The Children's War

by C. P. Boyko

  Major Witte looked at her closely. So here was another of these masculine women who were so keen to be treated as equals, not just at home, at work, and in the street, but everywhere—even in the ugliest, fiercest, dirtiest, and most dangerous places on earth. They must be equal in abjection as well as in glory. Very well.

  His interest in Hillary evaporated; he could no longer even find her attractive. He hung up the telephone.

  “All right, you’re rotated to Pastor’s Hill. That’s your helicopter outside; you might want to run. Talk to Captain Augello when you get there and tell him I need him to send me back the paperwork. First, let me give you a little piece of advice, my dear.”

  But his telephone rang before he could give it.

  After returning from the island with a bullet in his thigh, Andrew worked for two years as an ambulance driver on the mainland—by far the longest he had ever stuck at one job. Though not nearly so thrilling or glorious as the driving he had done in the war, the work was fun when he was busy, and when he was not, he relished the inactivity: he loved the idea of being paid to sit around the staff room and play poker with the EMTs, watch television, read a book, or sleep. Some days he was even paid to be on call—paid simply to be ready to work!—and though he had to stay sober and close to a phone, the constraint gave him a feeling of responsibility and importance. His family and friends were impressed, too. His only complaints were directed at the bureaucracy of the large medical organization of which he was a part. He had to attend meetings every week; his mailbox was always overflowing with inessential memos; he was constantly being required to fill out forms. He bristled at this treatment, and rebelled in small ways: by not paying for the coffee he drank in the staff room, by not ironing his uniform, by drinking a little when on call, and by going on shift a few minutes late and going off shift a few minutes early.

  The week before Andrew’s two-year review was scheduled, his supervisor invited him into his office for a chat. Patrick was jovial and chummy with his staff; he never gave them orders, but asked favors; he cadged their cigarettes and bought them donuts. Andrew disliked him, seeing his easygoing bonhomie as a ruse by which he elicited obedience. How little he actually cared for his staff was epitomized, Andrew felt, by his habit each morning of taking the fresh newspaper into the bathroom for half an hour, and returning it to the staff room with its pages rumpled, disordered, and faintly polluted.

  To show Andrew that there was nothing to fear, he left the door to his office open and straddled his chair informally. After several minutes of small talk, in which he demonstrated a knowledge of Andrew’s hometown, favorite beer, and penchant for movie-going, he asked if Andrew was happy in his job.

  Here it comes, thought Andrew. “Happy enough, I guess.” —Patrick peered at him shrewdly. “I sure hope you’re not sweating about this little review coming up.” Andrew made the verbal equivalent of a shrug. Patrick disparaged the seriousness of the review process for a while, then grew pensive. “Of course, the best strategy is always to be prepared. You don’t want to go in there and get blindsided.” Andrew agreed; and after a few more minutes of reassurances and truisms, Patrick admitted that the review board would probably broach the subject of speeding.

  Andrew bridled. Some months earlier, Patrick had (in an even more roundabout, noncommittal, and apologetic way) reprimanded him for not using his turn signals to their full advantage. There had also been a memo reminding drivers to obey all posted speed limits—a memo that he now felt certain had been directed at him especially. (It had been.) He realized that he was the target of a prolonged campaign of intimidation and harassment. He started coughing—his asthma being often triggered by indignation.

  “Am I fired?” —Patrick, who was terrified of the union, back-pedaled furiously. To show Andrew just how far he was from being fired, he outlined all the steps that would have to be taken before Andrew, or anyone, could be dismissed from his job: an official warning, in the presence of a union steward; an official correction, subject to dispute and appeal; and, finally, three official demerits, with not less than three months’ probation between them, giving the employee time to mend his or her ways.

  Andrew did not receive this information in the spirit in which it was offered; rather, he took it as a threat, expressed in Patrick’s mealy-mouthed fashion. Patrick was the arresting officer outlining to the malefactor the months in court that would lead nevertheless inevitably to his conviction and incarceration. Either Andrew must submit, or all the weight of the system would descend upon him and force him to submit. The choice was the same, whether he made it now or three demerits from now: he could toe the line, or he would be fired.

  “Of course, I’m not giving you shit here or anything,” said Patrick. “I’m just giving you a heads-up. If it was up to me, I’d say speed all you want. I mean, if you’ve got your lights and your siren on and your way is clear, I say absolutely, drive as fast as conditions and safety allow. But unfortunately, it’s not up to you or me, is it?”

  Andrew emerged from this meeting in a mood of anguished despondency, for he knew that he must quit his job. Only by quitting could he expose the enormity of this injustice. But he was not ready to quit. Now that he was faced with leaving it, his job acquired a noble, heroic luster. But how could he go on under these conditions? All his life, all he had ever wanted was to be an ambulance driver. But an ambulance driver who was not permitted to drive fast? An ambulance driver prohibited from saving lives? It was too absurd; it was an outrage.

  That night, over many beers in several bars, as he wove together the threads of his resolution, hardening his heart with anger and disgust, he arrived at the conclusion that he was not, after all, making a great sacrifice, or playing the role of martyr. He was not relinquishing anything precious, because what he had once cherished had already been lost. It was his time on the island, he decided, that had been the real adventure, his true life’s calling. There he had been brave, and dogged, and clever, and necessary. These past two years on the mainland had been nothing but the dazed sloughing of a dream. It was time to wake up.

  Andrew’s memories of the island were perhaps incomplete, but they were not altogether inaccurate. His work there had at times been glorious and thrilling; he had occasionally been tenacious or daring. But he had a nostalgic tendency to leave out of his memories the dull and the inglorious, with the result that his past always looked to him a little better than it actually had been, its passing always a little more poignant than it was. This feeling of loss, this sense of premature endings, pushed him constantly to seek new beginnings—and consequently he was, although unwittingly, among the happiest of beings.

  He had forgotten, for example, the difficulties he’d faced even getting to the island. As soon as he made the decision to go, he told everyone he knew. After a couple of weeks spent basking in what he believed was his friends’ and family’s diminishing astonishment and growing admiration, he at last took himself to the airport like a soldier reporting for duty. His momentum was soon checked, however, when the ticketing agent asked for his passport, which had gone missing somewhere in India and which he’d neglected to replace after returning home under a temporary one. He could not believe that this was an insuperable obstacle; surely once his flight was paid for they could hardly turn him away. He told the woman behind the counter that it was buried deep in his bag, but not to worry, he would produce it when he reached customs. —“I’m afraid I can’t issue a ticket without your visa number.” —Visa? —“It’s probably stapled in your passport. That is, if you did get a visa . . .?” —He recovered quickly: “Yes, of course, it’s stapled in my passport. But do I really need to pull it out now?” His tone was humorous and collusive. —The woman liked Andrew, she didn’t know why, and wanted to help him; and so the distress she felt was acute. “I really honestly can’t even print a ticket if that field is empty. The system won’t let me.” She didn’t know for a fact that this was so, b
ut it stood to reason. She had once forgotten to enter a passenger’s first name, and the computer had let her go no further till she’d rectified the oversight. Andrew, who was complacently ignorant about computers, believed that their rules were as arbitrary and flexible as people’s. He asked the woman—her name was Olivia—to try.

  Now Olivia became quite miserable. If she tried and succeeded, she would be revealed as a liar. Furthermore, she would be guilty of having issued a ticket without a visa number, an act which, if not impossible, was certainly against protocol. Who knew what far-reaching repercussions might follow? For her, the consequences would probably be negligible: she could always claim that she had merely made a mistake. But what if the matter was more serious than she realized? What if the visa numbers she collected were submitted to airline headquarters, to the airport transit authority, to the government? What if a missing visa number triggered some silent alarm? What if a missing number caused the computer system to crash? Her total ignorance of the reason for requesting the numbers provided a breeding ground for terrifying hypotheses. In fact, she might well be risking her job, and her supervisor’s job; she might be undermining the airline’s reputation; she might be, for all she knew, endangering diplomacy between the island and the mainland. And there was a war going on! There must be a reason for collecting those visa numbers, and no doubt a good reason. The passenger little realized what he was asking her to do. How dare he suggest she flout protocol! Her distress became anger, and her anger made her hard.

  “I’m afraid you’ll just have to find your passport, sir.”

  Andrew sighed—not impatiently, but absolvingly—and asked to speak to her supervisor.

  “Certainly, sir.” Now she disliked him, for there remained the possibility that Kathy, her supervisor, would be obliging, would waive the visa-number requirement, and thus by contrast show Olivia to be finicky, inflexible, and inconsiderate of her customers’ needs. But she needn’t have worried: Kathy supported her, with adamant authority. The passenger would produce his visa if he wanted to fly.

  Andrew started coughing violently in his frustration and disbelief. What did they care if he had a visa or not? It was not their job to check his papers but to sell him a seat on an airplane! Petty tyrants!

  Later in the day, Olivia saw him at another ticket counter, talking to another agent and her supervisor. Her eyes widened with understanding and her chest tightened with loathing. He was trying to fly to the island without a visa! She had half a mind to call security.

  Finally forced to admit his oversight, Andrew took a taxi downtown. He sat in the front seat to signal his hurry, choosing to believe, in order to sustain his enthusiasm, that the visa was a mere formality, and that he would still reach the island today. Everything at the passport office, however, conspired to disabuse him of his enthusiasm. There were queues to get into queues, and paperwork to be submitted requesting paperwork. His soul shriveled under the fluorescent lights, and by the time he was called by number to an interview carrel, he was in a belligerent, anarchistic mood.

  The agent, seated behind glass, perused his application with patient bewilderment, while Andrew fidgeted, nervous and resentful. “It’s a passport-replacement application,” he explained. “And a visa request for travel to a provisional protectorate,” he said, borrowing the jargon from the form itself.

  When at last the agent spoke, her voice was muffled by the glass. “To where are you traveling.” —Andrew told her. —“And why.” —The woman’s impassive face and robotic voice, in these stern surroundings, told Andrew that she would be even less sympathetic to his prospective heroism than his family had been. “Holiday,” he said. —“What kind of holiday.” —He was nonplussed. “For relaxation,” he said. —The agent moved papers around like a florist arranging a bouquet. “You know, of course, that there are some excellent and affordable holiday resorts right here on the mainland.” —Andrew feigned a polite interest, and was given several brochures featuring patriotic slogans splashed across photographs of laughing actors in colorful locales. “I’ll keep it in mind,” he said, “for next time.”

  The agent looked at Andrew candidly. “I always find it strange, all the people I meet everyday, who are actually trying to leave the greatest country on earth—when so many thousands would do anything to get in.” —Andrew shrugged. “The grass . . .” —The agent sighed and looked around her, as though seeking assistance. “You go on holiday often.” —“I like to travel, I guess.” —“The travel ministry, you realize, cannot guarantee our nationals’ safety on the island at this time. You have heard about the insurgent activities.” —He was stunned for a moment by the euphemism. “Yes, but I gather it’s not so dangerous in the cities.”

  “Are you a journalist.” —“No. Why?” —“Are you in the employ of any foreign power.” —“Definitely not.” —“Have you ever been indicted for a crime against mainland national security, or against the person of the president.” —He swallowed his incredulity, and said only, “No.” —“Is this application invalid for any reason.” —“Not that I know of.” —“Would you like to cancel your application at this time.” —“No, I don’t think so.” —“You would like to proceed.” —“Yes, thank you.”

  Between long, reflective pauses, the agent began signing and stamping documents. “The assessment will take six weeks,” she said at last, “or four and a half if you’d like to pay the expeditement fee.”

  He left the office coughing. Four and a half weeks! There had to be a faster way.

  After a greasy meal that he did not taste, he took a taxi down to the quayside and stood looking at the boats lit like lanterns in the sifting dusk. Choosing a squat freighter that appeared seaworthy, he walked down the pier and hailed a couple of men doing something with ropes on deck. They climbed down and joined him.

  “We’re in dock for two days,” said one of them, “and anyway we never go out that far. What do you want to go to the island for?” —“Never mind,” said the other quickly. “None of our business. But we might know someone who could help you.” —“We do?”

  Two hours later, after a series of costly introductions performed with a furtiveness that Andrew found stimulating, he was shown into a dim cargo hold no bigger than a garage that was cluttered with wicker furniture, old motors, new refrigerators, and hundreds of empty pails. He made himself comfortable on two wicker chairs, and fell asleep.

  In the middle of the night, ignoring the sailor’s injunction to stay hidden, he climbed out onto a narrow grated deck, and, gripping the railing, leaned into the void. The mist on his face, the creaking rumble of the ship, and the starlit plain of water that rose and fell like a sleeping giant’s chest, presented to his imagination a thrilling picture of adventure. He felt himself on the margin of the world, where no one else cared, or dared, to go.

  As the first light of dawn appeared in the sky, he discerned the outline of the island. It was larger than he had expected—there seemed no end to it. Lights twinkled along the coast, and blue hills faded with distance into the sky. There was no movement, no sound. It might have been any coast anywhere. He went back to the hold, and to sleep.

  “Who the fuck are you and what the fuck are you doing on my ship?”

  The engines were silent, and full morning poured in through open doors. The man addressing him had a beard, and for some reason this fact disposed Andrew to trust him. Standing and smoothing the wrinkles from his clothes, he confided that he had come to the island to be an ambulance driver.

  This revelation had no effect on the bearded man, who wanted to know how he’d got on the ship. Andrew said that he’d sneaked on board without assistance. The bearded man expressed his doubt, naming several likely conspirators.

  “I’ll deal with them; but what the fuck am I supposed to do with you?” He soon answered his own question: “I can’t have you fucking up my permits. I’ll have to turn you over to the port authority.”


  Andrew did not mind the sound of this. Half a night’s rest had restored his confidence, and he did not think that any harbor official would actually send him back to the mainland now that he was here. Indeed, they might even be able to direct him to a recruitment office.

  The bearded man hollered some orders, then escorted Andrew off the ship and onto a crowded, clamorous wharf where pigeons and gulls dodged stevedores driving trucks the size of golf carts pulling trailers the size of trucks piled with crates of fruit, cigarettes, and electronics. He was so blinded by so much colorful activity, so distracted by so much picturesque disorder, that he hardly heard the bearded man’s portentous apologies. He didn’t know if the scene reminded him more of Mumbai, Singapore, or Constanța—and decided finally that it was unlike any other place on earth.

  The captain, meanwhile, was having difficulty extracting a bribe from his stowaway, who did not seem at all concerned by the prospect of his imminent arrest. The captain’s threat was also undermined when the first customs station they came to was vacant, the second was impeded by a long, unmoving queue, and the third, to which they were eventually pointed, proved to be up the hill in the town center. The captain took some steps in that direction with now unconvincing determination, then pretended to soften.

  “Listen,” he said, “maybe I shouldn’t ruin your life.”

  Andrew reassured him.

  “I mean,” said the captain, “maybe we can come to some other arrangement, you and me.”

  With a shrug, Andrew gave the man the last of his mainland dollars, happy enough to be rid of their symbolism. Then, bag slung over one shoulder, he walked up the hill into town alone, whistling as he went—but sadly, to politely disguise his joy.

  And indeed, the first thing he noticed about the islanders was their grumpiness. Everyone in the street, whether on foot, on bicycle, or in a vehicle, seemed to be scowling. Of course, this was perhaps not odd in a people at war. On the other hand, he saw no signs of the war—no tanks in the streets, no bombed-out buildings, no rabble-rousers in the squares. Here was any morning in any seaside town: the birds sang, the sun shone, and the buses ran. He reflected on the remarkable resilience of nature, and of mankind—not realizing that this truism rather contradicted his initial observation. In any case, he soon saw some men laughing, some children playing, and a church in disrepair, and his first impression was followed by a second impression, and a third; new generalizations displaced old ones, but so gently and continuously that he was never made aware of the uselessness of generalizing.