Arizona Moon. J.M. Graham

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 call your daddy Senator or Governor, you can forget that.” He also said that he could provide valuable schooling that guaranteed lucrative employment when the enlistment was over . . . and four years wouldn’t seem that long. The Air Force recruiter parroted the same sentiments and felt sure he could get Strader a first duty station somewhere warm and tropical, like Florida. The Army recruiter didn’t even look up. His quota was secure. He wasn’t about to perform and pass the hat when he already had a captive audience ready to be delivered.

      And then a gunnery sergeant welcomed Strader into the USMC cubicle. His shoes shone like they were coated with glass, and the creases in his dress blue trousers and khaki shirt looked like they could slice bread. Rows of colorful ribbons were stacked so high above one breast pocket that they threatened his collarbone. Two marksmanship medals dangling over a pocket flap proclaimed him an expert with both rifle and pistol. The sides of his head were shorn close with a crew top. And he exuded confidence. Behind him on the wall was a portrait of Lyndon Johnson and, next to it, a large photo of the sergeant shaking hands with a Marine officer with enough stars on his shoulders to qualify as a constellation. Strader noticed that none of the men on the wall looked worried. In fact, judging for self-assurance, competence, and strength, the president came in a distant third.

      “Don’t pay any attention to anything those numb nuts next door told you,” the sergeant said. “They couldn’t say shit if they had a mouthful.”

      Strader was impressed. Here was a no-nonsense man who would give him some experienced advice—direct, straightforward, and ready to be carved into granite as soon as Raymond C. scribbled his name on a promise of two years of servitude.

      Fifteen minutes later Strader left the building a future Marine private and feeling the master of his life again. It would be weeks before he realized that his life was actually like a car careening out of control, and he wasn’t even the one driving.

      Waves of heat shimmered above the clearing, and Franklin and the Chief shed their packs and flak jackets as they worked at the bases of the condemned trees. Soon, in a pyrotechnical blink of an eye, the jungle’s efforts to reclaim the clearing would be erased. The Chief’s helmet was upended at his knees, and the remains of a block of C-4 sat on the webbing inside the helmet liner, the plastic wrapping partially torn away. Franklin watched as the Chief kneaded the pliable explosive into a pancake and folded it around a knotted loop of det cord. Rivulets of sweat ran through the bristles of the Chief’s close-cropped hair and down his neck until his dog tag chain and a leather cord suspending a small pouch interrupted the flow. The pouch looked old. Bright beads sewn to the leather depicted the abstract figure of a small man running below a silver circle. Franklin watched the bag swing back and forth as the Chief leaned into his work.

      “What you got in that bag, man?”

      The Chief molded the C-4 pancake to the trunk of one of the trees, but it wouldn’t stick to the slick bark.

      Franklin pointed. “That thing around your neck. What you got in there?”

      The Chief grabbed the stag-horn handle of his knife and in one quick move brought the heavy blade down on the trunk at an angle, opening a flap like a bird’s mouth. The tree seemed to shudder, and clear juices flowed.

      Franklin shifted a few inches back from the Chief’s reach. “Then again, it ain’t none of my business what you got in there.” He busied himself with his own equipment. “You could have a million dollars in there. It ain’t my business.”

      “How’d you know there’s money in there?”

      Franklin took on the look of the unjustly accused. “Just a lucky guess.” He stowed unused chunks of his own C-4 in his bag. “You’re shittin’ me, right? You really got money in there?”

      The Chief looked up with a wry smile. “Honest injun.”

      It was difficult to tell where the Chief’s mood was going, so Franklin weighed treading lightly against his natural curiosity. “How much you got in that bag?”

      “One penny.”

      Franklin wanted to ask if it was an Indian head penny but decided not to press his luck. “Like I said, it ain’t my business.”

      “A shaman gave it to me.”

      Franklin gave the Chief a look like he knew he was being had. “A shaman. You mean like a witch doctor? So it’s a magic penny?”

      The Chief’s look said the time for sharing was over.

      It was the first time Franklin had spoken to the Chief at any length. “Yes” and “no” answers generally ended their conversations. He decided to press a little. “A lot of bag for one penny,” he said, stealing glances so he would know to duck if he had to.

      “There’s more,” the Chief said, not looking up from his work.

      “Like what?”

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