TO THE WEST
On his right were two soldiers. Two more sat across the aisle. In fact, close to one third of the plane’s occupants wore olive drab. Other young men, though in civilian clothes, gave themselves away as military by their close-cropped hair. The soldiers seemed to pair off and kept to themselves. Their civilian counterparts generally ignored them, although some seemed irritated by their presence.
By listening to their conversation, he was able to ascertain that this group wasVietnambound. They, like him, would deplane inSan Francisco. From there they would be bussed to Oakland, on the other side of the bay bridge, where they would be warehoused, then processed, in preparation for their journey to the Far East.
Alex knew it could just as easily be him making the trip. The army was drafting teenagers as quickly as they could type up the paperwork. Several of his friends had already received their draft notices. A few fortunate enough to have excellent grades, or accommodating parents, headed off to college and the subsequent deferment. Others had high numbers on the lottery-based draft and decided to cross their fingers and wait it out. Some ran straight to the first reserve branch they could find only to discover the waiting list was to retirement age.
He had not yet received a summons or a notification on his number status, though he assumed it was only a matter of time. He could not help but think that his father had probably contacted the local draft board by phone the minute he returned to his house after the airport run. He imagined the conversation in his head. “Damn it! He’s on his way toSan Franciscothis very minute. Those damn hippies will have flowers up his butt before he gets off the plane. Get that paperwork out now! And make sure it’s a low number, and I mean between one and ten.” That call would be repeated daily with the same or similar sentiments until that United States Government mailing was in the colonel’s hands.
Alex told his father not to call him when his assigned draft number arrived by mail. Knowing his place in the draft might influence his decision-making in the short term. He would put his trust in fate and wait it out.
Somewhere over the mid-west, he struck up a conversation with the soldier on his right. His name was Jim Parsons and he was on his way toVietnamafter a short five-day leave to say goodbye to his family and girlfriend. If he was nervous about going to war, he did not show it. Parsons tales of boot camp and infantry training carried them through at least two or three states. As they crossed intoCalifornia, Jim Parsons showed Alex a picture of his girlfriend. He handled the photo gently, touching only the edges with his fingers.
She was an attractive dark haired girl with such a lovely smile that Alex felt the need to comment on her beauty. Jim Parsons, the young soldier soon to be in a war zone, stared at the picture in his hands. “I took the photo the day I got home for leave. The next day, I told her I had orders forVietnam. After that, she never smiled again.”
He studied her picture as the plane crossed theMidwest.
“I miss that smile.”
It was the last thing that Private Parsons said to him. After he carefully put the photo back in his wallet, the soldier off to war closed his eyes and did not open them until they landed.
