Wolff on War, pg's 127 - 128, In Pharoah's Army, Tobias Wolff, Publisher - Knopf Inc.

DAVID E MILLER (LDJT69A@prodigy.com)
Wed, 21 Feb 1996 01:33:15 EST

Until now nothing had seemed irrevocable. I had persisted in the
unconscious faith that no matter what I did, no matter how many steps
I took, I would be excused from taking this last step.

Nothing could stop it. Except . . . what? A breakdown? We'd just
have to get on another bus. My pals from the Haight-the Hug Patrol in
a human chain across the road? Nah, bunch of softies, they'd never
get up this early. Hijackers. A gang of hijackers in front of a
barricade, wielding shotguns and pitchforks and clubs, shining bright
lights into the driver's eyes. The driver stops. The hijackers pound
on the door until he opens it. They come up the steps and down the
aisle, flashing thier beams from face to face until they find the
ones they're after. They call our names, and then we know who it is
behind the blinding lights. It's our fathers. Our fathers, come to
take us home.

Crazy.

But not as crazy as what they actually did, which was let us go.