Greeting: You are hereby ordered for induction into the Armed Forces of the United States –
Jasper said aloud: ‘What?’
– and to report at the address below on January 20, 1966 at 7 a.m. for forwarding to an Armed Forces Induction Station.
Jasper fought down panic. This was obviously a bureaucratic foul-up. He was British: the US Army surely would not conscript foreign citizens.
But he needed to get this sorted out as soon as possible. American bureaucrats were as maddeningly incompetent as any, and equally capable of causing endless unnecessary trouble. You had to pretend to take them seriously, like a red light at a deserted crossroads.
The reporting station was just a few blocks from the radio station. When the secretary came back to relieve him for lunch, he put on his jacket and topcoat and walked out of the building.
He turned up his collar against the cold New York wind and hurried through the streets to the federal building. There he entered an army office on the third floor and found a man in a captain’s uniform sitting at a desk. The short-back-and-sides haircut looked more ridiculous than ever, now that even middle-aged men were growing their hair longer.
‘Help you?’ said the captain.
‘I’m pretty sure this letter has been sent to me in error,’ Jasper said, and he handed over the envelope.
The captain scanned it. ‘You know there’s a lottery system?’ he said. ‘The number of men liable for service is greater than the number of soldiers required, so the recruits are selected randomly.’ He handed the letter back.
Jasper smiled. ‘I don’t think I’m eligible for service, do you?’
‘And why would that be?’
Perhaps the captain had not noticed his accent. ‘I’m not an American citizen,’ Jasper said. ‘I’m British.’
‘What are you doing in the United States?’
‘I’m a journalist. I work for a radio station.’
‘And you have a work permit, I presume.’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re a resident alien.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Then you are liable to be drafted.’
‘But I’m not American!’
‘Makes no difference.’
This was becoming exasperating. The army had screwed up, Jasper was almost certain. The captain, like many petty officials, was simply unwilling to admit a mistake. ‘Are you telling me that the United States Army conscripts foreigners?’
The captain was unperturbed. ‘Conscription is based on residence, not citizenship.’
‘That can’t be right.’
The captain began to look irritated. ‘If you don’t believe me, check it out.’
‘That’s exactly what I’m going to do.’
Jasper left the building and returned to the office. The personnel department would know about this kind of thing. He would go and see Mrs Salzman.
He gave her the box of chocolates.
‘You’re sweet,’ she said. ‘Mr Gould likes you, too.’
‘What did he say?’
‘Just thanked me for sending you to him. He hasn’t made up his mind yet. But I don’t know of anyone else under consideration.’
‘That’s great news! But I have a little problem you might be able to help me with.’ He showed her the letter from the army. ‘This must be a mistake, surely?’
Mrs Salzman put her glasses on and read the letter. ‘Oh, dear,’ she said. ‘How unlucky. And just when you were getting along so well!’
Jasper could hardly believe his ears. ‘You’re not saying I’m really liable for military service?’
‘You are,’ she said sadly. ‘We’ve had this trouble before with foreign employees. The government says that if you want to live and work in the United States, you ought to help defend the country from Communist aggression.’
‘Are you telling me I’m going in the army?’
‘Not necessarily.’
Jasper’s heart leaped with hope. ‘What’s the alternative?’
‘You can go home. They won’t try to stop you leaving the country.’
‘This is outrageous! Can’t you get me out of it?’
‘Do you have a hidden medical condition of any kind? Flat feet, tuberculosis, a hole in the heart?’
‘Never been ill.’
She lowered her voice. ‘And I presume you’re not homosexual.’
‘No!’
‘Your family doesn’t belong to a religion that forbids military service?’
‘My father’s a colonel in the British Army.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
Jasper began to believe it. ‘I’m really leaving. Even if I get the job on This Day, I won’t be able to take it up.’ He was struck by a thought. ‘Don’t they have to give you your job back when you’ve finished your military service?’
‘Only if you’ve held the job for a year.’
‘So I might not even be able to return to my job as clerk-typist on the radio station!’
‘There’s no guarantee.’
‘Whereas if I leave the United States now . . .’
‘You can just go home. But you’ll never work in the US again.’
‘Jesus.’
‘What will you do? Leave, or join the army?’
‘I really don’t know,’ he said. ‘Thank you for your help.’
‘Thank you for the chocolates, Mr Murray.’
Jasper left her office in daze. He could not return to his desk: he had to think. He went outside again. Normally he loved the streets of New York: the high buildings, the mighty Mack trucks, the extravagantly styled cars, the glittering window displays of the fabulous stores. Today it had all turned sour.
He walked towards the East river and sat in a park from which he could see the Brooklyn Bridge. He thought about leaving all this and going home to London with his tail between his legs. He thought about spending two long years working for a provincial British newspaper. He thought about never again being able to work in the US.
Then he thought about the army: short hair, marching, bullying sergeants, violence. He thought about the hot jungles of south-east Asia. He might have to shoot small thin peasant men in pyjamas. He might be killed, or crippled.
He thought of all the people he knew in London who had envied him going to the States. Anna and Hank had taken him to dinner at the Savoy to celebrate. Daisy had given a farewell party for him at the house in Great Peter Street. His mother had cried.
He would be like a bride who comes home from the honeymoon and announces a divorce. The humiliation seemed worse than the risk of death in Vietnam.
What was he going to do?