Sand in the Wind

by Robert Roth

  When it was over, Chalice walked back to his hootch in a sullen mood, thinking, ‘I’ve changed,’ telling himself the Marine Corps or Parris Island hadn’t been the reason.

  4. A Hundred Miles from Nowhere

  “Welcome to Parris Island. . . . YOU GOT THREE SECONDS TO GET OFF THIS BUS AND TWO OF ’EM ARE GONE!” They scrambled off and were herded from the dark sidewalk into the glaring lights of a dilapidated building. Chalice was still squinting when he found himself in a line of men backed against a wall.

  “Get at attention!"

  “MOVE IT!”

  Before he and the men with him were aware of what had happened, they’d been herded from one point in the room to another until everyone was stripped of his civilian possessions, searched, fingerprinted, fitted with a gas mask by having one shoved on his face, and finally driven up a dark stairway to a barracks.

  No one was shouting anymore, telling him what to do. Chalice stood motionless. The men with him, also dazed, wandered around in the dark looking for empty beds. Only after he found himself standing alone did Chalice remember how tired he was.

  He lay awake, flinching as the contracting pipes cracked like rifle shots. This too seemed to be done on purpose. He’d prepared himself, told himself to expect the worst; but still he was shocked, realizing he was no longer a civilian and the difference that made, wondering, ‘What the fuck have I got myself into?’ Exhausted, wanting to sleep, he listened to the pipes crack — disbelieving his own fear.

  The lights flashed on. “Get at attention in front of your racks!”

  Chalice jumped to his feet. He had lain in bed for five hours without sleeping, wondering what they had done to scare him. Nothing — they’d shouted, herded him around like an animal in a slaughterhouse. Why was he scared? Because they’d treated him like an object? What had they taken from him? How had they done it so fast? He glanced at the men around him, at first not seeing them. One man drew his attention. Head already shaved, he must have arrived the day before. Chalice saw his own fear in this man’s face. At least there were two of them. Seeing the men around him for the first time, he realized they all looked just as bewildered. He wasn’t alone. It was almost humorous, no longer frightening. And he was different — not one of these juvenile delinquents trying to prove how tough they were.

  “Fall out for chow! NO TALKING!”

  The men rushed down the stairs. Chalice tried to keep himself in the middle of the mob. It was still dark. The men bunched together on top of some footprints painted on the street.

  “GET ON THE YELLOW FOOTPRINTS! MOVE IT!”

  They shifted around until each man stood upon a set of footprints — as if they had all fallen into separate slots. Chalice found himself in the center of a precisely spaced formation.

  “Forward, HARCH!” As soon as the men were off the footprints, they began to jam together.

  Chalice glanced around as he entered the mess hall. “EYES FORWARD! This ain’t no sightseeing tour.” They were the only men in civilian clothes. The smells of milk, eggs, and hot cereal nauseated him. Row upon row of shaved heads sat silently eating while shouting drill instructors paced up and down between them.

  Chalice sat with his tray in front of him. He wasn’t hungry. The food jelled upon his plate like plastic vomit. The other men were eating. Seeing how ridiculous they looked, he became more relaxed, assuring himself, ‘They can’t kill all of us.’ He ate, able to do so only by refusing to taste what he put in his mouth.

  The men around him started to get up. He followed them as they cleaned off their trays and headed outside. By themselves, they got into formation. Uniformed recruits passed by on the way to their own formations. Nearly every one of them whispered out of the side of his mouth, “You’ll be sorry.”

  ‘What do you mean, will be?’ Chalice thought to himself.

  It was two days before enough recruits had arrived to form a platoon. The men were herded downstairs and lined up at attention along some rows of tables. They waited. Finally, three drill instructors burst shouting through the door. One of them leaped upon a table and began waving his arms wildly as he yelled:

  “ALL RIGHT YOU HORRIBLE HOGS, this is what you’ve been waiting for. I’M STAFF SERGEANT MORTON, your senior drill instructor. You’re gonna see a lot of me for the next eight weeks. I’m gonna eat with you, sleep with you, and watch you sweat. You’re hogs now, but when I get through with you you’ll be Marines or you’ll be dead, and it don’t make no difference to me which. Get your seabags and START RUNNING! We’ll tell you where, and you BETTER not stop!”

  The men bunched at the door, struggling fiercely to get outside. A drill instructor stood waiting for them. He began shouting and pointing down the street. In less than a minute the entire platoon was running in a confused mass while the three drill instructors drove them along by shouting, shoving, and directing them like cattle. Men tripped and were immediately buried by piles of other men. Chalice began to tire. The heavy seabag on his shoulder seemed trying to drive him into the pavement. Some men passed him while others dropped back. The platoon began to string out, and two of the drill instructors concentrated on those lagging behind. If a man collapsed, they hovered over him screaming until he got to his feet and began running again. One of the fatter men collapsed for the third time and pleaded that he couldn’t get up.

  Bent double over him, Morton screamed, “YOU CIVILIAN PIECE OF SHIT, GET ON YOUR FEET.”

  “I can’t,” he moaned breathlessly.

  Morton picked up the man’s seabag and held it over his stomach. “GET UP YOU GUTLESS MOTHERFUCKER!”

  “I can’t. I can’t.”

  “GET UP!”

  “I’m a Communist. I’m a Communist.”

  Morton slammed the seabag down on the man’s stomach. He and another drill instructor yanked the man to his feet. Morton flung the man’s seabag onto his shoulder, and he again collapsed. “TAKE CARE OF THIS GUTLESS CUNT,” Morton screamed to the other drill instructor before dashing after the pack.

  While being yanked to his feet, the man moaned, “I’m a Communist. I’m a Communist.” He staggered in the direction of the rest of the platoon the drill instructor yelling directly into his ear — barely moaning, “I’m a Communist. I’m a Communist.”

  The barracks was in a dilapidated frame building. Two rows of bunks separated by a wide aisle ran the length of it. The men stood at attention with their backs towards the bunks.

  “ALL RIGHT, HOGS,” Morton shouted, “now that you know the position of Attention, we can teach you the position of At Ease. BUT WE WON’T! As long as you’re on your goddamn feet, you will remain at attention. You get six weeks’ practice at it before we teach you At Ease.

  “Now I’m gonna tell you something about where you are. YOU’RE A HUNDRED MILES FROM NOWHERE! There’s only two fucking ways to get off Parris Island — right through the main gate as Marines, or through the swamps. Hogs, there ain’t a swingin’ dick here that could make it through those swamps. Unless you plan on spending your whole enlistment here, you better make up your minds you’re gonna be Marines — little green machines that make up the Big Green Machine.

  “MARINES ARE THE BEST FIGHTING MEN IN THE WORLD. We’re the best marksmen, the best hand-to-hand fighters, the most fearless motherfuckers that ever lived. You sure ain’t Marines yet, but you’re in the Marine Corps. It don’t rain in the Marine Corps. You don’t get tired in the Marine Corps. It don’t get hot, and it don’t get cold. There’s only two ways to do things — the wrong way and the Marine Corps way. That’s what me, Sergeant Green, and Sergeant Hacker are here for — to turn you disgusting civilians into Marines. You ain’t standing on no corner and you ain’t sloppin’ no hogs. You’re professional men now, each and every one of you worthless cunts has a profession. YOU’RE PROFESSIONAL KILLERS in the service of the United States government.”

  The men remained at attention as Sergeant Green read their names off the roster and assigned each man a laundry numbe
r. “White.”

  “Here, sir.”

  “Seventy-two. . . . White, take one step forward.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” A large black stepped into the aisle.

  “You sure ain’t, cocksucker. GET BACK!”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  When Green finished, he, Morton, and Hacker walked down the aisle giving each man a closer look, as if debating whether to kill him now or later. Hacker stopped in front of a dark recruit. He slowly moved closer until his mouth was within an inch of the recruit’s nose, then shouted. “YOU A SPLIB OR A SPIC?”

  “Splib.”

  “SPLIB, WHAT?”

  “Splib, sir.”

  “COCKSUCKER, if you want to live, the first word out of your mouth will be, ‘sir’. . . . ARE YOU A SPLIB OR A SPIC?”

  “Splib, sir.”

  “LISTEN, COME BUBBLE, WHAT DID I TELL YOU?”

  “Sir, splib.”

  “SIR, SPLIB!”

  “Splib, sir.”

  “SIR, THE PRIVATE IS A SPLIB!”

  “Sir, the Private is a splib.”

  “LOUDER!”

  “Sir, the private is a splib.”

  “I CAN’T HEAR YOU.”

  “SIR, THE PRIVATE IS A SPLIB.”

  “Remember that, you high-yellow come bubble.”

  Sergeant Green slowly walked up to the recruit standing next to Chalice, his expression changing from pure hate to loathing amusement. With gritted teeth, he shook his head before asking, “You aren’t a Jew, are you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “No . . . you couldn’t be that dumb. Kikes ain’t that dumb. . . . WHAT’S YOUR NAME, JEWBOY?”

  “Sir, the Private’s name is Cowen."

  “Cowen? Cowen? COWEN? Hog, what’s wrong with your old man? CAN’T HE SPELL COHEN?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I bet he can make out his income tax.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Green turned his head away and shouted down the aisle, “Staff Sergeant Morton, guess what we’ve got.”

  “No!”

  “Yes!”

  “It ain’t a JEW, is it?”

  “IT SURE THE FUCK IS!”

  Morton and Hacker converged upon Cowen until the heads of all three drill instructors were within an inch of his. Cowen tried to keep from trembling as Hacker shouted, “God, look at the beak on this motherfucker.”

  “What are you doing in MY Marine Corps?” Morton asked.

  “Sir, the Private doesn’t know.”

  “JEWBOY, YOU MUST NOT. . . . Don’t you know I don’t want Jews in MY MARINE CORPS?”

  “Sir, the Private didn’t know.”

  “HE KNOWS NOW, don’t he?” Hacker asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How come you’re not working in your father’s jewelry store?”

  “Sir, the Private’s father doesn’t own a jewelry store.”

  “PAWN SHOP?” Green shouted.

  “Sir, the Private’s father doesn’t own a pawn shop.”

  “What does he own, Hymie?”

  “A dress factory.”

  “HUH?”

  “A dress factory.”

  “I CAN’T HEAR YOU!”

  “HUH?”

  “HUH?”

  “SIR, THE PRIVATE’S FATHER OWNS A DRESS FACTORY.”

  “Jewboy’s father owns a dress factory.”

  “You must wear the prettiest dresses on the block, kike.”

  “You made a mistake, Abie.”

  “You are a mistake, Abie.”

  “What are you trying to do to MY MARINE CORPS, Hymie?”

  “HUH?”

  “YEAH, JEWBOY?”

  “HUH?”

  “Sir, the Private doesn’t know.”

  “THE PRIVATE MUST NOT KNOW.”

  “The Private’s out of his ass.”

  “YOU’RE A DEAD MAN, ABIE,” Green shouted in his face at the same time Morton screamed, “I AIN’T GONNA LET YOU RUIN MY MARINE CORPS, HYMIE!”

  “You’re gonna be sorry, Jewboy.”

  “YOU’RE SORRY ALREADY, AREN’T YOU, HYMIE?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “WHAT!”

  “No, sir.”

  “HUH?”

  “MAKE UP YOUR MIND, ABIE.”

  “NO, SIR.”

  “You will be though, won’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “WHAT!”

  “HUH?”

  “HUH?”

  “NO, SIR.”

  The drill instructors backed off while Green sneered, “You will be, Abie. You’ll be the sorriest motherfucker that ever lived.”

  Chalice stood dazed, again wondering what he’d gotten himself into. Morton shouted, “Any of you hogs that have been to college take one step forward.” Five men stepped into the aisle. The drill instructors interrogated each man, reaching Chalice last. “How many years did you waste, hog?”

  “Four, sir," Chalice replied, wishing he could have said, “One.”

  “HUH?”

  “I CAN’T HEAR YOU!”

  “HOW MANY?”

  “SIR, THE PRIVATE SPENT FOUR YEARS IN COLLEGE.”

  “SPENT?”

  “HUH?”

  “SIR, the Private wasted four years in college."

  “HUH?”

  “You didn’t graduate, did you, hog?”

  “Yes Sir, the Private graduated.”

  “HUH?”

  “I CAN’T HEAR YOU!”

  “YES, SIR.”

  “We got a graduate!”

  “I DON’T fucking believe it! How could anyone with balls spend FOUR YEARS in college?”

  “A college graduate.”

  “What was your major?” Green asked.

  “Sir, the Private’s major was English.”

  Morton took a step backwards. “ENGLISH!”

  “You wasted four fucking years learning how to speak English?” Hacker asked.

  “That means poetry,” Green corrected him.

  “POETRY?”

  “POETRY! THE HOG STUDIED POETRY?”

  “Recite us a poem.”

  “Sir, the Private doesn’t know a poem.”

  “THE PRIVATE DOESN’T KNOW!”

  “Four years and he doesn’t know a poem?”

  “How come you can’t recite us a poem, Private?”

  “Sir, the Private forgot.”

  “FORGOT?”

  “HUH?”

  “FORGOT!”

  “The Private BETTER FUCKING REMEMBER!”

  “Let’s hear one, Private.”

  “I never saw a moor,/ I never saw the sea;/ Yet know I how—”

  “SHUT THE FUCK UP!”

  “STOP! FUCKING STOP!”

  “YOU DON’T KNOW SHIT!”

  “ ‘Know I how’ — you call that English?”

  “FOUR FUCKING YEARS?”

  “COME BUBBLE, your education has just started.”

  “REVEILLE! REVEILLE!” Morton shouted as the lights flashed on. Chalice jumped to a sitting position in time to see a garbage can bounce past his rack. Green flung the lid and then another garbage can against the wall while shouting, “ON YOUR FEET! ON YOUR FEET!” Hacker ran around pushing over any rack with somebody still in it. Eyes blinking, Chalice stood at attention in front of his bunk. He flinched at each sound, amazed to see that all the noise was coming from only three drill instructors. Dazed and scared, he found no humor in the thought, ‘So this is what the Marine Corps uses instead of alarm clocks.’ The shouting and noise continued even after all the men were standing at attention. Again Chalice wondered what he had gotten himself into.

  Morton shouted, “WHAT’S THE MATTER, HOGS? DON’T YOU LIKE GETTING UP IN THE MORNING? You don’t act like it. Push-up position; ready, MOVE!” One hundred sixty hands slapped the floor. “Four-count push-ups, twenty-five of them; ready, BEGIN!”

  The men’s voices became strained and quieter as they continued, “ . . . One, two, three, eighteen. One, two, t
hree, nineteen.”

  “I CAN’T HEAR YOU, LADIES. . . . I STILL CAN’T HEAR YOU. . . . STOP! FUCKING STOP!” Arms straightened in front of them, the men hovered in the up position while Morton shouted, “Ladies, you turn my stomach. WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO DO TO MY MARINE CORPS? Why didn’t you fags join the Navy?” A man collapsed, his chest slapping the floor sharply.

  Green stood on the man’s back while addressing the rest of the platoon. “This little lady is tired. We’re gonna let her rest a minute.” Choking sounds came from the man beneath Green’s feet. “While she’s resting, you can rest too — in the up position.” The men who had collapsed on their chests immediately pushed themselves up again. Green asked the man beneath him, “What’s your name, little lady?”

  The recruit gasped, “Sir, the Private’s name is Private Colson.”

  “You hear that, hogs? This little rest period is courtesy of Private Colson. Private Colson doesn’t like to do push-ups. As soon as Private Colson is ready, we’ll start again. Are you ready, Sweet Pea?”

  “Sir, the Private’s ready.”

  “That’s just lovely, Sweet Pea, just fucking lovely.” Green jumped off Colson and shouted, “Four-count push-ups; ready, BEGIN!”

  “One, two, three, twenty. One, two —”

  “I CAN’T HEAR YOU.”

  “— three, twenty-one.”

  “I STILL CAN’T HEAR YOU!”

  "One, two, three, twenty-two.”

  “STOP! FUCKING STOP! . . . Ladies, the last number I heard was ten. Start from there. Ready, BEGIN!”

  “ONE, TWO, THREE . . . ”

  After fifteen minutes of exercise, Morton decided his men were fully awakened. He ordered them to get dressed. They took too much time, so he had to interrupt them twice for bends and thrusts. He then ordered them to make their beds. They took too much time, and he interrupted them for a set of side-straddle hops. He ordered them to clean the barracks. They took too much time, so he interrupted them for a set of sit-ups. Dissatisfied with the job they had done, Green overturned the garbage cans as the platoon left for breakfast.

  It was still dark when they returned to the barracks. First they swept the floor — on their hands and knees using small scrub brushes. After the third time, Morton decided the floor was clean enough to be mopped. Instead of mops, the men crawled around with wet rags in their hands. They then dried the floor with dry rags, wet it again with buckets of water, scrubbed it with scrub brushes, dried it with rags, and repeated the operation one more time. None of the drill instructors seemed satisfied, but there were other things to do.