One week later the weather shifts from tolerably chilly to bitter cold. The shed’s aluminum door screeches as I pry it open and peer into the murky, cramped space. It’s freezing inside. “Oh god, this is unbearable; but if not here, then where?”

    The shed reeks of grass cuttings, gasoline, and grease. The cracked concrete floor is a mish mash of Rorschach-like blotches from countless oil and gas spills. The shelves along the walls are choked with clippers, rakes, hoes, shovels, mowers, and other gardening tools.

    Pausing, I consider what I want to accomplish in this dingy shed. Am I really going through with this? The answer is as certain as my breath: I have to!

     A harsh, nerve-grating screech from the shed’s bent door tears me from my thoughts. It’s Gary and Ken. Their breaths are massive puffs of air. Irritation marks their faces as they enter the shabby space.  

    These guys are in my squad and they’re cool. I can trust them. On the other hand, their opinions about violence and the war don’t line up with mine in the least. Pacifism is as foreign to them as rabbits on the moon.

    Before I get a chance to lay my spiel on them, Ken preempts me, “All right Ayala, what do you want? We could be down at the canteen drinking beer, man. It’s our first day off in over a week!” Pulling his cap tighter on his head, he digs his hands into his pockets snarling, “Damn, it’s cold in here!”

    Equally perplexed, Gary glances about the shed with knotted brow. “Yeah, what do you want? Got any weed?”

    Their questions trigger three words in my mind. I’m not going. It’s that simple. My determination to get out of the military has reached critical mass. It’s only been six weeks, but I’ve made up my mind, I’m not going overseas, I’m a pacifist, damn it! But time is running out, six more weeks and Boot camp will be over. Next it’s AIT (Advanced Infantry Training), after that, Viet Nam.   

    All is not lost, though. Right here in this freezing garden shed I’m going to earn my ticket to freedom, but I need help. Theirs.

    Raising my hands, I say with a mellow, casual tone, “It’s cool guys, be cool. No, I don’t have any dope. It’s nothing like that, man. It’s nothing really. All I need is for one of you to break my wrist. No big deal.” 

    Gary instantly backs away in a fit of nervous laughter, “Oh, man, you’ve got to be kidding!” Ken, on the other hand, wears a questioning expression that reads, “Tell me more…”

    “No, seriously,” I quickly interject. “I’m not going to Viet Nam. I’m resisting the war, man. I’m a pacifist and don’t want to kill, I won’t kill anyone, and, I don’t want to get killed. I’m done with this military scene. I need one of you to break my wrist. I’m dead serious. I need it righteously busted so I can’t tote a rifle or any other kind of weapon.

    Backing toward the door Gary barks, “You cannot be serious Ayala. That’s too fucking weird. You’re OK in my book, Ayala, but this scene? Forget it!” With a slash of his arm he adds with finality, “Count me out!” Turning to Ken he says, “I’ll see you at the canteen, man. I’m outta here.” With that, he leaves with an ear-piercing screech from the dilapidated door.

    Ken is my only hope. Relieved, I notice he’s wearing a sardonic half-smile. What’s he thinking? It’s hard to tell. He’s a quiet, brawny, tough, ex-gang member from Chicago (so he claims). His style is enigmatic, aloof, but never too shy to prove how macho he is. True to form, he says without prompting, “Yeah, sure, I can do it, Ayala. No sweat, man. But, how?”

    Grabbing a shovel from a nearby shelf, I hand it to him, “Use this, I’ll put my wrist on the concrete. You smash the hell out of it with the handle. Simple. Hit it as hard as you can.” Taunting him, I ask, “Sure you’re man enough?”

    “No problem there, bucko. I don’t give a shit,” comes the sharp response. With narrowed eyes he adds, “I’ll do it, Ayala, but it’s going to hurt like hell. Are you sure you want to go through with this?”

    Holding his gaze in mine, I kneel down on one knee, put my wrist flat on the concrete floor, and growl through clenched teeth, “Do it!”

    Mirroring my intensity, he grips the shovel with bone-white knuckles. Looking like a ball player at bat, he taps the floor with the end of the wooden handle and takes a few swings. The awkward shape of the shovel forces him to swing at a weird angle to make room for the rust covered blade.

    Glancing down, I steady my wrist and scream, “Come on, man, do it!”

    He does–but he doesn’t warn me! Caught completely off guard, I watch wide-eyed as the shovel handle, now a latticed blur, drifts across my vision in slow motion. A nauseating thud of mind-bending force shatters every nerve in my body. The blast of pain throws me against the shed wall and onto the floor like I’d been hit by a car.

    “Oh my god, oh my god!” Rocking back and forth with my hand between my legs I’m possessed by a wave of instinctual rage and loathing. “Goddamn it, Ken! You, stupid son of a bitch, what in the hell’s wrong with you?”

    Backing away towards the door, Ken viciously throws the shovel against the wall screaming, “You told me to, man! It was your idea, asshole. It’s your fault, I’m not getting in trouble for this. I’m outta here!”

    Stepping outside, he sneers, “Stupid fuck, it serves you right! You’re a fucking lunatic Ayala! Jesus Christ!” Opening the door even wider, he slams it as hard as he can.

    Cradling my hand in my arm, I shudder in paroxysms of searing pain. After a while I force myself to survey the damage through a veil of sweat and tears. It’s already swelling. The skin is intact but covered with a sickly swash of reddish yellow. Lightheaded and nauseous, I struggle to my feet. The pain subsides to a tolerable pitch.

    Thank god. The worst is over.

    Exiting the shed, I lope to the HQ office clutching my hand like a baby. I’ve never experienced this much pain in my life.

    First Sergeant Swelter is on duty. Catching sight of the grimace on my face, he gets up from his desk and approaches the counter wide-eyed with curiosity. Holding up my swollen hand like something I’d found in the trash, we scrutinize the purple-blue sunset ripening on my wrist with morbid fascination.

    “That looks bad, Ayala! What the hell happened?”

    Before I can respond he abruptly backs away throwing his hands in the air. “Never mind, I don’t want to know. Get your ass to the clinic trooper. Now!” As I leave the office, Swelter waddles to his desk shaking his head. An amused smile fills his round face.

     Weird, what’s so funny? My hand is seriously fucked up, and this guy’s laughing about it? 

    As I enter the clinic I call out to the orderly on duty leafing through a magazine with a bored expression. “I need help, man. My hand is messed up bad!”

    Putting down the magazine, the lanky attendant lackadaisically approaches the counter . Hands at his waist, he shakes his head wearing a knowing and cynical grin.

    Damn, he’s amused too?

    “What in the hell is so funny? Look!” I bark, holding up my battered hand. The orderly’s response is lackluster at best.    

    “I’ll tell you why,” he says suddenly on the edge of hilarity. “It’s because broken fingers, toes, and wrists are very common around here lately. No surprise. Boot camp is almost over. Just like the song, “’Next stop is Viet Nam’”.”

    With an exaggerated wink, he adds, “But you had a real accident, right? You wouldn’t do anything like that on purpose, right?”

    Dispirited, I realize my ruse wasn’t as original as I thought. And no doubt obvious.

    Damn, this is getting me nowhere and I don’t have a backup plan. Time is running out!

    After the orderly signs me in, I’m hustled into the emergency room. The attendant grills me about the “accident” (my wrist got caught in a slamming door, you see), enquires about the pain, feels for broken bones, and takes X-rays. The prognosis: several contusions, massive trauma to muscle and bones, but nothing broken.   

    “Are you sure?”

    The attendant responds to my skepticism with a look of disdain and brusquely waves me away. I’m a PFC after all, why should he bother answering.

    I’ll be damned! I got nothing from all of this. What a waste!

    Gingerly holding my bandaged wrist, I slip the bottle of painkillers they gave me into a side pocket of my jacket and get ready to leave.

    “Hey! You’re not done trooper,” snaps the orderly from across the hall. “You have to report to Captain Striker. He runs the clinic. Better get down to his office pronto. And look smart!”

    Mmm, that’s weird, why would he want to talk to me?

    Lightly tapping on the door, I let myself in, cross the glossy linoleum floor to his desk, and salute. “Ayala reporting, Sir!”

    The room smells of floor wax and disinfectant. Captain Striker is sitting at a large metal desk sifting through a pile of documents. He’s a large-framed man, ultra-fit. He has a narrow forehead and deep set beady eyes. The civilian glasses he’s wearing make him look normal, but not much. His uniform is immaculate, like his boots, fingernails, teeth, buzz-cut hair. He looks like a warrior ready for combat, not a doctor treating new recruits in training.

    Ah, look at this guy, must be with Special Forces, I consider, a killing machine. Just another gung-ho career man. You can spot them a mile away. In this case, an MD. So what? They’re all pigs. Must be in between assignments before going back for more blood and gore in the Far East. What does this lifer schmuck want with me anyway?

    After glancing about the room, I turn back to the CO. He’d been watching me, eyes burning with contempt. His jaw muscles strain and quiver.

    Oh, shit, I’m in for it!

    Between thin, sneering lips, he whispers, “Do you know what trooper? The war in Viet Nam is in the best interests of our country and Indochina as a whole. This is a fact. That dull noodle in your brain is probably wondering in what way. Right?”

    Not waiting for a response, he continues, “With this war we are spreading Democracy to a godless, communist region of the world, but just as important–it’s the cleansing. Yes, you heard me right. It’s the cleansing. With this war we are purging our country of undesirable elements that undermine the fabric of our great nation. With this war we are systematically eliminating the dregs of society.”

    Slowly rising from his chair, he continues the grim monologue. “We get criminals straight out of prison and send them over to Viet Nam. This is good! We’re taking advantage of this moment in history to get rid of drug addicts, drug dealers, communist sympathizers, subversives, radicals, blacks, faggots, and cowardly hippies. We’re shipping them all to ‘Nam.”

    At the peak of his tirade, he leans over his desk like he’s about to grab me by the throat.  “And guess what A-Y-A-L-A? The really good news is that we’re getting rid of miserable, useless, deadweight bastards like YOUUU!” 

    Shaking his fist in my face, he growls, “If I ever, ever, catch you in my clinic again, Ayala, you’re in for a serious world of hurt! Do you hear me? Now get the hell out of my office!”

    Backing away, I mutter, “Uh, yes…, yes sir!” After an awkward salute, I leave as fast as I can.

    Practically at a run, I bash the clinic door open with my boot and keep running. A block away I try to light a smoke with my good hand, but it’s impossible and give up trying.  I’m shaking too much to try anyway.

    Damn! What a maniac! Fucking lifer pigs. I hate’em!

    I slowly make my way back to the barracks. Crushed by the day’s failure, I mutter to the sidewalk, “Nothing has changed, what a bummer. I’m never getting out of this mess. Ever.”

     A lyric from one of Bob Dylan’s songs surfaces from the spiraling doom in my mind:

    “…only a pawn in their game,

    It ain’t him to blame,

    He’s only a pawn in their game…

   …only a pawn in their game.”  

    Back at the barracks, a few guys pass my bunk and ask about my wrist. The mass of bandages are as obvious as a blizzard in a desert. “Oh, nothing worth talking about, pretty stupid, actually.”

    Barely reconciled with today’s failed attempt at freedom, I mutter to myself, “Nice first try, Jim, but not good enough, not nearly enough. Just don’t give up, don’t give up!”