He stared at it, did his little two note whistle, started to crumble
it up.
Shit. No.
He thought desperately of running to Canada, running anywhere so he wouldn't have to be near all that killing, all that senseless misery...
He needed a drink. A nice chilled martini with two olives. He looked outside at the American ground and American sky. He couldn't see himself in another land, in Korea, with the killing going on in a language he couldn't understand. Ah, he supposed killing was universal, everyone bleeds in the same color despite the words.
"Hawkeye," His father, sitting at the table with the drinks set out, not martinis but beers. He went to the table, suddenly envious of his father, too young for the last war, too old for this one.
"What'ya got there?" His father knew full well it was the draft notice. Hawkeye hung his head and mumbled, "Draft,"
"Hmmmm," He took a slow sip of his beer and Hawkeye did,too.
"They need doctors," his father said in his fashion. He just puts it out there. Hawkeye drank more, lit a cigarette, watched the smoke.
"I don't want anything to do with war," Hawkeye said, looking at his father defiantly. His father nodded, drank his beer.
"Let me ask you something," he said, the words slow, thought out. His father's calm was in stark contrast to Hawkeye's jittery energy.
"Why did you become a doctor?"
"Money," The joke died as it came out of his mouth and his father waited, patient as the winter.
"To help people, to save people,"
"Don't you think they'll be people to save there?"
"Dad, do you know what they do in wars now? They blow people up. What am I supposed to do, sew the pieces back together?" The question would have shocked his mother, rattled her. Nothing rattled his father.
"Hawkeye, I know you're thinking of Canada. You do what you have to do. If you have to run, run. But consider the possibility that Korea is where you should be,"
"I shouldn't be there. Fuck that," He got up and went outside. He'd never sworn in front of his father before.
He knew he was going to Korea by the sweet tang in the air, the way the light looked on the leaves. This was already a memory. He whistled his whistle and crumbled the draft notice in his fist.
He ducked into a bar, and in the dim room he couldn't see anything. He made his way to the bar and sat heavily.
"What'll it be?" The bartender, a man his father's age, wiping the bar with a soft rag, placing a square napkin in front of him.
"Martini," The martini, when it was set before him, made him swell with happiness. It looked so cold, the liquid wrapped around the olives. He took a sip, looked around the bar. He wondered about those soldiers his age who signed up for the misery. What made them do it? Duty to country, honor? Maybe they liked the license to kill, the ability to indulge their sadistic nature with none of the usual consequences. Hawkeye shook his head. He just didn't know. What did Korea have to do with him? How did this happen to his life?
He finished his Martini and ordered another. Whistled his whistle. His father was right. There would be plenty of people to help and then some in the middle of that bloody mess. And he was a damn fine doctor, a damn fine surgeon. He knew he'd be able to help them, to save some of them. He took out the olive and ate it.
Looked like he was going to Korea.
Shit. No.
He thought desperately of running to Canada, running anywhere so he wouldn't have to be near all that killing, all that senseless misery...
He needed a drink. A nice chilled martini with two olives. He looked outside at the American ground and American sky. He couldn't see himself in another land, in Korea, with the killing going on in a language he couldn't understand. Ah, he supposed killing was universal, everyone bleeds in the same color despite the words.
"Hawkeye," His father, sitting at the table with the drinks set out, not martinis but beers. He went to the table, suddenly envious of his father, too young for the last war, too old for this one.
"What'ya got there?" His father knew full well it was the draft notice. Hawkeye hung his head and mumbled, "Draft,"
"Hmmmm," He took a slow sip of his beer and Hawkeye did,too.
"They need doctors," his father said in his fashion. He just puts it out there. Hawkeye drank more, lit a cigarette, watched the smoke.
"I don't want anything to do with war," Hawkeye said, looking at his father defiantly. His father nodded, drank his beer.
"Let me ask you something," he said, the words slow, thought out. His father's calm was in stark contrast to Hawkeye's jittery energy.
"Why did you become a doctor?"
"Money," The joke died as it came out of his mouth and his father waited, patient as the winter.
"To help people, to save people,"
"Don't you think they'll be people to save there?"
"Dad, do you know what they do in wars now? They blow people up. What am I supposed to do, sew the pieces back together?" The question would have shocked his mother, rattled her. Nothing rattled his father.
"Hawkeye, I know you're thinking of Canada. You do what you have to do. If you have to run, run. But consider the possibility that Korea is where you should be,"
"I shouldn't be there. Fuck that," He got up and went outside. He'd never sworn in front of his father before.
He knew he was going to Korea by the sweet tang in the air, the way the light looked on the leaves. This was already a memory. He whistled his whistle and crumbled the draft notice in his fist.
He ducked into a bar, and in the dim room he couldn't see anything. He made his way to the bar and sat heavily.
"What'll it be?" The bartender, a man his father's age, wiping the bar with a soft rag, placing a square napkin in front of him.
"Martini," The martini, when it was set before him, made him swell with happiness. It looked so cold, the liquid wrapped around the olives. He took a sip, looked around the bar. He wondered about those soldiers his age who signed up for the misery. What made them do it? Duty to country, honor? Maybe they liked the license to kill, the ability to indulge their sadistic nature with none of the usual consequences. Hawkeye shook his head. He just didn't know. What did Korea have to do with him? How did this happen to his life?
He finished his Martini and ordered another. Whistled his whistle. His father was right. There would be plenty of people to help and then some in the middle of that bloody mess. And he was a damn fine doctor, a damn fine surgeon. He knew he'd be able to help them, to save some of them. He took out the olive and ate it.
Looked like he was going to Korea.