Drafted

by Tzvi Gluckin

I’d done it all.

I turned my back on the insanity of my twenties. The glories of the rock and roll life-style and endless travel no longer impressed me. I wasn’t interested in adventure anymore. I was married with children, content and complacent. I’d taken control of my life.

Then I got drafted.

I was shocked. I wasn’t an idealist. I’d come to Israel to look more deeply into my Judaism and became a citizen in order to get health insurance. The army wasn’t supposed to want me. I was too old. I was too married. They didn’t need me.

They took me anyway.

“This must be a mistake,” I thought. “I have a job, kids, my wife, people rely on me, I have plans.”

A friend offered me a drink.

“Maybe it’s just a test,” I told him. “I’m not going to actually have to serve.”

I requested a delay because of my responsibilities at work.

“No,” the army responded.

I tried to explain that my wife and children needed me.

“Too bad.”

My doctor sent a note explaining how my knees made funny noises.

“Our doctors say you’re healthy.”

I prayed. I fasted. I waited for a miracle. I checked the mailbox constantly for my discharge notice.

“I refuse to believe this is happening,” I told my wife as I left for basic training. “Maybe they’ll feel sorry for me and send me home.”

I was herded onto a bus with about forty other men my age. I was the only American. I was also the only one who didn’t speak Hebrew. We were taken to a processing center outside Tel Aviv. We were fingerprinted, photographed, x-rayed and inoculated against tetanus and a mysterious brain disease.

Someone instructed me to speak to the young girl at the computer.

“Maybe you can help me,” I said in my best broken Hebrew. “I don’t think I belong here.”

She smiled. She confirmed my address and phone number and sent me off to the next room. I was given dog tags, an identification number, boots, a uniform, two pairs of socks and a hat. I changed and put my civilian clothes in a bag. I wasn’t going to need them for a while.

We were shipped off to a base just north of Gaza. Our commander introduced himself on the bus. We drove for about an hour in silence before arriving at the base late in the afternoon. We got off the bus and stood at attention. The commander spoke. He went on forever. I understood nothing. I surveyed our surroundings. Our division consisted of ten tents and a large paved area the size of a football field. It was forbidden to walk on the paved area. The base Rabbi came and addressed our unit. I watched the sun set. I saw the stars come out. I was starving. The Rabbi wouldn’t stop talking. My legs hurt. I was getting tired. The Rabbi spoke for another hour.

We marched to the cafeteria, stood at attention and took attendance. We were permitted to enter in groups of three. Dinner was white bread and French fries. I wanted to go home.

They woke us up the next morning at five AM. I couldn’t believe I was still here. The days were an endless barrage of lectures and standing in the sun at attention for hours. I couldn’t understand what was being said but I could gather from the context that it was mostly about our pay, rules of the army and the fire extinguisher. It never ended. The hours went on and on as the days bled into each other. I was absolutely miserable. I walked around with a permanent frown on my face. I began talking to myself out loud in English. Why wasn’t this ending?! I wanted my life back. I wanted to go home. I couldn’t take it anymore.

My first Wednesday in the army was Independence Day. The entire base was shut down. Almost everyone was sent home. Twenty men were needed to stay behind to work in the kitchen. I was chosen to be one of the twenty.

We were taken to a large room at the back of the Mess Hall. I was told to stand behind an enormous rotating dishwashing machine. Plates rained down on me by the hundreds. My hands burned from the soapy hot water. We worked for hours on end; cleaning up one meal, preparing for the next. My parents had spent thousands of dollars to send me to college and now I was washing dishes.

I noticed that for the first time in days I wasn’t standing in the sun being lectured at about something completely useless in a language I couldn’t understand. Maybe things were going to get better. I began to develop a camaraderie with the other men forced to stay behind from my unit. They thought I was cute.

I’d sometimes leave the kitchen to call home or read. I would come back to discover that no one had been looking for me and nobody cared that I was back. It didn’t matter. I began to understand the psychology of the army. The work was always going to be there. If I was around, I had to do it. If I wasn’t, someone else would. If no one did it, it would still be there tomorrow. This was the army; nothing made any difference.

The commanders began talking about guns. We had classes about the guns, proper conduct, the target. We were taught the ten iron clad rules of gun safety.

Then we were tested.

I hadn’t understood the classes. I didn’t understand the test questions or the answers given as options. I guessed what seemed to be the strictest possibilities.

We were marched off to a field. I was issued an M-16. I felt guilty.

“How can they give me a gun?” I thought, “I don’t know anything!”

I went up to my commander, “I don’t know anything,” I told him.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said.

My commander’s commander interviewed me later in the day.

“How are you enjoying the army?” He asked me in English.

“I’m finding the language very difficult,” I told him. “For example, I don’t understand a thing about gun safety.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said.

We spent the next few days shooting and cleaning our guns. I began to feel sick. I had a fever. I wanted to lie down.

“I don’t feel good, I need to lie down,” I told my commander.

“You need a note from the doctor.”

“Can I speak to the doctor?”

“Ask me in the morning.”

I suffered through the rest of the day. My commander was indifferent. He wasn’t a bad person; he was in the army. It didn’t matter that I was sick now. The army had a system set up to deal with sick people. I’d have to wait until my sickness fit into the system.

“Can I see the doctor?” I asked him in the morning.

“Wait until after breakfast.”

“Can I see the doctor?” I asked him after breakfast.

“It’s forbidden to speak to me in the cafeteria.”

We were ordered to stand in front of our tents. I was dying. I asked again to see the doctor.

“The tents are a mess!” The commander barked.

We were given three minutes to strip our beds and be back at attention. “I just want to lie down,” I thought to myself.

We were given three minutes to fold our blankets and another three minutes to fold our sleeping bags. We were ordered to organize our duffel bags, toiletries, boots; after each order we had to be back at attention. Hours passed. I wanted to rest. Nobody was listening to me. I was going crazy.

“Why isn’t anybody listening to me?!” I yelled.

I thought I was going to lose my mind. I started screaming my head off. I kicked my gun. I jumped up and down in frustration. The men around me applauded. My commander was unfazed.

“You can see the doctor,” he said.

I went to the doctor. I was examined and sent home on a three-day sick leave.

I returned to find that nothing had changed. It was unbelievable; I had been gone for three days and hadn’t missed a thing. The army went on with or with out me. It didn’t matter.

Basic training was coming to an end. We were tested on everything we had learned. I failed.

“You must pass the test in order to graduate from basic training,” my commander informed me.

“That’s impossible,” I said. “I haven’t understood a thing in the classes. I don’t understand the test.”

“You need to take the test again.”

“What if I fail again?”

“You’ll take it a third time.”

Somebody stole a copy of the test and gave me the answers. I cheated. I passed the test. The army didn’t care if I knew anything or not; it just wanted me to pass.

I was marched off to a field and given a rifle and a Bible. I graduated and it didn’t matter. I was a soldier.