Read Online Sand in the Wind by Robert Roth - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Robert Roth
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with a Yo-Yo.
“KNOCK IT OFF!” Kovacs shouted, and shouted again until everybody quieted down. He continued to glare at his men, sure that someone was missing. “ Hemrick? ”
“Here.”
“Get in the right rank. . . . Ramirez?"
“Here.”
“ Payne ?”
No one answered until Ski said, “I saw him sleeping behind the air tower a half hour ago.”
“JESUS CHRIST!”
“ Here," Forsythe answered, sending off a new round of laughter and shoving.
Kovacs stood glaring at him, teeth clenched and eyes appearing even more slanted than usual, finally yelling, “ Forsythe, you motherfucker, why do you always have to be the biggest shitbird in the platoon?”
Forsythe returned the stare, and said in a serious, determined tone, “It’s a dirty job, Sarge; but somebody’s got to do it.” Kovacs spun around before it became too obvious that he was about to laugh.
A stocky, ruggedly built man came out of the company office and walked briskly toward the front of the formation. He appeared to be about thirty-five and his ruddy face was the scowling type that can be found brooding over a glass of beer in practically any rundown bar. He held a large brown bottle in the stubby finger of his right hand.
Forsythe nudged Chalice. “Here comes your Sunday Surprise.”
“I’ve noticed you men have been getting a little slack,” Gunny Martin shouted in a whiskey tenor. “Yesterday I caught two of you walking around without covers. Not only don’t I like to see men ignoring a Marine Corps tradition like keeping covered at all times, but I also don’t like to see anybody with hair longer than mine.” He took off his cover, exposing a red scalp with just enough hair on it to keep it from shining. “And as long as we’re on this fucking hill, you will not wear bush covers or rain hats. If you don’t have a utility cover, wear your helmet liner. Another goddamn thing: no one, except squad leaders and above, can have mustaches; and you will shave everyday as long as there’s water.
“It seems we can’t trust you men to take your malaria tabs every week, so we’re starting a new system. From now on we’ll all take our tabs together. I don’t care if they do give you the shits. Which would you rather have, the shits or malaria?” There were numerous mumblings of “malaria” from the ranks. Martin ignored them and continued, “Now you know why you were told to bring canteens to this formation. Platoon Sergeants, come up here and get the tabs for your men.”
When each man had been given a tablet, the gunny continued, “All right, I want everybody to hold their tabs in their right hands and their canteens in their left.” Chalice did so, but noticed that both Payne and Forsythe had theirs in the opposite hands. He started to switch before realizing that they were just fooling around. “Okay, now swallow them.” Chalice did so in time to see Forsythe flip his past his ear. Somebody behind them said in an irritated voice, “Goddamn you, Forsythe. That hit me right in the face. How ’bout droppin’ ’em on the ground like everybody else?”
“All right,” the Gunny shouted, “church call goes in fifteen minutes. I wanna see most of you there. A little religion never hurt anybody. . . . DISmissed !”
“Never did ’em much good,” somebody in the back mumbled.
The members of the company broke formation and milled around the area. The ground was sprinkled with orange malaria tablets. Harmon walked around pressing them into the dirt with the toe of his boot.
Chalice grabbed Forsythe’s arm, “Hey, how come nobody takes the malaria tabs?” Before Forsythe could reply, a knowing look came across Chalice’s face and he answered his own question. “Oh, I get it. Malaria’s a ticket outa this place.”
“You shiftin’ me? You can’t get outa here with malaria, not unless you get it for the third time.”
“Then how come no —”
“Cause they don’t do any fucking good.
“KNOCK IT OFF!” Kovacs shouted, and shouted again until everybody quieted down. He continued to glare at his men, sure that someone was missing. “ Hemrick? ”
“Here.”
“Get in the right rank. . . . Ramirez?"
“Here.”
“ Payne ?”
No one answered until Ski said, “I saw him sleeping behind the air tower a half hour ago.”
“JESUS CHRIST!”
“ Here," Forsythe answered, sending off a new round of laughter and shoving.
Kovacs stood glaring at him, teeth clenched and eyes appearing even more slanted than usual, finally yelling, “ Forsythe, you motherfucker, why do you always have to be the biggest shitbird in the platoon?”
Forsythe returned the stare, and said in a serious, determined tone, “It’s a dirty job, Sarge; but somebody’s got to do it.” Kovacs spun around before it became too obvious that he was about to laugh.
A stocky, ruggedly built man came out of the company office and walked briskly toward the front of the formation. He appeared to be about thirty-five and his ruddy face was the scowling type that can be found brooding over a glass of beer in practically any rundown bar. He held a large brown bottle in the stubby finger of his right hand.
Forsythe nudged Chalice. “Here comes your Sunday Surprise.”
“I’ve noticed you men have been getting a little slack,” Gunny Martin shouted in a whiskey tenor. “Yesterday I caught two of you walking around without covers. Not only don’t I like to see men ignoring a Marine Corps tradition like keeping covered at all times, but I also don’t like to see anybody with hair longer than mine.” He took off his cover, exposing a red scalp with just enough hair on it to keep it from shining. “And as long as we’re on this fucking hill, you will not wear bush covers or rain hats. If you don’t have a utility cover, wear your helmet liner. Another goddamn thing: no one, except squad leaders and above, can have mustaches; and you will shave everyday as long as there’s water.
“It seems we can’t trust you men to take your malaria tabs every week, so we’re starting a new system. From now on we’ll all take our tabs together. I don’t care if they do give you the shits. Which would you rather have, the shits or malaria?” There were numerous mumblings of “malaria” from the ranks. Martin ignored them and continued, “Now you know why you were told to bring canteens to this formation. Platoon Sergeants, come up here and get the tabs for your men.”
When each man had been given a tablet, the gunny continued, “All right, I want everybody to hold their tabs in their right hands and their canteens in their left.” Chalice did so, but noticed that both Payne and Forsythe had theirs in the opposite hands. He started to switch before realizing that they were just fooling around. “Okay, now swallow them.” Chalice did so in time to see Forsythe flip his past his ear. Somebody behind them said in an irritated voice, “Goddamn you, Forsythe. That hit me right in the face. How ’bout droppin’ ’em on the ground like everybody else?”
“All right,” the Gunny shouted, “church call goes in fifteen minutes. I wanna see most of you there. A little religion never hurt anybody. . . . DISmissed !”
“Never did ’em much good,” somebody in the back mumbled.
The members of the company broke formation and milled around the area. The ground was sprinkled with orange malaria tablets. Harmon walked around pressing them into the dirt with the toe of his boot.
Chalice grabbed Forsythe’s arm, “Hey, how come nobody takes the malaria tabs?” Before Forsythe could reply, a knowing look came across Chalice’s face and he answered his own question. “Oh, I get it. Malaria’s a ticket outa this place.”
“You shiftin’ me? You can’t get outa here with malaria, not unless you get it for the third time.”
“Then how come no —”
“Cause they don’t do any fucking good.
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