Sand in the Wind

by Robert Roth

  Morton and Hacker exploded into action as if awakened by a mortar round. Shouting, snapping their teeth, and adjusting uniforms, they quickly convinced three of the remaining five recruits to give the Marine Corps another try. The fourth recruit whimpered, “I’m a homosexual.” When the fifth recruit saw Morton step back laughing, he too remembered that he was a homosexual. Morton quickly segregated the two homosexuals in the center of the squad bay where he interrogated them as they did calisthenics.

  Green and Colson emerged from the bathroom ten minutes later. “ALL RIGHT, hogs, let me have your attention. Private Red-Neck has an announcement to make.”

  Colson couldn’t have looked any more frightened than he had all day. The only change in his appearance was a slowly enlarging smudge of blood at the corner of his mouth. Trying but unable to hide his fear, he called out, “Fellow recruits, I have decided to reenlist in the Marine Corps.”

  Green called the platoon to the center of the squad bay. As they had been taught, the men converged violently upon one another, staggering into a tight mass. Satisfied, Green gave the order to sit down. “Hogs, if you’re wondering what that siren was a few minutes ago, I’ll tell you. One of those outstanding recruits from next door decided he just couldn’t hack it in the Marine Corps, so he decided to hack his wrists instead. . . . He botched the job of course. He’ll live. Let me tell you what’s going to happen to him as soon as he gets out of the hospital: He’s gonna be court-martialed and get sent to the brig for a long, long time. When you signed that little white enlistment paper, you signed your putrid bods over to Uncle Sam. Each and every one of you is government property. Our friend is gonna get court-martialed for the destruction of government property.

  “Because I’m such a nice guy, I’m gonna tell you how to keep the same thing from happening to you. The civilian turd did it the wrong way. I’m gonna show you the Marine Corps way.” Green waved a double-edged blade slowly over his head. “Privates, courtesy of Uncle Sam, you’ve all got a pack of these government issue items in your footlocker. If you’re in a real hurry, you can take the dirty one out of your razor. It won’t be quite as sharp, but it’ll get the job done. First take it by the ends and press the blades together until they snap. Be careful not to cut yourself.” Green held up his hands, half the blade in each one. “You really only need one of these babies, but save the other in case of emergency. Now here’s the way not to do it — the wrong way.” Green moved the blade across his wrist. “HERE’S THE MARINE CORPS WAY!” Green moved the blade up and down his forearm. “Now if you really press it in, you’re home free. You’ll never have to worry about a court-martial. Remember, up and down, not across — that way you get all the arteries instead of just one.

  “Here’s some other tips. Do it in the shower room. It’s the darkest part of the head (you won’t be so squeamish if you can’t see what you’re doing, and it’ll be harder for some jerk to spot you and blow the whole operation ). Doing it in the shower also makes it easier for your fellow hogs to clean up the mess — no use having anybody knocking the dead. Also, don’t do it right before dawn — give yourself plenty of time to bleed. One more thing, wait till the fire watch (you’ll learn more about him later — he’s one of you hogs that stands guard at night) wait until he gets out in the hall. You don’t want him interrupting you.”

  Chalice stood at attention in front of his rack. In a few minutes his sixth day of training would end. The squad bay was quiet except for Melton’s voice. He was doing push-ups in the center of the aisle and counting them for himself. Melton still claimed to be a homosexual. After three days of doing calisthenics in front of the rest of the men, the other recruit had admitted he’d been lying. As if Morton, Green, and Hacker weren't enough, drill instructors from the other platoons in the series had constantly dropped by to taunt them — asking for blow jobs and exposing themselves. While wondering how much longer Melton could take it or if he really was a homosexual, Chalice told himself that at least he knew one way not to get off Parris Island.

  Since the second night of training, Sergeant Morton had been trying to teach the men to count off before going to bed. Each man had to call out a number one higher than that called out by the man to his right. The final man was to say, “Sir, the count on deck is seventy-eight privates.” Although they tried four or five times a night, never had the men been able to complete the count without making a mistake. Sometimes a man would repeat the number that had just been called or shout out a number one less than the preceding number. A few times the count had suddenly stopped because a recruit had forgotten the previous number. But the most common mistake was for a recruit to blurt out his laundry number. On one occasion the count got all the way up to seventy-three before the next man yelled out in a sharp, military tone, “FOURTEEN.”

  Counting off was the only thing about Parris Island that Chalice began to look forward to. It meant the end of another brutal day, and he also found the men’s mistakes amusing. Rarely did the drill instructors get too upset over them. They were usually satisfied with merely shouting in the offending man’s face, only occasionally choking or shoving him.

  Chalice was expecting the command to count off, when Sergeant Green said instead, “Hogs, I’ve got some good news for you. I know you’ve been worried about Private Shockley for the last few days. Well, you’ll be glad to know he’s fine. He tried to get off the island by hiding in the back seat of a car. Fortunately, the car belonged to a drill instructor. Private Shockley is now safely in the hands of the MP’s. He had more balls than I thought — got a little violent when they captured him. From what I hear, he’ll probably spend the rest of his two years in the brig.” Green turned to Private Melton. “Stay out of this, fag. We count queers separate. . . . Count, OFF!”

  “ . . . EIGHT,” Chalice called out. He listened to the count increase without a mistake all the way down his end of the squad bay.

  .. FORTY-THREE.”

  “FORTY-FOUR.”

  ‘God, we might just make it this time.’

  “ . . . SEVENTY-FOUR.”

  “SEVENTY-FIVE.”

  ‘We will. I don’t believe it.’

  “SEVENTY-SIX.”

  “SEVENTY-SEVEN.”

  “SEVENTY-EIGHT. Sir, seventy-eight privates in the brig, sir.”

  At first nobody really believed what he had heard. Then Green staggered backwards, speechless for the first time in six days. Sergeant Hacker began laughing, quickly followed by Morton and Green. It wasn’t the vicious, sadistic laughter the men were used to hearing. It actually had a relaxing quality about it. Not wanting to be choked or punched, the recruits struggled to keep from smiling. They couldn’t. The drill instructors moved towards them, Green placing his hands around a man’s neck. But it was useless. They’d need until dawn to get to everybody. Morton and Hacker merely walked out the door. Before Green followed them, he said in a soft, disbelieving tone, “Seventy-eight privates in the brig,” then added defeatedly, “Good night, ladies.” It wasn’t until Green switched off the lights that he realized these words might have made him appear human, or even sane. In the darkness, he added, “You’ll pay tomorrow, hogs. You’ll FUCKING pay!”

  Chalice was still laughing as he lay in his rack. For the first time since he’d arrived at Parris Island, he began to think about his excuse for going into the service, his reason for joining the Marine Corps — to write a book. ‘Who needs to go to Vietnam?’ he asked himself. ‘It’s all here, every bit of it.’ Again, while laughing quietly, he thought about the seventy-eight privates in the brig. ‘Who’d believe it?’

  “Chalice,” someone whispered.

  He turned towards the next rack. “Cowen?”

  “Yeah. Wasn’t that a riot?”

  “Almost a massacre,” Chalice answered.

  “This place is unbelievable, isn’t it?”

  “God, it’s good to hear someone else say that. At least I know I’m not hallucinating.”

  “Anybody that’d try t
o sell that pill ’ud go broke.”

  “Yeah,” Chalice agreed. “If he didn’t get shot first. . . . I don’t know how much more of this shit I can take.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Hell, yeah.”

  “Shhh,” Cowen warned. “Some of it’s pretty funny.”

  “If it was happening to somebody else it would be.”

  “This fucking island is loaded with guys it’s happening to.”

  “That don’t help me.”

  Cowen propped his head up and leaned closer to Chalice. “They just want you to be able to say, ‘This ain’t as bad as Parris Island,’ no matter where you are or what’s happening to you.”

  “But what are you supposed to say when you are on Parris Island?”

  “ ‘At least I only got so many days left.’ ”

  “That’s just it — so many. . . . I guess you’re right. They can’t kill all of us.”

  “They’d probably take away their PX cards or something if they did.” Amused by his own thought, Chalice mumbled, “Thank God for the Military Code of Justice.”

  “Yeah. Only the Marine Corps would take an hour to explain all minus thirty of your rights to you. I could have given the whole speech in one sentence. ‘Hogs, there ain’t one of you swingin’ dicks that’s got the right to wipe his own ass.’ ”

  “That reminds me —”

  “Shhh,” Cowen warned.

  “— I haven’t taken a shit in six days.”

  “No one has. As soon as you get your cock out, they run you out of the head. We’re lucky they let us piss.”

  “How long can they keep this up?”

  “I don’t know,” Cowen answered. “Maybe they think it turns to muscle.”

  “It’s got to be going somewhere.”

  “The Marine Corps builds men. I guess they start with toilet training. . . . If they don’t let us take a shit tomorrow, I’m gonna have the fire watch wake me in the middle of the night.”

  “I’ll have to do the same thing, but I’m so dead in the morning anyway.”

  “I guess we’re wasting Zee’s right now.”

  “Fuck it. This is the first time I’ve talked to a human being in six days.”

  “What about when you were reading poetry? ‘I never —’ ”

  “Fuck you. I said human being.”

  “You don’t appreciate what a public service the Corps is doing by keeping these psychopaths off the street.”

  “I’m not on the street. I’m in the same cage with them. Green’s the worst. Man, he hates your guts.”

  “I ain’t so sure,” Cowen answered.

  “Then you haven’t been paying attention.”

  “He’s the funniest.”

  “I’ll admit that. He’s also the meanest . . . the smartest too.”

  “And Hacker’s the dumbest,” Cowen added.

  “Man, it’s so great to talk to somebody. I feel sane again. The thing that drives me nuts is there’s always at least one of them watching you. We aren’t even allowed to seal the letters we send.”

  “They can’t read all of them. It’d take Hacker an hour to read the label off a Budweiser can.”

  “If they’d just give us five minutes a day when we could be sure no one was watching us.”

  “What about now?”

  “Yeah. I —” Chalice started to answer before Sergeant Green whispered, “What about now, Jewboy?”

  Cowen remained silent, hoping that he was hearing things and knowing that he wasn’t. Chalice’s body stiffened. A tap with a hammer would have transformed him into sand.

  Green, in his stocking feet, moved silently between their racks. “If it isn’t the college fag. What would you do with the five minutes — discuss poetry?” Chalice couldn’t have answered if he’d wanted to. “I should have waited till you ladies got in the same rack. Get on your feet, both of you. . . . So Miss Chalice and Miss Cowenburg aren’t tired. Let’s see if I can entertain you sweethearts for a while. How’d you like me to teach you a new exercise? It’s called, ‘In the Riggings.’ ”

  Using the same malicious whisper, Green explained the exercise as if he were acquainting Chalice and Cowen with a rite for a secret society he’d just admitted them to. He had them get into the push-up position, then lay their bare ankles on the sharp metal railings of their bunks. With their legs pointed forty-five degrees up in the air, he ordered them to do pushups, “many, many of them.”

  Chalice felt as if his body weighed a thousand pounds. It pressed down on his hands, forcing his face towards the floor. The bunk railing knifed into his ankles as if it would slice his feet off any second. After only a few minutes, Chalice and Cowen could do no more than collapse with their faces on the floor at the end of every push-up. Soon they couldn’t even straighten their arms. For a few minutes, Green left them collapsed on the floor, their feet still hanging from the railings. He finally ordered them back into their bunks. Though both men saw Green leave the squad bay, neither of them had anything to say.

  The footlockers were arranged in two perfectly straight rows along the aisle. The recruits kneeled in back of them polishing their boots.

  “Barnett,” Sergeant Green called out.

  “Here, sir.” Barnett ran up to Green who was holding a letter.

  “Who’s Susan Smith?” Green sneered.

  “Sir, Susan Smith is the Private’s girl.”

  “Does she smoke your pole?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Bullshit. A cunt that writes on the outside of envelopes sucks any dick she can find.” Green handed Barnett the letter. “Get out of here."

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  “Colson.”

  “Here, sir.”

  Chalice felt relieved, glad that he hadn’t gotten a letter and wouldn’t have to face Green. Even receiving mail was something to be dreaded in the Marine Corps.

  “Who’s Henrietta Colson?” Green asked.

  “Sir, that’s the Private’s sister.”

  “How old is she?”

  “Seventeen.”

  “Does she fuck good?”

  “Sir, the Private doesn’t know.”

  “Grit, are you trying to tell me there’s a red-neck in Mississippi who doesn’t fuck his sister? . . . HUH?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How come, hog? Doesn’t she like white men?”

  “Sir, the Private doesn’t know.”

  “Beat it, grit.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  “Private Abie.”

  “Here, sir.”

  “There’s something inside this, Jewboy. Open it here.” Cowen withdrew some photographs and handed them to Green. A sneer on his face, Green flipped through them before shoving a photograph in Cowen’s face. “Whose dog is that, Abie?”

  “Sir, that’s the Private’s dog.”

  “No, the other one.”

  “Sir, that’s the Private’s mother.”

  “Jewboy, did I ask you anything about your mother? WHOSE DOG IS IT?”

  “Sir, that’s the Private’s father’s dog.”

  “Get out of here.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  “ . . . White.”

  “Here, sir.”

  “Good news, White. You got a package. Open it.” The box contained fruit, candy bars, and gum. After sifting through it for a few seconds, Green asked, “What is this, a coon Care Package?”

  “No, sir.”

  “What’s the difference between this and a coon Care Package?”

  “Sir, the Private doesn’t know.”

  “Does he know that he’s not supposed to receive packages at Parris Island?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “HOW COME HIS MAMMY DOESN’T KNOW?”

  “Sir, the Private wrote her.”

  “Maybe the Private better start drawing pictures. . . . It’d be a shame to waste all this nourishing food. Pick out a piece of fruit, a candy bar, and some gum.” Green dumped the remainder of the package i
nto the garbage. “Eat the orange first.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  “What the fuck are you doing, Private?”

  “Sir, the Private was peeling the orange.”

  “HOG, how many times do I have to tell you that you don’t fart around here unless you’re ordered to? . . . Eat the orange.” After watching White eat half of it, Green got impatient. “Throw it away and start on the candy bar.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  “PRIVATE, WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?”

  “Sir, the Private was . . . unwrapping the candy bar.”

  Green shook his head while saying softly, “Uh uh, Private. That’s a no-no.” White ate the candy bar, wrapper and all. He then chewed the gum, along with its package. Green handed him a glass of warm water to wash it all down. “We wouldn’t want you to get fat, Private. Sit-up position, hit it! Ready, BEGIN! . . . You can stop at one hundred or when you puke.” White was able to stop at thirty-two.

  After cleaning the squad bay for the fifth time that day, the men counted off without a mistake. Chalice was amazed. The platoon had only been in training two weeks.

  “Prepare to hit the rack," Green commanded.

  “PREPARE TO HIT THE RACK. AYE AYE, SIR,” the men replied, all except Chalice. He had done far more than prepare. Before he could get back on his feet, Sergeant Green came over and started tucking him in.

  “No, no, don’t get up, hog. You’re tired, aren’t you?” Green clucked his tongue a few times. “You college boys need all the rest you can get. Just relax. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

  “Prepare to hit the rack.”

  “PREPARE TO HIT THE RACK. AYE AYE, SIR.”

  “HIT IT.”

  The men scrambled into their bunks, and Green turned off the light. As Chalice lay wondering if Green would remember the next morning, he heard Cowen trying to muffle some laughter. “Shut the fuck up.”

  “Sure man, you must really need the sleep.”

  The men had just returned from the armory with their newly issued M-14S. Morton paced the aisle, his hands squeezed white around one of the rifles. Eyes on fire, he looked as if he saw the whole world cringing before him.