Arizona Moon. J.M. Graham
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the dumplings in my fingers. I see the steam rising. I taste the onions and pork and mushrooms. The sauce stings my tongue. My eyes water.”
“When I think of all the food you could be dreaming of, food that isn’t sold by any street vendor in the city, I want to cry also. Why not dream of lobster or a juicy filet?”
Pham seemed embarrassed. “Well, ban cuon isn’t the only food in my dreams.”
The tone of the conversation was piquing Truong’s interest, or at least his taste buds. “What other culinary delights invade your sleep?” he asked, as though he were a blind man asking a poet to describe a sunset.
Pham dropped another bit of rice into his mouth. “It doesn’t matter,” he said.
Truong stopped in mid chew. “My salivary glands say it does matter. And make it good. I need a tasty story to go with this rice.”
“You won’t be satisfied,” Pham said.
Truong held up the remains of his rice ball. “Do I look satisfied now? You have my permission to torture my appetite.”
Pham wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Pho,” he said, not daring to look at Truong.
“Pho,” Truong said in disbelief. And after a long pause, “What broth on the noodles?”
Pham sniffed as though the aroma of his dreams were hanging in the air. “I think, beef,” he said.
Truong nodded slowly. His mind was debating with his appetite, and it appeared pho was something they could both work with. “One thing is certain. No one will ever accuse you of having extravagant tastes.”
“I wasn’t describing my tastes, only my unconscious dreams.”
“Well, your unconscious mind is certainly plebeian.”
Pham bit into a hard biscuit and pointed the jagged edge at Truong. “Maybe so, but every cold meal I eat tastes like ambrosia dipped in nuoc mam when I close my eyes.”
Nguyen stopped at the base of their tree and knelt down, placing the butt of his AK-47 in the dirt. Pham and Truong were the unknown quantities in his unit, and he wasn’t comfortable with them pairing up. It had the potential to double the impact of their inexperience. He pointed a finger at Truong. “You stay close to Sau and his group tomorrow. This is a dangerous place and we have a long way to go before we reach the river. We won’t sleep again until we’re north of the Vu Gia.”
“What about me?” Pham asked.
Nguyen fixed Pham with a hard stare. “You’ll be with me.”
Sau and another man came out of the shadows, their faces hovering in the dark above their cartridge vests like ancient masks carved from granite. Nguyen spoke to them in hushed tones. He pointed down the slope, and the two disappeared into the darkness, moving silently through the foliage with practiced efficiency; the wind made more sound in passing. Little communication was needed. They knew what had to be done and how to do it.
Pham and Truong couldn’t help comparing themselves with the other men in the unit, and the comparison made them feel like children. These were men who ate on the run. They didn’t appear to tire, and if the situation demanded it they didn’t stop for sleep or food or water. They could be absolutely motionless for hours or march without rest. It seemed that only death would stop them, and Pham and Truong weren’t sure even that would do it.
Nguyen stood and lifted his rifle. “The sentries are posted, so get some sleep. We’ll be moving before daylight.” With that, Nguyen turned and faded into the night.
Once he was gone, Pham and Truong felt the night close in. Although they knew that the other men were all around them, they heard and saw no one, making the two neophytes feel alone in the jungle. Fear and worry might have kept them awake, but since they came south exhaustion ruled their nights, and they let the darkness flow over them like a warm cloak. Before long, they slipped into a fitful sleep.
First Platoon continued to cut a meandering line through the foothills as the setting sun lengthened the shadows. The point fire team chose their course more by the path of least resistance than to avoid the likelihood of danger. When the light faded to a wisp of existence the lieutenant called a halt, sending Sergeant Blackwell to spread the word up the column to hold position and wait. The Marines immediately knelt or squatted, thankful for the respite. Their clothing and gear were still wet, and they knew to expect an uncomfortable night when they finally went to ground and their body temperatures began to fall.
In the center of the column, the lieutenant glanced at the luminous dial on his watch. He wasn’t interested in the time—there was no schedule to be maintained—the visibility of the dial against his wrist was setting the timetable. When the wrist disappeared and only the dial was visible it would be time to move again. One of the hard lessons learned in jungle combat was never to be caught in your last daylight position when night fell. If it was possible for you to be seen, you assumed you were being watched, and when the night made you invisible, you moved. In a while, the lieutenant reached out and touched Bronsky’s arm, and word went down to Sergeant Blackwell to get the column up and moving again.
If Private DeLong found following the Chief in daylight stressful, following him in total darkness pushed him to the edge of panic. He cursed himself for every slight noise he made, not because he feared he might give away his position but because it masked any sounds coming from the Chief, and he was using his ears to keep track of the Marine ahead of him. Though the air was cooling, sweat poured from his face. He was startled by the hushed voice of Lance Corporal Burke close behind him. “Tighten up the intervals.” Stumbling, DeLong pushed ahead until his outstretched hand met the E-tool hanging from the Chief’s pack. The Chief turned sharply and slapped his hand away. For once DeLong was happy about the darkness because he couldn’t see the expression on the Chief’s face. If the looks he had received during the day were any indication, the one he was getting right now would be downright terrifying.
The going was slow and difficult, with each Marine feeling his way through the jungle as though he were blindfolded. Stumbles and falls were followed by a flurry of curses that covered everything from the stinking country to the Corps to the God responsible for jungles and darkness and all discomfort in general.
The lieutenant knew that moving through the Arizona in the dark was a potentially lethal game of blind-man’s buff, so when he felt their last position was far enough behind them, he called another halt and told the sergeant to set up a night perimeter with the CP in the center. The Marines stripped off their packs, and those who had them dug out jungle utility shirts and put them on. The squads quickly worked out a two-hour watch schedule. Sergeant Blackwell went whispering squad to squad, selecting men for the listening posts that would be set up below and above the platoon. He leaned in close, almost finding his victims by Braille. The LPs were an early warning device designed to save the rest of the unit from deadly surprises. They were the canaries in the coal mine. And though the concept was sound, it it seldom worked out for the canaries.
Third Squad was at the head of the column when they stopped, and in the highest position when the sergeant felt his way into their area. “Burke,” he whispered with as much authority as a whisper could command.
“Over here,” Burke answered.
The sergeant poked blindly into the spot the voice came from until he reached an obstruction wearing a flak jacket. “I need an LP up the mountain about a hundred feet,” he said into the darkness.
“Anyone in particular?”
“It’s your squad,” the sergeant said. “But make it a three-man LP. Send one of the new guys along. He can use the experience, and with three, maybe somebody can get some decent sleep.”
“Send three and make one a new guy. Are you sure it’s my squad, Sergeant?” Burke asked, feeling safely anonymous in the dark.
“Maybe