Sand in the Wind

by Robert Roth

  “What the fuck you do that for?” Appleton said angrily.

  “Why kill it, man?”

  “Whata you mean? That was a beautiful buck.” As he walked away, he mumbled to himself, “Like to ride home with that thing tied to the front of my car.”

  During the next few days, Kovacs saw to it that the patrols and ambushes went according to plan, but otherwise let the men enjoy a sense of freedom that had been so lacking on the hill. On the third day a small convoy brought a load of supplies. Tony 5 distributed his fire team’s share — food, grenades, rounds, a claymore mine, C-4, and a lot of blasting caps. When he divided up the blasting caps, Forsythe objected, “I’ve already got five of them.”

  “Here’s five more.”

  “I’m not gonna carry ten blasting caps.”

  “Your old ones might be duds.”

  “Then I better blow them. We’ve got plenty.”

  “It’s all right with me . . . but you better ask Kovacs first.”

  Forsythe walked across the bridge, and came back smiling. “It’s okay with him. C’mon,” he said to Chalice, and they walked over to get Hamilton. “Kovacs said I should blow these blasting caps.”

  Hamilton picked up an entrenching tool and pointed to the bank. “Let’s go down there.”

  When they got to the bank, Hamilton dug a hole about a foot deep and buried a blasting cap, careful to leave the tip of its fuse above ground. Forsythe lit it and they took cover. A muffled explosion sent up a small puff of sand. Hamilton started digging another hole, but Forsythe said, “Wait a minute. Let’s put a little C-4 on the cap,” and he ran back to the perimeter. While he was gone, Sinclaire and Appleton came down to see what was going on. Appleton was shirtless, his paunch undulating as he walked up to Chalice. “What you guys doing, Prof?”

  “Getting rid of some blasting caps.”

  “What are you waiting for?”

  “Forsythe went to get some C-4. Here he comes now.” By the time Forsythe reached them, he had already broken off a piece of the white plastic and molded it into a ball. Hamilton put it on the cap and buried it. The explosion was much louder than the first. Everybody seemed to be getting a kick out of it, so with each succeeding cap Forsythe made the ball of C-4 a little larger. Soon a dozen more men had gathered around. Forsythe was down to his last blasting cap when he got a sneaky look in his eyes. Hamilton knew right away what he was thinking. He started smiling and nodding as he said, “Go ’head, do it.”

  Forsythe quickly unwrapped the remaining half stick of C-4 and rolled it into a ball. Everyone gathered around him laughing, most of them acting like little kids playing with matches. The large ball of C-4 completely covered the blasting cap. Hamilton dug the hole a little deeper this time. Forsythe was just about to light the fuse when Appleton stopped him. “We better not take any chances.” He picked up a sandbag and dropped it on top of the hole. Laughing, he clapped his hands together loudly and said, “Let her rip.”

  As Forsythe bent down to light the fuse, everyone else started running toward a large sand dune thirty yards away. They already lay behind it when he came rushing towards them at full speed. Forsythe dived over the dune feet first, turning over on his stomach in midair so as not to miss anything. Just as he hit the ground, a large explosion shot sand in all directions. The sandbag flew fifty feet in the air. They watched in awe as it slammed down in the middle of the bridge with a loud thud. Practically the whole platoon came running towards them to find out what had happened. They lay stunned behind the dune for a few moments, then started laughing and slapping each other while rolling around in the sand.

  Kovacs had been sleeping in his hootch. He came running across the bridge and tripped over the sandbag, nearly losing his balance. Red-faced, he tapped it with his foot a few times before yelling towards the men standing around the crater. “Forsythe, you motherfucker, what the hell was that?” Forsythe looked up wearing an expression of childlike guilt. Kovacs continued to glare at him. Forsythe lowered his head and began moving one foot back and forth in front of the other tracing an arc in the sand. “What — was — that?” Kovacs repeated.

  Forsythe answered meekly, “It go boom.”

  “So I fucking noticed. What go boom?”

  “One of those blasting caps you said we could blow.”

  “Blasting caps my ass, you dumb sonofabitch. I’ll stick a blasting cap in your ear. Dig a shitter. NO! Dig three shitters.”

  Forsythe had just finished digging the second latrine when Hamilton and Chalice walked up to him. “You do nice work.”

  Forsythe flung a shovelful of sand into Hamilton’s chest. “Hey man, what was that for?”

  Forsythe lifted himself out of the hole and sat on its edge. “It was worth it. No question about it, it was worth it.”

  “I know,” Hamilton agreed.

  “What the fuck are you talking about? You don’t have to dig any shitters.”

  “I’ll give you a hand.” Hamilton started digging the third latrine. “You know your fire team’s got the tower tonight.”

  “We do? That means we can’t sleep in our hootches again.” Forsythe looked up at the sky. “Doesn’t look like rain. I don’t mind.”

  Chalice said, “I don’t think Kovacs believed you when you said it was just a blasting cap.”

  “Yeah, he was just a little suspicious.”

  Hamilton handed Chalice the entrenching tool. “Your turn, friend.”

  They finished digging shortly before dusk. Forsythe and Chalice picked up their gear and headed across the bridge to the tower. Tony 5 and Payne were already laying out their ponchos and poncho liners at its base. The gear the men had to carry and their stiff flak jackets made the seventy foot climb both awkward and tiring. Just before he reached the top, Payne dropped his rifle. As he started down after it, Tony said, “I woulda bet a million bucks you couldn’t have gotten all the way up without dropping something. That’s why I made sure I climbed up ahead of you.”

  The platform on top of the tower had four-foot walls and a tin roof. Tony sat on the floor while Chalice and Forsythe looked out over the valley. Only a faint glow remained where the sun had slipped behind the mountains.

  “Tony, how ’bout let’s partying tonight?” Forsythe asked. “We ain’t gonna get hit.”

  “I don’t like the idea of doing it at night. Besides, Payne is a big enough shitbird straight.”

  “Send him back to your hootch for something,” Forsythe suggested. “Okay, but only one joint, and let’s not make this a habit.” Tony called down to Payne, who was three-quarters of the way up the tower, “Hey Payne, go over to my hootch and get some bug juice out of my pack.”

  “C’mon man, you don’t need it up in the tower.”

  “Get it anyway.”

  “That was a good idea. I didn’t bring any,” Forsythe commented. “Chances are Payne won’t either. I haven’t got any in my pack.” Tony 5 took out a joint and lit it. They squatted down so the ash wouldn’t be visible from below. The bouquet sent Chalice off before he had even taken a drag. The grass was strong, one joint being enough to get them high. Chalice stood up and looked around. The transparent blackness of the sky took on substance and dimension, surrounding the stars as if they were vacant globes of light. A cool breeze rushed against his face, leaving him with a sense of drifting motion. He took a long, refreshing drink from his canteen. Feeling the need to relieve himself, he refrained, not wanting to lessen the effect of the grass. Finally, he spoke, as if thinking the words themselves would make the act unnecessary. “Hey you guys, I gotta take a piss.”

  Tony 5 and Forsythe stared at each other. After a long pause, Tony said, “You asking permission?”

  “No, no, I was just telling you,” Chalice answered dreamily.

  “Oh, you know that’s one thing you never have to ask. I wouldn’t want you to wet your pants, never want that to happen.”

  “No, I was just telling you.”

  “What made you think we were inter
ested?” Tony asked, his voice indicating deep curiosity.

  “Man, I’m stoned. I can’t be held responsible for what I say.”

  Forsythe cut in. “What are you guys talking about?”

  “He wants to take a piss,” Tony answered with dreamy satisfaction.

  “ . . . What, you mean all that talking was about him taking a piss? Go ’head, Professor, it’s all right with us.”

  “Okay.” Chalice climbed up on one of the walls.

  “Not that side,” Tony said. “That’s where our gear is.”

  He climbed down slowly and walked over to the opposite wall. As he stood atop it, Payne’s voice called out from below. “Cut that shit out. It’s bad enough being your errand boy, you don’t have to throw water on me.” As Payne climbed over the wall, he found them rolling on the floor trying to muffle their hysterical laughter. Without knowing why, Payne also began to laugh as he handed the insect repellent to Tony 5.

  “Where’d you get this?”

  “Out of your pack.”

  “I didn’t have any bug juice in my pack.”

  “How come you told me to get it out of your pack?

  “I just remembered. Where did you get it?”

  “Out of the first pack I saw.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  The next day Alpha had a short patrol. They went out early and got back before twelve. The sun burned down from a cloudless sky, turning the light brown river into a slowly undulating mirror. As soon as they dropped their gear, most of the men headed over the bridge to buy soft drinks from the soda boys who hung around just outside the perimeter. The kids were from six to fourteen years old, and all of them spoke English surprisingly well. When they saw the Marines approaching, they ran towards them, cigarettes dangling from most of their mouths. “Hey Marine, you want bucoo cold soda?” “You souvenir me chop-chop?”

  Chalice, Forsythe, and Hamilton sat down and drank their sodas under a large shady tree. A few of the Vietnamese kids sat down next to them and started talking. When Forsythe took out a pack of cigarettes, they immediately stuck out their hands and he passed a few around. Another kid rode up with a cooler on the back of his bike. “Marine, you want ice?” Hamilton said, “Yeah,” and walked over to him.

  Chalice called to Hamilton, “What’s he got?”

  “Popsicles. They’re good. You want one?”

  “Sure.” Chalice got up and walked over.

  Still sitting down, Forsythe said, “Get me one too.”

  Hamilton bargained with the kid until he settled for five cigarettes for each Popsicle. “Sure beats fifty cents for a Coke,” Chalice commented. The kid took the top off the cooler. Four bars of ice lay inside, each about a foot-and-a-half long. He sliced off three four-inch pieces, then stuck a sliver of bamboo in each and handed them to Chalice and Hamilton. “Where do they get the electricity to make these?”

  “They bring them in from Da Nang every morning. We’re not supposed to buy them because they can be poisoned, but I’ve never had any trouble with ’em.”

  They walked over and handed a popsicle to Forsythe who had been talking to one of the Vietnamese kids. “Hey, Van here says he can get us two syclo girls.”

  “Decent. How long will it take to get them here?” Hamilton asked.

  “He says about an hour.” Turning to the kid, Forsythe said, “Get going, hurry.” The kid took off running. “Maybe I should of asked Kovacs first.”

  “Yeah, you should have, but he won’t mind. Ask him now. No, he’s a little pissed at you. I better ask him. C’mon, let’s go.”

  Hamilton straightened everything out with Kovacs, the only stipulation being that Kovacs had firsts. The three of them then walked around looking for Sugar Bear and Valdez, the squad leaders of Bravo and Charlie Squads. They found them both playing cards with Skip and Flip. Sugar Bear was a good-natured black about five foot ten and two hundred twenty pounds. Valdez was a wiry Mexican-American who took every chance he got to ride somebody. But the men were used to him and he was generally liked.

  Forsythe said, “We’ve got two whores coming in about an hour. Find out how many of your men want in.” Both Sugar Bear and Valdez took the news with satisfaction, then got up to tell their squads. Forsythe eventually got word that eighteen men were interested. He, Chalice, and Hamilton were sitting around listening to Hamilton’s radio when Roads approached them. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, and his taut muscles flexed as he walked. When he reached them, he nodded to Forsythe and Hamilton, then spoke to Chalice. “Here’s the book. Thanks a lot.”

  “Did you get anything more out of it this time?”

  “You always do.”

  “With some books.”

  “With most books. . . . The person who reads it the second time is always different from the one who read it the first time.”

  Chalice nodded his head in agreement. “I guess you’re right.” Roads started to turn away, but Chalice spoke first. “Listen, would you like something else to read?”

  “Yeah, I would.”

  “I just finished Absalom, Absalom! You want it?”

  “Yeah, I heard it was good.”

  “It is.” Chalice reached inside the hootch and pulled out his books, wondering whether Roads had been to college. He didn’t want to come out and ask him, so he asked instead, “Where’d you go to school?”

  “Syracuse.”

  “I had a cousin that went there, Don Gardner.”

  “Didn’t know him.”

  Chalice felt awkward looking up at Roads, but he knew that if he asked him to sit down he’d refuse. “What was your major?”

  “Philosophy. What was yours?”

  “English. How long did you go?”

  “I graduated.”

  Hamilton, who hadn’t been paying much attention to the conversation, cut in. “Roads, you gonna get in on those syclo girls?”

  “No,” he answered curtly.

  Hamilton asked kiddingly, “What’s the matter, you don’t like hairless pussy?”

  “I can do without it.” Roads nodded and walked away.

  “Not very friendly, is he?” Hamilton commented. “I shoulda known better than trying to talk to a nigger with a book in his hand.”

  “How come you guys never told me he graduated college?” Chalice asked.

  Forsythe, not seeing any importance in the question, answered, “I didn’t know. He never told anybody, I guess.”

  Roads went back to his hootch and started reading the book. Eyes moving down the page mechanically, he conceived no meaning from the words before him. He started again, this time speaking each word aloud, but still they had no meaning. A rage rose within him, and when he realized he was shouting each meaningless word as if it were a curse, he flung the book aside.

  ‘Not gonna fuck no Gook chick got nothing against these people that’s why they hate our guts we’re fucking their women if they were white I’d fuck them fuck ’em fuck ’em. Did those bastards hate my guts supposed to be their first string halfback special plays for me I had to rip my knee apart woulda given anything to hear them talk behind my back must of cursed the day I was born Dumbrowski Dumbrowski my buddy good old coach Dumbrowski always went out of his way always always to say a nice word to the nigger before he before before he I fucked up my knee he knew the dirty cocksucker knew I didn’t give a shit why the hell should I bust my ass for eighty thousand screaming morons that hate my guts because they’re inside my skin pissed them off keeping that scholarship figured the nigger ’ud drop out soon as he couldn’t play their stupidassfuckinggame fucked them good laughing at their faces at that fucking athletic department picking up my money every fucking month when the most of them ’ud be around to see my black ass taking their fucking check rubbing their noses in it getting a fucking high that their fucking hundredyard freak-show could never give me in a hundred years as good as fucking their foulsmelling daughters. Let my teammates down awwww too bad great buncha guys always ready to glad hand me little re
marks about how the best fuck they’d ever had was black thinking what a nice compliment they just gave the big nigger. They found out fast the looks on their faces knowing the best white cunts on campus were mine anytime anyfuckingwhere I wanted them all the cool candyassfraternitystuds pinned to bitches I’d fucked the shit out of fucking bitches wouldn’t leave me alone— fifty-six in four years not bad not fucking bad wish I could of sent their parents pictures of my black ass between their daughters’ legs wish I’d been pig enough to brag my head off so they’d never forget but they knew they fucking knew I was getting mine fuck ’em. . . . Why . . . the hell . . . does it bother me so fucking much? . . . You can’t kill them all. You can’t kill them all. . . . Fuck ’em Fuck ’em!’

  Somebody sent word that the syclo girls had arrived, and most of the platoon gathered on the road side of the bridge. One of the girls was exceptionally beautiful. Chalice repeatedly shifted his stare between her angelic face and the eager faces of the men standing around him. Forsythe tried talking to them, but they spoke very little English. Chalice had to take over. They wanted five dollars a man, but he talked them into fifty dollars for everybody. He thought he had everything straightened out, when the better-looking one pointed to Sugar Bear and whispered, “Him no. Vietnamese, Chuck tee tee; Brothers bucoo.”

  Suppressing his laughter, he spoke to the men. “She says they won’t fuck for the Brothers because their cocks are too big.”

  Chalice’s explanation brought on a lot of backslapping and laughing. Sugar Bear didn’t feel the situation was all that humorous. He kept on saying, “No bucoo, no bucoo,” as he pulled out his cock and pointed to it. Then the laughter really started. Chalice told the girls it was everybody or nobody, and they finally relented. Kovacs and Forsythe took them inside a large clump of brush. Two lines formed on the edge of it amidst a lot of good-natured shoving and arguing about who was ahead of whom.