Sand in the Wind

by Robert Roth

  “Are you sure it’s him?” Nash asked.

  “Positive.”

  “Do you have his blooker?”

  “No. It must be in the caved-in part of the bunker. . . . Two men saw him with it.”

  “How long would it take to dig it out?”

  “Two, three hours,” Kramer exaggerated.

  “Was he wearing dog tags . . . any identification?”

  “No.”

  “Could we get fingerprints off him?”

  “Probably a few.”

  “You’re sure he’s a Marine?”

  “How can I be? He’s Caucasian.”

  “But you can’t identify him?”

  At first Kramer couldn’t believe the stupidity of this question, but he suddenly realized what Nash was getting at. “No.”

  “Just as well. Leave him there. The VC’ll take care of him.”

  Kramer told his men they were leaving the body, and to get ready to move out. Two men picked up the corpse and carried it towards the top of the knoll. Chalice stood watching them, all the while hearing his name called. Just as the two men viciously kicked the body into the bunker, Chalice felt a hand on his shoulder and heard Forsythe’s voice say, “C’mon Professor, let’s get out of here.”

  Darkness fell before they were halfway back to the perimeter. The only sounds were those of their legs moving rhythmically through the knee-deep water. The rain had stopped, and a cool, clean breeze blew across their faces. They were tired, but not exhausted. It seemed to many of them as if a trial had ended — their own. Tony 5 said to himself, ‘Only two more days.’ It had seemed like such a short time that morning, too little time; but now it wasn’t a question of days. They no longer made any difference. Soon — it would be soon. He’d get on a plane and it would all be over. Now, in the darkness, he opened his tightly clenched fist for the first time in more than an hour; and a small, metal plate fell silently into the water.

  BOOK THREE

  Even as a fox is man; as a fox which seeing a fine vineyard lusted after its grapes. But the palings were placed at narrow distances, and the fox was too bulky to creep between them. For three days he fasted, and when he had grown thin he entered into the vineyard. He feasted upon the grapes, forgetful of the morrow, of all things but his enjoyment; and lo, he had again grown stout and was unable to leave the scene of his feast. So for three days more he fasted, and when he had again grown thin, he passed through the palings and stood outside the vineyard, meagre as when he entered.

  So with man; poor and naked he enters the world, poor and naked does he leave. Man is born with his hands clenched; he dies with his hands wide open. Entering life he desires to grasp everything; leaving the world all that he possessed has slipped away.

  The Talmud

  1. Da Nang

  The glare seared his eyes, and he quickly closed them again. He was lying down. There was a light. This time he opened his eyes more slowly, but again he had to close them. It was a naked light bulb, he knew that now. He continued to open his eyes until he was able to keep them open. He saw that the bulb hung from a curved roof of corrugated steel, the roof of a Quonset hut. His hands lay between smooth, clean sheets. An air-conditioner droned in the background. It was the hospital at Da Nang, he knew that now. He was there, but this seemed impossible. There was no reason. Maybe his mind was remembering the last time. Or maybe this was the last time, and all in between merely a dream. No, it had been real. He was certain. Again, he was again in the hospital at Da Nang.

  A corpsman walked by, then a patient in blue pajamas. Kramer’s head remained motionless as his eyes followed them down the aisle. Nobody was aware of him. Why was he here? His left leg felt stiff. Only after he moved it did he realize that it was tightly wrapped below the knee. He moved his other limbs. They weren’t bandaged. He ran his hand over the upper part of his body. Everything else seemed all right. With little effort, he sat up and pushed the covers from his legs. His left shin was bandaged, but that was all. He ran his hand gently over the bandage. His leg seemed a little sore, nothing more.

  A corpsman noticed him and walked over to his bed. “You all right, sir?”

  “Yeah, sure, I think so. . . . How long have I been here?”

  “Twenty-four hours, maybe a little longer.”

  “What’s wrong with my leg?”

  “It’s got a nice gash and about thirty stitches in it.”

  “How’d that happen?” Kramer asked, his mind still somewhat dazed.

  “Booby trap, I think.”

  “Booby trap? . . . Yesterday it happened?”

  “That’s right. You’ll be okay in a few days.”

  “That’s the only thing wrong with me?”

  “You might have a slight concussion, nothing too serious. . . . You feel dizzy?”

  “A little. . . . My ears are ringing.”

  “It’ll go way. . . . Just lie back and relax.”

  The corpsman walked away. Kramer fell back on the pillow and flinched in pain. Reaching behind his head, he located a large lump. ‘Booby trap. Must have got knocked to the ground. But when?’ Kramer searched his memory to answer this question. He remembered his men pulling the body of the Phantom Blooker from the bunker, and then Martin’s screams, “Did they get him?” — ‘No, that was the night before.’ Everything after the Phantom Blooker had been killed seemed hazy. Gradually, he remembered the march back to camp. He was sure they had reached it, but everything after that was blank. The next morning — he now remembered that also. They were marching to a new camp, but again everything after that was a blank, and he wasn’t sure anything existed to fill it. Something had happened between the time they had returned to the perimeter after killing the Phantom Blooker, and the time they set out from it the next morning, something important. This was all his memory would tell him no matter how hard he searched it.

  Her image came to him, cold, knowing, seeming to say, “So you’re still alive.” Again he was at a loss, unsure how to react to even her memory, wanting to see her again, looking at this as a weakness. Her voice, some of the words she had spoken, repeated themselves in his mind. Again he felt ridiculous, saying to himself that even if he got the chance, he wouldn’t try to see her, knowing that he would. ‘What the fuck did — what does she have on me?’ Now admitting that he had to see her again, he tried to justify this ‘weakness’ by saying to himself, ‘I’ll fuck her. I’ll fuck the shit out of her!’

  Kramer was startled by a voice that asked, “What are you so mad about?” A doctor with a clipboard at his side stood at the foot of Kramer’s bed.

  “What makes you think I’m mad?” he asked irritably.

  “You look mad. You sound mad.”

  “Must of been something I stepped on.”

  “If I were you, I’d feel more lucky than mad. You’re still alive, aren’t you?” With a sarcastic sneer on his face, Kramer expelled a short burst of air from his nostrils. “I knew I’d be able to cheer you up.” Kramer’s face broke into a faint smile as the doctor continued. “How do you feel?”

  “A little doped up. It must be the medicine you gave me.”

  The doctor glanced at his clipboard before saying, “You didn’t get any medicine from us.”

  “I feel all right.”

  “Dizzy?”

  “A little.”

  “Your ears ringing?”

  “A lot.”

  “It’s amazing you can hear them over that air-conditioner. Sounds like we’re about to take off. . . . You want to stand up with your back to the bed.” When Kramer had done this, the doctor stepped in front of him and told him to close his eyes. “All right, you can go back to sleep.”

  “What was that all about?”

  “You might have a slight concussion.”

  “How long will that keep me here?”

  “Probably not more than two or three days.”

  Kramer hesitated before asking, “Will I be able to get some liberty?”

  “Not tonight.
Maybe the last night before we ship you back to your unit.”

  He walked the streets, through the heavy stench of liquor, garbage, and human waste. Drunken, staggering soldiers kept jostling him on the way back to their barracks. Kramer had deliberately spent the first hours of darkness waiting at the hospital, and he now headed straight for the bar that she owned. He’d been brooding all day, and there had been no fantasizing or planning. Without hesitation he entered her bar, telling himself that he would merely see what would happen.

  Kramer had no expectation of seeing her right away. It was still too early. A quick glance around the bar confirmed this. He ordered a drink, then another, still sure she would appear. Behind him he heard two men arguing over a bar girl. Suddenly he was shoved forward as one of the men crashed into him, splashing most of the liquor in his glass onto the bar. He turned to see the man regain his balance and knock the other into the jukebox. There was a loud grating sound as the needle scraped across the record. Spirited shouts of encouragement came from the Marines watching the fight.

  “MP’s!” someone near the door yelled. The two men were pulled apart before the MP’s walked across the threshold. They glanced suspiciously around the now quiet bar before turning and leaving. One of the men who had been fighting ran towards the other. Some Marines grabbed him, and while he was being held, the other Marine stepped towards the restrained man and smashed his fist into his face. The blow knocked him unconscious, and he collapsed into the arms of those holding him. Someone shoved the other Marine violently into the jukebox. Again the needle scraped across the record. Both men did no more than try to stare each other down. The unconscious Marine was placed in a chair, and the crowd around the jukebox slowly dispersed.

  Kramer looked at his watch. It was late. ‘Maybe she won’t come.’ He didn’t try to tell himself it made no difference. Tomorrow he’d go back to the Arizona, and tonight he wanted to see her. During the past few days he had tried to convince himself that he merely wanted to fuck her; but now he admitted that he wanted more, and that if nothing else were possible, he at least wanted to talk to her. Again he looked at his watch. The bar would be closing in less than an hour. It seemed like his last chance to ever see her again, and he began to believe that he wouldn’t get that chance. He ordered a drink and downed it quickly, as much for its effect as to have something to do. His thoughts no longer made him feel ridiculous. It was important that he see her, he admitted this now. His glass was empty, and the Scotch began to dull his mind. He ordered another drink. When it came he let it rest on the bar while he moved his fingers up and down the outside of the wet glass. He now felt there was no chance of her being there tonight, if for no other reason than because it meant too much to him.

  Again his thoughts drifted back to the only other thing he had been concerned about during the last few days. He tried to remember what had happened the morning before he stepped on the booby trap. He didn’t expect to remember the actual explosion, but he knew something had happened a good while before that. He tried to concentrate, to carefully recall all the events that led up to that blank spot in his memory. Forest had come over to tell him that the day before, while Second Platoon had been killing the Phantom Blooker, First Platoon had killed six NVA soldiers. He remembered Forest staring at him, waiting to be complimented. He also remembered Trippitt asking him who the Professor was. It was then. It was then that something happened. Someone shouted, he couldn’t remember what, and then it happened — not the booby trap. That was later. He was sure of it.

  Kramer stared at his drink. The ice cubes were almost melted. He looked up across the bar. She wasn’t there. Again he glanced at his watch. It was late. The bar girls were almost finished cleaning up. There were four other Marines still in the bar. Three of them got up to leave, and Kramer watched them head towards the door. He didn’t want to be the only one left. A single Marine lay slouched over one of the tables in a drunken stupor. One of the bar girls began shaking him. Kramer looked towards the door in the back of the room. He had once seen Tuyen emerge from it, and he waited for it to open, thinking that it wouldn’t.

  The bar girl was now helping the drunken Marine out the front door. Kramer noticed a dim wedge of light spread upon the floor and then disappear. It had come from the back room. He saw Tuyen walking towards the far end of the bar. She had seen him. He knew it. She stopped at the other end of the bar and glanced towards him, but gave no sign of recognition.

  Kramer turned away and stared at the mottled and clouded mirror behind the bar. His reflection was little more than a shadow. He waited for her to walk over to him. A quick glance towards the end of the bar revealed her still standing there. He tightened his grip on the glass, hoping that it would shatter. ‘The bitch, the lousy fucking bitch. She won’t even look at me.’ He wanted to throw the glass at her, at the same time thinking, ‘Fuck the bitch! I’ll fuck the living shit out of her.’

  He stared coldly at her. But his stare began to soften almost immediately. He had to admit to himself that she was as beautiful as he had remembered. There was no recognition in her face, only the same proud yet sad expression. He wanted to reach out and touch her. Even when he realized there was a slight smile on his face, he made no effort to hide it. Instead he silently moved his lips, saying, “Come here.” She waited a few seconds before walking towards him, her stare hardening as she did so, a stare that looked above and past him. Again he felt weak in her presence, but also warm. Looking down at his drink and with a childish grin on his face, he asked in a serious tone, “I’m David, remember?”

  “I remember,” she said without expression.

  Her tone in no way irritated him. He was glad merely to hear her voice. “I stepped on a booby trap so I could come and talk to you again.”

  “You are a fool then.”

  “Maybe . . . not stupid, but maybe a fool.” As he said this, Kramer noticed the last remaining bar girl walk to the door.

  “You know we are closed?”

  “I know. It’s much quieter now. I like it better when it’s quiet.”

  “You must leave,” she said, no coldness in her tone.

  “I thought maybe we could talk for a while.”

  “We are strangers. There is nothing to talk about. I am Vietnamese. You are American.”

  “Maybe if you were nice to me, I’d go away and never bother you again.” Something close to a smile appeared on her face as she asked, “You promise me this?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Maybe you buy me a drink also?” Kramer nodded and Tuyen indicated with a glance that he should move to a table in the back of the room. Kramer sat down at it while she turned out most of the lights and locked the door. She placed a bottle of Scotch and a glass in front of Kramer before sitting down across from him. “Where’s your glass?” he asked.

  “I do not drink?”

  “Oh, you’re a head?”

  “Ahead?”

  “A pot head.” She looked at him questioningly. “You smoke marijuana.”

  “No. You smoke marijuana?”

  “Sometimes. . . . It makes you think too much. . . . Should I have brought some?”

  “I do not care.”

  “Would you have smoked with me?”

  “No,” she answered curtly.

  “You don’t like people who smoke marijuana?”

  “This is not true. . . . I think you are smarter if you smoke marijuana.”

  “Smarter?”

  “I think it make you smarter.”

  “Why don’t you smoke it then?”

  “I do not need to be smarter.”

  “Oh, but I need to be smarter.”

  “You are an American. . . . Is they who smoke marijuana.”

  “I get the feeling sometimes you don’t like Americans.”

  “No, I do not like Americans.”

  “Who do you like, the French?”

  “No, I do not like the French. . . . They are better than the Americans, but I do not like them.�
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  “Who do you like?”

  “I am Vietnamese. . . . I like Vietnamese people.”

  “You said your family fled the Communists. They’re Vietnamese.”

  “They are better than the Americans.”

  Kramer knew no reason why she should think otherwise, but it irritated him a little to be told this by a South Vietnamese. “You don’t care if they win the war?”

  Her expression became more sad than proud. “Is too long. Many people have die.”

  “Many Americans too.”

  “More Vietnamese have die. . . . My brother he is missing three years. His plane crash. . . . They say he is dead.”

  Kramer hesitated before saying, “Maybe he wanted the Americans here.”

  “So now he is dead. . . . Too many people have die. Many years they are fighting. . . . Someday they tell my son to fight too.”

  These words were a shock to Kramer, but he suppressed it as he asked, “Your son?”

  “Yes, he is in Hue. . . . I never want him to fight.”

  Again the sad beauty of her face left him numb. “His father?” Kramer asked, wanting to be told that he was dead.

  “He also is dead, long ago.”

  “The war?” he asked, now sorry he had heard what he had then wanted. She nodded. “You think he died for nothing?”

  “They all die for nothing, too many people.”

  “I know,” he said softly, but then added without conviction, “Maybe if it was my country I wouldn’t think so.”

  “Is the same. They all die for nothing.”

  “Maybe they didn’t think so.” She looked at him with a sad, questioning expression on her face. “Your husband and your brother.”

  “My husband I think he knew he would die. He would not say is for nothing.”

  “Even if he knew the Communists would win?”

  Her eyes focused on Kramer for the first time. “My husband he was Viet Cong.”