Sand in the Wind

by Robert Roth

  “I got less than seven weeks left, sir.”

  “Less than seven weeks and you decided you wanted a court-martial? I sure hope I’ve convinced you. . . . That’ll be all. You two can leave now.” Kramer realized that Nash wanted him to stay. As soon as Chalice and Ramirez left, Nash asked him, “Why didn’t you tell me one of them had only seven weeks left?”

  “I guess I should have, sir.”

  “If he doesn’t change his mind, tell him to wait while you see about getting him a job in the rear. I’ll arrange something.”

  “What about Chalice?”

  “I can get him in a CAP unit within a month if he wants. Just keep him away from me until we can work something out. I might have gotten through to them.”

  “I think you did, sir. What you said made sense.”

  "Nothing makes sense.”

  “Well, it was a good speech.”

  “It wasn’t a speech. I believed every word of it.”

  “I mean I was really surprised by the way you handled it, sir. I never expected to see that.”

  “In the Marine Corps, you mean, and by a lifer.” Kramer didn’t have to answer for Nash to know that this was exactly what he had meant. “I’m one of the few,” Nash said in a less serious tone, “and I haven’t seen any of the others in a long time.”

  “Well I’m glad you talked to them, sir. I guess it would have been easier to just send them to the brig.”

  “I assure you it wouldn’t have been. . . . What worries me about things like this is that they don’t happen more often. I wonder how many of my men keep everything inside them without ever thinking it out. Sometimes I think there’s only two kinds of people in the world — those that blame everything on themselves and those that blame everything on others. Ever since they were little kids, these men have been taught that the United States has always been right. We make idealists out of them, and when they find out that most of the idealism belonged to the dreamers — or liars — who wrote the history books, they can’t cope with it. . . . Sometimes I think they’ll either change things or destroy themselves trying . . . then I take another look around and decide they’ll probably do a little of both, very little.”

  Chalice walked back to the company area by himself. He tried to belittle Nash by picturing him reciting the Pledge to the Flag in a Boy Scout uniform, doing so in exasperation, knowing that what Nash had said made sense. Chalice as much as admitted this by saying to himself, ‘He could make shooting your grandmother seem like a patriotic duty.’ Too conscious of his own attempt to avoid the logic of Nash’s argument, Chalice finally forced himself to accept some of it.

  What bothered him most was the way in which Nash characterized the war protesters. Chalice tried to brush this aside by comparing what they were doing to what Nash was doing; but he finally had to admit that one thing had nothing to do with the other. Bombarded by memories of events associated with the protest movement, Chalice could no longer rationalize them as mere mistakes, or excuse those responsible as ignorant of the results of their actions. Only a fool could have deluded himself into believing that some of these actions wouldn’t have exactly the opposite effects as those intended, only a fool like himself. ‘It was them! They fucked it up,’ Chalice told himself, realizing that he too was one of “them.” Acts that had once seemed noble, now took on an absurd and even hypocritical taint. He remembered how impossible it had seemed that those who knew the facts, who would listen long enough, could possibly fail to see the truth. It was right before them! But they had, couldn’t have helped but listen. Chalice admitted this now. How absurd it was to attack everything they valued, more than absurd, hypocritical and childish, to shove things down their ignorant throats, that wasn’t enough, not even trying to make these ideas, facts palatable — the hair, the clothes, the violence — not trying to convince people, but instead to show them how ignorant they were, humiliate them. He remembered himself as so caught up in ideas, the movement, that methods seemed irrelevant. Everything made sense now, but he realized that it had made sense then, and only self-deceit had prevented him from admitting it. Stopping the war hadn’t been a cause, but rather a self-indulgent excuse to show everyone that he was above them, a just person. If the war had been the real issue, no methods could have proved worse than those used against it; and the root of these methods was more than childish stubbornness, it was a hypocritical lack of sincerity combined with pure, selfish arrogance. As he looked back, it seemed that only the methods had been great enough to defeat the cause. So now it was he that was having things stuffed down his throat.

  Disturbing as these thoughts were, they did afford Chalice some relief. At least things were starting to make sense. Suddenly his reasoning led him further, to an excuse, a logical defense of his actions; but he found this even harder to accept than self-accusation. It involved so much more than just himself. The truth had always seemed so powerful. All that had ever been necessary to change things was to show people that they were wrong.

  How absurd! Wanting to write a book, to put the truth before them, without the hysteria, written down, in a way impossible to deny — how absurd this now seemed — the belief that people actually wanted the truth, that they would defend and act upon it. He wondered exactly how much of his own thinking had been self-deceit, how much more important was his desire to create something indestructible, permanent — a book.

  “Professor,” someone called, and Chalice was glad to be taken from his thoughts. Roads walked towards him. “C’mon, we’ve got to help the rest of the squad unload some trucks.”

  “I don’t feel like it,” Chalice answered in a depressed tone.

  “I don’t feel like it either. C’mon, let’s go.”

  “I’m not going,” Chalice answered gruffly, thinking how much better it had been when Roads never talked to anyone, before he took over as squad leader.

  “Both of us are going.”

  “Chow starts in an hour. What difference does it make?”

  “If we don’t help them, they’ll be eating C-rations tonight. Those trucks have to be unloaded. C’mon.”

  “I said I wasn’t going,” Chalice answered testily.

  Still calm, Roads said, “Oh you’re going all right.”

  Chalice looked up at Roads, sneering childishly, on the verge of saying something. When Roads saw this, he merely smiled, disparagingly, a sense of accomplishment in his look, knowing exactly what Chalice wanted to say. Roads slowly turned and began walking. Chalice followed behind him, still thinking, ‘Nigger!’

  The men were gathered in the platoon tent, preparing to go on watch. Chalice was sitting on his cot when Hamilton walked over and sat down across from him. For the last few days they hadn’t been avoiding each other, but neither had they sought each other out. “Cut the shit, Professor. You’re depressing me. All I’ve got is a wake-up and I’ll be on my way back to the world.”

  “I wish I was going with you,” Chalice replied somberly.

  “Sorry I can’t wait, but I got here a little earlier than you did. . . . It goes by fast. You’ll see.”

  “It’s like I’m the last one here. Everyone else is either dead or home. . . . I don’t even know the names of half these boots.”

  “You better learn them . . . just like Kovacs and Tony 5 learned your name. Besides man, the boots already know who the Professor is.”

  Chalice broke into a faint smile as he said, “I met some decent motherfuckers in this shit hole. If they were still here, it’d be different. . . . I’ll make it though.”

  “You better. As soon as somebody frags Roads, you’ll be squad leader.”

  “Roads doesn’t fuck with anybody. He’s all —”

  “That’s the trouble. He’s too good to fuck with anybody.”

  “He’s all right. . . . Seriously man, I’m gonna miss you — the last of the wild bunch.”

  “Uh-uh, you’re the last. . . . We ain’t done much bullshitting lately. Why don’t we make up for it tonight.�
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  “Sure. Come around to my position.”

  “Hell no! I’ve got some herb I wanna burn. That new boot gives you an extra man in the squad. I’ll get Roads to let you off lines. I’m still platoon sergeant, you know.”

  “He already said we’re gonna have one five-man watch.”

  “It’s my last night — my last chance to get stoned in the bush. I’ll talk to him.” Chalice shrugged his shoulders, and Hamilton walked over to Roads. He came back saying, “It’s okay.”

  “What did he say to you?”

  “He never says shit. He just looked at me for a few seconds like he hated my guts, then nodded.”

  When the rest of the men headed to their positions, Chalice and Hamilton walked behind an ammo bunker and smoked two joints. The marijuana was strong. They sat almost immobilized until an hour after dusk. Hamilton got hungry, and he talked Chalice into stealing some ice cream from the mess hall. It was dark inside, so Chalice stayed close behind as Hamilton searched for the freezers. They finally found a three-gallon container and were on their way out with it when Hamilton heard footsteps coming towards them. He ducked behind a freezer. Chalice followed him. As they squatted in the darkness, Chalice had visions of himself going before Colonel Nash for stealing from the mess hall. The footsteps passed within a few feet of them, and when Hamilton heard a voice whisper “Quiet,” he couldn’t resist standing up and saying harshly, “Stop or I’ll shoot!” Complete silence followed, but it was finally broken when Hamilton could no longer control his laughter.

  An angry voice asked, “Who are you?”

  “Just thieves, like you.”

  The voice was still somewhat angry as it said, “You scared the shit out of us.”

  “What are you looking for?” Chalice asked.

  “Ice cream.”

  “We’ve got the last one. Do you want some?”

  “Sure. Bring it over to our hootch. We’ve already swiped a big ham and some bread.” On the way to their hootch, the two men told Hamilton they were from another battalion that was being sent to Khe Sanh in the morning. They had just arrived in An Hoa that night, and because they didn’t have to stand lines they were celebrating.

  The hootch was dark except for warm spheres of light where candles had been placed upon the floor. There were no cots, and the men sat around the flames smiling like pumpkins with candles inside as light flickered eerily on their faces. This and the constant hum of voices gave the hootch an attractively evil quality. Hamilton and Chalice made their way to one of the candles where a ham was being carved by its light. Chalice watched entranced as two greasy hands worked a bayonet into the meat, its juices beading on and dripping from the blade. Both his and Hamilton’s mouths began to water as the gleaming hands placed the slice between two pieces of bread. Exchanging drugged smiles, they dropped to their knees and waited for a turn with the bayonet. When the other men heard about the ice cream, they began to wander over with spoons to dish it out of the container. Chalice watched with skulking interest as the candlelight flickered upon strange faces gleaming with ham grease and stained with ice cream.

  Someone began to strum a guitar. Even before the first word was sung, Chalice staggered to his feet and wandered in the direction of the music. It was the light flickering off the guitar that he saw first. Dropping to his knees, he whispered in a disbelieving tone, “Boyd, Boyd!”

  But it was Cowen that recognized him first. “Chalice!”

  “Abie!”

  “Hey, it’s good to see you guys.”

  “I know what you mean. I know what you mean. . . . What happened to you? You look terrible.”

  Chalice stumbled over the possible answers for a few seconds, then said, “I’m all right. I just lost some weight. You don’t look so good yourself, Abie.”

  “Hey, are you going to Khe Sanh with us tomorrow?” Boyd asked.

  “No. I wish I was.”

  “I wish I wasn’t. Hey, it’s good to see you.”

  “We did that already.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. Are you stoned too?”

  A voice said, “Play the guitar, Boyd.”

  “Man, the whole world is stoned. . . . Play the guitar, Boyd — ‘Merry Christmas, Jesus’ or something.”

  “Boyd,” a voice said pleadingly, “play the one about the cowboy.”

  Other voices seconded this request until Boyd began to sing: “I’m a young man so you know. My age is twenty-one./ I just returned from southern Colorado./ Just out of the service and I’m lookin’ for my fun./ Some day soon, goin’ with her, some day soon./ Her parents cannot stand me ’cause I ride the rodeo./ Her father says that I will leave her cryin’./ She would follow me right down the toughest road I go./ Some day soon, goin’ with her, some day soon.”

  As Boyd sang, joints were continually passed from hand to hand, and merely breathing the air of the hootch would have been enough to stone everybody. Chalice lost all sense of place, overcome by absurd memories of Parris Island that seemed more real than anything that had happened since then. The hum of voices became gradually quieter as one by one the men fell asleep. Boyd continued to sing, watching the hootch darken as each succeeding candle burned itself to the floor. When the last flame disappeared, he placed the guitar down, knowing that he was the only man awake in the room.

  “Fall out with packs on!” a harsh voice yelled. This cry was repeated again and again. Blurred, just-opened eyes slowly adjusted to the blue gray light of dawn. Men moved wearily to their feet. In minutes the hootch was empty.

  As Cowen walked towards his place in the formation, he looked over at Chalice and said, “You know I had this weird dream about Parris Island last night. Green was running around choking and jumping on people, and we were all laughing . . . even some of the guys that are dead now.”

  “Yeah. I’ve heard about too many of them,” Chalice said somberly.

  “So have I . . . but let’s save that for another time.”

  “Write me a letter from Khe Sanh so I’ll know what it’s like before I get there.”

  “I will.”

  “Don’t forget.”

  “I won’t.”

  As Cowen’s platoon started to move out, he turned back towards Chalice and said, “Hey man, see you at Khe Sanh.”

  “See you at Khe Sanh,”

  Kramer entered Echo Company’s officers’ hootch. Colonel Nash, Major Lucas, and most of the battalion’s platoon commanders were already seated. Kramer had heard rumors that the charges against Trippitt had been dropped for lack of evidence, and he wasn’t surprised to see him there. In a few minutes everyone had arrived, and Nash began speaking:

  “I guess we’ve all been expecting some news for a long time. We finally got it, but it’s a lot different from what we expected. Practically every major city is under attack. Khe Sanh was nothing but a bloody cover-up. They just wanted to get enough of us in one place and keep us there while they tore the rest of this country apart. If we had the helicopters, we’d be out of here in two hours. As is, we’ll pull out at dawn. At dawn! That means I want every man at the LZ before first light. We’re gonna be fighting house to house, just like those World War II movies you all love so well. Things are pretty bad all over, but I think we drew the wildest card in the deck — Hue city. . . . Are there any questions?”

  Hardly believing what he had heard, Kramer asked, “Sir, are they bombing it?”

  This question surprised the other platoon commanders, and most of them turned towards Kramer. Nash was also surprised, but for another reason. As he answered the question, Nash wondered why Kramer had asked it. “I hope not, Lieutenant. It’s the most beautiful city I’ve ever seen.”

  Kramer walked back to his company area in a daze. Luck, something he had always thought of in terms of curses, now seemed to be promising what he could never have really hoped for — too much to be doubted. It all seemed no more than a matter of time, while time rushed him towards it. The impossibility of what was happening prevented him fr
om doubting its culmination in that final impossibility. ‘I’ll find her!’ he thought to himself, not even considering the difficulties. It would happen. It had to happen. ‘I’ll find her and she won’t be able to say no.’

  There was little time before his men would go on watch. Kramer knew he had to tell them to get ready. “Ramirez!” he shouted, and somebody answered that they would get him. The rain had stopped. Roads lay atop some ammo boxes playing with his dog. Kramer started to walk towards Roads to tell him to leave the dog behind with somebody, knowing that this probably wasn’t necessary. Suddenly he stopped short. Roads was smiling as he playfully teased the dog with a rag. He then picked up the dog and held it high above him. Kramer couldn’t believe the expression on Roads’s face, couldn’t believe the affection he was showing for such a pathetic little mutt, and he thought to himself, ‘You build a wall, shut off everything, feel safe; but then, for just a second, you let someone or something get through, and it all comes down.’

  3. The Ancient City

  Sheets of water cast prismed patterns against the glass. Kramer continued to stare at the helicopter window, unable to see beyond its translucence, knowing that soon it would hide the Imperial City. The helicopter landed with a settling motion upon a muddy field on the outskirts of Hue. The heavy monsoon rains and the clouds that were their source deadened the sun’s light to a dull glare and hid all but a faint outline of what Kramer longed to see. He stood staring at this outline, not even bothering to arrange his platoon, saying to himself, ‘I’ll find her.’

  Orders were being shouted, but by Ramirez. Kramer turned to see him swaggering among the men — using more words, possessing less self-assurance, but with as much pride as Tony 5 had ever displayed. Kramer glanced over his platoon. They stood with their backs towards the LZ, avoiding the stinging drops of water being whipped at them by the copter blades. They were his men. No longer did he try to belittle the sense of responsibility he felt towards them, or even the feeling of power they gave him. Now he could understand the risks men before him had taken, the desire of these men to command, to lead others in battle, so often with no other purpose than to kill and destroy, looking upon such opportunities as God-given privileges. Now, neither coveting nor shunning this privilege, Kramer understood. He stared at the hard faces of his men, again with pride; but for the first time with compassion, thinking, ‘If only they had a cause . . . if not one to live for.’