Arizona Moon. J.M. Graham

headed for the main road leading up to the 2nd Battalion command area.

      The road continued on through the base and out the gate and in twenty-six hard-fought miles reached Da Nang. Heavy vehicles had ground the dirt into fine talc that rose in clouds with every footfall and turned into a muddy soup after a few minutes of rain. In the administration area the road was lined with plywood buildings raised up on blocks and topped with corrugated steel roofs. Each was screened all the way around and had a door at each end. A sidewalk of shipping pallets made a feeble attempt to keep boots out of the muck in the monsoon season, but during the rains the whole base was mud, the road was slop, and the bunkers on the perimeter filled with brown water. If you had the rank to travel by vehicle, you could step onto the sidewalk without tarnishing your shine. But if you walked, you waded through mud, and when you reached the sidewalk, every step you took left a lumpy boot print. Unfortunately, officers did not like a dirty sidewalk. In wet weather, Echo, Foxtrot, Golf, and Hotel commanders kept the office personnel busy scraping the muddy footprints back into the road.

      The office pogues hated it when grunts were summoned to the company hooches; it always meant dirty work for them. The two groups seldom mixed on the base. The grunts resented the pogues because of the relative safety and comfort of their jobs, and the pogues resented the grunts because being in the land of elephants and seeing the elephants were not the same thing.

      Strader dropped his pack and helmet by the steps in front of one of the buildings and went in. Panels on the side of the building blocked the sun and kept the interior in shade while an oscillating fan on top of a file cabinet bathed the room in a sweeping breeze. The room was populated with desks and files and a large table next to a wall that divided the length of the building in half. A large map detailed 2/5’s tactical area of responsibility. From where he stood Strader could see the green spot in the Arizona marking the TAOR where 1st Platoon was now sweating. Since there was no one else in the room, he went up close to the fan and let the rush of air wash over him.

      Before long a door in the partitioning wall opened and Cpl. Donald Pusic stepped into the office. His clean, starched jungle utilities had been tailored to fit, and his canvas-sided jungle boots were coated with Kiwi black. He smelled of soap and aftershave. In one hand he carried a file folder; the other held a cold Coca-Cola. He stopped when he noticed the Marine enjoying the fan. “Strader,” he said, “is 1st Platoon back already?”

      Strader held his flak jacket open on one side to let in the breeze. “No, just me.”

      Pusic moved behind one of the desks and shuffled some papers. “I don’t remember the captain giving me any orders about you.”

      Strader tore himself away from the fan. He hadn’t washed or shaved in five days, and his jungle pants showed every inch of his travels. They were rolled up above worn-out boots with holes abraded in the ankles and nearly every bit of black on the leather scuffed away. His forehead was divided by a tan line showing where his soft cover fit, and his arms were marked to the elbows with scabs from elephant grass cuts. He leaned his M14 against the desk next to a carved wooden placard warning against asking for favors that said: DUTY MARINES HAVE NO FRIENDS AND GIVE NO HUSSES. “Lieutenant Diehl sent me back. If you have any arguments, they’re with him.”

      Corporal Pusic was a political realist when it came to the Marine Corps hierarchy. He never questioned officers. If a question was going to a lieutenant, it would come from a captain. The trick was to get the captain to ask the question. “I never argue with Lieutenant Diehl,” Pusic said.

      Strader leaned both hands on the edge of the desk. His arms were covered with tracks where sweat had eroded the dirt. “That’s probably best, because it seems Diehl has decided to let the Chief resolve all his problems.”

      Pusic’s eyes widened. “The Chief?” he said.

      “Yeah. He was going to shoot me this morning if I didn’t get on the chopper. And he likes me. Can you imagine what he would do to someone he didn’t like?”

      Pusic briefly imagined what horrors that might involve, then decided to regain some command over his domain. “What is it you want from me, Strader?”

      “I want a hot meal and a shower, but what I need is some sleep. I need a rack.”

      Pusic leaned back in his chair. “Third Platoon is manning the lines. They’re in the hootches along the runway on the mess hall side. There should be some empty cots.”

      Strader snatched up his rifle and headed for the door. “I’ll be back in the morning for a checkout list. I’ve got three and a wake-up and I wanna get the paperwork done as soon as I can.”

      “So, you’re going to leave your happy little family here?”

      Strader stood in the doorway and looked down the road, across the runway, all the way to the distant Ong Thu shrouded in the Arizona haze. “I already did that,” he said. “Now I’m going back to the world.”

      After the supply chopper lifted off, 1st Platoon moved northwest of the clearing, the lead fire team hacking a path as quickly as they could. The point man swung his machete until his arm was spent, then the second man took over. The three Marines rotated point until the platoon had traveled more than a click from the LZ and Lieutenant Diehl called a halt so the supplies could be distributed. Replacement equipment, ammunition, and twelve cases of C rations had come off the chopper and had to be dispersed through the platoon. The men carrying the heavy cases were glad to hand them off to squad leaders. Bandoliers of M60 and M16 ammunition were passed out. The two M79 men split thirty rounds between them, and Deacon got his new pants.

      Corporal Middleton dropped two cases of meals on the ground and snapped the wire banding with the slots in the flash suppressor on his M16. Each meal had the contents printed on the box top, and some meals were more prized that others. Wieners and baked beans were a favorite, while ham and lima beans were universally despised; the combination of the ham and the beans just didn’t work, and the Marines made it known which ingredient was the culprit by naming the meal “ham and motherfuckers.”

      Middleton flipped the cases over so only the unprinted bottoms of the individual meals showed. In theory, each squad member would choose an anonymous box in turn until the case was empty. Unfortunately, every case was packed exactly the same way, so the configuration was easily memorized; if you were too new to know or too late to pick, you either learned to love ham and limas or starved.

      Middleton tossed a green bundle to Deacon. “Here, don’t rip these,” he said. “And I don’t want to have to tell you again, lose the skivvies.”

      Deacon dropped his gear and started stripping off his torn trousers as fast as he could. He didn’t want to be caught half naked if the platoon moved out.

      Up ahead, Lance Corporal Burke was handing out C-rats to 3rd Squad in the same manner and with much the same results. Burke had eight months in-country and, though only an E-3, with Strader’s departure now found himself in charge of a squad in the most dreaded area in I Corps. Sergeant Blackwell had promised to stay close, but since the sergeant had been with the platoon only a little over four months, he didn’t find the promise comforting.

      “Blackwell says I’m to honcho 3rd Squad,” Burke said to the others as they stowed their new meals in their packs.

      “Where the hell is Reach?” one of the Marines said, flipping his meals over to confirm what he would be eating.

      “The lieutenant sent him back on the chopper.”

      It took a second for that to take hold. Reach was gone. They were glad to know that one of their own was going home, but his departure left a hole in the squad, an important hole that made them more vulnerable.

      Sergeant Blackwell moved down the line, pushing the Marines to gather their gear and get ready to move. He found Deacon wearing only a helmet, flak jacket, and boots. “Do you think this is a nudist colony, Marine?” he said, watching as Deacon tried to dance into his new pants. “Get those lily-white legs back into green before some VC takes