Sons of Fortune (14 page)

“Timmy,
I’ll be eighteen in a few weeks’ time,” said Annie, scowling at her brother,
“just in case you haven’t noticed.”

“I’ve
noticed, and some of my friends even tell me that you’re passably pretty, but I
can’t see it myself.”

Fletcher
laughed. “So are you going to join us at Dino’s?”

“No,
you’ve obviously forgotten that Joanna and I invited you both to dinner at her
place.”

“I
hadn’t forgotten,” said Annie, “and I can’t wait to meet the woman who’s tied
my brother down for more than a week.”

“I
haven’t looked at another woman since the day I met her,” said Jimmy quietly.

“But
I still want to marry you,” said Nat, holding on to her.

“Even
if you can’t be sure who the father is?”

“That’s
all the more reason for us to get married,
then
you’ll
never doubt my commitment.”

“I’ve
never doubted it for a moment,” said Rebecca, “or that you’re a good and decent
man, but haven’t you considered the possibility that I might not love you
enough to want to spend the rest of my life with you?” Nat let go of her and
looked into her eyes.

“I
asked Ralph what he would do if it turned out to be his child, and he agreed
with me that I should have an abortion.” Rebecca placed the palm of her hand on
Nat’s cheek. “Not many of us are good enough to live with Sebastian, and I’m
certainly no Olivia.”

She
took her hand away and quickly left the room without another word.

Nat
lay on her bed unaware of the darkness setting in. He couldn’t stop thinking
about his love for Rebecca, and of his loathing for Elliot. He eventually fell
asleep, and woke only when the telephone rang.

Nat
listened to the familiar voice and congratulated his old friend when he heard
the news.
when
Nat went to pick up his mail from the
student union, he was pleased to find he had three letters: a bumper crop. One
of them bore the unmistakable hand of his mother. The second was postmarked New
Haven, so he assumed it had to be from Tom. The third was a plain brown
envelope containing his monthly scholarship check, which he would bank
immediately as his funds were running low.

He
walked across to
McConaughy
and grabbed a bowl of
corn flakes and a couple of slices of toast, avoiding the powdered scrambled
eggs. He took a vacant seat in the far corner of the room, and tore open his
mother’s letter. He felt guilty that he hadn’t written to her for at least two
weeks. There were only a few days to go before the Christmas vacation, so he
hoped she would understand if he didn’t reply immediately. He’d had a long
conversation with her on the phone the day after he had broken up with Rebecca.

He
hadn’t mentioned her being pregnant or given a particular reason for them
breaking up.

My
dear Nathaniel
comshe
never called him Nat. If anyone
ever read a letter from his mother, Nat reckoned that they would quickly learn
everything they needed to know about her.
Neat, accurate,
informative, caring but somehow leaving an impression of being late for her
next appointment.

She
always ended with the words, Must dash, love Mother.

The
only piece of real news she had to impart was Dad’s promotion to regional
manager, which meant he would no longer have to spend endless hours on the road,
but in future would be working in Hartford.

Dad
is delighted about the promotion and the pay rise, which means we can just
about afford a second car.

However,
he’s already missing the personal contact with the customers.

Nat
took another spoonful of cereal before he opened the letter from New Haven.
Tom’s missive was typed and contained the occasional spelling mistake, probably
caused by the excitement of describing his election victory. In his usual
disarming way, Tom reported that he had won only because his opponent had made
a passionate speech defending America’s involvement in the Vietnam War, which
hadn’t helped his cause when it came to the ballot.

Nat
liked the sound of Fletcher Davenport, and realized that he might well have run
up against him had he gone to Yale. He bit into his toast as he continued to
read Tom’s letter: I was sorry to hear about your breakup with Rebecca. Is it
irreconcilable?

Nat
looked up from the letter not sure of the answer to that question, although he
realized his old friend wouldn’t be at all surprised once he discovered Ralph
Elliot was involved.

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 check off at the bank before his first lecture-unlike some of his
fellow students, he couldn’t afford banking his meager funds until the last
moment. He slit open the envelope, and was surprised to find that there was no
check 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 SELECTIVE SERVICE SYSTEM

ORDER
TO REPORT FOR ARMED FORCES

PHYSICAL
EXAMINATION t
occLocal
Board No 21

Nathaniel
CartwrightSelective
Service
System
,
. 205 Walter Street University of
ConnecticutRockville
,
CT

North
Eagleville Road Storrs,
ConnecticutDecember
14th,
1967

SELECTIVE SERVICE NO.
6 21 48

You
are hereby directed to present yourself for Armed Forces Physical Examination
to the Local Board named above by reporting at:

Routes
195 and 44 (
mansfield
Corners), Storrs, Connecticut (place of reporting) at 7.58 a. ., on the 5th of
January 19

68
(hour of reporting – Pay – Month) (year)

(
member
or clerk at Local Board) 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 fiber, 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 plain brown 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
January 5, 1968, 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 percent 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
percent.

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 drill sergeants. 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 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 Fourth 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 at 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 Also
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.”

Most
of the platoon had applied for exemption and been turned down. Many of them
considered Nat was crazy to volunteer, and it took several weeks before they
changed their minds about the boy from Cromwell.