Reconsidering the Draft
My Mother and I were eating breakfast when she suddenly folded up her Bangor Daily and tossed it aside with disgust.
“Ain’t that (expletive) awful,” she said.
“What’s the matter?”
“The usual.”
“The weather?”
“No, the news.”
“Oh, that,” I said. “Yeah.”
“You mark my words: this country’s gonna find itself in a war at the rate we’re going.”
“Perhaps.”
“No ‘perhaps’ about it.”
Before I could change the subject, she spoke again.
“I say it’s ‘bout time we reinstate the draft.”
I looked up from my pancakes and squinted skeptically. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
“Oh, I heard you. You can’t be serious, though.”
“Why can’t I be serious?”
“Well, for starters,” I said, “I hear the draft wasn’t exactly popular.”
“Not the last time around, maybe.”
“And it’s really not the best way to recruit people.”
“Why not?”
I paused for a second, thinking how to explain. “Imagine hitting all the Megabucks numbers, but instead of winning a few million dollars, you win a trip to a war zone.”
“Yeah?” She sounded unfazed, like she saw no downside.
“I just think it’s kinda barbaric,” I explained. “Besides, it’s better to have troops choose the military than the other way around. A lot of young people don’t like taking orders. I know I didn’t.”
“Well, that’s just the thing,” said my mother. “I’m not talking about young people. I’m talking about people my age.”
I laughed out loud. “You want to draft eighty-seven year olds?”
“Seventies and eighties, sure.”
I pictured my mother yelling “Charge!” from behind her rolling walker. “You feeling all right?” I asked.
“I feel fine.”
I pointed at her coffee cup. “You sure that’s Maxwell House you’re drinking?”
“Hey,” she said, “there’s absolutely no reason a senior citizen can’t fight for his country.”
“Oh yeah, how about physical fitness? No offense, but I haven’t seen you jog to the post office lately. Or ever, for that matter.”
“Well, a lot of us wouldn’t survive basic training, that’s true. But think of all the Social Security money we’ll save.”
“Mom, that’s horrible!”
“Well, it makes sense, don’t it?”
“It doesn’t matter whether it—”
“And look at all the technology we have today.”
“Your point?”
“My point is that you don’t need be able to run or do pushups to fly a drone.”
I begrudgingly conceded this.
She went on. “Drones…mine sniffing robots…remote-controlled weapon stations. A lot of military stuff is like a video game now. Let’s face it: if you can operate a joystick, you can drive a tank.”
I chuckled to myself. Couldn’t help it.
“What’s so funny?”
“I’m picturing you with your head poking out of a tank.”
“You’re not comparing me to Mike Dukakis, are you?”
“Of course not.”
“You’d better not be.”
I posed the obvious question. “Why the sudden urge to don the uniform again?” My mother served in the U.S. Army during the ‘50s, but had never expressed interest in re-enlisting, never mind marching off to battle. I mean, sure, the woman wore a camo wedding dress, but she’s no warmonger.
My mother pushed her plate aside, folded her hands on the table, and looked straight at me. “I’ll tell you why,” she said. “Too many Americans have forgotten what our flag stands for.”
Intrigued, I asked her to go on.
“Them stars and stripes mean a lot to a lot of people all around the world.”
I considered this for a long moment. “Let me ask you something,” I said, finally. “Let’s say you were drafted tomorrow. Would you want to go to, say, Ukraine?”
“Absolutely.”
“Really? You don’t think our involvement over there has been a waste of money?”
She peered at me over her glasses. “You know the old saying, ‘Pay now or pay more later?’”
“Of course.”
“Well, standing up to a dictator is always worth the investment.”
I sat back in my chair and eyed her with surprise and a new type of respect. “That’s one of the most eloquent things I’ve ever heard,” I said. “It’s wise, too.”
“Money now or lives later, Trav. It ain’t hard to figure.”
