Battle Fatigue (13 page)

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.

The Chrysler has so much power Dickey has to struggle to keep the speed under ninety. He wears his green combat fatigues from Vietnam, which are not warm enough for Canada. I stick with my World War II fatigues, built for one of the coldest European winters on record and warm enough even for Canada.

I haven't thought about getting driving directions. I figured you just go north and then you're in Canada. But Dickey seems to know where he's going. He drives across the Peace Bridge. This time I cross over to the other side instead of standing on it in protest.

In Toronto at last, I feel sad saying good-bye to Dickey. We hug in our different-colored combat fatigues and I can feel that he is shivering. I go to an address listed in the
Manual for Draft-Age Immigrants to Canada.
There are a lot of people who want to help me here—Unitarians, Episcopalians, Jews, Canadians, Americans. They have a house where you can go for help and information. We all just call it “the House.” Down the street from the House is a bar, the Pub, where all the Americans go to drink, listen to music—Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Country Joe and the Fish—and play darts. I have never played darts before but after a while I start to get good. Some of these Americans at the Pub are draft dodgers like me. Some are veterans. Some, you can't tell why they are here. A few probably work for the FBI, keeping track of their departed citizens.

I am living in a small basement apartment on a nice tree-lined street in Toronto. It was a leafy street when I got here, but not anymore. The dreaded Canadian winter has set in but it doesn't seem any worse than a New England winter—except when the wind is blowing off the lake.

I'm allowed to work, but the only work I can find is through a temporary agency, which sends me one week to an office and the next to a construction site. I am used to this kind of work because, due to my draft status, I did the same sort of temporary work in the U.S. while waiting for my hearings. Once I was even on one of those television shows where they try to catch people looking stupid. I was sent to this office where helium balloons floated to the ceiling and I was supposed to chase them and get all flustered. But I could hear the TV crew behind a partition giving camera instructions and laughing. They seemed to think it was funny that I couldn't get a better job. They never ran the segment on television because I didn't chase the balloons, so it wasn't funny enough.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

A New Life

February 3, 1972

Dear Diary,

This idea that I had, that I would be alone, writing my thoughts in a diary, has not turned out to be true. I think this will be my final entry.

Through Professor Morehead I was able to get into a graduate program with Arthur M. Cantwell, one of the leading authorities on wolves in North America. Next summer I will be going on a wolf study program with Cantwell in western Ontario.

I am excited about the program since Cantwell knows more about wolves than anyone alive. But I am also excited because Hillary Freeman is in the program and going with me for the summer. Hillary is a very fit blond woman who, dressed in blue jeans and flannels, looks like the westerner she is. She comes from the mountains in Alberta. It was clear to me the day I met her that she is also brilliant. I soon realized that everybody in the biology department knew Hillary was brilliant. Hillary does not really care that I am an American draft dodger. She thinks everyone should be a draft dodger and that it is the only sensible position but she doesn't really talk about it very much. What she likes to talk about is wolves. We are both fascinated by their intricate society, how attached they are to the pack, how many rules there are, and how many different roles for different wolves there are within the pack.

To me, wolves are much like the Vietnamese people. Maybe human conflicts are part of the natural order just like Moreland said. Wolves are despised creatures. They are said to be violent and cruel. Ferocious hunters, they work in packs, some hamstringing the legs of the prey while another rips its throat. But they only kill for food or for survival and are otherwise very affectionate animals, closely related to dogs. It is the human beings who kill without reason. They have killed so many wolves in the U.S. that the wolf could face extinction. Humans justify this by telling stories of the vicious wolf—the schoolteacher torn open, the rancher ripped apart, the children dragged away.

In truth, there is not one documented case of a wolf attacking a human in North America. They do not see people as food, so they do not attack them. Why do people keep telling these stories? Of course it is to create an excuse to kill these animals that they do not even like to eat. So the real question is: Why do people kill wolves?

Hillary and I can spend long evenings discussing this round and round—what it means and what it teaches us about ourselves. All of this has great meaning because it gets at the nature of human beings and at the roots of their violence, which is something I want to understand. And having this beautiful and brilliant woman to study with is making me see a pathway to a good life.

I have written my parents about Hillary and my mother is very happy. Just between you and me, Diary, Mom is happy because she confuses the name “Freeman” with “Friedman” and thinks that Hillary is Jewish, which she certainly isn't. Mom keeps asking for a photograph and I don't send one because she would see Hillary's blond, western looks and instantly realize the truth. But I haven't given Mom much to be happy about so I am going to let this deception go on just a little longer.

I feel that I have finally found my life and maybe that was the purpose of this journal—and so the diary is ending.

Joel