Sons of Fortune Read online

  My dear Nathaniel—she never called him Nat. If anyone ever read a letter from his mother, Nat reckoned that they would quickly learn everything they needed to know about her. Neat, accurate, informative, caring but somehow leaving an impression of being late for her next appointment. She always ended with the words, Must dash, love Mother. The only piece of real news she had to impart was Dad’s promotion to regional manager, which meant he would no longer have to spend endless hours on the road, but in future would be working in Hartford.

  Dad is delighted about the promotion and the pay rise, which means we can just about afford a second car. However, he’s already missing the personal contact with the customers.

  Nat took another spoonful of cereal before he opened the letter from New Haven. Tom’s missive was typed and contained the occasional spelling mistake, probably caused by the excitement of describing his election victory. In his usual disarming way, Tom reported that he had won only because his opponent had made a passionate speech defending America’s involvement in the Vietnam War, which hadn’t helped his cause when it came to the ballot. Nat liked the sound of Fletcher Davenport, and realized that he might well have run up against him had he gone to Yale. He bit into his toast as he continued to read Tom’s letter: I was sorry to hear about your breakup with Rebecca. Is it irreconcilable? Nat looked up from the letter not sure of the answer to that question, although he realized his old friend wouldn’t be at all surprised once he discovered Ralph Elliot was involved.

  Nat buttered a second piece of toast and for a moment considered whether a reconciliation was still possible, but quickly returned to the real world. After all, he still planned to go on to Yale just as soon as he’d completed his first year.

  Finally Nat turned his attention to the brown envelope and decided he would drop his monthly check off at the bank before his first lecture—unlike some of his fellow students, he couldn’t afford banking his meager funds until the last moment. He slit open the envelope, and was surprised to find that there was no check enclosed, just a letter. He unfolded the single sheet of paper, and stared at the contents in disbelief.

  Nat placed the letter on the table in front of him, and considered its consequences. He accepted that the draft was a lottery, and his number had come up. Was it morally right to apply for an exemption simply because he was a student, or should he, as his old man had done in 1942, sign up and serve his country? His father had spent two years in Europe with the Eightieth Division before returning home with the Purple Heart. Over twenty-five years later he felt just as strongly that America should be playing a role in Vietnam. Did such sentiments apply only to those uneducated Americans who were given little choice?

  Nat immediately phoned home, and was not surprised when his parents had one of their rare disagreements on the subject. His mother was in no doubt that he should complete his degree, and then reconsider his position; the war could be over by then. Hadn’t President Johnson promised as much during the election campaign? His father, on the other hand, felt that though it might have been an unlucky break, it was nothing less than Nat’s duty to answer the call. If everyone decided to burn their draft card, a state of anarchy would prevail, was his father’s final word on the subject.

  He next phoned Tom at Yale to find out if he’d received a draft notice.

  “Yes I have,” said Tom.

  “Did you burn it?” Nat asked.

  “No, I didn’t go that far, though I know several students who have.”

  “Does that mean you’re going to sign up?”

  “No, I don’t have your moral fiber, Nat. I’m going to take the legal route. My father’s found a lawyer in Washington who specializes in exemption, and he’s pretty confident he can get me deferred, at least until I’ve graduated.”

  “What about that guy who ran against you for freshman rep and felt so strongly about America’s responsibility to those ‘who wished to participate in democracy’—what decision has he come to?” asked Nat.

  “I’ve no idea,” said Tom, “but if his name comes up in the ballot, you’ll probably meet up with him in the front line.”

  As each month passed, and no plain brown envelope appeared in his mail slot, Fletcher began to believe that he had been among the fortunate ones that hadn’t made the ballot. However, he had already decided what his reply would be should the slim brown envelope appear.

  When Jimmy was called up, he immediately consulted his father, who advised him to apply for an exemption while he was still an undergraduate, but to make it clear that he would be willing to reconsider his position in three years’ time. He also reminded Jimmy that by then there might well be a new president, new legislation and a strong possibility that Americans would no longer be in Vietnam. Jimmy took his father’s advice, and was outspoken when he discussed the moral issue with Fletcher.

  “I have no intention of risking my life against a bunch of Vietcong, who will, in the end, succumb to capitalism, even if they fail in the short term to respond to military superiority.”

  Annie agreed with her brother’s views, and was relieved that Fletcher hadn’t received a draft notice. She wasn’t in any doubt how he would respond.

  On January 5, 1968, Nat reported to his local draft board.

  After a rigorous medical examination, he was interviewed by a Major Willis. The major was impressed; Cartwright scored ninety-two percent in his preinduction physical, having spent a morning with young men who came up with a hundred different reasons why he should find them medically unfit to serve. In the afternoon, Nat sat the General Classification Test, and scored ninety-seven percent.

  The following night, along with fifty other inductees, Nat boarded a bus destined for New Jersey. During the slow, interminable journey across the state lines, Nat toyed with little plastic trays of food that made up his boxed lunch, before falling into a fitful sleep.

  The bus finally came to a halt at Fort Dix in the early hours of the morning. The would, and would not be, soldiers off-loaded to be greeted by the yells of drill sergeants. They were quickly billeted in prefabricated huts, and then allowed to sleep for a couple of hours.

  The following morning, Nat rose—he had no choice—at five, and after being given a “buzz cut,” was issued fatigues. All fifty new recruits were then ordered to write a letter to their parents, while at the same time returning every item of civilian origin to their home of record.

  During the day, Nat was interviewed by Specialist Fourth Class Jackson, who, having checked through his papers, had only one question, “You do realize, Cartwright, that you could have applied for exemption?”

  “Yes, I do, sir.”

  Specialist Jackson raised an eyebrow. “And having taken advice, you made the decision not to?”

  “I didn’t need to take advice, sir.”

  “Good, then just as soon as you’ve completed your basic training, Private Cartwright, I’m sure you’ll want to apply for officer cadet school.” He paused. “About two in fifty make it, so don’t get your hopes up. By the way,” he added, “you don’t call me sir. Specialist Fourth Class will be just fine.”

  After years of cross-country running Nat considered himself in good shape, but he quickly discovered that the army had a totally different meaning for the word, not fully explained in Webster’s. And as for the other word—basic—everything was basic: the food, the clothing, the heating, and especially the bed he was expected to sleep on. Nat could only assume that the army were importing their mattresses direct from North Vietnam, so that they could experience the same hardship as the enemy.

  For the next eight weeks Nat rose every morning at five, took a cold shower—heat simply didn’t exist in army parlance—was dressed, fed and had his clothes neatly folded on the end of the bed before standing at attention on the parade ground by six A.M. along with all the other members of Second Platoon Alpha Company.

  The first person to address him each morning was Drill Sergeant Al Quamo, who always looked so smart that Nat assu
med he must have risen at four to press his uniform. And if Nat attempted to speak to anyone else during the next fourteen hours, Quamo wanted to know who and why. The drill sergeant was the same height as Nat, and there the resemblance ended. Nat never stood still long enough to count the sergeant’s medals. “I’m your mother, your father, and your closest friend,” he bellowed at the top of his voice. “Do you hear me?”

  “Yes, sir,” shouted back thirty-six raw recruits from the Second Platoon. “You’re my mother, my father and my closest friend.”

  Most of the platoon had applied for exemption and been turned down. Many of them considered Nat was crazy to volunteer, and it took several weeks before they changed their minds about the boy from Cromwell. Long before the course had ended, Nat had become the platoon counselor, letter writer, advisor and confidant. He even taught a couple of the recruits to read. He didn’t choose to tell his mother what they had taught him in return. Halfway through the course, Quamo made him squad leader.

  At the end of the two-month stint, Nat came first in everything which involved spelling. He also surprised his fellow rookies by beating them all around the cross-country course and, although he had never fired a weapon before basic training, he even out-shot the boys from Queens when it came to mastering the M60 machine gun and the M70 grenade launcher. They were more practiced in smaller weapons.

  It didn’t take eight weeks for Quamo to change his mind about Nat’s chances of making Officer Cadet School. Unlike most of the other “sadsacks” who were destined for ’Nam, he found that Nat was a born leader.

  “Mind you,” Quamo warned Nat, “a butter bar second lieutenant is just as likely to have his ass blown off as a private soldier, because one thing’s for certain, the VC can’t tell the difference.” Sergeant Quamo turned out to be right, because only two soldiers were selected to go to Fort Benning. The other was a college boy from Third Platoon named Dick Tyler.

  For the first three weeks at Fort Benning, the main outdoor activity was alongside the black hats. The parachute instructors took their new recruits through their landing falls, first from a thirty-five-foot wall, and later from the dreaded three-hundred-foot tower. Of the two hundred soldiers who began the course, less than a hundred made it through to the next stage. Nat was among the final ten chosen to wear a white helmet during jump week. Fifteen jumps later, and it was his turn to have silver jump wings pinned to his chest.

  When Nat returned home for a week’s furlough, his mother hardly recognized the child who had left her three months earlier. He had been replaced by a man, an inch taller and seven pounds lighter, with a crew cut that made his father reminisce about his days in Italy.

  After the short break, Nat returned to Fort Benning, pulled back on his glistening Corcoran jump boots, threw his barrack bag over his shoulder, and took the short walk from airborne to the other side of the road.

  Here he began his training as an infantry officer. Although he rose just as early each morning, he now spent far more of his time in the classroom, studying military history, map reading, tactics and command strategy, along with seventy other would-be officers who were also preparing to be sent to Vietnam. The one statistic no one would talk about was that more than fifty percent of them could expect to return in a body bag.

  “Joanna’s going to have to face a disciplinary inquiry,” said Jimmy as he sat on the end of Fletcher’s bed. “Whereas it’s me who should be suffering the wrath of the ethics committee,” he added.

  Fletcher tried to calm his friend, but he had never seen him so incensed. “Why can’t they understand that it’s not a crime to fall in love?”

  “I think you’ll find that they are more worried about the consequences of it happening the other way around,” said Fletcher.

  “What do you mean?” asked Jimmy, looking up.

  “Simply that the administration is genuinely concerned about male teachers taking advantage of young, impressionable female undergraduates.”

  “But can’t they tell when it’s genuine?” asked Jimmy. “Anyone can see that I adore Joanna, and she feels the same way about me.”

  “And they might even have turned a blind eye in your case if you both hadn’t made it so public.”

  “I would have thought you of all people would have respected Joanna for her refusal to be disingenuous on the subject,” said Jimmy.

  “I do,” said Fletcher, “but she’s left the authorities with no option but to respond to that honesty, given the university regulations.”

  “Then it’s the regulations that need changing,” said Jimmy. “Joanna believes as a teacher, you shouldn’t have to hide your true feelings. She wants to make sure that the next generation never have to face the same predicament.”

  “Jimmy, I’m not disagreeing with you, and knowing Joanna, she will have thought about those regulations carefully and also have a strong view on the relevance of rule 17b.”

  “Of course she does, but Joanna isn’t going to become engaged just to let the board off the hook.”

  “That’s some woman you asked if you could carry her books,” said Fletcher.

  “Don’t remind me,” Jimmy replied. “You know that they’re now cheering her at the beginning and end of every lecture she gives.”

  “So when does the ethics committee convene to make its decision?”

  “Next Wednesday at ten o’clock. It’s going to be a media field day. I just wish my father wasn’t coming up for reelection in the fall.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about your father,” said Fletcher. “My bet is that he’ll have already found a way of turning the problem to his advantage.”

  Nat had never expected to come into contact with his commanding officer, and wouldn’t have done so if his mother hadn’t parked her car in the colonel’s reserved space. When Nat’s father spotted the sign COMMANDANT, he suggested she should quickly reverse. Susan reversed a little too quickly, and collided with Colonel Tremlett’s jeep just as he swung in.

  “Oh, God,” said Nat as he leaped out of the car.

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” said Tremlett. “Colonel will do just fine.”

  Nat leaped to attention and saluted as his father surreptitiously checked the commandant’s medals. “We must have served together,” he said, staring at a red and green ribbon among the cluster on his chest. The colonel looked up from studying the dent in his fender. “I was with the Eightieth in Italy,” Nat’s father explained.

  “I hope you maneuvered those Shermans a damn sight better than you drive a car,” said the colonel as the two men shook hands. Michael didn’t mention that it was his wife who was driving. Tremlett looked at Nat. “Cartwright, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Nat, surprised that the commanding officer knew his name.

  “Your son looks as though he’s going to be top of his class when he graduates next week,” Tremlett said, turning his attention back to Nat’s father. He paused, “I may have an assignment in mind for him,” he added without explanation. “Report to my office at eight tomorrow morning, Cartwright.” The colonel smiled at Nat’s mother, and shook hands once again with his father, before turning back to Nat. “And if I can see a dent in that fender when I leave tonight, Cartwright, you can forget your next furlough.” The colonel winked at Nat’s mother as the boy sprang to attention and saluted again.

  Nat spent the afternoon on his knees with a hammer and a pot of khaki paint.

  The following morning, Nat arrived at the colonel’s office at seven forty-five, and was surprised to be ushered straight through to see the commandant. Tremlett pointed to a chair on the other side of his desk.

  “So you’ve stood up and been counted, Nat,” were the colonel’s first words as he glanced down at his file. “What do you want to do next?”

  Nat looked across at Colonel Tremlett, a man with five rows of ribbons on his chest. He’d seen action in Italy and Korea and had recently returned from a tour of duty in Vietnam. His nickname was “the terrier,” because he enjoy
ed getting so close to the enemy that he could bite their ankles. Nat responded to his question immediately. “I expect to be among those posted to Vietnam, sir.”

  “It’s not necessary for you to serve in the Asian sector,” said his CO. “You’ve proved your point, and there are several other postings I can recommend, ranging from Berlin to Washington, D.C., so that once you’ve completed your two years, you can return to university.”

  “That rather defeats the object, doesn’t it, sir?”

  “But it’s almost unknown to send an enlisted officer to ’Nam,” said the CO, “especially one of your caliber.”

  “Then perhaps the time has come for someone to break the mold. After all, that’s what you keep reminding us leadership is all about.”

  “What if I asked you to complete your service as my staff officer, then you could assist me here at the academy with the next intake of recruits?”

  “So that they can all go off to Vietnam and get themselves killed?” Nat stared across the table at his CO. He immediately regretted overstepping the mark.

  “Do you know who the last person was who sat there and told me he was determined to go to ’Nam, and nothing I could say would change his mind?”

  “No, sir.”

  “My son, Daniel,” replied Tremlett, “and on that occasion I had no choice but to accept his decision.” The colonel paused, glancing at a photo on his desk that Nat couldn’t see. “He survived for eleven days.”