Sand in the Wind (22 page)

Casually, Kramer’s mind became occupied with thoughts about gaining the confidence of his men. He perceived their dislike for the captain and the gunny, and his encounters with both of them led him to share it. They were exactly as he had expected them to be — ambitious career men whose lives centered on and had no meaning outside of the Marine Corps, “yes men” to those with more power and tyrants to those with less. Kramer knew that they’d soon find out he wasn’t their idea of a platoon commander. He decided it would be best to avoid them as much as possible — to keep his role uncomplicated.

The first time they were resupplied at the park, Kramer got a letter from his parents. The handwriting on the envelope was his mother’s. He scanned the neat, attractive characters. Without opening it, he walked back to his hootch and sat down. Holding the envelope at opposite corners between the thumb of one hand and the forefinger of the other, he spun it around by tapping it with his free forefinger. Whatever the letter said, it would be an accusation. Finally, he took his bayonet and sliced open the envelope.

Dear David,

We hope this letter finds you well. We received the oriental calendar you sent us from Okinawa. I hung it up in the kitchen and everybody thinks it’s beautiful. I’ve circled your return date on it. Thirteen months is a long time, but I’m sure the wait will be forgotten on the day you come home.

Danny’s grades weren’t as high as he had hoped, and it looks as if he has given up any idea of finishing engineering. He switched his major to advertising. I guess it’s just as well. The only important thing is that he’ll be happy whatever career he decides on. He says he will try to come home for a weekend this month.

Your father and I have been very busy around the house. There are a lot of things for us to do, and maybe you’ll find us a little handier when you get home. It’s helping us adjust to being retired.

Please be careful and write as often as you can. Write Danny also. Tell him to study hard. He always thinks highly of his older brother’s advice. It’s hard to believe you’re 10,000 miles away, and we miss you very much. Don’t forget to write. Do you want us to send you anything?

Love,

Mom and Dad

Kramer reread the letter, thinking about how much he had wanted to hear from them, and yet how depressed he now was, thinking about them, alone, in a large, empty house, memories making it even emptier, waiting for letters from a son halfway around the world and for those weekends when another son would come home from college, waiting, having nothing but time, and little of that. ‘Only memories,’ he thought, knowing that now that was all they would ever have of him. ‘Is that why?’ he asked himself, ‘not out of hate, but out of compassion.’ He wondered why a person’s life can’t be a possession, a piece of property to throw away if one chooses; knowing the end of his own life would tear away a part of theirs, their only crime being to have outlived a son to whom war was an excuse, a means rather than a force; thinking, ‘Is that why? Is that why people — did I ever want to kill them?’ And again he thought about the house, them coming home to it, turning on lights in empty rooms.

Each day at three o’clock, half the platoon would go down to the river to bathe. One day as he stood waist-deep in water shaving, Chalice noticed a bunch of little children leading four water buffaloes down to the river. Before they went in, the kids took off their clothes and threw them on some bushes along the bank. As the huge animals were led into the river, they dropped to their stomachs and the children ran around splashing water on them. Captivated by the simple beauty of the scene, Chalice started to walk towards it, as if to become a part of it. One of the water buffaloes bolted to its feet, its formerly placid, bovine eyes now locked in a suspicious, catlike stare. Chalice froze, then walked back towards the rest of the men.

When the swim call ended, the men returned to the perimeter carrying their freshly washed clothes. They spread them on the bushes to dry and sat around naked on their poncho liners. Gunny Martin walked by and yelled for everybody to get their shirts on. Somebody replied that they were wet, but Martin yelled back that he didn’t give a shit and that it was a company rule that everyone had to wear a shirt at all times. Though the men grumbled as he walked away, all of them put on their shirts.

An hour later Captain Trippitt passed by Bolton who was walking around without a hat on. “Where’s your cover, Marine?”

“Left it on the other side of the perimeter. I was just going to get it.”

Trippitt grabbed him by the shirt and flung him violently against a tree trunk. “Did you forget how to say,
‘sir’?
”

“No, sir,” Bolton answered in a bewildered voice as he looked down at the top of the captain’s head.

Rather than look up, Trippitt just stared at his chest. “Don’t
ever
let that happen again.”

“Yes, sir.”

Childs, who was sitting next to Chalice, tapped him on the shoulder. “You never see the Skipper act like that out in the Arizona. He knows somebody’d blow his head off first chance they got.”

The next afternoon Kramer told his platoon they were moving out. Ignoring the march, the men were glad to get away from the CP. Tony 5 learned they were to set-in with a company of Arvins, and reminded Chalice to buy a pack from one of them. Though the day had been overcast, by the time the platoon moved out there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Hamilton set a fairly slow pace, but after only a few minutes of marching everybody’s senses were numbed.

Chalice found himself performing some newly acquired idiosyncrasies — switching his rifle from hand to hand, sliding the strap of his ammo can along the top of his shoulder when it started to dig in, and spasmodically hunching his shoulders every few steps in order to keep his pack straps from cutting off the circulation to his arms. Dully, he began enumerating the items in his pack, trying to think of something he could discard. His mind focused on his discomfort, he paid little attention to the possibility of an ambush or a booby trap. The sight of a fresh crater in the road jolted him. A charred truck, still smelling of burnt rubber, lay off to one side. He tightened his grip on his rifle and scanned the area for dangerous signs. But after only a fevv minutes, his head dropped down again and he plodded on as before.

The Arvin camp lay just off the road, about two kilometers from Ladybird Park. It encircled the remains of an abandoned ville. Hamilton led the platoon through the center of the camp to some high ground in back of it. The Arvins greeted them with friendly smiles and waves. Their appearance surprised Chalice. Most of them seemed over thirty years old. They had evidently arrived just before the Marines, and were wandering around in a disorganized manner setting up their hootches.

Kovacs assigned positions even before the men had their packs off. The perimeter partially enclosed a cemetery, one obviously used by the richer families because most of the graves had concrete headstones. Each grave was covered by a flat mound of dirt anywhere from six to ten feet in diameter and a few feet high.

The men dropped their packs and rested for a few minutes before starting to dig in. To save a little work, most of them dug on the edges of the burial mounds. When the Arvin lieutenant saw this, he sought out Kramer and led him to one of the holes. Kramer had a good idea what he wanted, but called Chalice over to translate anyway. After talking to the Arvin lieutenant, Chalice turned to Kramer. “He doesn’t want us digging into the burial mounds. He says the spirits will come up.”

Before Kramer could answer, Forsythe cut in, “That’s great. We can have five-man watches instead of four, more sleep for everybody.”

Speaking to Kramer, Chalice added, “They worship their ancestors.”

“Oh really? Tell him the holes are already half dug, and the men don’t want to start over. See what he says.”

When Chalice finished translating, the Arvin pointed to the hole and said with a look of disapproval, “Numba ten, numba ten.” He then pointed a few feet to the side of the mound and said with a smile, “Numba one, numba one.” Kramer told Chalice to tell him okay. He then ordered his men to move their foxholes away from the graves. Many of them were almost finished digging, and they received the news with loud curses and flying shovels.

As they started new holes, a few of the Arvins walked among them. The first one to come around was carrying a large metal ice chest. “Hey Marine, bucoo cold soda, beer, fifty cents. You want?” Chalice found the sight of a soldier in uniform selling cold drinks humorous. He was less than five feet tall, and the cooler he carried weighed almost as much as he did. Tony bought four cans for the fire team. The Arvin stayed around and talked to them in pidgin English for a few minutes before pointing to a poncho liner on Forsythe’s pack. “You souvenir me this?”

Forsythe said no, and with Chalice’s help tried to bargain with him. The Arvin offered to give eight sodas or beers for it. Forsythe told him that if he could pick up an extra one, he’d trade him. Someone in the next position yelled for the “Soda Man,” so he carried his cooler over to them. After he left, Chalice remarked that he should have asked him about a pack.

“Don’t sweat it,” Forsythe replied. “Somebody else’ll come around.”

A few minutes later two more Arvins walked over with a potful of rice. They offered to share it and sat down to talk while it was being passed around. Glad for the opportunity to eat something that hadn’t come out of a can, the Marines greedily stuffed themselves, repeating “Numba one, numba one” as they did so. One of the Arvins pointed to some cans of C-rations: “You souvenir me?” Forsythe handed him a can of ham and limas, and the Arvins headed for the next foxhole with what was left of the rice.

Another Arvin came around with a pack. He pointed to it and said, “Numba one, you want?”

Chalice looked at it disparagingly. “Numba ten.” After a few minutes of haggling, he bought it for four dollars and his Marine Corps pack, the usual price.

Dusk came on quickly. The men sat around their foxholes talking and enjoying their last cigarettes before dark. Everyone was relaxed, and most of the comments were about how good it was to get away from the CP. As the last glow of light disappeared behind the mountains, Tony ordered out the cigarettes. All conversation stopped, and only then did the men become aware of the flittering insect sounds of the night. Suddenly Tony 5 grabbed his rifle and jumped into one of the foxholes, his men following suit. Chalice didn’t know what was happening. He started to ask, but Tony 5 raised his hand for him to be quiet. He then whispered over to the next foxhole, “Forsythe, you hear it?”

“Yeah, in front of us.”

Chalice hadn’t heard anything. His eyes strained as they searched the darkness. He could see a grenade gripped in one of Tony’s hands, a finger of his other hand through the pin ring ready to pull it. Chalice pressed his forefinger gently against the trigger of his M-16, more in anticipation than fear. His mind speeded with thoughts about what was out there and what he would do if he knew — should he fire his rifle on automatic or semiautomatic? His finger pressed nervously against the selector switch. Or should he do the same thing as Tony, throw a frag? Should he take his rifle off safe now and risk the metallic click, or wait until the action started, sacrificing a possibly fatal second? Suddenly he heard it, a few yards in front of him, plodding footsteps and heavy breathing. Every muscle in his body tightened and seemed ready to snap — What’s Tony waiting for? Chalice slowly raised his rifle and pointed it towards the sound. A quick glance to his side told him that Tony now had the grenade in front of his chest, ready to use it. He could almost feel the tension between Tony’s two hands, set to jerk apart in an instant and separate the pin from the grenade. Without warning, a voice came from a few feet in front of the hole. “Marine, you want bucoo cold soda?” Chalice’s muscles relaxed with a wilting motion and his back settled against the rear of the foxhole. Tony 5 cursed through clenched teeth, “Get the fuck out of here, Soda Man.”

It was Alpha’s turn to loaf around the perimeter. Chalice lay in his hootch reading a book — something he had been looking forward to doing — when he heard a few of the men complaining. Having a good idea what the answer would be, he hesitated to ask what was going on. Instead he flipped the book down with disgust and waited for someone to walk over and give him the bad news. Forsythe eventually wandered back to the hootch and told him to saddle up, they were going on a platoon-size patrol to check out an abandoned ville a few kilometers back down the road.

It took them less than an hour to reach the ville, but the time was spent trudging through rice paddies and they were wet, tired, and irritable when they got there. Kramer set the platoon on-line for a sweep of the high ground. As he expected, they found nothing. He arranged the fire teams in positions encircling the ville, telling them they’d stay set-in for a couple of hours and to keep an eye out for anything unusual.

Chalice leaned his back against a banana tree and pulled out a cigarette. Payne started complaining to Tony 5 about “the stupid patrols they send us on just to fuck with us.” Tony, only half paying attention, was on the verge of telling him to shut up. Chalice noticed Forsythe vacantly daydreaming, a depressed expression on his face. It was the first time he’d ever seen him in that type of mood. “You look like you’re about to blow your brains out.”

Forsythe looked at, but right through him, his head slightly tilted to one side. When his eyes finally focused on Chalice, he said, “Funny, but I
was
thinking about something like that.” He hesitated, as if considering whether to go on. Picking up a twig and scratching it in the dirt, Forsythe began to speak in a slow, serious tone that seemed so out of character Chalice was a little embarrassed to be caught listening to it.

“When I was in high school there was this girl I had a crush on, but I didn’t ask her out because I knew she was wild about this other guy named Scott. He’d been taking her out, but he was also dating a few other girls. Had a reputation for getting what he wanted from a girl. I guess I hated him a little because I knew I liked her a lot more than he did. I didn’t blame her for liking him. Scott could have had any girl he wanted. You know, he was one of those guys you see in the movies; great athlete, real smart, good looking. I mean he was
really
good looking, probably the best looking guy in school — tall, dark, the whole bit.” Forsythe held up his forearm in front of his face and studied it. “I always wanted to be dark. Everytime I got a good tan I’d start peeling. It really used to piss me off.