Chapter Two: Uncle Sam's Misguided Children

It was the day before Soda was leaving home. All the Tulsa boys drafted would be leaving on a bus for a three-week boot camp in Atlanta to train before they shipped out.

Ponyboy was lying in bed, facing the clock. It was 11:59…okay, scratch that, it was midnight. So now it was the day that Soda was leaving home, in approximately four hours.

He was painfully aware of Soda snoring gently next to him, an arm flung across Ponyboy. How could he sleep, knowing that this might be the last time they would ever see each other?

The mere thought of it made Ponyboy sick. He rolled over and regarded his handsome brother in the pale moonlight. "Love you, Soda," Ponyboy murmured, even though he knew his brother couldn't hear him.

There was something about looking at his brother that he couldn't stand. The sight of him evoked thoughts that were too painful, too sad. He couldn't deal with it.

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Soda wasn't surprised at his two brothers' reactions the next day just before he boarded the bus. It was four a.m. The sun hadn't even risen; there was just the bleak, gray light of dawn.

"Take care of yourself, Soda," Darry was trying to act official, but his expression didn't fool Soda. It was the same one he had worn for their parents' funeral and when Ponyboy was in the hospital, like he was a lost boy far from home.

"Don't worry, Darry, I'll be okay," Soda said. I hope, he thought.

Ponyboy didn't say much, but it wasn't for the usual reasons: daydreaming or keeping his mouth shut. He was bawling too hard to speak into Soda's shoulder, shameless as other recruits shot him sympathetic or condescending looks. The latter were from the few, the bitter, the drafted Socs.

Soda gently untangled himself from Ponyboy. "It'll be okay, little buddy," he soothed. "It'll be all right. It's just thirteen months, they'll fly by, you watch."

Ponyboy just nodded, still sniffling. Darry put his arm around Ponyboy's shoulders, a protective more than affectionate gesture, it seemed to Soda.

He waved goodbye from the bus and they waved back, until they were out of each other's sight.

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Soda sat down heavily next to Steve, who was already arguing with another recruit who was, not surprisingly, a Soc.

"I did not screw up your tire rotation, dammit!" he was yelling.

"Like it matters anymore," Two-Bit cut in, ending the argument. "We're all comrades now, mates."

Steve and Two-Bit, who had successfully dodged the draft for two years until now, were with Soda on the bus, although they weren't sure if they would be assigned to the same units. Soda hoped so; at least he would know some people.

"Me too," Steve agreed. He looked strange without any grease in his hair at all; Soda hadn't seen him without any for years. He probably slept with his hair dripping in the mess and just added more every morning. But Two-Bit had advised them against it.

"They just buzz your hair off anyway," he had told them. "Grease just aggravates them cause it makes it harder to chop your hair off." He, too, looked unusual with no grease in his rusty hair.

Their section of the bus fell silent, although the air was littered with swearing from other parts of the bus.

"Can't believe we're gettin' drafted," Steve muttered. "Damn, what I wouldn't give for a smoke."

Soda had to agree with him there. He had smoked his way through most of Ponyboy's packs of Kools the past few days himself, as he only did when he was bothered.

"At least we're together," Two-Bit reminded them. "The three of us, just three more of Uncle Sam's Misguided Children."

There was a pause as Steve and Soda worked this out. Steve was the first to catch on. "U.S.M.C.," he groaned. "For United States Marine Corps."

"Oh," Soda said, and grinned slightly, although he suddenly felt sick. "That's a good one, Two-Bit."

"Heard it from the fella back there," Two-Bit said, tilting his head towards the fellow in question.

Steve guffawed. "Randy Adderson? Super Soc turned hippie?"

Indeed, after Johnny and Dally's deaths, Randy had undergone a transformation from prep bound for Harvard to hippie bound for Vietnam. Soda had heard the rumor that his father had forced him to enlist now that he was no good for college. He wondered why Randy, now a pacifist hippie, had agreed.

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The bus stopped several more times on their way to Atlanta, mainly in big cities where small-town boys had gathered.

Over the course of the journey, the bus had segregated racially. On the last stop, the only seat left for a skinny, nervous looking black boy who didn't look a day over thirteen was next to Two-Bit.

"Dammit!" Two-Bit was sure he heard the boy say before he perched cautiously on his seat, shooting Two-Bit nervous glances as though he expected Two-Bit to lynch him.

"Hi, I'm Two-Bit," Two-Bit said casually, holding out a hand.

The boy cautiously shook it. "My name's Mohammed," he said carefully. "Mohammed Ali-Khan."

"You Muslim?" Two-Bit asked.

Mohammed's round brown eyes narrowed. "You gotta problem with that?" he snarled.

"Naw, man," Two-Bit grinned. "I'm just too ignorant to know about these kinds of things just by your name, so, you know, I just wanna confirm it before I say something stupid—which I'm liable to do anyway."

Mohammed laughed. "You're alright, Two-Bit. That your real name?"

"Nope," Two-Bit smiled. His eyes tilted ceiling-wards as he contemplated a suitable name. "My name's…Zachariah Jeremiah Isaac Upsilamba the Third."

"Upsilamba?" Soda hooted. "Upsi-daisy is more like it! His name's Keith Mathews, but we call him Two-Bit. I'm Sodapop, and that's my real name."

"Steve," grunted Steve. He was glaring out the window. Two-Bit sighed inwardly. Steve was racist and, in Two-Bit's opinion, a moron for it.

It had to be a black guy that stole his car, Two-Bit thought, and now he hates all black people.

Soda gave Steve a pointed nudge, which Steve chose to ignore. Mohammed gave Steve a long, hard look before turning away.

"Something's happened to him," Mohammed said quietly. "Something to make him hate all black people, am I right?"

Two-Bit stared. "How in the…? What're you, psychic?"

"No," Mohammed sighed sadly, slumping in his seat. "You get to recognize these things after a while."

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It was past dark when they finally got there.

"I most certainly none of you ladies brought anything valuable to yourselves," the sergeant barked at the assembled group of men in an accent that seemed to be from Louisiana—Southern mingled with Cajun. At least that's how it sounded to Soda.

"I most certainly hope you are not wearing your favorite outfits, ladies," the sergeant growled. "Because you will never see them again! You will receive a nice new uniform for training, a nice shiny one that is to be kept in mint condition for civilian presentations, in which you will assert that you love being a Marine and thus encourage more saps like yourself to enlist. After training is when you will receive that second new uniform, after which you will get your lovely new combat uniforms. I hope you like them, because once we land in Nam, it will be the only clothes you own."

Soda could hardly keep from laughing as he imagined how Darry, poster-boy of cleanliness, would react to this unsanitary bit of news. He imagined his older brother picking a fight with the sergeant. But that sergeant was scary. Even Darry might meet his match in this man.

He sobered up as he sergeant went on. "You bunch of pansies will meet me at o-four-hundred hours in this spot, in your training uniforms, in order. What?" he growled at a Soc-y looking boy.

"In what particular order?" he dared to ask.

"The order of I don't give a damn!" the sergeant roared. "Get to the barracks!"

They got to.

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Soda couldn't sleep that night. He was kept awake by the sounds of the people around him—snoring, coughing, snickering amongst themselves, and the tiny sniffles of a young boy who had enlisted, too early it seemed.

Ponyboy was never this loud, Soda thought bitterly, putting his pillow over his head. I wonder how he's doing anyway.