Sand in the Wind

by Robert Roth

  “Sir, the Private doesn’t remember.”

  “THE PRIVATE BETTER REMEMBER! . . . It was about pain.”

  “Sir, the Drill Instructor wrote, ‘Pain is good.’ ”

  “That’s right, Queen Bee. PAIN IS GOOD! . . . Side-straddle hops; ready, BEGIN!”

  Stevens attempted the exercise but stopped, favoring his right leg.

  A vicious smile on his face, Green shouted, “I GOT YOU now, hog. I GOT YOU! It was your left leg, REMEMBER? . . . Make up your mind, hog. WHAT LEG IS IT?”

  “Sir, both the Private’s legs are sore.”

  “Push-up position, HIT IT!” Stevens dropped to the ground. “Ready, BEGIN — many, many of them.” Stevens did twenty push-ups before collapsing on his stomach. “DID I TELL YOU TO STOP, HOG?”

  “Sir, the Private can’t do any more.”

  “Abie, fill your bucket. . . . Hog, you ain’t even a coon. You’re a NIGGER, a GUTLESS nigger! . . . Aren’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Cowen returned with a bucket of water, and Green shouted, “PUSH-UP POSITION, MOVE!” Stevens made no attempt to lift himself off the floor. “Dump it on him, Abie.” Stevens lay motionless in the puddle of water. “UP POSITION!”

  “Sir, the Private can’t.”

  Two drill instructors from another platoon, one of them black, entered the squad bay. “Take a look at this cunt,” Green shouted.

  The black drill instructor bent over Stevens and cooed, “What’sa matter, mean old Sergeant Green picking on you?” Stevens didn’t answer. “GET UP, TURD!”

  Another black drill instructor entered the squad bay. “You tired, hog?”

  “Push-up position, move!” Green shouted.

  Stevens lay motionless. One of the black drill instructors nudged him with his foot. “Don’t you like to do push-ups, hog?”

  “Sir, Drill Instructor Sergeant Green called the Private a nigger.” The black drill instructor smashed his foot into Stevens’s side, lifting his whole body by the waist. Stevens rolled over, writhing and stunned.

  The other black drill instructor kicked him in the leg. “GET UP, HOG!”

  Stevens tried to crawl away, accidentally grabbing Green’s foot. “THE HOG ATTACKED ME!”

  Hacker ran into the squad bay, laughing, “Queen Bee’s finally getting what he asked for.”

  “The cunt tried to attack me.”

  “That’s right.”

  “We all saw him.”

  “GET UP, CUNT!”

  “On your feet!”

  Sobbing, Stevens moaned, “I can’t.” The two black drill instructors began kicking him down the aisle. He screamed, again and again, defeatedly. The drill instructors surrounded him — kicking and shouting, drowning out his cries.

  Disbelieving what he saw, Chalice remembered wanting Stevens hurt, remembered the times he’d had to pay for Stevens. Sure he deserved it. But not this! nothing as brutal as this — being kicked down the aisle by five drill instructors, moaning and crying like a child, begging them to stop.

  The drill instructors had Stevens surrounded. He tried to crawl away, screaming in pain. They shouted, kicked, and spit on him. A black drill instructor jerked Stevens to his feet by the neck, flung him near Chalice. Blood and snot dripped from his nose. His mouth stretched open in pain.

  Spasms shot through Chalice’s stomach. He fought to keep from vomiting. Stevens collapsed at his feet. The drill instructors circled him, frenzied, shouting and kicking, shoving Chalice and Cowen out of the way. The black drill instructors seemed most enraged, did the most damage. By themselves, they kicked him ten yards. One of them dragged him by the leg all the way down the aisle while Green shouted to the rest of the platoon, “Get a look at this worthless cunt.”

  Finally, they dragged him into the bathroom. Hacker phoned the MP’s while the other drill instructors remained with Stevens. Green returned to the squad bay, the vicious expression on his face asking, “Who’s next?” Sneering, he scraped his boot through the blood splotches on the floor.

  “GET OUT YOUR RAGS! CLEAN THIS SHIT UP!” Still queasy, Chalice ran his rag over the floor. It came away stained with the sickening brown color of blood.

  The men were back at attention when the MP’s arrived. They dragged Stevens, half-conscious, out the door. Green seemed calm as he paced the aisle, but Chalice had no doubts that his rage had been real. As Green’s stare passed over him, Chalice wondered, ‘Are you satisfied now? . . . That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?’

  Green began speaking in his usual sadistic, arrogant tone; but beneath it Chalice sensed something more than the desire to terrorize. “Hogs, I hope you enjoyed this as much as I did. There’s nothing that says you can’t have some good, clean fun on Parris Island. I did you a favor, hogs. You may not appreciate it now, but when you get to Nam you will. When you get to Nam and find yourself in a foxhole with some other Marine, you won’t have to sweat it being Stevens. I’d rather see that cocksucker dead than as a Marine. I can’t kill him myself, but there’s two things I can do: try to turn him into a Marine or try my best to keep him on this island. You won’t see him again. When he gets out of the brig, you’ll be long gone.

  “Maybe some other drill instructor can turn Private Stevens into a Marine. I’ve seen worse turds salvaged. But at least I’m through with him. I’ve already spent one tour in Nam, and it won’t be long before I go back. Too many Marines get killed because of cunts like that to let another one off this island. If he can’t take it here, then he can’t take it in Nam. . . . Sometimes a shitbird slips through. If you meet one in Nam, do your platoon a favor: BLOW HIM AWAY! Blow him away before he gets someone else blown away.”

  Green paused. When he began speaking again, it was in a still loud but less arrogant tone. “Hogs, the Marine Corps is my life, my whole fucking life. I intend to stay in it a long time. When I put my hands on one of you turds, I put my career on the line. Who the hell knows when some pencil-pushing cunt in Legal might decide that a gutless turd like Stevens is worth more than the Marine Corps, worth more than this uniform I risk my life to wear. See these stripes on my arm, they’ve come off before and I don’t give a shit if they come off again. I don’t care if they bust me to private — just as long as I can keep turds like Stevens from wearing the same uniform as I wear, just as long as I can keep turds like that from ending up in Nam where they can get me or any other decent Marine killed because they can’t hack it.”

  Green stopped talking. He walked over to the blackboard and wrote in large, block letters, “JEROME ALLEN GREEN 1991666.”

  “Hogs, that’s my name and serial number. I want every one of you to write it down and memorize it. If you don’t like something I do, you figure out a way to get that name and serial number over to Legal. You fix up a nice little story to go along with it. You can even save it until after you get off Parris Island. It might be easier then. But remember something, hogs: There ain’t one of you cunts that’s gonna get off this island until I think he deserves to be called a Marine. There ain’t one of you cunts that’s gonna wear this uniform unless I’d be proud to share the same foxhole with you.”

  Green walked out of the squad bay, leaving the men alone and at attention. Still sickened by what had happened to Stevens, Chalice asked himself what could excuse such brutality — certainly not the gung ho speech he’d just heard. Green was less than an animal. He was a sadistic perversion of a human being. Or was it that simple?

  The men stood facing each other in two files, a painfully cold wind gusting towards them from the opposite side of the rifle range. Morton stood between the files holding a can of Sure Grip. “Today’s the day, hogs. Today’s the day you get to fire your M-14 Destroyers. This goo is to keep your rifle stocks from slipping. When I walk by, scream out, ‘Left-handed, sir,’ if you’re left-handed.”

  When Morton reached him, Chalice shouted, “Left-handed, sir.” Morton slapped a spoonful of Sure Grip on the left side of Chalice’s chest. “Rub it in, hog.”
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br />   Chalice pressed the glob against his shooting jacket. The grainy gluelike mass oozed between his fingers, webbing them together. He pressed harder, trying to rub off as much of the Sure Grip as possible. Even after his arm was at his side, Chalice kept working his fingers apart only to have them stick together again.

  Morton started on the men across from Chalice. He slapped some Sure Grip on a recruit’s shoulder. As if awakened, the recruit shouted, “Left-handed, sir.”

  Chalice saw Morton’s fist squeeze white around the spoon. He waited for him to explode. Instead, Morton said calmly, “Open your mouth, hog.”

  Morton heaped the spoon with Sure Grip. He waved it slowly in front of the recruit before resting it upon his lower teeth. “Bite, hog.” The teeth clamped down with a metallic cling. Morton withdrew the spoon. “Chew, hog.” The recruit’s jaw ground slowly. His face reddened. Morton jumped back to avoid the vomit.

  Chalice found himself trying to suppress a laugh. Between wheezing coughs, the recruit’s face twisted with nausea. Chalice tasted the Sure Grip in his own mouth, felt his stomach convulse. Guiltily, he tried to keep from smiling.

  The rest of the day went quickly. It had been strikingly different. Not until the platoon was ready to leave the rifle range did Chalice try to figure out why. The men stood in front of him in formation. He, the college hog, was waiting for all the wind hoods to be passed forward so he could count them. He felt relaxed, noticed the same feeling on the other men’s faces. It had something to do with the rifles. During the day, the drill instructors had seemed to look at the men differently — almost as equals. Their words, even their shouts, hadn’t been meant to taunt or harass. The drill instructors had been on their side — teaching them how to shoot, spotting their rounds, adjusting their sights. Chalice stared at Morton, intrigued, seeing him for the first time as something other than an adversary.

  “ARE YOU EYEBALLING ME, college fag? COUNT THEM GODDAMN HOODS!” Nervously, Chalice began stuffing the wind hoods into a canvas bag. He lost count and had to start over, sure that Morton was glaring at him. The wind slashed against the side of his face. His numb fingers grabbed clumsily at the hoods. Relieved to stuff the final hood into the bag, he called out, “Sir, seventy-two hoods.”

  Morton spun around. “There should he seventy-three.” Chalice remained silent, sure that he had miscounted. “Hog, you better not have made a mistake. . . . Count ’em again.”

  Chalice emptied the bag as Morton turned towards the men. “Which one of you cocksuckers didn’t turn in his wind hood?” Morton froze, spotting something. Shoving men aside, he burst through the ranks. A recruit in the back row stood rigidly at attention, eyes directed forward, still wearing his wind hood. Morton rushed up to him. “HOG, DID YOU TURN IN YOUR HOOD?”

  “Yes, sir,” the recruit shouted uneasily, wondering why Morton had singled him out.

  “Are you sure, hog?” Morton asked softly.

  “YES, SIR.”

  “You remember turning it in?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Who’d you give it to, hog?”

  “Sir, the Private handed it to Private Stanley.”

  “YOU’RE LYING!”

  Now even more bewildered, the recruit replied, “Sir, the Private turned in his wind hood.”

  “Oh, is that right?” Morton slammed his hand down on top of the recruit’s head. He jerked him forward by the hood and dragged him gagging through the ranks.

  “OPEN THE BAG!” Chalice held it open while Morton stuffed the hood and the head it contained into the bag. The chin buttons finally snapped and the recruit staggered backwards.

  “GET BACK IN RANKS!” Morton screamed.

  The lights flashed on and Morton said calmly, “Rise and shine, kiddies. Rise and shine.” Bewildered, the men staggered out of their racks. Any change meant trouble, but Morton’s easy tone was startling. Blinking, still half asleep, they stood at attention in front of their bunks.

  “Hogs, I don’t like to see Marines smile, and I don’t like to hear them sing. But today is a special occasion. We have a birthday. I wanna hear every swinging dick singing happy birthday to our sweet little birthday boy.” Morton started singing. The men joined him hesitantly, unsure of what was happening, gradually realizing as the singing became more boisterous. “Happy birthday to you./ Happy birthday to you./ Happy birthday dear ]esus./ Happy birthday to you.” By the time the song ended, most of the men were smiling. Morton restored the platoon’s military bearing by good-naturedly pounding a few of the men on the sides of their heads.

  Christmas proved no different from an ordinary Sunday, and aside from church services, Sunday was never very different from any other day. Few of the men had expected any difference. Christmas at Parris Island was as inconceivable as finding Parris Island under a Christmas tree.

  After breakfast, Morton marched the platoon to church to hear “that fucking pansy of a chaplain tell us about Candyass Jesus.” When the men returned to the squad bay, Morton assured them that if he’d been around at the time, “the slimy Jew wouldn’t haven’t gotten off so easy.” The recruits spent the next few hours hand washing their clothes, polishing their boots, and shining their brass. As often happened when they were doing these tasks, Morton left them alone in the squad bay. As rarely happened, he didn’t come sneaking through the door or windows every ten minutes to choke any man he caught talking or loafing. An hour before lunch, he did rush into the squad bay.

  “ATTENTION!” Startled, the men jumped to their feet. Morton’s tone and angry expression seemed ready to prove that Christmas was the most miserable day of the year. “Any of you hogs seen the duty roster?” No one answered. “Chalice, Cowen, Boyd, Richardson, . . . see if it’s in the Dempster Dumpster.” The four men rushed outside.

  Chalice reached the garbage bin first. He swung the door open and saw that the bin was over half full. “God, we’ll never find it.”

  All four men glanced inside. They stood around for a few minutes urging each other to climb into the bin. Placing himself farthest from the door, Chalice warned, “We better get started.”

  “Yeah,” Richardson agreed, making no effort to climb inside.

  Boyd had his head through the door. Cowen placed his hand on Boyd’s shoulder. “Yeah. The garbage ain’t gonna come to us. See if it’s in there, Boyd.”

  “What’s the duty roster look like?” Boyd asked, knowing exactly what it looked like and playing the dumb Southerner that he wasn’t.

  “It’s a white paper with typing on it,” Chalice informed him.

  Boyd reached inside and started shuffling the garbage. “Sure a mess a white papers in here.” Boyd reached farther into the bin and began thrashing the garbage around.

  “Find it?” Cowen asked, all but pushing Boyd inside.

  “No, but I found a pack of Hershey bars,” Boyd answered excitedly. “Huh?”

  “Where?”

  “Hand ’em out.” All four men squeezed their heads through the door. “Take it easy. You’re smothering me.”

  “One at a time,” Chalice suggested while climbing Richardson’s back. “Hey, I see some pistachio nuts.” Cowen dived over Boyd, and Richardson followed him inside.

  “Ow! Get off me!” Chalice lifted Boyd’s legs and dumped him into the bin. Cowen pulled Boyd’s head out of the garbage while Chalice climbed in. The Dumpster was full of candy sent to the men for Christmas. The drill instructors had gotten tired of making the recruits eat it wrappers and all, then exercising them until they puked. Garbage flew furiously around the bin as all four men burrowed through it.

  “Cup cakes!”

  “Clark Bars!”

  “Let me have one.”

  “More gum.”

  “Brownies!”

  The men stuffed their mouths as they searched, and the announcements became less intelligible. Finally tiring, they piled all the loot in the center of the bin and began devouring it. Cheeks stuffed like hamsters’, the men suddenly stopped grabbing for the ca
ndy. They stared at each other. Convulsed by laughter, Cowen fell over backwards. Candy spurted from his mouth as he wallowed in the garbage. They all started laughing, each one noticing how ridiculous the other three looked. As their mouths emptied and the laughter became louder, Chalice reached over and shut the large metal door. Just enough light seeped in for them to see each other and the candy.

  Richardson, a small, frail black, was almost invisible beneath his green hat. Teeth flashing from nowhere, he said. “This reminds me of Candyland in the fairy stories.”

  “Except for the smell.”

  “Who cares?”

  “I forgot what candy tastes like without the wrapper.”

  “I almost forgot to take it off.’

  “You know this is the best Christmas I ever had.”

  “Me too,” Cowen agreed.

  Chalice said, “Dear Mom and Dad, I had a beautiful black Christmas . . . inside a Dempster Dumpster. . . . This is the first time in two months I’ve felt safe.”

  “Yeah. No drill instructors in here.”

  “Can’t see us either.”

  “It’s a damn good thing.”

  “Parris Island wouldn’t be so bad if they’d let us sit in garbage cans more often.”

  “Yeah,” Cowen agreed. “This is almost as good as being back in the States.”

  Boyd said, “It’s a mite cramped, but a damn sight cozier than the squad bay.”

  “Yankee Stadium would be cramped with me and three drill instructors inside.”

  “One drill instructor wouldn’t be much better, Abie.”

  “Not iffin’ it was Green. Abie, I don’t think he likes you at all.”

  “He don’t like anybody.”

  “Especially Abie.”

  “I ain’t so sure,” Cowen said softly, willing to let the matter drop.