Arizona Moon. J.M. Graham
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came out soft as velvet, but like his Apache forebears he was thrifty with words, and no one in the platoon could ever remember hearing him laugh.
Born into a warrior clan in the remote Cibecue community on the White Mountain Reservation in Arizona, his warrior ethic had led him to another warrior clan—the U.S. Marines. He had no interest in saving the Vietnamese from themselves or defeating communism or propping up the domino theory. His enlistment was the fulfillment of an ancient mandate. It was simply a matter of metallurgy: he was forging an Apache manhood, and the crucible was Vietnam.
“Chief. Go help Franklin set charges on those trees, and go easy on the C-4. I just want them down, not vaporized.”
The Chief looked out into the clearing.
“You hear me, Chief?”
“Yes, General,” the Chief said, lifting the demo bag and pulling the strap over his helmet.
“I’m not a damned general, Chief.”
The Chief started into the clearing. “And I’m not a chief, sir.”
Bronsky stifled a laugh but couldn’t suppress a smile. “I guess he’s the sensitive type, too, sir.”
The lieutenant checked his watch, a black-faced chronograph he’d picked up at the PX in Da Nang. “Tell him that burning the company shitters for a week could put a nice crust on that sensitivity.”
“Sir, pfcs don’t tell anybody anything; it’s our only perk. And Marines who want to stay healthy don’t tell the Chief anything he don’t wanna hear. I think the only reason he joined the Crotch and came to Vietnam is because he didn’t get the chance to kill cowboys in the Old West.” Bronsky watched the Chief kneel next to Franklin with a coil of det cord in one hand and a long, wide-bladed knife in the other that he used to cleave low branches. “Once when he was feeling talkative, he told me that if I ever saw him with paint on his face, I should run.”
It was the lieutenant’s turn to smile.
“He was serious, sir. That Indian is fuckin’ crazy.”
Sergeant Blackwell sent the last Marine who emerged from the jungle to a position on the left and returned to the lieutenant. “We expect to be here long, sir?”
Diehl glanced at his watch again. “We’ll be gone in less than ten minutes. Better get the 3rd Squad leader up here quick.”
The sergeant checked his own watch, mentally marking the spot where the minute hand would be when they were moving again. “Strader won’t like this.”
“That’s the great thing about the system we have in the Corps. He doesn’t have to like what I say, but he damned well has to do it.”
Along the left side of the LZ, 3rd Squad were shedding their heavy equipment. Bulky flak jackets with their layered fiberglass plates lay open so the air could dry sweat-soaked linings. Marines stripped to the waist moved in and out of the heavy brush. Cpl. Raymond Strader, the squad leader, moved among them. His pack was off, but he wore his flak jacket and helmet. A thirty-day countdown calendar drawn on one side of his camouflage helmet cover had most of the days scratched out. On the other side was a likeness of a miniature helmet dangling a pair of jungle boots that trod on the words “short timer.”
“Reach, how long you think we’ll be here?” one of 3rd Squad asked as he passed. Some of the platoon were given monikers that suited their jobs, personalities, skills, or even physical characteristics. Corporal Strader was “Reach” because, as the designated platoon sniper, he could reach out and touch the enemy wherever he could see them. Instead of the M16 that had been newly issued to the Marines in March, Strader still carried the old M14, chambered for the larger 7.62-mm NATO round. It was heavier, but he preferred the feel of a warm wooden stock to the hollow plastic of the M16, and unlike the 16, the 14 was reliable.
“Don’t get comfortable,” he answered. “Knowing the LT, we’ll be saddled up and moving before the supply chopper lifts off.”
One of the Marines had his pants down around his ankles while he pissed into the tangled root system of a huge strangler fig that completely obscured its host tree. “Hey, Reach. How short are you now?”
“Shorter than what you have in your hand, Tanner, and nothing’s shorter than that.”
“You wish you packed my gear.”
Strader pointed to the ground where the fig and the tree were locked in a struggle. “I’ll be back in the world before the piss on your boots dries.”
Strader was universally envied in the platoon. Not because of his experience or the responsibility he shouldered as a squad leader, but because he was coming to the end of his tour of duty. He was what everyone longed to be; he was short.
A Marine holding his M16 over his shoulder by the barrel like a baseball bat pushed through the brush. “Reach. Blackwell is looking for you.”
“I’m not hard to find, Burke. I’m right here in Vietnam.”
Burke turned back the way he came. “I think the lieutenant wants you most ricky-tick.”
Sergeant Blackwell shoved through the foliage from the clearing side, letting midmorning sunlight in to wash over the men of 3rd Squad. “Strader, Lieutenant Diehl wants you at the CP back where we crossed the creek.”
“I’m just getting my squad set up. Give me five—”
“I ain’t givin’ you squat, Corporal. The lieutenant wants you now, not five minutes from now. And take your gear. If Victor Charley decides we ain’t welcome on his side of the river, we may have to didi mau, and I ain’t comin’ back for your shit.”
Strader walked a few paces past a rotting stump blanketed with moss, snatched up his pack by one strap, and slung it over his shoulder. “Did he say what he wanted?”
Sergeant Blackwell gave Strader a look that said patience was being tested. “As a matter of fact, he did. He said he wanted you.”
“Eat the apple but fuck the Corps,” Strader said, heading back toward the lieutenant’s position.
Strader stood just under six feet tall, and the heat and mountainous terrain of Vietnam had whittled his weight down to a respectable 165. His blonde hair was cropped close, not in the high-and-tight Marine Corps style that might get him mistaken for a lifer, but close enough that what hair was left didn’t create a heat issue. Any career Marine could see that Strader was just passing through. He had no plans to climb the NCO ranks or maverick himself into an officer. Like most of the men in 1st Platoon, his dreams were of life after the Corps, if there was to be any.
In fact, Strader had never planned to join the Marines at all. After high school, he spent a year working part-time jobs, raising hell with his friends, and playing Russian roulette with the Selective Service Board. One day the morning mail included greetings from his benevolent country and an invitation to become a member of the U.S. Army. It wasn’t a suggestion. He had fourteen days to get his affairs in order and deliver himself to the Federal Building in Pittsburgh. The problem had a limited number of solutions: there was no chance of a college deferment, his job wasn’t considered necessary to the national defense, and he hated the winters in western Pennsylvania, so the ones in Canada were out of the question. The only thing open to him was a verified prior commitment. The Army couldn’t claim you if you were already a member of another branch of the armed services. So a week before his report date, Strader, Raymond C., entered that same Federal Building and walked into the recruiting offices off the main lobby. His goal was to sign up with someone other than the Army, and for as little time as possible.
Small, cramped cubicles surrounded a large room, each partition stenciled with the name of a designated branch of the military and papered with brightly colored posters that made being a member of that particular service seem fun, exciting, and above all, patriotic. Strader’s first thought was to find a spot in one of the reserve units, but as the petty officer in the Navy cubicle said, after choking back a laugh, “Unless people