the path in both directions; one dipping down toward the valley, the other twisting up through the trees. He looked for some sign that would point the way, some mark or feel or spark of intuition that would act as a signpost, but nothing stood out. Though it was obvious the paths were not equal, the high path looked especially brutal.

  “The enemy is below. We go up and over,” he said, not knowing if it was the right decision but knowing that the only thing worse than a wrong decision was no decision at all. At least it would be unexpected, and in this place the unexpected often made all the difference.

  34

  The squad moved through the trees as fast as the slowest of the wounded could move, the fire teams rotating as rear guard, firing and moving and firing again, all the while pushing the others to move faster. Bullets snapped around them with only distant sounds to serve as targets. One wounded man sagged, blood loss draining his consciousness, and Doc and Franklin reached down and scooped his legs up, taking his full weight without losing stride.

  They ran a jagged course through trees and over ground freshly chewed by the work of An Hoa’s big guns, the acrid odor lingering as silent testimony to their power. Strader and Pusic moved the Chief to the forefront, keeping up with Franklin and the doc, Sergeant Blackwell and Bronsky just behind them. The Chief tried to contribute, but his legs seemed to be wading through deep water; every move was an effort that required more than the last. As his feet slowed, his helpers added lift, driven by a need that had him covering ground without actually touching it. He wanted to stop. He wanted to complain that his head was bursting. He wanted to squeeze their necks until they let him lie down. But he knew that in the Corps, nothing had anything to do with what he wanted. He would keep going. He would hang on to these two Marines with all his might. If they eased their grip, he knew he would fall, but he wasn’t worried. They would not drop him and they would not stop. No matter what, as long as there was breath in their bodies, they would not stop; and as long as there was breat
h in his body, he would be with them.

  Behind, they could hear the fire teams calling out to one another. Ammunition was low, and those with more kept to the rear. Someone screamed and cursed, and Blackwell stepped in for the doc, who was running back toward a voice spewing anger through clenched teeth in a manner the corpsman knew well.

  Sergeant Blackwell barked orders between gasps.

  The Chief lifted his chin from his chest, and flavored water erupted from his mouth.

  Pusic looked over at Strader. “It’s purple,” he said incredulously.

  They plunged into the opening with Strader and Pusic half-dragging, half-carrying the Chief. It seemed a much wider span than when they’d crossed it earlier. Until they reached the other side there would be no place for refuge. They were easy targets for anyone unseen and waiting. Where unimpeded daylight once seemed inviting it now felt threatening, and everyone who entered the clearing looked to the other side, with its concealing shadows, and longed to be there.

  Though the squad’s lead struggled under the weight of their loads, no one came forward from the other side to help. Sergeant Blackwell searched the distant trees for the rest of the unit but saw just another tract of empty, anonymous jungle. More of the squad poured into the gap, and in seconds the space was littered with running Marines bouncing under their equipment, slipping and sliding across the exposed ground. A few stayed at the trees’ edge, firing back into the shadows, using what was left in their magazines to cover those in the open.

  Strader and Pusic carried the Chief into the shadows on the other side, arriving first with the sergeant and Franklin close behind. They weren’t on the well-worn path, but their only concern was to get into the trees where the platoon was hiding and find a place to stop. The barrel of an M16 protruded from a clump of vegetation clinging to the edge of sunlight, and Sergeant Blackwell looked down to see Burke’s face looking back.