Good Doc/Bad Doc

I was sitting on a bus in downtown hometown USA.  The bus was purring at idle.  The destination plaque announced OAKLAND INDUCTION CENTER. 19 year old boys were drifting in one by one.

A couple of weeks before I came through the door from my seasonal construction job.  Sally called out to me, “You got another letter from the draft board.  What now?”

I knew what.  A month after I graduated from college I lost my 2S middle class, white boy, student deferment. And now I knew I was being drafted. It was 1971 and Vietnam was still hoppin.  I opened the letter, “Yeah, I am ordered to report September 26 to the Oakland Induction Center for a draft physical.”

“Oh, so what do we do if you get drafted?” Sally was worried I know but rarely showed it.

“I don’t know.  Let’s see what happens.”  Sal did not like the sound of that. I tried to be calm, not freak out Sally. And normally I tended to freak Sally out.  Couldn’t do it.  I FREAKED! We spent the night going over options.  Canada?  Maybe.  Guatemala?  Better, since we had little money.  Go into the ARMY.  FUCK NO!  Then we came up with a PLAN.

I applied for conscientious objector status when I was a freshman.  Nothing happened.  I had a severe handicap.  I was raised Catholic, a particular war like religion. The Crusades, the Black Ships, and, the perennial favorite, The Inquisition.  ROMAN CATHOLIC didn’t look good on a CO application.  My app was probably filed under “War Monger.”

All through college I was ordered to meet with our local draft board.  Sometimes once per semester, sometimes more than once.  The meetings would go something like this:

“Sit down Mr. Bondi.”

“Ok, did you notice in my Conscientious Objector Application that I site Jesus’s ideas about loving our enemies”?

There were 5 draft board members. 4 men and one woman.  The women, Mrs. Norma, was the boss. The men all had crew cuts.  Mrs. Norma did not have a crewcut.

Mrs. Norma looked at me like I had just crawled out of a sewer, “How are your grades, Mr. Bondi?”

“Did you read the part about turning the other cheek?”

“Mr. Bondi, we would like to remind you that you will be drafted if you take less than 12 units in any semester.”

That was that.  I left.  And I made sure I took 15 or 18 units every semester. Fear made me do it.  I dreamt nights about dancing M16’s. They kept asking me to joint in.  Line dancing with M16s.   I studied hard to avoid that dance as long as possible.

All through college, in my mind’s eye, I pictured Lt. Death following me through the hallowed halls of state college.  He wore fatigues, sometimes from different countries.  He was a French Lt. Death, sporting a beret, sometimes an Australian with the bush hat. He bristled with arms: an m16, a grenade launcher, several handguns & bullets worn in bandoliers in the style of a TV Mexican bandit.  Often, he was wearing the black pajamas of the Viet Cong, wound up in the strings, wires, cans, punji sticks of booby traps.  No matter what costume of war he sported on a given day he would pop out of the concrete whenever I left a class, and, with the toothless and bloody grin on his timeless face of war say, “Taking 12 units Pvt. Bondi?  Passing all you classes, are you?”  I hated Lt. Death.

 

The bus to the induction center pulled to the curb.  Young men, rather boys, milled around on the sidewalk.  No one was talking much.  I boarded. Young men, rather boys, boarded. I sat in the back trying to look anonymous.  I was anonymous.  A number on a draft card.

Bob, a friend from High School, was walking down the aisle toward me.

“Hey Andy,  drafted huh?”

“Yeah, sit with me and we can ride to our fate together.” Bob was blond, rosy cheeks, almost cherubic and surfed a little in high school. He went to college a few years then dropped out. Like me he had a low lottery #.  He got a draft notice a couple of months later. “I thought you got drafted last year.”

“I did, but I got 2 physicals already and, both times, they told me to go home, get better, and they would reschedule.  I have a condition.”

That got my attention, “A condition?”

Bob looked at me with a wry grin, “I have an infected mosquito bite. But they wouldn’t give me a 4F.  Just sent me home.  Luckily the infection is getting worse.”

“Infected mosquito bite?

“Yes, I scratched it until it bled, rubbed parrot dung into the bite, scratched it some more.  That worked pretty well. This time I shot some drugs into the area. Anything I could find.  Heroin, speed, coke.  Whatever and just a little bit.”

“Parrot dung?”

“Yeah, I have a parrot.  Nasty bird but the dung is good for infecting a mosquito bite.”

“So, the mosquito bite worked to postpone your being drafted?”

‘Oh yeah, and I really worked it over since my last notice.  It’s really infected.  I’m not worried though.  I got a tetanus shot.”

The bus pulled up to the curb at the Oakland Induction Center.  It groaned as the air brakes were set.  The inductees exited to the sidewalk. Across the street was a conscientious objector branch office.  About 20 protesters, carrying antiwar signs, walked slowly in a circle to the left of the induction center.  In front of us was a sergeant flanked by 2 mps. The sergeant was tall, built, with piercing eyes that showed his intent.  Which as to get all of us signed up and headed to Viet Nam to get trench foot or, much worse, blown up.

“Gentleman, line up on the sidewalk.  Now!” shouted the sergeant.  “Walk in an orderly manner into the induction center. ”

We were led to a sign in room.  We signed in.  Then we went into the induction written exam room.  We all sat at tables and were given a multiple-choice intelligence test.  The test was made up of questions like: There are 2 cows in a field.  How many cows are in the field? a-64 cows, b-an airplane, c-2 cows, d-none of the above.  We all passed.

“Now Gentleman, exit to the locker room through that hallway.  Take off all your clothes, except you skivvies, and stow your clothes in the provided paper bags in any locker. Keep with you anything that might affect you draft status, such as a doctor’s letter.”

The sergeant and the mps watched us. The sergeant looked at me, “Son, what are you wearing?”

“It is a back brace.  I have a bad back.  I broke some vertebrae when I was 14.”

“Take it off.”

“But it I need it.”

“TAKE IT OFF!”

I took it off.

‘Carry it with you.”

We followed the red footsteps into a large room.  I carried my back brace and an ortho’s letter.  The letter was  stored in my “skivvies”.

“Gentleman, form up abreast behind the white line,” shouted the sergeant. We lined up.  Thirty 19-year-olds, me, and Bob.

“Now you will be given a series of movements to perform to test your physical ability.  Gentleman, put your hands up like goal posts.”

I didn’t.

“Touch your toes.”

I didn’t.  I stood there holding my back brace.

“You.  With the brace.  Touch your toes.”

“I can’t. Bad back.  Can’t bend over like that. It hurts.”

‘Gentleman, on the floor, on your butts.”

I stayed standing up.  Holding my brace.  I was the only one.  Bob was on the floor, grinning at me.

“You, on the floor!” the sergeant shouted.

I didn’t.

“Gentleman, 10 sit ups, NOW.”

I couldn’t.

“Gentlemen, sit up, hands over heads.”

I wouldn’t.

And it went on like that.  “Gentlemen, on your belly’s.  5 pushups.  NOW!  Gentleman, stand up.  Gentlemen, stand on one leg.  Gentleman, 10 jumping jacks.  Gentlemen, Gentlemen, Gentlemen, GENTLEMEN!  Over and over.  And I didn’t. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t.  There were skinny guys, fat guys, high school athletes, semi emaciated couch potatoes, all grunting, sweating, getting tested for minimum physical ability necessary to carry a pack and an m16 into a jungle and get their skinny, fat, athletic, semi emaciated asses shot off. And there was me.  Standing there holding my back brace in my underwear. Looking at my feet.

‘Gentlemen, you will be called in groups of 5 for an induction physical. If you have paperwork regarding your health the doctor will look at it during the physical.”

I retrieved a letter from my skivvies.  It was written by an ortho that I had met by accident on a construction job at his house.  He examined me and wrote a letter to the draft board stating the nature of my back injury.  The ortho was a semi socialist, antiwar, super liberal but refrained from exercising his views in the letter.  It was all in med terms.  No conclusion about my fitness for military duty.  Unlike the letter written for me by my original ortho from the time of the back injury.  His read, “Mr. Bondi suffered an acute lower back injury including LATIN, LATIN, BLAH, BLAH, LATIN WORDS IN A LONG STRING, etc, etc, etc.”  The letter concluded with, “It is my medical opinion that Mr. Bondi is fit for military service.” I tossed that letter. It might as well have been from Lt. Death.  Perhaps it was.

I was called with 4 other guys. 5 doctors were at examining stations in a large room. The examining doc took my blood pressure, heart rate, looked at my tongue, and checked out my brace.  I was wearing it now. Then he read my ortho letter.

The doc told me to go put on my clothes and to report to a small, private examining room.  I returned to the room.  The door was open, so I went in. In the room where there were 2 docs.  They were both obvious lifers and both very portly.

‘Mr. Bondi, we have read the letter from your orthopedist and the notes of your physical performance here at the center,” said doc A.

Then they began to discuss my case. Right there in front of me.  Like I was a doorknob.

“I don’t see any problem here.  He is in good enough shape to serve,” said doc A.  Doc B said, “I don’t think so.  He will get re injured in basic and be on Army dole the rest of his life.”  Doc A was Bad Cop, “I doubt it.  This injury took place 8 years ago.  It is fully healed by this time.” Good Cop Doc B retorted, “He still wears a brace.  The injury is obviously  troublesome.”

I looked down and away from the 2 docs for a moment, knowing that this could go only one of 2 ways.  In or out. As I looked up there was Lt. Death wearing US Army fatigues, standing on a desk behind Bad Cop. He appeared to be slightly opaque as he grinned at me in his hideous way, nodding like he understood. Lt. Death.  Grinning and nodding.

Bad Cop and Good Cop conferred for a few more minutes. Good Cop said, “Mr. Bondi, go through this door into the adjacent room.  We would like you to talk to the CO.”

Major Somebody sat at a desk in a large office. He had a menu on his desk. He didn’t look at me as he was on the phone ordering Chinese. He put his hand out toward me.  I gave him the ortho letter.   He talked to the restaurant while looking at the letter, “2 orders of wantons,  2 fried rice, 1 egg rolls, 2 chop suey. Oh, and add 3 beers. Budweiser.”  He scribbled something on a form.  He tore the top of the form from the bottom copy.  He gave me the copy. He never looked up.

“Sir, what is this?”

“I just permanently disqualified you from military service. Now get out of here before I change my mind.”

I followed the footsteps on the floor to the front door.  Young men were gathered in a line as I passed them by.  “Gentlemen, you are standing behind a white line.  Step across the line. Now you are in the United States Army.  You will receive…”

My mind was numb and my heart pounding.  I opened the door large glass doors and left the Oakland Induction Center. Outside on the sidewalk the sun was bright.  I noticed again that there was a conscientious objector branch office across the street.  About 20 protesters, with antiwar signs, still walked slowly in a circle to the left of the induction center.

I sat on the bus, next to Bob.  He was grinning.

“They told me again I would have to come back in 6 months.  Infection they said.  Needs to clear up before I can go in the Army. Cool. Maybe the war will be over by then. What happened to you?”

“4F.”

The bus pulled away from the curb and headed back to Hometown USA. Again, I saw Lt Death. He sat in a seat in the rear of the bus looking out the window. He was more opaque now.  He seemed to be disappearing.  As he turned to look at me his weapons blinked out one by one.  M16, grenade launcher, bandolier and handguns. Then he was gone.  I never saw Lt. Death again.

Sally greeted me when I came through the door of our house.  “You first.”

“Ok, we don’t have to move to Guatemala.”  I waved the paper from the CO.  “4F, I am permanently disqualified from military service. Now you.”

“I’m pregnant.”