What am I doing here?

Sitting cozy in the Battery Control Center,
a military expando-van stuffed with switches, dials and circuit boards.
Outside, in the clearing, in the forest
in the Federal Republic of Germany.

Three Pershing missiles, so-called “Theater Nuclear Weapons”

lie recumbent on their semi-trailer erector launchers.

Hiroshima on wheels. Only bigger.

-BCC, this is PSO, we have stable voltage.

-Roger PSO, you're clean.

-BC, this is EL, actuators are charged, steady at 200.

-Roger EL, steady at 200.

What is this? This script, this rehearsal for Armageddon,

everything in the cool tones of Army jargon, formal as Kabuki.

What am I doing here?

-BCC, crewman One and Two confirm splice band torque is 75.

-Roger Crewman One, splice band torque confirmed.

Letters and numbers and numbers and letters

crackling in my headset.

Click that switch, then this one, then the other one

green and amber lights winking on the console.

-Hey Sarge, tell me what game are we playing?

Proud Eagle? That's the one where we launch first?

Fry a few hundred thousand Russians, Poles and Czechs

before they have a chance to cross the borders?

-Ohhhh, it's like a blitz in football you say?

take 'em out before they can get downfield.

I see. Just like football.

What am I doing here?

It's not the way I thought it would be.

Oh I knew it would be deadly. That was the whole point:

Sign up, go to missile school, go to Germany, push the button, kill the world.

A perfectly reasonable plan when you're nineteen

and so frustrated, bored, horny, jumping out of your skin

that you really want to show THEM how bad you are.

I'm was thinking big: Can one person start a nuclear war?

That'll show them, that'll show everyone.

But this! This is just a game or a job,

a banal all-in-a-day's-work-then-go-have-a-beer...

The business of annihilation in all it's bland self assuredness.

How could I have been so caught up in blind self centeredness?

Where are the white gold hills of home now?

I want the scent of dust and tarweed

I don't care how lonely it might be.

How do I get there from here?

Just tell Uncle Sugar I changed my mind?

It was all a big mistake, I've had a moral epiphany,

it's a matter of conscience now and I can't participate.

Yeah, right.

Never been a churchgoer, how is that going to work?

-BCC, reciprocal columnation is complete, I'm uncaging the GCC now.

-Roger, 60 second count for the platform commencing now.

God! It really is like football, I gotta get out of here.

Back from the field at the main base,

I go tell the Battery Commander

that I want to become a conscientious objector.

-Are you sure about this son?

That's a drastic step, have you thought this through?

Maybe you should go think about this some more.

Have you spoken to the chaplain?

-I'm very certain. This is what I have to do sir.

-All right soldier, I don't know how we do this,

go talk to the first sergeant or the company clerk,

find out what you need to do to get the process initiated.

And talk to the chaplain, maybe he can do something,

ease you mind or, well, just talk to him, alright?

-Yes sir, thank you sir.

-Good luck, you're going to need it.

Nobody knows how to do it.

They point me to a shelf full of military code and regulations.

-Sorry, you'll have to find this on your own.

Maybe this is too hard, maybe I could just go get a bottle of scotch

and go see Rita when she finishes her tricks.

She always makes me feel better, yeah have a drink

and we can just relax, she's so sexy, just forget all this mess

and play along, everyone else is, they just do the job,

come home and smoke a bowl or have a drink, get laid, play some tunes....

would it be so bad? Maybe Rita could quit hooking

and we could get an apartment together,

I'll move offbase and then it'll be easier and we'll...

Oh remember now?

She's going to Switzerland tomorrow with that businessman, banker

or stock broker, something like that. That's who she wants to be with,

somebody who can take care of her. Who am I fooling? Myself.

Done enough of that, or I wouldn't be here. I’m an idiot.

I amuse her, it's nothing more than that. Or the free scotch.

Just start digging into those regulations, it's in there somewhere,

find out what I have to do to get away from this evil shit. 

But I’ll get the scotch and go see her anyway.

I can start the work tomorrow.

This is insane.

Applications for honorable discharge as a conscientious objector

are decided at the Pentagon. But before it gets there,

 it has to go through every layer in the chain of command.

Every rubber stamp slapped across the pages,

every checkbox ticked, every set of initials or signature on every required form.

All of it in triplicate sifting and drifting through every inbox, outbox and litter box

between Germany and Washington DC.

This could take some time.

So what's first?

A cover letter and a statement. Make my case.

Attendance at church? Nope. I don't even have a denomination.

Support from that nasty little chaplain? Fat chance.

What about this: just tell the story. Exactly as it happened.

The nihilism, the anger, the obsession, the epiphany, the awakening.

That's all I've got.

Next: three references, and they can't be family members.

Addresses of every place I've ever lived, every job I've ever had.

I hope Mom & Dad have those, sorry Mom, I know you're going to hate this.

Interviews and evaluations by army shrinks, army lawyers and army ministers.

to verify that I'm certifiably sane, sincere, and rational. But that isn't quite enough.

My packet of papers goes up a few rungs on the ladder, then tumbles back

for some overlooked checkmark or missed initials.

Of course it has to go through the same inboxes and outboxes

it passed through on the way up.

Collecting dust usually. Until I make enough calls to track it down.

On the Headquarters office phone of course, no privacy and no choice.

The clerks snickering and smirking,

-Is there a problem? Bummer, man.

I have new duties now, no nukes.

I'm a messenger sometimes, or a driver for the battery commander.

I separate edible garbage from the leavings on meal trays behind the mess hall.

It's for some local farmer’s pigs. That isn't so bad actually,

sunshine, fresh air, a pastoral view.

I pretend I'm a sculptor, working with corn and mashed potatoes,

lima beans and strawberry ice cream, a swirl of gravy and a splash of coffee.

A new masterpiece three times a day.

Eight months of document yo-yo and odd jobs

Until my army lawyer says

-This is outrageous, let's write a letter to Nixon.

He was getting kind of busy with Watergate…

We send copies to various other Army functionaries and my Congressman.

It all comes down fast:

Approved, approved, approved!

I'll be out in thirty days.