Read Online The Death of Santini: The Story of a Father and His Son by Pat Conroy - Free Book Online
Authors: Pat Conroy
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playwright; his mother had danced with Martha Graham’s troupe in New York, and years later Zach would receive an Academy Award nomination for adapting the screenplay for
JFK
. A low-key intellectual, Zach possessed one of the sharpest political minds I’ve ever encountered as he prepared me for what could be a life-changing ordeal.
In my mind I’d gone over every possible scenario imaginable as I thought of the possibility of my getting drafted into the army. I thought about going to Canada, but that was the coward’s way out to me and not the way I was raised. Another option: A Marine sergeant whose family was rumored to have Mafia connections claimed that his cousin owned a judge in New Orleans. The sergeant told me to go to his hometown and refuse induction there while wearing nothing but a bra and women’s panties, and the judge would take my case from there. I also thought about signing up for Officer Candidate School, or fulfilling my natural destiny by going to Quantico and joining the Marine Corps. I thought of everything but could decide on nothing.
Before I left Beaufort, I received a Citadel haircut from Harvey’s Barber Shop on Bay Street. I spit-shined my inspection shoes from The Citadel and dressed in the blue suit I wore to my wedding. Out of nervousness, I spun my Citadel ring, which was always on my right hand. Barbara was so upset that day, I don’t even remember telling her good-bye. My mother hugged me at the back door and said, “You were raised to do your duty to your country, Pat. Never forget that.”
“I know, Mom,” I said. “I just don’t know what form that duty is going to take.”
In Columbia, I entered the office of a colonel who had taken temporary command of the selective services after his retirement from the armed services. He was a fine-looking, muscular man in impeccable shape, and gentlemanly to his core. I liked him the moment I saw him, and he flashed me a friendly smile as we sat down. I had spent a lifetime in the brotherhood of colonels.
His first move startled me. He was staring at a thick file of articles and letters when he looked up at me, tapped his ring on the table twice, and said, “The Citadel”; then he cited the year of his graduation.
Thinking that this could be very good news—or possibly catastrophic—overwhelmed me, but I recovered enough to tap my own ring on his desk and I said, “Citadel, 1967.”
“So, you’re the young man who’s been causing all the fuss,” he said as he waded through newspaper clippings.
“Yes, sir. I’m afraid I am.”
“Are you a conscientious objector, Mr. Conroy?”
“I most certainly am not,” I said.
“If this country was attacked by an enemy nation, what would you do?”
“Throw me a rifle, sir.”
“If I draft you today, what will you do?”
“Be a good soldier, sir.”
“When did you decide that?”
“On the trip up here,” I said.
He took out a piece of paper and studied it with great interest. He read the page again slowly; then he said to me, “The superintendent who fired you? He thinks he may have had a drink or two. He called a member of the draft board, who also admits that he too may have had a drink or two. The superintendent said he had just fired you, and a letter drafting you was sent out the next day. It’s the worst case of collusion I’ve ever encountered. Son, these people not only wanted to fire you, they wanted to kill you. It’s disgraceful.”
“I irritate people, Colonel,” I said. “I get it from my father.”
“Your father’s in Vietnam. Your wife’s first husband died in Vietnam. How did he die?” the colonel asked.
“He was flying close air support for troops on the ground when he was shot down,” I said.
“You adopted the two children he left behind?”
“Yes, sir. Jessica and Melissa.”
“I’ve received over fifty letters from your neighbors protesting the fact that you received a draft summons.”
“They worry about Barbara, not
JFK
. A low-key intellectual, Zach possessed one of the sharpest political minds I’ve ever encountered as he prepared me for what could be a life-changing ordeal.
In my mind I’d gone over every possible scenario imaginable as I thought of the possibility of my getting drafted into the army. I thought about going to Canada, but that was the coward’s way out to me and not the way I was raised. Another option: A Marine sergeant whose family was rumored to have Mafia connections claimed that his cousin owned a judge in New Orleans. The sergeant told me to go to his hometown and refuse induction there while wearing nothing but a bra and women’s panties, and the judge would take my case from there. I also thought about signing up for Officer Candidate School, or fulfilling my natural destiny by going to Quantico and joining the Marine Corps. I thought of everything but could decide on nothing.
Before I left Beaufort, I received a Citadel haircut from Harvey’s Barber Shop on Bay Street. I spit-shined my inspection shoes from The Citadel and dressed in the blue suit I wore to my wedding. Out of nervousness, I spun my Citadel ring, which was always on my right hand. Barbara was so upset that day, I don’t even remember telling her good-bye. My mother hugged me at the back door and said, “You were raised to do your duty to your country, Pat. Never forget that.”
“I know, Mom,” I said. “I just don’t know what form that duty is going to take.”
In Columbia, I entered the office of a colonel who had taken temporary command of the selective services after his retirement from the armed services. He was a fine-looking, muscular man in impeccable shape, and gentlemanly to his core. I liked him the moment I saw him, and he flashed me a friendly smile as we sat down. I had spent a lifetime in the brotherhood of colonels.
His first move startled me. He was staring at a thick file of articles and letters when he looked up at me, tapped his ring on the table twice, and said, “The Citadel”; then he cited the year of his graduation.
Thinking that this could be very good news—or possibly catastrophic—overwhelmed me, but I recovered enough to tap my own ring on his desk and I said, “Citadel, 1967.”
“So, you’re the young man who’s been causing all the fuss,” he said as he waded through newspaper clippings.
“Yes, sir. I’m afraid I am.”
“Are you a conscientious objector, Mr. Conroy?”
“I most certainly am not,” I said.
“If this country was attacked by an enemy nation, what would you do?”
“Throw me a rifle, sir.”
“If I draft you today, what will you do?”
“Be a good soldier, sir.”
“When did you decide that?”
“On the trip up here,” I said.
He took out a piece of paper and studied it with great interest. He read the page again slowly; then he said to me, “The superintendent who fired you? He thinks he may have had a drink or two. He called a member of the draft board, who also admits that he too may have had a drink or two. The superintendent said he had just fired you, and a letter drafting you was sent out the next day. It’s the worst case of collusion I’ve ever encountered. Son, these people not only wanted to fire you, they wanted to kill you. It’s disgraceful.”
“I irritate people, Colonel,” I said. “I get it from my father.”
“Your father’s in Vietnam. Your wife’s first husband died in Vietnam. How did he die?” the colonel asked.
“He was flying close air support for troops on the ground when he was shot down,” I said.
“You adopted the two children he left behind?”
“Yes, sir. Jessica and Melissa.”
“I’ve received over fifty letters from your neighbors protesting the fact that you received a draft summons.”
“They worry about Barbara, not
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