Sand in the Wind

by Robert Roth

  “How the hell did you recognize us?” Hamilton asked.

  “I recognized Childs. He’s the only Marine in Nam that wears portholes for eye glasses.”

  “Bullshit,” Childs replied. “What are you doing in Da Nang?”

  “This is my job since I got my second Heart. I drive between here and An Hoa every few days — delivering mail, supplies, lifers.”

  Hamilton said with surprise, “I thought you got a real skating job.”

  “This is!”

  “Hell, it may be skating compared to the bush, but traveling between here and An Hoa by jeep ain’t such a sure thing.”

  “It is if you do it right. I always put myself one-third the way back from the front of the convoy.”

  “Childs picked up his second Heart a few days ago. He’ll be skatin’ the rest of his tour too.”

  “Serious?”

  “Just a scratch,” Childs answered.

  “I almost forgot, what did the pigs want you for?”

  By the time Childs finished telling him, Delaney had driven them to a cluster of shantytown bars. He also told them about a nearby Air Force barracks where they’d be able to sleep.

  The sun had just gone down and most of the bars were still empty. Childs and Hamilton decided to enter the next bar they came upon, crowded or not. It was dark and empty except for five bar girls. Rhythm and Blues album covers nailed all over the walls did little to lighten the depressing atmosphere. The counter behind the bar had a number of candles on it. Hamilton excitedly read the names on the bottles of American liquor while repeating “Just like back in the world.”

  The bar girls seemed to be ignoring them. Childs finally called to one, “Hey Mamasan, you give me rum and Coke.”

  “Are you shittin’ me?” Hamilton asked. “All this good American liquor and you order rum and Coke?”

  “I can’t tell the difference. I just wanna get drunk.”

  “Hey man, the reason you can’t tell the difference is because you never had good liquor. . . . Mamasan, two Jack Daniels.” The bar girl had ignored Childs, and now she ignored Hamilton. He jokingly banged his fist upon the bar and said, “Hey Mamasan, how ’bout a little service.” She slowly walked over to them. Hamilton pointed to the Jack Daniels. She poured some of it into two large glasses, and was about to add Coke when Hamilton stopped her. “Mamasan! You know you’d get arrested in the States for polluting good liquor like that?” She gave no indication she understood all he had said, but she did bring over the straight liquor and asked for two dollars. Hamilton was practically drooling as she set the glasses down. “Man, this is the finest stuff you’ve ever tasted. Stick with me and you’ll learn something about drinking.”

  Childs ran the liquor around the glass while saying, “I’m not used to drinking this stuff straight.”

  “Trust me, man, trust me. This stuff is just like honey. Let it glide down your throat real slow.”

  “I don’t know about this,” Childs said as he lifted the glass.

  “Trust me. Just let it go down real slow.”

  Childs took the glass to his lips and tilted it hesitantly, finally letting a little of the liquor drip into his mouth. He immediately put the glass down, and his face screwed up in distaste as he shook his head from side to side, finally gasping, “That stuff’s a little rough.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about? Poor Jack Daniels is probably turning over in his grave. You did it wrong. You gotta let it flow down your throat real slow.” Hamilton lifted the glass and gave Childs a self-satisfied grin before slowly pouring the liquor down his throat. When the glass was almost empty, his mouth puffed up in disbelief. He made one final effort to swallow before spewing a mouthful of liquor over the bar. Gagging and gasping, Hamilton squirmed on his barstool trying to evade Childs’s hand as it pounded him on the back. Still not sure he could keep from vomiting or that enough of his throat was left to speak, he finally rasped after a few choked attempts, “Man, I’d like to know how much they pay for those Jack Daniels labels. That’s the raunchiest horse piss I’ve ever drunk.”

  Trying to keep a straight face, Childs waved off this explanation. “No, no man, you did it wrong. Let it go down reeeeal slow, like honey, like honey.”

  Hamilton noticed the bar girl looking angrily at them, and he quickly ordered two rum and Cokes. While they were drinking them, three black Marines entered the bar. They stood in the doorway staring at Hamilton and Childs before Hamilton noticed them and gave a friendly nod. It was returned by three unfriendly glares. They sat down at a table as far away from Childs and Hamilton as the room would allow. “What was that all about?” Hamilton asked.

  “Hell if I care,” Childs shrugged.

  A bar girl immediately went over to the table. Before giving their orders, one of the men asked her a question and she shook her head. Hamilton picked up his drink and walked over to an old-fashioned jukebox in the corner of the room. When he came back, Childs asked, “What did you play?”

  “Nothing. All that thing’s got on it is soul music. I can’t stand that shit.”

  More people started coming into the bar, usually in groups, all of them black, and always with hard stares for Childs and Hamilton. Aside from a few remarks such as, “What a friendly bunch of motherfuckers these guys are,” Hamilton and Childs ignored the other men in the bar and simply stared straight ahead over the counter. Someone played the jukebox, and it stayed on continuously. Every few minutes someone else would make it louder until the music became deafening. All the tables filled, and every barstool except those on each side of Childs and Hamilton. Suddenly the plug to the jukebox was pulled. By the time the record wound to a stop, the bar was completely silent. Childs and Hamilton turned to see all the faces in the room focused upon them in hard, threatening stares. Both of them knew that whatever was going to happen would happen soon. They turned back to the bar.

  “Let’s beat it,” Childs whispered out of the comer of his mouth.

  Hamilton whispered back, “Fuck it, no! We’ve got as much right to be here as them.”

  A shrill whistle came from the back of the room. Others joined it, then more, until the entire bar seemed to be vibrating. Childs tapped Hamilton and said, “Let’s go.”

  His words were muted, but Hamilton had seen his lips move and knew exactly what Childs must have said. He shook his head “no” while pressing his hand against the pistol he had stolen from the MP. But when Childs got up, Hamilton followed him out the door. The instant they passed through it, a burst of wild laughter cut short and replaced the whistling.

  Childs walked down the street with an unconcerned look on his face, while Hamilton nervously smashed his fist into the palm of his hand. “Goddamn it! Didn’t that piss you off?”

  “Who the fuck cares? I saw the same thing happen to a splib in Okinawa.”

  “But . . . but it’s the damn niggers that want it this way!”

  Childs shrugged his shoulders. “So let them have it this way.”

  “I mean doesn’t it piss you off? Don’t you hate them?”

  “There aren’t many people I can stand. The splibs were just giving you the same bullshit they’ve been taking for years.”

  “Yeah!” Hamilton practically shouted, “but why should they do it to me!”

  As they were walking, four black Marines approached from the opposite direction. Hamilton edged toward the street to give them room, but the nearest black went out of his way to brush against Childs. Hamilton became enraged. “See what I mean! Don’t you hate those bastards?”

  “Believe me, I’ve got no love for splibs; but I’d act the same way if I were them. I’m just glad I ain’t. . . . If they bug you so much, stay away from them.”

  “I wish I could. I just fucking wish I could. . . . You know during all that segregation bullshit back home, my old man was on the school board. He had to take all kinds of shit from both sides. Everytime the phone rang, it’d be some red neck calling him a nigger lover. We had to get an unlist
ed phone number. Even some of my friends started givin’ me dirty looks. I was always taking up for the niggers, saying the same bullshit my father did. Look what it got me.”

  “What’d you think it would get you?”

  “I mean I was nice to them. When one came out for the football team, I was the first guy to be friendly with him. I even got to be good friends with —”

  “Double-date much?”

  “Fuck you!”

  “First you say you hate them, then you say you’re good friends with —”

  “Now I do. Honest, I didn’t hate ’em then, but I sure do now.”

  “What about Delaney? If it wasn’t for him, we’d probably be in the brig now.”

  “When they’re alone, they’re all right. It’s when a few of ’em get together. . . . It’s the ones that don’t know you.”

  “Why get so uptight? Look, when they see some chuck they don’t know, they just assume he’s a bigot; and nine out of ten times they’re right. . . . I’m a bigot myself. Just don’t let it bug you.”

  They'd passed a number of bars, all of them deserted or crowded with blacks. As they approached another one, they could hear a hard rock record being played inside. A number of white Marines stood in front of the door. These Marines gave them friendly nods as they entered. The bar was crowded with men, none of them black; and the air inside was hot, humid, and smoky. It was a few minutes before they were finally able to get seats at the bar. While they waited, a number of men introduced themselves and asked what unit they were from.

  The relaxed atmosphere soon enabled Hamilton to forget what had happened. He and Childs were enjoying themselves when a chorus of “oohs” and “ahhs” came from the men in the bar. Childs and Hamilton were amused to see the cause — two MP’s standing in the doorway. Then remembering their earlier encounter with the MP, they both became tense. The MP’s scanned the room before heading straight for a bespectacled Marine of similar build to Childs. This made them more nervous; and as the MP’s checked his pass, Hamilton debated to himself whether to ditch the pistol he’d stolen. He finally decided not to take the chance. After the MP’s had talked to the man, they left without bothering anyone else. Hamilton turned to Childs and saw that he had removed his glasses, leaving two large, blanched circles around his eyes. While laughing at Childs’s appearance, he said, “Wow, that was close.”

  “You ain’t shiftin’ it was. Let’s get out of here.”

  “Who’s paranoid now? . . . They won’t be back for a while. Besides, I wanna get drunk.”

  Before they could finish their drinks, two more MP’s came in. They approached the same Marine with the same results. When they left, Hamilton walked over to him and then returned to Childs. “They’re after us, all right,” he whispered.

  “That’s what I thought. Let’s get out of here.”

  “I guess we better.”

  They were walking towards the Air Force barracks when a Vietnamese teenager approached and tried to sell them what he called “moon juice.” Childs said no, and started to walk away; but Hamilton called him back. “Wait, I heard about this stuff. It’s supposed to be wild.”

  “What is it?”

  “Cough syrup with speed in it.”

  “Where’d you get that bullshit. I don’t know shit about drugs, but I know cough syrup is the opposite of speed.”

  “Not this stuff,” Hamilton insisted. “I know a lot of guys that have tried it. Even Forsythe says it’s speed, and he knows more about drugs than any pharmacist’s mate in Nam.”

  Hamilton bought two bottles for a dollar apiece, and they continued on their way to the Air Force barracks. “What’s this stuff supposed to do to you?” Childs asked.

  “It makes you speed.”

  “Well no shit. . . . What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

  “Hell if I know. Grass is my limit.”

  “That’s just fucking dandy. What are we supposed to do with it, stick it up our asses?”

  “No, you drink it.”

  “Well, what are we waiting for?” Childs said as he uncapped the bottle. In what seemed like a short time, they found themselves in front of the Air Force barracks. They told the sentry they were looking for a friend, and he allowed them to enter. Neither one of them was tired, so they just wandered around the area continually asking each other if they felt anything yet. Childs insisted that they’d been gypped, but Hamilton refused to admit it. Two men walked by, one of them saying that he was going to “hit the rack.” Childs and Hamilton trailed him to a large, rectangular building. When he walked inside, they both stood awestruck at the doorway. “I don’t believe it!” Hamilton gasped. “Did you ever see anything like this?

  “Yeah, but it was a long, long time ago.”

  “I know what you mean — beds, just like back in the world, and mattresses too.” Hamilton pressed down on a mattress with his hand. The person in the bed turned over, and Hamilton drew his hand away. “Soft, just like real mattresses.”

  “They are real, you idiot.”

  “I know, but I mean just like mattresses back in the world.”

  “It’s almost like a hotel.”

  “I know,” Hamilton agreed. “I didn’t think they had barracks like this in Nam. . . . Hey, wait a minute! Maybe this is a generals’ barracks.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Look at all the beds. There aren’t that many generals in Nam.”

  “Well then it must be an officers’ barracks.”

  “It has to be,” Childs agreed.

  Hamilton walked down the darkened aisle as if he were in a trance. He kept mumbling to Childs until a sleepy voice told him to shut up. The aisle ended at a door, and Hamilton stopped in front of it. “What’s that?” Childs asked.

  “A door.”

  “A door to what, stupid?”

  “How am I supposed to know?”

  “Well open it, you jerk.”

  “All right, take it easy.” Hamilton pushed the door open and they were both blinded by a bright light. When they turned their heads back towards the door, they could see that it opened into a large bathroom. “Look, real sinks!” Hamilton gasped.

  “And mirrors!”

  Someone yelled for them to close the door, so they entered the bathroom. Hamilton stuck his head into an open passageway before saying, “Look, showers, indoor showers.”

  They walked around the bathroom in wonder, as if they were inside an elegant palace. Soon an Airman entered with a shaving kit. He nodded to them before walking over to a sink to wash his face. They drew closer and stood on both sides of him as he began to shave. Finally, Hamilton said, “Nice place you got here.”

  The Airman stared at him questioningly. “Huh?”

  Childs cut in, “What rank are you?”

  “Airman second class.”

  “You mean this is an enlisted man’s barracks?” Childs asked.

  “Sure,” the Airman said with surprise. “You don’t see any air-conditioners, do you?”

  “Air-conditioners!” they both repeated.

  “Hey, are you guys speeding?”

  Both Childs and Hamilton straightened up and shook their heads. “No,” Hamilton answered. “Why’d you ask?”

  “Your eyes for one.”

  Hamilton leaned towards the mirror. “Holy shit,” he mumbled before straightening up and adding, “They always look like that.”

  “Oh yeah, I can imagine.”

  Hamilton and Childs stayed in the bathroom for over two hours anxiously questioning each Airman that wandered in. Finally, after they had been alone for a long time, Childs remarked, “Man, this is ridiculous. Here we’ve got a chance to sleep in real beds, and instead we’re hanging around a bathroom like a bunch of perverts.”

  “Hey, that’s right,” Hamilton agreed.

  They left the bathroom and wandered down the aisle of the barracks until they found two empty, adjacent beds. As they undressed and got into them, they each said, “Just like back in the world,” at least
three times. They lay silent for what seemed like an hour before Hamilton sat up and asked, “Hey Childs, are you asleep?”

  “Yeah,” Childs answered in a wide-awake voice.

  “Bullshit.”

  “What’d you ask for if you weren’t gonna believe me?”

  “How the hell did I know you were gonna lie?”

  At this, Childs also sat up. “It’s no use. I’m not even tired.”

  “Me neither.”

  “Do you think it’s the beds?” Childs asked.

  “Hell no. It’s the moon juice.”

  “How long is it supposed to last?”

  “I don’t know,” Hamilton shrugged.

  “Why the hell did you talk me into it? We might as well be back in the bush.”

  “How the hell was I supposed to know we were gonna find real beds? Besides, if it wasn’t for the beds, we’d be havin’ a real good time you gotta admit.”

  “Yeah,” Childs agreed, “this stuff isn’t bad; but it makes you talk a lot.”

  “I guess that’s what it’s supposed to do. . . . Tell me something, Childs, did you ever dream we could have such a good time in Nam?”

  “No, but I never dreamed I’d end up in Nam. Besides, what’s so great about this? It’s only because the rest of Nam is so shitty.”

  “C’mon, you knew you’d end up in Nam when you joined the Crotch. . . . Hey, why did you join the Crotch?”

  “Seemed like the worst thing I could do, I guess.” Childs hesitated for a few seconds, then added, “When things are going bad, you just wanna do anything to change them, even if it’s for the worse.”

  “What kinda bullshit is that — ‘Things going bad’? I heard you had it made.”

  “Oh yeah, how?”

  “Your old man’s loaded, isn’t he?”

  “What gave you that fucked-up idea?”

  “You used to live in Hong Kong, the Philippines, all them places . . . and you went to that school in Switzerland, the one with all the queers.”

  “That was because of my old man’s job.”