Arizona Moon. J.M. Graham

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      When the sun dropped below the ridge, the eastern slope of the Ong Thu slipped into a tableau of opaque shadows. Under the jungle canopy, sundown was a short and merciless process. While the open fields and paddies were still bathed in gray twilight, under the trees, patches of blackness swam together like spilled ink, and the comfort of the visible world vanished.

      The NVA cadre shed their burdens and settled in for a night of rest. They could not risk cooking fires, so they peeled the banana-leaf wrapping from their tam thom rice balls and ate them cold. All down the line tired, dirty fingers picked out clumps of the sticky rice, compacted them into balls, and slipped them into mouths, savoring each bite as though it were the rarest of delicacies.

      Truong and Pham shared a spot against the sprawling roots of a dipterocarp tree with foliage finally reaching the sky more than forty meters above their heads. They sat in silence, hungrily devouring their portions of rice. Pham paused to drink from his canteen. “I’ve been having dreams,” he said, watching Truong lick the rice from his fingers.

      “About home?”

      “No,” Pham said, holding up a large pinch of rice. “About food.”

      Truong smiled. “You dream of dry banh chung without the mung paste or meat?”

      “That’s not funny. I dream of ban cuon.”

      “Ban cuon?” Truong said with a disappointed expression.

      “Yes. I feel 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.

       6

      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 СКАЧАТЬ