Arizona Moon

by J. M. Graham

  “Keep going and don’t stop,” Burke said, waving an impatient hand to keep them moving.

  A smile spread across the sergeant’s face as he saw the plan Diehl had formulated. A simple snare that needed the retreating Marines as bait, to be seen moving deeper into the jungle. The open ground was a killing zone, and if the pursuers saw the pursued stopping they would not expose themselves. They had to have the draw of blood lust toward a weaker prey to override their caution. The chance for an overwhelming victory might pull the VC into the open if they knew their targets lacked the will or munitions to resist. And Diehl’s Marines would be waiting. It would be the retribution Diehl had never expected to experience in his time left in-country. But first they had to sell the flight.

  As more of the squad reached the relative safety of the far side they were warned not to stop. No one was to turn and face the enemy. They kept moving, letting the light from the gap push them deeper into the shadows. The enemy, watching from behind, would see that their quarry lacked the resources to turn the open ground to advantage.

  “When do we stop?” Pusic panted as they moved further from the security of numbers.

  Close behind, Sergeant Blackwell pushed against Strader’s and Pusic’s need to rest. “When those bastards are convinced we never will.”

  “And how will we know that?”

  “You’ll know. Just keep your ass moving.”

  The rearguard fire team was the last to cross, making no pretense of covering their own retreat as shattered pieces of sunlit dirt leapt into the air around their feet. One of the team grabbed half the weight of the wounded man the Doc was carrying, improving their speed, their chances, and getting the undying gratitude of the corpsman. The trees on the other side were their only hope of protection. Their only defense was speed, so they ran. They crashed through the bushes at the edge of the forest, nearly stumbling over the Marines hidden there, and considered themselves lucky to have crossed the open space without getting hit. It was an odd phenomenon. Sometimes Marines caught on open ground came through a hellfire of bullets and tracers completely unscathed, and were amazed that they did. The last men across the clearing were experiencing that amazement now.

  The squad continued to move away from the scar on the mountain, maintaining a pace that proved they were running for their lives, but each felt a pull drawing them back to where they needed to be. The nucleus of their comfort was behind them, and each Marine felt the growing distance. Shooting only furtive glances back, they kept running.

  The platoon lay silent and unmoving just beyond the edge of the open ground. Lieutenant Diehl had given explicit orders that no one fire until he did, promising that anyone who jumped the gun would be burning shitters until the ARVN rotated; and the intense look on his face made it clear that ignoring his order would bring dire consequences.

  Private First Class Haber lay within arm’s reach of Lance Corporal Eubanks. He could see figures in black moving in the trees on the other side of the clearing. They were firing their weapons after the fleeing Marines and beginning to show themselves in the opening. He caught himself looking for DeLong, wondering what he thought of all this, until a flash of memory slapped him back to his senses. Another wave of guilt washed over him. DeLong was gone, and he was still here. As bad as this place was, he was alive. After his first full day in the field the only friend he had in-country was dead. His first day in the field, and the ghostly enemy most combat troops never even saw were standing right in front of him. His first day in the field, and the only thing he could think of that could be worse was a second day in the field. He looked to Eubanks with fear and disbelief on his face.

  “You stay cool, young blood,” Eubanks said in a stern whisper. “You don’t shoot unless I do.”

  Haber nodded. He was operating in a state of mental exhaustion, going through the motions, being pulled along by the momentum of others. His hands shook. “I’m nervous,” he said, “and I’m . . .” He let the confession die on his lips.

  Eubanks smiled. “Don’t pay no attention to froggy talk you hear. We’re all nervous, and we’re all afraid ’a dyin’.”

  Haber suddenly understood that being killed was only a part of it. “Maybe I’m more afraid that the guy I was yesterday is already dead.”

  Eubanks’ smile faded. “Oh, yeah. He’s dead and gone. That’s for sure.”

  At least six of the VC were in the open now, and Haber aimed his rifle at the closest one. Not a paper target, a person. The objective was not a qualifying score on the range but a death. The man was stopped and seemed to be sniffing the air, an inkling or flash of intuition warning him. Maybe the openness of the area was enough to hint that a mistake was being made. But before he could resolve the conflict between need and doubt he was dead.

  The instant the platoon unleashed their weapons on the enemy, Middleton’s squad stopped running. Those carrying wounded abandoned them and ran back toward the gap as fast as tired legs could carry them. They needed to be there. Their platoon was punishing the squad’s tormentors, and they had to be there to witness it and help with the punishing. And it was a rare thing indeed to witness: a unit of VC tripping an ambush in the Arizona. Lieutenant Diehl had rolled his dice many times during his tour, but now he was making his point the hard way, and he would push the advantage for all it was worth.

  With his helper running back to the gap, Doc Brede slid the wounded Marine off his shoulders and lowered him to the ground. The man’s T-shirt under his flak jacket was soaked with blood that ran down to stain his web belt and trousers. Doc Garver arrived as Brede examined the holes in the Marine’s torso.

  “You okay?” Garver said, real concern on his face.

  Brede kept searching the Marine for wounds. “So far,” he said. “But the day isn’t over yet.”

  “I thought you were invincible.”

  “No, I’m pretty sure I’m vincible.”

  Strader and Pusic started easing the Chief to the ground, but the Indian stopped them, waving the blade of his big knife toward a large tree with buttressed roots and sleek green bark. They shifted him over and settled him between the buttresses, the sloping roots hugging the Indian’s sides like the arms of an easy chair. He leaned back with an air of comfort.

  Pusic straightened, the pain in his back ratcheting him up, and watched the other Marines heading back to the gap.

  Strader couldn’t help but notice the indecision on the clerk’s face. “What’s wrong?”

  “What should I do?” he asked, nodding in the direction of the cacophony.

  Strader glanced toward the gunfire. “Nothing. You stay put. I’m empty, so you’re the only security we have. If the gooks send out another flank, we’ll need you.”

  Pusic looked back toward the roar of firing and felt the weight of real responsibility. Not for the accuracy of pay records or accumulated leave, but for the safety of fellow Marines. They were entrusting their lives to him, and if anything were to happen here, it would be on him to respond. He gripped his M16 tighter. What else could he do? The corpsmen were working over the wounded Marine without looking up, assured that their backs were covered. He knew immediately that he would do whatever it took. Marines were putting their trust in him, and for one reason—because he, the pogue, was one of them. At this time, in this place, he was not the pariah behind the desk. They didn’t see him as the conspirator aligned with the upper ranks, but simply as another grunt, an essential cog in the combat machinery, a brother Marine.

  The firing from the gap stopped as abruptly as it began, the jungle so silent now that a whisper sounded like a shout. The voices of the Marines in the trees were a violation, breaking a quiet so fragile that even mere talk might set off another frenzy of violence.

  The trap was sprung, and the orders filtering back through the trees were for a reconnaissance of its success, a success calculated in bodies and weapons.

  The Chief dragged his spirit bag from under his shirt and pulled it open, pouring the contents into
his lap. He moved his precious possessions about with the tip of a shaky finger, taking inventory from memory. The count made him chuckle. Everything was there but the coin.

  On the night before he left for Parris Island, his father borrowed Benito’s new truck and drove him into the hills where the gutaat lived in an old clapboard shack with a drooping porch. The news beyond the reservation was full of the troubles on the other side of the world, and his father wanted some spiritual protection for his son. A small pack of dogs barked on their arrival until the holy man whistled and shooed them away. They sat in the cool darkness inside the house, the glow of a kerosene lantern moving the shadows about in air currents, and listened as the old man recited chants and song-stories in a language they knew only in ceremony, his eyes closed, his white head bobbing in cadence with the words that communed with the spirits. On the palm of one hand the shaman had a tattoo of the sun, on the other, the moon. He stretched out the moon hand and placed it on young Gonshayee’s head, bestowing an incomprehensible prayer that somehow made the future Marine feel better, safer.

  The ceremony ended abruptly, and the old man offered them coffee from a blackened pot atop his woodstove. They drank and talked about the tribe and the world outside, listening to the dogs’ claws clicking across the wooden floor as they moved in and out of the light. When the younger Gonshayee said he was sure to be going to Vietnam, the holy man raised a finger. “I have something that’s been waiting here for you many years.” He disappeared into the shadows and rattled things about in the darkness, finally returning to his chair. “When I was younger, long before you were born, I was paid for work off the reservation by a white man who thought it would be funny to slip me something worthless in the payment. I didn’t object because it was a thing unique to me, and I knew you would be coming.” He opened his hand to reveal a bronze coin sitting on the moon tattoo. “Take it,” he said.

  The coin was tarnished gray and had a hole in the center. Kle-ga-na-ai remembered holding it up to the lamplight. Two draped female figures sat on either side of the center hole, surrounded by the words REPUBLIQUE FRANÇAISE, with 1 CENT at the bottom.

  “A penny?”

  “A French centime,” the holy man said. He flipped his hand. “Turn it over.”

  The obverse side said INDOCHINE FRANÇAISE and 1923 around four Chinese symbols. “It’s meant for me?”

  “Yes. Its home is Indo-China, once the name of the place you are going. Take it with you.” The moon on the old man’s palm flickered. “It will complete a circle.”

  He held it up so the light shining through the hole made a spot on his eye. “I’ll bring it back.”

  The shaman leaned back in his chair and one of the dogs laid his snout in the old man’s lap. “The coin has a path of its own, young warrior, and you have yours.”

  The Chief searched again and squeezed the bag just to be sure. It was really gone. But he wasn’t angry. All the cherished things of his own choosing were still there, he thought, slipping them back into the pouch, and it seemed somehow fitting that the coin should return to its home. He picked up the knife and rested the blade—the symbol of his warrior status—across his thigh and tried to squeeze his thoughts through the pain. “Warrior” seemed an elusive title now, a tribal assumption, a male birthright providing only an identity on the reservation. Maybe his only valid purpose for being here was to return a penny to Vietnam. If so, it seemed a lot of trouble.

  The corpsmen worked on the wounded, and Pusic and Strader stood guard while the distant jungle roared under the triggers of the platoon, his platoon. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the tree. The validation of a warrior must be an earned acceptance into a warrior clan, and surrounded by his Marines in a jungle far from home, Kle-ga-na-ai felt fulfilled.

  Strader squatted down to the Chief’s eye level. The eyes that looked back lacked focus. “You okay, Moon?”

  The Chief fumbled in one of his cargo pockets and came out with the western novel. “Give this to the doc,” he said.

  Strader took the book and examined the dust cover with its French printing and Wild West illustration. “Which one?”

  “The bookworm.” The Chief’s words slurred through sagging lips, and a stream of drool swung down to his T-shirt. The stag handle on the knife slipped from his hand, the blade clattering against the tree.

  Strader picked up the knife and set it back in the Chief’s hand, but the fingers wouldn’t grip the handle. “Moon, are you okay?”

  The Chief looked like he had something to say, but his sagging mouth wouldn’t cooperate. The light in his good eye was fading. He shuddered, and a spasm swept over him like a hot ocean wave, making him feel as though he was wading through thick, boiling water. Bright lights pulsated across his vision like exploding sunspots, and a bright horizon opened up, the rise ahead illuminated in a warm refulgence he longed for, the kind of light that baked a dryer soil. He wanted a moon that traveled across a sky with different stars and a sun that roasted the humidity out of the air. He could feel the Arizona heat of home surging behind his eyes, passing under his scalp like a sun-baked wind.

  Silhouetted in the brightness beyond the rise, figures stood waiting, mountain spirits, drawing him to them. One had a familiar posture, stooped and angular, a muscularity twisted with age but with recognizable family traits he shared. His grandfather raised a hand and waved a greeting. Kle-ga-na-ai smiled and waved back.

  Strader stared into the Chief’s face, but the twisted smile wasn’t for him, and the gaze went through him like he was invisible.

  The Chief felt the strength of the tree against his back reaching out and merging with his own. It called to him like a siren, summoning his spirit, inviting him to merge in a timeless collaboration that had spoken to him since he was a boy . . . and he surrendered. He entered the core of the tree, traversing its sinew from its roots buried deep to the tallest reach of its endless branches. He shared its sap, enriching his blood and adopting him into another new and timeless brotherhood.

  Strader watched as the Chief’s life transmigrated into the tree. “Doc, I need help here,” he said softly.

  The NVA weapons bearers, fighting the mountain’s slope, heard the change. Some dynamic in the conflict behind them had shifted. The eruption of sound made that fact clear, and the suddenness of it spoke volumes. A catastrophic turn in the balance of power had occurred somewhere back in the shadows under the endless canopy, and they were all glad that Tet was pulling them away like a physical destination.

  They would not cross the Vu Gia tonight as planned, but there was a chance they would all be alive to cross tomorrow night if they were lucky—if they kept moving and were lucky. Everyone looked at Hoang Li growling at the line, driving them much like Nguyen did. They wondered if he was any luckier than Nguyen.

  Whatever had happened back on the mountain was over. No smattering of fire. No sporadic returns. It ended as though someone executed a maneuver and then called a ceasefire, seeing that all aims were accomplished and nothing more was needed.

  Pham and Truong kept looking back. They would do all they could to fulfill the mandate that drove Nguyen south, and they would do it carrying all the debts owed to Nguyen, to the R-20th Doc Lap, and to all the others whose spirits were left behind.

  35

  Lieutenant Diehl moved his platoon away from the gap at a determined pace, the radio handset pressed to his ear and Bronsky trotting alongside to keep up. With his map open, the lieutenant relayed grid coordinates to fire control, estimating distances to his target. The VC were running for safe ground, and he wanted to make sure that run was through a storm of high-explosive rounds. The Bird Dog softly sputtering above the trees stayed to adjust fire.

  Bronsky collected the handset and clipped it to his pocket when Diehl ended communications. His pistol was buttoned down in its holster, where it had been since morning and all through the ambush.

  The lieutenant had fired the first shot, setting off the rest of the pla
toon in an explosion of firing so well coordinated that it came as though from the pull of a single finger. All the Vietnamese in the opening of the gap were felled in the first blast, then the shadows in the trees behind them, then every branch and leaf within reach of the platoon’s barrels. In thirty seconds it was over. The sound died like the fading peal of a bell, quickly replaced with Marine voices directing movement, checking squads, and just verifying that they were alive, proving it to themselves by communicating with those around them.

  Sergeant Blackwell took a squad across the gap, counting five dead in the open and four more within twenty yards of the tree line, but the rest of the VC had withdrawn true to form. He counted, collected the weapons, and searched the bodies. He took satisfaction in forcing the VC to run now, to somewhere safe where they could lick their wounds, but he wouldn’t be chasing them. He was just one of the boots-on-the-ground grunts who dragged the enemy into the light so technology could prove that a war of attrition was a viable policy. And he was tired, just as tired as the men around him, so letting the big guns take over was okay with him.

  Burke’s squad followed the lieutenant away from the gap and set up a perimeter when they reached the corpsmen and the wounded. The docs had the Chief stretched out flat on his back, partially covered with a poncho liner. They had already done what little they could and were repacking their medical bags while Strader and Pusic stood near. “You okay, Ray?” Middleton said, seeing that the silly smile was finally gone from his friend’s face. Strader just nodded. Doc Brede stood and slung his bags over his shoulder. Strader held out the book. “He wanted you to have this,” he said.

  The doc took the book and turned it over in his hands. “The Chief reads French?” he asked, unwilling to use the past tense so soon.

  Strader shook his head. “I’m guessing the previous owner did.”