Sand in the Wind (77 page)

“He OD’d."

There was hardly a day that it didn’t rain; nor a patch of ground not covered by at least four inches of soft, orange mud. As soon as a man was able to put his boots on, he had to begin standing lines and going on working parties. This caused a good deal of griping, but being able to sleep in dry tents at least two nights a week did a lot to help the men to appreciate An Hoa. As soon as enough of them had recovered from their cases of immersion foot, the battalion resumed normal operations. Every platoon sent out a patrol each day and an ambush each night. Occasionally there would be platoon and company-size patrols, but they always returned to the battalion area before dusk.

The men realized that as soon as enough replacements had arrived, they would be ordered back to the bush. As always, there were just as many rumors about where they would be sent as possibilities — Phu Loc 6, Dodge City, the Phu Nons, and of course the Arizona. However, there was now one difference in these rumors, and this was the approach of the lunar new year, Tet. Everyone knew something big was going to happen, and the only speculation was about how big and where. Soon a new rumor became far more prevalent than any of the others. It involved a place very few of the men had ever head of, and was based upon facts they had read in service newspapers and heard over the radio, added to by news clippings sent from home, and often greatly expanded when retold. It concerned something they could understand far better than the type of war they were now fighting. The men knew that even if only a portion of this rumor were true, it still portended the greatest single event of the war; and no one doubted that he would be involved. Ominous as it seemed, most of the men viewed this event with anxious anticipation, for this would be it, in one place and at one time, huge and devastating, the final battle — Khe Sanh.

It was an hour before dusk, and Second Platoon was just returning from an all day patrol. Since dawn, the rain had been coming down in a steady, unvarying drizzle. Each man’s trousers were covered up to the knees with a thick coating of foamlike mud that made their legs appear encased in bright orange plaster casts. This sight would have been humorous to them if it hadn’t been such a common and bothersome occurrence. The men gathered in front of the platoon tent waiting for their turn to scrape the mud off their trousers and boots with one of the sticks that was being passed around. The master sergeant stuck his head out of the office long enough to call Pablo to get the mail. This was welcome news for all the men, all except Kramer.

He entered the officers’ hootch and sat down on his cot. Three times since he had returned from Da Nang, Pablo had approached him holding a letter. Each time he was sure it was the one he feared. It hadn’t been. Kramer knew that every day made less likely the chance that he would receive it; but sometimes he doubted the truth of this — thinking, ‘Maybe she just threw it away.’ He could never really accept this thought. It seemed impossible that she would decide without letting him know.

Again Pablo walked through the door of the officers’ hootch with a letter. Kramer reached out for it, thanking Pablo before he could leave. This time Kramer was sure, positive. Without looking at the envelope, he watched Pablo go out the door. Kramer had no need to look. The parchmentlike paper had a strange, foreign feel. He finally lowered his eyes and saw an ornate and unfamiliar handwriting on the envelope. The absence of a return address was more expected than surprising. There seemed little need to open the envelope or to wonder about what it contained. Instead, Kramer’s mind turned back to those hours when he had been with her. This was not the first time he had tried to convince himself that they could not have happened. What were these few moments that they could take the entire remainder of his life and make it a self-destructive farce. He no longer tried to belittle the things she had said, to pass them off for their simplicity, now admitting what he had realized then — that there was truth in this simplicity. It was impossible for him to think about her except as someone within a dream. Yet he knew that she was more real than he himself, and that his only hope was to somehow be able to forget her.

Again he looked down at the letter. Opening it seemed unnecessary — nothing more than a ceremony. His fingers moved across the characters of his name, as if reading them by braille. He actually thought about burning the letter without reading it, thus preventing himself from ever really knowing. The childish, wishing nature of this thought began to seem more pathetic than embarrassing. Kramer took his bayonet and carefully opened the letter. The piece of paper with his address on it was the first thing he saw, then a note.

Only now have I been able to do this. I will always remember. Some day you will understand.

Tuyen

Kramer read these words with a sense of acceptance, telling himself no other conclusion would have been possible. Still, as he watched, it wasn’t his hands that flicked open the lighter and began burning the note. While the flame did its work, Kramer remembered the Polaroid photograph in his wallet. He hesitated taking it out, and was finally prevented from doing so by footsteps upon the stairs of the hootch.

Colonel Nash entered, followed by Lieutenant Howell. They had come looking for Lieutenant Forest, the new company commander. Instead of leaving, they decided to wait for him. Kramer was glad to have something to take his mind off the letter. Solely for this reason, he asked Nash if he had any news about Khe Sanh.

“Just the same news: more mortar barrages and more men.”

“What about casualties?” Kramer asked.

“More of those, too.”

“Do you think we’ll end up there?” Howell asked.

“They’re not gonna stop the buildup now. It’s just a question of who gets tapped.”

“It kind of reminds you of something else,” Kramer commented.

“Too much like something else.”

Kramer was surprised by this answer. “You really think there’s a chance it’ll be the same thing?”

“No. It’s
too much
like Dien Bien Phu — the concentration of troops, the artillery, even the zigzag trenches. They’re too smart. It can’t be that simple.”

“But what if it is that simple?” Howell asked. “Can they pull it off?”

“It’s not a question of that. They know we’ll make them pay. It depends upon how many men they think it’s worth.”

“That’s what I don’t understand.” Nash nodded to Kramer to indicate the same thing was bothering him. “It’s not worth a damn thing, just a piece of ground.”

“I know,” Nash agreed. “They’ve never tried to hold anything yet.”

“Our air power could level the place,” Howell pointed out.

“If they can’t hold it, why —”

Nash cut Kramer off. “There’s only two ways you can look at it: either it’s Dien Bien Phu all over again, or it isn’t. If they think it is, then they’ll risk everything in one shot. I can’t believe they will. They’ve kept fighting the same type of war for twenty years. Why would they suddenly lose their patience? They must know that no matter how bad the defeat, we’ll never pull out because we’ve lost a few square miles of jungle.”

“Maybe they just want us away from their supply trails,” Howell suggested.

“That’s bullshit. We’ve got a lot less control over the area than we think we have. Besides, supply routes can be changed. It isn’t worth the price they’d have to pay.”

“But if they don’t want Khe Sanh, what do they want?”

“The only way they’d pay the price is if they thought it would end the war; and if we know it won’t, so do they.”

“How else can you explain it?” Kramer asked.

“I can’t. I can only guess.
  
.
 
.
 
. They’ve done something, and we’ve reacted to it. They do more of the same, and so do we. We must be doing exactly what they want.”

“But what
do
they want?” Howell asked.

“I don’t know. I just have the feeling that whatever we’re doing is wrong, and we won’t have to wait any longer than Tet to find out why.”

It was twelve o’clock and for the first time in a week it hadn’t rained since dawn. A perfectly clear sky promised at least a few more hours of sunshine. Sugar Bear entered the platoon tent and told everyone to fall out for a company formation. First Platoon was on a patrol, and the master sergeant began speaking as soon as the remaining three platoons quieted down.

“Men, this is the first sunny day we’ve had in a week, so I decided we should take advantage of it —”

“They’re gonna fuck with us.”

“We’re gonna have a parade.”

“We’re all gonna run around nude.”

“— The master sergeant from Echo Company and I made a little bet between us —”

“How many men they can get killed.”

“— I told him there wasn’t anything Hotel Company couldn’t do better than Echo —”

“We’re gonna invade Red China.”

“— So he challenged us to a basketball game. There’s five cases of beer on this, and you men can help me drink the winnings —”

“I only drink with friends.”

“He’s a lifer. He’ll never pay.”

“— You can see behind you that there’s about half a foot of mud on the basketball court —”

“You call that vacant lot a basketball court?”

“— That means we’ll have to scrape it off first —”

“Are you shitting me?”

“Why don’t we just have a swimming meet?”

“I’ll bet he lost his cigarette lighter or something.”

“— I’ve got some twelve-inch planks here that’ll do the job in no time —”

“Good. Call me when you’re done.”

“Why don’t you and Forest do it then?”

“— I know we’ll be doing more work than Echo Company, but at least we’ll have the home court advantage —”

“Great. I hate road games.”

“You don’t know what the word home means.”

“— We’ve each got a platoon on patrol, so we’ll play one platoon at a time, two out of three wins the beer, twenty point games.”

“That’s so none of the lifers’ll run out of fingers and toes.”

Though the men griped about the master sergeant’s idea, they only did so because playing basketball was something they were told they had to do. Most of them were anxious to compete with another company. They had been thoroughly trained to identify with their various units. This created competitive attitudes between squads, platoons, and companies. On the company level, this competitiveness was less than good natured.

No one was too enthusiastic about clearing the mud from the basketball court, but the sloppiness of the job turned it into a joke. Three or four men handled each plank — placing it down on its edge, then slowly pushing it and the foamlike mud before it from the court. When the job was finished, there were piles of mud at the edges of the court and thick coats of it on anyone who had helped pile it there. The boards were left upright to keep the mud from sliding back. A thin layer remained; but if the ball was smashed instead of dribbled, it bounced fairly well.

Second Platoon was assigned the first game because First Platoon was still on patrol. Nobody had to tell Sugar Bear to take charge. Echo Company hadn’t arrived yet, and he ordered anyone interested to get out on the court for some practice. Kramer merely watched until he saw that Sugar Bear didn’t know much about basketball, then he took over. A dozen men volunteered to play. Kramer divided them into forwards and guards. There wasn’t much difference in height among them. When Sugar Bear realized this, he immediately yelled for Roads who showed little enthusiasm as he stepped out on to the court.

The basketball was quickly coated with mud, and the backboard (the side of a large crate) was at an angle to the hoop. This made it almost impossible for Kramer to tell who was any good. He finally decided on Sugar Bear as the center because as long as he was under the basket no one else could get near it; Roads and Sinclaire as the forwards; and Hamilton, Pablo, Hemrick, and Chalice to alternate as guards.

Echo Company marched towards the court in formation, and was immediately met by derisive whistles and shouts. As soon as they broke formation, they arranged themselves along one side of the court. Those men from Hotel Company that had been standing there quickly joined the rest of the company on the opposite side. The two master sergeants shook hands and started making the rules. Both of them appeared to have had a good taste of the stakes already. Because there was no one either impartial enough or willing to act as referee, the master sergeants decided that when a player fouled he should call it on himself. The men were anxious to start, so this was the only rule agreed upon.

A platoon from Echo Company took the court to get some practice. They immediately began complaining about the mud as if it were a Hotel Company plot. The men from Second Platoon watched eagerly. They could never have been convinced that they had looked equally inept a few minutes earlier. Soon the shouts of the spectators forced the game to get under way.

Echo Company took the ball in from behind the backboard. The men on the sidelines began yelling and acting as if they’d already drunk the beer. A player from Echo Company tried to dribble in the wrong spot, and when the ball stuck in the mud he ran by it. Pablo grabbed it up and tossed it under the basket to Sugar Bear who immediately tried a shot. After missing, he got the rebound and shot again, then four more times. By the sixth try, all ten players were shoulder to shoulder underneath the basket waiting for the rebound. Roads suddenly sprang up from within this shoving, groveling mass and tipped the ball in.

The game continued in a frenzy, the players accepting without thought the reality that no one would ever call a foul on himself. This meant there were no fouls, and therefore no rules save one: If the ball went through the hoop, it was two points for the last team that touched it. This also simplified the skills required. Rarely did anyone bother to dribble except for show. While tackling was frowned upon, especially by the spectators, it nevertheless became an often-used tactic. The game had very little resemblance to basketball; but both teams were at the same disadvantage, and this satisfied the players if not the spectators.