Sand in the Wind

by Robert Roth

  “Some job.”

  “ ‘Some job,’ bullshit. He’s just a flunky in the State Department.”

  “What’s that?”

  “What’s what?” Childs asked irritably.

  “I mean what does he do?”

  “He’s a consul. They ship him around a lot.”

  “Oh . . . what does a consul do?”

  “Drink a lot, cheat on their wives — they’re just ambassadors without political pull.”

  “Really?” Hamilton’s voice showed surprise. “Your old man is a diplomat?”

  “It’s no big thing.”

  “Tell me something, what do those guys do all day?”

  “Sign papers.”

  “You mean that’s all they have to do is sign papers?”

  “No, but that’s all they do do. They’re supposed to prevent wars and unimportant garbage like that.”

  “No shit! He didn’t do a very good job, did he?”

  “Sure don’t look like it.”

  “Sure don’t. He should get fired.”

  “They don’t have to go to the trouble. They just bury them alive.”

  “Huh?”

  “Send ’em to some trading post in Africa.”

  “No shit, is that what they did to your old man?”

  “Something like that.”

  “You must of been pissed.”

  “What do I give a shit?”

  “He’s your old man, isn’t he?”

  “That don’t mean I have to like him.”

  “Well . . . it ain’t fair to your mother.”

  “Who says it ain’t? She didn’t have to marry him.”

  “Oh, I get it; you’re pissed-off ’cause they sent you to Switzerland.”

  “Bullshit! That’s the best thing that ever happened to me — getting away from them. I got tired of hearing them fight all the time, drunken brawls every weekend.”

  “About what?” Hamilton asked with interest.

  “None of your fucking business!”

  “Don’t get pissed.”

  “Who’s pissed?” Childs practically shouted.

  “Stop yelling.”

  “Who the fuck’s yelling?”

  “You are.”

  “So what? I don’t care if I wake up every flyboy in this fucking barracks.”

  “Take it easy, man.”

  “What are you asking me all these questions for? Why the hell are you in Nam?”

  “I dunno,” Hamilton shrugged. Then, after a pause, he added, “Just wanted to get away for a while.”

  “From what?”

  “You know — when I quit the football team — well I didn’t feel much like staying in school, wasn’t learning anything except how to cheat. I wanted to get married. You’ve seen the pictures of my girl — she’s so cool — but she said she wanted to graduate first. She’s real smart — gets straight A’s. I got pissed off at her, so I enlisted. Ever since I was a little kid, I wanted to be a Marine. I was sorry later, but it was too late. . . . She was mad for a while, but we’re still gonna get married, as soon as I get out of the Crotch.”

  While Childs and Hamilton were talking, an Airman staggered into the barracks. He stood in front of Childs’s bed, then counted the racks from there to the wall. He repeated the process one more time, then stood in front of Childs’s bed again. “Hey, you’re in my rack,” he slurred.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Childs replied. “I oughta know my own rack.” Again the Airman counted the beds before returning. “Hey, you’re in my rack.”

  “So what?” Childs answered. “There’s plenty of empty ones.”

  “Hey, you’re in my rack.”

  “You said that before.”

  Hamilton cut in, “C’mon Childs, let him have his rack.”

  Childs got up and moved to an empty one on the other side of Hamilton. They continued talking until the man in the bed next to Childs’s asked in a disgusted, sleepy voice, “Are you guys speeding?”

  “Where’d you get that idea?” Childs replied.

  “Because it’s four o’clock in the goddamn morning, and I’ve been listening to you bullshit for two hours.”

  Two more Airmen had entered the barracks, and they now stood in front of the beds that Childs and Hamilton were lying in. One of them finally asked, “What are you doing in our racks?”

  “We didn’t know they were yours,” Childs answered.

  “What do you mean?”

  “It was dark.”

  “Well they are ours!”

  There had been pleas for quiet before, but they now turned into demands, and half the barracks was awake. Somebody asked, “Who are those guys?” and somebody else answered, “They’re jarheads. I heard them talking.”

  The Airman standing in front of Hamilton’s bed asked gruffly, “What unit are you with?”

  “Hotel Company, Second Battalion, Fifth Marines,” Hamilton answered with pride.

  “Well get the hell out of my rack.”

  Hamilton’s refusal was followed by some loud arguing. Before long a dozen Airmen stood around the beds demanding that they leave. One of them pulled out a pistol, and Childs said, “Take it easy, Jack. We can tell when we’re not wanted. . . . C’mon Hamilton, let’s flee this dump.

  Childs and Hamilton were walking towards the gate trying to figure out what to say to the sentry, when they saw someone peering underneath the hood of a jeep. “Need any help?” Hamilton asked.

  “Yeah, start her up for me, will ya?” Hamilton got inside, and the jeep started immediately. As Hamilton was getting out, the driver asked, “You need a ride?”

  “No, just a place to sleep.”

  “You’re Marines, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I can drop you off at a Marine armoured company.”

  Childs jumped into the jeep and the driver took off. They reached the armoured company in a few minutes, and the driver took them through the gate so they wouldn’t have any trouble with the sentry. They were walking down a dirt road looking for someone to give them directions, when they saw a huge figure standing motionless in front of them. Hamilton walked up to it and asked, “You know where we can find some empty racks around here?” The figure stared straight down at him without making a sound. Hamilton repeated the question with the same results.

  Childs dragged Hamilton away, whispering nervously, “Man, don’t give anybody that big a hard time.”

  “Hard time! I was just trying to find out where we could find some racks.”

  “Well he sure wasn’t anxious to tell you.”

  “Maybe there’s something wrong with him.”

  “Dumb probably,” Childs suggested.

  “Or maybe he’s an officer.”

  “Both, probably. . . . C’mon, let’s find some racks.”

  “What’s the use? I’m still speeding.”

  After a few seconds’ silence, Childs said, “I got it. We’ll smoke a joint. That’ll slow us down.”

  They walked to the edge of the road and stood in a ditch. Childs lit a joint and was holding in the smoke when he tried to hand it to Hamilton. Instead, Hamilton just tapped Childs on the arm and pointed directly behind him. Childs turned to see the same huge figure peering down at them. He quickly snuffed out the joint and threw it away. The huge figure said in a soft, dreamy voice, “You were blowing grass, weren’t you?”

  “Hell, no,” Hamilton answered nervously.

  “Yes you were,” the figure said in a childish tone.

  “No we weren’t,” Childs answered. “It was a cigarette. Here, you want one?” Childs lit a cigarette and tried to hand it to the figure, but he chose to stare at the still-burning match instead. Noticing this, Childs waved the match while the figure moved his head to follow it. When he held the match closer to the figure’s face, Childs could see two dilated pupils staring at the flame in awe. “Hey, this dude’s on something.”

  “How do you know?” Hamilton asked.

  “You s
hould see his eyes. . . . Hey man, what are you on?”

  “Acid.”

  “No shit. What’s it like?” Hamilton asked.

  The figure’s calm words indicated no desire to explain. “You either know, or you don’t know. . . . Did you see Thompson?”

  “Who’s Thompson?” Hamilton asked.

  “Thompson,” the figure repeated.

  “Who is he?”

  “Me and Thompson, we were trippin’ together, watching the illumes. He disappeared, just vanished.”

  “No, we haven’t seen him.” Childs had pulled out another joint, and asked, “You want a few tokes?”

  The figure stepped back shaking his head. “No! Don’t do that.”

  “Why?”

  “You shouldn’t do that.”

  “Why?”

  “MP’s everywhere.”

  “Where can we smoke?” Hamilton asked.

  The figure stood mute for a few seconds, seemingly ignoring the question; but he then blurted out, “By the tanks, behind the tanks.” He slowly led them forty or fifty yards until they were between two rows of tanks. Just as Childs started to light the joint, a sentry walked by. “Wow!” the figure gasped. “That was close.”

  “This is worse than the road,” Childs complained.

  “Do you know a better place?” Hamilton asked.

  Childs said irritably, “What the fuck you asking him for? He’s out of his mind.”

  “My tank,” the figure said. He paused in front of numerous tanks before stopping in front of one with “Son of a Gun” painted on it. “This — it belongs to me.”

  Hamilton had always wanted to see the inside of a tank. Childs held back, but Hamilton finally convinced him, the idea being that it was a safe place to get stoned and rebreathing the smoke would get them higher. Once inside, Hamilton began acting like a little kid. He ran his hands over the dials and clutched the different devices, all the while asking childish questions that the figure seemed unable to answer. Childs found it hard to understand Hamilton’s excitement. The inside of the tank was surprisingly smaller than what he’d imagined. The stiffling air was thick with the smells of fuel, lubricants, and metal. He began to sweat, and tried to talk Hamilton into going back outside. Hamilton refused these requests by ignoring them, instead urging Childs to “run one.” When Hamilton tried to get the figure to close the hatch, Childs objected and was able to prevent it by finally lighting the joint.

  Soon the only odor was that of marijuana. Childs became more relaxed and even a little curious about the array of dials in front of him. All this time, the figure had remained silent. Hamilton had been curiously watching him peer through the viewer, and after continuous inquiries about what he was looking for, he finally answered, “Thompson.” It was still dark, and all Hamilton could see through the viewer was a black field occasionally lighted by the faint flickerings of illumination flares. Hamilton soon lost interest in the viewer. He and Childs began asking each other if the marijuana had slowed their speeding. They were interrupted by an excited command from the figure. “Look!” They saw him staring into the viewer, but only Hamilton was in a position to look through it. He saw nothing. The figure noticed his questioning stare. “Don’t you see her?”

  Hamilton strained his eyes as he studied the viewer. “See who?”

  “The fat lady!”

  Hamilton and Childs glanced at each other with amusement. Hamilton turned towards him and asked, “The fat lady?”

  The figure looked at Hamilton as if he were crazy. “Can’t you see her?” Hamilton peered intently at the viewer. “I can’t see a thing. . . . Maybe it’s Thompson.”

  “Are you crazy? Thompson isn’t that big!”

  Again Hamilton peered at the viewer. “How big is she?”

  “At least twenty feet tall,” he answered in an excited voice.

  “Twenty feet!” Childs said with surprise. He leaned across Hamilton trying to get a look.

  “She’s coming towards us,” the figure warned.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Childs whispered to Hamilton.

  “Okay,” the figure agreed as he tried to start the tank.

  “Not you!” Childs screamed. The tank stalled and Hamilton was able to draw the figure’s attention back to the viewer.

  Instead of whispering, this time Childs mouthed, “Let’s get out of here.” Hamilton was enjoying himself, and he whispered back, “How can we get by him?”

  The figure became more agitated. “She’s coming closer! She’s coming closer.”

  Hamilton tried to calm him by telling him to close the hatch. He did so, but became even more agitated as he said, “She’s still coming!”

  Hamilton asked nervously, “Is she Gook or American?”

  Excited as he was, the figure realized the stupidity of Hamilton’s question and glared at him derisively as if to emphasize it. Glancing back at the viewer, he became even more agitated. “She’s still coming! What are we gonna do? What are we gonna do?” Then, in answer to the question he had thought so ridiculous before, he said, “She’s a Gook, but she’s got red hair, right down to the ground.”

  “Is she still that big?” Hamilton asked.

  The figure’s voice indicated horror. “Maybe even twenty-five feet.” He started pulling knobs and levers while metallic screeches reverberated against the inside walls of the tank.

  “Is it moving?” Childs asked in fear.

  Hamilton knew it wasn’t, but he ignored Childs’s question and instead asked the figure, “What are you doing?”

  The figure continued to maneuver instruments, seemingly ignoring Hamilton’s question, but finally answering, “I’m gonna have to blow her away.”

  “What! You —”

  Childs cut Hamilton off. “You can’t do that! She’s a civilian! They’ll court-martial us!”

  Hamilton pointed at the viewer as if he could see the fat lady. “He’s right! She hasn’t got a gun.”

  “But she’s so big!” The figure’s eyes darted between the faces of Childs and Hamilton and the viewer. His features took on a perplexed cast and his voice became almost hysterical as he asked, “What are we gonna do?”

  “She can’t get us,” Childs answered.

  “Yeah,” Hamilton agreed, “the hatch is closed.”

  For an instant the figure became calm, but then returned to his former state. "She can! She can! She’s so big.” Nervous as they themselves were, neither Childs nor Hamilton could think of anything to say to calm him. After a few seconds’ silence, he blurted out in horror, “She’s on top of us! We’ll have to run for it — only chance.” Before he had finished speaking, his hands were moving wildly from one lever to another eliciting strident screeches from the meshing and grinding gears. The tank lurched forward, and these sounds were soon drowned out by the harsh strains of its accelerating engine.

  Still disbelieving what was happening, both Hamilton and Childs were more awed than frightened. For brief instances, they even accepted the idea that there really was a fat lady chasing them; and as Childs squirmed around unsuccessfully trying to get a look at the viewer, Hamilton asked, “Is she still after us?”

  Over the deafening rumble of the tank, he could barely make out the figure’s excited reply. “She’s gaining on us!” The speed of the tank accelerated until it finally leveled off, and the driver shouted in exasperation, “It’s wide open and she’s gaining!” Sweat glistening on his face, he added, “Have to ram her. It’s our only chance.”

  The tank spun around while Hamilton and Childs bounced helplessly off its walls and each other. They regained their balance in time to see the driver staring determinedly into the viewer as he again accelerated the tank. Suddenly, all the determination on his face transformed into fear. “She ain’t running!” he screamed. “Coming right at us! Hold on!” The tank swerved recklessly, again throwing Childs and Hamilton off balance.

  “Did you get her?” Hamilton asked with nervous excitement.

  The driver
sat dazed, making no effort to control the runaway tank. He began to shake his head while saying in a defeated tone, “Chickened out, I chickened out.”

  Childs and Hamilton waited helplessly for something to bring an end to this absurd and unreal experience. In the few moments they had to wait, they became calm and merely stared at the interior of the tank, bracing themselves for the end, any end no matter what the consequences, hoping it would come soon. The tank still seemed to be moving fast, but they could tell it was decelerating. In one ponderous effort, the front end lunged upward, leveled off, and crashed to the ground; all the while accompanied by the sound of crunching metal. Markedly slowed, the tank still groaned forward, not even phased by the new sound of splintering wood. Without warning, it stopped dead, violently propelling Childs and Hamilton against its interior.

  Now aware of his own safety, Hamilton remained motionless — calm and thankful. A nervous shove from Childs reminded him of the need to get away. The tank had them trapped in its belly, and panic took hold as they struggled to free themselves. The driver sat dazed while Hamilton climbed on top of him in order to open the hatch. His confused hands, in their random movements, somehow managed to fling it open, exposing a dawn blue sky. First dazed, then calmed, Hamilton scrambled out into the light he hadn’t expected. No one was in sight. He nervously urged Childs to hurry. More dazed than either of them, the driver, with help from both, barely managed to crawl out of the hatch. A renewed sense of fear took hold of Childs and Hamilton. They jumped to the ground, pulling the driver with them, all falling to their knees. Nervous glances failed to detect anyone watching them. They staggered away under the weight of the driver who they were practically dragging, listening to his dazed voice repeat, “Chickened out, I chickened out.” As they rounded the corner of a bunker, Hamilton looked back to see the tank standing a few feet in front of the two remaining walls of a supply shed, and behind this a jeep crushed within a foot of the ground. He didn’t notice the red and gold pennant with a general’s star on it lying in the dirt in front of the jeep.

  Colonel Nash and Kramer located Harmon a few hours before he was medivacked back to the States. His fever gone, only the large bandage on his foot gave any indication that he was in less than perfect condition. Neither he nor Kramer made any reference to the ambush or the men killed. Rather than being eased by their meeting, Kramer left it somewhat unnerved. He felt as if he had been playing a role, that of the concerned lieutenant, even though Harmon was no longer his ‘problem’ and he was glad of it.