Soldier Doll (14 page)

“What?” His mother looked at him, distracted. “Michael, you have to come downstairs, to see the television. On the news, there is going to be a lottery for the draft, for the war…” her voice trailed off. She looked scared as she wove her fingers in and out of each other, the way she did when she was nervous.

Michael felt his heart skip. For months, he and his friends had worried about this possibility, discussing it in dorm rooms and cafés and bars around the city. He had tagged along to a couple of protests against the war, too—he just made sure to keep his attendance a secret from his parents. His father, who had escaped the communists in Czechoslovakia, supported America sending troops to intervene in Vietnam. His mother had escaped too, of course, but was silent on the controversial subject. She didn't sound happy now, though.

Mike looked up at his mother's anxious face. He stood up and hugged her awkwardly. “It's okay, Ma,” he said. “Let's go see what they're saying.”

Silent, his mother turned and headed back down the steps. The television had been left on in the living room, and Mike could see the reflection of the flashing images bouncing off the bay window at the back of the house. The CBS newsman looked serious as he discussed the draft lottery with another journalist.

“The draw will be done tomorrow, December first,” the second man explained.

The anchor was nodding his head. “Please tell us again how it's going to work, Don.” He made eye contact with the camera. “It's a bit confusing; I'm sure our viewers would appreciate another explanation.”

The man nodded and launched into a complicated explanation involving birthdates and numbers and capsules. Mike's eyes glazed over like they did when he studied; he tried to follow, but found his mind wandering. What if he was drafted? He tried to picture Vietnam on the map. Was it next to China, or was that Japan? Next to French, geography had always been his worst subject.

On the television, the anchor was still bobbing his head. “I see,” he said to the expert. His tone was grave. “And that's for all men born between 1944 and 1950, you said?”

The other man inclined his head in agreement. “That's correct.” He looked like he was about to say something else, but the anchor interrupted him to go to commercial.

Mike got up to shut off the television; he looked over at his mother, who was leaning against the doorway, tense and pale.

“You are included in this, then, Michael?” It was posed as a question, but he could tell she already knew the answer. She was a smart woman, and her English was better than she let on.

“Yes, Ma.” He tried to smile. “Don't worry though. My birthday could be drawn last, right? The war could be over before my number is even called. If that jerk Nixon—”

His mother bristled at his words. “We do not refer to the president as a jerk,” she said, her tone severe. “Even if you disagree with him, you must show some respect.”

Mike bit his lip, exasperated. Good thing she hadn't seen the posters Scott had made for that protest over in Cambridge—she'd have had a heart attack, probably. They certainly didn't paint the president in a very flattering light. One had a maniacally grinning Nixon toting a rifle pointed at a group of cowering Vietnamese children.

“Mom, you're so old fashioned,” he said instead, kissing the top of her head. His mother, though a formidable woman, was tiny and delicate, standing barely five-feet tall. He had grown taller than her well before his fourteenth birthday.

Mike dashed upstairs and grabbed his guitar, which he quickly zipped into its case and slung over his shoulder. He then hurried back downstairs. Opening the closet, he found his coat and hat. “I'm going to go see my friends about this, okay, Ma?” he said, zipping up the front of his blue parka. “I'll be back in time for dinner, I promise.” He pulled his homemade red hat down over his ears.

His mother frowned, disapproving. “What about your math?” She looked at her watch. “You should be doing your school work.”

“Ma.” Mike's voice was pleading. “This is important. I need to talk to people about the draft and get more information. I need to see Scott and Howard and the others. Come on. Please.”

He didn't add what else he was thinking. “I'm an adult!” he wanted to shout. “I don't need your permission!” But he said nothing else; he loved his mother.

Her expression softened with understanding. “Go,” she said. She reached up and touched his face quickly. “I know you're a good boy, Michael,” she said. Her voice was quiet now, and more urgent. He looked at her, surprised. She noted his expression. “Your father may be in favor of this war and this draft,” she said. “But I have only one child.” Her voice caught, and she turned away quickly and hurried into the kitchen. Mike said nothing as he left, shutting the door quietly behind him.

. . .

It was the darkness that did it every time. Even the bravest of men cowered in the face of the unremitting blackness of the jungle at night.

“It's like being blind,” Mike had said stupidly on his first night mission.

“You learn that in school, College?” Red had replied, his tone scathing. Mike had flushed, embarrassed. Thankfully, in the dark, his color went unnoticed.

Tonight was the same; the only thing that changed in the jungle was the season. It was the monsoon now, and together with the relentless blackness came with the unending downpour of rain.

Mike heard a noise in front of him. “Boots?” he tried to keep his voice to a whisper. “Everything okay?”

“Sorry, College. It's these damned malaria pills.”

“So that's what that stink is.” Fries said, laughing.

“No, that's Red. He's crapped in his pants, he's so scared.”

“Shut up, Boots.”

“All right, you guys. All of you shut it.” Mike cut them off. If he had learned anything about Vietnam, it was not to let the darkness lull you into thinking you were alone. The enemy, when he came, came silently and without warning.

On little cat's feet,
he'd thought to himself when he'd first experienced the feeling of being stalked.
Silent, like a cat hunting a mouse.
It was from a poem he'd read in high school, about fog, but it captured the anticipation of an enemy ambush. He'd known, once, who wrote the poem, but like many details from his old life, the memory had left him.

“Everyone awake?” The Lieutenant came up beside Mike, his voice quiet. They had been crouching in the same position for hours.

“Yes, sir.” Mike's voice came out hoarse.

“We're going to move again, College.”

“Yes, sir.” Mike cleared his throat. “We're moving out,” he hissed.

There were rustlings as the men struggled with their rifles and packs in the dark. Mike swung his own M16 over his shoulder and prepared to walk.

There was a lot of walking in Vietnam. Red liked to gripe that if you built a bridge across the ocean, you could walk back home from here, with all the walking they did. He probably wasn't entirely off base.

“Intel says there's VC about thirty klicks northwest of here,” said the lieutenant.

“Thirty klicks?” Red's voice rose in indignation from the back of the line. “So we were dropped off five hours ago in the damned rain, nearly twenty miles away from where we have to be?”

“And there it is,” said Fries. “At least it was only five hours. Remember Quang Tri? That was at least ten.”

“What did I tell you? Snafu.”

“Aw, shee-it, Red, just shut up. It's bad enough without your damned politics.”

“It's not politics, Boots, it's common sense.”

“You know what's common sense? Shutting your traps so we're not killed.” Miles now, his low voice like thunder rumbling in the distance.

“Killed? Charlie ain't here, Miles. You heard the Lieutenant. They're thirty klicks away.”

“Yeah? You want to end up like Pan?”

Instantly quiet, they all remembered Peter Berlin, a quiet boy from Wisconsin who'd liked comic books. Pan had faced a tiger, and lost, in the blackness of the jungle. They'd had to bind the body together with field wire before they could carry it back to base. They hadn't been able to find all of it. His parents had been told he'd died for his country in battle, a hero.

“Right. So shut it.”

They walked in silence.

. . .

Mike grabbed another slice of pepperoni and watched as Karen Markham, the de-facto leader of the campus anti-war movement, climbed up on a chair, ready to speak. She cleared her throat loudly and waved her arms to get their attention. Her dark hair was long and straight, and she was dressed in what his mother, frowning and shaking her head, would have referred to as “hippie wear”: wide-cut, faded jeans, a frilly, lavender peasant blouse, and a thin white bandana tied neatly around her head.

“If I could get everyone's attention, please!” Karen clapped her hands and swung her long hair so that it tumbled down her back.

“She's a real looker,” said Scott in a low voice.

Howard nodded in agreement. “Even if I was a gun-toting Republican, I'd be here.”

Scott snorted with laughter and tapped his bottle of Coke with a spoon. “Hear, hear.”

“Guys, sh.” Mike's voice was disapproving. “It's rude.”

Chastened, the others quieted and turned their attention to Karen.

“So,” she said, looking out at her audience. “It's finally happened. The government is starting a draft. No choice, no freedom. If your number's called, off you go to Vietnam. To fight in an unjust war.” Her expression hardened. “They might as well just spit on the Constitution of the United States of America!”

People cheered. Karen was a good speaker, the kind that drew people's attention immediately, a bit like a hypnotist at a magic show Mike's uncle had taken him to see as a child. She waited a moment, pausing for effect, then held her hand up to silence them. “What we need,” she said, voice calm, “is a plan. A strategy. What should we do? Because—” her voice grew louder, “—there's no way all of you guys are going to Vietnam!” She swore loudly.

There was a buzz about the café. Did Karen have a strategy? What did people plan to do? Someone waved their hand and stood up.

“Steve?” Karen pointed to him. “You have any good ideas?”

Steve shrugged and fiddled with his baseball cap. “I heard that if you're in college, like us, you can use that as an excuse to get out of the draft. That's what my cousin said, anyway. That it can buy you some time at least.” His voice was tentative.

“Steve Mason!” Karen's voice echoed loudly. She shook an admonishing finger at him as he slinked back into his seat looking mortified. “How can you even suggest such a thing? So you get a pass while your brothers who don't have the opportunity to attend college, who don't have rich parents—they should die in the jungle instead of you?”

A low hiss of disapproval sounded throughout the room. Mike glanced over at poor Steve, who looked now as if Vietnam might be a reasonable option, so long as it got him out of the café. He felt a pang of sympathy for the guy. He had been gutsy enough, at least, to vocalize what a lot of them had been thinking. But Karen was right. It wasn't fair. He thought of Buddy and Donny and Sam and all the guys he'd grown up with who hadn't gone off to college, who now worked construction or in the quarries or painted houses. Heck, he might have been doing that kind of work if he hadn't been offered the music scholarship.

“Mike?” Scott was looking at him. “Earth to Mike. Come in please.” He grinned as Mike blinked and jumped slightly. “Where were you, buddy?” he asked, amused.

“Just thinking about the draft. I don't know…I don't know what I would do if my birthday came up.”

Scott looked at him queerly. “What do you mean? You wouldn't go, would you?”

“I
said
I don't know.” He felt uncomfortable. “Why, what would you guys do? The college thing?”

“No, you heard the lady. That's wrong.” Scott grinned, mocking. “I was actually thinking about some kind of medical exemption. Like if you have asthma.”

“You don't have asthma, though.”

“Not yet.”

Mike felt surprised at his friend's reaction. He turned to Howard. “What would you do?”

Howard shrugged. “Canada, maybe,” he said tentatively. “My family all live in Detroit. It's right on the Canadian border, and they could come and visit. You do what you have to do, right?”

“I guess.” Mike thought about his parents. They didn't live near the Canadian border, and they didn't have a lot of money to travel, either. Not to mention that his father would probably disown him if he was called to war and fled to another country. He sighed; it was a lot to think about.

“You could go to Canada too,” Scott suggested.

“I don't think I could.” Mike tried to vocalize what he was feeling. “It's like Karen said. Why should I be able to use college as an excuse when others can't?”

“Because it's a stupid war? Because we shouldn't even be in Vietnam?” Scott's eyes were hard and cold, like the ice that had begun to form on the Charles River. “We shouldn't be fighting the communists. We should be joining them, man.”

Mike frowned. “I don't know about that,” he said. “Maybe we shouldn't be in Vietnam, but I don't know about the communists. Like, think about my parents—the communists were pretty bad in Prague.”

“What are you, some kind of fascist?”

“Go to hell.” Mike jumped up. “You have no idea what you're talking about. You want to talk about fascists? You remember a guy called Stalin? In charge of a big communist country called the Soviet Union?” He gripped the edge of the chipped table to control himself from lashing out at Scott.

Scott stared at him. “Are you going to
hit
me, Stepanek? At ease, soldier.”