Sand in the Wind

by Robert Roth

  “Hogs, today is your most important day of training. Today you made the most important friend of your Marine Corps careers. A Marine’s rifle is his best friend. Marines are the best marksmen in the world. They’re the best marksmen in the world because they’re the best trained marksmen in the world. They’re the best trained marksmen in the world because they’re taught to shoot the Marine Corps way. I could name some Marine Corps marksmen you should know, but you don’t. So I’ll just name two that you do know — Lee Harvey Oswald and Charles Whitman. You can’t beat marksmanship like that! Don’t worry. When we get through with you, you’ll be just as good. . . . Tell everyone who Charles Whitman is, college hog.”

  “Sir, the Private doesn’t know,” Chalice answered.

  “I figured as much. Private Hymie, let’s see if you know.”

  “Sir, Charles Whitman was the Texas Tower Killer,” Cowen called out.

  “That’s right, Hymie. Tell everyone what he did.”

  “Sir, Charles Whitman killed sixteen people from the University of Texas tower.”

  “THAT’S what I call shooting,” Morton replied.

  Green stared at Chalice while saying, “That’s what I call educating people.”

  Morton continued, “Now some of you worthless hogs are gonna spend the rest of your time in the Corps pounding on a typewriter, slinging hash, or polishing airplanes. But . . . remember one thing: A Marine is a rifleman first and that bullshit second. When you get to Nam with your fancy MOS’s, don’t be surprised if you find yourself up to your balls in rice paddies. Every Marine, no matter what his MOS, takes at least some training as a rifleman when he leaves Parris Island. Remember this, hogs: A professional killer without a weapon ain’t worth shit!”

  Morton began demonstrating the manual of arms. Chalice watched closely, sensing a slight change in the way Morton looked at the recruits sensing a hint of respect in his glare. The first movement he demonstrated was Port Arms from Order Arms. Slowly, five times, Morton moved the rifle from a position on the floor against his right leg, to a position diagonally in front of his chest. He did so in two simple, distinct motions. The men watched, confident they could duplicate this movement.

  Morton eyed them warily before finally giving the command. “Port, HARMS!”

  Morton had been prepared for mistakes, but what he saw stunned him seventy-seven variations of Port Arms. Not satisfied with two distinct movements, some of the men had combined them into one awkward gesture while others added two or three additional movements. There weren’t five men in a row with their rifles pointing in the same direction, and a few of the men switched directions three and four times before finally deciding upon one. At the same time glad and sorry that his own rifle wasn’t loaded, Morton merely ordered the men back to the starting position.

  Chalice was more concerned with his own inepitude than that of the men around him. The movement had seemed so simple when done by Morton. He watched carefully as Green demonstrated the same maneuver. Green had the platoon try it a step at a time, and the results were somewhat better. He kept the men practicing for over an hour, adding a few more movements such as Right Shoulder Arms. Not once did the entire platoon perform any of these maneuvers correctly. The drill instructors always had a choice of men to scream at. As the practice continued, the screaming became louder.

  Chalice’s rifle began to feel like it weighed a hundred pounds. All three drill instructors had had a turn to spit words in his face, and he was praying that the drill would soon be over. Suddenly, Hacker came rushing towards him. “College fag, IS THAT RIFLE TOO HEAVY FOR YOU?”

  “No, sir."

  “HOLD IT OUT STRAIGHT!”

  “Yes, sir."

  The drilling continued. Green showed particular interest in Private Cowen while Hacker and Morton distributed their insults more evenly. Green noticed that Cowen’s little finger had a tendency to slide away from the rest of his fingers. Tired of pointing this out, Green smashed Cowen’s hand with a rifle stock. “How’s that, Abie? In a few minutes you’ll look like you’re wearing a pretty red mitten.”

  Hacker rushed towards Chalice, “HOG, what did I tell you about that rifle? We’ve got an exercise for weaklings like you.” Chalice found himself in the center of the aisle with his arms straight out in front of him and his rifle lying across his palms. His forearms hardened and began to ache. The pain moved slowly towards his shoulders. Each second seemed to be the last possible one before his arms would collapse. One by one, other men joined him in the center of the aisle. He could actually feel them straining like himself. The sound of a rifle barrel hitting a bunk railing distracted him. Green and Cowen seemed glued together at the chest.

  “Jewboy, what are you trying to do?”

  “Sir, the Private was trying to do Right Shoulder Arms.”

  Green buried his fist in Cowen’s stomach. His face red and twisted, Cowen straightened his body to attention. “What’s the matter, Jewboy? Did that hurt?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Oh, I can’t hit.” Again Green smashed his fist into Cowen’s stomach. “Did that hurt, Jewboy?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Oh, you can’t take it.” Green punched Cowen again. “How about that time?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Kike, I don’t know why I’m wasting my sweat.” Green paused as if to calm himself, but continued in the same angry tone. “As soon as you get out of here, they’ll probably stick you behind a typewriter. You’ll be like any other cunt secretary. You’ll shine your shoes just good enough to stay out of trouble. The same for your uniform. You might even make some rank. If they start giving Purple Hearts for broken fingernails, you’ll probably get a few of those. Everything’ll go along just fine . . . but then it’ll happen, hog: Some candyass colonel’ll walk by your desk and you’ll drop your typewriter on his foot. . . . You know what they’ll do to you, hog? They’ll take . . . you . . . out . . . AND SHOOT YOU! . . . You need a shower, Abie.”

  One by one, more men were sent into the aisle. Soon a fourth of the platoon stood arms outstretched, rifles balanced across their palms. Chalice’s arms throbbed violently. No longer did they feel ready to collapse. Instead, he became gradually dizzier and more worried about falling on his face. Suddenly, his arms did drop. He quickly raised them before any of the drill instructors noticed. Other men weren’t as lucky. Faces twisted in pain, sweat gushing from their pores, they also had to endure the drill instructors’ rebukes.

  Finally it happened. A man dropped his rifle to the floor. Forgetting his pain, Chalice waited to see what the drill instructors would do. All three of them converged upon Stevens, a lanky, delicate-looking black.

  “PICK IT UP, HOG.”

  “GET THAT RIFLE OFF THE DECK!”

  Stevens picked up the rifle, but was unable to stretch out his arms. “GET IT OUT THERE, CUNT.”

  “STRAIGHTEN THOSE ARMS.”

  “Sir, the Private can’t.”

  “CAN’T?”

  “CAN’T, MY ASS!”

  “Why you gutless coon, GET THAT RIFLE UP.”

  “Sir, the Private’s trying.”

  “TRYING!”

  “FUCKING TRYING!”

  “WHO THE FUCK CARES WHAT YOU’RE TRYING?”

  “I didn’t ask you to try, hog. Now GET . . . THAT . . . RIFLE UP!”

  “Sir, the Private can’t.”

  “THE PRIVATE’S GUTLESS.”

  “THE PRIVATE’S GONNA EAT THAT RIFLE.”

  “I AIN’T TELLING YOU AGAIN, coon.”

  Stevens made a feeble effort before his arms again collapsed to his sides. Morton yanked the rifle away and smashed it against Stevens’s chest, sending him sprawling to the floor.

  Morton spun around and shouted, “ALL RIGHT, you miserable civilian TURDS, you don’t deserve these rifles. Stow ’em . . . right now!” The men quickly put away their rifles, then stood at attention in front of their racks. “ON YOUR BELLIES!”

  At first Chalice was glad
to be rid of his rifle, but after a half hour of calisthenics he couldn’t remember ever being glad about anything. For the past five minutes he’d been doing push-ups. His arms felt as if they were going to tear off at the shoulders. Sweat dripped rhythmically from the tip of his nose. He could see his reflection in the puddle beneath his face. All three drill instructors paced the aisle yelling at individual men. Morton stood over Cowen for a few minutes continually asking, “How ’bout a shower, Hymie. You look like you need a shower.”

  Finally Morton and Hacker left, leaving Green to conduct the calisthenics. It was Green that the men feared most. Whatever had to be done, he was more adept at making it painful. Green seemed to get the most pleasure from torturing them. All he had to do was look at a man to tell him he’d slit that man’s throat for a laugh. Morton and Hacker had their limits, no matter how unbearable these limits might be. But Green was capable of anything.

  Chalice listened to him call out the exercises, Green’s pleasure increasing his own suffering. The platoon was doing side-straddle hops, all the men facing in the same direction. Chalice noticed Green standing atop a rack. He sprang silently to the next one, only the men he passed aware of him. Stevens stood in place, moving his arms to appear as if doing the exercise. Green sprang to the next rack. He crouched, teeth clenched in a smile. Chalice stared in awe, rapt by Green’s image. He wasn’t even human. It was a jungle cat eyeing an unsuspecting kill, waiting for the right moment. It came. Green sprang with lethal quickness, soaring dizzily over the heads of a file of men. In an instant, Stevens lay sprawled on the floor, face up with Green straddling him. He stood motionless, as if at any second he’d dive down and tear out a chunk of Stevens’s neck with his teeth. Green’s hands shot downward, jerking Stevens to his feet as if he were made of straw. One hand squeezed white around Stevens’s neck, he hissed some words Chalice couldn’t understand. Stevens stopped gagging, and his eyes squeezed tightly shut. Green flung him against the wall, then turned on the men. Within seconds the entire platoon was mopping the floor with rags. No water was needed. The men used their own sweat.

  The hand-to-hand combat instructor stood upon a wooden platform. Each of the recruit battalion’s four platoons made up a side of the square that surrounded him. Bayonets fixed, the men held their rifles in the Guard position.

  “Butt stroke!” he yelled.

  In unison, the men stepped forward, viciously swinging the butts of their rifles at an imaginary enemy, screaming, “KILL!”

  “Smash!”

  “KILL!”

  “Slash!”

  “KILL!”

  “Jab!”

  “KILL!”

  Again and again the drill was repeated. The rifles grew heavier and the pain increased; but so did the viciousness of the attacking movements, and also the shouts, “KILL!”

  The instructor paired off the four platoons, arranging the men in order of their size. Instead of a rifle, he now held a pugil stick, a thick broom handle with canvas cushions at both ends. One of the cushions was painted red to indicate the bayonet end of a rifle.

  “All right, men, now you’re gonna prove to me I haven’t been wasting my fucking time; and you better do just that. We’re also gonna find out which platoon has the most guts. Remember, that motherfucker coming at you with a pugil stick’s got one thing on his mind — TO KILL YOU! And there ain’t nothing you can do but kill him first. This ain’t no ballet. You aren’t supposed to impress him with your footwork. You’re gonna charge right at that dirty motherfucker screaming your fucking heads off and swinging that fucking pugil stick. If you wanna live, the first thing you gotta do is prove to that cocksucker that you’re the craziest, most vicious, bloodthirsty sonofabitch that ever lived — that you’re a MARINE!” Chalice watched the successive pairs of combatants. The viciousness with which the men fought surprised him. They looked ridiculous. He felt ridiculous, knowing that soon it would be his turn. Chalice glanced at the faces around him. Without exception, the men were eager for their turns. He too became curious to see what it would be like.

  The instructor blew his whistle. It was Chalice’s turn. His opponent charged towards him — screaming, looking like a maniac. Chalice ran to meet him, also screaming, feeling like an idiot, a screaming idiot. It was an absurdly odd feeling. But it wasn’t bad. They closed upon each other. The hate in his opponent’s eyes was real. He wanted to kill. Chalice expected a Slash, received and parried it, followed with a Butt Stroke, then a Smash to his opponent’s face and a Slash that ended with the red end of his pugil stick at the base of his opponent’s neck. A whistle blew.

  The instructor pointed his finger in the man’s face. “You’re dead, cocksucker.”

  Chalice ran back to his platoon. The men were smiling, some of them holding their fists in the air. It had happened so fast, so easily. He ran by Green.

  “Not bad, hog.” Green’s tone seemed out of character. Still brutal, it almost acknowledged equality. Chalice rejoined the line, anxious for another turn.

  Colson ran to meet his opponent while Morton yelled, “You better not lose this one, RED-NECK.” Both men were big. They swung clumsily at one another. Colson seemed determined not to lose another match. He drove his opponent backwards. A jab in the stomach staggered him. He began to tire. Backstepping, Colson lost his balance. His legs twisted underneath him and he squirmed in pain. A jagged spear of bone stuck out ridiculously from a gash in his leg. He stared numbly at it while blood seeped out from the yellow and white tissue.

  Green ran towards him, yelling joyously, “Finally got rid of him.” A sickened expression on his face, Colson sat quietly, trying not to move. A dozen drill instructors gathered around him, laughing and slapping each other on the back.

  Chalice heard Morton say, “So long, red-neck. I couldn’t have done a better job myself.”

  “Too bad, hog. It looks like it’ll be a long time before you get off this island.”

  “Don’t look so sad, hog. If you can get them to cut it off, they’ll have to give you a discharge.”

  “How does a clumsy turd like you get out of your rack in the morning?”

  Green said loudly, “Cancel that ambulance. I think it’s just a hard-on.”

  Green glared at the men while they did side-straddle hops. The count was up to three hundred, not including the times they’d had to start over. Private Stevens stood at attention. Green asked him, loud enough for everybody to hear, “You like watching the rest of the platoon do PT, don’t you?”

  “No, sir.”

  “No? Well how come you weren’t doing it with them, Queen Bee? If you had, they would have been done long ago.”

  “Sir, the Private’s got a sore foot.”

  “NOBODY gets a sore foot in the Marine Corps! Is that what you’re gonna tell the Gooks in Vietnam — ‘Don’t shoot! I got a sore foot’?”

  “No, sir.”

  “STOP!” Green shouted to the rest of the platoon. The men came to attention, all of them breathing heavily. Green jumped upon a table. “Hogs, you can thank Queen Bee for that little workout. She’s got a sore foot, so you had to do her side-straddle hops for her. That’s the way it is in Nam: if one man doesn’t do his share, the rest of his platoon has to make up for him. Here it’s side-straddle hops. In Nam, it’s more bullets you have to dodge. Here you pay with sweat. In Nam you pay with your lives . . . your arms, your legs, your balls. Stevens, tell these hogs why they had to do two hundred extra side-straddle hops.”

  “Sir, the Private’s got a sore foot.”

  “Awww, Queen Bee’s got a sore foot. . . . HOW COME THE DOCTOR SAYS YOU’RE A MALINGERER?”

  “Sir, the Private doesn’t know.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t like coons. . . . Isn’t that right, Queen Bee?”

  “Sir, the Private doesn’t—”

  “BULLSHIT! I saw the chit. Tell these hogs who Dr. Tolbert is.”

  “Sir, Dr. Tolbert is the doctor that said the Private was malingering.”

  “TH
AT AIN’T WHAT I MEAN!”

  “Sir, Dr. Tolbert is —”

  “Is the big black SPADE that struts around in a white coat over at sick bay. . . . ISN’T HE, QUEEN BEE?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Is he the same one that said there was nothing wrong with your arm two weeks ago?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Queen Bee, you’re the most gutless cunt in this platoon. AREN’T YOU?”

  “No, sir.”

  “WHAT, HOG?”

  “NO, SIR.” The men winced as Stevens repeated his answer. Never before had anyone contradicted a drill instructor.

  “Get over here, cunt.” Stevens walked up to Green who was squatting upon a table. “You’re gutless, aren’t you, cunt?”

  “No, sir. The Private’s got a sore foot.”

  “DID I ASK YOU ABOUT YOUR FOOT, CUNT?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Queen Bee, you’ve been to sick bay twice as much as anyone in this platoon. First it was your stomach, then your ear, then your arm, then your leg. THERE AIN’T A FUCKING THING WRONG WITH YOU EXCEPT YOUR GUTS. . . . College hog, how many push-ups has this platoon done for Private Queen Bee?”

  “Sir, the platoon has done about two hundred push-ups for Private Quee— Stevens.”

  “And about a hundred bends and thrusts, and a hundred sit-ups, AND THREE HUNDRED SIDE-STRADDLE HOPS. . . . Hog, you’re gutless. Everytime this platoon does PT, I see you scratching your ass. You’re gutless, aren’t you?”

  “No, sir.”

  Green sprang up and down on his haunches. “WHAT?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I said you were, cunt. You’re a worthless turd that’s gonna get people killed in Nam. AREN’T YOU, CUNT?”

  “No, sir."

  “I SAID YOU WERE.”

  “Sir, the Drill Instructor can’t say that about the Private.”

  In an instant, Stevens lay flat on his back with Green squatting upon his chest. Stevens gagged as Green bounced upon his haunches. “Aw, the hog can’t breathe. . . . You’re gutless, aren’t you, cunt?” Attempting to answer, Stevens could only gag. “Choke, hog. I hope you die.” Green sprang to his feet, landing with his boots straddling Stevens’s head. “Get up, hog.” Stevens sat up slowly. “GET UP, HOG!” Coughing, Stevens stood up. “You’re the most worthless turd I’ve seen in years. What did I write on the blackboard the first day?”