Sand in the Wind

by Robert Roth

“He’s all right now. . . . You were a little weird in the Arizona yourself.”

  Childs said with malice, “I had good reason!”

  “It won’t be so bad. You’ll be the squad leader.”

  “I’ll be goddamned if I will.”

  “It’s either you or Roads. You wanna take orders from that fucking nigger?”

  “He’s probably got more brains that you have.”

  “Bullshit! What he’s got is more hair up his ass. . . . Man, Alpha, the whole platoon even, is so fucking green that if the shit hits, a lotta guys are gonna get blowed away. Ask them for a job in the rear.”

  “I ain’t gonna kiss their ass!”

  “You don’t wanna work in the rear. You don’t wanna be squad leader. You got three weeks left. What the fuck do you want?”

  “To get the fuck out of here, that’s what I want!”

  As Childs said this, two mortars fell less than thirty yards in back of his position. Both he and Hamilton sprawled out on the ground behind the sandbags. Within seconds, Childs was sitting up searching his pants pockets.

  Hamilton grabbed his shoulder and pushed him back down. “What the fuck you doing?” he asked, as another series of mortars landed behind them.

  “C-rat opener.”

  “What?”

  “I can’t find it.”

  “Who needs it?”

  “I do!”

  “For what? Oh, I get it. Use mine.”

  Another series of mortars landed, only farther behind them.

  “Quick! Give it to me!”

  “Oh, I left it in the tent.”

  “You idiot!” Childs shouted.

  “You left yours too, stupid.”

  “No I didn’t. I lost it.”

  “That’s even stupider,” Hamilton insisted.

  “You got anything sharp, your bayonet?”

  “I mailed it to my little brother.”

  Childs sat up again as he nervously rummaged through his pockets. “That’s just fucking lovely.”

  A mortar exploded within fifteen yards of them. It was a few seconds before Hamilton was composed enough to ask, “Are you hit?”

  “Hell, no! Haven’t you got anything sharp?”

  “My teeth.”

  “That’ll never get it.”

  “I got it: break your glasses.”

  “They’re my last pair.”

  “Who cares?”

  “I do. . . . Here, I got it — my C-rat opener. It was on my dog tag chain.”

  “You idiot! You didn’t know that?” In the glare from the illumination flares, Hamilton could see Childs hesitating to cut himself. “C’mon!”

  “Just relax. . . . There, I did it.”

  “Where?”

  “There.”

  “You pansy. You expect to get a Purple Heart for that mosquito bite?”

  “It’s bleeding, isn’t it?”

  Hamilton ripped the C-ration opener from Childs’s dog tag chain and gashed his arm, at the same time yelling, “Corpsman, up! Corpsman, up!”

  Within an hour after dawn, the men had placed their own dead in plastic bags and stacked the bodies of the Viet Cong and NVA soldiers a short distance outside of the perimeter. Most of the members of Second Platoon went back into their tent, but Ramirez and a few others stood around and watched the parade of battalion officers making their way out to the Viet Cong bodies to have their pictures taken. Some of them were wearing bush covers they had never worn before, and carrying rifles and pistols they hardly ever touched except to oil.

  Pablo sat off by himself in the platoon tent examining the machine gun taken from Sinclaire’s position. Thirteen months ago he had checked it out of the battalion armory. It had been new, a clear plastic bag sealed around it. Pablo remembered carefully cutting the plastic instead of tearing it, and also the smell of new metal and oil as he did this. He had slowly pulled the bolt back, then gently released it — again, and again, and again; listening to the sound of its mechanism as the metal parts slid smoothly against each other; saying to himself, ‘Like a watch, like a fine watch.’ With great care and even a sense of awe, he had taken it apart, spread its shiny metal parts upon a clean, white towel. They were jewel-like and of different colors. Slowly he put them back together, amazed by the way each part so neatly fit into the others. Again he began to pull the bolt back and release it, admiring the precision of its mechanism; but thinking, ‘Only to kill, so precise, so beautiful, only to kill,’ and then saying to himself, aloud, “But you’ll keep me alive, won’t you?”

  His fingers now traced patterns upon the stock. Most of the scratches were old and familiar. The barrel was darker, coated with carbon. Pablo began to take the machine gun apart, cleaning it for the last time, thinking about the only other men who had ever done this, all four of them dead.

  Ramirez sat down on the edge of Pablo’s cot. He was careful not to disturb the array of worn parts. Ramirez remained silent, but Pablo realized there was something he wanted to talk about, so he said, “It’s good when the sun comes up.”

  “Were you scared?” Ramirez asked.

  “Till I get home, I’ll be scared; and even then I’ll be scared I’m really back here.”

  “We’ve been through some shit, man.” Pablo nodded his head, and there was a long pause before Ramirez added, “They really come at you.”

  “They’re hard core.”

  “They come right at you, and they keep coming until you kill them. . . . They ain’t never gonna stop, are they, Pablo?”

  “We’ll never stop them.”

  Ramirez’s voice broke slightly as he said, “I don’t wanna try no more. It’s their country.”

  “What can we do?” Pablo replied, at the same time asking himself.

  “You don’t have to do nothing. Two more days and you’ll be out of here.”

  Pablo continued to assemble the machine gun as he talked. “You haven’t got that much longer either.”

  “Seven weeks. That’s a long time.”

  “Not that long. Just play your cards right and you’ll be okay.”

  “I ain’t playing no more cards.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Pablo asked, this time looking directly at Ramirez.

  “I ain’t killing no more of them.”

  “Do you think they’re better than we are?”

  “I don’t know. . . . It’s their country.”

  “We’re no worse than them. The people hate them as much as they hate us.”

  “Not in the Arizona.”

  “They have the guns in the Arizona. The people are scared of them. Here they’re scared of us. Do you think it makes any difference to them who takes their rice? . . . They just want to be left alone.”

  “But we ain’t Gooks.”

  “No, we ain’t.”

  “It’s their country.”

  “It’s their country.”

  “I ain’t killing no more of them.”

  “You gonna let them kill you?”

  “I ain’t going after them no more. . . . You know how many men I’ve killed?” Pablo shook his head. “Eight.”

  “Not even half of what I’ve killed.”

  “But you don’t have to kill no more.”

  “You think that makes a difference?” Ramirez shook his head, and Pablo held up the machine gun while saying thoughtfully, “You’ve seen me. Bucoo Gooks are dead because of this baby.”

  “But you’re going home.”

  “And when you finish your tour, you’ll go home too.”

  “I ain’t gonna kill no more of them.”

  “What are you gonna do?”

  “I’m telling Kramer.”

  “Man, you can’t beat the system. They’ve got it all figured out.”

  “I’m gonna tell him.”

  “And he’ll send you to Forest.”

  “I’ll tell him too.”

  “And he’ll send you to the brig.”

  Ramirez had hoped Pablo would make things easier, b
ut now he was even more uneasy than before. “I don’t care. I’ll tell them.”

  “You know what they’ll do? They’ll try and make you look like a coward, or stupid.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “You can’t beat the system. You’ll either end up in the brig or back in the bush.” Pablo wasn’t really sure of this, but he felt Ramirez would be better off by merely enduring his last seven weeks. Now as he looked at the sullen figure before him, Pablo realized that it was just as much a matter of pride as anything else. “You don’t want them making you do something you don’t want to do. Is that it?”

  “That’s not it.”

  “That’s not all of it, but it’s part. Isn’t it?” Ramirez remained silent. “You’re gonna try to beat the system, aren’t you?” Ramirez nodded. “Well, if you keep your head, it won’t do any harm. Kramer won’t try to fuck you over.”

  “You think I should do it?”

  “Not if you’re gonna lose your head. If Forest tries to make you look stupid or chickenshit, don’t let it bother you. He ain’t shit compared to you.” Pablo then put particular emphasis on his last few words. “You don’t have to prove a thing.”

  “You think I should do it, then?”

  “Not unless there’s no other way. Remember, if you keep your head, you’ll be all right. Just don’t try to prove you’re better than they are. Take my word for it. . . . Remember, it’s you against all of them.” Ramirez remained sitting on the cot, his pride preventing him from asking what he had intended all along. Pablo wasn’t sure, but he guessed right. “You want me to go with you?” Ramirez nodded. “What good will that do? I’m shipping out in two days anyway.”

  “I trust you. You can talk to them.”

  “You should have someone else go with you, someone who has more time left in-country.”

  “Who?”

  Pablo named the only person he could think of. “The Professor.”

  “You sure he’ll do it?”

  “He’s been acting a lot more fucked up than you. . . . Besides, he’s the Sandman. They all know him. . . . Let the Professor do the talking. . . . Remember, you don’t have to prove a thing.”

  Hamilton walked into the officers’ hootch and found Kramer and Sugar Bear waiting for him. “You wanted to speak to me, Lieutenant?”

  “Yeah. Sit down a minute. . . . Chalice and Ramirez were just here. Do you know what they came to see me about?”

  “No, sir.”

  “They say they aren’t going to fight anymore. You know anything about it?”

  “No, sir. . . . The Professor was acting a little funny a few days ago, but he seems all right now. . . . Ramirez hasn’t even got two months left.”

  “I know, and I can’t afford to lose either of them. Ramirez is supposed to take over as platoon sergeant, and the Professor’ll be a fire team leader soon.”

  “He already is. He took over my old fire team as soon as Childs left.”

  “In any case, I can’t afford to lose two experienced men. We’ve got too many boots as is.”

  “I know. If you don’t have Chalice around, then Rabbit or someone from another squad will have to take over Alpha.”

  “What about Roads?” Sugar Bear asked.

  “He says he doesn’t want to be squad leader. I asked him when you told me I was taking over as platoon sergeant.”

  “Don’t ask him. Tell him!” Sugar Bear said angrily.

  “I got five more days left. I ain’t gonna start messing with that sonofabitch. It’s been bad enough having him in my squad.”

  In an even angrier tone, Sugar Bear said, “Well I only got two days left, but I’ll fuck with him. He’ll be a squad leader whether he likes it or not.”

  “I don’t give a shit. I’m —”

  Kramer cut Hamilton off. “We can settle that later. All I want to know is the story on Ramirez and Chalice.”

  “I don’t know any more than you do, Lieutenant. Pablo might know something about Ramirez.”

  “If he does, he’s sure keeping it to himself.”

  “What’s going to happen to them?”

  “I told them to think about it for two days. If they feel the same way then, I’ll write up a report.”

  “The brig?”

  “What do you think Forest’ll do?” Kramer didn’t intend this as a question, and Hamilton realized no answer was necessary.

  Sugar Bear had just finished eating supper and was on his way back to the company area. He knew that Roads was walking a few yards behind him, and his rage increased as he thought about him. He’d always had a certain respect for Roads, but this was far outweighed by his hatred for him. Fists tightly clenched at his sides, Sugar Bear could hold his anger no longer. He turned. Their eyes locked, Roads having no idea what Sugar Bear was thinking, walking right past him while returning the stare.

  “Just walk right by me, man,” Sugar Bear said casually. Roads turned and looked blankly at him. “Just walk right by me, man,” Sugar Bear repeated in a challenging tone.

  Roads’s stare gradually hardened as he asked, “You been drinking, man?” Sugar Bear shook his head, and Roads began to nod his. “Looks like you wanna throw some hands.”

  Sugar Bear also began to nod, and a confident expression came to his face. They stood only a few feet apart, Roads half a head taller yet outweighed by thirty pounds. He started to turn and walk away, but the calm, hateful words, “Don’t turn your back on me, motherfucker,” caused him to freeze.

  “You’re fucking with the wrong man.”

  “I’m fucking with the right man.”

  “What’s bugging you?”

  “Same thing that’s been bugging me the last eight months: you.”

  “I don’t bug nobody!”

  “You bug everybody, especially the Brothers. . . . I learned something right away when I got to Nam: the Gooks kill each other, the Chucks hate each other, and the Brothers stick together. You ain’t never learned yet.” Sugar Bear paused as they continued to glare at each other, but Roads remained silent. “You’re cool, man, real cool. . . . I bet you been to college. . . . The Chucks might think you’re cool, but the Brothers know you ain’t shit — walking around like you know something nobody else does. Man, you ain’t fooling the Brothers. You’re the uptightest motherfucker I’ve ever seen, ready to explode like some wound-up junkie.”

  “Uptight?”

  “You heard me, man. . . . I used to think if I kicked your ass, it’d teach you a lesson. Now I know there ain’t no way, but I’m gonna kick it just the same.”

  Roads respected Sugar Bear more than anybody he’d met in Vietnam, even liked him; but he knew that it was too late, too much had been said. “I ain’t going nowhere.” ‘Why him — always the wrong man?’

  “You’re damn right you ain’t, ’cause I’m gonna kick your ass. Been here a whole tour, and ain’t never seen two Brothers fight yet; but—” Sugar Bear cut himself off, realizing the purposelessness of his words and what he had already forced — ‘a show for the Chucks.’

  Roads broke a long silence by saying, “I can’t remember the last time I had my ass kicked.” ‘If I keep him off me, I’ll cut his face to shreds.’

  “You’ll remember this time, cocksucker. . . . It ain’t my fault I’m the baddest motherfucker that ever lived.” ‘All I gotta do is get him on the ground.’ Suddenly Sugar Bear swung, hoping to get Roads off balance, missing badly, himself catching a soft jab on the chin, still moving forward while Roads sidestepped and jabbed, neither one angered enough to really start swinging yet, feeling each other out. Roads, surprised at Sugar Bear’s speed, knowing he had to take any advantage given him, dodged a right and staggered Sugar Bear with a left to the jaw, that being it — no stopping now. Roads, holding his ground, watching enraged eyes, waited for another lunge; but not long, soon fending off punches with his arms, warnings that he couldn’t afford to be hit anywhere else. Sugar Bear, overanxious, attempted an uppercut, regretting it as his lips squashed flat
against his teeth, salt blood spurting between them, quickly drooling from the corner of his mouth. Roads watched it, too long, letting Sugar Bear get inside with three brutal punches to the stomach, feel the hard flesh and hear the thuds, knowing they had to hurt. Too surprised to fake it, Roads folded slightly as he jumped back, his stomach still feeling flat and tasting his gall, imagining it as shit, knowing it would be oozing out of his ears if he got hit like that again. Sugar Bear, still hearing those punches, missed badly with an uppercut. Roads backed away, too hurt to make him pay for it. Arms tired and knees tight, they feinted a few punches. But the taste of his own blood made Sugar Bear too anxious to draw some. Roads, still confident he could keep his distance, throwing jab after jab, pounded the blood-smeared smile off Sugar Bear’s face. One eye closed, Sugar Bear slammed his fist into Roads’s chest, again thinking, ‘That had to hurt.’ Roads saw some eager white faces. ‘Watching the nigger show,’ and made Sugar Bear pay for their smiles, ‘Always the wrong man!’ with a hard right. Overconfident, Roads stood his ground, trading a flurry to the head for one to the Stomach, finally jumping back, gasping, his stomach feeling pulverized. An awkward jab brought blood gushing from Sugar Bear’s nose. Desperate to catch Roads, to get him on the ground, Sugar Bear noticed a tent guy wire. Roads, now more confident, breathed easier, unaware of the wire. Sugar Bear kept circling, feinting punches not throwing them, backing Roads towards the wire, cursing as he just missed it, again stalking him towards it, now seeing the white faces and becoming angrier. Roads, knowing he could beat Sugar Bear senseless until somebody stepped between them, tiring, smashed a right into Sugar Bear’s face, feeling the tissue rip from the bone. Sugar Bear, now more desperate, swung wildly, missing; but finally backing Roads into the wire. Roads, off balance, surprised, staggered to his knees while Sugar Bear dived for his neck, ignoring a flurry of punches to his head and chest. Feeling the soft flesh of Roads’s throat, he held his grasp as they rolled furiously on the ground, Roads finally getting hold of Sugar Bear’s throat with his right hand, pummeling his face with the left. Without relenting, Roads began to gag. Some men tried to separate them. Still on the ground, they continued to swing, often as not hitting the men trying to keep them apart. Another fight broke out, then a few more. Roads and Sugar Bear became separated in the melee. Whites began fighting blacks. More men joined in, spurred on by racial slurs. Sugar Bear and Roads staggered away as over a hundred brawling men wildly attacked each other in what was now a race riot, officers attempting to quell it with swinging rifle stocks.