Read Michael Thomas Ford - Full Circle Online
Authors: Michael Thomas Ford
Michael Thomas Ford - Full Circle (22 page)
The question was how. The immediate and obvious answer was to, like Kerouac, take myself on an adventure. But I dismissed that as impractical and, worse, uninteresting. Many of my peers were already following the call of the counterculture, dropping out and going in search of the truth. I'd seen some of the results, and had been less than impressed. I wanted to go in a different direction from them, down a road where I would, for once, be required to expose who I really was as a man, and as a human. I needed a testing ground, free of safety nets and certainties, where my choices would really matter. In the outcome of those choices, I firmly believed, I would finally discover who I was. When the answer came to me, I felt as Sartre had, blasted by lightning. I would go to Vietnam. I knew it was a ridiculous idea, but I knew also that it was what I would do. War had long been a place for young men to prove themselves, and I had much to prove. Also, I had been thinking a lot about the war, and what it meant, trying to see beyond the protests and flag-waving on both sides to what it was really about. If, as Dylan and so many others said, we were in Vietnam to save its people from the threat of Communism, wasn't that a noble thing? And if that was true, wasn't it my duty to aid in the fight? I quickly turned my decision into a noble undertaking, brushing aside all reasonable arguments against its worthiness and latching on to the notion that I was doing something important. If nothing else, I argued, I would see the arguments of the philosophers played out in real life. There would be two sides, each believing itself to be correct, and the outcome would show who was right. Those of us engaged in the war of our own free will would be making choices based on these beliefs, living them on a daily basis instead of sitting in ivory towers debating them in hypothetical terms. Energized and excited more than ever in my life, I gathered up my belongings and ran from the library out into the blizzard. Heedless of the cold, I dashed across campus to Pinchot Hall. I felt the need to tell somebody of my plans, to make them real by giving them voice. My parents were the obvious choice, but also the one I couldn't make. I knew that my mother at least would try to talk me out of it, and although I recognized that it was cowardice on my part, I'd decided not to tell my family until I'd already enlisted. There was Jack, but he, too, was not an option. For one thing, I didn't want him to think that I was doing this because of him. For another, I had only his address at Wesley, and writing a letter would defeat the point of immediate action.
That left only Andy. Although our relationship had cooled somewhat, at least on my part, I still considered him a friend. I acknowledged, too, that I wanted to impress him, if only to use his admiration as further proof that I was doing the right thing, or perhaps as incentive to not back down should I later have doubts. He would, I knew, be in favor of my decision. I decided that he would be the first to know. Chaz answered the door when I knocked, nodding brusquely and turning back to Andy, who was standing by his bed, stuffing clothes into a bag.
"And another thing," Chaz said, apparently taking up a conversation I'd interrupted with my visit, "Angela Davis says Vietnam is a war against poor people."
"Angela Davis is a Communist," said Andy. "Of course she'd be against Vietnam."
"She's also a professor of philosophy," Chaz countered.
"Was," said Andy. "Didn't UCLA fire her ass last year when they found out she was a Red?" "Yeah, but they had to rehire her," Chaz said. "They can't get away with trying to hide the truth." "The truth," Andy said, snorting. "What the fuck does Angela Davis know about the truth?" "A lot more than your motherfucking ass does," Chaz shot back.
"But what the fuck do I care. Go on and get your white ass killed fighting for the man." "What's going on?" I asked.
Chaz jerked his thumb at Andy. "Stupid motherfucker went and signed up," he told me. "Signed up?" I repeated.
"For the army," Andy clarified. "I enlisted this afternoon. I'm not just going to sit "
"You, too, what?" Andy said as he continued to pack his bag.
"Enlisted," I said. "I mean, I'm going to. Tomorrow."
Chaz was shaking his head. "You guys think you're going to be heroes? Is that it? Well, guess what, you're not. You're just going to go fuck up the lives of a bunch of people who don't want you there. Probably end up dead while you're doing it."
He flopped onto his bed and picked up a book. I stood in the doorway, watching Andy and quickly losing my enthusiasm for the plan that had seemed so perfect only minutes before. He'd reacted to my news with only the slightest enthusiasm, nothing at all like the reception I'd expected. Chaz was simply dismissive. What I'd seen as a grand gesture, the beginning of my life as a person who was finally living for himself, was instead taking on an air of unimportance, as if I'd announced that I would be having spaghetti for dinner.
Still, I had to go through with it. I'd said out loud that I would. More important, I'd told myself that I would. I couldn't go back now. Not only would I look foolish to Andy and Chaz, I would look foolish to myself. If I didn't enlist, I knew that for the rest of my life I would feel the shame of not following through on the first major decision I'd made on my own.
I put the card in the pocket of my jeans and turned to leave.
"Don't forget to ask if we can be in the same group," Andy reminded me.
"Right," I said. "I won't."
I left Andy to his packing and went back to my room, which now seemed colder than ever before. Sitting on my bed, I took out the recruiter's card and looked at it again. Would I really go talk to Sergeant Vaughan in the morning, or would I throw his card away and go about my normal schedule? Earlier in the evening, the choice had been clear. Now, with Andy already a step ahead of me on the path I thought I was blazing, I hesitated. Would the power of my action be diminished by his having gone first? Would I once more be assigning myself to a minor role while he assumed the spotlight? I thought about something Camus had written, and which formed the basis of much of existentialist thought, about how we are the sum of the choices we make. I was facing a choice, and whichever way I decided to go, I would be affecting my sum, either increasing or decreasing it. In the end, I wondered, what would I add up to? And which choice would result in a positive tally? I went to bed still undecided, hoping that I would wake up with an answer.
A sign at the entrance to New Jersey's Fort Dix proudly proclaims it to be the HOME OF THE ULTIMATE WEAPON . New recruits and draftees, passing through the gate as they arrive for Basic Combat Training, cannot help but see it and realize that it is both a promise and a challenge. A soldier's performance during the next ten weeks will ultimately determine whether the prophesy is fulfilled, but the expectation, from that first glimpse of the base from a bus or car window, is that the men who enter will come out machines of war.
On the day that Andy and I passed that sign for the first time, February 4, 1970, it was covered in snow, the words obscured. All of Fort Dix was, in fact, hidden by the snow, which blew across the roads in sweeping sheets and covered the buildings, turning them into gingerbread cottages complete with smoke rising from their chimneys. The effect was deceiving, as our time there could hardly be considered a fairy tale. Any illusions we might have held about the army experience were wiped away the moment we stepped off the bus into a frozen world whose bitter cold instilled itself in our bones, where it would remain until the heat of Southeast Asia began, at last, to bring about a thaw some months later. Our induction had been surprisingly swift, the army's relief at finding willing reinforcements on their doorstep greasing the notoriously slow-grinding gears of bureaucracy. I'd reported to the recruiting center on Friday, and by Monday the battery of required tests had been completed and everything was in order. Still reeling from my decision, I'd packed up my belongings, informed a surprised clerk in the student office that I was dropping out, and driven home to face my parents before I could even entertain second thoughts about having signed the forms the delighted recruiter had placed before me. The reaction my news elicited from my mother was unsurprising, but nonetheless difficult to take. At first disbelieving, she had accused me of playing an elaborate practical joke on her, refusing to accept that I had actually enlisted until I showed her the forms with their official-looking stamps and seals and signatures. Then her mood had switched, almost instantly, to one of anger and fear. Many tears were shed and accusations of familial disloyalty hurled, first at me and then at my father, who stood mutely by, not knowing how to comfort a woman who was convinced her son had just committed suicide. Finally, he had simply let her cry herself out until, weary with unhappiness, she had consented to being led to the bedroom, where she remained until Tuesday evening. When she reappeared, she had the faraway look of someone grieving for a lost loved one. And when she turned her eyes in my direction, it seemed she looked through me, as through a ghost.
My father admitted to me that he had given her several Valium, prescribed to him by his physician as a sleep aid several months before when he'd complained about insomnia. My mother would later develop a dependency on them and other pharmaceuticals provided to soothe her steadily-unraveling nerves, sliding pill by pill into a dreary suburban take on Valley of the Dolls , complete with bouts of hysteria and paranoia. But for those few days I was thankful to have help in dealing with her anxieties. I had enough of my own, not the least of which was debating whether or not to tell Jack what I was doing. Ultimately, I let the day run out without phoning him, and on Wednesday morning rode with my parents to the recruiting center in Philadelphia. There I met Andy and his grandparents, who had gotten up well before dawn to make the six-hour drive across Pennsylvania. They were inside, along with the other new recruits and their families, enjoying the coffee and doughnuts set out by the army representatives there to greet us. My father shook hands with Andy and his grandfather, who nodded silently while his wife and my mother exchanged looks of mutual commiseration.
Andy was ready and anxious to go, and when finally our names were called out and our assigned bus indicated, he gave his grandparents swift good-byes and headed for the door. I took a bit longer, embracing my mother and saying, "I love you. Don't worry, I'll be okay." She smiled nervously and blinked back tears while my father, speaking for both of them, said, "We're proud of you, Ned."
I joined Andy in the line for the bus, looking back only once and waving as I stepped aboard. We took our seats, and I surveyed the other men as they filed on. Most seemed to be my age, and I wondered how many of them were there voluntarily and how many only because they'd been unfortunate enough to have been born on September the 14th or one of the other first-picked days. However they'd come to be there, we were now all heading for the same place, and by the pensive looks on the faces of those around me, we were all uneasy about what the future held.
Except for Andy, who tapped his hands on his knees and whistled, as if the rest of us were holding up his plans for the day. "Let's get this baby rolling," he said to no one in particular. It took about an hour and a half to travel the forty miles between Philadelphia and Wrightstown, our progress slowed by the snow. The entire time, the bus was almost completely silent. Even seatmates refrained from conversation, as if we were in church and our voices would disturb the saints and God. Those seated beside windows looked out them, while those on the aisle looked straight ahead or down at the floor. A few slept, their heads cocked to one side or another, jerking awake whenever the bus lurched or they came near to tipping over.
No one can prepare you for your first encounter with the army. From the moment you step off the bus and your feet touch the ground, you're reminded that your life is no longer your own. The military's recent ad campaign highlighting the power of the individual notwithstanding, the army is by necessity one unit comprised of millions. Comparisons to an ant colony or a beehive are obvious, but appropriate. Designed for function, the army requires its working parts to operate smoothly, without deviation from their assigned purpose and with absolute devotion to the work of the whole.
From the outset, that which makes you unique is stripped away, beginning with your name. The first thing I learned during my initial minutes at Fort Dix was that I was no longer Edward Canton Brummel, nor even Ned. I was Private Brummel. Even my surname was unimportant, as I would be expected to answer to any order given to the generic "private," assuming myself at all times to be part of the group. All of this was explained to me, loudly, by a sergeant whose face, red when he began his introductions, grew progressively redder as both his voice and aura of menace increased. Lined up in the snow, we did our best to act like the soldiers we were supposed to be as the sergeant moved from man to man, asking each of us why we were standing before him. Afraid to turn my head to see who was speaking, I heard only disembodied voices as men blurted out their reasons. "I was drafted, sir." "Because my father fought in Korea, sir." "It's my duty, sir."
I doubted that telling the sergeant that I was there because of a revelation received from a French existentialist philosopher would place me in high regard, either with him or my fellow recruits, so as I awaited my turn to answer, I tried to think of a more suitable reply. It did not occur to me to lie, and as my father had never served in the military, that was not an option. Nor could I honestly say that I felt it was my duty or obligation. Finding my options severely limited, I grew increasingly anxious as the men to my right grew fewer in number and my moment with the sergeant loomed. He reached Andy, who stood to my right, and I heard my friend say, "I'm here to kill the Commie gooks, sir."
