Arizona Moon - J.M. Graham

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the trees, pushing in piercing shafts of artificial light at oblique angles. The upper valley was a stark, gray tableau with the only movement the flare rocking peacefully under its silk canopy. Anything in the open that moved would be picked out by the eerie light and become a target for Hotel’s squad. But there was no firing. As the flare’s light began to fade, a second round sailed north from An Hoa, bathing the valley in a fresh glare, and a new parachute began its tranquil descent.

      “I think the VC broke contact, sir,” Bronsky said.

      The lieutenant moved back to his sleeping position and stretched out. “Switch back to our freq, and stay sharp. Our LP below may get some movement later.”

      “Yes, sir,” Bronsky said, and clipped the handset to the strap ring on his helmet to keep it close to his ear.

      The artillery compound at An Hoa was far enough from the barracks area that the voice alert for a fire mission wasn’t audible, but the report of the big 155-mm guns jolted the earth and the concussion shook the screening on the huts. Strader was asleep under a poncho liner on his corner cot when the first round slapped him awake. He was on his feet looking across the runway before the shot was halfway to its target. Being awakened by the muzzle blast of a 155 was akin to being struck by lightning, and Strader stood vibrating from his scalp to his toenails. When the flare burst open he could see from the distant glow that it had been called in far north of his 1st Platoon and he relaxed. There were other sleepers in the building, and a voice came out of the darkness. “Reach, you think your guys stepped in some shit?” The first flare dimmed and the second round’s shockwave swept over the building.

      “No. It’s just illumes headed out toward the bridge.” He waited to see if the illumination rounds were followed by a flurry of high explosive rounds, but the base was quiet, and after a while he knew that the gun crews were standing down. Strader flopped back on the cot and pulled the poncho liner up under his chin. “I think they’re okay,” he said.

      After the last flare extinguished, the five NVA waited until they were sure there would be no response from the Americans on the hill below them. Finally, they raised themselves up as one and began inching downward again. Their progress was now being determined by the density of the clouds that drifted across the face of the moon. When their surroundings were plunged into total darkness, they chanced movement. When the nimbus clouds thinned to a wispy translucency, the five stayed frozen in their spots, reluctant to even blink their eyes. They were close now, and their progress was agonizingly slow. Each man fought against the adrenaline trying to gain control of his system and the searing pain from back muscles crying out for relief.

      With no way to pinpoint the enemy position, their fear was that they would stumble into it without warning, so each time they stopped, they strained their ears in hope of picking up any sound that could provide direction. But each time they heard only the voices of the jungle. After a particularly long period of obstructed moonlight allowed a few tentative paces in succession, the cloud cover ended abruptly and the five turned to stone.

      Perched on his upturned pack, the Chief held out the watch and waited for a break in the clouds. Finally, the moon cleared and a shaft of light touched the crystal face. Leaning over, he gave a tug on DeLong’s bloused trouser leg. When the new guy sat up, he pushed the watch into his hand. “It’s your watch,” the Chief said.

      DeLong dragged a hand over his face as though he were wiping away four hours of sound sleep. He wasn’t sure if the Chief would be fooled or would even care, but he felt the subterfuge was worth the effort. “Yeah, that’s mine,” he said.

      The Chief leaned in close so his face was nearly touching DeLong’s. Even in the diminished light DeLong could see the intimidating spark of intolerance in the Chief’s eyes. “It’s your turn to stand watch,” the Chief said, with emphasis.

      “Oh, yeah. Okay. I’m awake, I’m awake,” DeLong said, getting onto his knees and immediately regretting the move as the soggy jungle floor soaked his legs.

      The Chief turned away and stretched out in his earlier spot.

      DeLong glanced at Tanner asleep against the tree. He imagined having to awaken the Chief because of some noise or movement he couldn’t identify, and he solemnly swore to himself that in that event, he would rouse Tanner first, no matter what.

      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

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