Arizona Moon

by J. M. Graham

  DeLong followed the Chief’s example and sat on his pack. The plants around him moved in and out of filtered gray light, and he felt the responsibility of being the only one watching them. Before, through the other watches, when he lay on the ground awake, he knew that someone else was awake with him. Now the sound of steady breathing told him he was on his own.

  After the flares died during Tanner’s watch, the jungle had returned to its natural hum and drone and still remained unchanged. DeLong knew he would listen to the same sustained litany of the countless species that serenaded Tanner and the Chief, only now the concert seemed to be a command performance for him only. He hoped he would be able to notice if someone was singing out of tune.

  Sau’s attention was drawn to slight noises just ahead. Not as close as he had feared, but close enough that hushed whispers were discernible. He was fairly sure there were two voices, and he signaled as much to the men closest to him. All of the five were near enough to detect the sound and movement for themselves, even Co, who was on the extreme left flank and now knew that he alone would be entering the position from that side. With a little luck, within the hour they would be in a position to strike. They would be close enough to choose their targets. Less than an hour would seal their fate, and not only theirs but the fate of their comrades up above them on the side of the Ong Thu.

  DeLong sat with his M16 across his knees, his right hand clamped on the handgrip, his index finger resting on the side of the trigger. His thumb played with the end of the select fire switch. If he had to, he could flip the switch to full automatic and empty his magazine into the bush in a split second. He could shred the trees with 5.56-mm rounds in the blink of an eye, and his only concern then would be a fresh magazine. He felt along the web belt at his waist for his extras. The M16 had been recently issued to the Marines and came with very few accessories, so everyone carried his magazines in old M14 pouches. They didn’t hold the smaller magazines tightly, but the Corps was famous for making do with what it had. He snapped one of the flaps open and felt inside, touching the top of the magazine so he would know which was the front in case he had to load it in a hurry.

  In training on the ranges at Lejeune and working field problems at Pendleton, you always had a sense of power when you held your weapon. Having it in your hands made you feel prepared and capable, even invincible. And when you added the combined firepower of a squad or a platoon, you had the feeling that nothing could stand against you. But now, sitting in a dark, wet jungle on the other side of the world with his M16 and nearly one hundred rounds of ammunition hanging from his belt, he felt inadequate. He knew he had the potential to do a lot of damage to an enemy, but he still felt exposed and naked. There was a nagging suspicion that what he had might not be enough. If the rifle in his lap was all the protection that stood between him and a ride home in a flag-draped coffin, he wished that it at least felt like more.

  DeLong looked at his watch, safe at home again on his wrist, and tried to calculate the time difference between Vietnam and Milwaukee. He thought it would be late afternoon, a cold afternoon. It was probably snowing there this very minute. It occurred to him that time zones were a silly construct of the human imagination. There was no difference in time. This very second existed all over the planet. At this second his father was probably at work, and whatever he was doing, he was doing it now, not yesterday or tomorrow. His mother was probably picking his sister up at school and laughing and bickering with her over the channel on the car radio. And they were doing it this very second. It seemed somehow comforting that this second existed both here and back in the world and that his family was living it, sharing this individual second with him.

  A remote rumble echoed in the east and grew as a group of Hueys crossed high over the valley, leaping the Ong Thu on their way west. They might be from the base at Marble Mountain or from the Army squadron that bivouacked on empty ground beyond the runway at An Hoa, but whatever their origins, rhythmic thuds from the big turboshaft engines floated down to earth like snow on a Milwaukee lawn and melted into the jungle noises, and DeLong looked up into the trees in a hopeless and futile attempt to see them.

  When he looked down again, the jungle on the mountainside had taken on a new configuration. There seemed to be wet faces in the foliage. He tried to blink the apparitions away, but instead of vanishing, they came on in a rush. In a single deft move, DeLong raised his rifle, flicking the safety lever to full auto. He squeezed the trigger. In that very second, he saw the fullness of his error: the clearing of weapons with Haber on the helicopter; hurriedly slapping in a magazine as the platoon moved away from the LZ; the distraction of the moving column and the rain. He’d never pulled the charging handle, never jacked a round into the chamber. And no matter how hard he squeezed the trigger now, he couldn’t change that.

  The jungle was alive and leaping on him and past him. Strong hands clawed at his face, forcing their way into his mouth, and he bit down hard as a searing pain paralyzed his throat. The gritty sensation of sharp metal ground against his vertebrae and something warm spilled into his lap. His breath rushed out with no chance of returning. In that second, that world-encompassing second that existed here as it did in Milwaukee, Pfc. William DeLong knew he would not see Wisconsin snow again. A surge of anger that would have been voiced with a snarling scream made a wet, airless whisper, and his life’s blood flowed over his hands and wrists and coated his Sears wristwatch, smothering all the seconds that would define the here and now as well as all his seconds to come.

  In that second, that final second for DeLong, two other NVA fell on the sleeping Tanner, smashing the wind from his lungs, and before his gasps could regain the slightest bit of it, they severed everything that made the recovery possible.

  Co waited on the side until Sau and his men sprang forward, then broke cover in long strides. He expected to be giving whatever help might be needed to silence the two enemy sentries, but at the first sounds of struggle a third figure stirred on the ground in front of him. Co instinctively stomped down on the butt stock of a rifle as the American grabbed for it. Instead of aiding the others, he was forced to deal with a sentry on his own, losing precious surprise. Panic seized his chest as the promise of success quickly decayed into failure before his eyes.

  The Marine pulled up hard on the rifle, breaking the stock. He immediately released the weapon and rolled away, came up on one knee, and drove a large knife deep into Binh’s side as he knelt over the sentry against the tree. As Binh’s body curled around the blade, the Marine jerked it free. Binh sank to the ground with a moan. Co, standing over the American, listened to him fill his lungs with air for delivering a scream designed to awaken the entire valley, and he swung the hammer with all his might. The peen met the Marine’s head with a sickening thunk, pitching him onto his side before a single utterance escaped. He lay still.

  Sau grabbed Vo’s arm and fought his own charged nervous system to construct a whisper.

  “Tell Nguyen to go, now,” he hissed, and Vo scrambled up the side of the mountain.

  The unmistakable smell of fresh blood permeated the quiet space that now seemed overly crowded.

  Binh groaned, clutching at his side, and Sau grabbed one of the Marines’ towels and pushed it into the wound. “Can you walk?” he asked.

  Binh nodded, but when he tried to speak, thick red blood gushed through his teeth.

  “Duong. Help me here,” Sau said, and the two reached under Binh’s arms and lifted him to his feet, causing Binh to groan anew. Bloody air bubbles exploded from his nostrils, and Sau knew that the blade had pierced a lung.

  Co picked up one of the Marines’ rifles and started looking for others.

  “Leave them,” Sau said.

  “These weapons are a danger to us,” Co said, holding the rifle out.

  “Not that one.”

  Co looked down at the rifle in his hand. The butt stock was cocked at a strange angle.

  “We must go quickly,” Sau said. “Leave
everything and help with Binh.”

  Reluctantly, Co laid the broken rifle across the legs of the Marine sprawled against the tree and turned to the still form in the weeds. He shoved a shoulder with his foot, rolling the body onto its back and leaned down, knife in hand. A focused beam of moonlight framed the head. Gravity had directed streams of blood from the head wound to illustrate the face, and Co looked down on a savage countenance, half red, the rest streaked with random lines. The blood and the man’s facial structure gave Co the odd impression he was looking at war paint. Then he noticed the leather pouch with its dangling fringe and bright beads. He stood up and pointed down with the tip of his blade.

  “An Indian,” he said.

  Sau and Duong were moving away, supporting Binh while he pressed the soggy towel to his side and wheezed and gurgled with each step. They weren’t listening.

  Co watched them leave then turned back to the body at his feet. “A real Indian,” he said. “Truong will never believe me.” He leaned down again and brought his knife to the Indian’s throat. In one quick move he sliced through the rawhide cord and lifted the beaded pouch free. “A damned Indian,” he said to himself. He hurried to catch up with the others. In less than half an hour the rising sun would push the night from the face of the Ong Thu. The fruition of the long night’s work took less than a minute. A minute full of short, harsh seconds.

  9

  Birds in the highest branches of the canopy began to announce the sunrise to come. Those few tentative voices beckoned to others, and in little time the trees were alive with a celebration of the morning. The Marines of 1st Platoon saw it more as avian braggadocio at having survived yet another night. The birds weren’t saying that a new day was coming, but that a new day was here and they were still alive. It was a point the Marines occasionally felt compelled to make themselves.

  Private First Class Deacon wiped at the mist that clouded the lenses of his glasses. He stood the last watch in his squad, and the cloying moisture at ground level seemed determined to obscure his vision. He reached over and shook the shoulder of the man next to him. Private First Class Franklin blinked awake and leaned up on one elbow.

  “What you want, Deek?” he said.

  Deacon leaned in close and pointed up the mountain with his glasses. “I think I heard some noise up there.”

  Franklin looked up through the moisture-laden air. “What kind of noise?”

  “I don’t know. Like someone fell or something. But more.”

  “Shit. It’s probably just the LP coming in,” Franklin said, rolling onto his back.

  Deacon replaced his glasses, which were already starting to fog up again. “I don’t think so. They wouldn’t come back yet. It’s too dark. Some nervous FNG might light ’em up. And Strader would be warnin’ us his people were comin’ in.”

  Franklin rolled onto his side, facing away. “Strader is gone, Deek.”

  “Well somebody would say something. Blackwell, Middleton, even Burke. Somebody.”

  Franklin rolled back and gave Deacon a stare. “You know what your problem is?” he said, and then continued before Deacon could answer. “You ain’t got no idea how the chain of command works. You and me is both pfcs. When you got something to report, you tell someone that got more rank than you. That way the info goes uphill. When you tell another pfc, the info just goes sideways, and that means it ain’t goin’ nowhere. Plus, you’re telling someone that don’t give a shit and couldn’t do anything if he did.” Franklin rolled away again. “Especially if he just wants to sleep.”

  “You think I should tell Middleton?” Deacon said.

  Franklin raised his head slightly. “That would be my professional advice,” he said and lowered his head again.

  Deacon got to his feet and carefully felt his way to the dark spot where his squad leader slept.

  Middleton, instantly awake, took Deacon in tow and went up the line, going man to man until he found Sergeant Blackwell.

  The sergeant sat up and wiped jungle dew from his face with the towel he used as a pillow.

  “I don’t remember leavin’ a wake-up call with you, Middleton,” he said.

  “Deacon here says he thinks he heard something up the mountain.”

  Deacon chimed in. “It sounded like somebody fell—hard and a lot.”

  “Maybe the LP is coming in and someone slipped.”

  “Too early,” Middleton said, with Deacon nodding in agreement.

  The sergeant looked at his watch. “You tell Burke?” he said. “They’re his people up there.”

  “Not yet,” Middleton said.

  “Well, get up to 3rd Squad and interrupt Burke’s beauty sleep. I’ll be there in a minute.

  Middleton turned to go and Deacon started after him.

  “Where the hell are you goin’?” the sergeant said. “You’re on watch, aren’t you?”

  Deacon stopped. “Yeah,” was all he said.

  “Then get back to it. Middleton can find his way without your help.”

  Deacon seemed disappointed, as though something important that he’d discovered was being taken away. Middleton had already vanished into the darkness, so Deacon just turned and headed back to his squad.

  Middleton made his way to 3rd Squad’s position and shook Burke awake.

  “Don’t tell me,” Burke said. “Diehl left and now I’m the platoon honcho.”

  “No, but that’s a scary thought. My man on watch says he thinks there’s movement up above us on the mountain where your LP is.”

  Burke sat up and set his helmet on his head. “He thinks?”

  “He said it sounded like someone fell down.”

  Burke stood and stepped over to the new guy standing his first watch. “New guy,” he said. “You hear anything up there?”

  Haber sat with his knees drawn up and his rifle gripped tightly in both hands as though an attack was imminent. “I don’t think so,” he said.

  Burke looked to Middleton at his shoulder. “You got one who thinks and I got one who doesn’t.”

  Lieutenant Diehl and Sergeant Blackwell came out of the shadows with Bronsky and his radio close behind. “Burke,” the lieutenant said. “When is your LP due to start back?”

  Burke checked the luminous dial on his watch. “About fifteen minutes,” he said.

  The lieutenant consulted his own watch. “They wouldn’t have started back early, would they?”

  “No, sir. They aren’t suicidal.”

  “Then they wouldn’t be falling down,” the sergeant chimed in.

  “Well . . . ,” Burke said.

  “Well what?” the lieutenant said, looking up into the mist clinging to the side of the mountain.

  “They wouldn’t be falling, but they might get knocked down.”

  Sergeant Blackwell wasn’t known for his patience. “You’re not making any sense, Marine. Spit it out.”

  Burke never liked presenting problems to officers, and it wasn’t any better doing it as a freshly minted squad leader. “The Chief is on that LP, and if he caught one of the others asleep on watch, he might just administer a little Marine Corps justice.”

  The lieutenant reached out and pulled Bronsky close. “Call the other LP in. Tell them not to wait, to get back now.”

  Bronsky took his radio off squelch and reached out to the LP below, covering the mouthpiece with his hand to mask the noise.

  The lieutenant tried to identify the shadows standing around him. “Who is this?” he asked of a dark form.

  “Middleton, sir.”

  “Go back down the line and warn everybody that the LP below is coming in early. And don’t just tell the watches. Make sure everyone knows it.”

  The silhouette that was Middleton dissolved into the night, and the lieutenant turned to Sergeant Blackwell. “I’d like to know what’s going on up there,” he said.

  “Could be nothing. Maybe it’s like Burke said. The Chief was just administering an attitude adjustment.”

  “Maybe,” the lieuten
ant said.

  The sergeant mopped his face with the towel hanging around his neck. “They won’t be expecting anyone climbing up to check on them. It makes for the kind of surprise that ends in a friendly fire incident. The Chief may be a scary son of a bitch, but he’s squared away. If he hears movement coming toward him, he’ll chew it a new asshole. Maybe we should wait until they’re due back.”

  “That’s what’s bothering me. Whatever else the Chief is, he’s sharp and on the ball. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him make any noise, anywhere. He wouldn’t make noise on an LP for any reason.” The lieutenant sensed nervous movement near him. “Burke,” he said.

  “Sir?” Burke answered, a lilt of question in his voice.

  “Take your squad up there and get your people.”

  Burke checked his watch dial again. “You mean now, sir?” he said.

  “Now, Marine,” the lieutenant said.

  Burke swallowed so loudly he was sure it was audible across the valley. “Yes, sir,” he said and turned on his heels. “Mount up, 3rd Squad.”

  There was a flurry of activity as the remaining five members of 3rd Squad gathered their equipment.

  “Am I still on watch?” Haber asked as Burke passed.

  “Not anymore. Get your gear and move out.”

  After Burke gave their marching orders to the rest of 3rd Squad, the lieutenant found him and pulled him aside. “Make sure you all stay sharp. If Charley took the LP, they had a reason, and that would be to hit us on a blind side. I don’t know what you’re walking into, so keep your shit tight.” He watched Burke’s outline waver. “I’ll bet you wish Reach was here.”

  Burke seemed to stiffen. “No, sir. Strader’s a friend of mine. I wouldn’t wish that on him.” A silent pause stretched out to the breaking point. “I just wish I wasn’t.”

  A commiserating chuckle escaped from the lieutenant’s lips as he spoke over his shoulder. “Bronsky. I’ll get the LP’s radio. You go with Burke. And let me know what the hell is going on.”