Welch, West Virginia, December 1st, 1969
I never was able to afford glasses, so John stood up front by the T.V. and called out the numbers as they came rolling in. Mama had told me about how when she was young she didn’t have the luxury of electricity, let alone being able to afford a radio or glasses. This changed with FDR’S policy from when Mama was a girl and had brought electricity to almost 300,000 little Appalachian communities by now. He was revered as a saint by most of the people down here.
Those men in suits off in Washington had my fate in their hands but their fingers didn’t even tremble as they drew the birthday capsules from the bin. I didn’t own a T.V. set, so we’d all gathered at the big house on the end of the street. The Wilkinson's, whose house we were all huddled in, were the wealthiest in the town. They had a television, running water, and always had enough to eat. Mr. Wilkinson was the head foreman of the mine a few miles down the road, the one where I spent my days working and unearthing coal for less than enough to live.
Women were crying in the corner of the room. Everyone around me had been getting engaged, planning summer weddings, and I look over to Annie in the corner who’s biting her fingernails and fiddling with the edges of her dress.
“Annie, baby, it’ll be ok.” I walk over to her, reaching out to hold her hand. The tips of her fingers were warmer than they ought to have been, but mine were ice cold. Annie was nervous, of course, we’d been planning our wedding for weeks now.
I’ve been holding my breath every time I hear January, praying they don’t mention the 15th.
“Number 10 is December 6th,” John calls out. Suddenly, someone starts wailing out like a wounded animal. I look over, and my neighbor's wife, Leslie, wraps her arms around him.
“They’re takin’ my baby,” she says, burying her face into him. He isn’t reacting. She’s all over him, sobbing so hard I’d bet that she’ll have no voice by tomorrow, but he just stands there. She’s screaming in a way that you’d think they told her he was as good as dead. This being the first round of the draft and all, we didn’t know anything for sure, but we knew too many of the men who went off never came back.
“BAM!” I whip my neck around, and by instinct one hand moves to cover my head and the other to cover Annie’s. There’s a crack running through the middle of the television set.
The Bible is lying on the floor in front of the cracked television, but the man on the screen keeps reading numbers. John heaves in the corner, his hands now shaking.
The TV blares on but everyone stares in horror at the floor, but no one dares to speak up. It’s uncomfortably silent. The entire room is numb.
Annie looks up at me.
“Peter?” she whispers, but I shake my head.
“They haven’t said anything yet,” I say. Annie holds a cross in her palms so tight that there’s a red imprint on her fingertips. I know her eye sight isn’t all that good either, so looking at the TV would be hopeless to her anyways. Eye sight wasn’t so important to me though, I’d dropped out at 14 to work the farm, like most of the men in here. At 18, I got a job at the Wilkinson’s mine.
“Number 17,” John calls out, the room falling silent. “January 15th.”
Annie breaks out into sobs.
I get out of the room as fast as I can and exit the front door.
I run straight to the backyard, full of dead trees and plants without any fruit. I can barely hold it in until I get to the side of the yard, and I vomit into the dead bushes and bramble. I continue to heave, trying not to let more bile rise up out of my stomach. Crying out loud and cursing, I turn around. There stands Annie, torn dress and all.
I’m angry. I don’t want to be. I don’t want to be angry at her, but there’s nothing I can do. I need to toss this blame to something. I need to say something awful.
“I think maybe we should stop savin’ for the wedding.” I say, refusing to look into her eyes, while I wipe my mouth on my sleeve.
Her face wrinkles, and she shakes her head.
“You don’t wanna marry me anymore, Peter?” She sounds genuinely heartbroken, and her voice shakes as she asks.
I sigh.
“Of course I wanna marry you, Annie. But this war-”
“Then stop.” She says, cutting me off. “Don’t talk like that.” She reaches for me and presses her cross into my hands. “Take this with you.” She says. “The draft board isn’t too far from here. Maybe they’ll find somethin’, and they’ll tell you to come on back home before they ship you off.”
“Annie-”
“What if we elope? What if we get married right now and then I wind up pregnant so they can’t send you off. I heard some rumors of women talking about exemptions, saying that a young married man with a baby on the way wouldn’t get sent over to ‘Nam.”
“It’s too soon, baby. I’ve gotta report for my physical in less than a month.”
“Who told you that?” Annie asks, shaking her head, looking almost like she was praying, with her eyes closed and her head tilted down, as if she was already up by the chancel.
“That’s what Mr. Wilkinson told me, before the draft came on T.V.. He told us men that, to let us know how urgent it all is.”
Annie sighs, as if she realizes there's nothing to do.
“I’ve got a bit of time before I have to leave,” I say.
I take a deep breath, and pull two cigarettes out of my pocket, lighting Annie’s first.
Park Avenue, New York, December 1st, 1969
The apartment overlooked the park so at least I had a way to distract myself from the TV, which was fixed into a large wooden console. I didn’t know what the wood was, it might've been mahogany, it was a very deep color.
“William, don’t be so nervous,” my father says from his leather chair in the corner. “It’ll all figure itself out. I don’t need you over there sweating like a pig. You’re next in line to inherit the business. You’re not going to go off to war.”
“Father, it doesn’t matter what I’m in line for. It’s a draft, if my birthday is unlucky there’s nothing I can do.”
“Calm down a little bit,” my father says, chuckling slightly. He walks over to the dry bar, and pours straight whiskey into a glass, with its crystal catching the reflection of the roaring fire. It was elegant, that fireplace, but useful too. Very warm. This winter has been unrelenting. I tried not to think about the fact that he always takes his whiskey straight when he’s nervous. Last time I saw him do that, it had been after one of his deals fell through. “We’ll figure it out, no matter what. You think your mother’s letting her baby go off to war? By God I’d never hear the end of it with her if you had to spend Christmas in Vietnam.” He pours more whiskey, sipping it slowly.
“Father-”
“There’s also some gala next month--that Rockefeller girl’s father is hosting and your mother wants to set you two up.”
My father looks down at The Wall Street Journal, while the T.V. continues to play in the background. Bonanza had been playing on the channel before all Americans had to tune into the draft.
“What happens if they say January 15th?” I ask, trying to peel my father’s eyes off his paper. He sips his whiskey and only looks up for a second.
“I’ll write a check.”
“To who?”
“Don’t worry about it son. You’re not going to Vietnam.”
The T.V. keeps rolling.
“Number 17. January 15th.” The announcer calls.
My father looks up suddenly, throwing down the paper.
“Where’s the phone?” He asks, moving quickly to the door of the parlor. “Where’s your mother, William? Fetch me my checkbook, right now. Where did you leave the goddamn phone? Damnit!”
He’s panicking.
“What happened to you having it under control?” I ask, his franticness spreading like wildfire.
“I’ll have it under control when you fetch me the damn phone!”
I move to the corner of the room, where the phone is plugged into the wall behind the bookshelf, and my father asks me what kind of fool would leave it there, but I can’t formulate an answer.
“Father-” before I can even get my sentence out, he snatches it out of my hands and disappears down the hallway.
The door shuts behind him.
Welch, West Virginia, December, 15th, 1969
The note had come in the mail days ago. And now, here I was, hitching a ride in the Wilkinson's truck with some other men nearby, ready to arrive at the military facility. I looked forward, never down.
Annie had been hysterical when I left.
She was sobbing when that letter came. As soon as she’d seen it on the kitchen table, she’d picked up the glass next to it and slammed it against the table until it was shattered on the floor, and I even had to hold her hands back to keep her from ripping up the letter.
“You’re in fightin’ shape,” she’d whispered to me, while they waited to round me up into the truck. “They’re gonna put you in there, send you down to the battlefield and there’s nothing I can do about it.”
“Annie, baby, it’s my duty. I gotta go. I need to make sure every goddamn commie is so far into the dirt he can’t even hear the crickets.”
She said nothing. “I love you, but it’s my responsibility to fight for my country. I’ll be on the battlefield thinking of you, fighting for you.”
“That doesn’t bring me any kinda comfort. I don’t want you to die, even if it’s for me, for us.”
Mr. Wilkinson called out for all the men to get up into the truck.
I’d given her a kiss goodbye, but I haven’t been able to look her in the eye since I piled into the back of the truck.
“I heard they’re not gonna take all of us,” one of the other men in the truck who works down at the mine with me, Jimmy, whispers,
I look down at him, and see a letter in his hands.
“What’s that?” I ask, gesturing to the paper.
“I’ve got a high blood pressure,” Jimmy says, “and it’s somethin’ also about my bad knee. Says that maybe that’ll help get me out of it.”
I couldn’t help but judge him in the back of my mind. Of course no one wants to go fight in the war, but what right do we have to get out of it?
“Do you have one of these?” He asks, waving around his paper.
“I ain’t tryin to get one.” I say, somewhat coldly.
“Yeah?” Jimmy asks, “you proud to go die in Nam’?”
“It ain’t that simple," I say, turning my head away.
Most of the rest of that drive was silent, but it was silent in a threatening way, not silent like snowfall on Christmas Eve.
Once we were at the facility, the men started to load off.
We’d all gotten the Pre-Induction Notices, telling us all to show up for a physical, in order to determine if we were fit enough to move onto basic, and from what I’d heard, before basic, you had another physical.
As we march up into the building, which had sealed windows and chipping clapboard, someone in the back of the crowd starts to sing, loud enough for the Military Police standing by the entrance to hear.
“Come all of you good workers/
Good news to you I'll tell/
Of how the good ol' union/
Has come in here to dwell”
Many other men in the crowds join in, even men I’ve never seen before.
There were swarms of people piling into the building, must’ve been almost every town within 20 miles.
“Which side are you on?/
Which side are you on?” They all sing.
I look down at my feet, and I can’t help but mumble under my breath.
“My daddy was a miner/
And I'm a miner's son/
And I'll stick with the union/
'Til every battle's won.”
“Quit your singin’!” The man by the doors barked. “Fall into line! The army ain’t got time for your playin’ around! Follow my directions, or by God, I’ll make sure you get sent to Saigon!”
Everyone becomes silent suddenly. He points to the doors and we fall into line, walking in silently and slowly.
The induction center is decorated for Christmas, with garlands and wreaths and trees strung up with tinsel covering the cinderblock walls and the dull yellow linoleum floors.
There’s a baby Jesus sitting next to the door into the office, the door that felt like a death trap. The door that men never exited the same.
I sit in one of the unstable plastic chairs near the door. I'm lucky to get one, even if it’s about to give out under my weight. There are men leaning up against the wall, stretched out on the floor, and pressing their ears to the door to see if they can hear what the doctors are saying.
A man in a white coat and little glasses comes out and calls the first name, and a scrawny looking boy stands up off the floor.
He can’t be more than 18, about 6 foot and 140 pounds, on the generous side. He’s got this fiery red hair and he’s covered in freckles, just like Annie.
“Present,” he replies, walking towards the doctor. As he passes me, I can see the baggy clothes looking like they’re about to fall off of him, and his long, lanky arms bringing his cracked hands to the doorknob.
If he gets drafted, at least they’ll fatten that boy up, or he’ll die building muscle.
“No note?” A man asks, sitting on the floor next to me. “I’ve got plenty. I’ve got somethin’ about my bad hearing. I was shot too, when I was young, you see, by a BB gun. It never quite healed right, and I got a scar on my arm.”
“You think a scar’s gonna get you outta this?” I ask him.
“Better than nothin’,” he says. “I’ve got a young bride at home, with a baby on the way. She’s just turned 18, you see, and I’m only 19. I’m gonna be a dad, and she needs me to pay the bills and raise the baby up right with her. I ain’t gonna be no use to anyone over in Vietnam.”
“Really?” I asked. “My girl told me if you’re a married man whose wife is with child, you’re outta the running.”
The man sitting next to me shook his head.
“That’s a really wonderful rumor,” he said, “and I’ve heard it too.”
He pauses for a second.
“And it’s complete bullshit. They got rid of that in ‘65.”
“We gotta give ya’ll waitin’ out here a written test,” a man said, emerging from the room. “And don’t you try to fail it,” he said. “We’ll keep you here until you pass.”
The test is not difficult. Even if you couldn’t read you wouldn’t have an excuse to fail this. The questions were multiple choice, and you’d have to be trying to get these wrong.
Small most nearly means:
A. sturdy
B. round
C. cheap
D. little
I stared at the first question for a moment, wondering what excuse anyone would have to fail this.
Once they collected the tests, the guard spoke up again.
“The following need to go into that room!” He said, pointing to the door that the redhead had disappeared behind.
With a blur of names, I heard it.
“Peter Brown-”
But all I could hear after that was my own heartbeat.
I stood up, mechanically, following the slew of boys into the locker room. At 19, I looked to be older than most of the boys here.
We were rounded up like cattle. Tallest boys to the end, shortest by the door. I would like to say it felt like a locker room, but it was more like a slaughterhouse.
“Strip!” The officer yelled, while boys were still marching in. “You keep your underwear, your socks, and your leather shoes!”
Dozens of boys stood in their underwear, trying not to wobble over while taking their pants off and cursing when the army man was out of earshot.
“March on into the other room! The doctors will evaluate you.”
Park Avenue, New York, December 15th, 1969
It was snowing outside, and and the record player spun Sinatra’s A Jolly Christmas From Frank Sinatra. My father had constantly been on calls since the draft lottery, and part of me wondered if he’d march himself down to Washington to tell Nixon himself that I wasn’t going over to Vietnam.
I didn’t know who my father would call, or who he would turn to, but I did know he’d been a Harvard man with Henry Kissinger back in the day. He was about two years older than Kissinger, but they’d lived together for a few semesters after meeting at some party and becoming close friends, and always recommended each other for work and internships. They had a mutual understanding of sorts, so I figured whatever they had to do, it would be done. I also knew he called in favors to my father’s coal mining company sometimes. My father owned about half the mines in America.
My mother walked into the living room, and sat down next to me, looking over at me lamenting over the roaring fire.
“William,” she said, putting a hand on my knee, “you’re freezing.” She stands up suddenly, unwrapping her scarf from around her neck and putting it on my lap. It’s a delicate scarf, a Pierre Cardin my father had gotten her when we were in Paris last month, and it’s heavily perfumed.
“Your father has been on the phone all day,” she says.
She pauses for a moment, looking like she’s itching to say something, but in a truly dignified manner, she stays restrained.
“I don't know what’s going to happen.” Her voice quivers, and she won’t meet my eyes. She looks over to my high school diploma, which is framed by the fire on the darkly painted wall.
Some part of her restraint must’ve snapped suddenly, because she jumps up and wraps her arms around me, holding my head as if I was an infant, unable to support it myself.
“You’re not going to Vietnam, William.” She says, looking down at her shaky hands. “I’ll go down there and wield one of those machine guns if I have to, I’ll take your place. I’m not letting you go to Vietnam.” She moves over to me, her arms outstretched.
She’s clinging to me now, grasping at me, saying again and again that she’s not letting her baby go to Vietnam.
“You’re 19,” she says. “You’re a baby. You haven’t even been alive two decades yet. I’m old. I’ve done my time. Better me than you.”
“Stop it mother,” I say, shaking my head, “don’t talk like that. Don’t say that. You think that I’d let you go to Vietnam? You’re my mother! I have to protect you.”
“No,” she says, shaking her head.
“I’m your mother, I have to protect you. You’re my baby.”
“It’s ok,” I say, “it’ll all work out.”
My mother starts to stand back up, sniffling a bit and dabbing at her eyes with her sleeve.
“Why don’t we go have a coffee?” My mother asks, gesturing to the parlor.
I nod and follow her in, and she calls to our maid, Lisa, to brew a fresh pot. We sit on the upholstered chairs, and my mother keeps watch on the door.
“I’m just finding it impossible to stay still or stay busy with all this waiting."
I nod my head and look down at the chairs, covered in a busy flower pattern, and I distract myself by trying to count them.
“Coffee?”
Lisa walks in, pouring the coffee from the silver carafe into china cups she’d placed on the mahogany table.
The snow outside is getting worse, and I worry about my father coming home.
“It’s really coming down out there,” my mother says, standing up to look out the window.
I join her, bringing both our coffee cups.
“You know it will be ok,” I say. “Even if I have to go.”
My mother shakes her head.
“Doesn’t matter,” she says, “you’re not going.”
I look over to the door, and suddenly, my father walks in, the unplugged telephone in his hand.
Welch, West Virginia, December, 15th, 1969
There’s a doctor with a little hammer that has a rubber triangle on the end standing in the corner, and I hope to God that that’s not where I’m headed. Boys are marching from station to station, but at any given time, there’s someone sitting at each one, being poked and prodded and questioned.
With the way the boys are marching, I’m headed right for that damn hammer. I walk up, and look down at the plastic table.
“Sit.” The doctor says.
“You don’t reckon I’ll break that if I sit?” I smile a bit, pleased with myself for making a joke.
The doctor doesn’t like it, he looks straight at me, and waits until I hoist myself up onto that little table.
“Tough crowd.”
He pulls the little hammer out of his pocket, and I look at him crossly, because I’ve never heard of anyone getting whacked with one of these at a physical.
He leans towards my knee, and taps the hammer, and my leg kicks up in reflex.
I look down, and the doctor marks something.
He won’t say anything, though. Just gestures for me to go to the next station.
I walk over to the next man, who shoves something small and rubber into my ear, and I almost ask him if it’s gonna get lost in there.
“Tell me when you hear the beep.” This man has kinder eyes, but I’m not sure how much that will help.
“Got any plans for Christmas?” He asks, plugging the headphones into a little box.
“Depends on where I am,” I say, adjusting the wires and trying to end the conversation. It’s hard to be in the Christmas mood with this looming threat. If I have to get drafted, I’ll go to Vietnam, there’s not really any fighting it. Annie and my family will be at home, with their coffees and their candies and I’ll be in the jungle. Annie’d had big plans for Christmas too, she’d wanted to help make dinner this year, and hold my hand through service.
I’m trying to focus on the little beeps that the doctor says should be coming through at any second, but my thoughts are racing.
Everytime I hear one, I’m told to raise my hand.
It feels like I’m in primary school again, being marched around, not talking out of line, and raising my hand.
“Ok,” the doctor says, “you’re all set. Merry Christmas.”
“Thank you sir,” I say, moving to the next station. There’s only about two more to get through: an eye exam, and the most official looking doctor, who was wielding a stethoscope.
The rest of the exam continues without much hassle, doctors with tired eyes and the type of silence that feels like a death sentence.
Even before they hand me the paper, I know.
I’m going to Vietnam.
“Alright boys!” The army man says, “you’ll get your letters in the mail. Don’t bother askin’ or callin’, you won’t know till you know.”
On the truck ride home, it’s silent.
We finally pull into the Wilkinson's driveway, and Annie is standing there, cheeks red and lips blue.
“Annie,” I say, running up to her on the front porch. “It’s freezin’, what are you doing out here? You’re gonna get sick.”
“What’s gonna happen?”
I don’t say anything, but something in my face must have given it away, because Annie grabs my hands.
Her breath puffs out, and she draws in the winter chill.
“Baby, you gotta let it be.” I say.
“I can’t,” Annie sobs, “I’m not gonna let it be. They can hang me by the steps of the Capitol if they have to, but you’re not going to war. We’re gonna have babies instead.”
“Annie-”
“Let's run, baby. Let’s go to the border. We’ll be in Canada by the time the letter gets here. I can handle the snow. We’ll gain a little weight, and I’ll grab the heaviest coats. But come on baby, we gotta run. Now.”
“Annie,” I grab her wrists and look into her eyes. I can’t tell if the blur is from my own tears or hers, but either way she’s fading from me.
Park Avenue, New York, December 15th, 1969
“Well?” My mother springs up, running over to my father and pulling the telephone out of his hand.
My father pushes her arm off, holding up his hand.
“It’s taken care of.”
My mother gasps and nearly collapses, thanking him profusely.
“Wait,” I say, walking slowly over to my father. The snow outside is only getting heavier, and I start to wonder when it will be plowed. “What do you mean, ‘taken care of?’”
“I spoke to some men, moved some money around.” He says this with no sympathy, but if he’s looking in my eyes I’m sure he can tell I’m pleading for something.
“You’ll be starting at Harvard next month. You’ll still have to go in for the physical, but you’ll hand them your papers and they’ll mark you 2-s. That means your service will be postponed due to your enrollment in a University.”
I look at him blankly.
“You’re not going to Vietnam.”
My mother gasps again, immediately starting to cry.
“So,” my voice quivers, “what day do I start?”
Park Avenue, New York, December 20th, 1969
I walk into the room, but I’m the only one here, the only one still outside of the main auditorium.
I hand the desk man my letter, just as my father had instructed.
I say nothing.
As the man behind the desk scans my paper, and before his eyes even reach the end he picks up his stamp.
2-S, just like my father had promised.
As I start to leave, I peak into the tiny square window, to see hundreds of boys walking mechanically in their underwear, being poked and prodded, being listened to and looked at. From the other side of the door, none of them can see me. I wonder how many of them, a month from now, will be in Vietnam. How many will be dead.
The car is downstairs, waiting for me, so I take one last scan of the room before I truly resolve to bow my head and walk out.
Saigon, Vietnam, February 13th, 1970
It was hotter in the jungle then I’ve ever felt it back in Welch. They had us out here in Saigon, and I’d already killed two men.
I didn’t quite know where I was, I couldn’t point it out on a map, I mean, but I knew Annie’s letters found their way to me once in a while. I bent over the muddy earth, reading them while the men around me drank.
Dear Peter,
I’ve been staying up extra late recently, making sure that my prayers go longer, making sure that I mention you at least 5 times each night. I’ve been trying to get together some more money, odd jobs and working at the washing place in the next town over.
It’s not too bad really. I get rides with the other women there. Lots of them are making some money for their men too. Once I save up enough for some good postage, I’ll send you some bourbon and some American snacks. I’ve heard you don’t really have anything to eat over there. Your folks have a little box in their kitchen, they’ve been putting any scraps of money they can in it. They say it’s for our wedding, for us to really start our life together once you get home.
Please come home soon, Peter. The shadows here don’t make sense anymore, and even the trees are seeming to look different, to have stranger roots.
God is weeping, too. At least that’s what my mama says, she says that everytime it rains, everytime it snows, it’s God weeping that his young men are dead.
I miss you Peter, and I love you more than I can say. I ain’t too good with words, but I’m trying really hard to tell you I love you.
Love,
Annie
I fold the paper neatly into my combat boots, so it can be protected from the wet jungle air. I’ve been trying to buy paper, and yesterday I found some cigarettes in a little shop and gave them to a guy so I could get some paper and a pencil to write Annie back.
I don’t know when the little letter runner boy will be back, but until then, all I have is hope.
“Come on boys!” I hear called from somewhere behind the bushes.
The Biltmore Hotel, New York, February 13th, 1970
I was saying something into her ear, talking her up real sweet. Rebecca, I think, is her name. She smiles at me, with these perfectly straight white teeth.
I don’t know who’s daughter she is, what kind of family she’s from, but if she’s here, she’s definitely from a nice family, and she’s pretty, so I didn’t mind.
My father is in the other corner, no doubt working up some kind of deal, and he winks at me when he sees me with her. I throw back the rest of the champagne in my glass, and I worry the way it makes my cheeks flush will make me look foolish.
“Will you give me this dance, darlin’?” I ask, reaching my hand out to Rececca.
She smiles, in the modest way girls do when they can’t show their excitement but you know they’re happy that they’ve been asked to dance.
On the dance floor, we end up right near my parents, who are also waltzing around the room. At one point my back nears my dad’s and he looks around before he gets close and whispers to me.
“She’s an Astor girl,” my father says, “keep dancing.”
I grin down at her, and my father smiles as she leans in to whisper something to me. It’s a gorgeous ballroom, chandeliers and candles, with gold plating all around the walls.
“I’m starving,” I say, leaning down to her ear. “What do you say we go get you some dinner and champagne?”
She grins.
As we’re walking off the dance floor, my hand on her back, I catch the sound of someone else’s conversation.
“13 Americans killed today over in Saigon. Horrible tragedy, the way this war is going. Can’t imagine what it’ll look like come spring-”
I don’t catch the end of the sentence, but Rebecca doesn’t seem to catch it either, and if she does, she shows no reaction.
“Did you hear that?” I ask her.
“Hm?” She mumbles, grabbing a glass of champagne off a tray that a waiter is bringing around.
“13 soldiers killed today,” I say, “can you believe that? Isn’t that horrible? I can’t imagine what their families-”
“Let’s not talk about tragedy,” she cuts me off. “What are we meant to do about it? No use in sitting here feeling sad over something you have no control over."
Part of me wants to stand up and walk away at that very moment, but that wouldn’t be a very becoming thing to do to an Astor girl.
“You’re right,” I say, reaching for her fingers with one hand and a glass of champagne with the other. “Let’s just dance.”
The band picks up, and I take her hand.
I don’t know anyone over in Saigon, anyways.