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Arizona Moon. J.M. Graham
Читать онлайн.Название Arizona Moon
Год выпуска 0
isbn 9781682470725
Автор произведения J.M. Graham
Жанр Книги о войне
Издательство Ingram
Corporal Strader stood in the door and watched his Marine family fall away. Unexpected sadness and overwhelming guilt swept over him as the helicopter moved above the jungle canopy and the arboreal wilderness swallowed up Golf’s 1st Platoon.
The H-34 swung north with the escort close behind. The gunner sat by the door, casually holding the pistol grip on his M60 as it hung down in its mount. He whistled loudly to get Strader’s attention and pointed to one of the jump seats. Strader didn’t want to break his mental connection with his platoon. The crew chief cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted, “Sit down.” Finally, Strader dropped into the seat. The air seemed cooler in the chopper. The rotor wash and speed whipped air currents about the interior, drying the sweat on his face. He noticed the crew chief pointing at him. He raised a defiant chin as if to say, “What the hell do you want now?” The Marine pointed at Strader’s rifle. “Clear that weapon,” he yelled.
Strader lay the M14 across his knees, released the magazine, and ejected the chambered cartridge. The jacketed 7.62-mm round gleamed in the shadowy interior of the helicopter, and he pushed it into the pocket of his flak jacket. The crew chief gave him a thumbs-up and turned back to his window.
In the last year Strader had been ferried about the northern provinces of I Corps many times in choppers like this one. He had flown from the top of the mountain outpost at Nong Son. His squad had dropped into the Phu Loc compound at Liberty Bridge to stop VC sappers from destroying the engineers’ newly completed work. And he went with Sparrow Hawk to Tam Ky when a North Vietnamese Army push overwhelmed Marine defenses there. He might even have flown in this very 34 before, though he didn’t recognize the crew.
The crew chief was sitting in shadow against the bulkhead, but the door gunner sat in a square of bright morning light. The green paint on his flight helmet was so scratched and worn that his name, stenciled in black letters, was illegible. His face seemed marked with acne, but on closer inspection Strader could see that the problem was caused by enthusiasm, not hormones or hygiene. The black spots were specks of cartridge powder burned into the skin, blowback from an overheated M60 barrel known as a cook off. Strader was sure the spots would have faded to mere shadows by the time the gunner was old enough to drink.
Strader leaned back, closed his eyes, and tried to enjoy the ride.
Nguyen Xian Tho and Pham Long moved ahead of their unit to an outcropping that afforded a view of the valley. The distant explosion and sounds of American helicopters had drawn their attention and sent the other men with them to ground. Pham climbed to a higher vantage point, Nguyen’s binoculars swinging precariously from his neck. Nguyen had threatened to make Pham’s life very difficult if he allowed any harm to come to them. Pham concentrated on his hand- and footholds, blocking out his leader’s voice. From the ledge he could see over the jungle canopy in the valley, and he trained the binoculars on the smoke rising in the distance. “May bay truc thang, hai,” he said, indicating that there were helicopters in the valley, two of them.
“Boa xa?” Nguyen asked. How far?
Pham watched one of the helicopters make lazy circles in the distance. “Hai kilometers,” he said, rocking his hand back and forth to indicate the distance was only a rough estimate. He watched until the second helicopter rose from the jungle and continued watching as the two flew east until their sound faded to nothing. “Thuy quan luc chien my,” he said, looking down into Nguyen’s upturned face. Nguyen shrugged and waved him down. So the American Marines were in the valley. It was no concern of his. He had his orders. He was to avoid contact with enemy units and deliver his cargo to cadres in the Quang Nams before the Lunar New Year for the Tet celebration.
Pham climbed down and returned the binoculars to Nguyen, who inspected them thoroughly before replacing them in the canvas case hanging around his neck. Hanoi had made it sound like his new assignment was a promotion to unit commander, but Nguyen felt like he’d been demoted to laborer. He was being sent down Uncle Ho’s trail again, but this time as a coolie.
Before starting south, Nguyen’s men exchanged their North Vietnamese Army uniforms for the oa baba that U.S. troops described as black pajamas. Some wore sandals made from old tire treads, and soft, wide-brimmed hats took the place of their usual pith helmets.
Nguyen and Pham backtracked to where they had dropped their equipment. Pack boards strapped with RPGs and mortar rounds lay next to a recoilless rifle and a Chinese 24 machine gun. Stretched out along the mountainside, the members of the NVA unit were already getting to their feet and hauling the heavy weapons up onto their backs. Co Chien and Sau Thao lifted the bulky machine gun strapped to two long bamboo poles that flexed under its weight. Truong Nghi, another student volunteer like Pham, followed with the gun’s tripod balanced on his shoulders.
Pham helped Nguyen with his pack board of mortar rounds before swinging a mortar tube onto his own shoulder. “Couldn’t we move faster if we went down to level ground?” he asked.
Nguyen ran a belt through his shoulder straps and cinched it tight across his chest. “The valley is heavily mined. We could move faster, but at what cost? I will not take the chance without a local guide. Even this high we are not safe, so step with care. And as you saw, the Americans are inside the trees, and we must move away from them.” Nguyen leaned into his load and started off.
They had come more than forty kilometers from the Laotian border in the last five days, and their burdens were wearing them down. Their backs felt broken and their shoulders were rubbed raw. Each day they appreciated the time spent resting more than the day before. They originally pushed on through the rain, but their progress was so slow and the falls so frequent that it was decided that waiting out the downpours was wiser than losing a man to injury. Anyway, they had time.
“It’s good to know our leader is concerned for our safety,” Truong said, coming alongside Pham.
“Don’t be a fool, Truong. His concern is for the cargo.”
Truong moved close to Sau so he could speak unheard. “Is it true that the Americans call this area Arizona?”
Sau turned his head, trying to keep pace with Co so he wouldn’t push or be pulled. “I’ve heard Nguyen say so.”
“Why would they do that? I’ve read about their Arizona. How could this place remind them of it?”
Sau tried to shrug. “I don’t know, Truong. The Americans think they are cowboys, so maybe they also think there are Indians here.”
Truong dropped back a few paces, giving the concept some consideration. “I think they’re right about that,” he said. “There are Indians here. And we are the Indians.” As an avid reader of western novels published in America, he felt happy somehow to be saying that. He suddenly experienced a surge of pride. In all his readings, he had never identified with the cowboys in the stories he loved so much, even though they were the main characters and obviously the intended heroes. He always thought of himself as one of the Indians.
The H-34 lowered gently onto the interlocking metal panels that Seabees had sledge-hammered together to make the runway at An Hoa combat base. On a rise overlooking the runway, a Marine air controller in a tower watched from behind a ring of sandbags as Strader jumped from the cargo door, the panels banging under his boots. The door gunner sat in the door with his legs dangling. He handed Strader his backpack. “Where are you headed now?” he said.
Strader swung the pack over one shoulder. “Pennsylvania.”
The door gunner laughed. “That’s a little outside our range. I think you’ll have to