Sand in the Wind (79 page)

Hamilton, more calmly, “Don’t worry about it. You’ll be all right. The chopper’ll be here any minute. I think I can hear it, maybe.”

“Not worried. Just wanted to know. Nineteen years one hundred and sixty days — not a long time
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
is it?”

Hamilton, crying and shouting at the same time, “Cut it out, man. You’ll
be all right!
” Chalice grabbing Hamilton’s arm and shaking him, “Okay. Okay.”

Chalice, “No, man, not long, but good, so many good times.”

Forsythe, calmly, whispering with effort, “Yeah.
  
.
 
.
 
. yeah, so many good times.
  
.
 
.
 
. Still not long.
  
.
 
.
 
. Twelve yet? Twelve o’clock?” Hamilton looked at his watch, the green glow of the dials, not being able to tell time, forgetting how, nervously waiting to remember, lips moving silently, the second hand sweeping slowly, four seconds, six seconds, nine seconds — “
Eleven twenty-five!
” he almost shouts, Chalice again grabbing his shoulder, gently.

“Tell me when
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
it’s twelve. Add one. You’ll tell me, won’t you
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
Hamilton
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
Professor?”

“Yeah. Yeah, man.
Please
take it easy.”

“He’s right. Please take it easy. The chopper’ll be here in a minute
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
just wait.”

“I believe you.
  
.
 
.
 
. Can I have
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
a drink
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
of water?”

“It’s twelve o’clock,” Hamilton mumbled to no one. Forsythe had been dead for thirty minutes.

The rain drizzled softly upon them as they returned from their patrol. Drops of water collected along the lips of their helmets before combining and falling in front of their faces. Three days had passed since Forsythe’s death. During this time the men in Alpha Squad had done very little talking amongst themselves. Chalice, Hamilton, and Childs had not spoken a word to each other unless it had been necessary, never even allowing their stares to meet, afraid of seeing their own loss in the eyes of a friend — avoiding memories that had changed in meaning. Never before had it been like this. Friends had died, but those left had been able to say to themselves, “That’s the way it is. That’s what it’s all about.
  
.
 
.
 
. Had to happen to somebody,” then adding, warning themselves, “Get used to it. You might be next,” pretending that they could, and by this alone being able to continue. But Forsythe’s death was something different — a fluke,
no!
vengeance, a trick — something that didn’t have to, couldn’t have, and never should have happened; something none of them could have ever conceived of happening. Even the newer men in the squad, some of them hardly having known Forsythe, respected the unspoken demands of the others. When they whispered among themselves, they did so warily, afraid of being heard, of offending.

Hamilton didn’t have to tell Childs to take over Forsythe’s fire team. It just happened. One man had merely replaced another. It had been understood.

Chalice still found it impossible to believe that he was here, in Vietnam, carrying a blooker he never wanted to use, the death of one friend serving to separate those left behind, himself now even more alone. Amusing and horror-filled memories clashed and fused within his mind, made it seem impossible that he could have survived without Forsythe, despoiled him of any hope he could now survive. In a few days Hamilton would leave — or be killed — then Childs. Only Roads would be left, someone far less than a stranger. Except for Rabbit, the faces of the newer members of the squad merged into a blur. He didn’t, and had no desire to know any of them. They were even more different.

This time, reality did not escape him. He did not try to push it aside. For now reality seemed nothing more than death, and this was all he thought about, no longer making any effort to fit experience neatly into the conceptions of his past. It was grief that he was feeling, something that didn’t involve a need for explanation. The ideas and attitudes he had once fought to retain now seemed no more than dreams. Before, while memories of the canopy and the Phantom Blooker tortured him, he had fought to erase them with these dreams that he so stubbornly refused to relinquish. ‘No more,’ he thought, but still wondered, ‘Is that, was that the difference? Was I — are men no different than their dreams?’ and though he asked, he knew.

It seemed that he had been the object of a cruel trick — someone had encouraged him, provided then fed his dreams. He hated himself for having been fooled, and his mind searched for a target to renounce, to blame. ‘How long?’ he asked himself. ‘How long have I refused to see?’ A memory came to him, now, for the first time, demanding a reaction deeper and more complex than sorrow.

The sky had been a sharp, bright blue. A crisp breeze cleansed the air and everything it touched. It was his freshman year of college. One more hour of class, a test, and he would be going home for the first time since the term had begun, taking two friends with him. Gradually, over the last few months, the world had seemed to become something he could control, hold within his hands — something he could shape. An attractive girl on the verge of tears brushed past him taking short, quick steps, fighting the urge to run. Only for a second did this change his mood, make him ask how someone could exist within his world, at this moment, and fail to share his potency.

He continued to walk, his mood restored and the girl forgotten. A dozen people were huddled together before him, staring down at something. They were too sullen. He wanted to see what insignificant thing to them seemed so important. Chalice moved closer, trying to get a glimpse of what they were looking at. He heard a rasping, metallic voice — a radio. The faces remained sullen. He wanted to know the reason so he could brush it aside. Someone looked back at him, smiling. They were the only two people smiling.

“What’s going on?” Chalice asked.

The smile of the other widened to a grin, almost a laugh. “Ol’ Kennedy got himself shot.”

Chalice continued to return the smile, the five simple words as yet having no meaning. Even as he turned away and headed towards his class, a smile remained on his face. Only gradually did it change to a blank, questioning expression. ‘He couldn’t have said that. No! He was smiling.’ Chalice wanted to turn back and ask again, at the same time sure of and doubting the words that he had heard. ‘He was smiling? Maybe it isn’t serious.
  
.
 
.
 
. He can’t be dying, not him.’

The classroom was only half full, everyone looking sullenly in the direction of a small, vibrating radio. Chalice sat down, hesitating to ask any questions.

A strong, calm voice came over the radio, serious and stilted. “Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve just received word
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
John F. Kennedy
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
thirty-fifth President of the United States
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
is dead.”

The stunned faces around him seemed to share his disbelief, until a whisper came from the back of the room, saying, “I’d like to shake the guy’s hand.”

The instructor shuffled through the door with his usual effete, sliding gait. “Take out a piece of paper.”

One of the girls gasped, “But he’s dead.”

The instructor glanced at her calmly, clucked his tongue, then said in his normal, effeminate tone, “Oh
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
did he die? Well let’s get this test over with so we can all go home.”

Chalice waited for someone to object. No one did. The tests were passed out, and he found himself reading the questions, his confused mind searching feebly for the absurd, irrelevant answers at a time when he wanted — if only for an instant — the world to stop.

Chalice now admitted that since that afternoon, those unreal hours, he had refused to see, lied to himself. It should have been so clear then, but ‘I wouldn’t let the myth die with him!’ He now thought of himself as, not fooled, but a fool, admitted that this was the way he had wanted it, but then, finally, found it necessary to accuse. For if he had been lied to, was the guilt his alone? ‘He
made
me believe — without words, just by looking at him.’ Suddenly Chalice had doubts. He saw the man before him, his overwhelming sincerity. Again he wanted to believe, was willing to sacrifice everything to the myth. ‘He
couldn’t
have
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
He too believed it, his own
goddamn myth,
’ but this thought was equally hard to accept. It seemed as if a clear choice lay before him, and he was incapable of making it. His mind backed away, but other things now seemed explained. He felt he understood why the radicals could deride things Kennedy had done and everything he represented, yet still squirm to avoid the mention of his name. They too had believed. No curses or tirades could cleanse them of the guilt they felt for having had faith in him, the product of a system they now detested, who had seemingly risen above it. All their actions strived to retain the belief he gave them while discarding him and his myth — not refusing to be lied to, but insisting on being given different lies, still living with the myth, calling it by different names, refusing not to believe, the seed of all their hatred sown by a man they can never make themselves hate, knowing without admitting, that if he failed, no one can succeed. ‘There will always be someone,’ Chalice told himself, ‘who will refuse to believe, wait somewhere, patiently, with a rifle.’

Each day the rumors increased. Khe Sanh loomed closer, and no one doubted that it would soon be his turn to go. The men looked forward to this without fear. The inevitability of it went unquestioned, and their main desire was to live it rather than have to think of it as something in the future.

It was almost nine o’clock, and the men of Second Platoon were huddled behind the sandbags and barbwire that surrounded the battalion perimeter. The rain trickled down in a soft, rhythmic drizzle. Chalice sat shivering in the darkness. Rabbit was sitting next to him, but neither man had any desire to talk. As Chalice thought about the many times he had stood lines, he now realized the disadvantage in doing so — the bored state of mind that assumed “this night” would be as uneventful as the last — and he almost wished to see or hear something that would scare him, keep him alert.

Chalice tilted the air mattress lying next to him, and heard the water stream off it to the ground. He removed his poncho before lying down upon the mattress, then drew it up to his neck until it met the rain hat that covered his face. The rain gently tapped against the hat as he lay beneath its protection, thankful that An Hoa afforded him the luxury of an air mattress as opposed to a bed of mud that the bush would offer.

Chalice had the last watch that night, but he was awakened by a loud explosion before it was to begin. In fear, he dived from the air mattress to his sandbagged position. Rabbit was already there. Behind them a supply shed glowed with a mellow orange light. Two rockets swooshed over their heads trailing streams of prismlike fire, exploding within the center of the perimeter even before their trails had disappeared. Sugar Bear, then Pablo, dashed behind the positions to warn the men of a possible ground attack. Sinclaire and his A-gunner were set-in ten yards to Chalice’s right, and Pablo stopped when he reached them to make sure they were prepared to use his old machine gun.

Chalice leaned against the sandbags, not nervous or scared, merely waiting. He could hear whispers and the sounds of men scrambling towards the line. Yet these sounds were hazy and unreal against the backdrop of a threatening silence that was finally shattered by a huge explosion from behind him.

“Satchel charge,” numerous voices whispered.

Chalice knew this meant that at least some Viet Cong had made their way into the perimeter. A ground attack now seemed inevitable. Huge illumination flares burst upon the blackness like dawning stars. Each additional flare increased the eerie light that bathed the darkness without really eliminating it. Chalice scanned the barbwire before him, doing so with the knowledge that he was unprotected from any Viet Cong already within the perimeter. Nervous thoughts raced through his mind, but a glance towards Rabbit’s frightened face somewhat calmed him. After a sudden flash of light, the ground around him was tremored by a deafening explosion — a mortar, then another, then two more. Explosions continued in series of two’s and three’s while Chalice and Rabbit cringed and flinched, knowing and experiencing their own helplessness. They no longer scanned the barbwire in front of them, but instead took quick, frightened glances above the sandbags. Mortars exploded everywhere, and it seemed just a matter of time before they or a friend would be found by one. The protection offered by the sandbags seemed insignificant as Chalice cringed against them. He felt no more than a dull sensation as the fingernails of his right hand dug into his left wrist. A quick glance above the sandbags revealed nothing, but he soon heard rifle fire thirty yards to his right. Chalice arranged some blooker rounds before him, separating the different types so that he would be able to choose in an instant. He and Rabbit alternated taking frightened glances above the sandbags. AK-47 rounds began cracking over his head. Neither he nor Rabbit dared to search out their source.