by J. M. Graham
The lieutenant arrived as Doc Garver pulled the poncho liner over the Chief’s face.
“A cerebral hemorrhage or a clot, or maybe just the shrapnel in his torso, sir.” The corpsman shrugged. “I don’t know how the hell he got this far.”
Diehl nodded but focused his attention on Strader. “Corporal, I gave you an order to leave the field. Have you willfully disobeyed that order?”
Strader took a second to respond. “No, sir,” he said.
“And yet here you are, in the field.”
“I’m catching orders from all sides, sir. I don’t know which ones to disobey first.”
The lieutenant almost smiled. “Are you hurt?”
“Not a scratch, sir,” Strader said, then held out the beaded pouch with the little figure below its lunar companion. “This should go to the Chief’s . . . to Moon’s family. It was important to him. I think they would want it.”
Lieutenant Diehl took the bag, dangling it from its cord. “I don’t see a problem with that. Do you Corporal Pusic?”
The clerk, once more trying to be inconspicuous, was startled to hear his name. Then he realized he was being questioned on a duty connected to a job he knew he was good at, and wanted desperately to return to, a question that seemed to indicate he would be returning to it. “Yes, sir,” he said, with renewed enthusiasm. “I’ll make sure all the Chief’s personal effects are sent to his home of record.”
“And what can I do for you, Corporal . . . I mean Mr. Strader?” the lieutenant said.
“I’d like to go home, sir.”
“I sent you home yesterday. You don’t stay sent. What do you think Corporal Pusic? Can you give this young Marine a huss?”
The clerk felt more relaxed with the familiar bent of the conversation and let his rifle hang casually at his side. “I think I can expedite his transition out of country, sir.”
The lieutenant fixed the clerk with a hard glare. “Maybe Sergeant Gantz can help.”
Pusic swallowed hard. “I’m sure Sergeant Gantz will bust a gut to get Corporal Strader out of Vietnam, sir.”
“Make sure of it,” Lieutenant Diehl said with no trace of humor in his voice.
Sergeant Blackwell and the rest of the platoon came through the trees laden with AK-47s of every configuration slung on their shoulders and strapped across their packs, and Strader thought how amused the Chief would be to see the Marines returning like a band of raiding Apaches with their booty.
The energy drained from his body along with the last of the adrenaline as he watched the tired squads find defensible places in a perimeter with the lieutenant’s CP at the center. They had given the R-20th Doc Lap some pain and absorbed some of their own, and now they would leave. They would win the battles but cede the ground. There was no real estate they could claim that wasn’t surrounded by bunkers and barbed wire, and even that ground was often in contention.
The air above the trees hissed in resistance to heavy projectiles, and a distant thunder from An Hoa signaled the coming storm. Strader watched the Marines around him, and a profound sadness overtook him as he suddenly recognized a flaw inherent in his species, a quirk in the shared biology that allowed his people to be here now, as in the past, and in all the futures to come.
The ground shook.
EPILOGUE
The tour bus from Albuquerque collected bugs on its face all the way down Route 25, following the Rio Grande to Las Cruces, then across Route 10 into Arizona. It left the interstate near Apache Pass for a quick rest stop before visiting a nearby national monument, one of the last stops before Tucson. The big diesel engine pushed the coach onto the gravel drive in front of a cluster of buildings. The sign at the roadside said EATS AND GIFTS, with GAS and SERVICE painted over but showing through white paint worn translucent by weather. The diesel shuddered and stopped, and the door across from the driver opened with a sudden hiss like the release of a vacuum-packed seal. Air-conditioned coolness rushed out into the Arizona heat. The uniformed driver, who looked like a cross between an airline pilot and a mailman, held a radio handset to his mouth and pushed the button with his thumb. A megaphone speaker above the windshield scratched to life.
“Folks, we’ll be at this rest stop for an hour or so. You’ll have time to do a little shopping and catch some lunch. The restaurant has lavatories for your convenience, and Bernice makes the finest enchiladas in the Southwest. Tell her Arnie sent you,” he said, hooking his free thumb at his own chest. “I’ll blow the horn when we’re ready to leave. The next stop is the Chiricahua National Monument.”
Passengers began climbing out of their seats and stretching stiff joints in the aisle. The tourists on this trip, as on most trips the driver carried, were retirees enjoying their pensions and leisure time by traveling the country, searching for the Wild West of Hollywood imaginations without the burden of driving themselves. The women sported pastel culottes, flowery blouses, sun hats, and sunglasses too big for their faces. Too-red lipstick and rouge complimented their sunburns. The men’s Bermuda shorts clashed with their sport shirts, and their white socks kept sweat from invading new tennis shoes bought specifically to ease their feet through every historical site on the schedule.
The Pavlovian response to the mention of food vied for dominance with their need for bathrooms as they squeezed to the front of the bus where Arnie stood out in the heat, helping each down safely to the parking lot. “Don’t forget to tip your waitress,” the driver said.
In the back, a dark-skinned passenger in black trousers, black dress shoes, and a white short-sleeved shirt draped a beige windbreaker over one arm and joined the end of the queue. Patches of gray accented his black hair at the temples. He stooped to look out the side windows to see his fellow travelers, released from their confinement, making a beeline for the restaurant.
The last out, he stood beside the bus until the driver closed the door and trailed the others into the comfort of the restaurant’s controlled environment. He thought to follow, but dry heat wasn’t an issue for him, and the allure of the gift shop with its adobe façade pulled him in that direction instead.
A blue-and-gray station wagon was parked in front with a license plate emblazoned with PENNSYLVANIA across the top in raised letters. A long way from home, the man thought, remembering the colorful divisions in his new road atlas. A round sticker in the corner of the rear window had the globe and anchor of the United States Marine Corps.
An extended roof on rustic-looking posts shaded the gift shop’s front, keeping the afternoon sun from a long wooden bench and a row of upturned milk crates parked below a wide window. A newspaper dispenser with chipped yellow paint showed photo headlines of yesterday’s celebration for the one-hundredth birthday of the Statue of Liberty and the accompanying article detailing President Ronald Reagan’s meeting with French president François Mitterrand.
The opening of the shop door triggered a small bell attached to a coil of spring steel that shook even after the door was at rest, effectively announcing all arrivals. Inside, a ceiling fan pushed around the odors of new carpet and paint. A row of glass showcases ran down the left side of the room and across the back, breaking to give access to a doorway leading to a back room where the whirl of a smaller fan could be heard.
A couple with two young boys moved past him in a flurry of activity, the parents working to contain the enthusiasm of their kids’ need to flee boredom and see what was next. The door chimed frantically as they left.
The shop featured a moderate selection of commercially made items: porcelain and terra cotta kachina figurines, dream catchers, framed illustrations with the look of ancient petroglyphs, and bows and arrows with colorful fletching for the children. Shelves held Papago and Apache baskets made of tightly coiled grasses and Pueblo polychrome pots. Authentic native clothing decorated with porcupine quills hung on the walls behind the showcases. The visitor let the ambiance of the room wash over him. It was like a museum where everything was for sale. He felt he could spend hours taking it all in.
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br /> A young woman appeared from behind a hanging rack of Navajo blankets. She smiled and waved a hand with a tinkle of bracelets. “Hello,” she said. “Let me know if you have any questions.” The black hair hanging over her shoulders and down her back reflected the fluorescent lights like sun on a crow’s wing. Her Apache features and bronze skin told the visitor that she was from one of the nearby tribes, and she drew his interest as much as any of the artifacts on display.
He waved back. “Thank you,” he said, working hard to get the inflection just right.
He moved slowly along the showcases in her direction, looking at each of the glass shelves inside holding examples of native craftsmanship: turquoise jewelry, polished squash blossom necklaces, and Apache concho belts with bright silver discs. There were Hopi mudheads, bone hairpins, and an Osage quirt made from antler etched with pictographs. A ring of keys lay on top of the nearest showcase, an assortment for house and car attached to a beaded chain that held an empty rifle cartridge. An odd keepsake, he thought. It had a familiar significance to him. It was a military round designed for war: a 7.62-mm NATO. A row of four beaded leather bags on the shelf beneath the keys caught his attention, and he leaned in until his nose nearly touched the top of the case.
Noticing his attention, the young saleswoman came around behind the display case and stood directly across from him. “Can I show you something?”
He touched a finger to the glass over the bags.
She reached inside and lifted one decorated with turtles and lizards encircling a scorpion. He pointed to the right and she moved to the next. He pointed again. At the third he nodded and she removed the bag from the case. Beads depicted a blazing sun sprouting rays of dyed quills with a stylized horse galloping below. On the other side, a gray wolf bayed at a silver moon. A smile spread across his face.
“It’s an Apache spirit bag,” she said. “It holds charms and amulets and anything else important to a warrior’s life.” She looked at his face as she handed him the bag and noticed a starburst scar sprouting lines like a spider’s legs on one cheek.
“Apache?” the man asked carefully.
She nodded. “Yes, this was made right here at White Mountain.”
He set the little bag on the case and fished for the wallet in the pocket of his windbreaker.
The girl checked the paper string tag attached to the rawhide cord. “This one is twenty-four dollars, plus tax.”
The man examined two green bills from his wallet. Their design, color, and colonial portraits were still foreign to him. Unsure, he handed the money to the girl. While she went to the cash register, he held the bag by its cord, letting it spin and transport him to another time and another place.
She returned with his change and placed his purchase in a paper bag printed with a feather motif. “I hope you’ll visit us again,” the girl said.
He smiled across the counter at the young American Indian woman, making the lines of his facial scar bend oddly. “Thank you,” he said with a well-practiced enunciation.
He turned from the counter and the girl called. “Don’t forget your keys.”
The door chimed again and the harried father entered along with a flash of reflected sunlight from the parking lot. “Did I leave my keys here?” he asked.
The salesgirl picked up the keys and jingled them like tiny wind chimes. “These them?”
The father came forward. “Yeah, thanks. I wouldn’t get far without those.”
The customer shifted his purchase and scooped the keys from the girl’s hand with a deft movement before she could protest and met the father along the showcases. He held the keys out, dangling them by the spent cartridge.
The father took hold of the keys while the helpful man still pinched the cartridge between his fingers. “Thank you,” the father said, staring into the man’s dark eyes and taking note of his scarred face. There was something he recognized in the eyes looking back, something shared. Not a familiar face, but a familiar type from his past.
The man released his hold and the cartridge swung free. Then he extended his hand. Hesitantly, the father took it and held on. “You welcome,” the man said, working the words out with some effort, feeling his delivery was not quite right but not certain why.
The father nodded, and the two men released their grips.
The door opened and the boys’ mother leaned in. “Come on, Ray. The boys are making me crazy in this heat.”
The man nodded slowly and followed her out the door.
“Enjoy your spirit bag,” the girl said, breaking the spell of the encounter.
“Yes,” he said, holding up the paper bag. “Yes.” He was on solid ground with “yes.”
The door jingled again and he was back in the Arizona heat, his prize clutched to his chest.
The bus stood alone in the lot; the station wagon was gone. Semis rumbled by on the roadway. A few cars were now parked in front of the restaurant, and a small boy sat on one of the upturned milk crates below the gift shop’s display window worrying a beetle with the toe of his tennis shoe. He looked up as the man came out of the gift shop. The boy’s black hair touched the collar of his T-shirt, and the cuffs on his faded denims were turned up. A small leather bag hung from a rawhide cord around his neck. The man reached into his paper sack and produced his own spirit bag. The boy held his up for comparison and gave it a shake, making the contents rattle. He seemed proud. The man turned his upside down, showing that his was empty.
After examining the stranger’s face closely, the boy dipped into his bag and chose an item by feel, a dark, flat onyx stone with a white starburst in the center radiating lines like spider legs. He smeared it with spit so moisture would enliven the imperfection. The boy held it up and the man took the stone, involuntarily touching his cheek. He cupped the stone in his hand. It seemed an appropriate award for wounds received, an honorable gift, warrior to warrior. Smiling, the boy held his bag up for some reciprocation, but the man just shrugged at his lack of fair exchange. Suddenly remembering, he dug into his pants pocket and felt through the gift shop change. He chose one piece, holding it up for the boy to see; a bronze coin with a hole in the center. One French centime from 1923 once given in payment for a debt he still felt he could never repay. The spoils of one spirit bag returned to another. The boy took the coin and turned it over in his hand. A toothy grin said the trade was acceptable and it disappeared into his bag. The man felt an odd sense of harmony in the universe, the closing of a circle, a needed symmetry. Reaching out, he touched the top of the boy’s head, ruffling his hair.
The sun was hot in the parking lot, and Truong thought it might be interesting to see what an enchilada tasted like.
About the Author
J. M. Graham was born in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, and educated at the University of Pittsburgh and the Ivy School of Professional Art. He enlisted in the Navy in 1965 and served as a combat corpsman with the 2nd Battalion, 5th Marines, in 1967. He was wounded in Operation Essex and evacuated to the Philadelphia Naval Hospital. CBS News reporters covering Essex sent film to New York, and his story was featured on Walter Cronkite’s Evening News. He currently lives and writes in western Pennsylvania.
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