Читать книгу Arizona Moon - J.M. Graham - Страница 15

8

Tanner was sitting in the bowl of his upturned helmet, his back against one of the trees. The helmet rim dug into his cheeks, but at least his ass was off the wet ground, and the irritation was enough to keep him from nodding off. The jungle throbbed with the squeaks and squeals of countless insects, broken occasionally by the distant screech of a predator finding prey. Tanner let the noise feed his mind. The primeval tune played over and over until he was sure that any sound that didn’t fit the natural track would draw his attention. He kept a hand on the grip of his M16 waiting for that sound.

The Chief lay a few feet away with his legs crossed and his arms folded across his chest like he was asleep at a picnic. His breathing was so shallow as to be imperceptible, and his face was a mask of serene composure. Tanner knew he wouldn’t snore or twitch or even change position until his watch.

Just beyond Tanner’s feet, DeLong lay on his side with his knees hiked up and his arms pulled inside his flak jacket in an attempt to preserve body heat. He lay still and tried to keep his eyes closed, but he couldn’t sleep. It was his first night in the bush. The end of his first day, his first long, miserable day, and it was so new and alien that he couldn’t imagine a year of days like it. His occasional glances at Tanner and the Chief weren’t meant to reassure himself that he wasn’t alone, but to have visual proof that becoming accustomed to the life of a grunt was possible. He tried not to move, so the others wouldn’t know he was awake. Spending the night on a lonely LP in a Vietnam jungle shouldn’t be something that would make a Marine lose sleep, even if it was a first night, on his first LP, in his first jungle.

The five men spaced themselves in an irregular line and, on Sau’s command, faded slowly into the undergrowth. They would feel their way with their fingers and toes, slipping through the leafy stalks and branches with no more disturbance than a slight breeze would make. Since plants were less forgiving at their bases, they would remain on their feet for as long as possible. When they were close to the enemy they would be forced to crawl, slicing the plant stalks close to the ground with their knives. It was a game of inches. The closer they got to the target, the slower they would move; in the end, their progress would barely be measurable.

Though Sau was certain how this night would unfold, he had no doubt that he had selected men who knew what to do and how to do it.

After two hours Sau’s men had covered half the estimated distance to their target, but they suddenly stopped and squatted in unison when a distant exchange of small arms fire erupted to the north. To the educated ear, the pops and cracks of the battle told the story. The gunfire echoed across the valley from some dark spot beyond the terminus of the Ong Thu. That nothing larger was introduced told Sau that the clash was taking place some distance from any American compound. He suspected that elements of the R-20th Doc Lap were plying their trade against Marines from one of the outposts at the bridge. The moisture-laden air and the thick foliage made it difficult to determine a precise distance. What sounded far away might be deceptively close. All the five could do was sit on their heels and wait for a reaction from below.

After giving the Chief a furtive nudge with the barrel of his rifle, Tanner weathered a contemptuous glare and then handed over DeLong’s watch. The two sat together listening to the gunfire.

“Sounds like Hotel Company out at Phu Loc,” Tanner whispered.

The Chief looked at the watch then stuffed it into the breast pocket on his flak jacket. “Maybe.”

Tanner leaned back against the tree and tilted his helmet down over his eyes. “Get some, Hotel,” he said to no one in particular.

DeLong thought that pretending to sleep through a firefight, even a distant one, might be a bit transparent, so he raised his head a little and looked at the Chief.

The Chief turned his head slowly. “It don’t mean nothin’ to us,” he said and turned back to the mountain.

DeLong wanted to remind the Chief to take care of his watch, but instead he lowered his head and went back to his make-believe sleep.

Bronsky sat with the radio handset to his ear monitoring the frequencies bouncing around north of their position. The sporadic chatter of gunfire interrupted the quiet slumber of the valley. The lieutenant knelt at his side.

“What’s going on?” Diehl said.

Bronsky listened intently to the handset then turned to the lieutenant. “A night ambush out of Phu Loc made contact. Sounds like a squad of Hotel’s 3rd Platoon.”

“How serious?”

“I think it’s all one-sided now. They’re on the horn to An Hoa, but they ain’t requesting any medevac.”

The distant firing petered out and was followed almost immediately by the boom of man-made thunder. A hushed swish and a loud pop left an illumination flare dangling from its parachute over the valley. The empty canister spun in whooping somersaults on its fall to earth as the harsh glare like an arc welder’s torch stabbed through 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 and laughing and bickering with her over the channel on the car radio. And they were doing it this very second. It seemed somehow comforting that this second existed both here and back in the world and that his family was living it, sharing this individual second with him.

A remote rumble echoed in the east and grew as a group of Hueys crossed high over the valley, leaping the Ong Thu on their way west. They might be from the base at Marble Mountain or from the Army squadron that bivouacked on empty ground beyond the runway at An Hoa, but whatever their origins, rhythmic thuds from the big turboshaft engines floated down to earth like snow on a Milwaukee lawn and melted into the jungle noises, and DeLong looked up into the trees in a hopeless and futile attempt to see them.

When he looked down again, the jungle on the mountainside had taken on a new configuration. There seemed to be wet faces in the foliage. He tried to blink the apparitions away, but instead of vanishing, they came on in a rush. In a single deft move, DeLong raised his rifle, flicking the safety lever to full auto. He squeezed the trigger. In that very second, he saw the fullness of his error: the clearing of weapons with Haber on the helicopter; hurriedly slapping in a magazine as the platoon moved away from the LZ; the distraction of the moving column and the rain. He’d never pulled the charging handle, never jacked a round into the chamber. And no matter how hard he squeezed the trigger now, he couldn’t change that.

The jungle was alive and leaping on him and past him. Strong hands clawed at his face, forcing their way into his mouth, and he bit down hard as a searing pain paralyzed his throat. The gritty sensation of sharp metal ground against his vertebrae and something warm spilled into his lap. His breath rushed out with no chance of returning. In that second, that world-encompassing second that existed here as it did in Milwaukee, Pfc. William DeLong knew he would not see Wisconsin snow again. A surge of anger that would have been voiced with a snarling scream made a wet, airless whisper, and his life’s blood flowed over his hands and wrists and coated his Sears wristwatch, smothering all the seconds that would define the here and now as well as all his seconds to come.

In that second, that final second for DeLong, two other NVA fell on the sleeping Tanner, smashing the wind from his lungs, and before his gasps could regain the slightest bit of it, they severed everything that made the recovery possible.

Co waited on the side until Sau and his men sprang forward, then broke cover in long strides. He expected to be giving whatever help might be needed to silence the two enemy sentries, but at the first sounds of struggle a third figure stirred on the ground in front of him. Co instinctively stomped down on the butt stock of a rifle as the American grabbed for it. Instead of aiding the others, he was forced to deal with a sentry on his own, losing precious surprise. Panic seized his chest as the promise of success quickly decayed into failure before his eyes.

The Marine pulled up hard on the rifle, breaking the stock. He immediately released the weapon and rolled away, came up on one knee, and drove a large knife deep into Binh’s side as he knelt over the sentry against the tree. As Binh’s body curled around the blade, the Marine jerked it free. Binh sank to the ground with a moan. Co, standing over the American, listened to him fill his lungs with air for delivering a scream designed to awaken the entire valley, and he swung the hammer with all his might. The peen met the Marine’s head with a sickening thunk, pitching him onto his side before a single utterance escaped. He lay still.

Sau grabbed Vo’s arm and fought his own charged nervous system to construct a whisper.

“Tell Nguyen to go, now,” he hissed, and Vo scrambled up the side of the mountain.

The unmistakable smell of fresh blood permeated the quiet space that now seemed overly crowded.

Binh groaned, clutching at his side, and Sau grabbed one of the Marines’ towels and pushed it into the wound. “Can you walk?” he asked.

Binh nodded, but when he tried to speak, thick red blood gushed through his teeth.

“Duong. Help me here,” Sau said, and the two reached under Binh’s arms and lifted him to his feet, causing Binh to groan anew. Bloody air bubbles exploded from his nostrils, and Sau knew that the blade had pierced a lung.

Co picked up one of the Marines’ rifles and started looking for others.

“Leave them,” Sau said.

“These weapons are a danger to us,” Co said, holding the rifle out.

“Not that one.”

Co looked down at the rifle in his hand. The butt stock was cocked at a strange angle.

“We must go quickly,” Sau said. “Leave everything and help with Binh.”

Reluctantly, Co laid the broken rifle across the legs of the Marine sprawled against the tree and turned to the still form in the weeds. He shoved a shoulder with his foot, rolling the body onto its back and leaned down, knife in hand. A focused beam of moonlight framed the head. Gravity had directed streams of blood from the head wound to illustrate the face, and Co looked down on a savage countenance, half red, the rest streaked with random lines. The blood and the man’s facial structure gave Co the odd impression he was looking at war paint. Then he noticed the leather pouch with its dangling fringe and bright beads. He stood up and pointed down with the tip of his blade.

“An Indian,” he said.

Sau and Duong were moving away, supporting Binh while he pressed the soggy towel to his side and wheezed and gurgled with each step. They weren’t listening.

Co watched them leave then turned back to the body at his feet. “A real Indian,” he said. “Truong will never believe me.” He leaned down again and brought his knife to the Indian’s throat. In one quick move he sliced through the rawhide cord and lifted the beaded pouch free. “A damned Indian,” he said to himself. He hurried to catch up with the others. In less than half an hour the rising sun would push the night from the face of the Ong Thu. The fruition of the long night’s work took less than a minute. A minute full of short, harsh seconds.