Sand in the Wind

by Robert Roth

  When the men of Second Platoon reached their company area, a large tent upon a wooden platform stood waiting for them. They immediately threw off their packs, flak jackets, and helmets; and lay down on the cots inside it. Someone turned on a radio. For the first time since they had gotten off the helicopter, there was some laughing and joking. Word was passed that the doctor was making the rounds of the battalion, and for the men to take off their boots and wait for him.

  Childs stared down at his boots. He wanted to be free of them, but dreaded the act of taking them off. Merely leaning forward and reaching for the laces increased the pain. Slowly and carefully, he removed both laces without moving his feet. Childs drew one leg up and placed it across his other knee. He hesitated for a minute, knowing the pain he’d soon be feeling. Finally, he pressed against the heel of the boot. It seemed glued to his foot. He pressed harder, increasing the burning pain on his instep, increasing it until he had to stop, the boot still snugly on his foot.

  He looked around the tent. A few of the men already had their boots off, but he knew that other men were in even worse condition than himself. Seeing Chalice remove his socks, Childs called him over. He lifted one of his boots into Chalice’s hands, but pulled it away as soon as Chalice tried to get it off. Instead, he had Chalice hold the boots stationary on the floor as he slowly withdrew his feet. Feeling relief as well as burning pain, Childs quickly sat down. He noticed that a few of the men still hadn’t been able to get their boots off, and again reminded himself that they were in worse condition than he. This thought helped little when he tried to get his socks off. He felt as if he were skinning his own feet, and this was exactly what he was doing. It was no use. As much as he wanted his socks off, he’d have to wait for the scissors.

  Childs stared down at his socks. Blood had seeped through the material and dried in large, stiff blotches. Even where there was no blood, the socks felt like burlap against his feet. Finally, the scissors were passed to him. He cut one of his socks from ankle to toe, yet it still stuck to his foot, hanging suspended from his instep. He cut away the free material. As he carefully pulled on the remaining patch, tissue ripped away with it and he felt as if he were pouring hot grease into an open wound. He had to stop for a minute, debating whether to just rip away the material that remained, deciding not to. Now able to see the open flesh, he turned his head away and continued. Finally, the material came free, a square inch of flesh still attached to it. Relieved that he was half finished, Childs stared down at his instep. Blood trickled from a large, rough wound that looked like the work of a fish scaler. ‘At least it’s off,’ he told himself. ‘At least I’m in better shape than a lot of these motherfuckers.’

  Some fairly cold beer and soda were brought to the tent. Each man took two cans of whichever he chose. It was three hours before the doctor and four corpsmen reached their hootch. They tried to help the more serious cases first. The doctor had already treated over a hundred men, but his expression still indicated disbelief at what he was seeing. He finally had to send three men back to the LZ to be medivacked to Da Nang, their feet so swollen and infected that it was impossible for them to get their boots back on. He bandaged these men and gave them sandals to wear. Before the doctor left, he told the company master sergeant to get some basins so the men would be able to soak their feet. Those that could walk to the showers were issued clean clothes. Some mail and packages had been waiting for them, and they spent the few hours before dusk reading letters and eating candy.

  Kramer sat on the steps of the officers’ hootch drinking a warm beer. He hadn’t seen Milton or Tony 5, and was afraid to ask about them. Not until the previous evening when he arrived at An Hoa did it occur to him that he might have been the one who tripped the booby trap. He could have easily found out at the company office if anyone else had been wounded, but his guilt made him afraid to ask. He decided to wait until his platoon arrived. The faces of his men gave no hint of animosity; but the more he thought about it, the surer he was that it had been his fault. Kramer remembered how dazed he was after the NVA soldier came at him with a knife, and he knew he could have been thinking of nothing else until the booby trap went off. Everytime Kramer had looked at Sugar Bear, he had searched his face for a clue to what had happened. Knowing that he wouldn’t be able to sleep until he found out, Kramer got up and walked towards the platoon hootch. A large figure walked by him in the darkness. Kramer turned around and asked, “Sugar Bear?”

  “Lieutenant?”

  “Yeah. Where you headed?”

  “I’ve got a friend in supply. I wanna see if he can get us some boots.”

  “I hope he’s a good friend.”

  “He ain’t; but now that most of the men can’t wear them, we should be able to get two pairs for everybody.”

  “How about coming over to my hootch a minute? I wanna talk to you.” Hearing Kramer tapping a beer can, Sugar Bear said, “Sure. You got another one of those?”

  “Yeah, warm as piss.”

  “Wet, ain’t it?”

  They walked inside the officers’ hootch, and Kramer handed Sugar Bear a beer. After a few seconds hesitation, he finally asked, “Tony 5 get out okay?”

  “Yeah. I was the last one to shake his hand before he got on the chopper.”

  “He must have hated to leave.”

  “No shit, I think he did. The dude’s a lifer.”

  “How much longer have you got?”

  “Nineteen days.”

  “It doesn’t even pay to call you sergeant then.”

  “What else you gonna call me?”

  “Did you pick a right guide?”

  “No. I didn’t wanna switch squad leaders until we got out of there.”

  “Who’s got seniority, Pablo?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Tell him he’s right guide then.”

  “You don’t have to tell him anything. He can read your mind.”

  “Yeah, I noticed.”

  “If he wasn’t such a good dude, it’d be spooky.”

  There was a long pause before Kramer finally asked, “What happened?”

  “It went off right in back of you.”

  Kramer realized what this meant, but he hesitated to affirm his thoughts. “What was it?”

  “105 round, I think.”

  “Milton?”

  “You don’t know yet?”

  “I figured I’d wait.”

  “All we found were parts of the radio . . . some hamburger. That was it.”

  “That’s what I figured. . . . Anyone else get it?”

  “No, it was weird. Tony 5 wasn’t more than seven, eight yards behind Milton. A few pieces dinged his helmet, but that was it. Both of you should have been dead. All the shrapnel must have went straight up. It was weird.”

  There was another long pause before Kramer said, “I don’t remember hitting any trip wire.”

  “You didn’t. It was command detonated. . . . Hamilton blew away the Gook with one shot.”

  The fact that he hadn’t been to blame didn’t seem so important to Kramer now. “He must of figured I’d be near the radio.”

  “That’s the way they work it.”

  “Nothing else happened during the last five days?”

  “Just a lotta rain and a lotta marching.”

  “I guess you better see about those boots.” Hearing Sugar Bear place the empty beer can on the floor, Kramer reached under his cot and handed him two more. “If anybody wants a few cans, just come in and get them. . . . Wait a minute. Where the hell is Trippitt?”

  “You ain’t heard yet?” Kramer shook his head. “Well here’s some good news: he’s been relieved. Remember that Gook Trippitt shot on Charlie Ridge, the one with the maggots in his ass? . . . MacGloughlin, the dude that found him, asked Trippitt when he was gonna get his two day R and R for capturing a prisoner. Mac and Trippitt never did cut it too good, so Trippitt tried to fuck him out of it because we didn’t bring the Gook back. Mac got pissed, said we would have i
f Trippitt hadn’t a shot him. Trippitt told Mac to get lost and Mac said something. Then Trippitt said he was gonna write him up for disrespect. But Mac made it legal first. They’re getting up a court-martial against Trippitt for killing the Gook.”

  “Couldn’t of happened to a nicer guy.”

  “There it is.”

  Chalice heard someone call out, “Professor.” He remained sitting on his cot, hearing his nickname repeated until Pablo finally walked up to him. “Professor, the master sergeant wants you.”

  Chalice rose to his feet, noticing that Pablo was still looking at him. He left the tent and walked up to the door of the company office without entering it. “Somebody want me?”

  The four men in the office continued typing and examining forms for a few seconds, then someone asked in an unconcerned tone, “Who are you?”

  “Chalice.”

  “Come in a minute,” the same voice said in a more interested tone. Chalice walked towards the man who had spoken. The company master sergeant stood up. Chalice remained silent, both puzzled and uneasy, while the master sergeant looked him over as if he were examining a new type of weapon. “So you’re the Sandman.”

  Finally understanding, Chalice wanted only to get away. He’d heard the word dozens of times, mostly whispered by strangers or the newer members of the platoon, never realizing it was himself being referred to. A faint, nervous smile appeared on his face as he repeated under his breath, “The Sandman.”

  “So you’re the one who put the Phantom Blooker to sleep.” Again Chalice remained silent, now too confused to even care about getting away. “I just wanted to get a look at you. . . . Nice work.”

  Chalice walked slowly out of the office, repeating to himself, “So I’m the Sandman.” He continued walking, in no particular direction, on the verge of laughter, hysterical laughter. But the only indication of this was a faint smile and a distant look on his face.

  “Bang!” someone shouted.

  Too dazed to be startled, Chalice turned and saw three small Vietnamese boys playing soldiers with sticks that didn’t even resemble rifles. He watched their excitement as they dodged behind crates, aiming these sticks and shouting, “Bang!” It was the incongruous yet familiar look on their faces and in their eyes that stunned him most.

  One of the boys ran up to Chalice. “Marine, you souvenir me chop-chop?”

  Soon the other boys ran over, asking for food and cigarettes. Again they were merely children. Chalice felt relieved as he opened his shirt pocket and handed out some candy and cigarettes. From nowhere, they kept running towards him, alive and innocent. Soon over a dozen kids surrounded him, smiling and grabbing at his clothing, hanging on him by their small hands — laughing as only children can. When his cigarettes were gone, Chalice began walking away, some of the children still tugging at his clothing. He reached the platoon tent and stood alone but smiling — feeling alive. A rare breeze gusted around him.

  He went inside with the intention of getting a cigarette and coming back out immediately. Forsythe handed him one. Chalice reached into his pants pocket for his lighter. The pocket was empty and his fingers passed through a hole in the bottom of it. Caring little, he told himself, ‘Must have lost it. Have to buy a new one.’ Chalice then looked down and saw that both his pants pockets had been slit by razor blades.

  It was a week before two-thirds of the men could walk without pain. The fact that they had to stand lines as soon as they were able didn’t encourage any quick recoveries. Childs and Hamilton stood outside the platoon tent raking the dirt walkways when Childs said, “A little bit of herb sure would make this job a lot more pleasant.”

  “No shit it would.”

  “Let’s run a joint.”

  Hamilton nodded his head eagerly. “Okay.”

  “What are we waiting for?”

  “Beats the hell out of me.”

  “Well, take one out,” Childs said irritably.

  “Me? I don’t have any.”

  “Well I sure as hell don’t.”

  “So whata you getting me all excited for nothing for?” Hamilton asked. “I thought you had some. . . . What about all the grass we bought before we went into the Arizona?”

  “The shit got soaked after the first few days of rain.”

  “God, what a waste.”

  “We wouldn’t of got a chance to smoke it anyway,” Hamilton pointed out.

  “I know, but it’s still a waste.”

  “Not a complete waste. I threw it in a water buffalo pen.”

  “Oh, that’s a real consolation.” Childs spotted Forsythe walking into the platoon tent. “Oh, Reverend Forsythe, sir, could we please have an audience with you?”

  Forsythe walked over and put his hand on Childs’s shoulder. “Yes, my son, this is why I am here.”

  Childs bowed his head before saying, “Sir, I think getting wrecked would improve our morale.”

  “Bless you, my son. What finer method is there to gain an appreciation of God’s universe?”

  “You sure your church allows it?” Hamilton asked.

  “My son! Verily I say unto you: it is the holiest of sacraments.”

  “You wouldn’t have a wafer of it on you?” Childs asked.

  “No, my son. God’s infinite mercy has fallen short of providing me with said holy herb.”

  “Maybe you ought to try another God,” Childs suggested.

  Forsythe again placed his hand on Childs’s shoulder. “It is not our place to question the ways of the All Mighty Lifer in the Sky.”

  “No offense, Your Reverency.”

  Forsythe saw Pablo walking into the tent and called out to him, “Illustrious Right Guide, what kinda shit you up to?”

  Pablo turned and walked towards them, the bottle of malaria tabs in his hand answering Forsythe’s question. Childs waved him away while saying, “We don’t want any.”

  Pablo ignored him and took out three tablets. “I’m supposed to hand them out. After that, it’s none of my business.” He did this and they were quickly tossed to the ground. Pablo started to leave, but then changed his mind. “The Professor’s been acting funny lately. One of you ought to find out what’s bugging him.”

  “Sure, Maw,” Childs answered, then qualified his tone by adding, “He was acting the same way when we came down from the canopy.”

  “Not as bad,” Pablo replied.

  “He writing in that little notebook again,” Hamilton added.

  Childs said jokingly, “Maybe he’s a plant, CID.”

  “It has something to do with the Phantom Blooker,” Forsythe said in a more serious tone.

  “I guess it’s because it’s the first man he killed,” Hamilton suggested. Forsythe shook his head. “I think it’s more than that.”

  Childs said, “Maybe he’s sorry he didn’t let the Phantom Blooker kill you.”

  “Could be,” Forsythe agreed.

  Pablo wasn’t sure they were taking the matter seriously enough. “One of you ought to find out what’s bugging him. . . . By the way, anybody that doesn’t go to church today is gonna get roped into a working party.” Forsythe thanked Pablo for the warning, then said, “We’ll take the Professor with us. The sleep’ll do him good.”

  The chapel was crowded, more men sitting on the floor than on the benches. Chaplain Hindman had already started his sermon as Forsythe walked in the door and made his way to a rear corner. Childs, Hamilton, and Chalice followed him. They sat on the floor with their backs against the wall. Hindman was out of their view, so Childs closed his eyes and tried to get some sleep. Chalice sat in a daze, fumbling with a 50-caliber machine gun round. Hamilton took out a pornographic magazine and started leafing through it. When Forsythe saw this, he leaned over Chalice to get a better look. Childs opened his eyes long enough to see the magazine, and he also began to stare at it.

  “— atheists back home. She’s the one that tried to get Christ taken out of our schools. I know you men find it as hard to understand as I do. She says by us p
raying in the schools, we’re taking away her rights. All I want to know is don’t we have any rights to worship the Lord Our God, Jesus Christ? Is His name filth that our schools must be cleansed of? I’ll bet she believes that Americans are just lucky, that the fact we live in the wealthiest and most beautiful country in the world has nothing to do with God’s will. Well she’s wrong. It’s by God’s grace that we have such fine schools. What type of evil person would begrudge God five minutes of prayers in the schools that we built with His help? I’ll tell you what type of person, her, this Madelyn Murray. I cringe when I think about what God must have in store for her. She even wants to have “In God We Trust” taken off our money. Can you believe that? It bothers her that someone might look at a penny and be reminded of God’s love for us and ours for Him. What would George Washington say if he knew that they wanted to take “In God We Trust” off his dollar bill, or Thomas Jefferson, or Abraham Lincoln, or William Jennings Bryan, or Andrew—”

  “William Jennings Bryan, how’d he get in there?” Childs asked with surprise.

  “Cross of gold,” Hamilton pointed out in a self-satisfied tone.

  “Ooooh, now I understand.”

  “Hey, you skipped a page!”

  “Don’t get excited, Forsythe. It was just an advertisement.”

  “No. I saw her tits. Turn—”

  “— letters from your mothers. I can’t remember how many times they’ve asked me if you’re taking care of yourselves and not smoking too much. I’m sure you’ve all noticed what they’re printing on the outside of your cigarettes these days: ‘Caution: Cigarette smoking may be hazardous to your health.’ The people in Washington put this there for your own good. Life is too great a gift to risk for what little pleasure you can get from a cigarette. Just because they give you a little pack with each box of C-rations, you don’t have to smoke them. Don’t even give them to your friends, even if they ask. Just throw them away. I ve written to the President telling him that they shouldn’t even give them to you, and I’m going to speak to Colonel Nash about the same thing. God’s gift of life is too precious a thing to risk on the mere gratification of your senses. I think —”