Sand in the Wind (46 page)

Within a span of five frightening seconds, it happened; and no one there was sure about all of it. First there was the staccato burst from the point man’s rifle, then the silencing of this rifle by the explosion of a blooker round which ripped away half of the point man’s face. A few pieces of shrapnel from the same round entered the skull of the second man, killing him instantly. Next there was a burst of two rounds from an SKS. The first of these rounds grazed the third man’s shoulder, while the second pierced his neck, at the same time knocking him backwards into Tony 5, and both of them to the ground. In that instant the reeling body flew towards him, Tony 5 saw the profile of a man wearing Viet Cong slacks and a Marine bush jacket, a man he would later swear was an American.

Kovacs had seen nothing. He scrambled up the trail a mere fifteen yards before it widened into a small clearing. Within this clearing, the corpse of a Viet Cong soldier lay sprawled face down on the ground, one leg drawn up under him — caught in the same frantic position it had been in when the bullet found him. Across from this corpse was the body of another Viet Cong, sitting in the same position in which he had been surprised, and with the tin of food he had been eating still clutched in his hand. On the ground lay an SKS and four live blooker rounds. Kovacs returned to his squad to find two of his men dead and another critically wounded.

Chalice had the third watch that night. At nine o’clock, he laid his poncho liner on the ground in back of the bunker, realizing then that he would not be able to sleep. No longer was he thinking about what had happened under the canopy. This was part of the past, and Forsythe’s story had purged these thoughts of their immediacy. However disturbing they were, Chalice now imagined himself faced with something far more threatening. In less than forty-eight hours the battalion would enter the Arizona. He now understood the meaning behind the remarks made to him that day, the belief among many of the men that the Phantom Blooker would have to be destroyed by his own weapon, a weapon that Chalice was to carry. Their comments had almost made it seem as if they would be mere observers, and that Chalice would be representing them in a macabre duel upon which their fates depended. He felt it absurd that this superstition should bother him, and yet it did more than that. When Forsythe came to wake him for his watch, Chalice was lying motionless with his eyes open, no closer to sleep than he had been at any time during the previous four hours. Only after he was inside the bunker, silently looking over the valley and seeing nothing but darkness, only then did he become tired. The two hours and fifteen minutes of his watch seemed to stretch on insufferably. When it was over, he almost staggered back to his poncho liner before lying down and falling into a deep sleep.

Chalice awoke with the sense that something was different, yet everything seemed the same. There was no unusual activity on the hill, and the men straggled to the mess hall in the same manner as always. The food was as bland and tasteless as usual. It did seem to stick in his throat slightly more often as he forced himself to eat it. By taste alone, he would have had a difficult time distinguishing exactly what he was eating. Only after he finished and sat scanning the room was Chalice able to detect small differences in the men. Some were more animated than usual, others less; and the mess hall was a little quieter than normal. It was then he realized that no one was talking about the Arizona. The word that had been so often spoken during the past few days seemed now to be forgotten.

The next hour was spent in the same manner as during previous days on the hill. It was only as he stood in the working party formation in front of the S-2 hootch that Chalice began to really question this. It seemed incomprehensible that tomorrow he would be in the Arizona Territory, yet today should be a monotonous, grinding replica of past days on the hill. As the men were divided into different details, they moved with even more lethargy than usual, seemingly having built up some unfeeling inertia within themselves. Though Chalice didn’t notice it, none of the men complained about the different working parties they were assigned, accepting them and their meaninglessness with indurate resignation.

Lunch was a repeat of breakfast. When the men returned to the platoon hootch, many of them shoved the equipment off the cots and lay down. Payne tried unsuccessfully to get up a card game. No one seemed to want to move, their faces exhibiting a quiet belligerency. Sugar Bear overheard a few of the men remark that they weren’t going back to their working parties. He was now the right guide, and seeing that they did was his responsibility. To avoid having to make them, he left the hootch with plans to stay away from it for the rest of the day.

Childs was lying on the floor when he suddenly got up and walked over to Forsythe. They were talking with disturbed expressions on their faces when Hamilton joined them. Chalice became curious, and he walked over to find out what was going on. They led him outside before explaining. Childs had suddenly realized that no one in the platoon had any marijuana. They wouldn’t be able to get it in the Arizona, and today was their last chance to do so. “I thought you didn’t blow grass in the Arizona,” Chalice remarked.

Childs gave him a deprecating glance as he answered, “When it’s safe, we do.”

Forsythe explained, “Sometimes we set-in for a few days with H and S Company, or even the whole battalion.”

“We don’t smoke too often, and never at night,” Hamilton added.

“But it’s nice to have around,” Forsythe said, and this was the main reason they wanted it — to know it was there and to be able to look forward to using it if the chance came.

They stood for ten minutes while each man made suggestions only to have them rejected by the others. Finally, Hamilton remarked that it was too bad they didn’t have a patrol through the ville scheduled. “
That’s it!
”
Forsythe shouted. He then explained that they would run their own patrol. At first the others merely laughed at him, but soon they were all making suggestions as to how it should be done.

“We’ll need a radio,” Childs pointed out.

“Payne’ll go,” Forsythe said.

Chalice asked Forsythe why he was so sure, and Hamilton cut in, “Because I’ll kick his ass if he doesn’t.”

It was then a matter of deciding who else would go. They needed a machine gun. Neither Pablo nor Sinclaire smoked marijuana; so it was decided that they would ask Skip and Flip, knowing that if one could be convinced, then the other would also go. Ski was an obvious addition to the patrol. Ramirez didn’t smoke much, but they knew he’d never let them think he was afraid. Roads was eliminated when no one agreed to ask him to go, or even to ask him if he smoked. In a few minutes the entire group stood outside the hootch suggesting other additions to the patrol. Ski went back inside hoping to get two more members. Both Hemrick and Valdez refused, but Appleton overheard Ski asking them and volunteered.

Within five minutes, they were lined up in back of the platoon hootch with all their equipment on. The road bisected the ville just a third of a mile from the base of the hill. After asking him four times if he thought he could find it, Hamilton assigned Chalice the point. Chalice then received some lyrical instructions from Forsythe: “Follow the yellow dirt road. Follow the yellow dirt road.” The other members of the patrol picked this up, and they were all singing it as Chalice headed down the slope. To avoid being spotted, he led them behind the bunkers that lined the hill. The men were all laughing and passing humorous orders back and forth when Chalice motioned for them to halt and get down. At first they thought he was kidding, but when they saw what he had spotted, the men all hit the ground as if under a mortar attack. They lay silent and motionless as Gunny Martin and Captain Trippitt walked by less than ten yards in front of them. After a few minutes, Chalice got up and started leading them towards the road. They remained silent for a while and seemed to be taking the exploit more seriously until Hamilton passed congratulations up to Chalice for the “fearless” job he was doing. Chalice in turn passed the word back that he would have had two confirms if his rifle hadn’t jammed. This returned the men to their previous joking mood, and they passed continuous warnings back and forth about booby traps and ambushes. As they approached the guard bunker at the base of the hill, the men became more serious. They exchanged nods with the sentry, at the same time placing rounds in the chambers of their rifles. Once off the hill, the men retained their serious mood. Knowing the relative safety of the road to the ville, they were mainly concerned about being spotted by a battalion officer. They moved slowly and with the care and precautions customary on a regular patrol.

The ville was alive with waves of people who streamed along both sides of the patrol giving the Marines barely enough room to move. Hamilton halted the column in front of a stand displaying black-marketed C-rations and other American goods. He arranged his men in a half circle around it for security and told Chalice to see if he could “score.” Chalice approached the counter, but waited until the other customers had left before asking the twelve-year-old boy behind it in a whisper if he knew where they could get some marijuana. The boy casually reached beneath the counter and produced a small package wrapped in newspapers. Chalice repeated the question to make sure he was being understood. The boy unwrapped the package exposing ten cellophane packets of ten joints each. Chalice quickly rewrapped them while asking the price. The boy answered fifteen dollars. Chalice gave him a disapproving look and said, “Numba ten, numba ten.”

The boy remained silent, so Chalice finally told him they’d pay ten dollars. It was now the boy’s turn to reply, “Numba ten.”

After a few minutes of haggling, Chalice got the price down to twelve dollars. Forsythe called over instructions to get three hundred. Chalice did this, at the same time asking Forsythe for some money. Forsythe made a quick collection and approached the counter. As he laid thirty dollars on top of it, Chalice said, “He wants thirty-six.”

Forsythe shook his head admonishingly at the boy who was busy counting the thirty dollars. The boy made no complaint, and Forsythe picked up the package and walked away. They were about to leave when Appleton decided he wanted to buy some liquor. While they waited for him, Forsythe walked over to a boy selling the straw, cone-shaped hats the peasants wore. He bought one, put it on, and walked back to the men. They kidded him as he modeled it for them. Forsythe remarked that he wished he had brought his camera, whereupon Ski produced one out of his pocket. Ski was just about to take a picture when Forsythe stopped him. Forsythe then took out a pack of cigarettes and called a few kids over. Soon he was surrounded by a host of small, outstretched hands. The kids, some of them five and six years old, lit their cigarettes as Forsythe arranged them in front of him. They stood with cigarettes dangling from their smiling faces as Ski focused the camera. Forsythe again stopped him and moved all the kids in front of a stand displaying some brightly colored yard goods. For a few more cigarettes, he got the old woman running it to join the picture. Her husband approached, and he too was bribed into taking part. As Ski snapped the picture, Forsythe stood smiling with his arms around the old couple. They were also smiling, as evidenced by their black-stained teeth. The little kids stood in front of them puffing on cigarettes and making faces into the camera.

Appleton was tasting his liquor when he noticed a peasant trying to drag a spooked water buffalo past the men. “Hey Ramirez, bet you can’t ride that baby.”

“
Maaan,
I’m from
Texas.
I can ride anything.”

Before the rest of the men had a chance to coax Ramirez on, he was already headed towards the water buffalo. The animal became even more spooked, shifting its feet nervously upon the dusty road. The peasant pleadingly motioned Ramirez away while being dragged around in a circle. Appleton held up a dollar bill; but the peasant was too busy to figure out what the Marines wanted. When Chalice explained to him, the peasant refused. Soon they were holding up five dollars. This seemingly extraordinary amount of money and his fear of angering the Marines caused him to relent.

Ramirez circled behind the water buffalo. He stared determinedly at its huge gray rump, glanced at the Marines around him, and took off running. Just as he left the ground, the animal shifted its hindquarters into him and knocked Ramirez flat on his back. Hamilton lunged for the rope and was barely able to jerk the water buffalo away before it could gore him.

Ramirez jumped to his feet and insisted on trying again. Chalice held him by the arm, but Ramirez broke away and leaped on top of the water buffalo. The bewildered animal nervously shifted its feet without trying to throw Ramirez. He sat atop it with his helmet fallen down over his eyes and a big smile on his face. Ski quickly snapped a picture. Ramirez yelled for Forsythe to give him the peasant hat. Just as he held it out and Ramirez reached for it, the water buffalo jerked violently in a half circle and threw Ramirez to the ground.

The crowd of villagers converged upon him, some of them helping the peasant drag away the water buffalo. Ramirez lay unconscious in the middle of the road while Chalice nervously slapped his cheeks. In the meantime, Appleton managed to pour some liquor down Ramirez’s throat. He convulsed with coughs, and they turned him over on his stomach. Spittle and liquor drooled from his lips, and then he puked. Still coughing, Ramirez kept trying to speak and finally managed to say, “I rode him.” He repeated this a few more times between coughs as they helped him to his feet. His legs were wobbly, so Appleton had to hold him up. Their repeated inquiries as to whether he was all right were always met by the same dazed reply, “I rode that motherfucker.”

Hamilton headed the patrol back to the hill. Ramirez was still dazed, and Appleton had to support him. He continued to babble all the way to the hill. “I’m from Laredo. I can ride anything.”

“Sure, Mex,” Appleton assured him.