Sand in the Wind (19 page)

Chalice heard Morton say, “So long, red-neck. I couldn’t have done a better job myself.”

“Too bad, hog. It looks like it’ll be a long time before you get off this island.”

“Don’t look so sad, hog. If you can get them to cut it off, they’ll have to give you a discharge.”

“How does a clumsy turd like you get out of your rack in the morning?”

Green said loudly, “Cancel that ambulance. I think it’s just a hard-on.”

Green glared at the men while they did side-straddle hops. The count was up to three hundred, not including the times they’d had to start over. Private Stevens stood at attention. Green asked him, loud enough for everybody to hear, “You like watching the rest of the platoon do PT, don’t you?”

“
No, sir.
”

“
No?
Well how come you weren’t doing it with them, Queen Bee? If you had, they would have been done long ago.”

“Sir, the Private’s got a sore foot.”

“NOBODY
gets a sore foot in the Marine Corps!
Is that what you’re gonna tell the Gooks in Vietnam — ‘Don’t shoot! I got a sore foot’?”

“No, sir.”

“STOP!” Green shouted to the rest of the platoon. The men came to attention, all of them breathing heavily. Green jumped upon a table. “Hogs, you can thank Queen Bee for that little workout. She’s got a sore foot, so you had to do her side-straddle hops for her. That’s the way it is in Nam: if one man doesn’t do his share, the rest of his platoon has to make up for him. Here it’s side-straddle hops. In Nam, it’s more bullets you have to dodge. Here you pay with sweat. In Nam you pay with your lives
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
your arms, your legs, your balls. Stevens, tell these hogs why they had to do two hundred extra side-straddle hops.”

“
Sir, the Private’s got a sore foot.
”

“Awww, Queen Bee’s got a sore foot.
  
.
 
.
 
. HOW COME THE DOCTOR SAYS YOU’RE A MALINGERER?”

“
Sir, the Private doesn’t know.
”

“Maybe he doesn’t like coons.
  
.
 
.
 
. Isn’t that right, Queen Bee?”

“Sir, the Private doesn’t—”

“BULLSHIT!
I saw the chit.
Tell these hogs who
Dr. Tolbert is.
”

“Sir, Dr. Tolbert is the doctor that said the Private was malingering.”

“THAT AIN’T WHAT I MEAN!”

“Sir, Dr. Tolbert is —”

“
Is the big black
SPADE that struts around in a white coat over at sick bay.
  
.
 
.
 
. ISN’T HE, QUEEN BEE?”

“Yes, sir.”

“
Is he the same one that said there was nothing wrong with your arm two weeks ago?
”

“
No, sir.
”

“Queen Bee, you’re the most gutless cunt in this platoon. AREN’T YOU?”

“
No, sir.
”

“WHAT, HOG?”

“NO, SIR.” The men winced as Stevens repeated his answer. Never before had anyone contradicted a drill instructor.

“Get over here,
cunt.
” Stevens walked up to Green who was squatting upon a table. “You’re gutless, aren’t you,
cunt?
”

“No, sir. The Private’s got a sore foot.”

“DID I ASK YOU ABOUT YOUR FOOT, CUNT?”

“
No, sir.
”

“Queen Bee, you’ve been to sick bay twice as much as anyone in this platoon. First it was your stomach, then your ear, then your arm, then your leg. THERE AIN’T A FUCKING THING WRONG WITH YOU EXCEPT YOUR GUTS.
  
.
 
.
 
. College hog, how many push-ups has this platoon done for
Private
Queen Bee?”

“Sir, the platoon has done about two hundred push-ups for Private Quee— Stevens.”

“And about a hundred bends and thrusts,
and a hundred sit-ups,
AND THREE HUNDRED SIDE-STRADDLE HOPS.
  
.
 
.
 
. Hog, you’re gutless. Everytime this platoon does PT, I see you scratching your ass. You’re gutless,
aren’t you?
”

“No, sir.”

Green sprang up and down on his haunches. “WHAT?”

“No, sir.”

“
I said you were, cunt. You’re a worthless turd that’s gonna get people killed in Nam. AREN’T YOU, CUNT?
”

“
No, sir."

“I SAID YOU WERE.”

“Sir, the Drill Instructor can’t say that about the Private.”

In an instant, Stevens lay flat on his back with Green squatting upon his chest. Stevens gagged as Green bounced upon his haunches. “Aw, the hog can’t breathe.
  
.
 
.
 
. You’re gutless, aren’t you, cunt?” Attempting to answer, Stevens could only gag. “
Choke,
hog. I hope you
die.
” Green sprang to his feet, landing with his boots straddling Stevens’s head. “Get up, hog.” Stevens sat up slowly. “GET UP, HOG!” Coughing, Stevens stood up. “You’re the most worthless turd I’ve seen in years.
What did I write on the blackboard the first day?
”

“Sir, the Private doesn’t remember.”

“THE PRIVATE BETTER REMEMBER!
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
It was about pain.”

“Sir, the Drill Instructor wrote, ‘Pain is good.’
 
”

“That’s right, Queen Bee. PAIN IS GOOD!
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
Side-straddle hops;
ready
, BEGIN!”

Stevens attempted the exercise but stopped, favoring his right leg.

A vicious smile on his face, Green shouted, “I GOT YOU now, hog. I GOT YOU! It was your left leg, REMEMBER?
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
Make up your mind, hog. WHAT LEG IS IT?”

“Sir, both the Private’s legs are sore.”

“Push-up position, HIT IT!” Stevens dropped to the ground. “
Ready,
BEGIN — many, many of them.” Stevens did twenty push-ups before collapsing on his stomach. “DID I TELL YOU TO STOP, HOG?”

“Sir, the Private can’t do any more.”

“
Abie,
fill your bucket.
  
.
 
.
 
. Hog, you ain’t even a coon. You’re a NIGGER, a GUTLESS nigger!
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
Aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

Cowen returned with a bucket of water, and Green shouted, “PUSH-UP POSITION, MOVE!” Stevens made no attempt to lift himself off the floor. “Dump it on him, Abie.” Stevens lay motionless in the puddle of water. “UP POSITION!”

“Sir, the Private can’t.”

Two drill instructors from another platoon, one of them black, entered the squad bay. “Take a look at this cunt,” Green shouted.

The black drill instructor bent over Stevens and cooed, “What’sa matter, mean old Sergeant Green picking on you?” Stevens didn’t answer. “GET UP, TURD!”

Another black drill instructor entered the squad bay. “You tired, hog?”

“Push-up position,
move!
” Green shouted.

Stevens lay motionless. One of the black drill instructors nudged him with his foot. “Don’t you like to do push-ups, hog?”

“Sir, Drill Instructor Sergeant Green called the Private a nigger.” The black drill instructor smashed his foot into Stevens’s side, lifting his whole body by the waist. Stevens rolled over, writhing and stunned.

The other black drill instructor kicked him in the leg. “GET UP, HOG!”

Stevens tried to crawl away, accidentally grabbing Green’s foot. “THE HOG ATTACKED ME!”

Hacker ran into the squad bay, laughing,
“
Queen Bee’s finally getting what he asked for.
”

“The cunt tried to attack me.”

“That’s right.”

“We all saw him.”

“GET UP, CUNT!”

“
On your feet!
”

Sobbing, Stevens moaned, “I can’t.” The two black drill instructors began kicking him down the aisle. He screamed, again and again, defeatedly. The drill instructors surrounded him — kicking and shouting, drowning out his cries.

Disbelieving what he saw, Chalice remembered wanting Stevens hurt, remembered the times he’d had to pay for Stevens. Sure he deserved it.
But not this!
nothing as brutal as this — being kicked down the aisle by five drill instructors, moaning and crying like a child, begging them to stop.

The drill instructors had Stevens surrounded. He tried to crawl away, screaming in pain. They shouted, kicked, and spit on him. A black drill instructor jerked Stevens to his feet by the neck, flung him near Chalice. Blood and snot dripped from his nose. His mouth stretched open in pain.

Spasms shot through Chalice’s stomach. He fought to keep from vomiting. Stevens collapsed at his feet. The drill instructors circled him, frenzied, shouting and kicking, shoving Chalice and Cowen out of the way. The black drill instructors seemed most enraged, did the most damage. By themselves, they kicked him ten yards. One of them dragged him by the leg all the way down the aisle while Green shouted to the rest of the platoon, “Get a look at this worthless cunt.”

Finally, they dragged him into the bathroom. Hacker phoned the MP’s while the other drill instructors remained with Stevens. Green returned to the squad bay, the vicious expression on his face asking, “Who’s next?” Sneering, he scraped his boot through the blood splotches on the floor.

“GET OUT YOUR RAGS! CLEAN THIS SHIT UP!” Still queasy, Chalice ran his rag over the floor. It came away stained with the sickening brown color of blood.

The men were back at attention when the MP’s arrived. They dragged Stevens, half-conscious, out the door. Green seemed calm as he paced the aisle, but Chalice had no doubts that his rage had been real. As Green’s stare passed over him, Chalice wondered, ‘Are you satisfied now?
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?’

Green began speaking in his usual sadistic, arrogant tone; but beneath it Chalice sensed something more than the desire to terrorize. “Hogs, I hope you enjoyed this as much as I did. There’s nothing that says you can’t have some good, clean fun on Parris Island. I did you a favor, hogs. You may not appreciate it now, but when you get to Nam you will. When you get to Nam and find yourself in a foxhole with some other Marine, you won’t have to sweat it being Stevens. I’d rather see that cocksucker
dead
than as a Marine. I can’t kill him myself, but there’s two things I can do: try to turn him into a Marine or try my best to keep him on this island.
You
won’t see him again. When he gets out of the brig, you’ll be long gone.

“Maybe some other drill instructor can turn
Private
Stevens into a Marine. I’ve seen worse turds salvaged.
But at least I’m through with him.
I’ve already spent one tour in Nam, and it won’t be long before I go back. Too many Marines get killed because of cunts like that to let another one off this island.
If he can’t take it here,
then he can’t take it in Nam.
  
.
 
.
 
. Sometimes a shitbird slips through. If you meet one in Nam, do your platoon a favor: BLOW HIM AWAY! Blow him away before he gets someone else blown away.”

Green paused. When he began speaking again, it was in a still loud but less arrogant tone. “Hogs, the Marine Corps is my life,
my whole fucking life.
I intend to stay in it a long time. When I put my hands on one of you turds, I put my career on the line. Who the hell knows when some pencil-pushing cunt in Legal might decide that a gutless turd like Stevens is worth more than the Marine Corps, worth more than this uniform I risk my life to wear. See these stripes on my arm, they’ve come off before and I don’t give a shit if they come off again. I don’t care if they bust me to private — just as long as I can keep turds like Stevens from wearing the same uniform as I wear, just as long as I can keep turds like that from ending up in Nam where they can get me or any other decent Marine killed because they can’t hack it.”

Green stopped talking. He walked over to the blackboard and wrote in large, block letters, “JEROME ALLEN GREEN 1991666.”

“Hogs, that’s my name and serial number. I want every one of you to write it down and memorize it. If you don’t like something I do, you figure out a way to get that name and serial number over to Legal. You fix up a nice little story to go along with it. You can even save it until after you get off Parris Island. It might be easier then.
But remember something, hogs:
There ain’t one of you cunts that’s gonna get off this island until I think he deserves to be called a Marine. There ain’t one of you cunts that’s gonna wear this uniform unless I’d be proud to share the same foxhole with you.”

Green walked out of the squad bay, leaving the men alone and at attention. Still sickened by what had happened to Stevens, Chalice asked himself what could excuse such brutality — certainly not the gung ho speech he’d just heard. Green was less than an animal. He was a sadistic perversion of a human being. Or was it that simple?

The men stood facing each other in two files, a painfully cold wind gusting towards them from the opposite side of the rifle range. Morton stood between the files holding a can of Sure Grip. “Today’s the day, hogs. Today’s the day you get to fire your M-14 Destroyers. This goo is to keep your rifle stocks from slipping. When I walk by, scream out, ‘
Left-handed,
sir,’ if you’re left-handed.”

When Morton reached him, Chalice shouted, “
Left-handed, sir.
”
Morton slapped a spoonful of Sure Grip on the left side of Chalice’s chest. “Rub it in, hog.”

Chalice pressed the glob against his shooting jacket. The grainy gluelike mass oozed between his fingers, webbing them together. He pressed harder, trying to rub off as much of the Sure Grip as possible. Even after his arm was at his side, Chalice kept working his fingers apart only to have them stick together again.