Sand in the Wind (17 page)

Chalice was expecting the command to count off, when Sergeant Green said instead, “Hogs, I’ve got some good news for you. I know you’ve been worried about Private Shockley for the last few days. Well, you’ll be glad to know he’s fine. He tried to get off the island by hiding in the back seat of a car. Fortunately, the car belonged to a drill instructor. Private Shockley is now safely in the hands of the MP’s. He had more balls than I thought — got a little violent when they captured him. From what I hear, he’ll probably spend the rest of his two years in the brig.” Green turned to Private Melton. “Stay out of this, fag. We count queers separate.
  
.
 
.
 
.
Count,
OFF!”

“
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
EIGHT,” Chalice called out. He listened to the count increase without a mistake all the way down his end of the squad bay.

.. FORTY-THREE.”

“FORTY-FOUR.”

‘God, we might just make it this time.’

“
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
SEVENTY-FOUR.”

“SEVENTY-FIVE.”

‘We will. I don’t believe it.’

“SEVENTY-SIX.”

“SEVENTY-SEVEN.”

“SEVENTY-EIGHT.
Sir, seventy-eight privates in the brig, sir.
”

At first nobody really believed what he had heard. Then Green staggered backwards, speechless for the first time in six days. Sergeant Hacker began laughing, quickly followed by Morton and Green. It wasn’t the vicious, sadistic laughter the men were used to hearing. It actually had a relaxing quality about it. Not wanting to be choked or punched, the recruits struggled to keep from smiling. They couldn’t. The drill instructors moved towards them, Green placing his hands around a man’s neck. But it was useless. They’d need until dawn to get to everybody. Morton and Hacker merely walked out the door. Before Green followed them, he said in a soft, disbelieving tone, “Seventy-eight privates in the brig,” then added defeatedly, “Good night, ladies.” It wasn’t until Green switched off the lights that he realized these words might have made him appear human, or even sane. In the darkness, he added, “You’ll pay tomorrow, hogs.
You’ll
FUCKING
pay!
”

Chalice was still laughing as he lay in his rack. For the first time since he’d arrived at Parris Island, he began to think about his excuse for going into the service, his reason for joining the Marine Corps — to write a book. ‘Who needs to go to Vietnam?’ he asked himself. ‘It’s all here, every bit of it.’ Again, while laughing quietly, he thought about the seventy-eight privates in the brig. ‘Who’d believe it?’

“Chalice,” someone whispered.

He turned towards the next rack. “Cowen?”

“Yeah. Wasn’t that a riot?”

“Almost a massacre,” Chalice answered.

“This place is unbelievable, isn’t it?”

“God, it’s good to hear someone else say that. At least I know I’m not hallucinating.”

“Anybody that’d try to sell that pill ’ud go broke.”

“Yeah,” Chalice agreed. “If he didn’t get shot first.
  
.
 
.
 
. I don’t know how much more of this shit I can take.”

“Are you serious?”

“Hell, yeah.”

“Shhh,” Cowen warned. “Some of it’s pretty funny.”

“If it was happening to somebody else it would be.”

“This fucking island is loaded with guys it’s happening to.”

“That don’t help me.”

Cowen propped his head up and leaned closer to Chalice. “They just want you to be able to say, ‘This ain’t as bad as Parris Island,’ no matter where you are or what’s happening to you.”

“But what are you supposed to say when you
are
on Parris Island?”

“
 
‘At least I only got so many days left.’
 
”

“That’s just it — so many.
  
.
 
.
 
. I guess you’re right. They can’t kill all of us.”

“They’d probably take away their PX cards or something if they did.” Amused by his own thought, Chalice mumbled, “Thank God for the Military Code of Justice.”

“Yeah. Only the Marine Corps would take an hour to explain all minus thirty of your rights to you. I could have given the whole speech in one sentence. ‘Hogs, there ain’t one of you swingin’ dicks that’s got the right to wipe his own ass.’
 
”

“That reminds me —”

“Shhh,” Cowen warned.

“— I haven’t taken a shit in six days.”

“No one has. As soon as you get your cock out, they run you out of the head. We’re lucky they let us piss.”

“How long can they keep this up?”

“I don’t know,” Cowen answered. “Maybe they think it turns to muscle.”

“It’s got to be going somewhere.”

“The Marine Corps builds men. I guess they start with toilet training.
  
.
 
.
 
. If they don’t let us take a shit tomorrow, I’m gonna have the fire watch wake me in the middle of the night.”

“I’ll have to do the same thing, but I’m so dead in the morning anyway.”

“I guess we’re wasting Zee’s right now.”

“Fuck it. This is the first time I’ve talked to a human being in six days.”

“What about when you were reading poetry? ‘I never —’
 
”

“Fuck you. I said human being.”

“You don’t appreciate what a public service the Corps is doing by keeping these psychopaths off the street.”

“I’m not on the street. I’m in the same cage with them. Green’s the worst. Man, he hates your guts.”

“I ain’t so sure,” Cowen answered.

“Then you haven’t been paying attention.”

“He’s the funniest.”

“I’ll admit that. He’s also the meanest
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
the smartest too.”

“And Hacker’s the dumbest,” Cowen added.

“Man, it’s so great to talk to somebody. I feel sane again. The thing that drives me nuts is there’s always at least one of them watching you. We aren’t even allowed to seal the letters we send.”

“They can’t read all of them. It’d take Hacker an hour to read the label off a Budweiser can.”

“If they’d just give us five minutes a day when we could be sure no one was watching us.”

“What about now?”

“Yeah. I —” Chalice started to answer before Sergeant Green whispered, “What about now, Jewboy?”

Cowen remained silent, hoping that he was hearing things and knowing that he wasn’t. Chalice’s body stiffened. A tap with a hammer would have transformed him into sand.

Green, in his stocking feet, moved silently between their racks. “If it isn’t the college fag. What would you do with the five minutes — discuss poetry?” Chalice couldn’t have answered if he’d wanted to. “I should have waited till you ladies got in the same rack. Get on your feet, both of you.
  
.
 
.
 
. So Miss Chalice and Miss Cowenburg aren’t tired. Let’s see if I can entertain you sweethearts for a while. How’d you like me to teach you a new exercise? It’s called, ‘In the Riggings.’
 
”

Using the same malicious whisper, Green explained the exercise as if he were acquainting Chalice and Cowen with a rite for a secret society he’d just admitted them to. He had them get into the push-up position, then lay their bare ankles on the sharp metal railings of their bunks. With their legs pointed forty-five degrees up in the air, he ordered them to do pushups, “many, many of them.”

Chalice felt as if his body weighed a thousand pounds. It pressed down on his hands, forcing his face towards the floor. The bunk railing knifed into his ankles as if it would slice his feet off any second. After only a few minutes, Chalice and Cowen could do no more than collapse with their faces on the floor at the end of every push-up. Soon they couldn’t even straighten their arms. For a few minutes, Green left them collapsed on the floor, their feet still hanging from the railings. He finally ordered them back into their bunks. Though both men saw Green leave the squad bay, neither of them had anything to say.

The footlockers were arranged in two perfectly straight rows along the aisle. The recruits kneeled in back of them polishing their boots.

“Barnett,” Sergeant Green called out.

“
Here, sir.
” Barnett ran up to Green who was holding a letter.

“Who’s Susan Smith?” Green sneered.

“Sir, Susan Smith is the Private’s girl.”

“Does she smoke your pole?”

“No, sir.”

“
Bullshit.
A cunt that writes on the outside of envelopes sucks any dick she can find.” Green handed Barnett the letter. “
Get out of here."

“
Aye aye, sir.
”

“Colson.”

“
Here, sir.
”

Chalice felt relieved, glad that he hadn’t gotten a letter and wouldn’t have to face Green. Even receiving mail was something to be dreaded in the Marine Corps.

“Who’s Henrietta Colson?” Green asked.

“Sir, that’s the Private’s sister.”

“How old is she?”

“Seventeen.”

“Does she fuck good?”

“Sir, the Private doesn’t know.”

“Grit, are you trying to tell me there’s a red-neck in Mississippi who doesn’t fuck his sister?
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
HUH?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How come, hog? Doesn’t she like white men?”

“Sir, the Private doesn’t know.”

“
Beat it, grit.
”

“
Aye aye, sir.
”

“
Private Abie.
”

“Here, sir.”

“There’s something inside this, Jewboy. Open it here.” Cowen withdrew some photographs and handed them to Green. A sneer on his face, Green flipped through them before shoving a photograph in Cowen’s face. “
Whose dog is that, Abie?
”

“Sir, that’s the Private’s dog.”

“
No, the other one.
”

“Sir, that’s the Private’s mother.”

“Jewboy, did I ask you anything about your mother? WHOSE DOG IS IT?”

“Sir, that’s the Private’s father’s dog.”

“
Get out of here.
”

“
Aye aye, sir.
”

“
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
White.”

“Here, sir.”

“Good news, White. You got a package. Open it.” The box contained fruit, candy bars, and gum. After sifting through it for a few seconds, Green asked, “What is this, a coon Care Package?”

“
No, sir.
”

“What’s the difference between this and a coon Care Package?”

“Sir, the Private doesn’t know.”

“
Does he know that he’s not supposed to receive packages at Parris Island?
”

“
Yes, sir.
”

“HOW COME HIS MAMMY DOESN’T KNOW?”

“Sir, the Private wrote her.”

“
Maybe the Private better start drawing pictures.
  
.
 
.
 
.
It’d be a shame to waste all this nourishing food. Pick out a piece of fruit, a candy bar, and some gum.” Green dumped the remainder of the package into the garbage. “
Eat the orange first.
”

“
Aye aye, sir.
”

“What the
fuck
are you doing, Private?”

“Sir, the Private was peeling the orange.”

“
HOG, how many times do I have to tell you that you don’t fart around here unless you’re ordered to?
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
Eat the orange.
”
After watching White eat half of it, Green got impatient.
“
Throw it away and start on the candy bar.
”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“PRIVATE, WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?”

“
Sir, the Private was
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
unwrapping the candy bar.”

Green shook his head while saying softly, “Uh uh, Private.
That’s
a no-no.” White ate the candy bar, wrapper and all. He then chewed the gum, along with its package. Green handed him a glass of warm water to wash it all down. “We wouldn’t want you to get fat, Private. Sit-up position,
hit it! Ready
, BEGIN!
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
You can stop at one hundred or when you puke.” White was able to stop at thirty-two.

After cleaning the squad bay for the fifth time that day, the men counted off without a mistake. Chalice was amazed. The platoon had only been in training two weeks.

“
Prepare to hit the rack,"
Green commanded.

“PREPARE TO HIT THE RACK. AYE AYE, SIR,” the men replied, all except Chalice. He had done far more than prepare. Before he could get back on his feet, Sergeant Green came over and started tucking him in.

“No, no, don’t get up, hog. You’re tired, aren’t you?” Green clucked his tongue a few times. “You college boys need all the rest you can get. Just relax. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

“Prepare to hit the rack.”

“PREPARE TO HIT THE RACK. AYE AYE, SIR.”

“HIT IT.”

The men scrambled into their bunks, and Green turned off the light. As Chalice lay wondering if Green would remember the next morning, he heard Cowen trying to muffle some laughter. “Shut the fuck up.”

“Sure man, you must really need the sleep.”

The men had just returned from the armory with their newly issued M-14S. Morton paced the aisle, his hands squeezed white around one of the rifles. Eyes on fire, he looked as if he saw the whole world cringing before him.

“
Hogs,
today is your most important day of training. Today you made the most important friend of your Marine Corps careers. A Marine’s rifle is his best friend. Marines are the best marksmen in the world. They’re the best marksmen in the world because they’re the best trained marksmen in the world. They’re the best trained marksmen in the world because they’re taught to shoot the Marine Corps way. I could name some Marine Corps marksmen you should know, but you don’t. So I’ll just name two that you do know — Lee Harvey Oswald and Charles Whitman. You
can’t
beat marksmanship like that! Don’t worry. When we get through with you, you’ll be just as good.
  
.
 
.
 
. Tell everyone who Charles Whitman is, college hog.”