to be living together for a long time back in the World.”
“We got something really big coming up.”
“I’m not interested. Shahbazian’s the natural-born hell-raiser. Wheeler may keep it to himself, but he hates the war as much as he hates Nixon and his War on Drugs. How about Perez and Washington? You brought them in. And Blackwell and Price. They go back to the sNorton Bird days and they always came through—always cool under pressure even when the Air Police were grilling us.”
“I’ve already been talking to them. Shahbazian and Wheeler let me down. Woody of all people is suddenly afraid of making waves. ‘Nobody’s rocketing the base here,’ he told me. ‘I’ve been happy pretending to repair cameras. I’ll be happy to be your part-time driver—just don’t get me sent back to Nam.’ Meanwhile, Wheeler rambled on and on about how he’s got this Thai girlfriend who’s supposed to move in and how the dope here is so mellow—I should try some. And they both talked about working on business deals. Perez only agreed after I promised there would be five hundred people marching. As far as Washington, Blackwell and Price—they’ll march, along with every soul brother on base. But we still want you.”
My butt was beginning to ache. I wanted to escape, but Moonbeam had me trapped. “If you’ve got five hundred people rounded up, what do you need me for?” I asked.
“Because like I said, this has got to be really big. We’d like to get another five hundred brothers and sisters to come over from Korat, NKP, Udorn, Takhli. Make it an even thousand. Callin’ it People’s Independence Day II, so you gotta be in on it, sucker. Remember that Army lieutenant, Barry Romo, who spoke at your little get-together back in San Bernardino? He was one of the main men at Dewey Canyon III in Washington back in April.”
“So I heard.”
“Head of the California delegation. Got some serious attention from Walter Cronkite. Maybe they didn’t change the world, but it wasn’t another piss-assed protest by a bunch of spoiled college kids. And maybe this ain’t gonna change the world. Maybe we ain’t gonna change jack. But we sho’ nuff gonna ruffle the Air Force’s tail feathers, and sleepy l’il Ubon’s gonna wake up and take notice.
“I’ve got Washington and Blackwell doing lots of photography, so that when we get the story to CBS, they’ll have plenty of pictures of active-duty GIs raising hell in theater. We could really use your help. We’ve got to print five thousand flyers without a soul knowing about it. And I need a speechwriter. Why reinvent the wheel, Leary? This is your thing. sNorton Bird revisited. And that rag you helped turn out back in D.C. Didn’t think anybody knew it was you? It’s in your master file, bro—the one only we officers get to look at. You were born to turn out this trash. A regular twentieth-century Thomas Paine. You’re part of history, man. Can’t fight history, so go with the flow. You know in your heart of hearts and soul of souls this is why you were called into the Air Force. This is your gift, your talent. It’s in your Irish blood. It’s your true Air Force Specialty. It’s right up your alley, Brendan, and you know it.”
“Maybe it used to be up my alley. But damn, Rick, I’ve got to cool it right now. I’ve finally got my discharge hearing next week. I might be going home. Why do you have to show up here of all places now and try to mess it up?” I took a deep breath and wished for once that I smoked cigarettes. I needed a hit of nicotine. A shot of Mekong would have helped. “Alright,” I said, “this is the deal. I happen to know a fellow-traveler pacifist named Greg Quam who happens to be working the night shift in the base printing plant. Sort of a quasi-legal way of putting him in solitary. He’s been turning out some mildly disrespectful underground GI stationery on his coffee breaks. He’s your man. I’ll make arrangements for you to meet him, and then I go back into retirement, sir. Got it?”
“You’re hooked, sucker, and you know it.”
“I’m hooked on cheap dope and Mekhong whiskey. Maybe you didn’t hear me a moment ago: I’ve got my discharge hearing coming up next week. Martyrdom is all yours, Rick. Sorry.”
The next night Shahbazian dropped us off in the shadows behind the print shop. I led Moonbeam in through the back door to meet Quam, a new friend because by some kind of mysterious hunch he had figured out I was a fellow conscientious objector when we chatted in the chow hall on a rainy night at the start of monsoon season. Quam had been a sergeant back in San Antonio, Texas. The day before he was scheduled to ship out for Thailand, he went downtown to check with his lawyer on the status of their request for a restraining order. The base commander trumped it up to make it look like he had gone AWOL and busted him back to airman first class. I hated to imagine what Quam’s commander would have done to me for leading People’s Independence Day.
Lieutenant Liscomb showed Quam a mock-up of the flyer he wanted printed. “Can do,” Quam said simply. “But isn’t September a little late for an Independence Day march?”
I saw Liscomb pause for the first time since he arrived in Ubon. “You’ve got a point.”
“How about March against Racism—March for the Dream?” I piped in.
Rick’s face lit back up. “Thomas Paine has come through again!”
“It’s your lucky night, Lieutenant. It’s a little slow. Can you come back around two?”
“I’ll be in the Rat Pack pickup with the funny-looking mouse on the door,” Liscomb answered enthusiastically and strode out to rendezvous with Shahbazian.
I hung back, needing to catch up on some unfinished business of my own. “Did your lawyer ever send you copies of his filings?” Quam asked, still smarting from his own experience. “You’ll need them if you don’t get a favorable ruling and need to resubmit your claim later. It also lets you keep an eye on the quality of his work.”
“I haven’t heard from him. But his office manager keeps sending out billings every month.”
“Hate to say this, but he might not be doing a thing. You’re low priority now that they’ve already won a few of these.”
“And he’s billing me?”
“He’s a lawyer, isn’t he? He might just figure you’re a spoiled rich kid.”
“And maybe he’s right,” I winced. “What do you think of Liscomb’s peace march, by the way?”
“What peace march? I’m printing the fliers on local Thai newsprint with Thai printer’s ink that Lieutenant Moonbeam takes with him. And then I disappear back into the woodwork while my case is on appeal.”
“My sentiments exactly.”
31 August 1971
Hearing in Wonderland
Edward Poser, Esquire, had advised me to waive my hearing, telling me it would only delay my request for discharge as a conscientious objector. But since this was the same guy who bungled my case in federal court and left me with seventy-two hours to pack up my life at Norton and ship out for Southeast Asia, I decided to see if ignoring his advice wouldn’t work better. The catch was that Air Force Regulation 35-24 was full of booby traps that made it easy for the Air Force to keep its troops around for their full enlistment—unless the Air
