Sand in the Wind (68 page)

“Yes there can.
Get me an E-tool!
” Tony yelled.

Someone handed him one, and he rushed towards the top of the knoll. Once before he had seen a bunker like this. Using the shovel as if it were a pick, Tony swung it down frantically at the crest of the knoll. The men glanced questioningly at each other wondering what Tony was trying to do. Suddenly he flung the shovel aside and grabbed a grenade from his pouch. He threw it at his feet and stepped off the knoll. A muffled explosion came from within as debris erupted from its peak.

Now everyone realized what Tony 5 had been doing. The entrance merely curved a few feet below the surface, leading upward to a chamber at the top of the knoll. Again they began throwing grenades, this time into the opening at the crest of the knoll. They continued doing so in a frenzy for over five minutes, nearly half the men in the platoon taking a turn. Chalice slowly approached the knoll, searching the faces of the men around him. The brutal satisfaction most of them seemed to take in this act bewildered him. Even after Kramer yelled, “That’s enough!” another man ran wildly up the knoll and flung a grenade inside.

At first the men stood silently watching the knoll. One by one, their stares turned towards Kramer. His stomach tightened as he wondered what was left of whoever was in the bunker. He turned towards Tony 5. “Let’s get him out.”

Tony grabbed the flashlight and .45, then headed for the entrance. But he stopped short of it. Turning to the men behind him, he called out, “Professor.” Some men standing between Tony 5 and Chalice moved aside and left them facing each other. “He’s all yours, Professor. You earned the honor.”

‘Honor.
  
.
 
.
 
.
honor?
’ All Chalice could do was shake his head.

Tony kneeled by the entrance. The grenades had caved it in, so he called for the rope. Some men tied it around his waist, then lowered him into the opening at the top of the knoll. His feet touched upon a bamboo floor. Only now did he turn on the flashlight. Slowly directing it in a circle, it shone upon a stack of C-rations, then some blooker rounds — nothing else. ‘He
couldn’t
have gotten away.’ The chamber was about four feet by eight feet. Again, more hurriedly, he directed the flashlight over its floor. This time he saw something else — not on the floor, but against the wall a few inches above it — a hand, fingers extended towards the ground. He slowly raised the beam of the flashlight up the hanging arm until it shone upon the entrance to the chamber, from which hung another arm and a limply hanging head. Tony removed the rope from his waist. He slipped the noose over the head and roughly jerked it taut.

“
Pull him up!
”

There was the sibilant swooshing sound of the corpse sliding from the tunnel, followed by the delicate, metallic tingling of something hitting the bamboo floor, then the dull scraping of bare feet against the box of C-rations as the body swung pendulum-like from the opening in the roof before being awkwardly jerked through it like a recalcitrant puppet.

When Tony 5 was pulled from the chamber, most of the men were standing around the corpse. There was a blooker wound just below his shoulder blade, and his arms and head were blood caked and mutilated. The face was nothing more than a featureless mass of raw flesh. Blood matted what remained of his brown, wavy hair. As Tony 5 stared down at the corpse, Sinclaire asked him, “How come there ain’t a mark on him below the chest?”

“He was stuck in the tunnel, never made it into the chamber. Must of been dead before the first frag went off.
  
.
 
.
 
. The Professor did it by himself.”

Chalice was staring down at the corpse. Some of the men slapped him on the back while offering congratulations. He turned and walked away, but a few of them followed him. Chalice remembered everything — Forsythe’s rifle misfiring, the explosion, the gaunt stare — everything except pulling the trigger. He actually waited for someone to say, “It wasn’t the Professor. It was me,” at the same time knowing that if it hadn’t been him, then it hadn’t happened. ‘They double-crossed me,’ Chalice thought to himself — meaning the odds.

Kramer had called Trippitt to find out what to do about the body. Trippitt wasn’t sure, and he said he’d call battalion. In a few minutes, Milton handed the receiver back to Kramer, telling him that Nash was on the other end.

“Are you sure it’s him?” Nash asked.

“Positive.”

“Do you have his blooker?”

“No. It must be in the caved-in part of the bunker.
  
.
 
.
 
. Two men saw him with it.”

“How long would it take to dig it out?”

“Two, three hours,” Kramer exaggerated.

“Was he wearing dog tags
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
any identification?”

“No.”

“Could we get fingerprints off him?”

“Probably a few.”

“You’re sure he’s a Marine?”

“How can I be? He’s Caucasian.”

“But you can’t identify him?”

At first Kramer couldn’t believe the stupidity of this question, but he suddenly realized what Nash was getting at. “No.”

“Just as well. Leave him there. The VC’ll take care of him.”

Kramer told his men they were leaving the body, and to get ready to move out. Two men picked up the corpse and carried it towards the top of the knoll. Chalice stood watching them, all the while hearing his name called. Just as the two men viciously kicked the body into the bunker, Chalice felt a hand on his shoulder and heard Forsythe’s voice say, “C’mon Professor, let’s get out of here.”

Darkness fell before they were halfway back to the perimeter. The only sounds were those of their legs moving rhythmically through the knee-deep water. The rain had stopped, and a cool, clean breeze blew across their faces. They were tired, but not exhausted. It seemed to many of them as if a trial had ended — their own. Tony 5 said to himself, ‘Only two more days.’ It had seemed like such a short time that morning, too little time; but now it wasn’t a question of days. They no longer made any difference. Soon — it would be soon. He’d get on a plane and it would all be over. Now, in the darkness, he opened his tightly clenched fist for the first time in more than an hour; and a small, metal plate fell silently into the water.

BOOK THREE

Even as a fox is man; as a fox which seeing a fine vineyard lusted after its grapes. But the palings were placed at narrow distances, and the fox was too bulky to creep between them. For three days he fasted, and when he had grown thin he entered into the vineyard. He feasted upon the grapes, forgetful of the morrow, of all things but his enjoyment; and lo, he had again grown stout and was unable to leave the scene of his feast. So for three days more he fasted, and when he had again grown thin, he passed through the palings and stood outside the vineyard, meagre as when he entered.

So with man; poor and naked he enters the world, poor and naked does he leave. Man is born with his hands clenched; he dies with his hands wide open. Entering life he desires to grasp everything; leaving the world all that he possessed has slipped away.

The Talmud

1. Da Nang

The glare seared his eyes, and he quickly closed them again. He was lying down. There was a light. This time he opened his eyes more slowly, but again he had to close them. It was a naked light bulb, he knew that now. He continued to open his eyes until he was able to keep them open. He saw that the bulb hung from a curved roof of corrugated steel, the roof of a Quonset hut. His hands lay between smooth, clean sheets. An air-conditioner droned in the background. It was the hospital at Da Nang, he knew that now. He was there, but this seemed impossible. There was no reason. Maybe his mind was remembering the last time. Or maybe this was the last time, and all in between merely a dream. No, it had been real. He was certain. Again, he was again in the hospital at Da Nang.

A corpsman walked by, then a patient in blue pajamas. Kramer’s head remained motionless as his eyes followed them down the aisle. Nobody was aware of him. Why was he here? His left leg felt stiff. Only after he moved it did he realize that it was tightly wrapped below the knee. He moved his other limbs. They weren’t bandaged. He ran his hand over the upper part of his body. Everything else seemed all right. With little effort, he sat up and pushed the covers from his legs. His left shin was bandaged, but that was all. He ran his hand gently over the bandage. His leg seemed a little sore, nothing more.

A corpsman noticed him and walked over to his bed. “You all right, sir?”

“Yeah, sure, I think so.
  
.
 
.
 
. How long have I been here?”

“Twenty-four hours, maybe a little longer.”

“What’s wrong with my leg?”

“It’s got a nice gash and about thirty stitches in it.”

“How’d that happen?” Kramer asked, his mind still somewhat dazed.

“Booby trap, I think.”

“Booby trap?
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
Yesterday it happened?”

“That’s right. You’ll be okay in a few days.”

“That’s the only thing wrong with me?”

“You might have a slight concussion, nothing too serious.
  
.
 
.
 
. You feel dizzy?”

“A little.
  
.
 
.
 
. My ears are ringing.”

“It’ll go way.
  
.
 
.
 
. Just lie back and relax.”

The corpsman walked away. Kramer fell back on the pillow and flinched in pain. Reaching behind his head, he located a large lump. ‘Booby trap. Must have got knocked to the ground. But
when?
’ Kramer searched his memory to answer this question. He remembered his men pulling the body of the Phantom Blooker from the bunker, and then Martin’s screams, “Did they get him?” — ‘
No,
that was the night before.’ Everything after the Phantom Blooker had been killed seemed hazy. Gradually, he remembered the march back to camp. He was sure they had reached it, but everything after that was blank. The next morning — he now remembered that also. They were marching to a new camp, but again everything after that was a blank, and he wasn’t sure anything existed to fill it. Something had happened between the time they had returned to the perimeter after killing the Phantom Blooker, and the time they set out from it the next morning, something important. This was all his memory would tell him no matter how hard he searched it.

Her image came to him, cold, knowing, seeming to say, “So you’re still alive.” Again he was at a loss, unsure how to react to even her memory, wanting to see her again, looking at this as a weakness. Her voice, some of the words she had spoken, repeated themselves in his mind. Again he felt ridiculous, saying to himself that even if he got the chance, he wouldn’t try to see her, knowing that he would. ‘What the fuck did — what does she have on me?’ Now admitting that he had to see her again, he tried to justify this ‘weakness’ by saying to himself, ‘I’ll fuck her. I’ll fuck the shit out of her!’

Kramer was startled by a voice that asked, “What are you so mad about?” A doctor with a clipboard at his side stood at the foot of Kramer’s bed.

“What makes you think I’m mad?” he asked irritably.

“You look mad. You sound mad.”

“Must of been something I stepped on.”

“If I were you, I’d feel more lucky than mad. You’re still alive, aren’t you?” With a sarcastic sneer on his face, Kramer expelled a short burst of air from his nostrils. “I knew I’d be able to cheer you up.” Kramer’s face broke into a faint smile as the doctor continued. “How do you feel?”

“A little doped up. It must be the medicine you gave me.”

The doctor glanced at his clipboard before saying, “You didn’t get any medicine from us.”

“I feel all right.”

“Dizzy?”

“A little.”

“Your ears ringing?”

“A lot.”

“It’s amazing you can hear them over that air-conditioner. Sounds like we’re about to take off.
  
.
 
.
 
. You want to stand up with your back to the bed.” When Kramer had done this, the doctor stepped in front of him and told him to close his eyes. “All right, you can go back to sleep.”

“What was that all about?”

“You might have a slight concussion.”

“How long will that keep me here?”

“Probably not more than two or three days.”

Kramer hesitated before asking, “Will I be able to get some liberty?”

“Not tonight. Maybe the last night before we ship you back to your unit.”

He walked the streets, through the heavy stench of liquor, garbage, and human waste. Drunken, staggering soldiers kept jostling him on the way back to their barracks. Kramer had deliberately spent the first hours of darkness waiting at the hospital, and he now headed straight for the bar that she owned. He’d been brooding all day, and there had been no fantasizing or planning. Without hesitation he entered her bar, telling himself that he would merely see what would happen.

Kramer had no expectation of seeing her right away. It was still too early. A quick glance around the bar confirmed this. He ordered a drink, then another, still sure she would appear. Behind him he heard two men arguing over a bar girl. Suddenly he was shoved forward as one of the men crashed into him, splashing most of the liquor in his glass onto the bar. He turned to see the man regain his balance and knock the other into the jukebox. There was a loud grating sound as the needle scraped across the record. Spirited shouts of encouragement came from the Marines watching the fight.

“
MP’s!
” someone near the door yelled. The two men were pulled apart before the MP’s walked across the threshold. They glanced suspiciously around the now quiet bar before turning and leaving. One of the men who had been fighting ran towards the other. Some Marines grabbed him, and while he was being held, the other Marine stepped towards the restrained man and smashed his fist into his face. The blow knocked him unconscious, and he collapsed into the arms of those holding him. Someone shoved the other Marine violently into the jukebox. Again the needle scraped across the record. Both men did no more than try to stare each other down. The unconscious Marine was placed in a chair, and the crowd around the jukebox slowly dispersed.