Jeffrey Archer - Sons of Fortune

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 fibre, 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 buff 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 5 January 1967 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 per cent in his pre-induction 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 per cent.

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 troop handlers. 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 with 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 4th 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 to 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 assumed 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 counsellor, 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. Half-way through the course, Quamo made him up to squad leader.

At the end of the two-month stint, Nat came top in everything which involved spelling. He also surprised his fellow rookies by beating them all round 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 practised 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 half a stone 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.