Nat buttered a second piece of toast and for a moment considered whether a reconciliation was still possible, but quickly returned to the real world. After all, he still planned to go on to Yale just as soon as he’d completed his first year.
Finally Nat turned his attention to the brown envelope and decided he would drop his monthly cheque off at the bank before his first lecture — unlike some of his fellow students, he couldn’t afford to leave banking his meagre funds until the last moment. He slit open the envelope, and was surprised to find that there was no cheque enclosed, just a letter. He unfolded the single sheet of paper, and stared at the contents in disbelief.
Nat placed the letter on the table in front of him, and considered its consequences. He accepted that the draft was a lottery, and his number had come up. Was it morally right to apply for an exemption simply because he was a student, or should he, as his old man had done in 1942, sign up and serve his country? His father had spent two years in Europe with the Eightieth Division before returning home with the Purple Heart. Over twenty-five years later he felt just as strongly that America should be playing a role in Vietnam. Did such sentiments apply only to those uneducated Americans who were given little choice?
Nat immediately phoned home, and was not surprised when his parents had one of their rare disagreements on the subject. His mother was in no doubt that he should complete his degree, and then reconsider his position; the war could be over by then. Hadn’t President Johnson promised as much during the election campaign? His father, on the other hand, felt that though it might have been an unlucky break, it was nothing less than Nat’s duty to answer the call. If everyone decided to burn their draft card, a state of anarchy would prevail, was his father’s final word on the subject.
He next phoned Tom at Yale to find out if he’d received a draft notice.
‘Yes I have,’ said Tom.
‘Did you burn it?’ Nat asked.
‘No, I didn’t go that far, though I know several students who have.’
‘Does that mean you’re going to sign up?’
‘No, I don’t have your moral fibre, Nat. I’m going to take the legal route. My father’s found a lawyer in Washington who specializes in exemption, and he’s pretty confident he can get me deferred, at least until I’ve graduated.’
‘What about that guy who ran against you for freshman rep and felt so strongly about America’s responsibility to those “who wished to participate in democracy” — what decision has he come to?’ asked Nat.
‘I’ve no idea,’ said Tom, ‘but if his name comes up in the ballot, you’ll probably meet up with him in the front line.’
As each month passed, and no buff envelope appeared in his mail slot, Fletcher began to believe that he had been among the fortunate ones that hadn’t made the ballot. However, he had already decided what his reply would be should the slim brown envelope appear.
When Jimmy was called up, he immediately consulted his father, who advised him to apply for an exemption while he was still an undergraduate, but to make it clear that he would be willing to reconsider his position in three years’ time. He also reminded Jimmy that by then there might well be a new president, new legislation and a strong possibility that Americans would no longer be in Vietnam. Jimmy took his father’s advice, and was outspoken when he discussed the moral issue with Fletcher.
‘I have no intention of risking my life against a bunch of Vietcong, who will, in the end, succumb to capitalism, even if they fail in the short term to respond to military superiority.’
Annie agreed with her brother’s views, and was relieved that Fletcher hadn’t received a draft notice. She wasn’t in any doubt how he would respond.
On 5 January 1967 Nat reported to his local draft board.
After a rigorous medical examination, he was interviewed by a Major Willis. The major was impressed; Cartwright scored ninety-two per cent in his pre-induction physical, having spent a morning with young men who came up with a hundred different reasons why he should find them medically unfit to serve. In the afternoon, Nat sat the General Classification Test, and scored ninety-seven per cent.
The following night, along with fifty other inductees, Nat boarded a bus destined for New Jersey. During the slow, interminable journey across the state lines, Nat toyed with little plastic trays of food that made up his boxed lunch, before falling into a fitful sleep.
The bus finally came to a halt at Fort Dix in the early hours of the morning. The would, and would not be, soldiers off-loaded to be greeted by the yells of troop handlers. They were quickly billeted in prefabricated huts, and then allowed to sleep for a couple of hours.
The following morning, Nat rose — he had no choice — at five, and after being given a ‘buzz cut’, was issued with fatigues. All fifty new recruits were then ordered to write a letter to their parents, while at the same time returning every item of civilian origin to their home of record.
During the day, Nat was interviewed by Specialist Fourth Class Jackson, who, having checked through his papers, had only one question, ‘You do realize, Cartwright, that you could have applied for exemption?’
‘Yes, I do, sir.’
Specialist Jackson raised an eyebrow. ‘And having taken advice, you made the decision not to?’
‘I didn’t need to take advice, sir.’
‘Good, then just as soon as you’ve completed your basic training, Private Cartwright, I’m sure you’ll want to apply for officer cadet school.’ He paused. ‘About two in fifty make it, so don’t get your hopes up. By the way,’ he added, ‘you don’t call me sir. Specialist 4th Class will be just fine.’
After years of cross-country running Nat considered himself in good shape, but he quickly discovered that the army had a totally different meaning for the word, not fully explained in Webster’s. And as for the other word — basic — everything was basic: the food, the clothing, the heating, and especially the bed he was expected to sleep on. Nat could only assume that the army were importing their mattresses direct from North Vietnam, so that they could experience the same hardship as the enemy.
For the next eight weeks Nat rose every morning at five, took a cold shower — heat simply didn’t exist in army parlance — was dressed, fed and had his clothes neatly folded on the end of the bed before standing to attention on the parade ground by six a.m. along with all the other members of Second Platoon Alpha Company.
The first person to address him each morning was Drill Sergeant Al Quamo, who always looked so smart that Nat assumed he must have risen at four to press his uniform. And if Nat attempted to speak to anyone else during the next fourteen hours, Quamo wanted to know who and why. The drill sergeant was the same height as Nat, and there the resemblance ended. Nat never stood still long enough to count the sergeant’s medals. ‘I’m your mother, your father, and your closest friend,’ he bellowed at the top of his voice. ‘Do you hear me?’
‘Yes, sir,’ shouted back thirty-six raw recruits from the Second Platoon. ‘You’re my mother, my father and my closest friend.’