A letter from a draftee who fled to Canada.
Dear Mom and Dad, February 5th, 1968
You are probably wondering where I am. I’m still trying to figure that out myself, but physically I’m in Canada. Somewhere in Ontario. Its a small little town, full of kind people with the most interesting accents. When I first came to town, they they were all surprising friendly and accepting, and I wasn't pressed by questions as to why I was there. They already know. Just like you know. I cant go.
I was walking down the street Tuesday, and there was a diner with a paper box outside. The New York times box. Through the glass I could see a headline picture, a man in uniform holding a pistol up to another mans head. I bought a paper. This south Vietnamese general, I don't remember his name - something unpronounceable, he just executed a northern vietnam soldier right in the street. Unarmed. An ally of us. I’m not fighting side by side with a man like that. I cant go to another country and execute people. Thats not me.
I’ll be back. I don’t know when. But I’m not going to Vietnam. Fuck LBJ, I can't be forced to go kill people in cold blood for a war we shouldn't even be in. I can’t go and watch my friends die next to me while some asshole villager could have told me there was a landmine right there and saved them. Screw that. I can’t do it.
Love you both, and thank you for everything, but until the war is over I probably won't see you again. I'll write again when I can.
Love,
Timothy
You are probably wondering where I am. I’m still trying to figure that out myself, but physically I’m in Canada. Somewhere in Ontario. Its a small little town, full of kind people with the most interesting accents. When I first came to town, they they were all surprising friendly and accepting, and I wasn't pressed by questions as to why I was there. They already know. Just like you know. I cant go.
I was walking down the street Tuesday, and there was a diner with a paper box outside. The New York times box. Through the glass I could see a headline picture, a man in uniform holding a pistol up to another mans head. I bought a paper. This south Vietnamese general, I don't remember his name - something unpronounceable, he just executed a northern vietnam soldier right in the street. Unarmed. An ally of us. I’m not fighting side by side with a man like that. I cant go to another country and execute people. Thats not me.
I’ll be back. I don’t know when. But I’m not going to Vietnam. Fuck LBJ, I can't be forced to go kill people in cold blood for a war we shouldn't even be in. I can’t go and watch my friends die next to me while some asshole villager could have told me there was a landmine right there and saved them. Screw that. I can’t do it.
Love you both, and thank you for everything, but until the war is over I probably won't see you again. I'll write again when I can.
Love,
Timothy