Chapter 145: The Book of Death (3)
“Grandpa, you know someone from the Winton tribe?”
Old John nodded. “Yes, we were fairly close… It’s been over forty years since we parted ways, though. I don’t even know how he’s doing now.”
“How did you two meet?”
“That goes back many years…”
In 1969, during the Cold War, the U.S. implemented a draft lottery system to recruit more soldiers for the Vietnam War. Old John and a Native American man named Karl were drafted the same year and placed in the same infantry squad.
Old John had been conscripted forcibly, while Karl enlisted voluntarily to improve his tribe’s treatment.
“A squad had nine members: a squad leader, a deputy, and seven soldiers. Karl was actually sharper and more skilled in combat than both the squad leader and deputy, but because of his Native American identity, he—like me—was treated as a regular soldier… In those days, Native Americans weren’t treated well. They had no land, struggled to find work, and Karl’s tribe often went hungry. He had little choice but to enlist.”
Those were not happy memories. War always brought only suffering to ordinary people.
Scorching heat, harsh conditions, dense jungles, rampant disease… In just four years, by the time Old John was finally allowed to leave the battlefield, the infantry squad had suffered a near-total overhaul. Seven of their original comrades had died, leaving only him and Karl. As a result, the two of them became the squad leader and deputy.