This book was brought to publication with the generous assistance of Marguerite and Gerry Lenfest.
Naval Institute Press
291 Wood Road
Annapolis, MD 21402
© 2016 by J. M. Graham
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Graham, J. M. (James M.), author.
Title: Arizona moon: a novel of Vietnam / J. M. Graham.
Description: Annapolis, MD: Naval Institute Press, 2016.
Identifiers: LCCN 2016026692 | ISBN 9781682470725 (epub)
Subjects: LCSH: Vietnam War, 1961–1975—Fiction. | Soldiers—Vietnam—Fiction. | United States. Marine Corps—Fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / War & Military. | GSAFD: War stories.
Classification: LCC PS3607.R3375 A75 2016 | DDC 813/.6—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016026692
24 23 22 21 20 19 18 17 16 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
First printing
This book is dedicated to all those
who left boot prints in the Arizona and remember the costs.
And to Linda, who rescues me daily.
Contents
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Epilogue
About the Author
I’d like to thank the staff of the Naval Institute Press for their invaluable help in bringing Arizona Moon to print. They include Gary Thompson, who saw potential in the manuscript; Mindy Conner, whose editorial eye identified the right words (and the wrong ones); Nick Lyle; Robin Noonan; Claire Noble; Judy Heise; and Brian Walker. I’d also like to thank Walt Lyon, the first to read Arizona Moon, and especially Linda, my better half, my personal IT department, and my constant reminder that I’m not as smart as I think I am.
QUANG NAM PROVINCE, VIETNAM
October 1967, the Year of the Goat
The Arizona was scarred with trails that went in every direction, but to use them meant death. This was the most heavily mined landscape in Vietnam, where the booby-trappers and minelayers had free rein to ply their deadly craft, and some had raised it to a high art. Every bit of unexploded U.S. ordnance in the An Hoa Basin found its way into the Arizona, creatively transformed into some horrific surprise for the unwary, the careless, or the unlucky. From Go Noi Island all the way south to where the Song Thu Bon twisted around the Que Son Mountains, every step was a gamble unless the boot print of the man ahead proved the spot reliable. You trusted only the ground you stood on. And even then you weren’t completely sure.
The three-man fire team waded the shallow stream and climbed the embankment on the far side. They were the point element of Golf Company’s 1st Platoon from the 2nd Battalion, 5th Marines, out of An Hoa combat base on the fifth day of a weeklong, no-name operation beyond the Song Thu Bon. The October monsoon season alternated blistering heat with blinding downpours that kept the river running brown and fast, and everyone in the platoon miserable. The trailing man carried a PRC-25 field radio, known affectionately as the “prick.” An olive-drab towel hung around his neck, and he mopped his face with one end as he reached level ground. The morning heat that had transformed last night’s rain into steam under the jungle canopy suddenly evaporated into a wide clearing. The three Marines stood a few yards apart catching their breath, water draining from the air vents in their jungle boots.
The point man squatted at the clearing’s edge, his M16 tucked under an arm. He looked back at the other two. “This looks like the spot,” he said. “Get Lieutenant Diehl on the horn.”
Twisted wire from a C ration box made a makeshift hook that hung the black plastic handset from the pocket of the radioman’s flak jacket. He lifted it from the hook, held it to his ear, and squeezed. “Gimme One Actual,” he said.
The radio hissed and a small, faint voice answered, “Roger, wait one.”
Within seconds another voice cut through the static. “One Actual.”
The radioman looked back into the trees as though looking in the lieutenant’s direction might be helpful. “Be advised, we have the LZ, sir.”
The radio squelched and the lieutenant’s voice jumped the two hundred yards to the radioman’s ear with all the force and power of two tin cans on a string. “How big a landing zone is it?”
The radioman turned back to the clearing, estimating the distance to the far side. “It’s big enough. We got some trees in the middle to deal with, but the rest is low brush and grass.”
The other two Marines moved off to the side, being careful to stay inside the concealment of the shade. The point man took deep gulps from his canteen.
The radioman held his M16 at his side by the sight mount as he listened. Finally he said, “Roger that,” and hung the handset back on