Extended Network

Jim O’Kelly

          Jim O’Kelly was tall and thin, had red hair, and discovered he liked to live in Europe.  By the time he was nineteen, he had saved enough money to leave his home in New York and begin to live in England.  He found a job there in a photographer’s lab.  The boss said he didn’t care about Jim not having a work permit if Jim didn’t care.  He’d pay him the same he’d pay a Brit.  The printer was Irish and Jim was of Irish descent.  So Jim stayed there for eight months and  learned to take pictures.  He liked what he saw of the welfare state.  He didn’t worry much about the draft.  There were draft resisters in London, but he didn’t run into any.  Joining one of the anti-war organizations did not occur to him either.  He was against the war all right, but he wasn’t much of a joiner.  What he generally gathered, by talking or reading peace pamphlets and leaflets that came his way was that peaceniks, whether American or English, were mostly students.  He had nothing against students and had done two years at a Junior College himself, but he didn’t think of himself as a student, and he felt little in common with them.

          Then he got the notice from his draft board saying he had to report for his physical.  Working in England and enjoying it and not liking the U.S. with its army and its Vietnam War and the have and have-not way of life he had seen in New York, he did not want to go to war for it.  But he wasn’t afraid of his physical because he had recurrent malaria.  Friends of his said he would  never pass it.  So he had himself examined by a doctor in London who also said he would never pass.  So Jim flew back to New York and reported for his physical at Fort Hamilton, Brooklyn.

          He was examined for two days.  Some of the doctors had a very high opinion of his physical condition.  He was tall, lanky and anemic with soft white skin, soft curly red hair, soft brown eyes and a gentle voice.  Some doctors were against taking him.  He gathered, keeping his eyes and ears open, listening to chance remarks, that it was about half and half.  The decision lay with the captain in charge.  But it was very late on the second day when he had finished all the tests and presented himself at the captain’s office.  The captain had gone home and only the sergeant was left.

          --Let me see those papers, boy, said the sergeant.  You look okay to me.

          Jim’s health reports looked okay to him too, and okay was how he stamped them. 

          --You’re in the Army, boy, said the sergeant.  You go down to Fort Jackson tomorrow morning.

          Jim spent the night in the hospital out there and shipped down to Fort Jackson the next morning.  He did three days of basic, and the fourth day he walked out.  He went through the woods until he found the railroad tracks and then walked north along the railroad tracks for three days until he got to Vicksburg, Virginia.  Fort Jackson had not been that far from Columbus, but he had taken the long way to Vicksburg, by-passing Columbus so as not to be spotted as an AWOL soldier.  At Vicksburg he left the woods and started hitchhiking.  He arrived in New York the next day, not having eaten since he left the Army five days earlier.  His mother was at home, his father off somewhere.

          --I left the Army, mom, he said.  Now I’m going out to San Francisco to find a job.

His mother said that was all right

Jim packed a suitcase and took a plane to the coast where he got a job in a photographer’s lab and worked for four months.  While he was out there, he thought about the US Army.  The more he thought, the less he could figure out why they wanted him.  His health was bad, and it wouldn’t get better in the Army.  It didn’t make sense.  It didn’t make any sense to him to stay in the Army, and it didn’t make any sense to him that the Army would want to keep him.  And so he decided to go back and give himself up, go through the tests again and, he figured, probably get out with a Bad Conduct Discharge.  Then that part of his life would be finished.

So he took a plane directly from San Francisco to Columbus and than an army bus out to the base.  The captain on duty was a short, heavyset Puerto Rican.  When he heard that Jim was giving himself up, he got mad.  He told Jim that he could get a year in the stockade and then two years of army service.  There was no question of tests or a bad conduct discharge.

          --Then I’m leaving, said Jim.

          --Leaving?  repeated the captain, looking up at him.

          --I’ll be in Europe next week, said Jim.

          --Europe!  echoed the captain.  Next week!

          Jim's long white anemic detachment had put him in a rage.

          --We’ll see if you’ll be in Europe, he screamed.  Sergeant!

          The sergeant took Jim off under guard to the kitchen and put him to clean the grease hole.  The grease hole was a square cement trap, five by seven, and eight feet high, which went under the two kitchen sinks to catch all the grease and garbage.  It was cleaned about once a year.  Jim was put to cleaning it during lunchtime while the dish washing machine was throwing scalding water into it.  He had to shovel the grease and dodge the water spray at the same time.  The sergeant had given knives to three other GI’s and told them to knife Jim if he tried to climb out.  When he had finished, he was out into a cell with eight other prisoners.  They immediately pushed him into a corner and told him he stunk.  He did.  There was garbage all over his fatigues and he was pretty much of a mess.  During the next hour, the other prisoners were taken away and he was left alone.  Most of the garbage on his fatigues had dried by the time they came to take him away and charge him.  His suitcases were outside.

          --Take your things, boy, said the sergeant, a different one from the one who had put him in the grease hole. 

Jim dragged his suitcases over to the office where he was to be charged.  The colonel was off fishing and wouldn’t be back until the next day.

          --You’ll just spend the night here, boy, said the sergeant.

He put Jim in the back room with his suitcases and set a three man guard over him, a corporal, a Spec/4, and a PFC.  The corporal left after an hour.  An hour after that the Spec/4 left, and was replaced by a PFC.

          --Where’d your friend go?  asked Jim.

          --Off duty.  We do two hours each.

          The original PFC was tired.  He had been on guard duty all night the night before.  He slumped over the desk in the front room where the desk and typewriter were.  Jim was sitting on a cot in the back room.  That was all there was to that office.  Jim opened his suitcase, took out a pair of pants, sweater, shirt, underwear, socks and shoes, made them into a bundle which he attached to the rope which had held his suitcase shut, and lowered it out the window.  Then he went into the front room and taped the PFC on the shoulder.

          --You can sleep on the cot if you want, he said.  I’m not tired.

          --Thanks, said the private and went in and went to sleep.

Jim sat on the desk and watched the new PFC sit on the chair and read the comics.  After two hours he left and was replaced by another PFC.  Jim got off the desk.

          --I guess I’ll turn in too, he said.

The PFC nodded and Jim walked out, walked around the side of the building, cut down his clothes, and left Fort Jackson.

Once back in the woods, he changed clothes and started off down the railroad tracks again.  Since he hadn’t been officially charged, they hadn’t taken his money away, and so he went into Columbus and got a bus north.  He felt he was getting sort of paranoiac because logically it was too early for him to be reported missing as yet.  But he thought about pursuit all the way to New York and decided he should get out of the country.  His mother was at home, and his father was off somewhere.  As usual.  Jim packed some clothes and picked up his passport.

          --I’m going to Paris, mom, he said.  Would you drive me to the airport?

          His mother said she would.

When they got to the airport, he went up to the ticket desk and asked when there was a flight to Paris.  It was then a quarter to ten in the evening, and there was a plane leaving in ten minutes.  Jim said good-bye to his mother and took off.

The plane touched down in Paris at eleven the next morning.  As Jim walked into the administration building at Orly Airport, two stewardesses, one on each side of the entrance, were paging him. 

          --Are you Monsieur O’Kelly?  one of them asked as he passed her.

          --No, he said.

          But then he was afraid to go through customs.  He didn’t know whether or not the French police had the right to pick him up and turn him over to the Embassy not.  He had the telephone number of the Quaker Center, which he had copied out of a Peace News article while still in London, as a place ready to help deserters.  The man who answered there said he didn’t know much about it himself, but he could get in touch with some people who would help.  Jim should call back in an hour.  Jim walked nervously around in the transit area until the hour was up, afraid they might start looking for him here inside.  When he called back, the Quaker said someone was coming out to get him.  But Jim was still afraid to come out of customs.  By then he had discovered a chapel which was separated by an open grill from one of the outside corridors.  He called back the Quaker Center and said he would go to this chapel and the person could talk to him through the grill.  He waited a long time in the corridor behind the chapel, but he couldn’t see anyone on the other side of the grill.  However, people were coming and going in the corridor so he moved on.  Even so, he was sure he had been spotted, and so he telephoned the Quakers again.  This time there was a deeper voice on the phone.

          --Hello, it said.  This is Max Watts.  I’ve been out of town.  What’s the problem?

Jim told him about being scared he would be picked up by the French police and turned over to the American MP’s if he came out of customs.  Mr. Watts told him not to worry.  GI’s had the legal right to stay in France and would not be turned over to the US Army.  In fact, the quicker he got out of transit and onto French soil, the safer.  He could walk right out into the airport, a free man.

          --Except I’m afraid you’ll have to get into town under your own steam, added Mr. Watts.  The person who was out there has left.  Have you any money?

          --Oh sure, said Jim.  I’ll change some outside.

          Mr. Watts gave him directions where to go and hung up.  For the first time since his induction, Jim felt free.  At least, he had definite information on his new status as a deserter.  His passport was stamped automatically, and customs did not open his suitcases.  He still felt a little paranoiac as he walked through the gates, but no stewardesses; only show windows with perfume bottles, bonbon boxes, and small scale models of the Eiffel Tower and the Arc de Triomphe.  He had no trouble finding the airport bus into town and got off at the Invalides, not far from the Eiffel Tower itself.

The suitcases at the Invalides came down a moving ramp, were plucked off by porters and placed on low counters.  Most travelers took their suitcases and carried them off themselves.  A minority crossed the sidewalk and waited between the iron railings of the taxi stand.  The majority just walked off wherever they were going.

Jim was one of those that walked off, but since he was not sure where he was going he did not walk very far.  The rain had stopped, and so did he.  Under the dim light of a globular lamp near the stop signal, he took out his new red Plan of Paris by Arrondissement:  Names of the streets with the nearest subway stations and maps and consulted it for the rue du Cherche Midi.

          A photographer with a photographic memory, he quickly oriented himself south and decided to walk.  His suitcases were heavy and for a moment he thought of going back to the Invalides and checking them; a valid idea if he was going to be picked up again.  He had not forgotten the two stewardesses paging him, one on each side of the entrance to the main building from the airfield bus.  Perhaps they had sent his name on to the terminal.  A blue-caped policeman motioned the pedestrians across the rue de l’Université.  No, he would not go back to the Invalides.  He preferred to be burdened with his suitcases.

The Hotel des Invalides blocked the Esplanade.  Beyond it was the Champ de Mars, according to the Plan, out of sight to the right. Jim turned left up the rue de l’Université.  Lamps were lighting all over the Esplanade, glowing through the rain.  Hidden in the mist was a church, separated from Saint Dominique by the iron railings of a square.  Ahead rose the grey masses of once private hotels, now ministries of Commerce and Industry, National Education and Agriculture, Embassies of some countries, consulates of others, all guarded by soldiers or police.  Hurrying by the policemen, he crossed the rue de Varenne, passing the Mission des Etrangers on the left.  He did not feel at all strange in Paris.  Without the memory of the stewardesses, Paris would have felt as safe as London. 

Down Saint Placide and across Cherche-Midi, he came out on the rue Vaugirard and the Blvd. Raspail.  A photography shop on the corner was putting up its grill.  Jim stopped and oriented himself, southwest, to look at the cameras.  Then, leaving the College Stanilaus to his left, and the Pension Saint Nicholas and the Couvent de la Visitation to the right, he stopped by the storefront of a foreign mission a little farther down.  Behind a dusty plate glass window, seashells and sharks teeth necklaces adorned enlargements of islanders and missionaries, and a few dusty books.  Jim wondered if this could be the Quaker Center.  But the number was not the one Mr. Watts had given him, so he continued walking southwest.

The cold rain began again.  The sorry storefront of the foreign mission had been a last outpost.  No brighter lights lit up this part of the rue Vaugirard--neither private nor city lights.  The rain fell, night fell, and Jim buttoned up the collar of his pea jacket and looked behind him.  Ahead of him a building jutted out and stopped him with a large yellow poster firmly stuck to its side proclaiming Quaker Center International.

A light to the right lit up this entire message, even to a hand-written phrase in black spray paint across the bottom stating that religion was the opium of the people.A neat hand-written reply tacked to a lower corner of the poster invited whoever had written these comments to come inside and talk.  Inside was at the end of a driveway disappearing into a cobbled courtyard where several lamps, similar to that near the poster, equally outlined small stubborn trees, a hedge in a box, and the concierge’s black cat guarding the tiny oasis.  High above, on two sides, yellow squares of light were cut out of the walls.  Seven-thirty.

          Inside the double doors was a foyer with two desks, an armchair, book shelves, framed pictures.  Two middle-aged people sat over tea cups, one slightly bent forward, his back to the French doors, one facing them.  Not stewardesses.  The concierge’s cat jumped up on the wall and looked into the window with Jim.  The man facing the doors got up and opened one.

          --Well, you finally made it, said the same voice that had, on the telephone, given him the good news that he was safe on French soil.  Come in, come in.

          --Let me take your suitcases, said the other man tall, thin, older.  They seem to be heavy.  Did you come on foot?

          --It wasn’t too bad, said Jim.  I had a map.

          He patted his pocket where the top of the red guide to Paris protruded its red border.

          --I’m glad to see you bought a map, said Mr. Watts.  That shows a certain preparedness, I must say.  I was beginning to wonder if we’d ever get you out of Orly.

          --They know I’m here, said Jim, glancing over his shoulder at the night.

          --Of course they do, said Mr. Watts.  They know that all of us are here--you, me, Bert here.  I would be very disappointed in the Secret Services if they didn’t know all about us by now.

The tall grey-haired man asked him if he would like a cup of tea.  Jim said that would be nice.

          --Take a pew, said Bert.  I’ll be right back.

          --Do you mind if we talk here?  asked Mr. Watts.  I know you usually are closed by this time.

          --No, it isn’t necessary, said Bert kindly.  I would like to hear the sage of Jim’s escape from Orly.  I’ll just put the kettle to boil and be right back.  It seems a beastly night outside too, doesn’t it?  Why don’t you take your coat off?

          --It’s very wet, said Jim, looking around for a place to put it.

          --Put it on the floor, said Mr. Watts, who had already dropped his own wet jacket there.  Bert will be back soon with the tea.  Sit down.

          Jim sat down and looked around.  The room was cluttered and secured for him with books, papers, and tea cups.  One of the paintings on the wall was a water color of a little girl in old-fashioned Quaker dress, standing next to an easel.

          Mr. Watts took out a large block of paper and a red ball-point.

          --I’m going to ask you some questions, he said. You don’t have to answer them but it would help if you did.

          --I have nothing to hide, said Jim.

Bert came back with the tea.  He smiled at Mr. Watts and his red pen, Jim and his curly red hair.

          --Is Max getting ready to out you through his inquisition?  he asked.

          --It may be hard to understand, said Max seriously.  But this sort of thing helps us very much.         

          --I find it all very interesting, said Bert, his grey eyes twinkling.

          --What papers have you?  began Mr. Watts.  Besides your passport, I assume.  Although I shouldn’t.  It is dangerous to assume anything.

          --I do have my passport, said Jim.  And I kept my military ID.

          --Good, said Mr. Watts.  Some of the guys, the first thing they do when they quit the army is burn all their army papers.  Worse thing you can do, but we’ll get to that later.  First I want to know about your personal history.  Your name is James Campbell O’Kelly, right?

          --That’s right.

          --Rank and serial number?

          --US7893852.  Private.

          --We haven’t had any US for a long time.  Okay.  Where were you born?

          --Brooklyn.

          --Address?

          --I don’t remember.  We moved when I was three.

          --Where to?

          Jim smiled.

          --New Jersey.  1790 Beach Street in Watagh, New Jersey.

          --Where did you go to school?

          --Saint Francis Grade school and Saint Anthony’s High.

          --Catholic schools?

          --That’s right. 

          --Are you a Catholic?

          --I was confirmed, but I haven’t done much about it since.

          --Did you graduate high school?

          --Yes.

          --Good.  Our average is tenth grade dropouts.  Have you had any college?

          --Two years at Marion in Poughkeepsie.

          --Marion?

          --Marion Junior College.

          --What were your favorite subjects?

          --I liked science.  I got 85 in chemistry, physics and science.  At least that one year.

          --What about languages?

          --I took Latin.  And I had a year of French.  That helped me when I got here.  It helped me to buy my Plan of Paris.

          Jim smiled.  Small pleasures.  The bus had let him off underground at the Invalides.  Right at the head of the up staircase was a magazine counter.  Avez-vous le Guide pour Paris?  he had asked.  Cinq francs, the man had said.  Jim realized he only had dollars.  The Bureau de Change was next to the stationary counter, so he changed forty dollars and bought a Plan de Paris par Arrondissement with his first French money.

          --Why did you quit college?

          - -It was a two year course.  I thought I’d like to go to Europe for awhile, and I had some money saved up, so I went to England.

          --Why England?

          Jim smiled before answering.

          --They spoke English.

          --How long were you there?

          --Eight months.

          --Did you just live on what you’d saved?

          --No, I had a job.

          --Doing what?

          --At a photographer’s art studio.

          --Didn’t you have trouble with your working permit?

          --No.  The owner said he didn’t mind if I didn’t.  That he’d pay me just the same.  He didn’t want to bother with all the paper work.  That was fine with me.

          --Did you go anywhere else?

          --I went to Ireland for three days.

          --When?

          --In September 1966.

          --And then?

          --I got a letter from my draft board for my physical and went back to New York.

Max drew a line across the block, stopped, and started again.

          --Before we get into the army, let’s see if we’re finished with your family.  What about your father?

          --He’s a marine engineer.

          --Your mother?

          --She works as a bank teller at the National Bank of Wantaugh.  She and my father are separated actually.

          --Do they approve of your decision to leave?

          --My mother does.  I don’t know about my father.

          --Tell me why you quit the army?

          Jim told him about the two days in the hospital in New Jackson, the walk through the Vicksburg woods and his job as a photographer in San Francisco.  Then, after four months of calm civilian reflection, feeling it must all have been a mistake to pass him on his physical, how he had gone back and was thrown in the garbage pit.  Max stopped him.

          --I don’t see why you went back, he said.

          --I just couldn’t believe that they were serious, he said.  But when I said that to the Puerto Rican captain, he got very mad.

          Jim smiled and shook his head, remembering how mad the Puerto Rican captain had gotten.

          --How did you feel about Puerto Ricans after that?  asked Max.

          --I don’t think he threw me in the pit because he was Puerto Rican, said Jim.  But his temperament probably got aroused more easily.

          --I think Jim learned something by going back, said Bert.  He did learn the hard way, but he gained some experience, didn’t you, Jim?

          --Oh, I got experience all right, said Jim.

          --That’s always something, said Bert.  We learn something, even though sometimes it’s a little hard on us.

          The three of them looked at each other.  An angel passed, thought Max.  The spirit of the meeting, thought Bert.  Jim thought they were strange geezers, but that things would probably be all right for him now.

                                      §                     §                    § 

                                                                                                                          

          Shank’s mare, a bus, a plane, another bus and now a train--not counting  his mother’s car which had taken him from his home in New Jersey to the airport--that made three different modes of transportation to get from Fort Jackson, South Carolina to Tours, France.

          --I’ve come a long way, he thought.  So far, so good.

          The country was flat farmland, a few hills in the distance.  No leaves on the trees yet, no buds on the bushes.  A month to go till spring.  The cows stared over grey-green grass.  A slight watery sunlight lit the stone farms.  An orange tractor.

          --Tours.

          Getting his suitcase off the overhead rack and holding his Herald Tribune visibly in his left hand, Jim stepped down off the train.  A blue-eyed man in a red turtle neck sweater precipitated himself forward and grabbed his hand in a hearty shake.

          --I’m John Cavanaugh, he said emphatically.  Let’s get out of here.  I don’t think you’re being followed, but I’d just as soon take no chances.  Once we get in the car, they won’t be able to catch us.  Unless they’ve recognized me, of course.  I recognized you right off, by the way.  Throw away the Tribune.  No need advertising you’re an American.

          Jim O’Kelly obediently dropped the Tribune in a ticket stub basket.  John Cavanaugh walked to a red Ferrari.  Jim stepped down into the front seat beside John and grasped a handle there for grasping.

          The Ferrari burnt up the country road.

          --Nice car, said Jim, a little scared.

          --Pretty good, said John.  Custom-made body and Ferrari motor.  Twenty-five of them were turned out for sports car drivers in Italy.  I have a guy who checks it for me, but I have to go into Paris for it and tell him what to do and see that he’s done it.  I am getting too old for this sort of work.  When this one goes, I doubt I’ll replace it.

          John looked to be in his fifties.

          The road straightened out on top of the hill.  John let the car out and it ran straight across the farming countryside, down a forest road, and up behind a barn.  There was an open shelter in front of them with an empty hay loft and two cars already parked there.

          --That was quick, said Jim.

          --Takes half an hour in the Volkswagen, said John.

          Slightly below, on the rolling ground, a one-story stone farm house overlooked the valley.  John jumped out of the car and strode towards it, Jim following.  A small girl met him halfway.  The outside door opened directly into a large room with a stone floor and wooden beams.  Three-quarters of the way down the room, the remains of a fire smoldered in a chimney isolated in the middle of the room, blocking off the kitchen behind it.  A small woman came out of the kitchen and shook his hand.  She was simply dressed, well- made-up, and wearing a diamond and sapphire ring.

          --This is Pauline, my wife, and my daughter, Polly, said John.  My son is still in school.

          They sat down to a cold lunch of ham, hard-boiled eggs and salad.  They drank red wine. No one talked much which was what Jim was used to with his mother.  The red wine, which he was not used to, made him sleepy and he was glad when Pauline said she would show him to his room.

          Swung from the beams of the house were moving sculptures.

          In his room a red round rug covered smooth floor boards.  Two windows looked out on the valley.  A door was half-open into a modern bathroom.  Jim could hardly believe it was for him.  He took off his shoes, folded the bedspread neatly at the foot of the bed and lay down. Then he got up again, took off his pants and shirt and hung them in a painted closet.  After all this he lay down on the bed, pulled the top blanket up to his shoulders and immediately fell asleep.

Keith Pearson                                           

          Keith was brought in by the Dutch.  Hermann and Piotr from the SJ drove him into Paris from Amsterdam late one afternoon.  They stopped the car near Strasbourg Saint Denis to call Max again.  The first time they had called just after crossing the border into Belgium, and again when they got to Paris to tell him the cafe.  When Piotr came out of the phone booth, they all three ordered beers and sat down to wait.  Piotr and Hermann began to talk in Dutch, Keith was silent, the beers came, they all took a long swig.  They had made it.

          --I hope you will like France, said Hermann.

          Keith looked around the cafe, glittering with neon, and nodded.

          --Okay if I play pinball?

          --Yes, if you like, said Hermann.  Wait a minute, here’s some French money.

          He gave Keith five francs.  Keith took the bill to the lady cashier behind the zinc counter and gave it to her, indicating the pinball machine with one hand.

          --De la monnaie?  she asked.

          She gave him four one franc pieces, five twenty centime pieces.

          rackety rackety rackety ping

          --It was too bad we could not do a test case with him, said Hermann.  He would have been good.

          --No dope either.  Not even hash.

          The two Dutch boys looked at Keith playing the pinball machine.

          --Well, where is he?

          Five minutes later Max walked in.  Firmly.

          --Where’s the baby?

          --Over there.

          ping

          --Anything I should know about him before I start the interview?

          --We would have liked to use him for a test case in Amsterdam, said Hermann.  He would have been good.

          --Is he clean?

          --We think so.  He was with us a week and he never smoked or asked us about getting any stuff.

          --Good.  so why didn’t you use him for a test case?      Hermann sighed. 

          --There were some attacks--bombings--on various embassies last week.  People in Amsterdam did not like this.  The South African Embassy, the South Vietnamese Embassy.  If we had tried to make a test case with an American deserter, these same people could be easily influenced to think that American deserters were responsible for the bombings, and then we would lose the case.

          --I see, said Max.  Well, you know what you can do and what you can’t.  It’s too bad though.

          --Yes, it is, agreed Piotr.

          --Okay, let’s talk to him, said Max.

          He ordered another round of beer.  Piotr went over to the pinball machine and touched Keith on the shoulder.  They came back to the table together.  The pinball machine, left alone, lit up a sign on its scoreboard saying Free Game!

          --I’m Max, said Max.  The terrible Max.

          Keith and Piotr sat down.

          --What’s your name?

          --Keith Pearson.

          --For us, you’re Baby N.  Third alphabet, letter N.  The one before you was M.  You can be Nicholas--okay?

          --If you want.

          --It’s just for me.  The only way I keep anyone straight is by classifying them in my own way.  Sometimes I even think it would be easier for me if I could give everyone a number.  Now, some of your information can be very helpful to us.  Nothing forces you to answer, but we’re going to help you, so we’d like you to help us.

          --I don’t know any classified information, said Keith. 

          --I don’t want the bomb formula.  I can work that out for myself, said Max.  You see this leaflet?

          He took the War Resisters leaflet To America Servicemen in Europe out of his briefcase.

          --People used to try to give these to GI’s back in 1966 and got Coca Cola bottles thrown at their heads.  By the GI’s.  The police only arrested them.  Now we’ve found you can get to more GI’s by mail than standing in the street, and so we’re thinking of starting a paper here.  For this to get to the GI’s, we need addresses.  If you want to give us the address of any guys in your unit, we’ll send it to them.  Think about it.  It doesn’t get the guy in trouble--first of all, he has the right to receive any literature he wants.  But if he doesn’t want to make a fight for his rights, he can always say he doesn’t know who sent it to him; it just came in the mail.

          Keith listened and nodded.  Max took a swig of beer, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and then, leaning down and extracting a pad from the briefcase at his feet, took a red ball point pen from his pocket and asked Keith his name, rank, and serial number.

          --Keith David Pearson.  RA 169 30 188.  I was busted from PFC.

          --We’ll get to that, said Max.  Have you your ID card?

          Keith said he had it and handed it over.

          Max looked at it, wrote down the number, handed it back.

          --When and where were you born?

          --June 9th, 1947 in Ann Arbor, Michigan.

          --Address?

          --Sugar Loaf Lake.

          --Next residence?

          --When I was two, we moved to Grass Lake out on route 2.

          --How large?

          --You mean how many people?  Oh, it was a small place, about thirty hundred inhabitants.

          --Address?

          --101 95 Parks Rd.  Grass Lake.

          Keith did not mind being asked questions.  He thought he would just answer those he felt like answering and skip the others.

          --What did your father do?

          --My father worked in Jackson.  About thirty miles away.  He commuted.

          --Car or bus?

          --Car.  A Pontiac. 

          --Next address?

          --We moved to Florida when I was six.  Near Ireland.

          --Address?

          --2003 Orange Avenue.

          --In Ireland?

          --Actually it was twenty miles away too.  In Euston, Florida.

          --How many inhabitants?

          --I don’t know exactly.  More than Grass Lake, but not a lot.

          --About--

          Max prompted, pen poised.

          --Oh, about 5000.

          --Did your father work in Euston?

          --No.  He was on a pension.

          --How long did you stay there?

          --Two years about.  One of my sisters got married and stayed there permanently. 

          --20 South May St., Euston, Florida.

          --So then you didn’t go back to Michigan with your parents?

          --No, I stayed with my sister in Euston, and my parents went back to Michigan.

          --And then?

          --Then I joined the Army.

          --In Euston?

          --In Ireland, actually.

          --Why?  Why did you join?

          --It was inevitable, said Keith in a deep voice.  Why not get it over with?

          Max looked up from his pad and said they could take those points up later.

          --Everything in its place.  Now I would like to know about your education.

          --Well, from first to sixth grade I went to school in Munith, Michigan, commuted by bus.  It was five miles away.

          --What were your marks like?

          --Okay.  I was passing.

          --And after sixth grade?

          --I switched over to Stockbridge High.  Commuted too.

          --Until?

          --Well, then, like I said, I moved down to Euston High for tenth and eleventh.  But I had a little trouble there.

          --What kind of trouble?

          --Me and some other kids got caught stealing.

          --How did that happen?

          --Well, we were on a car trip.  My friend had borrowed his parents car--I don’t know whether he’d asked or not, but they never followed it up--and we went on this trip but we ran out of money.  So we stole twelve bucks out of a grocery store till.  We got away all right, but the grocer noticed the plates, and we got picked up twenty miles farther on.  On our way back to Euston, actually.

          --What happened?

          --They sent me to Tavernis Juvenile court.  I got ninety days--thirty four in a juvenile home and then in a rehabilitation place.  I was on probation a year.

          --What did your friends get?

          --I don’t know.

          Keith stayed cool.

          --I had to do tenth grade over, he added.  Back in Jackson with my sister, like I said; so it didn’t matter.

          --Did you graduate?

          --Yeah.  I even went to Junior College in Jackson and night school in the summer, three, four months.  But I couldn’t swing it.  The books cost sixteen bucks, the tuition was three, and it left me four bucks for the rest of the month.  So I split and went down to see my folks in Florida.

          --I thought they’d moved up North again?

          --That was later.

          Max put a question mark in a box next to Parents.  It was probably a lie, a silly lie, but they were the most frequent. 

          --Then I joined the Army, volunteered Keith.

          --Why?

          --My folks had talked to the security officer about me and all.  So, I thought, why not?  Inevitable, like I said.

          --What is your father’s name?

          --Ralph Pearson.

          --Age?

          --Fifty-four.

          --Job?

          --He’s on pension now, like I said.  No thanks to the company.  The union got it for him, but it wasn’t easy.  He was working near a waste barrel and got irfiseau--water in the lungs is what it amounts to.

          --What was his job?

          --Screw machine operator.  One hundred bucks a week for twenty-five years.

          --White union?

          --Yeah.

          --Mother’s name?

          --Lucille.

          --Age?

          --Fifty-three.

          --Does she work?

          --Part time.  In a bank.  She gets eighty-ninety a week.

          --Brothers and sisters?

          --Two sisters, Martha and Mary.  The first one I lived with in Jackson, after I got back from Euston.  Mary stayed in Euston.

          Keith hesitated.

          --I had another sister called Dorothy.  A half sister.  She was thirty-two years old and had four kids already.  I didn’t even know about her till just when I went into the Army.  They probably told me in case I was killed in Vietnam or something.  My mother had been married to some old hill billy when she was too young to know any better and had Dorothy. 

          Keith smiled a crooked smile.

          --It was sort of a shock to find out.

          Shocked at mother’s early marriage, wrote Max.

          --What about the Army?

          --Yeah, well, okay, that was in Euston.

          --You said something about it being inevitable?

          --My folks thought it would be a good idea.  Choice instead of chance.  The night school bit hadn’t worked very well in Jackson--maybe they thought I’d get in trouble again down in Euston.  Anyway, they talked to the recruiting officers, and I joined up.

          --As a general rule, most of the guys coming into Germany are RA, nodded Max.  What did you go in for--three years?

          --Yeah.

          --Date?

          --September 26th, 1966.

          --Basic?

          --Fort Jackson.  Then I went on to Fort Leonard Wood.

          --What was your AIT?

          --I was a truck driver.

          --How did you get to Germany?

          --Easy.  Half the class went to Germany and half to ‘Nam.  I lucked out and went to Germany.

          --Why did you split?

          --I hit a sergeant.

          Max laughed.

          --It’s a good way to go.  Was that the only sergeant you ever hit?

          Keith smiled too.

          --I didn’t leave no bed of roses behind me.  But I sort of got turned on to things, so by that time I was ready to go anyway.

          --What turned you off?

          --The Army.  Especially one guy.  His name was Buddy Peters.  He was a small runt, no luck with girls.  He said most guys sign up for ‘Nam to get out of Germany.  I don’t know if you know K’town—Kaisers-something.  But it’s an awful hole.  Everything fucks up--if you’ll excuse me saying so.  Like they had us drive through a cornfield on maneuvers.  The guy soaked the Army ten thousand dollars for repairs.  We could just as easily have gone around.  You know?  What’s the point?

          --None of the guys figure it’s a good way to get killed, agreed Max.  Going to ‘Nam in a Mickey Mouse outfit.  Some of the fields in ‘Nam have booby traps in them--a lot of guys get killed that way.

          --I don’t think they thought of it, said Keith.  They just wanted to get out of Germany.

          --How about you?

          --I split.

          --How many Article 15’s did you have?

          Keith smiled.

          --Yeah. Well, nine or ten.  I didn’t hit it off with the NCO’s.  One colonel was okay--he got me out of jail--but as a general rule--anyway, he left for the States.

          --How did you split?

          --I ran away. I mean, I talked it over first with friends at a GI party--and in jail, where I was for fifteen days of a six months sentence--that was when the colonel got me out.  Probably I was up for ‘Nam.

          --Why were you in jail?

          --For hitting that sergeant.  He heard me beefing about some NCO and said I didn’t have the right to speak about my superiors that way.  Okay, I’d just about had it, so I socked him one.

          Max was genuinely interested because he remembered socking people in his youth.  He’d gone after the woodworks teacher with a knife, so he asked Keith what happened next.

          --I ran, said Keith.

          --And the sergeant?

          --He ran after me.  But I got away all right and hid in a gypsy camp in K’town.

Gypsy camps in K’town wrote Max.

          --How did you get to Holland?

          --I took a train.  But this guy in a green uniform put me off.

          --Where?

          --Emmerich.

          --Where´s that?

          --I don’t know.

          --In Holland or Germany?

          --I don’t know, Keith repeated a little testily.

          --Look, said Max.  This is important.  It can help other guys like you.  Did he ask for your papers or passport?

          --I don’t know what he asked for, said Keith.  It sounded like he was speaking Deutsch, but I couldn’t tell.  His uniform was dark green with white decorations.

          --Customs official probably.  You showed him your ticket.

          --Sure.

          --What papers?

          --My ID card.

          --No leave pass?

          --I told you, I ran away.

          --I know, but  sometimes the guys have friends working in the office--and get leave passes beforehand.  It happens.

          --I didn’t have a leave pass.

          --Interesting.

          Max turned to Piotr and Hermann.

          --Did you follow that?

          They looked at each other, smiled.

          --You talk too fast, said Piotr.

          --He was put off the train in Emmerich by an official wearing a dark green uniform with white decorations.  Is Emmerich in Holland or Germany?

          They both shook their heads and said it wasn’t Holland.

          --Ah, very interesting.  That’s what I thought too, because  the uniform sounds German.

          Max turned to Keith and explained: 

          --This is a concrete instance of how information that you may consider completely uninteresting can be of great help to us.  That a German official would simply put you off the train, instead of calling for the police--who would eventually turn you over to the MP’s--is of highest importance.  It might just be that this particular official was anti-war and was following his own impulse.  It is certainly too soon to say that the antiwar movement has reached the German border control, but even an individual case is significant.  What did you do then?

          --Took a bus to Elton, Holland.

          --Do you remember crossing a border?

          --They asked for our papers at one point, but then they’re always doing that in Europe.  I didn’t have any trouble there with my ID.

          --He was probably put off in Germany, said Max with satisfaction.  That’s one point we’ve cleared up.  You see why I ask all these questions?

          He turned to the Dutch,

          --It pays off in concrete facts.  How did you get in touch with these guys?

          --I asked a guy with long hair.  I mean, everyone knows the provos help deserters.

          Max smiled again.

          -- That was us, he said.  I was in Holland in ‘66 already and saw what was happening and came back in ‘67 to start the provos working on helping GI’s.  How did you get in touch with him?  he asked Hermann and Piotr.

          --He was staying with a girl we know, said Hermann glancing at Keith.  She thought we could be of help getting him to France. Do you still have your leave pass?

          Keith produced a folded leave pass.

          --Hey, said Max.  I thought you said you didn’t have a leave pass.  Let’s see that.

          --That’s ours, said Hermann.  Just like the real thing, isn’t it?

          --Can you get us more?

          --We can let you have four now, said Piotr.  We’ll bring more on our next trip in.

          --In the meantime, we have to get you a place to stay, said Max.  How do you feel about going to the country?

          --Oh, I’ll go anywhere, said Keith.

          --We don’t want to force you into anything, said Max.  This happens to be a particularly nice place, and there’s another guy there already.

          --A deserter?

          --Well, let’s call him a GI.  Never call yourself a deserter.  Desertion is very hard for them to prove, and it can make a lot of difference in what you get if you ever decide to go back.

          --If he decides to go back?  repeated Piotr.

          --I’m never going back, said Keith.

          --It’s okay, said Max.  A lot of guys decide they want to go back.  Let’s face it.  We’d rather help them than make them feel they’ve finked out.  If they’re really agents--which maybe one or two turn out to be--it won’t make any difference.  If they’re guys who, for one reason or another, decide they can’t, or don’t want to make it on the outside, why make them feel like criminals?  Maybe they’ll send us addresses inside the barracks, give out leaflets, even talk it up against the war while they’re in the stockade.  A lot of guys have been turned on in the stockade.

          After this speech, Max got to his feet, fished a black book out of an inner pocket, and exited towards the telephone booths.

          Time out.

          Piotr and Hermann chatted in Dutch; Keith looked into his beer dregs.  The trip from Holland had taken six hours, and he was tired.

          Max came back.  He had a Vietnamese friend willing to put Keith up for the night.  The next day Keith would take the train down to Tours about 200 kilometers from Paris, where an American gentleman farmer was already putting up one deserter.

          --Can you find a place for us?  asked Piotr.  We want to stay here overnight and then go to the SDS conference in Frankfurt.

          --You can stay with June, I guess, said Max.  That’s where I usually stay these nights.  What’s this SDS conference?

          The Sozialistische Deutsche Studentenbund.

          --Yes, I know what it stands for. I consider myself well-informed on the general situation on the Left, but I hadn’t heard about a conference.

          --The SDS is willing to work on the deserters, said Hermann frowning slightly.  They have asked me, as representing the SJ, to give a paper on it at this conference.  We have friends there who will be willing to set up a network.

          --I can’t go, said Max.  Someone should go from here though.  The point has to be made very strongly about leaflets.  I suppose they are willing to give out leaflets.

          --They want us to help them write one.

          --Who?  You two?  Excuse me, but this guy would be better than you two.

          He pointed to Keith who seemed to be falling asleep.

          --Look, let’s go to June’s and discuss this.  We’ll take this guy down to wherever you planned and let him get some sleep.   Then I’ll tell you what I--what we want you to do in Frankfurt.

          Max paid for all the beers and hacked a path out of the cafe.  Keith followed him.  Hermann looked at Piotr.

          --What does he mean, he will tell us what he wants us to do?

          --That’s the way he is.

          --We’re not going to the SDS conference to represent him.

          --It is necessary to take him not seriously, said Piotr.  Otherwise it is impossible to work with him.  

                                         §                     §                    § 

I put up Piotr and Hermann for the night and agreed to leave with them the next morning for Frankfurt.  The SDS in Germany was ready to distribute a leaflet to GI’s, of which there were about 500,000 spread out around Germany in US bases.

          --I can’t go, repeated Max.  But someone should go from here.  And I don’t trust the Dutch and the SDS to write a leaflet for GI’s.

          --What about the War Resisters Leaflet, To American Soldiers in Europe?

          --I want them to change it to To American Servicemen in Europe.  But it’s written by English intellectuals--not that that isn’t better than what the German intellectuals would come up with.

          --What is the SDS anyway?

          --You mean you don’t know?  Well, why would you?  The Dutch didn’t think I knew what it was--I mean to say!  Okay, I’ll give you a briefing--but short, because I have to get some sleep.

I did not mention that I had to get some sleep because the train was at nine.

          --Sozialistische Deutsche Studentenbund.  Do you know enough German to figure that out?

          --Socialist German Student--Band in German?

          --Union.  Socialist German Student Union--or Union of Socialist German Students, which is not quite the same thing. What is the SDS?  In Europe, particularly in Germany, it does not stand for a democratic society.

          He interrupted himself to insert a parenthesis.

          --I am assuming you know there is a similar group in America called the Students for a Democratic Society.  No organizational connection but the coincidence of the identical initials is curious.  Why did the American organization avoid the word socialist?  The title begins with an S  anyway.  It would seem a natural.  I guess the word is too loaded for them.  The Young Communist League dropped the communist already in 1944.  Transmogrified more or less into the AYD or American Youth for Democracy, then metamorphosed briefly in the Labor Youth League, more or less disappeared in the 50’s, and now lives again in the du Bois clubs.  Anyway, socialism and communism  may be too radical for America.  Maybe because another branch of the Old Left had already re-emptied the term socialist?  There is still the Young Socialist Alliance, youth branch of the Socialist Workers Party, which certainly considers itself far left of the communists.  But they’re Trotskyites.  Did I ever tell you we used to push Trotskyites off bridges in the AYD?

          --Yes.

          --I always forget what I tell people.  Anyway, the young Socialists on both sides of the Atlantic consider the Old Left stodgy and consider themselves to the left of both communists and socialists.  So if socialism is to the Left of communism these days, maybe democratic is to the Left of both.  In America, I mean.  Where was I? 

          --The SDS in Germany.

          --The SDS in Germany originally started out tamely enough as a student branch of the SPD?  Do you want to guess what that stands for?  I know you’re tired, but it’s the only way to learn.  All right.  You are doing a good action by going to Frankfurt tomorrow.

          He patted me encouragingly on the knee.

          --The SPD is the Sozialistische Partei  Deutschlands, the German Socialist Party, built up after World War II.  However, in the days of the Wirtschaftswunder--the economic miracle--in West Germany in the 50’s that is, the German SPD became more and more leery about socialism--there was always the problem of communist East Germany on their doorstep--plus their good relations with Americans across the ocean--and it turned farther and farther right.  They finally wound up in a coalition government with the Christian Democrats and, in fact, anyone who would have them.  So therefore, the younger generation, particularly in the universities, once bastions of the extreme right--sabers, dueling scars and what have you--turned Left and Lefter.  Cohabitation between the less and less socialist parties and the more and more radical students had become impossible some years ago already, and the SDS was no longer the youth branch of anything but an independent far left student organization.  If any “line” could be pinned on them, it would be MA MA MA--Marx, Mao and Marcuse.  And by now we could probably add HO HO Ho Chi Min.