Sand in the Wind (81 page)

“You know what they’ll do? They’ll try and make you look like a coward, or stupid.”

“I don’t care.”

“You
can’t
beat the system. You’ll either end up in the brig or back in the bush.” Pablo wasn’t really sure of this, but he felt Ramirez would be better off by merely enduring his last seven weeks. Now as he looked at the sullen figure before him, Pablo realized that it was just as much a matter of pride as anything else. “You don’t want them making you do something you don’t want to do. Is that it?”

“That’s not it.”

“That’s not all of it, but it’s part. Isn’t it?” Ramirez remained silent. “You’re gonna try to beat the system, aren’t you?” Ramirez nodded. “Well, if you keep your head, it won’t do any harm. Kramer won’t try to fuck you over.”

“You think I should do it?”

“Not if you’re gonna lose your head. If Forest tries to make you look stupid or chickenshit, don’t let it bother you. He ain’t shit compared to you.” Pablo then put particular emphasis on his last few words. “You don’t have to prove a thing.”

“You think I should do it, then?”

“Not unless there’s no other way. Remember, if you keep your head, you’ll be all right. Just don’t try to prove you’re better than they are. Take my word for it.
  
.
 
.
 
. Remember, it’s you against all of them.” Ramirez remained sitting on the cot, his pride preventing him from asking what he had intended all along. Pablo wasn’t sure, but he guessed right. “You want me to go with you?” Ramirez nodded. “What good will that do? I’m shipping out in two days anyway.”

“I trust you. You can talk to them.”

“You should have someone else go with you, someone who has more time left in-country.”

“Who?”

Pablo named the only person he could think of. “The Professor.”

“You sure he’ll do it?”

“He’s been acting a lot more fucked up than you.
  
.
 
.
 
. Besides, he’s the Sandman. They all know
him.
  
.
 
.
 
.
Let the Professor do the talking.
  
.
 
.
 
. Remember, you don’t have to prove a thing.”

Hamilton walked into the officers’ hootch and found Kramer and Sugar Bear waiting for him. “You wanted to speak to me, Lieutenant?”

“Yeah. Sit down a minute.
  
.
 
.
 
. Chalice and Ramirez were just here. Do you know what they came to see me about?”

“No, sir.”

“They say they aren’t going to fight anymore. You know anything about it?”

“No, sir.
  
.
 
.
 
. The Professor was acting a little funny a few days ago, but he seems all right now.
  
.
 
.
 
. Ramirez hasn’t even got two months left.”

“I know, and I can’t afford to lose either of them. Ramirez is supposed to take over as platoon sergeant, and the Professor’ll be a fire team leader soon.”

“He already is. He took over my old fire team as soon as Childs left.”

“In any case, I can’t afford to lose two experienced men. We’ve got too many boots as is.”

“I know. If you don’t have Chalice around, then Rabbit or someone from another squad will have to take over Alpha.”

“What about Roads?” Sugar Bear asked.

“He says he doesn’t want to be squad leader. I asked him when you told me I was taking over as platoon sergeant.”

“Don’t ask him.
Tell him!
” Sugar Bear said angrily.

“I got five more days left. I ain’t gonna start messing with that sonofabitch. It’s been bad enough having him in my squad.”

In an even angrier tone, Sugar Bear said, “Well I only got two days left, but I’ll fuck with him. He’ll be a squad leader whether he likes it or not.”

“I don’t give a shit. I’m —”

Kramer cut Hamilton off. “We can settle that later. All I want to know is the story on Ramirez and Chalice.”

“I don’t know any more than you do, Lieutenant. Pablo might know something about Ramirez.”

“If he does, he’s sure keeping it to himself.”

“What’s going to happen to them?”

“I told them to think about it for two days. If they feel the same way then, I’ll write up a report.”

“The brig?”

“What do you think Forest’ll do?” Kramer didn’t intend this as a question, and Hamilton realized no answer was necessary.

Sugar Bear had just finished eating supper and was on his way back to the company area. He knew that Roads was walking a few yards behind him, and his rage increased as he thought about him. He’d always had a certain respect for Roads, but this was far outweighed by his hatred for him. Fists tightly clenched at his sides, Sugar Bear could hold his anger no longer. He turned. Their eyes locked, Roads having no idea what Sugar Bear was thinking, walking right past him while returning the stare.

“Just walk right by me, man,” Sugar Bear said casually. Roads turned and looked blankly at him. “Just walk right by me, man,” Sugar Bear repeated in a challenging tone.

Roads’s stare gradually hardened as he asked, “You been drinking, man?” Sugar Bear shook his head, and Roads began to nod his. “Looks like you wanna throw some hands.”

Sugar Bear also began to nod, and a confident expression came to his face. They stood only a few feet apart, Roads half a head taller yet outweighed by thirty pounds. He started to turn and walk away, but the calm, hateful words, “Don’t turn your back on me, motherfucker,” caused him to freeze.

“You’re fucking with the wrong man.”

“I’m fucking with the right man.”

“
What’s
bugging you?”

“Same thing that’s been bugging me the last eight months:
you.
”

“I don’t bug
nobody!
”

“You bug everybody, especially the Brothers.
  
.
 
.
 
. I learned something right away when I got to Nam: the Gooks kill each other, the Chucks hate each other, and the Brothers stick together. You ain’t never learned yet.” Sugar Bear paused as they continued to glare at each other, but Roads remained silent. “You’re cool, man, real cool.
  
.
 
.
 
. I bet you been to college.
  
.
 
.
 
. The
Chucks
might think you’re cool, but the Brothers know you ain’t shit — walking around like you know something nobody else does. Man, you ain’t fooling the Brothers. You’re the uptightest motherfucker I’ve ever seen, ready to explode like some wound-up junkie.”

“Uptight?”

“You heard me, man.
  
.
 
.
 
. I used to think if I kicked your ass, it’d teach you a lesson. Now I know there ain’t no way, but I’m gonna kick it just the same.”

Roads respected Sugar Bear more than anybody he’d met in Vietnam, even liked him; but he knew that it was too late, too much had been said. “I ain’t going nowhere.” ‘Why
him
— always the wrong man?’

“You’re damn right you ain’t, ’cause I’m gonna kick your ass. Been here a whole tour, and ain’t never seen two Brothers fight yet; but—” Sugar Bear cut himself off, realizing the purposelessness of his words and what he had already forced — ‘a show for the Chucks.’

Roads broke a long silence by saying, “I can’t remember the last time I had my ass kicked.” ‘If I keep him off me, I’ll cut his face to shreds.’

“You’ll remember this time, cocksucker.
  
.
 
.
 
. It ain’t my fault I’m the baddest motherfucker that ever lived.” ‘All I gotta do is get him on the ground.’ Suddenly Sugar Bear swung, hoping to get Roads off balance, missing badly, himself catching a soft jab on the chin, still moving forward while Roads sidestepped and jabbed, neither one angered enough to really start swinging yet, feeling each other out. Roads, surprised at Sugar Bear’s speed, knowing he had to take any advantage given him, dodged a right and staggered Sugar Bear with a left to the jaw, that being it — no stopping now. Roads, holding his ground, watching enraged eyes, waited for another lunge; but not long, soon fending off punches with his arms, warnings that he couldn’t afford to be hit anywhere else. Sugar Bear, overanxious, attempted an uppercut, regretting it as his lips squashed flat against his teeth, salt blood spurting between them, quickly drooling from the corner of his mouth. Roads watched it, too long, letting Sugar Bear get inside with three brutal punches to the stomach, feel the hard flesh and hear the thuds, knowing they had to hurt. Too surprised to fake it, Roads folded slightly as he jumped back, his stomach still feeling flat and tasting his gall, imagining it as shit, knowing it would be oozing out of his ears if he got hit like that again. Sugar Bear, still hearing those punches, missed badly with an uppercut. Roads backed away, too hurt to make him pay for it. Arms tired and knees tight, they feinted a few punches. But the taste of his own blood made Sugar Bear too anxious to draw some. Roads, still confident he could keep his distance, throwing jab after jab, pounded the blood-smeared smile off Sugar Bear’s face. One eye closed, Sugar Bear slammed his fist into Roads’s chest, again thinking, ‘That had to hurt.’ Roads saw some eager white faces. ‘Watching the nigger show,’ and made Sugar Bear pay for their smiles, ‘Always the wrong man!’ with a hard right. Overconfident, Roads stood his ground, trading a flurry to the head for one to the Stomach, finally jumping back, gasping, his stomach feeling pulverized. An awkward jab brought blood gushing from Sugar Bear’s nose. Desperate to catch Roads, to get him on the ground, Sugar Bear noticed a tent guy wire. Roads, now more confident, breathed easier, unaware of the wire. Sugar Bear kept circling, feinting punches not throwing them, backing Roads towards the wire, cursing as he just missed it, again stalking him towards it, now seeing the white faces and becoming angrier. Roads, knowing he could beat Sugar Bear senseless until somebody stepped between them, tiring, smashed a right into Sugar Bear’s face, feeling the tissue rip from the bone. Sugar Bear, now more desperate, swung wildly, missing; but finally backing Roads into the wire. Roads, off balance, surprised, staggered to his knees while Sugar Bear dived for his neck, ignoring a flurry of punches to his head and chest. Feeling the soft flesh of Roads’s throat, he held his grasp as they rolled furiously on the ground, Roads finally getting hold of Sugar Bear’s throat with his right hand, pummeling his face with the left. Without relenting, Roads began to gag. Some men tried to separate them. Still on the ground, they continued to swing, often as not hitting the men trying to keep them apart. Another fight broke out, then a few more. Roads and Sugar Bear became separated in the melee. Whites began fighting blacks. More men joined in, spurred on by racial slurs. Sugar Bear and Roads staggered away as over a hundred brawling men wildly attacked each other in what was now a race riot, officers attempting to quell it with swinging rifle stocks.

Kramer wasn’t surprised when Chalice and Ramirez gave him their decision. He had hoped for their sakes that they would have changed their minds, but it seemed far stranger that no other members of the platoon were with them. It was now Kramer’s duty to inform Lieutenant Forest, and he was positive what would result. Forest’s threats would make them more determined, and they’d soon find themselves involved in a court-martial. Rather than have this happen, Kramer decided to speak directly to Colonel Nash. Nash’s first question was, “It’s not their guts that’s bothering them, is it?” After Kramer had told him that it wasn’t, Nash ordered Chalice and Ramirez brought to him.

He was sitting alone in his office when they entered. Curious as to what Nash would say, Kramer entered with them. As Chalice and Ramirez stood in front of his desk, Nash shifted his hard stare from one to the other before asking coldly, “Is it true you men refuse to fight?”

There was silence as Chalice and Ramirez waited for each other to answer first. Finally, Ramirez said, “Yes, sir.”

Chalice quickly repeated this answer.

“You men realize this isn’t any game we’re playing? You can both end up in the brig for a very long time.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What are your reasons for doing this, Lance Corporal Chalice?”

“This war is wrong, sir.”

“Suddenly wrong, or has it been wrong all along?”

“From the beginning, sir.”

“It must have been just as wrong when you were fighting it then?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why is it wrong?”

Feeling ridiculous, Chalice hesitated answering. Once he had believed and fought anyway. Now no longer sure how he felt, he was refusing to fight. Nash continued to stare at him, and he finally said, “Politically, sir.”

“I never get involved in politics myself, Lance Corporal Chalice. It’s amazing you’ve had the time.
  
.
 
.
 
. Corporal Ramirez, is politics your problem too?”

Somewhat confused by the question, Ramirez’s few words were spoken nervously. “I don’t want to kill them no more, sir.”

“If they felt the same way, then there wouldn’t be a war, would there?”

“No, sir.”

“But they don’t, do they?”

“No, sir.”

“And there is a war.”

“Yes, sir.”

“If they shoot at you, shouldn’t you be able to shoot them?”

“Yes — no, sir.”

“Why not?”

“It’s their country.”

“Whose country?”

“The Gooks, sir.”

“Which Gooks — the NVA, the Viet Cong, the people in Saigon?”

“Not the Americans,” Ramirez answered without hesitation.

“Some of the Gooks want us here. That’s what they tell us, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“But you don’t want to be here. Why?”

“I don’t want to kill them no more.” Nash remained silent, and after a pause Ramirez continued in a far more emotional tone. “They keep coming. We kill them, but they keep coming. We have the choppers. We have the Phantom jets, bombs, 106’s, everything; but they keep coming. We kill them, but they keep coming.”