Arizona Moon

by J. M. Graham

  Nguyen held up his AK with one hand on the pistol grip, pointing it like an awkward handgun at the barely visible tree trunk in the distance. “I’m not asking for opinions. We are finished—” He felt the bite of the distant bark before he heard it, the pain traversing his chest from one armpit to the other, passing through his body like a flaming comet, burning his life away, engulfing his very existence in fire. Every muscle in his body tensed, encasing his torso in a spasm of agony, a contraction sealing inside the destruction that was tearing him apart. His legs buckled, and only Pham’s quick hands stopped him from hitting the ground as dead weight.

  His people were all firing their weapons now, but they seemed far away. Pham’s shimmering face hovered above him, and though his lips were moving, no sound reached Nguyen’s ears. He felt so tired. Maybe he would rest for just a minute. His peripheral vision contracted into black edges. Just a little rest so he could catch his breath.

  32

  Strader slumped back behind the cover of the tree trunk. The firing from the jungle was coming at a madly increased level, smacking the dead tree, tossing chunks of soil, and ripping the air over their heads. The sudden torrent seemed to have a wild emotion behind it. Strader looked at the expended shell casings spread about as though a particular one should stand out as unique. The Chief pointed at one with the tip of his knife. When Strader picked it up, the brass felt warm in his palm and he held it tightly, letting the warmth make a memory impression on his skin before he slipped it back into the pocket it came from.

  Bullet strikes were pounding everywhere, and the look Strader gave the Chief left no doubt that he had no solution. There was no next move. They were back in the air above the valley in the dying helicopter looking at each other through eyes short on future.

  The Chief forced a smile and raised his twisted voice above the noise. “Sounds like you got someone’s attention. You better go before they get here.”

  The KA-BAR stood in the ground where Strader had pushed it and he jerked it free. “Well, when the bastards come I can always blame everything on you.”

  The Chief’s grin looked genuine. “I would expect nothing less of a white man.”

  “I guess you’ll spit in Chuck’s eye?”

  “I’ll spit in all your eyes.”

  The details of Strader’s surroundings filled his mind. The smells, the sounds, the feel of this place in this land where he was always too tired because the days were too long and the nights even longer, the weather was too hot and too wet and too humid, the ground was too muddy or too dusty, and the flora was too thick and too sharp and too green. And all of it was too far from home and ending in a life too short. “In the valley you said we should pick our battles, choose what we could win. Well, this is a no-win. I say we run for it.”

  “You run. I’m staying.”

  “Are you telling me you can’t run or you won’t? Because I’m not buying that ‘can’t’ bullshit again.”

  “I’m saying that I’d rather get lunched out fighting than running.”

  “Is that more code of the Apache warrior? Well, I say fuck that.” Strader stabbed at the air with the KA-BAR. “When I say ‘go’ we crawl to that tree with the split trunk and then start running.”

  “You run your way, I’ll run mine.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  A trickle of blood from the Chief’s nose spilled across his upper lip, and he smeared it with a wipe of his hand. “I wouldn’t get far. At least I can keep them busy. You’ll have a chance to get clear.”

  Strader’s face showed his exasperation “Cut the shit, Geronimo. We’re getting out of here together if I have to drag you by the short hairs.”

  Instead of being insulted, the Chief smiled. “You got it right.”

  Strader struggled to make sense of the Chief’s words but failed.

  “Geronimo,” the Chief said with an air of pride. “He was Apache. One of ours. You got the right tribe.”

  Strader’s anger intensified like steam pressure looking for a release valve. He pointed the KA-BAR at the Chief with a menace that said if he couldn’t bring the Chief back he would at least bring back his head. “I’ll call you Geronimo or Indian Joe or fucking Tonto if it gets you moving.”

  The Chief’s smile hardened. He set the long blade of his knife across his thigh. “Don’t make me forget that we’re friends.”

  Strader grabbed the Chief’s wrist and pointed to the target tree with his own knife. “Head for that damned tree, and I mean now.” Movement caught his eye, between the splayed legs of that distant tree, something green and familiar. He thought he was hallucinating, but other flecks of movement in the background drew his attention, and then Franklin’s face rose from the tree’s crotch, aiming his weapon. Strader grabbed a fistful of the Chief’s T-shirt and pulled him over. “Get down.”

  The jungle behind them exploded in gunfire. Franklin’s single M16 snarled through a full magazine and was joined by others in his fire team, ripping at the air, drowning the enemy fire. Within seconds a full squad was pouring everything they had into the shadows beyond the downed tree, making Strader and the Chief hug the ground and hope that the excitement of the moment wouldn’t spoil the Marines’ aim.

  Though still tense, Strader couldn’t seem to get the smile off his face. He’d thought he was climbing the gallows stairs to his own execution, but once again fate took a hand, and the relief of that was showing involuntarily across his face. He was surprised he wasn’t laughing out loud.

  All the fire was one-sided now, and he could see the squad’s fire teams moving forward, leapfrogging, covering each other’s movements. Franklin’s fire team reached the downed tree first and, leaning against the trunk, fired into the trees on the other side. Middleton’s voice was audible above the noise, pushing his teams, while Sergeant Blackwell bellowed orders from behind. When the second fire team reached the tree, they climbed over and kept going.

  Franklin looked down at Strader. “What the hell are you smiling about, shithead? The sergeant is gonna kick your young ass.”

  “I don’t have a problem with that,” Strader said, still feeling the silly grin tightening his cheeks.

  Middleton came to the trunk, running in a stoop, waving the third fire team around the exposed root end. “Get your team moving, Franklin,” he said, filling the space Franklin vacated as his team crawled over the tree and followed the others. “So, what’s new Ray?”

  The release valve Strader needed had arrived, and he felt a welcome draining of tension like a deflating balloon. He just kept smiling.

  “You think this is funny, you crazy bastard?”

  “I’m just glad to see you,” Strader said, finding his voice.

  Middleton looked around at the shattered bits of tree and spent brass on the ground. “I’ll bet,” he said, slapping Strader’s shoulder. He looked over at the Chief leaning against the tree like he was relaxing at a picnic. “Chief, you’ve looked better.”

  The Chief focused his good eye on the squad leader. “I can’t say the same about you.”

  A voice came from behind, and Sergeant Blackwell strolled up to the tree as though he were crossing a drill field. Bronsky, Pusic, and the doc were close on his heels. “Middleton, break up this circle jerk and get after your people.”

  Middleton matched Strader’s smile tooth for tooth then disappeared over the tree.

  Sergeant Blackwell didn’t bother to duck down. It was always his policy not to show the enemy he could be intimidated. He looked down on the two worn Marines and winced at the Indian’s appearance. “Doc, take a look at the Chief.”

  “Moon,” Strader corrected. No one paid attention.

  Doc Brede knelt and looked first into the Chief’s good eye and then at the swollen slit that was the other. He noticed bloodstains that he thought were from the Chief’s dripping nose spotting his T-shirt front but pulled the shirt up anyway. Numerous punctures from shrapnel peppered the Chief’s torso, and the doc moved the
beaded bag aside for a better look. The Chief grabbed it away. Doc Brede tore open the top of a demo bag full of battle dressings and chose one labeled Abdominal Bandage. “I see you found your leather bag,” he said, pressing the big sterile square to the Chief’s chest.

  The Chief managed a smile. “It’s always in the last place you look.”

  The doc just shook his head.

  Bronsky knelt down also, taking the load of the radio off his shoulders. “How do you feel, Chief?” he said, trying to show real concern but missing the mark.

  “I feel like throwing up, but then I usually do when I see your ugly face.”

  “You see?” Bronsky complained. “He always busts my balls.” Bronsky struggled to his feet and moved a few feet away, leaning back and letting the tree take the weight of his heavy pack board.

  While the corpsman tied the bandage leads around his body, the Chief looked up at the sergeant. “I didn’t do it,” he said with as much indignant conviction as he could muster.

  Sergeant Blackwell waited before answering, listening to Middleton’s squad firing in the trees, everything going out, nothing incoming. “I know,” he said. “Why do you think I’m here?”

  The Chief hooked a thumb in Strader’s direction. “I figured you came for young Raymond here.”

  The sergeant didn’t bother looking. “Who, Reach? Hell, he ain’t here. He’s back at An Hoa packing his seabag, trying on his civvies, decidin’ which seat he wants on the freedom bird. He’d have to be a damned fool to be here.” He finally turned his attention to Strader. “Are you a fool, Marine?”

  The relief of the squad’s arrival had drained much of Strader’s residual energy, leaving him with hardly any to form a stink eye, especially with the smile an uncontrollable fixture, but he managed.

  Pusic tucked himself in behind the trunk, unsure of what he was supposed to do, where he should go. He decided this was as good a spot as any.

  The firing was dying out in the trees, and from the sound it was getting farther away.

  Blackwell noticed too. “I better rein those boneheads in before they cross the DMZ. Come on, Bronsky, get the lead out. Pogue, you stay here.” He gave Strader a long, hard look, nodding all the while. “And shit-can the grin,” he said, knowing the toothy smile would follow him over the tree and into the noisy distance.

  Pusic didn’t know whether to feel fortunate or abandoned. If there was strength in numbers, he wanted to be with the largest number, but he was in no position to make demands. He could see Strader and the Chief looking him over as though he were some rare jungle creature, and in fact he did feel like a rare thing here, deep into his tour but as inexperienced as an FNG, outside his cloistered position insulated by forms and files that were the clerical by-product of this war. This ground was the jagged point of the war’s industry where the product was made, and he was not comfortable seeing the process, much less being a part of it.

  Strader spoke over Brede’s back. “Did I forget to sign something, Pusic?” The Chief turned his attention back to the doc’s labors as though Pusic was so insignificant that he was beneath notice.

  “Very funny,” Pusic said. “Gantz sent me to find you.”

  “He sent you . . . to find me. Why?”

  Pusic looked away, wondering if he should chance a peek over the bullet-riddled trunk, feeling there might be less danger on the other side of the tree. “I was just the first one he saw.” Expediency was a safe harbor from culpability.

  “I know how that feels,” Strader said, addressing anyone and anything within earshot.

  In the trees beyond them, hidden Marine voices barked orders and directed movements, little sputters of firing snapping away at unseen targets. As usual, the Vietnamese pulled back and left the jungle so empty that it held only frustration for anyone hoping to find evidence that they were ever there. Pusic chanced an eye above the trunk, but there was nothing ahead but hollow voices and shadows. He shrank back behind the protection of the dead tree.

  The doc knotted the ties over the massive dressing and pulled the T-shirt back down, making the Chief look even more barrel-chested. “I can’t give you any morphine, Chief,” he said. “Not with a head wound.” He repacked his bag and slung it on his shoulder.

  The Chief repositioned his spirit bag over the battle dressing under the shirt and patted the pronounced lump. “No sweat, Doc. I have all I need.”

  A sudden burst of shots in the distance was followed by Middleton’s voice trying to get some control of his people. The weapons were again of mixed origin, and another voice, strained and high-pitched, called for a corpsman. “Gotta go,” the doc said and was over the tree in an instant, sprinting toward the noise.

  Pusic watched the corpsman go with rising horror. He was used to working in manpower figures, and he knew a 25 percent reduction in personnel when he saw it, especially when it was personnel needed to keep him alive. Everything in Pusic’s being told him to follow. The sergeant had said to stay, but his confidence in Blackwell’s concern for his personal safety wasn’t very high. Gantz was only interested in finding Strader, and here Strader was, safe and sound; mission accomplished. “Doc, get back here,” he said, trying to be heard and not heard at the same time. He looked at Strader and the Chief sitting there in relative comfort smiling at his panic.

  The exchange in the distance grew more intense and came from higher on the mountain, and hurried voices filled the spaces between shots, trying to marshal efforts and concentrate the needed response.

  “Don’t sweat it, pogue.” Strader’s unwavering smile was unnerving Pusic.

  “What do you mean, don’t sweat it? We’re stuck here in the middle of nowhere with just two weapons between us.”

  Strader’s smile took on a sinister bent. “Think again.” He held up the M14 as an offering to the god of impotence. “Empty,” he said. As proof he pulled the magazine free and slapped it back in with a hollow clack. “I’ve fired my last shot in Vietnam.”

  Pusic had a recurring nightmare in which he found himself in the field alone, the last survivor of an unknown unit, surrounded by invisible enemies. He would awaken with a start, drenched in sweat, struggling to recognize something familiar that would put him back into his partitioned corner of the company office. The whirl of the fan pushing the dark air around usually provided the rescue. Now he was living the nightmare with no chance of a cool reprieve. He hazarded another look over the trunk, hoping to see Marine faces returning, but instead saw only shadows full of ugly noise.

  On the mountainside above the dead tree, not fifty yards away, three black-clad figures moved like shadows themselves, bent over their weapons. Pusic ducked down out of sight. The invisible phantoms of his dreams were there in the flesh, peopling his waking nightmare.

  “Strader,” Pusic said with undisguised urgency in his whisper. “Look.”

  The expression on Pusic’s face told Strader his attention was genuinely needed. Above him three figures moved tree to tree with military precision. He grabbed Pusic’s collar and pulled him close. “They’re moving in behind the squad,” he said through clenched teeth.

  Pusic looked back dumbfounded, as though he’d expected something more from Strader but wasn’t sure what.

  Strader’s face was inches away from his, and the smile was finally gone. “Stop them.”

  Pusic heard the vehemence in Strader’s voice. It was another dream gone bad, an unlikely request in an impossible situation.

  “Do it now, Marine.”

  Pusic slipped his M16 onto the trunk and peered over the sights. The trio was still moving, well within reach, even closer now. His breaths were in a race with his heartbeats, and his hands felt wet where he held the weapon. He felt ill.

  Strader moved in close. “Get control. Breath easy.” He looked over Pusic’s shoulder, trying for a similar sight picture. “Listen to me. Breathe. Okay, now breathe again. Slowly. Select fire on single. Hit the one nearest cover first, then the others.

  Pusic tried
to swallow but his mouth was too dry.

  “Breathe in. Now let some out . . . and do it.”

  Two of the unsuspecting wraiths were in the open with one just passing behind a tall tree with a trunk wide enough to conceal him completely. Pusic positioned the front ramp sight at the edge of the tree, and when the Vietnamese stepped out, he squeezed the trigger exactly the way every range DI instructed. The man dropped as though he was following the dictates of target protocol. The others ducked, unsure of where the shot came from, and with Strader growling “lead man” in his ear, he fired again. They were still in plain sight, and the lead man pitched onto his side. The third bolted for the cover of the trees behind him only to be knocked over by the next round. He was up in an instant, moving to higher ground. Pusic could hear Strader screaming “fire” like a man possessed. The next round found its target, putting the black uniform down again.

  It seemed over, but Strader slapped the back of Pusic’s helmet. “Again,” he said. “Hit them all again, and keep firing until I tell you to stop.”

  There didn’t seem to be any movement, but Pusic fired into the last man again, then the first, and then the second, again and again. Their bodies jerked but went back to a stillness that filled him with both relief and dread. He kept squeezing the trigger even after the magazine was empty, moving the sights from body to body, not seeing but feeling the imaginary hits until Strader pulled him around. “What?” Pusic said, with more force than he intended. He didn’t know why, but he was suddenly angry at the world and everyone and everything in it.

  “Stop,” Strader said, his voice trailing off. “Just stop.”

  Pusic slid down behind the tree, cradling the M16 in his lap. When Strader lifted it away, he didn’t protest or even show that he noticed. He didn’t move when one of the magazine pouches on his belt was snapped open and the empty magazine in the rifle was replaced. When Strader pulled the charging arm back and let it loose, the metallic clack drew his attention and he held out his hands with beckoning fingers.

  Strader set the safety and returned the rifle. “You okay, Killer?” Strader asked, anointing the clerk with the kind of spontaneous nickname that followed such baptisms.