The American War

The American War

All Rights Reserved © 2002 by Don LoCicero

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the publisher.

Writers Club Press

an imprint of iUniverse, Inc.

For information address:

iUniverse, Inc.

5220 S. 16th St., Suite 200

Lincoln, NE 68512

www.iuniverse.com

ISBN: 0-595-23100-4

ISBN: 978-1-4697-5695-0 (ebook)

To every thing there is a season…A time to kill and a time to heal…

—Ecclesiastes, III, 1–2

There are many things worth living for, there are a few things worth dying for, there is nothing worth killing for.

—Tim Robbins: EVEN COWGIRLS GET THE BLUES

For combat medics: healers and heroes. And For all the others who fought in Vietnam and those who fought to bring them home.

THE AMERICAN WAR

Brooklyn: Summer, 1964

What do you mean it was staged? That’s a lot of bullshit and you know it, Barry. How can you even think that this government would pull a stunt like that? This is the United States of America, not Nazi Germany, you know. Franz Linsdorff ’s face reddened. A wisp of brown hair fell over one eye as he shook his head from side to side.

Don’t be so sure of yourself, Linsy, his friend replied, using the nickname he had coined because, as he said, Franz was too German for his tastes. His voice was calm, although it was evident that he, too, was visibly agitated. You should know better than anyone that the bastards on top can never be trusted. What makes you think that Americans are an exception to the rule?…I’m telling you, they are getting us ready for another war. Uncle Sam is going to save the free world from the forces of oppression. Talk about bullshit—Washington is so full of it, it’s a wonder it hasn’t exploded long ago.

It was August 8, 1964. On the previous day, Congress had passed the Tonkin Resolution, authorizing presidential action in Vietnam.

But they attacked us. Are we supposed to just stand by and let any hostile country do whatever the hell they want? What would happen if we did that? Franz’ voice betrayed a trace of uncertainty.

Oh, sure, they attacked us. For no reason at all, some little North Vietnamese gunboats just began shooting at two American destroyers. Maybe they were kamikazes; we all know how those Asians are…Come on, Linsy, get real. The whole thing stinks to high heaven. Barry Wexler pinched his nose with his thumb and index finger for emphasis. Then, lowering his voice, he added, God, Franz, I wish you would have dropped out of ROTC two years ago, like I told you to. Now they’re going to haul your right-wing ass to some godforsaken jungle.

The two friends were seated on one of the benches at the side of the campus quadrangle. Now seniors, they had met three years earlier when both were entering freshmen at Brooklyn College. For more than a minute, neither spoke. Finally, Franz broke the silence.

I know you think I’m naive, Barry, but I feel that I owe this country a lot. Where would my family be if we hadn’t been taken in here after the war?

"That doesn’t mean that you have to get your balls shot off as a repayment. Anyway, don’t forget what happened to your Uncle Heinrich’s family when they tried to get visas to come to the United States. They sure as shit were told in no uncertain terms that they weren’t wanted here, although it was clear to everyone by that time that Hitler wasn’t fooling around about getting rid of the Jews in Germany. Or haven’t you read his book, The Twisted Star?" As he spoke, Barry Wexler’s lips curled downward in an expression of disgust.

Franz nodded, but did not reply at once. What his friend had said was true, of course, but there was so much more to it than that. His uncle, Heinrich Hartstein, was his mother’s brother, but in addition, he was his father’s best friend. In his book dealing with the rise of Nazi Germany Uncle Heinrich had recounted his horrible experiences in the concentration camp, Treblinka. He also detailed how the American government had denied visas for his family when they were trying to escape the Nazi persecutions of Jews.

I always knew that you were a masochist, Barry went on, interrupting Franz’ train of thought. Why else would a fucking Kraut come to a Hebe school like Brooklyn College?

You idiot, Franz shot back, now in a light tone. You know damned well I’m only half Kraut…My other half is just as Jewish as you.

Oh well, I guess half a Jew is better than none. Barry smiled, but the former frown returned almost at once. No kidding, Linsy, I’m really scared shitless for you. This thing looks bad; very bad. If Dr. Andrews is right, we may be in for a major bloodbath over there. He and a few other profs are organizing what they call a teach-in on Vietnam for next Friday. Why don’t you come down and learn something? Just because you’re pre-med doesn’t mean you can’t get involved with social issues. Who knows, maybe you’ll even have something important to contribute to the conversation.

No thanks. Franz gently waved him away. I’ll leave the protesting to you and your left wing friends. I guess my dad drummed it into my head when I was still a little kid that I should never trust a mob.

And don’t you think those guys down in Washington constitute a mob? Why, they make the Mafia look like amateurs when it comes to murder and mayhem. The little guy is always the loser once they get started on one of their schemes.

Let’s not go through all of that again. Why can’t you accept the fact that there are some things we will never agree on? You don’t know what an oppressive government is really like. If you did, you’d be damned happy to be living in America.

You just don’t get it, do you Linsy? Barry shot back. Whether you know it or not, I am a true patriot. Don’t laugh, I really mean it. Can’t you see that the only way to keep this country from going down the crooked path to perdition is to stand up and be counted when our so-called leaders forget that other people also have rights? That we haven’t got the market on morality cornered? Who the hell made us the judges and policemen of the world?

But you know damned well we can’t ignore outright aggression. We learned that lesson in the thirties. If Vietnam goes communist, it won’t be long before all of Southeast Asia follows it down the tubes.

The old domino theory lives, Barry spit out, disgustedly. You really have been brainwashed, haven’t you? As for the thirties, how in hell can you compare a little half-ass country like North Vietnam to Hitler’s Third Reich? We are just using this Tonkin bullshit to show our muscle. We’ll beat the shit out of the poor little bastards and claim that we’ve saved the world from communism. He shook his head and made a disgusted face. But then again, maybe it won’t be so easy. The French didn’t do so well there, even with all of our money behind them. I wonder how many Americans will wind up as rotting corpses in the rice paddies of Vietnam. Barry had worked himself up considerably. He had the familiar, angry glint in his eye.

Calm down, old buddy. Franz smiled, trying to soothe his friend. He knew it was useless to argue. When it came to certain issues, Barry Wexler was immovable. At any rate, although he had never said it, Franz had his own gnawing doubts about what had been going on in Vietnam during the previous few years. Like most others, however, he hadn’t paid that much attention to the reports coming from that part of the world. He had his own problems. His main concentration at the time was on finishing his undergraduate degree so that he could enter medical school. He wanted to do this not only for himself, but also because he knew his father would be proud to see that he was following in his footsteps. He knew further that he didn’t have too much time. Franz sighed as he thought of the elder Dr. Linsdorff. He had not been looking well at all these last months. And the coughing…

Sorry, Linsy. I guess I get carried away when I start talking about certain things. It’s just that I can’t stand to think of you and all the others being fed to the lions. Barry’s voice snapped Franz back to the present. It gets me so worked up that I can’t even sleep at night. I feel that I have to do something, but I don’t know what. Things aren’t right; there have to be changes made. Barry sat down again, his shoulders sagging. He rubbed his fingers gently through his recently grown dark beard and moustache.

And what about you, Barry? Franz asked, moved by his friend’s obviously genuine concern. What if they draft you and send you off to the jungle? Maybe you should be worrying about yourself rather than about the rest of us. Barry met his friend’s gaze. His eyes reflected his resolve.

I won’t go. It’s that simple. I will refuse to go.

But you’ll be put into jail. You’ll be labeled a coward.

Screw labels. People only label each other because it’s easier. If you put someone in a category, you don’t have to think about that person anymore. As for cowardice, I can’t deny that I don’t like the idea of someone trying to kill me. In fact, it scares the shit out of me to think about it. He paused for a few seconds and added, Even so, I’m no pacifist. I’ll fight like hell if I have to, but not for a cause I don’t believe in.

Maybe we’ll both be lucky, Franz replied. Maybe this whole thing will blow over and neither one of us will have to prove that we aren’t cowards. One side of Barry’s mouth turned up in a cynical smile.

Oh, yeah, we’ll be lucky alright. We’ll be lucky if they don’t get ten thousand of us killed on this half-assed crusade. Well, my mischling friend, I am not going to be one of them. And if you have any brains left in that thick, patriotic head of yours, you won’t either. Franz shrugged his shoulders. It was useless trying to make Barry see the other side of the issue. Ten thousand killed. That was a crazy idea. But then again, Barry Wexler was not one to avoid hyperbolae when he wanted to make a point. Still, though, there was something about the way things were going that made Franz very uneasy. Vietnam. Was it really such an important place that we would go to war over it? Or was it just another pawn in the cold war chess game?

Brooklyn: December, 1965

Dr. Karl Linsdorff lay in his bed and stifled a cough with his cupped hand. His condition was worsening daily. The severe punishment his body had undergone during his years as a prisoner in the Soviet Gulags had taken their toll on his lungs. As a doctor, he knew full well that his remaining time was very short. He coughed incessantly now, and the tissues he brought back from his mouth after a particularly severe episode of coughing were frequently stained with blood. He also knew that his efforts to hide the evidence of his condition from his wife and son had not been successful, although they did not speak of it to each other. The bottom line was clear: he was going to die very soon. The thought did not frighten him in the slightest. In some ways, he even looked forward to it. He was curious, both as a man of science and one who had devoted a good deal of time during the last twenty-plus years to the search for the meaning of life. Perhaps death held the answer. He smiled inwardly as he recalled how the other inmates in the Russian prison camps had believed him to be a holy man. If they had known the truth, their opinions would have been quite different. It was clear to him, at least, that those who gave him credit for saving their lives with his limited skills and paltry stock of folk medicines would probably have survived without him. If anything, it was their belief in him, rather than in his non-existent powers that had brought them through. He had been a living placebo to them. But belief hadn’t been enough for many others. Why? He stared at the ceiling as the memories of his imprisonment flooded back into his tired mind.

The Buddhist, one of his fellow inmates had dubbed him, although the poor fellow really had no clear idea what he really meant by it. Some Buddhist he was. But perhaps there was a kernel of validity in the title. Unlike the Buddha, he hadn’t learned the truth after spending fifty days under a Bodhi tree meditating on the mystery of life. He had, though, learned for himself that the First Noble Truth put forth by the Buddha was accurate; namely, that all existence involves suffering. He hadn’t learned this particular truth through silent meditation; it had been taught to him on the exploding Western front during the first years of Hitler’s Blizkrieg, and in the East at Stalingrad, Leningrad and in the savage Finno-Soviet war. It had been driven home to him as he listened to the shrieks and moans of young men whose bodies were torn apart by bombs and bullets. Yes, he had seen the carnage first hand, and suffered along with countless others in the aftermath of that insane time. The Gulags. The memory send a shiver down his spine. The hunger and the cold of those years were still with him, scarred into his being. Were they all Buddhists, then, those formerly proud subjects of the Führer and Stalin? Not to mention all the others whose pain became their identity. He thought of his best friend and brother-in-law, Heinrich, and the millions like him who languished and, more often than not, died in the Nazi concentration and death camps. How could one measure their suffering? How could one put that into words? Were all of the inmates of Dachau, Bergen Belsen, Buchenwald, Sachsenhausen and the other Nazi camps also Buddhists because they had learned the First Noble Truth? Did not the victims of Treblinka, Auschwitz, Chelmno, Sobibor, Maidenek and Belzek also learn that truth as they watched their families being led to the gas chambers, and trembled when each new selection was announced? As for the other Truths learned by Siddhartha Gautama, those who suffered to such an extent did not have to be told that the release from pain could be gained by ceasing to crave material or sensual satisfaction. Did they want or need to hear that the cause of their pain was this craving? Was it wrong for a starving man to crave food? Would Siddhartha have thought any less of a freezing man who craved a pair of warm shoes or a coat? No, Karl thought, he was not a Buddhist, at least not in the strictest sense. He had not sought a path to nirvana by eradicating his craving for material or sensual satisfaction. Try as he had, he was never able to overcome the desire for a crust of bread and a bowl of the hot water that masqueraded as soup in the Siberian Gulags. Despite his desire to rise above his physical self, he had continued to long for warmth during the frigid Russian winters. And, unlike the great Indian spiritual leader, he had never abandoned his wife and son; never suppressed his desire to be reunited with them and his other loved ones. No, he would never have willingly separated himself from Jutta and Franz, not even to save the world.

A sudden, violent coughing fit interrupted his thoughts.

Are you okay, Dad? Franz’ voice was filled with tenderness and concern as he approached his father’s bed. Karl waved him off with one hand, the other one still pressing the reddened tissue to his mouth as he continued to cough.

I’m all right, Karl finally managed to say, balling the stained tissue in his palm in a vain effort to keep his son from seeing it. But for a slightly trilled r, one would not have known that he was not a native American.

I’ll get you a glass of tea with honey, Franz offered, turning to leave.

No, Franz, please stay. I would like to talk to you before your mother gets back from the store. Franz stopped, turned back around and approached the bed, shaken by how strained his father’s voice was. Come a little closer, Karl began, almost in a whisper. He motioned weakly with one hand. Franz stepped closer and gently grasped the extended hand.

Don’t tire yourself, Dad. Franz’ voice was also a semi-whisper. He felt a twisting, stabbing sensation in his stomach as he gazed down at his father’s face, crisscrossed by a plethora of deep, meandering lines, an indelible map of pain that had been carved into his skin by the cruel Siberian winters.

No, no, I…have to tell you, Franz. There isn’t time…Es gibt…so wenig Zeit. Franz swallowed involuntarily, further shaken by his father’s lapse into his native tongue. He was unable to remember the last time the latter had spoken to him in German.

Vati, he replied, his own voice trembling. Vati, he repeated, choking out the term of endearment he had always used for his father as a child. Karl’s hand, still in his, had grown lifeless and cold.

Nein, Fränzchen… Before he could finish what he intended to say, however, Karl’s chest began to heave violently. Deep, vibrating sounds seemed to explode from his distorted mouth. A brief pause was followed by another spasm, this one more violent than the last. Suddenly, as if an invisible spigot had been opened somewhere deep inside his body, a stream of blood escaped his lips and flowed down both sides of his face to be absorbed by the soft, white pillowcase below.

Franz stood as if nailed to the spot, watching in horrified fascination. Later, he didn’t recall having heard his mother’s piercing scream behind him, or the crashing sound of the groceries that she let fall to the floor as she ran to her husband’s side. But he would never forget this initiation to death; for the rest of his life it would stay with him. He would never stop wondering, moreover, what his father had wanted so desperately to tell him as his life ebbed away that winter morning. This question was to torment him incessantly in times of happiness as well as during the hellish days and nights in that steamy jungle on the other side of the world; days and nights that were also punctuated by blood and death.

Brooklyn: February, 1966

Breathing heavily, Solomon Vogelsang pushed his aluminum walker forward and slowly drew his thin frame after it, his limp more accentuated than ever. His nephew, Heinrich, kept pace at his side, ready to help his aged uncle if the need arose.

It’s all right, Heinchen; I can make it on my own, Solomon said, noting the concerned look on Heinrich’s face. I still have a few miles left in me, even if they are very slow ones. While Solomon’s body acknowledged the eighty seven years of its wear, his mind was still as keen as ever. He was very depressed. It wasn’t right, he thought, that Karl should have gone ahead of him. Where was justice in the world? And his poor nieces, twins who in addition to their identical genes, now also had widowhood in common. The image of Ursula’s husband, Joshua, flashed through his mind. Joshua, killed almost twenty years before while in his prime; blown to bits in Jerusalem by a terrorist’s bomb. In Jerusalem, the holiest city in the world. Oh weh, he thought, what a world. The poor children. The poor, poor children. In spite of the fact that Jutta and Ursula were in their late fifties, he still thought of them as children. Finally, he reached the table where the family sat. With Heinrich’s assistance, he let himself sink down heavily onto the padded chair. His nieces rose from their seats in turn, stepped over to Solomon to embrace and kiss him. They were followed by Franz who put out his hand as he reached his grand uncle.

So, I guess you are too much of a grown man to hug me, Solomon quipped, grasping Franz’ hand. Or maybe you’re afraid I’m so decrepit that I’ll break in two if you do. Franz smiled self consciously.

Well, well, well, the king has arrived. But if you think I’m about to get up to fawn over you, you’ve got another thought coming, Solomon’s sister-in-law, Yaffa, called out from the other end of the table. Her remarks were greeted by general laughter.

No, I wouldn’t want that, Solomon replied, feigning horror. I wouldn’t want to make your sister jealous. Yaffa smiled, but almost immediately the smile was replaced by a look of deep concern.

How is Rachel? she asked.

Not very good, not very good. Solomon’s smile faded. He shifted uneasily in his chair. You know, even the best nursing home is just a waiting room for the next world. It’s a good thing she doesn’t really know what is going on. She didn’t even recognize me when I visited her two days ago. Franz quietly made his way to his own place as Solomon spoke.

I wish I could see her more often. Yaffa said, more to herself than to her brother-in-law. Then, raising her voice again, she added, Since Victor died, it is very difficult for me to get around. I can’t expect the children to chauffeur me every day. She lowered her eyes and stared at the tablecloth. A protracted silence followed.

Come on, now, folks, Heinrich and I didn’t invite you all here to sit shiva. Sarah stepped out of the kitchen carrying a large platter which she set down onto the table. You have to taste my pastries, she ordered. They are from a special Israeli recipe.

You are a lucky man, Heinrich, Uncle Solomon remarked, resuming his former jocular tone. To have a beautiful young wife who can cook in the bargain is not easy to come by nowadays." Sarah rewarded Solomon with a noisy, wet kiss on the cheek.

You are a wicked woman, Solomon chided, wagging his finger at her. You are stirring up memories of times when I could do more than just think about certain things.

And you are, and always have been, a devil, Uncle Solomon, Sarah shot back, wagging her finger back at him. But a very nice devil, she added, planting another kiss, this time on his forehead. This was greeted by a new round of laughter.

…And now, I would like to propose a toast. With difficulty, Solomon raised himself up from his chair and now, firmly grasping the edge of the table with one hand to hold himself steady, he extended his wine glass with the other. To my dear family, who will be with me no matter how many miles separate us. Lehaim! The others raised their glasses and echoed the Hebrew call to life. Tears were in everyone’s eyes as they drank. Solomon’s toast moved them all so deeply for a simple reason: they knew that this was the final dinner they would share together. The remaining family, once scattered to the winds by the gas and flames of the Holocaust, was about to be divided again, probably for the final time. Heinrich, Sarah, and Ursula were scheduled to leave Brooklyn three days later. They would be returning to Israel to spend their remaining years; Israel, the land Heinrich’s grandfather, Jacob Feinberg, had so vainly longed to see, and undoubtedly would have, had he not been converted to ashes in the concentration camp, Buchenwald.

Heinrich had not resisted when his wife expressed her desire to return to her homeland. Although they had left Israel sixteen years before, disillusioned by the endless tension and bloodshed, he knew that Sarah’s heart remained there. There was much for her to do, she told him; Israel needed people with energy and vision. After all, she was almost twenty years younger than he, and still filled with ideals. His had been crushed many years before, in the death camp Treblinka. The passage of time had not healed his wounds; there was not enough time in the universe for that. And now, Karl was gone. Karl, his best friend, his sister’s husband—more a brother than if they had come from the same womb. He glanced over at his nephew Franz, not blonde and blue eyed like his father, but so like him in the ways that counted. A good young man. What was in store for him? There were already almost two hundred thousand American combat troops in Vietnam and who knew how many more would have to go. Would Karl’s son also have to take part in the carnage of war like his father had? Would Franz be forced to kill other men as he, Heinrich, had to do in Israel? Would his life be snuffed out by some stranger, perhaps another youngster who didn’t want to fight and kill any more than he did? Where would it all end? Where? Heinrich pressed a hand to his mouth to stifle a sob.

Solomon did not sit down. Instead, he raised his glass for a second time. His hand was shaking perceptibly, as was his voice when he spoke again.

If Victor were here, he would certainly not have settled for one toast, and so in his place I would like to propose another. He smiled at Rachel. There was a soft, loving glow in her eyes as she heard her husband’s name. Solomon was right, she thought, remembering how Victor had always assumed the role of toastmaster during family occasions. Now, let us drink to Karl who should be with us today. If there is a better world after this one, I hope he can see us from there and know how much we all loved and love him. Solomon slumped back into his chair without drinking, himself exhausted by the emotions his words had evoked. Tears streamed down the faces of both Jutta and her son Franz while Heinrich, no longer able to hold himself in check, began to sob loudly.

Brooklyn: Spring, 1967

You did what Linsy, you crazy bastard! Volunteered for Vietnam? I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe you would do such a stupid thing. I thought…oh fuckit, I knew all along that you were an impossible sunovabitch. Barry Wexler stamped his foot noisily down on the linoleum-covered kitchen floor of the run-down apartment he shared with another Columbia graduate student. Just outside the window, the Jamaica elevated train rumbled by as if to underline his words. His face was beet red.

I had to do it, Barry, Franz replied. It isn’t that I think you and your friends are wrong about the war—I just had to do it. It’s difficult to explain…I feel that I owe it to the guys over there. They told me at the recruitment office that with my year of med school, I would almost certainly be assigned to a medical unit.

What the hell is wrong with you Linsdorffs? Do you all have a death-wish gene? When you failed the air force ROTC physical you were home free. Barry’s face was now contorted as well as crimson. Your grandfather gets himself dragged off to a Nazi concentration camp, your father ruins his lungs in a Soviet Gulag, and now you…Are you going to follow in their footsteps by winding up in a bamboo cage in some godforsaken jungle?

Maybe you’re right, Barry. Maybe we are all crazy, Franz replied, softly, regretting that he had told his friend anything about his family. Still, people with medical training are needed there.

And what will you do, treat the entire four hundred thousand American troops? If you insist on dying for a cause, why don’t you find one that’s worth it?

I don’t intend to die. What I want to do is save lives.

You don’t save lives by patching up killers so they can go out and kill again. Didn’t your father teach you anything? You could have stayed here, gotten your medical degree and license and pulled in megabucks just for looking down people’s throats or up their asses.

My father and I didn’t talk very much about certain things, Franz replied, ignoring his friend’s crude remark. I think he wanted to forget the war." His voice betrayed the sadness he felt whenever he thought of the ordeal his father had gone through during and after the war.

Well you should have. I can’t believe for an instant that he would have wanted you to get yourself blown up rather than become a doctor. We don’t belong in Vietnam. We don’t belong there any more than the French did. And it will serve us right if they kick our asses just as they did the French’s in Dien Bien Phu. Barry stamped again, even harder than before.

Pipe down in there; I’m trying to study for an exam, came a voice from an inner room.

Yeah, you’re studying, all right, Barry called back. I can smell your brain burning all the way in here…Funny thing is, it smells just like pot."

Fuck you, Wexler, the voice replied, playfully.

It would be the high point of your life, Boyle. Your girlfriend’s pussy would never be able to turn you on again once you had me in bed. Franz smiled. He was always both amused and impressed by Barry Wexler’s quick, profane wit.

And what turns you on, besides going to all those demonstrations with your weirdo friends? Ed Boyle stepped into the kitchen, clad only in his briefs. He was a tall, muscular young man with light, curly hair and a classic Irish baby face, dotted by dozens of freckles.

Maybe you ought to crack the books once in a while instead of trying to overthrow the government. You’ll never pass your classes by spending your time marching around with signs and shouting dumb slogans. Boyle’s tone was still playful, but it had an edge to it. He padded past the others, opened the refrigerator door, took out a can of beer and flipped open the tab. How does it go, Wexler? ‘What do we want? Peace now’…Hell, I’ d like a piece now, too. In fact, I wouldn’t mind having one anytime I could: now, later, tomorrow… Without waiting for his roommate’s comeback, he turned to Franz. Hi Linsy. Have you cut up any corpses lately? Or should I say, cadavers? Franz returned the greeting with a nod and a smile. Although he really didn’t know Ed Boyle all that well, he liked the young journalism student. He particularly enjoyed the latter’s ability to match verbal wits with Wexler.

Do you know what this idiot child has done? He joined the army and volunteered for service in Vietnam. Wexler had raised his voice to compete with another passing train. He shook his head again, expecting support from his roommate.

Heavy, Boyle replied. He turned to Franz. Maybe we’ll meet over there one day soon, Linsy.

Meet? Franz asked, a puzzled look on his face.

Why not? As soon as I finish grad school, I intend to get a job with a newspaper or do some free lance work. Vietnam would be a great place to launch my career as a war correspondent…that is, if we aren’t out of there yet. I think I’d look great on television, and from what I hear, the women over there are sensational.

You, too? spit out Barry Wexler. What the hell is this, a fucking loony bin? He shook his head from side to side. Do you know how many guys would give their bottom dollar to be in your shoes, Boyle? I’m beginning to think it isn’t your back, but your brain that got you your 4F classification. He was referring to the fact that Ed Boyle was ineligible for the draft because of a back problem; one that had necessitated major surgery a few years before.

Contrary to what you think, not everyone believes that we are the bad guys over there. Or don’t you read the newspapers and magazines?

"You mean rags like the New Yorker and U.S. News and World Report? The old bastards who write for them are government stooges. Their noses are so close to Johnson’s ass that if he stepped backward they’d be covered with shit.

"And what about the Christian Science Monitor? I guess they’re also on the government payroll. You are just impossible, Wexler. I think you get your kicks out of being contrary. Why, if the government launched a campaign to cure cancer, you would demonstrate for the right of cancer cells to procreate without government interference."

You, on the other hand, Wexler countered, would support the president and his flock of warhawks if they decided to use the hydrogen bomb in Vietnam. You probably agree with that flaky general who said that we should set the Vietnamese free even if we had to kill every one of them to do it.

"Save that crap for your bearded friends; I have no time to listen to it. Unlike the left-wing professors in your department, mine still have some academic standards.