“I was going to wait and be drafted,” I replied, trying to be polite and answer his question
honestly, “but if I did that they might put me straight in the infantry, and that’s not only the
dirtiest but also the most dangerous branch of all, the worst branch of all. So I’ve joined the
Navy and they’re sending me to Pensacola. I’ll probably have a lot of training, and I’ll never see
a foxhole. I hope.”
“Foxhole” was still a fairly new term and I wasn’t sure Mr. Hadley knew what it meant. But I
saw that he didn’t care for the sound of what I said. “And then Brinker,” I added, “is all set for
the Coast Guard, which is good too.” Mr. Hadley’s scowl deepened, although his experienced
face partially masked it.
“You know, Dad,” Brinker broke in, “the Coast Guard does some very rough stuff, putting the
men on the beaches, all that dangerous amphibious stuff.”
His father nodded slightly, looking at the floor, and then said, “You have to do what you think is
the right thing, but just make sure it’s the right thing in the long run, and not just for the moment.
Your war memories will be with you forever, you’ll be asked about them thousands of times
after the war is over. People will get their respect for you from that—partly from that, don’t get
me wrong—but if you can say that you were up front where there was some real shooting going
on, then that will mean a whole lot to you in years to come. I know you boys want to see plenty
of action, but don’t go around talking too much about being comfortable, and which branch of
the service has too much dirt and stuff like that. Now I know you—I feel I know you, Gene, as
well as I know Brink here—but other people might misunderstand you. You want to serve, that’s
all. It’s your greatest moment, greatest privilege, to serve your country. We’re all proud of you,
and we’re all—old guys like me—we’re all darn jealous of you too.”
I could see that Brinker was more embarrassed by this than I was, but I felt it was his
responsibility to answer it. “Well, Dad,” he mumbled, “we’ll do what we have to.”
“That’s not a very good answer, Brink,” he said in a tone struggling to remain reasonable.
“After all that’s all we can do.”
“You can do more! A lot more. If you want a military record you can be proud of, you’ll do a
heck of a lot more than just what you have to. Believe me.”
Brinker sighed under his breath, his father stiffened, paused, then relaxed with an effort. “Your
mother’s out in the car. I’d better get back to her. You boys clean up—ah, those shoes,” he added
reluctantly, in spite of himself, having to, “those shoes, Brink, a little polish?—and we’ll see you
at the Inn at six.”
“Okay, Dad.”
His father, left, trailing the faint, unfamiliar, prosperous aroma of his cigar.