Sand in the Wind

by Robert Roth

  As he neared the edge of the village, his nostrils caught the pungent, squalid odor of decay. Though there had been very little rain for the last few days, a thin layer of orange mud covered the road. People walked outside of and between the two columns. They took little notice of the soldiers and even seemed to be purposely avoiding their glances. Most of them wore black pajamalike pants, and blouses ranging from dingy white to burgundy. The marketplace was two rows of adjoining shacks that bordered the road for a third of a mile. Bamboo poles supported roofs of thatch or tin, and the walls were either thatch or cardboard. Some of the shacks contained stacks of black-marketed C-rations. Others displayed piles of brightly colored yard goods. Old women squatted in front of the shacks with bowls of colorful and exotic-looking vegetables at their feet. A little boy stood behind three stacks of straw, cone-shaped hats. Chalice’s eyes were caught by a beautiful girl sitting behind a hand-operated sewing machine. She looked up, but seeing his stare, quickly lowered her head. One of the last hootches contained a primitive, hand-operated grindstone. People were carrying grain towards it. In front of the mill lay several round, flat baskets over six feet in diameter filled with grain drying in the sun. A little boy stood beside them chasing away some small dogs with a stick. Chalice looked ahead to the end of the marketplace hoping that a breeze would meet him when he reached it. None did.

  The column crossed a sturdy wooden bridge over a fork in the river that ran behind the ville. An old man stood in the middle of the bridge trying to calm a badly spooked water buffalo. The powerfully built beast’s pink and gray nostrils pulsated as it eyed the troops passing by on both sides of it. Chalice remembered being warned to stay away from these animals — being told that the Vietnamese kids could pull their tails and climb all over them as if they were half-ton puppy dogs; but a Caucasian, because of his different body odor, couldn’t get within twenty feet of them without risking his life.

  On the other side of the bridge, two fairly large concrete buildings came into view. The near one had an orange shingled roof and an empty flag pole standing in front of it. The far one had a tin roof topped with a large cross. As he approached them, Chalice could see that both were pockmarked with bullet holes. The far one had had a rear corner blown away. The front of the shingled building was lettered with the Vietnamese words for school. Both buildings were abandoned.

  Peasants walked along the edges of the road. Some carried large bundles of bamboo balanced on their shoulders. Others carried long poles projecting in front and in back of them. On both ends of these poles hung baskets of rice, vegetables, or firewood. Their bare feet took short, quick steps towards the marketplace.

  Chalice’s left arm was numb from the weight of the ammo can, so he switched it to his other shoulder. Although they hadn’t been marching for more than an hour, he was already exhausted. He looked around at the other members of his platoon. They didn’t seem as tired. He unsnapped his canteen for the third time. Finding it almost empty, he gulped down the remainder.

  Forsythe called forward, “Hey Prof, take it easy on the water. We might not get any more for a day or two.”

  “Okay,” Chalice yelled back, surprised at the effort it had taken to speak that one word. Up ahead, in the middle of the road, a little Vietnamese kid sat astride a bike with a Styrofoam cooler tied to the back of it. He talked to the soldiers as they passed by. One of the soldiers held out some money. The kid caught up with him, gave the Marine a Coke from the cooler, and took the money. Chalice, exhausted and having little control over the thoughts flashing through his mind, began to laugh without really knowing why. His mind finally connected the two ironic segments of the scene — soldiers walking along a road with loaded rifles, afraid of being ambushed or of stepping on a mine; and a little Vietnamese kid riding a bike right along with them, worried only about selling Cokes.

  The columns stopped and the men sat down, at the same time passing the word back to “Take ten.” Chalice dropped to his knees. The kid selling sodas approached him. “Hey Marine, you want bucoo cold soda?”

  “Yeah.” Chalice struggled to get his pocket open.

  “Fifty cents.”

  He handed him the money and took the soda. It wasn’t “bucoo” cold, but it was a lot colder than what he’d been drinking out of his canteen. He guzzled it down in two gulps. Forsythe called out from behind him, “Take it easy, don’t drink so fast.” Chalice pivoted towards him, amazed at how tired he felt. He scanned the other men, relieved to see that everybody else looked pretty beat also. Forsythe said to him, “This humping’s a motherfucker, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, I can’t believe how dead I am.”

  “Don’t sweat it. Everybody’s bushed. We’ve been skating too long. . . . It’s hot today, but it gets hotter.”

  “How hot do you think it is?”

  “ ’Bout a hundred and ten. Must be getting to the Skipper, too. We usually don’t stop this soon. You can bet Trippitt isn’t stopping to do us any favor.”

  “Chalice,” Tony 5 called out gruffly, “face outboard and keep your eyes open.”

  Just as Chalice pivoted his body towards the river, the men in front of him began getting up and word was passed back to “Move-out.” He rose to his feet awkwardly, at the same time mumbling, “Can’t have been ten minutes. We just sat down.” He remembered estimating the weight of his equipment when it lay staged in a neat pile in front of the platoon hootch seventy pounds. But this had been no more than a number. Now it was a burden, a trial. Seventy pounds — it seemed unfair that the torture he was enduring could be measured, no minimized, by something as abstract and meaningless as a simple measure of weight.

  Within a few minutes, Chalice was more exhausted than before they had taken the break. He looked over the other members of his squad — ‘Guess I’m not any more beat than they are.’ His eyes dropped to the ground and he stared at his dust- and mud-covered boots as they moved, as if by themselves, one in front of the other.

  Tony 5 yelled back at him in an irritated voice, “Get your head up! What the fuck you looking at? Watch the flanks.”

  He raised his head and looked off the side of the road towards the river ‘God, wouldn’t mind splashing around in that thing for a while.’

  They marched for another two hours before word was passed from the rear to hold up the column. He turned around to see Graham sprawled on his back with a corpsman looking over him. Everybody started to sit down, Chalice being one of the first and nearly losing his balance.

  Harmon called out in a voice loud enough for everybody in the squad to hear, “Hey Tony, I told you he was a shitbird.” Chalice felt relieved that he hadn’t been the one to quit. He sat looking towards the river. A young boy, up to his knees in water, led a water buffalo with two smaller children on its back. Chalice moved over a few feet in order to balance his pack on a rock. This took the weight off of his shoulders. His left arm had fallen asleep soon after the first break. He now massaged it and brought the feeling back, reminding himself to buy an Arvin pack the first chance he got. They sat for fifteen minutes before Trippitt ordered the point to start moving again. Harmon and the corpsman pulled Graham to his feet.

  An amtrack, a large tanklike vehicle used to transport troops and supplies, lay on its side just off the road. A mine had ripped a large hole in its armor-plated bottom directly under the driver’s seat. ‘Bet they had to scrape that guy off the roof.’ After another hour of marching, Chalice turned around to see how Graham was doing. ‘Hope he falls on his face pretty soon. Could use another break.’ The sweat dripping from his forehead seemed to be burning his eyes raw. Constantly blinking them didn’t help. Shimmering waves of thick, humid air rose up from the road. Chalice glanced at the sun. It looked about four hours from setting. ‘Doubt we’ll march after dark. Hour to set in. Three, three more hours of humping . . . Can make that.’ An hour later he was walking in a daze, his thoughts jumping from subject to subject, putting one foot in front of the other as if it were the natural th
ing to do. As tired as he was, Chalice knew that if he could keep on his feet, he’d keep moving. The column trudged on for another hour before the word to hold up was passed from the rear. He turned to see Graham lying on his back again. ‘Thank God, thought he’d never drop.’ Chalice sat down, careful to face outward. ‘Lucky in my platoon. He’ll come in handy.’

  Tony 5 walked over to check on Graham. On his way back he stopped to talk to Chalice. “That’s one gutless motherfucker.”

  Chalice looked up. “Man, I’m dead myself.”

  “Everybody is. You get better at it, but you never get used to it.”

  “How much farther we got?”

  “Ain’t sure. We were supposed to stop about two klicks back. The Skipper must of changed his mind. About another hour I guess.”

  “I can make that all right.”

  “You better be able to.”

  Graham finally got back on his feet, and the columns started moving again. Knowing they’d be stopping pretty soon, Chalice felt a lot stronger. In less than an hour they reached the remains of a burned-down pagoda. The columns peeled off the road and circled it.

  Harmon went around to his men, telling them the company would sit tight until an hour before dusk, then cross the road and set-in between it and the river. Chalice looked around and saw everyone taking off their packs. As soon as he got his own pack off, a feeling of weightlessness ran through his body and he felt as if he were going to float off the ground. He moved his arms to get the circulation going again. Seeing the other men opening cans of C-rations, Chalice pulled a can of pears out of his pack. He fumbled to open it, his tongue sticking to the top of his mouth. Saving the syrup for last, he spooned out the pears, surprised at how delicious they tasted. The can was a third full of syrup. He lifted it up and let the thick liquid flow down his raw throat. Never had anything tasted so sweet.

  Only a tip of the sun remained above the mountains when Hotel Company crossed the road to set-in. The company perimeter bordered the road on one edge and the river on the opposite edge. Second Platoon had the quarter of the circle adjacent to the river. Harmon stood talking to Tony 5 near the lip of a foxhole Chalice was digging. Sergeant Kovacs walked up and tapped Harmon on the shoulder. “The Skipper wants us to send out an ambush.”

  “Let me guess who’s got it,” Harmon said disgustedly.

  “Alpha.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  Tony 5 cut in. “We won’t have enough men to stand guard if we send out an ambush.”

  “That’s what I told him, but he said to put three men in each foxhole instead of four. He said we’ve been getting too much sleep anyway.” Kovacs looked across the river and added nonchalantly, “If you want to, you can sandbag.”

  Harmon nodded.

  As Kovacs walked away, Tony 5 said to Chalice, “We’re gonna sandbag this ambush. That means we’re all gonna stay inside the perimeter. Don’t make any mistakes over the radio or the shit’ll hit the fan. You’ve got second watch, two hours and fifteen minutes again.”

  “Professor,” Tony 5 whispered.

  Chalice sat up. The cool night air quickly cleared his head. “My watch?”

  “Yeah. I’m gonna sleep right in back of the hole. Remember, we’re supposed to be on an ambush, so be careful with the radio. If you have to say anything, use your head; but try to wake me first.”

  Chalice picked up his rifle and slid into the hole. He felt different than he had while standing watch on Hill 65 — more alone. But he wasn’t scared. There was something peaceful and reassuring about the black silence that surrounded him. It was soon broken by quiet, cautious footsteps from within the perimeter. Chalice turned, unable to see the silhouette until it was two steps from him.

  The figure squatted and whispered, “Professor, everything okay?”

  “Yeah. Kovacs?”

  “Yeah. Don’t make any mistakes with the radio.”

  “I won’t.”

  “If you see some cat walking around in black PJ’s, don’t wish him good night, just blow him away.”

  “Haven’t seen anything like that yet.”

  “Don’t worry, he’s there. It ain’t often you see Charlie, but he sees you every day.”

  Kovacs remained silent for a few seconds, and Chalice finally asked, “Sarge, you ever kill any of them?”

  “Quite a — What the fuck kinda question is that? Whata you think we’re doing with these Gooks, playing tag?”

  “I just wanted —”

  “I know what you wanted — to know what it’s like. Well it ain’t no big thing. It’s one of the rules. . . . Listen Professor, you seem all right most of the time, but I ain’t sure. I’ll give you some dope you won’t find in those books you’re humpin’. I’ve done some movin’. Every place I hit, the rules are different. The trick is to learn the rules before they learn you. Nam ain’t no bargain, but the rules are a snap. There ain’t but one: Kill them before they kill you. And there’s a catch, too: The cocksucker who breaks the rule don’t always pay the price. Don’t ever let me think there’s a chance I’ll have to pay it for you.” As Kovacs stood up, he grabbed Chalice’s shoulder to show he wasn’t angry. “I’m gonna crash. Take it easy . . . and be careful with the radio.”

  The company was ready to move out a few minutes after dawn. Kovacs called Second Platoon together. “Here’s the story. We’re gonna move down the road one kilometer, then turn off to the left and head for the base of the mountains. That’s about three more klicks. We’ll move along the mountains until the whole column is parallel to the road, then we sweep back on-line. The last tree line is about one klick from the road. We’ll probably set-in there for a couple of hours.”

  Chalice said to Forsythe. “That doesn’t sound too bad, only six kilometers. We did about ten yesterday.”

  “Yeah, but those ten klicks were on a road. Today we move through rice paddies and brush. That’s no picnic. We’ll be moving on-line, and when you do that you don’t go around heavy brush, you go through it.”

  Kovacs called for everybody to form up. The company again moved out in two columns. Chalice’s leg and shoulder muscles felt ready to tear away from his bones, but he was glad they had started early so as to take advantage of the early morning chill. It seemed only a few minutes had passed before they turned off the road towards the mountains. As Chalice stared at them, he felt more confident, telling himself that three kilometers didn’t seem too far.

  The rice paddies began about fifty yards from the road. The first dike was only a few feet high. Chalice put one foot on it and hopped over. The water came halfway up his thighs. Not used to the weight of his pack, he stumbled and almost lost his balance. Moving through that much water was hard enough in itself, but the foot of soft mud underneath it made matters worse. Before he’d gone ten yards, he knew what Forsythe had meant. He felt as if he were walking on a huge piece of flypaper.

  When he stepped up on the next dike his pants legs bulged with water. Hamilton yelled to him, “Unblouse your trousers and roll up the cuffs.’' “What about the leeches?”

  “Fuck the leeches. You can’t carry around ten gallons of water.”

  The dikes were only twenty yards apart. When Chalice reached the next one, he unbloused his pants legs. The man in front of him had already crossed the next dike. Chalice hurried to catch up. He could now move more easily, but by the time he caught up he was out of breath. After traveling through a kilometer of rice paddies, they came to a hundred yards of high ground. Chalice took a few steps on it and found the difference hard to believe. ‘If only I’d known, yesterday would have been a pleasure.’ When they reached the rice paddies again, he dreaded jumping off the dike. Twenty yards into them, he was more exhausted than he’d been all morning.

  Hamilton again offered some advice. “Don’t follow the trail of the guy in front of you, make your own. Step on the rice shoots. You won’t sink in the mud so deep.” Hamilton’s advice helped, but not much.

  It took another
hour to reach the base of the mountains. The last half kilometer had been on high ground and relatively easy. The two columns meshed before turning left along the foothills. When the entire company had made the turn and was parallel to the road, the order to hold up was given. Chalice noticed the men checking for leeches. He pulled up his left pants leg and found three huge ones, bloated with blood, attached just above his sock. “Hey Hamilton, how do you get these things off?”

  “Here, use this bug juice.” As soon as the insect repellent touched them, the leeches dropped off, leaving his calf smeared with blood.

  The word was passed to start sweeping. Chalice concentrated on staying even with the men to each side of him. There was constant yelling about keeping the line straight. The men moving on the better ground tended to get ahead of the men moving through the deeper paddies, so they’d have to stop every few minutes to let the others catch up. As the company approached the first tree line, Chalice thought about what he’d been taught. ‘Don’t go through breaks in the brush — might be booby-trapped. Better to go right through the brush than around it. Look for trip wires, but keep your head up. Have rifle ready to shoot.’

  Twenty yards into the tree line the vegetation got thicker. Continually tripping over the undergrowth, Chalice decided to put his rifle on safe rather than risk an accidental discharge. He found himself more worried about keeping up than about tripping a booby trap. ‘No wonder so many guys get killed. Get so tired you don’t give a shit what you step on.’