Sand in the Wind

by Robert Roth

  “Bolton too? I already saw Fields. Listen, I think we better get out of here right now.”

  “You know it.”

  Kramer suddenly remembered the bodies. “What about Fields and Bolton?”

  “Better take ’em the way they are. No time now.” Turning around, Kovacs told Payne, “Pass the word to get ready to move-out.”

  Hamilton and Chalice stripped Fields of his medical gear and passed it down the column. Roads rushed forward to help Harmon with Bolton, but when Harmon stood up he fell back down in pain. He hadn’t realized a chicom had ripped off the heel of one of his boots, taking a hunk of flesh with it.

  “Move-out, fast!” Kramer shouted.

  Roads threw Bolton over his shoulder. Forsythe rushed past them to take the point. By the time Kovacs reached him, Harmon had made it to his feet and was limping slowly forward. Without stopping, Kovacs grabbed Harmon’s arm and pulled it over his shoulder, half carrying him down the trail.

  The squad had been moving at a frantic pace for ten minutes when Chalice, who was carrying Fields’s legs, tripped. Jerked backwards, Hamilton fell down. Kramer tripped over Chalice, barely managing to keep his balance. As Chalice tried to get up, he again fell down. “Hold it up,” Kramer called forward. “This should be far enough,” he gasped to Kovacs, and they both dropped to their knees.

  The entire squad sat exhausted, trying to catch their breaths. Kramer ordered security positions at both the front and rear of the column. Kovacs told Payne to cut down four saplings to use as stretcher poles. Roads sat emptying a canteen on his shoulder trying to wash away the excrement that had discharged on him from Bolton’s corpse. Harmon limped over to the body with a poncho to wrap it in. Kramer and Kovacs looked over the map. “We’re about here, and the rendezvous point is here.” Kramer ran his finger between the two points. “This canopy is gonna make things harder, but we should be able to find our way. We’ll keep angling off at forty-five degrees until we hit this stream here, then we’ll try and figure out our position and a new heading from there. No point in sending up a flare now, is there?”

  “Not much,” Kovacs agreed. “Probably never make it through the canopy. . . . Charlie’d be the only one to see it.”

  “You think we’re doing the right thing heading for the rendezvous point instead of straight down?”

  “That’s what I’d do. Most of the men ran out of chow last night. The bodies and Harmon will slow us down plenty if we try it by ourselves. . . . Getting a chopper in won’t be any problem once we hit the company and get hold of a radio.”

  “If we hit the company,” Kramer mumbled.

  “They should be there.”

  “I hate to depend on Trippitt; besides, they might have heard the ambush.”

  “Sounds are tricky up here. Even if they heard it, they wouldn’t be sure where it was coming from.”

  “We can get fucked no matter what we do. Better move-out as soon as we get the stretchers made.”

  Kramer stood watching as his men spread two ponchos on the ground and placed the poles on top of them. They worked with an almost detached quickness while folding the ponchos over the bodies and poles. Only now did Kramer grasp the reality of the deaths, the first of his men to die. He asked himself what he had done wrong, knowing there was nothing — feeling guilt and at the same time knowing he was free of it. He felt as if, in his own struggle for life or death or whatever he was struggling for or against, he had needlessly involved others, others who had died in his place, not by accident, but by his own hand.

  The squad moved out at a fast pace. Roads took it upon himself to help Harmon. Forsythe walked the point, Childs using the compass to direct him. Although there was no trail, the compass needle led them along a surprisingly easy path. Forsythe was able to follow descending ridgelines most of the morning, only rarely leading the men uphill. At twelve o’clock Kramer halted the squad for a half hour break. He was looking at his map when Kovacs asked, “Any idea where we are?”

  Kramer shook his head. “I’m hoping we’ll hit that stream by three. It’s only about four klicks from there.”

  Kovacs pointed to a place on the map. “I’d guess we’re about here.”

  “I hope you’re right. If you are, we should meet the company by five.”

  “There goes resupply.”

  “I know. Tell the men to save any food they’ve got.”

  “Doubt they have much. If they did, they’d be eating it now. I’ll tell them anyway.”

  Soon after they started moving again, Forsythe had to use his machete to cut a path almost a kilometer in length. This slowed their pace considerably. An hour later he again had to use the machete. The blisters on his hands quickly burst, leaving them painfully raw. After a few minutes of practically no progress, Childs came forward to take the machete and the point. An hour of hacking through the brush exhausted him, so Forsythe called up Payne. Payne tired in a few minutes, and Childs noticed he was merely pushing his way forward without following any set course. After reminding him a few times, Childs gave up and again took the point himself. Forsythe called back for someone to spell them and Tony 5 came forward.

  Tony’s arms swung back and forth rhythmically as he slashed the brush. The pace increased considerably, never slackening. The undergrowth gradually thinned, making the use of the machete unnecessary. It continued that way for a couple of kilometers before again thickening. Tony never once looked back for relief, and Childs was amazed at his stamina. The only sign of fatigue was his switching of hands more often.

  He was finally about to pass the machete to someone else when a faint sound caught his ear. A few moments later the other members of the squad also heard it. There had been very little talking, but now a steady murmur ran back and forth along the line — was it water or just the wind rushing through the trees? As the sound grew louder, Tony’s strength returned. He used the machete ever more furiously than before. The sound continued to increase and the air took on a cool freshness not felt since the operation had begun. Finally, the machete sliced a large opening in the wall of brush revealing a crystal-clear stream slashing its way down to the valley.

  Tony opened his hand to drop the machete. It peeled slowly away from his skin and fell to the ground. He kneeled and lowered his hands into the stream, moving his fingers as the soothing water rushed through them. Forsythe, Childs, and Payne did the same.

  Childs asked Payne, “What the fuck are you doing?”

  “My hands are sore.”

  “From what?”

  As soon as Kramer reached the stream, he took out his map and studied it while the rest of the men dropped their packs and waded in. Kovacs saw him and walked back over, his body dripping with water. “Figure out where we are?”

  “I think so. That fall back there makes it pretty easy.” He pointed to a spot on the map.

  “Not as far down as I thought we were.”

  “No, but we did a pretty good job considering. We’re a little over four klicks above the company and about thirty degrees to the side. Let’s see, we can follow the edge of this stream till we hit this ridge, follow it, cross this valley, and the next ridge will take us right there.”

  “How long do you think it will take?” Kovacs asked.

  “Two, three hours.”

  “How much daylight we got left?”

  Kramer checked his watch and shook his head. “Less than two hours. I dunno.”

  “We can’t take a chance on approaching them in the dark, . . . not without a radio.”

  Roads walked up and said in his usual emotionless tone, “Harmon’s burning up. Got somethin’ for him?”

  “Do you think it’s from the wound? It didn’t seem that bad.”

  “It’s pretty swollen up now.”

  “Keep a damp cloth on his forehead. I’ll check Fields’s gear.” He turned to Kovacs. “Guess that settles it. We’ll camp here tonight.”

  For more than one reason, but mainly hunger, the men spent a restless night.
When morning’s first light filtered through the trees, most of them were already on their feet. They had stood shivering in those long moments before dawn waiting to light up their first smoke of the day. The only cigarettes left were Pablo’s half pack of Luckies and a few Marlboros belonging to Kovacs. They lit one of each and passed them from hand to hand. Kovacs squeezed the last drag out of the Marlboro — half tobacco, half filter —and flicked it on the ground. He walked up to Kramer who was kneeling over Harmon. “How is he?”

  “He’ll be all right.” Kramer stood up and walked away, Kovacs following him.

  “Lieutenant, maybe I better take the point to make sure we get there.” Kramer nodded. “Harmon’s burning up.”

  “He is, eh. Wonder if it’s just the wound.”

  “I don’t know,” Kramer answered in a depressed tone.

  “I wouldn’t sweat it, Lieutenant. I’ve been around Harmon a long time. He ain’t gonna die from that wound — a round between the eyes, a mortar, sure; but not from that dinky wound.”

  “I can’t see it either. I think we better have the men make a stretcher for him.”

  In a few minutes the stretcher was finished. No order to move out was given. When the men saw Kovacs put on his pack, they did the same; and when he started moving they followed him. Kramer watched his men divide up the extra gear without any haggling — a very unusual occurrence. He then realized that they couldn’t very well argue about who was going to carry the stretchers. ‘No matter how cheap life becomes, they don’t lose their respect for the dead.’

  Even though he didn’t have to use the machete, Kovacs kept the pace fairly slow. The added danger of running into the rest of the company unexpectedly and of being shot by their own men made him especially wary. He’d survived this long. Either Charlie was going to “do the job” on him, or no one was.

  Still, Kovacs was nervous, more nervous and for less reason than at any time during the last twelve and a half months. It wasn’t his guts, reflexes, or cunning that worried him. They’d kept him alive so far, and he’d seen enough men die for lack of them. If that was all there was to it, he’d survive, he’d be the last man on earth. But that wasn’t all. Chance stalked him and Kovacs knew it. Arbitrary, moody, capricious — she eyed him like a bitch. He could have been with the rest of the company, but he’d flaunted her, chosen to stay. That’s what scared Kovacs about Vietnam. For the first time in his life, he was responsible for more than just himself. He risked his life for others, knowing that their pathetic luck might rub off on him. Wondering why he had volunteered to stay, he never even doubted he would make the same choice again. Chance was his worst enemy, and Kovacs knew it.

  The men marched on tirelessly. Their hunger, contrary to exhausting them, kept their minds off the marching. A few hours later when Kovacs stopped for the first time, everyone thought they were just taking a break. He walked back down the line to Kramer. “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  “This is it.”

  “It is?” Kramer checked his watch. “Yeah, I guess that’s about right. I hadn’t realized we’d been humping that long.” He pulled out his map to check the topography. “Yeah, this is definitely it. Nice work. I’d guess this plateau is about a hundred and sixty yards.”

  “We’ll have to sweep it.”

  “Looks that way. There’s the back edge.” Kramer indicated it by jerking his head. “Let’s start over there.”

  As they moved towards it, a heavy rain began to fall. The water collected on the leaves above them and fell in sheets and rivulets whenever the wind picked up. The short distance through the brush they were previously able to see was now cut in half. As soon as they reached the base of the plateau, Kovacs spotted a cave. The men backed up in a dangerously close group. Pointing to it with his rifle, he looked towards Kramer. “Better check it out.” Before Kramer could answer, Childs — seeing a chance to get out of the rain — volunteered. “Watch out for friendlies,” Kovacs warned.

  Childs entered the cave while Kovacs covered him from its mouth. The rest of the men stood where they were. After a few minutes of waiting, they started to grumble. “What the hell’s he doing in there?”

  “Probably fell asleep.”

  “If I know Childs, he’s looking for chow.”

  “Let him look. I’ve only eaten three crackers in the last two days.” Childs walked back to the men shaking his head. “Nothing?” Kramer asked.

  “Uh, uh.”

  Kramer noticed Tony 5 trying to shield Harmon’s stretcher from the rain. He asked Childs, “Is there another entrance?”

  “A small one.”

  Kramer motioned towards the cave with his head. “Let’s go in for a while.”

  The opening to the cave was rectangular — about three feet wide and four feet high. The cave itself was almost circular and about twenty feet in diameter. A small hole in the ceiling enabled a steady stream of rain to enter. The water dropped along some large rocks and ran out another opening at the base of the wall without draining onto the floor.

  The men placed Harmon’s stretcher in the rear, and those of the two corpses in front of the opening. After some shuffling around, they arranged themselves against the walls. “Running water, all the comforts of home,” Forsythe joked.

  “Charlie’s home, not mine,” Childs added.

  “Is everybody out of chow?” Kramer asked.

  Most of the men nodded their heads or answered “Yeah.” Pablo looked through his pack. “I’ve got two crackers and some jelly.”

  Roads held up a small tin. “Peanut butter.”

  Kramer flipped a can into the center of the cave. “Fruitcake.”

  “Where’s Fields’s and Bolton’s packs?” Kovacs asked. The men looked at each other with discomfort. Payne stood up and tossed a pack at Kovacs’s feet.

  “That’s Fields’s.”

  “Who’s got Bolton’s?” Kramer asked.

  There was a pause, then Tony 5 said, “Left behind, I guess.”

  “That’s great,” Kovacs commented while searching through Fields’s pack. Tossing two cans to the center, he said, “Fruit salad and date pudding.” Pablo and Roads then tossed their food onto the center of the floor. Kramer said, “We’ll need a chef. Childs, I guess you’re drafted.” Childs walked to the center of the cave. “It only hurts the first time.”

  “Not much food for thirteen men. See what you can do.”

  “Could be worse,” Childs mumbled.

  “How?” somebody asked.

  “Could be fifteen.” A few of the men looked around, but nobody was really shocked — nothing Childs could say would shock any of them. Besides, he was right.

  Childs played around for a few minutes dividing up the food, but even he couldn’t make it come out to more than a mouthful per man. By the time they were done the rain had let up a little and Kramer asked for a green pop-up — the proper signal to designate a position as containing friendlies. The men fumbled in their packs and came up with three red pop-ups — the signal to designate enemy in your area. As Tony 5 mentioned that Bolton had two in his pack, Chalice came up with a green star cluster. Kramer took it and Kovacs followed him out of the cave. They walked far enough away from the cave so as not to tell the Viet Cong exactly where they were. “Never get through the canopy,” Kovacs commented. “If they aren’t on this plateau, they’ll never see it.”

  “Probably won’t even see it if they are.”

  Kovacs took the top off of the aluminum tube and placed it on the bottom. He banged the bottom down hard on the palm of his hand. There was a loud swoosh followed by five green flares bouncing among the tree branches and falling back to the ground.

  “Maybe. No harm done anyhow.” Kovacs then noticed a large welt on Kramer’s neck. “What’s that?” he asked pointing to it.

  Kramer touched the welt gently with his fingers. “Nothing. Got nicked in the ambush.”

  “Did Harmon eat that food?”

  Kramer shook his head. “He was
sleeping. Wasn’t gonna wake him up for that.”

  “How is he?”

  “His temperature might be down a little. I gave him some dope. We’ll get him out okay. If the rest of the company doesn’t show up today, we’ll head back tomorrow. We should be able to make it in two days.”

  “Without any food?” Kovacs asked.

  “What do you think?”

  “Yeah, shouldn’t be much of a sweat. With a little luck, we might even find some sort of fruit tree.”

  “That’s pretty optimistic for you.”

  “I’m getting short. Just a couple more weeks. Living through over twelve months of this bullshit’ll make an optimist out of anybody.”

  “Quite a confession.”

  “It ain’t really true. I just can’t see myself dying because of an empty stomach. Let Childs walk the point. That sonofabitch can smell food a mile away.”

  Kovacs took most of the squad on a sweep of the plateau. Kramer and Milton remained behind, each alternately staying with Harmon and guarding the mouth of the cave from a short distance away. The rest of the squad finally returned, soaking wet, without having seen any sign of the company. Staying inside the cave was risky enough, so Kramer decided not to add to the danger by building a fire. He placed two men on watch outside the cave. The rest of the squad took off their wet clothes and sat around naked, wrapped in their poncho liners. Childs — his sense of humor working overtime — started describing the most delicious meals he had ever eaten and was only stopped after numerous threats on his life. Milton sat fiddling with the radio. When Kramer asked him if he thought he could fix it, he replied, “Not a chance. Just fucking around.” There were five cigarettes left, and it was decided that they’d be saved for special occasions. While Childs was cleaning his rifle, the bolt went home and smashed his thumb. Everyone, him excepted, agreed that this was a special occasion.

  As the hours wore on, the men became moodier. Sinclaire commented that he was going to beat up every hippie in sight when he got back to the States. One or two of the men mumbled agreement. Not wanting to miss the opportunity, Childs mocked him in an exaggerated southern drawl. “Don’t forget you won’t have your M-16.” Sinclaire answered with a diatribe against those “peace creeps back home.”