Sand in the Wind (20 page)

Morton started on the men across from Chalice. He slapped some Sure Grip on a recruit’s shoulder. As if awakened, the recruit shouted, “
Left-handed, sir.
”

Chalice saw Morton’s fist squeeze white around the spoon. He waited for him to explode. Instead, Morton said calmly, “Open your mouth, hog.”

Morton heaped the spoon with Sure Grip. He waved it slowly in front of the recruit before resting it upon his lower teeth. “Bite, hog.” The teeth clamped down with a metallic cling. Morton withdrew the spoon. “Chew, hog.” The recruit’s jaw ground slowly. His face reddened. Morton jumped back to avoid the vomit.

Chalice found himself trying to suppress a laugh. Between wheezing coughs, the recruit’s face twisted with nausea. Chalice tasted the Sure Grip in his own mouth, felt his stomach convulse. Guiltily, he tried to keep from smiling.

The rest of the day went quickly. It had been strikingly different. Not until the platoon was ready to leave the rifle range did Chalice try to figure out why. The men stood in front of him in formation. He, the college hog, was waiting for all the wind hoods to be passed forward so he could count them. He felt relaxed, noticed the same feeling on the other men’s faces. It had something to do with the rifles. During the day, the drill instructors had seemed to look at the men differently — almost as equals. Their words, even their shouts, hadn’t been meant to taunt or harass. The drill instructors had been on their side — teaching them how to shoot, spotting their rounds, adjusting their sights. Chalice stared at Morton, intrigued, seeing him for the first time as something other than an adversary.

“ARE YOU EYEBALLING ME,
college fag?
COUNT THEM GODDAMN HOODS!” Nervously, Chalice began stuffing the wind hoods into a canvas bag. He lost count and had to start over, sure that Morton was glaring at him. The wind slashed against the side of his face. His numb fingers grabbed clumsily at the hoods. Relieved to stuff the final hood into the bag, he called out, “Sir, seventy-two hoods.”

Morton spun around. “
There should he seventy-three.
” Chalice remained silent, sure that he had miscounted. “Hog, you
better
not have made a mistake.
  
.
 
.
 
.
Count ’em again.
”

Chalice emptied the bag as Morton turned towards the men. “
Which one of you cocksuckers didn’t turn in his wind hood?
” Morton froze, spotting something. Shoving men aside, he burst through the ranks. A recruit in the back row stood rigidly at attention, eyes directed forward, still wearing his wind hood. Morton rushed up to him. “HOG, DID YOU TURN IN YOUR HOOD?”

“
Yes, sir,
” the recruit shouted uneasily, wondering why Morton had singled him out.

“Are you sure, hog?” Morton asked softly.

“YES, SIR.”

“You remember turning it in?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Who’d you give it to, hog?”

“Sir, the Private handed it to Private Stanley.”

“YOU’RE LYING!”

Now even more bewildered, the recruit replied, “Sir, the Private turned in his wind hood.”

“Oh, is that right?” Morton slammed his hand down on top of the recruit’s head. He jerked him forward by the hood and dragged him gagging through the ranks.

“OPEN THE BAG!” Chalice held it open while Morton stuffed the hood and the head it contained into the bag. The chin buttons finally snapped and the recruit staggered backwards.

“GET BACK IN RANKS!” Morton screamed.

The lights flashed on and Morton said calmly, “Rise and shine, kiddies. Rise and shine.” Bewildered, the men staggered out of their racks. Any change meant trouble, but Morton’s easy tone was startling. Blinking, still half asleep, they stood at attention in front of their bunks.

“Hogs, I don’t like to see Marines smile, and I don’t like to hear them sing.
But today
is a special occasion.
We
have a birthday. I wanna hear every swinging dick singing happy birthday to our sweet little birthday boy.” Morton started singing. The men joined him hesitantly, unsure of what was happening, gradually realizing as the singing became more boisterous. “Happy birthday to you./ Happy birthday to you./
Happy birth
day dear ]esus./
Happy birthday to you.” By the time the song ended, most of the men were smiling. Morton restored the platoon’s military bearing by good-naturedly pounding a few of the men on the sides of their heads.

Christmas proved no different from an ordinary Sunday, and aside from church services, Sunday was never very different from any other day. Few of the men had expected any difference. Christmas at Parris Island was as inconceivable as finding Parris Island under a Christmas tree.

After breakfast, Morton marched the platoon to church to hear “that fucking pansy of a chaplain tell us about Candyass Jesus.” When the men returned to the squad bay, Morton assured them that if he’d been around at the time, “the slimy Jew wouldn’t haven’t gotten off so easy.” The recruits spent the next few hours hand washing their clothes, polishing their boots, and shining their brass. As often happened when they were doing these tasks, Morton left them alone in the squad bay. As rarely happened, he didn’t come sneaking through the door or windows every ten minutes to choke any man he caught talking or loafing. An hour before lunch, he did rush into the squad bay.

“ATTENTION!” Startled, the men jumped to their feet. Morton’s tone and angry expression seemed ready to prove that Christmas was the most miserable day of the year. “
Any of you hogs seen the duty roster?
” No one answered. “
Chalice, Cowen, Boyd, Richardson,
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
see if it’s in the Dempster Dumpster.” The four men rushed outside.

Chalice reached the garbage bin first. He swung the door open and saw that the bin was over half full. “God, we’ll never find it.”

All four men glanced inside. They stood around for a few minutes urging each other to climb into the bin. Placing himself farthest from the door, Chalice warned, “We better get started.”

“Yeah,” Richardson agreed, making no effort to climb inside.

Boyd had his head through the door. Cowen placed his hand on Boyd’s shoulder. “Yeah. The garbage ain’t gonna come to us. See if it’s in there, Boyd.”

“What’s the duty roster look like?” Boyd asked, knowing exactly what it looked like and playing the dumb Southerner that he wasn’t.

“It’s a white paper with typing on it,” Chalice informed him.

Boyd reached inside and started shuffling the garbage. “Sure a mess a white papers in here.” Boyd reached farther into the bin and began thrashing the garbage around.

“Find it?” Cowen asked, all but pushing Boyd inside.

“No, but I found a pack of Hershey bars,” Boyd answered excitedly. “Huh?”

“Where?”

“Hand ’em out.” All four men squeezed their heads through the door. “Take it easy. You’re smothering me.”

“One at a time,” Chalice suggested while climbing Richardson’s back. “
Hey,
I see some pistachio nuts.” Cowen dived over Boyd, and Richardson followed him inside.

“
Ow!
Get off me!” Chalice lifted Boyd’s legs and dumped him into the bin. Cowen pulled Boyd’s head out of the garbage while Chalice climbed in. The Dumpster was full of candy sent to the men for Christmas. The drill instructors had gotten tired of making the recruits eat it wrappers and all, then exercising them until they puked. Garbage flew furiously around the bin as all four men burrowed through it.

“Cup cakes!”

“
Clark Bars!
”

“Let me have one.”

“More gum.”

“
Brownies!
”

The men stuffed their mouths as they searched, and the announcements became less intelligible. Finally tiring, they piled all the loot in the center of the bin and began devouring it. Cheeks stuffed like hamsters’, the men suddenly stopped grabbing for the candy. They stared at each other. Convulsed by laughter, Cowen fell over backwards. Candy spurted from his mouth as he wallowed in the garbage. They all started laughing, each one noticing how ridiculous the other three looked. As their mouths emptied and the laughter became louder, Chalice reached over and shut the large metal door. Just enough light seeped in for them to see each other and the candy.

Richardson, a small, frail black, was almost invisible beneath his green hat. Teeth flashing from nowhere, he said. “This reminds me of Candyland in the fairy stories.”

“Except for the smell.”

“Who cares?”

“I forgot what candy tastes like without the wrapper.”

“I almost forgot to take it off.’

“You know this is the best Christmas I ever had.”

“Me too,” Cowen agreed.

Chalice said, “Dear Mom and Dad, I had a beautiful black Christmas
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
inside a Dempster Dumpster.
  
.
 
.
 
. This is the first time in two months I’ve felt safe.”

“Yeah. No drill instructors in here.”

“Can’t see us either.”

“It’s a damn good thing.”

“Parris Island wouldn’t be so bad if they’d let us sit in garbage cans more often.”

“Yeah,” Cowen agreed. “This is almost as good as being back in the States.”

Boyd said, “It’s a mite cramped, but a damn sight cozier than the squad bay.”

“Yankee Stadium would be cramped with me and three drill instructors inside.”

“One drill instructor wouldn’t be much better, Abie.”

“Not iffin’ it was Green. Abie, I don’t think he likes you
at
all.”

“He don’t like anybody.”

“Especially Abie.”

“I ain’t so sure,” Cowen said softly, willing to let the matter drop.

“He sure don’t like Jews.”

“He don’t like anybody.”

“Jews especially.”

Chalice asked, “Doesn’t it bother you being called Jewboy or Hymie or Abie all the time?”

“Naw — well at first it did. But it got pretty funny after a while. Guys were always sneaking up to me after chow — half of them asking, ‘Abie, how come they call you Hymie?’ and the other half asking, ‘Hymie, how come they call you Abie?’
 
”

“Hey Hymie, what is your name?” Boyd asked.

“Abie, stupid,” Richardson cut in.

“No, it ain’t. It’s Robert.”

“How come they call — ”

“Well, doesn’t it bother you being called kike?” Chalice asked.

“That’s the whole idea of Parris Island: to teach you how to take anything.
  
.
 
.
 
. Richardson, how much does it bother you to be called coon?”

“Nothing new.”

Chalice said, “They keep on telling us we’re all Marines, all equal; but then they call us kikes, niggers, red-necks — ”

“College hogs.”

“That too. They’re just teaching us how to hate each other.”

“Bullshit! Do you hate me more because of what they call me? Or Richardson? Or red-necks like Boyd?”

“I kinda like red-necks,” Boyd cut in. “I figgered it was a compliment.”

Richardson said, “Since I been at Parris Island, I ain’t figured nothin’ was a compliment.”

“I still think it’s wrong.”

“My oldest brother was in the Corps — ”

“A Marine Corps family!”

“ — He went through the same bullshit. I knew what to expect.”

“Then why’d you join?” Chalice asked.

“Because he said Parris Island was the last place he heard any of that bullshit.
  
.
 
.
 
. My middle brother was in the Army — ”

“
No!
a doggie.”

“ — They called him private in boot camp and kike for the rest of his hitch. He got in so many fights, they court-martialed him twice.”

“I still say it’s wrong,” Chalice insisted.

“
You’re
wrong. "They figure if they put us through enough shit, we’ll respect each other more.”

“Yeah,” Boyd agreed. “I’m glad we’ve got Abie around. Green messes with him so much he ain’t got nearly enough time for the rest of us.”

“He sure makes time for me. Chalice, what happened to the rest of those pistachio nuts?”

Chalice handed Richardson the remainder of the bag. “Maybe so, but why does he spend so much time fucking with you if it isn’t because you’re Jewish?”

“Maybe it is,” Cowen mumbled, but then added in a louder tone, “He don’t hate Jews.”

“Ain’t crazy about ’em either,” Boyd said. “Hey, how come they’re always telling you to take a shower, Abie?”

Changing the subject, Cowen said, “Remember when Stevens got the shit kicked out of him, it was the black drill instructors that did most of it.” Chalice had noticed the same thing, but was unsure of Cowen’s point. “Richardson, how’d you feel when that happened?”

“The turd deserved it.”

Chalice said, “He didn’t deserve
that.
”

“How’d you like being in the same foxhole with him?” Boyd asked. “Yeah?”

Richardson said, “I wouldn’t.”

At first surprised at their remarks, Chalice began to think about what Boyd had said. “I guess I wouldn’t.
  
.
 
.
 
. But they shouldn’t have beat him up as bad as that.”

“He’s all right now,” Richardson replied. “I saw him marching around with some prisoners a few days ago.”

“I saw him with a new platoon yesterday. They just set him back two weeks.”

“I saw Melton too. He’s just starting training with a new platoon.”

“God!”

“Who’s Melton?”

“The one who said he was queer.”

“Must of kept saying it for two months.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Chalice said to Cowen, as if he hadn’t heard the last few comments.

“Me?” Cowen asked.

“Yeah. I remember what Green said after Stevens got beat up. The gung ho psychopath really believed it — that he didn’t want any of us getting off Parris Island unless he’d jump in a foxhole with us.
  
.
 
.
 
. He sure does hate Jews though.”