Sand in the Wind (6 page)

“Sure they could, but some retired general’s probably got the patent on this type.”

While Forsythe was talking, Chalice heard a sharp, grating sound in the distance. “What was that?”

“Oh, that’s Puff the Magic Dragon.” Forsythe leaned across the counter and pointed to their left. “Look over there. See those four big illumes? They’re the four comers of his grid square. He drops them and then fills the square with rounds.”

“Puff the Magic Dragon?”

“It’s some old prop plane they stripped down and filled with fifty-caliber machine guns. They say he can put a round in every square foot of a football field in less than a minute. Keep watching over there. Every fifth round is a tracer. It’s a beautiful show.”

Chalice was still leaning across the counter. “Is that the Arizona Territory?”

“Yeah, he works out over the Arizona practically every night.”

Chalice saw a bright red dotted line dart down to the ground. “Wow! I’ve never seen anything like that. Looks like a mile-high neon sign. This
is
quite a show.”

“Yeah, and just—” Forsythe stopped talking as the grating sound reached them again. “Did you hear it?”

“Yeah, it’s hard to believe he’s so far away.”

“Just think, a new and different show every night. Did you see that?”

“Yeah, he did it again.”

“No, I mean in the mountains.” Forsythe pointed straight in front of the bunker. “There it is again.”

Chalice saw it this time. Within a few seconds there had been about twenty bright white flashes on the mountainside across the valley. “Is that what you meant?”

“Yeah, those are mortars. They probably came from up there.” He pointed back to the right side of the hill.

“How do you know they were ours? I didn’t hear anything.”

“I didn’t either, but we probably could have if we’d been listening. They’re ours because there were so many in such a short time. The Gooks are more careful — they don’t have enough to waste. See what I mean about the show?”

“Yeah, it’s outa sight.
  
.
 
.
 
. Were you drinking this afternoon?”

“No,” Forsythe laughed. “I don’t drink much. Where’d you get that idea?”

“I heard you say something to Payne about partying.”

Forsythe became suspicious. “We were just kidding around.. I better crash.” He walked towards the threshold.

“Wait a minute. Which of these hand illumes are star clusters?”

Forsythe turned around and walked over to the ammo crate. “I can’t see the labels now. Wait till an illume goes off.”

While they stood waiting, Chalice spotted four purple and orange balls of fire shoot across the valley. “What was that?”

“What was what?”

“Looked like four big tracer rounds.”

“Flying level?”

“Yeah.”

“Rockets then.”

“There it is again.”

“Yeah, rockets, incoming at An Hoa.”

“What do you mean?”

“They were VC rockets heading for An Hoa, could of hit our company area. Maybe one landed on top of the rack you were sleeping in last night.”

“Nice thought.”

“You’ll have nicer ones before you get out of here.” As Forsythe was talking, an illumination flare popped over the bunker. “Here,” he said, handing Chalice a foot-long aluminum tube about an inch in diameter. “Star cluster.”

“Can we shoot it off now for the hell of it?”

“Naw, you’re not supposed to unless you’ve got a reason.
  
.
 
.
 
. Ah, okay, why not?” Forsythe took the top off the tube and placed it on the bottom. He then raised his forearm and brought the bottom of the tube down sharply on the counter. Startled by the loud swooshing sound, Chalice stepped backwards. Five green balls of light burst above the bunker. They fell quickly towards the valley floor, casting an eerie glow upon the closest huts before disappearing. “That was cool. I wouldn’t mind sending a few of those home. They’d be great for parties.”

“I’ve already sent about ten, really about fifteen; but some of them must have got intercepted. Here comes somebody.
Halt!
Who is there?”

“Harmon.”

“Okay.”

“Did you guys shoot off a star cluster?”

“No, I think it came from behind us,” Forsythe answered.

“Yeah, I’ll bet. How ’bout cuttin’ the shit? The Captain of the Guard tonight is a real asshole.
  
.
 
.
 
. How’s Chalice doing?”

“All right, we’ve been keeping him away from Payne.”

“That’s good. What watch does Payne have tonight?”

“Second.”

“Good. I’m gonna stay up just to see if I can catch him crashing again. If I do, I’m gonna beat the shit out of him.”

“Good idea. Wake me up first if you do. I wanna watch.”

“Okay, I’ll see you guys tomorrow. Don
:
t fuck around anymore.”

As Harmon walked back up the slope, Chalice asked, “What type of guy is he?”

“Damn straight. Him and Hunky — that’s Kovacs — don’t kiss anybody’s ass. Watch out for Preston though.”

“Who’s he?”

“The right guide. Don’t ever trust him. He’s fairly harmless though. Anytime he starts his shit, Harmon gets Hunky to get him off our backs. If he pulls anything with you, just tell Harmon.
  
.
 
.
 
. I’m gonna crash. See you tomorrow.”

At daybreak Tony 5 woke his fire team. Chalice was collecting his gear when Forsythe stopped him. “Just leave it in the bunker. We’ll pick it up after chow.
  
.
 
.
 
. Did you bring a soft cover?”

“No. You mean we have to wear covers even in the bush?”

“Yeah. You wouldn’t get ten feet before some lifer’d stop you. Take the liner out of your helmet and wear it.”

“Where can I get a bush cover?” Chalice asked, referring to the broad-brimmed camouflage hats.

“Our battalion doesn’t issue them. You can’t wear them on the hill anyway. C’mon, let’s go to chow.”

“Man, this is as bad as stateside. What do we do after chow?”

“They’ll split us up into different working parties.”

“What type of working parties?”

“Everything you can think of — building bunkers, unloading supplies, burning shitters, policing the area, you name it.”

“You really make it sound great.”

“Oh yeah, I can’t help but get enthused when I talk about it. See the sign?” Forsythe pointed to a reenlistment poster nailed on the side of a building.

Chalice read it aloud. “
 
‘Mac Marine says, It’s a great career, stick with it.’ Well, you know a million Marines can’t be wrong.”

“Oh, they’re not wrong now all right, but that’s because they know how wrong they were when they signed that little white paper.” Forsythe changed the subject. “Did the 105’s bother you much?”

“Those big guns
were
105’s. They didn’t start fucking with ’em till I got halfway asleep, then
boom.
I didn’t know what the hell happened, so I grabbed my rifle and headed for the bunker. Tony was sleeping right in back of it and when I ran by he asked me where the fuck I was going. He said he didn’t hear anything, but that it was probably the 105’s. I can’t believe he heard me walking by, but didn’t hear those guns.”

“You’ll get like that too. You usually hear everything whether you’re asleep or not. If it means danger, then you’ll wake up; but sometimes when you should, you don’t. There’re a lot of dead Marines that’d tell you that if they could.”

When they reached the mess hall, Forsythe walked over to two men, Chalice following behind him. “Professor, no platoon in the Corps is complete unless it’s got a Polack everybody calls Ski, a Mexican named Ramirez or Gonzales, and an Indian called Chief. Here’s Ski and Ramirez. You’ll meet Chief later.”

The darker one stuck out his hand first. He was about five feet two and slender, with a swarthy, exuberant face and large white teeth. “Glad to meet you, Prof. I’m Julio Ramirez from Charlie Squad. This is Ski.” He pointed to a light-haired Marine next to him.

“I’m Dan Ojusinski. Ski’s good enough. I’m in Bravo.
  
.
 
.
 
. Where you from?”

“Silver Springs, Maryland. Where you guys from?”

“Pittsburgh,” Ski answered. “You can guess where Ramirez is from.”

“Laredo,” Chalice guessed.

“There it is,” Ski laughed.

After chow everybody headed back to the platoon hootch. When working parties were assigned, Forsythe saw to it that Chalice got the same party as he and Hamilton. The three of them and two others, Roads from Hamilton’s fire team and Hemrick from Bravo Squad, were sent to a corporal in one of the offices at the center of the hill. He loaded them on a six-by and directed it towards the LZ. The choppers hadn’t arrived yet, so they sprawled out in the sand near one of the bunkers and waited.

Chalice found himself staring at Roads, a tall, dark black with Caucasian features. His back propped up against the bunker, Roads ignored the rest of the men, the expression on his face too aloof to be belligerent. Chalice had noticed him in the platoon hootch and guessed he was some type of athlete, probably a basketball player. He moved about with effortless power, seemingly in control of every muscle in his body. No one had bothered to introduce Roads to him, and Chalice could see why. Roads was the only member of the platoon that had given him the impression of outward coldness. Though Roads had only been in the bush two months his self-assurance belied this, as it had on his first day in-country. One of his long slender hands held a cigarette. A stiff breeze kept the ash glowing red. He slowly drew the cigarette towards his lips and inhaled. Chalice sat staring, waiting for the stream of smoke to emerge. Just as Roads seemed ready to exhale, his half-closed eyes opened as if he sensed something — the wind had stopped. Effortlessly, he blew a large smoke ring that traveled over a foot in front of him before the wind picked up again and blew it away. Roads half smiled as he let the rest of the smoke flow from the corner of his closed lips.

A conversation among the others drew Chalice’s attention away from Roads. Hemrick, a skinny kid with large ears, had remarked that he’d rather be in the bush than on the hill. The corporal in charge of the working party asked him what he thought Hill 65 was. Hemrick replied testily, “I mean the
bad
bush. I’m tired of getting fucked with. You’ve always got to have a cover, but you can’t wear a bush cover. You can’t take your shirt off even though it smells like a jockstrap because they never get you clean ones. These working parties are a real pain. The food in the mess hall is as bad as C-rats. Shit, it is C-rats only it comes in larger cans. The only thing better about it is that you get a cold drink to wash the taste out of your mouth. The office poags up here have their own showers, and we aren’t even allowed to use them. At least in the bush you come across a stream every once in a while that you can take a bath in, and — ”

Hamilton interrupted, “Yeah, I can’t stand the cheap shit either, but sometimes the bush ain’t no bargain. Since you’ve been here, we’ve never been camped with the whole company for more than a few days, and it’s even worse when you’re set-in with the captain and the gunny. You get all the disadvantages and none of the advantages.

“I’ll still take the bush.”

“I will too,” said Forsythe, “but it’s not the bargain you make it out to be. When you’re in the bush, you want Hill 65. When you’re on Hill 65, you want the bush. That’s the way the Marine Corps works. They get you to eat their shit because you’re so tired of eating it one way you jump at the chance to eat it dished up some other way.”

Hemrick started to say something, but the corporal called out, “Here’s the choppers.” One was circling the LZ while the other approached it, both with huge nets dangling from their fuselages. As the first chopper neared the ground, the men in the working party turned their backs to the LZ, protecting themselves from the sand whipped up by the copter blades. Chalice looked over his shoulder and watched the ground crew unhook the cargo-laden nets. After the second copter’s net was detached, the working party moved onto the LZ and loaded the cargo, mostly C-rations, into the truck. It drove back down the road, stopping in front of a bunker. The men jumped down and formed a line between it and the truck. After a few minutes, the whole operation became one big joke. They were throwing the heavy cartons to each other as fast as they could. When somebody would drop one, the others yelled at him in mock anger. Two hours later, the men unloaded the last carton and sat down exhausted. Forsythe had the only pack of cigarettes. He passed it around. Whoever took one made some sort of derogatory remark about the brand.

“Hey Corporal, can we get out of here?” Hamilton asked.

“Not yet.”

“What do you mean?” Hemrick cut in. “We’re done unloading the truck.”

“Yeah, I know, but I’m supposed to drop you off at the S-2 office.”

Hemrick cried out, “Are you shiftin’ me? We worked our asses off to get through with this in a hurry.”

“Yeah, why didn’t you tell us that before?” Forsythe added.

“Look man, don’t blame me. C’mon, let’s get in the six-by.”

They took their time getting on the truck, complaining as they did so. When it reached the S-2 hootch, another corporal led them to some brooms and told them they had to field day the office. It was ten o’clock when they finished, and they again asked to leave. The corporal said the area had to be policed first. That took five minutes. Hamilton again asked if they could leave.

“No man, I’m sorry. I can’t let you go to chow till eleven. Just wait till then.” They sat around doing nothing for almost an hour. At eleven o’clock, as they walked away, the corporal called out, “Don’t forget to be back at twelve. You’ve got some more stuff to do.”

“Did you hear anything, Forsythe?”

“Not a thing, Hamilton. Did you?”

The platoon hootch grew noisier as the men straggled back from the mess hall. It was too much trouble to clear off the cots, so most of them lay down on the floor. Payne held up a deck of cards and yelled across the room, “Hey Professor, you wanna play?”