Arizona Moon. J.M. Graham

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.