"Seen you around," Wendell said. Joe nodded. He had looked Willow over on previous occasions in the Depresso. He was tall and alert, in his mid-twenties; he had dark hair, blue eyes, and a mustache. They had never spoken, but Willow had the feeling that he knew more about her than she did about him.
"What do you think about Vietnam?" Patrick asked Willow as she sat down. They waited while she considered.
"I think we ought to take care of our own problems before we start telling other people what to do. And we should be dropping food and medicine, not bombs; I mean, we're killing people." Joe held up his glass in agreement.
"The fucking government is bullshitting us," Wendell said.
"My father's in the Army," Patrick said. "He says we can't win in Asia; look what happened to the French."
"They're bullshitting us," Joe agreed. "But, they believe some of the bullshit—that crap about communism; they want to keep winning the World War. They aren't too bright."
"That's for sure," Patrick said. "My father's getting out."
"The last year I was in," Joe said, "we lost our clerk. The Major made me the clerk because I was the only one who knew how to type. We had this guy, Captain Sampson, who went by the book. He used to send guys back to the barracks if their socks weren't right. He was O.K., really; he thought it was what he was supposed to do—keep the troops sharp, good for morale, and so on. He didn't know any better." Joe took a swallow of beer.
"One day I got an emergency message addressed to Captain Sampson. Why hadn't he reported for his plagu shot? They left off the 'e' in plague. I knew right away what had happened. His Nam orders had gotten lost somewhere. I took the message over to him and watched him turn pale. Bye, bye, Sammy, I said to myself. They were just grabbing people for Nam when I got out."
"I had a college deferment for a while," Patrick said. "I hope I don't get drafted. I'd probably leave the country."