Battle Fatigue Read online

  Detroit has faded since it won the 1968 World Series. They didn’t do well last year. This year their star pitcher, Denny McLain, was suspended for carrying a gun when traveling with the team. The world is so mad that you don’t even ask why he wanted to carry a gun. It was not allowed and he was suspended for half the season. I only care because they are now short a pitcher and so maybe they are going to bring up a rookie left-hander named Pizzutti. The last I heard from Rocco, he had made Double A. Donnie and Stanley and I always said we would go see him play again but we never have. Now Donnie is off with his high lottery number working for the movement. I think he is in hiding, or as he and Rachel would say, “gone underground.” Stanley and I, with low lottery numbers, are coming out of college about to face induction into the military. Isn’t this the reverse of what should happen? Shouldn’t Stanley and I be the ones to go into hiding? At least Rocco has beaten the draft.

  After finishing the exam, I return to my apartment where I plan to call my parents to explain that there is nothing to celebrate and that I do not want to attend my graduation. But as soon as I get there, the telephone starts ringing. The way I am feeling, I half expect it to be the army telling me to report for duty.

  Close. It is my father telling me my draft notice has arrived. It is as if the military had been watching. I am almost surprised that they mailed the notice to my parents’ home rather than have someone outside the test room waiting for me.

  I think I should just refuse to go. That would be better than going and then refusing to fight. My father has a friend who can get me into the Army Reserve and then I wouldn’t have to go to Vietnam. But that would still be supporting the war, not resisting it. If you participate in the military in any way, you are participating in the war. The fact that I might manage to get an easier job for myself would not be opposing the war.

  Rachel says I should go in and “work for the movement” from within the army. According to her, I should try to get soldiers to rebel. Isn’t that how revolutions begin? Someone else tells me I should just tell the army that this is my plan, and then they won’t take me. Stanley insists that he has spoken to medical students and knows how to get medically rejected. But I don’t have anything wrong with me.

  My parents are angry that I won’t go into the reserves. “You’re just being stubborn,” my mother says. I argue that it is more complicated than that.

  My father insists, “There’s a right way and a wrong way to do these things. You can go into the reserves and stay away from the war and it will at least be legal. Once you do things that are not legal, you don’t stand for anything. You’re just a criminal. You could go to jail.”

  “I know that.”

  But finally he gives me his blessing down in the shelter, tuna in hand. He says, “I think it’s good to try for this exemption on moral grounds, as long as you accept that after you lose you will go in.”

  This did not make any sense but he was happy with it so I didn’t argue.

  My uncle cannot believe that anyone would just refuse to serve. He cannot even talk about it. I think he does not like the idea that he had a choice. The idea that war is “doing what you have to do” is very important to him.

  I am sitting on the swing in the backyard, the old battlefield where Donnie and Stanley and I formed our brotherhood. I wonder what happened to the Nazi hats and canteens and Stanley’s flag of surrender. Sam comes out with his slow bearlike walk. I can see he has something on his mind. He always does. All he says is, “Hi, Joel.”

  “Hi, Sam.”

  There is a long silence while Sam prepares what he wants to say and I wait for it.

  “Joel? The Army Reserve is a good spot. This is an outfit that will never be called up.”

  “I thought you were against the war?”

  “I am but … this will ruin your whole future.”

  “It will just shape it in a different way. I have no idea what my future is. But it is not killing Vietnamese people.”

  There is another long silence except that the crickets in the yard are very loud. Warm summer nights, the chirp of crickets—I keep remembering those summers with nothing to do but play war and baseball.

  “Joel, if you do this it will ruin my career. Joel, I want to go into politics.”

  He says this as though it is supposed to be surprising, but he has been in politics since he was in high school, and he is majoring in political science. Of course, so did Rachel and Donnie, but Sam is different.

  “I’m going to work for Senator McGovern. He’s going to run for president in 1972 and he’ll stop the war. His staff has promised me a full-time job when I graduate but they are not going to want the brother of a draft dodger.”

  “Why? He opposes the war.”

  “That’s why he can’t afford to be surrounded by draft dodgers. He was a combat veteran.”

  So even George McGovern disapproves?

  “It’s just his staff looking out for him. It’s not just that you’d be a draft dodger. You would be a felon. That would plague me my whole career.”

  I can’t help but think the whole reason Sam is planning out his career is that he got such a high lottery number he doesn’t even have to think about the draft. I think about Lester. Sam has put me in Lester’s shoes. If I don’t go it will ruin a career, although in my case it’s not even my career. I don’t like the idea of Sam being plagued his whole life by a decision I made. But to ignore what is right because it will be hard for your family—isn’t that being the German? Wasn’t that one of the standard excuses? Can I kill Vietnamese people because it would look best for my brother’s career?

  The only one who approves of my decision to outright refuse is Dickey Panicelli. He walks up to the fence between our yards and stares over at me, or into the night darkness, in silence, and after a few minutes says, “I wish to hell I had taken five fucking minutes to sit on a swing and think before I signed up. I bet I wouldn’t have done it.”

  I am to report to South Station in Boston and go by train to the induction center. What a funny word “induction” is. It sounds like being sucked into some kind of duct. We are all here to be inducted.

  Stanley is here too. He is sick because he has eaten ninety-two eggs in an attempt to raise his albumen count. No one knows exactly what albumen is, but it is in eggs and everyone says they won’t take you if you have too much of it. Looking at Stanley you would think too much albumen turns you green, but maybe that’s just the effect of too many eggs.

  Brian Sorenstag is talking with a ridiculous lisp that makes him sound like Elmer Fudd. He is hoping to convince the army that he is gay, though the gay people I know don’t sound anything like Elmer Fudd. Was that cartoon supposed to be about a gay guy?

  Everyone has something they are trying to do to get out. Everyone but Tony Scaratini. Tony stopped growing, so that he doesn’t look any bigger than the rest of us now. He is even a little on the small side. For a moment I think maybe he stopped growing when I hit him back in high school. He is already losing his hair and has a humble, stoop-shouldered posture. He’s very quiet and doesn’t try to speak to any of us; none of us were ever interested in speaking to him. But we are fairly quiet anyway, thinking about the possibility of going to war or reviewing a strategy for not going or, in Stanley’s case, feeling too sick to speak. But Brian Sorenstag is doing a lot of talking, practicing his Elmer Fudd accent.

  Rocco and Donnie are the only ones missing. They have found their ways out.

  It is a long and strange day of physical and psychological testing in a very large open space with rooms off to the side. Hundreds of men my age in various states of undress are being herded around by crisp humorless men in uniform. Being sheep is our introduction to military life. I try to fail everything but of course it doesn’t work because that too is not my destiny. They show two squares and a circle and ask which one doesn’t belong. Trying to sound earnest, I quickly respond, “Second square sir!”

  A psychiatrist asks me if I hav
e violent dreams. I say, “I think I am having one right now.” But that just comes off as a joke. I guess it does not sound at all deranged. If you want to sound crazy you would have to say you love war. Dickey sounded a lot crazier to me when he went off to war than when he came back.

  Anyone with a reasonable number of limbs, and, I suppose, the right albumen count, can pass this physical.

  By the end of the day I am a big step closer to Vietnam. I have been found mentally, intellectually, and physically suitable for killing Vietnamese people. Shows what they know.

  There are not many moments in life like this. This is the moment that everything in my life has led me to, the moment when I will finally face my war. And I know, without a twitch of hesitation, what to do. All day long a huge man in a khaki uniform, a sergeant, I think, has been shouting at us, sending us from station to station. He is a head taller than me, broad shouldered, and very fit-looking—probably a dangerous man to argue with. He has a red face and hair too short to guess at the color. Veins wander over his temples and you can see them pulsating when he shouts. He is exactly whom you would want for the crystallizing confrontation of your life.

  I march up to him—as close to marching as I’m ever going to come—and I say, “Sir, I think this war is completely immoral and I refuse to participate in the military in any way.”

  He stares down at me. The whites of his eyes are crisscrossed with red veins, making his blue eyes look even bluer. Suddenly he looks to me like a man near the end of a long workday. He rolls those eyes and in a bored singsong recites, “Conscientious objector, line three.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  My Hearing

  Line three is very long but it is moving quickly. When I get to the front a civilian asks me if I wish to apply to be a conscientious objector. By law a person cannot be forced to fight if he believes it is morally wrong. The trick is to convince the military that you genuinely believe it is wrong. The military seems to find it hard to believe that people would really feel that way. In the short time it takes me to get from the back to the front of the line I become so convinced this is the right course for me that I am wondering what I have been agonizing over all these years.

  I don’t believe in the war and I will not kill anyone because to kill someone for a war you don’t believe in would be a crime. I should just say so. If enough people said so it would be the end of the war. But though line three is long, it is not long enough to cause the war to stop. Looking around the induction center I see that they will still find enough new soldiers even without the people in line three. I am told that I can leave and that I will get a date for a hearing with my local draft board.

  The old Haley gang gets on the train for the trip back. Each in his own way, we are all trying not to go to Vietnam, and though none of us has been rejected, we all have hearings pending to decide our cases—except for Stanley, who has another physical scheduled to check his albumen levels. This means eating another ninety-two eggs, making Stanley the least happy person on the train. We are all telling our stories and explaining our next moves and telling jokes about the big sergeant—except Tony Scaratini, who is sitting in silence. He is on his way back to Haley to say good-bye to his family. He has joined the army. He didn’t even try to avoid it. We don’t know if he wants to go, if he believes in the war. He doesn’t say anything about it other than “They took me.” There are a lot of jokes about how Tony is the perfect person to send, but I wonder what will happen to him.

  I am waiting for my hearing date on being a conscientious objector. The more I think about the phrase, the more it sounds right. I object because of my conscience. But I do not expect to win. I am either going to prison or to Canada. Canada seems better. I go to Dorchester and talk to Myron again and he says that you can only get recognized as a conscientious objector on religious grounds. That works with some religions, such as the Quakers. But given the violence of the Old Testament, it is not going to be easy to make the case that Judaism is a peaceful religion. Myron says, “You have to convince them that this is how you interpret Judaism.”

  To be honest, which I am told I can’t be at my hearing, I have not spent a lot of time interpreting Judaism. But why do I think the way I do? It must have something to do with the way I was brought up. Any number of rabbis are available to help me prepare. These rabbis are all opposed to the war and want to help young men not go.

  I plan to begin my argument at the hearing with a statement about how old and complicated the Jewish religion is and how it is accepted practice that different people take different things from it. To me the most important item is the sixth commandment: thou shall not kill. It is wrong and I will not do it.

  I should stop right there. It’s absolutely sincere and I should leave it at that. But everybody says I need more, and so I have worked out a long and scholarly treatise about Abraham and the sacrifice of Isaac, and Jacob and Esau, and even casting the Maccabees in a bad light. If you don’t know what I am talking about that is because I don’t either. But I have worked out this talk with the rabbis and I hope the draft board will like it.

  This is my hearing. In a small room with one long table sit three men in herringbone sports jackets. Oddly, they all have on blue ties and white shirts. Is this a uniform? They look almost identical except one is losing his hair. He must be angry about that. He is clearly angry about something.

  I am seated across from them. They are the teachers. I am the student, being judged, graded. I feel as though I have been given a detention before I even begin.

  I open my lecture on the Jewish view of peace as expressed in the Old Testament. My argument sounds weak and they are just staring at me as if they are more interested in my clothes than in anything I am saying.

  The more they stare, the harder I try, and the harder I try, the worse I am getting. I wish they would interrupt. Then the angry one does, saying, “So, you’re Jewish?”

  Has he not been listening to me at all?

  I begin again. “I am, sir. And the Jewish religion has taught me—” I am beginning all over again and fortunately he interrupts me.

  “Would you fight the Nazis?”

  I start thinking of Karl, the German exchange student. Then a second one joins in. “Just what would you do about World War II?”

  The third one, looking interested for the first time, says, “You mean you wouldn’t try to stop the Nazis?”

  “I would,” I say. “But there are different ways to do this.” They aren’t listening.

  Nothing has changed over the course of my entire life. They still just want to talk about World War II, a discussion that continues until the hearing ends. Vietnam and the Vietnam War are never mentioned. I’ll bet all three of them are World War II veterans. They just want to talk about their war. I think I would have opposed their war too. But that is not what I came prepared to talk about. I wanted to talk about my war.

  There is nothing to do but wait for their letter.

  Part Three

  My Life

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Playing Darts

  I got turned down for conscientious objector status and then turned down again on my appeal. All this took so long that by the time I am leaving for Canada, I hear Tony Scaratini is already done with boot camp and has been deployed to Vietnam.

  I thought Rachel might drive me to Canada in her Mao-mobile. But she does not hesitate to show her disappointment that I haven’t joined the military for the movement. Furthermore, she explains that she can’t possibly cross the border because she is being watched by the government for her movement work. I am not sure at this point what that work is. I am no longer in her inner circle and I feel a reproach—she seems to feel that I can cross the border because I am so inconsequential. Our last meeting is a good-bye. It would have been good to have a girlfriend back in the States, coming to visit me, maybe even moving up with me. But there is no future for Rachel and me. I am going alone.

  I ask Donnie to take me in his
flowered van, a roomy transport to emigrate in. To my surprise he too complains of my running away instead of working for the movement from within the military.

  “Why don’t you do it?” I say.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, just because you have a high lottery number doesn’t stop you from volunteering.”

  He says nothing for a long minute and then says, “That is fantastic, Joel. That is exactly what I should do.” He starts talking very rapidly about all his ideas for organizing within the military and I am wondering if I have just accidentally sent one of my oldest friends to Vietnam. Finally I say, “So, are you going to drive me to Canada?”

  “No, man,” he says. “I’m not going near that border. Come join the army with me.”

  “Donnie, I am not joining the army.”

  “Well, I’m not going to Canada with you.”

  “I was just asking for a ride.”

  In the end Dickey drove me up in the big ’57 Chrysler we rebuilt together. Popeye wasn’t even talking to me, which is probably why Dickey wanted to drive me up. My mother looked like she might cry, but she didn’t. My father didn’t seem to understand. He had convinced himself that in the end I would go into the army because I had to. My brother felt betrayed.

  I looked around my parents’ house for things from this life that I could bring to my new one. I tried to find my piece of Montana jade but I couldn’t. I took my diary, which I hadn’t written in since high school. I might need a friend to talk to in Canada.

  I’ve decided to go to Toronto after all, even though the cookies cost more. They have more draft resisters there and more help for them. Toronto seems to be the place to start. They also have a good university with a graduate biology department, recommended by old Professor Moreland at Whiting. He seemed to be about the only person from college who was interested in helping me and he said he could get me into the biology department.