“Southeast Asia. On the South China Sea, bordered by China, Cambodia, and Thailand.” (I’m no geography whiz, but when I started dating Robin, it became clear that if I was going to have dinner with her antiwar parents, I had better know where Vietnam was.)

“Laos, not Thailand, but good enough.” Charles studies the personal-information form again, thinks for a moment. “Okay, here’s the deal. Your induction letter hasn’t come, so we’ve got some wiggle room.”

“Any chance it’ll never come?” I ask. “Like they’ll never find out I didn’t get into college?”

Charles scoffs. “Believe in Santa Claus, man? You’re in one of the toughest draft districts in the country. Your name is on that list, and naughty or nice, they’ll check it twice and find your sweet ass. Catch the news tonight? Two hundred and twenty-three Americans died last week and another four hundred were wounded. Not to mention every month you’ve got nearly forty thousand deployments ending. That’s a lot of bodies that need to be replaced, dig?”

They call the war a meat grinder, as in grinding up bodies. Back in May, there was a ten-day battle nicknamed Hamburger Hill for that very reason. Nearly 450 American soldiers were killed or wounded. They finally took the hill from the Vietcong, held it for a few weeks, then walked away. Within a month, the North Vietnamese were back, as if the battle had never taken place. Nearly every day over there that scenario is being repeated — lives wasted for no reason.

Charles stretches his long arms and yawns. “Given that you have some time, Lucas, and based on your sincere belief that war is wrong, I think we should take a shot at filing for conscientious objector status. Believe in God?”

I shake my head.

“Well, you might want to reconsider. Know what they say? There are no atheists in foxholes.” Charles dashes out his cigarette in an ashtray and slides a mimeographed sheet of paper toward me. “Here’s a list of books. Familiarize yourself with Thomas Aquinas and just-war theory: jus ad bellum and jus in bello. In the meantime, I’ll get the CO application in the mail to you.”

I trudge out into the dark lot behind the church, feeling a weight on my shoulders, thinking about Chris. It might surprise Charles to learn that I have a friend over in Nam who fits the definition of blue-collar working class to a T. Chris actually enlisted. I tried to talk him out of it, but no dice. Now I’m racked by a jumble of disquieting emotions. Mainly guilt because I’m a “rich white kid” who hopes to find a way to stay out of the war — while many less fortunate white and minority guys have no choice but to go . . . and some will die.