Sand in the Wind

by Robert Roth

  “No, no sir, not at all,” Forest agreed.

  ‘No reason my ass,’ thought Kramer. ‘Only the best for the CP.’

  Trippitt noticed Kramer. “Let’s get started.” He pulled a map out of his flak jacket pocket and spread it on the ground. The platoon commanders gathered around. “We’re here right now,” he said, pointing with his stocky index finger. Kramer was surprised to see that the nail was bitten to the quick.

  “We’re going to split up tomorrow,” Trippitt continued. “Forest, I want your platoon to move out at dawn. Follow the stream bed for half a klick, then bear left up this hill, here. Go right to the top of it and back down. Do the same thing with these other two hills that overlook the stream bed. You’ll be security for the column. Set-in on the last one. Kramer, I want you to do the same thing on the right. Set up on this fourth hill, here. Write down the coordinates. That way you and Forest will be overlooking the trail from opposite sides. I’ll be traveling up the stream bed with the rest of the company. When I pass between you two, you’ll peel off and follow us. We’ll make camp about two klicks higher up.” Kramer noticed that the last hill Trippitt pointed to had another, lower one, between it and the trail. Not seeing any reason why they should have to climb the higher hill, he pointed to the map and asked, “Sir, you want us to climb this hill?”

  Trippitt, feeling he had made himself perfectly clear, answered gruffly, “That’s what I said, Lieutenant.”

  The captain gave each platoon commander the coordinates for their night’s ambush before sending them back to their sectors. On the way, Kramer thought about the CP carrying long-rations while the rest of the company had to carry C-rations. It bothered him more and more as he thought about it, even though he realized that his anger stemmed as much from his dislike for Trippitt as from the fact itself.

  Upon reaching their foxhole, Kramer took out his map and began explaining the next day’s plan to Kovacs. When he finished, Kovacs picked up the map and tried to match it with the terrain in front of them. “Why the hell do we have to set up on that last hill? We won’t even be able to see the stream bed from there.”

  “That’s the way I see it,” Kramer answered disgustedly.

  “The hill right next to it is only half as high and gives the column better security.”

  “I know, but that’s the way Trippitt wants it, so that’s the way we’ll do it.”

  For most of the men dawn came too quickly. Even before they were able to get to their feet, the soreness in their bodies reminded them of the previous day’s march and forewarned them of what was to follow. Within a half hour after dawn, Second Platoon had filled in its foxholes and started moving out. The first few minutes of marching drove the early morning chill from their bodies. They reached the stream bed as Forest’s platoon started up it. Kramer’s men fell in behind.

  The two platoons split off the trail at the same place. Charlie Squad had Second Platoon’s point with Ramirez as the lead man and Valdez right behind him. Ramirez became vexed when he saw the thick brush that covered the hill. Without looking back towards Valdez, he angled off along the base, searching for some semblance of a trail. They moved a third of the way around the hill before Valdez, who was just as perplexed by the thought of breaking a trail, finally stopped him. “C’mon, let’s start up.”

  “I’m looking for a trail.”

  “No shit, but you ain’t gonna find one. Let’s get it over with.”

  Mumbling under his breath, Ramirez started up. He plowed ahead by kicking up his knees as far as they would go, then leaning forward on them to push the brush down until his foot hit the ground. He bulled his way upward for twenty minutes before looking back to see the last few men in the column still at the base of the hill. “Madre Dios,” he mumbled to himself. “Not even a fourth the way up yet.” Realizing that stopping was the worst thing to do, he quickly started pushing his way forward again. The brush was just over waist high, and his short legs made each step more strenuous. ‘All the same, same shit all the way up.’ He received some comfort from the sound of Valdez’s heavy breathing behind him. ‘He is taller, but just as tired. I hump as good as any of them.’

  The undergrowth sprung back as each man passed over it, giving little advantage to those towards the rear of the column. The newer men continued to make the mistake of looking up or back in order to determine their progress. The more experienced men kept staring at the ground a few feet in front of them, occasionally glancing warily to the sides or up at the sun. To them it was more of a fight against the sun than against the terrain. They knew that the higher the sun, the more intense the heat. Their thoughts centered around getting as far as possible before noon because every step afterwards would be many times harder.

  Kramer radioed ahead to hold up at the summit. When Ramirez finally reached it an hour and a half later, he looked around for the tallest bush and sprawled out in what little shade it offered. The others joined him, forming a circle around the top of the hill. Kramer, Kovacs, Milton, and Preston sat down in its center. Milton took a long drink from one of his canteens. “Humping this radio sure is a motherfucker.”

  Kramer turned his head towards him. “Call the CP. Tell ’em we’re at check point one. . . . What time is it?” he asked rather than taking the trouble to look at his watch.

  “Nine forty-five.”

  “Tell the men to take fifteen.”

  After a few minutes, Kovacs stood up and looked toward the next hill. “The next sonofabitch is even higher.”

  At first Preston didn’t know what he meant. “Next sonofabitch? Oh, the next hill. Sonofabitch, it sure is.”

  Kramer looked at his watch. ‘Five after ten. . . . Fuck it. A few more minutes. Nobody’ll complain about that.’

  When they moved out, Valdez switched Redstone, a full-blooded Kiowa, to the point. His reddish brown skin stretched tautly over his muscular frame as he moved through the brush with the same light grace that never failed to impress the other members of the platoon. Reserved but not unfriendly, he was liked by most of the men though not particularly close with any of them. Like most Indians in the Marine Corps, his nickname was Chief and he seemed to take a lot of pride in it.

  As Redstone led the way down the opposite side of the hill, he continually looked back to make sure the pace he set wasn’t too fast or slow. Although moving downhill is a welcome relief in itself, he knew that it could be made even easier by allowing the men to keep just the right momentum — letting the slope of the hill set the pace so they wouldn’t have to worry about keeping up or slowing themselves down. The quick trip to the bottom left many of them with the same thought — ‘Same distance, same brush, quite a difference.’

  The lower part of the next hill was covered with a similar type of undergrowth. As the column made its way to the top, the terrain became rockier and the brush sparser. The frequent need to overcome obstacles changed the slow, steady pace to one of spurts and short waits. Once, after climbing atop a huge boulder, Redstone was faced with a chasm twenty feet deep between himself and the rocks in front of him. He quickly checked both sides for an alternate route. Not finding one, he decided to make his way across using the numerous tree limbs overhead. Hanging from the strongest limb, he moved hand over hand for a few feet until he reached a maze of other limbs that he could stand on while still grasping the one above. Valdez hesitantly followed his example complaining, “Chief, from now on let’s keep this shit down to a minimum. I ain’t no monkey.”

  It was twelve o’clock before the platoon reached the summit. Milton called in and gave Kramer the message that the CP was moving out soon. Hearing this, Kovacs commented, “That’s just fucking lovely. I hope they had a nice time sitting on their asses while we were playing Tarzan up here.”

  “Yeah,” Milton agreed, “and I guess they’ll have just as nice a time walking up that stream bed while we climb every mountain in Nam.”

  As they started back down the hill, the last few clouds in the sky disappeared over
the horizon and the sun besieged them with an intense white heat. A large stream ran along the base of the hill. Kramer passed word to stop and fill canteens. The men did so sitting down immersed to their necks in the cool, clear water — letting the swift current rush over their sweat-soaked bodies. The unexpected relief was enough to momentarily buoy their spirits and make them forget the exertion they had undergone or that which was to follow.

  Once started again, the effects of their respite soon wore off. Halfway up the next hill Kramer noticed a blotch of fresh blood on the trail. Ten yards further he noticed some more on the leaves of a bush. Kovacs, who was walking in front of him, pointed his rifle at another bush with blood on it. “Somebody up there must be having a period.”

  “Pass the word up to find out who’s bleeding.” Word came back that Chief had gashed his leg. “Tell him to step off the trail and wait for us.” When they reached him, Redstone was standing expressionless, the bottom of his trouser leg soaked with blood. Kramer bent down and lifted it up exposing a three-inch gash. “Hold up the column. . . . Corpsman, up!” Kovacs kneeled down to have a look. “Not real deep, but deep enough. How’d you manage that?”

  “Sharp rock,” Chief answered, as if bored by the whole incident.

  Stoker, sweat pouring from his face, pushed his way past the men in front of him. Kovacs had rolled up Redstone’s pants leg and Stoker saw the gash immediately. “God,” he gasped, “how did you do that?”

  Redstone made no effort to reply. “Cut it on a rock,” Kovacs answered disdainfully, thinking, ‘Oh, this turd’s gonna be great. Wait’ll he sees somebody really get messed-up.’

  Stoker fumbled with the bandage as he wrapped it around Redstone’s shin. Kramer was watching the bored expression on Chief’s face with amusement when Milton approached him. “It’s the Skipper. He wants to know where we are.”

  “Tell him,” Kramer said nonchalantly.

  Milton relayed Trippitt’s message. “He says to hurry up or we’ll hold back the column.”

  “Tell him to kiss my ass. We’re moving as fast as we can.” Milton relayed Kramer’s reply, omitting the first part.

  “He says we’ve got to move faster.”

  Stoker finished bandaging Chief’s leg and Kramer angrily ordered the men to move out.

  Upon reaching the top of the hill, they started back down without stopping. Kramer couldn’t keep from staring at the next summit. “That gung ho motherfucker,” he mumbled audibly. “You don’t see that dirty cocksucker busting his ass.” Kramer sent word to quicken the pace; but realizing that he was taking his resentment out on his men, refrained from doing so again. When they finally reached the top, he threw his pack down in disgust and almost shouted at Milton, “Tell the CP we’re at check point four.”

  Milton relayed Trippitt’s reply. “The Skipper says he can’t see us.”

  “Of course he can’t. There’s another hill in the way.”

  Again Milton gave Trippitt’s reply. “He says that’s because we’re on the wrong hill.”

  “I’ll be goddamned if we are.” Kramer grabbed the receiver and spoke into it with obvious anger. “We’re on the right hill. I’ve got the coordinates right here on my map.”

  There was a pause as Trippitt checked his own map. “You’re supposed to be on the one bordering the trail.”

  “That is not the hill you assigned us.”

  Now Trippitt’s voice was also angry. “You may be on the right hill, but you’re not doing me any fucking good, so get there.” There was a pause as Trippitt waited for a reply. “Is that clear?”

  “Roger, over.” Kramer answered in an emotionless tone. He handed Milton the receiver and yelled, “Get ready to move-out.”

  “Where to?” Kovacs asked.

  “On top of that hill, there,” Kramer answered pointing in the direction of the stream bed.

  “A lot of fucking sweat for nothing,” Preston remarked. “That hill would have been half as hard to climb in the first place.”

  The rocky, sparsely vegetated slope allowed the men to reach its bottom quickly. Once there, however, the brush towered above their heads. Denser than anything they’d encountered so far, it forced them to use the machetes. After each stroke the blades would spring back at them with almost the same force with which they had been swung. It was as if they weren’t cutting through the brush, but pushing it ahead of them, each step increasing in difficulty. As the grade steepened upward, the brush became only slightly less dense.

  All Kramer could think about was Trippitt. ‘Anything’s possible as long as he has somebody else to do it. That dumb motherfucker, can’t even read a map. A captain in the glorious service of the United States of America and he can’t even read a map.’ The pace slowed almost to a standstill before they were halfway up. Realizing they’d been “busting their asses” because of somebody else’s mistake, the men were enraged and cursed continuously. ‘Never gonna reach the top at this pace,’ thought Kramer. About to order them to move faster, he changed his mind. “Pass the word to go around to the other side and start heading down. We’re up far enough.” The main column started passing by just after Second Platoon reached the stream bed. Kramer’s eyes darted back and forth between their relaxed faces and those of his exhausted men. A hatred swelled within him; a hatred for Trippitt, for the senselessness of what they were doing, and for the men in the column — for the simple reason that today they’d been a little luckier than he or his men.

  The company moved a few kilometers up the trail and set-in. Milton walked over to tell Kramer that the captain wanted to see the platoon commanders. He stood up thinking, ‘Man, I wish they’d leave me out of their stupid games.’ He reached the CP and sat down, carefully avoiding Trippitt’s eyes.

  “Tomorrow we’ll move in a single column. We should reach the canopy by afternoon. Any questions?” There weren’t any. “We’re only sending out two ambushes tonight. The other two platoons will send out two listening posts each. First and Second Platoon have the ambushes.” Trippitt noticed Kramer wince. “Something wrong, Lieutenant Kramer?”

  Kramer hesitated for a few seconds, then, without looking up, spoke slowly in a calm voice. “First and Second Platoons had the worst of it today. I would think they’d get the listening posts instead of the ambushes.” Trippitt grinned and spoke in an overly sympathetic manner to make it obvious that he was toying with Kramer. “Nobody has it any easier than anybody else in this company, Mr. Kramer. It all evens out. But if you like, Third and Fourth Platoons can have the ambushes.”

  As Kramer nodded, Forest’s fawning drawl cut in. “My platoon doesn’t mind getting the ambush.”

  ‘I bet they’re real proud of you,’ thought Kramer.

  “Okay,” said Trippitt, “First and Third Platoons will take the ambushes. Gunny Martin has the coordinates. That’s all.”

  Trippitt remained seated as the platoon commanders got up to leave. “Mr. Kramer, I’d like to talk to you a minute.” Kramer turned and stared down at him. The captain slowly rose to his feet while returning the stare. “I’ve been getting the impression you don’t like the way I run this company.”

  “What makes you say that, sir?”

  “Your tone over the radio this afternoon for one.”

  “I’m not sure I understand what you mean, sir.”

  “I think you do. I can’t be held responsible when you make mistakes like climbing the wrong hill.”

  Kramer started to protest, but—realizing Trippitt knew he had been wrong and was just toying with him — caught himself and said instead, “I was just thinking of my men, sir.”

  “Very good, Lieutenant. You should always think of your men. But you should also remember something else — mission over men. That’ll be all.”

  “Yes, sir.” Kramer walked away with a wry smile on his face. ‘They’ve all got their little phrases, a phrase for every occasion. Mission over men, mission over men — gotta remember that.’

  Again the company moved out s
hortly after dawn, Second Platoon on the tail end of the column. The trail running along the stream bed gradually widened and appeared more often used. While this gave the point more to worry about, it made things easier for the rest of the company. The sky had been continuously overcast and a light drizzle started around ten o’clock. The men greeted it with welcome relief, hoping it would continue all day. Around eleven o’clock Trippitt called a twenty minute break. The men sat in small groups eating cold C-rations, the rain dripping from their helmets. The mood was lighter than at any time since the operation had begun. When they finished eating, many of the men lay on their backs to let the rain drizzle upon their faces.

  The sky cleared shortly after the company started moving again. But within an hour they reached the canopy, and huge trees completely blotted out the sun. The light that filtered through the leaves took on a relaxing green hue. As they proceeded farther into the canopy the air became heavy and damp, negating the advantage of shade. The thicker brush sometimes made the use of machetes, necessary, but at other times the column was able to follow the remains of seldom-used paths.

  Around four o’clock the company suddenly halted. They had just taken a break an hour before, and Kramer was puzzled by the delay. “Milton, keep your ear to the radio.”

  Milton overheard a conversation between Trippitt and one of the platoon commanders. “The point’s got a wounded prisoner.”

  Kramer was surprised. “I didn’t hear a shot.”

  “There wasn’t any,” Kovacs remarked.

  In a few minutes the column started moving again. As they were marching, Milton handed Kramer the radio handset. “The Skipper wants to talk to you.”

  “C-2 here.”

  “Is your interpreter any good?”

  “Pretty good.”

  “I’ve gotta use him.”

  “Should I send him up?”

  “No, I’ll wait till your platoon gets here.”

  When Kramer reached him, Trippitt halted the company. A wounded Viet Cong lay on his stomach at Trippitt’s feet. His skin was a purple yellow color from loss of blood, and his pants were pulled halfway down his thighs, exposing a large wound on his buttocks where a hunk of flesh the size of a fist was missing. Already something less than human, he seemed to be waiting — like a flattened, run-over dog. Kramer took a step backwards, more from the stench of the wound than the sight of it. “Chalice, up,” he called to the rear. A fading series of voices repeated, “Professor, up.”