Sand in the Wind (59 page)

“No. I think somebody’s fucking with Forsythe.”

As Pablo said this, Appleton walked over and picked up the Frisbee. He tossed it from hand to hand for a few seconds before saying, “Let’s try this thingamajig out again.”

“Naw,” Forsythe answered. “The Gunny’s got a hair up his ass.”

“What the hell’s he gonna do, send us to the Arizona?”

This was all Appleton needed to say. Within seconds they were again on their feet throwing the Frisbee. Other members of the platoon came over and joined them, but this time there was much less of the rough horseplay and they were content to let the disk float slowly between them. Soon each man was calling out the name of someone across from him and trying to throw it to that person.

Gunny Martin noticed them and stared on in rage, taking their actions as a personal insult. The temptation to shout for them to stop was strong, but he got a better idea. Martin picked up a nearby rifle. As the men watched the Frisbee float above them, they were startled by a burst of rifle fire. The Frisbee tumbled awkwardly higher before another burst from the M-16 knocked it to the ground. All of the men were staring at Martin by the time he lowered the rifle from his shoulder, the smile on his face indicating satisfaction with his marksmanship. When Martin saw the glares of the men, he was at first pleased that he had so effectively made his point; but as they continued to stare insolently at him, he grew uneasy and finally shouted, “Get back to your positions and act like Marines.
  
.
 
.
 
. Do you want Charlie to walk right up here and blow us all to hell?” Forsythe alone remained staring at him. Martin refused to be the one to turn his back. “Hey you, when was the last time you had a haircut?” Forsythe remained silent. “Get over here, Marine.” Hoping that Martin would try to manhandle him, Forsythe approached slowly and with the insolent stare still on his face. “Follow me. You need a haircut,” Martin said in a calmer but still harsh tone.

“I’ll cut it myself.”

“Oh you will!” Forsythe remained silent. “Are you refusing an order?”

“I don’t have to let you cut my hair.”

Martin knew that Forsythe was right, but this was the first time anyone had stood up to him. His only choice was to use physical force or to try and bluff his way out. “Oh you don’t, do you? I’m writing you up, Marine. You can expect to hear from Legal.
  
.
 
.
 
. And don’t let me see you wearing that fucking jewelry again. You look like a fag.” Martin then turned his back and walked away. Even though Forsythe realized that this was a bluff and he had come off the better of the two, his rage was not spent, nor would it be for a long time.

It had rained for five straight days, never stopping for more than a few hours. However discomforting this made the marching, it was mainly at night — when the wet chill of their clothes kept their bodies shivering and awake — that the men of Hotel Company cursed the rain, doing so with the knowledge that for the next few months all that could be hoped for was an occasional day without it. Weeks had passed since the last time they’d camped in an area safe enough to build hootches. The loss of sleep due to the rain caused the men to become even more irritable than usual, and the absence of night attacks encouraged a willingness to undergo the added risk of hootches. Rather than having his men and himself endure a sixth straight night of rain, Trippitt was forced to allow them to erect hootches. Knowing that they would have to take them down the next morning, the men built these shelters carelessly. When finished, they could see the moonlight reflecting off their wet hootches and they knew another danger had been added to those they were already enduring.

Hotel Company went a week without any contact except for occasional sniper fire. Helicopter pilots had spotted Viet Cong in their area, but so far none had been seen from the ground. It was shortly after twelve o’clock as the company approached the large tree line, that was to be its camp for the night. Kramer watched his men stumble through the rice paddies, realizing that for the last two days he had not heard one of them complain about the constant marching. All curses and gripes had been directed at the weather. They had endured the marching long enough to finally accept it, and he knew that soon they would also accept the rain.

The company got on-line and swept the high ground. It contained a large village and no one was surprised to find it abandoned. However, they were surprised at its size and the presence of a few concrete structures. All that remained of most of these buildings was a battered wall or two protruding up from a pile of rubble, but a couple of them still had roofs.

Trippitt called together his platoon commanders. They met him in the shelter of what had once been a small pagoda. Three of its walls were still standing, and the roof remained largely intact. Trippitt was sitting on a hunk of concrete and removing his boots and socks as he assigned the patrols. Kramer noticed Lieutenant Howell, the commander of Fourth Platoon, staring at Trippitt’s feet. When Trippitt finished and asked if there were any questions, Howell spoke up. “Sir, what are we going to do about the men’s feet?”

Howell had spoken in a relaxed tone, and Trippitt replied in the same manner. “What do you mean, Lieutenant?”

“Some of the men are having trouble walking.”

There was a hint of irritation in Trippitt’s tone as he answered, “They seem to be doing all right.”

“Yes sir, but it’s been two weeks since we’ve had anything but rain. They’re starting to get immersion foot.”

Kramer had noticed the same thing with some of his own men, and he listened with curiosity for Trippitt’s reply. “Lieutenant, it’s your job to see that your men take care of themselves.”

“But sir —”

“Make sure they dry their feet at least once a day.”

“
But sir,
” Howell almost shouted, “the only time they get a chance to take their boots off is every fourth day when they don’t have an afternoon patrol. You don’t expect them to sleep without their boots?”

‘You’re
damn
right I don’t! We’ll be in bad enough shape if we get hit at night.” Trippitt now began speaking to all of his platoon commanders instead of just Howell, and he did so in an angry tone. “Listen, you and I know there’s a lot of shitbirds in this company that’d like nothing better than an excuse to get out of here. It’s your job to see they don’t. I know damn well their feet’ll be all right if they just dry them off once a day. Make sure they do.”

Trippitt’s platoon commanders remained silent, each of them wondering when this was supposed to be done.

Second Platoon had one of the afternoon patrols. It rained continuously as they marched to a patch of high ground two kilometers away. When they came upon some deserted hootches, Kramer debated with himself whether to let his men take advantage of them to dry their feet. The only way this would be possible was if they were allowed to build fires. There was no dry wood around and it was getting late, so he decided to head back immediately. As his platoon reached camp, he noticed a few of the men limping and he knew that they wouldn’t get a chance to take their boots off and dry their feet until the next afternoon when it was Second Platoon’s turn to remain behind with the CP. Kramer was wondering how many more of his men would be limping by then when he received word of something else to worry about. Forest’s platoon had surprised a squad of NVA, killing four before the rest had gotten away.

At dawn the next morning, Trippitt moved the company to the area where this had happened. The other platoons went out on their patrols while the men of Second Platoon set up hootches, built fires, and removed their boots for the first time in four days. As Kramer checked their position, he noticed that his men’s feet were sickeningly blanched and shriveled, and that some of them were raw and bleeding.

The next day Second Platoon drew a short patrol. Roads walked the point. A decent hootch and a rain trench around it had enabled him to get his first good night’s sleep in weeks. But by the time he halted in front of the patch of high ground that was the object of the patrol, Roads was exhausted. In their rundown condition, the luxury of one night’s sleep had proved of little value to him or the other men.

The rain became heavier as Second Platoon started sweeping through the high ground. Though he could hardly see the length of one stride, Roads forced himself to search the brush — looking for that booby trap that had a better chance of finding him first. He’d find it though, somehow he’d find it. There was no way he’d let it find him —
no matter how many fuck
ing tree lines they made him walk through.
Their game. Their rules. But this was one nigger that was gonna beat them at it.

The brush cleared in front of Roads. He looked up to see the rice paddies that meant he had made it through another tree line. Instead he saw something else — 'A fucking ville.’ Each abandoned hootch meant one more bunker that had to be searched. ‘Fuck it!’

Roads stood shivering, anxious to be finished with the job and head back to camp. At least then the marching would warm him. He waited impatiently for Rabbit and Forsythe to finish searching their bunker so he could get the flashlight and .45, and start on the one that had been assigned to him and Chalice. At least then he’d be out of the rain — ‘Maybe some Gook had the same idea.’ He heard Rabbit complain that the flashlight wasn’t working and decided not to wait for the .45. Without throwing a frag in first, Roads crawled into the bunker. The supply chopper was two days late because of the rain, and Kramer had told his men to conserve their grenades.

Roads hesitated a few seconds just inside the entrance. He still couldn’t see anything. The bunker was too dark. They always were. Always empty, too — the ones he had checked. Still, always frightening. But it was a calm type of fear, a fear that repetition makes bearable. At least he was out of the rain. Roads crawled forward on his hands and knees, carefully checking the floor for booby traps. Suddenly he stopped — aware of something different about this bunker — the smell. The damp musty odor, that was always there. But not the other one — ‘Different’ — warm, heavy — ‘Living?
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
What the fuck is it?
’

Roads drew his rifle forward, regretting he had not waited for the .45. He fingered the safety — ‘On.’ If there was another person in the bunker, that person had to be aware of him. But still, he hesitated taking his rifle off safe — ‘Might panic them.
  
.
 
.
 
. Panic. Panic.
  
.
 
.
 
. Don’t panic.’ Roads adjusted his grip so that with one hand he would be able to click his rifle on semiautomatic and begin firing almost instantly — ‘Good.’ Feeling along the floor with his other hand, he crawled slowly forward. A board creaked beneath his knee. He froze, waiting, waiting for another sound — that of a shot. None came. Still trembling, he remembered the sound of the creaking board — deafening within the silence of the bunker — ‘Deafening. Deafening?’ — firing his M-16 would burst his own eardrums. He pointed it straight ahead anyway. This was merely a fact, nothing to be considered.

Sweat burned his eyes — only a few seconds ago he had been shivering —‘Keep cool.’ If someone was there wanting to kill him, that person had lost the perfect opportunity. Roads became slightly more relaxed. He sensed that the bunker’s opposite wall was within his reach — ‘Little more to go.’ Feeling almost relieved, he swept his hand over what remained of the floor.

Suddenly, against the wall — ‘
Cloth!
’ He jerked his hand back, freezing with his rifle at the ready. The cloth had contained something soft and warm — ‘Flesh. I’m not alone!’ Again he waited. The silence demanded he do something, demanded he ‘GET IT OVER WITH!’ Not sure what to do, he clicked his rifle off safe, at the same time shouting, “
Dung lai!
”

—
Vietnamese for “Don’t move.”

No response. No sound.

Fingering the trigger, Roads fought the urge to fire blindly into the darkness. ‘
Do
SOMETHING!’ — he thrust the rifle forward to pin whoever was in the bunker against the wall. The barrel hit bamboo. Baffled, he drew it back quickly. ‘What to do?
Can’t just sit here!
’ He stretched his hand forward to the spot where he had felt the warm flesh. Again he found it — ‘Soft, but no sound’ — this time trying to define its shape with his hand. It moved. He flinched, wiltingly, now knowing that whatever was there was too small to be a threat. It squirmed beneath his grasp. He could lift it with one hand. Roads scrambled back across the floor in search of light. Before reaching the entrance, he knew what he held. He would have realized sooner, but it was hard for him to believe that what had once seemed so threatening was merely a half-starved puppy.

Chalice watched with surprise as Roads crawled out of the bunker. This surprise stemmed in part from what Roads held, but more from the expression on his face. Roads, who he had never even seen smile before, was now actually grinning and on the verge of laughter.

The sky cleared before them as the men of Second Platoon approached the company perimeter. This change in weather only lasted an hour, but that was long enough for the supply choppers to finally reach them. They also found H and S Company camped within their perimeter. As much as they had hoped for mail and supplies, the presence of H and S Company was far more gratifying. For they knew that it probably meant they would remain stationary for anywhere from a few days to a week.

Colonel Nash noticed that many of the men were limping around the perimeter. He immediately ordered the corpsmen to examine each man’s feet. Nearly every member of Hotel Company showed signs of immersion foot, and a few of them found it difficult if not impossible to walk. A corpsman came over to Nash and told him that a number of the men in First Platoon would have to be medivacked. His battalion was at less than three-quarters strength already, and Nash was enraged — not at the men themselves, but at the officers who were responsible for them. He quickly sought out Trippitt, and together they headed for First Platoon’s sector of the perimeter.