Jeremiah Hawthorne’s appointment at the recruitment office was for three in the afternoon on Monday, the bus for new recruits left the office each day at four. Wade was in his office, waiting, and the young hound didn’t show up until ten after, which made things a bit easier, really. Both because it was ten less minutes he had to keep him here, and because he felt much better about sending off young men who were late, than those who had the decency to actually be on time for their appointments. Even if he wasn’t under threat from the boy’s father to send him away, he probably would have done so anyway, since he made him wait.

Jeremiah did arrive eventually–it was clear he believed he was here for an exemption, from the way he held himself, the smug smile on his snout. Wade wasn’t going to feel particularly bad about this one at all. “So, can we make this quick? I have a date tonight, and I still need to go home and get ready. What do you need from me?”

“Oh, I’ve handled everything already for you. A bad case of bone spurs. All I need is your signature here, at the bottom,” Wade said, turning around the enlistment form he’d already filled in for the young man, aside from the signature. “One John Hancock, and you’re good to go.”

“John Hancock?”

“Your signature, son, sign on the line.”

“Why do I have to sign anything?”

“You have to attest that you understand the terms of your exemption,” Wade said, hoping he’d just buy a bit of bullshit, and sign his life away to the war already.

“Pa says to never sign anything I haven’t read over.”

“Your Pa helped arrange this last night, Jeremiah. Now hurry up.”

He was suspicious, and Wade supposed he had a right to be so. After all, in his shoes, Wade would have been suspicious too. Beauregard had been pressuring Jeremiah to enlist since before the draft had even started–and now, suddenly, he had changed his mind? The young hound picked up the sheet and started reading it, and Wade sighed. He’d just have to do this the hard way, then.

“Wait a minute, this says, ‘agrees to enlist–” but before he got anything else out, Wade was up, and had him shoved up against the wall. He slipped one handcuff on the young hound’s wrist, and then the other, and shoved him down into a chair by the door. “What the fuck is this shit! I’m not signing a fucking enlistment form! Pa said you were going to get me an exemption. Let me go, you mutt, or I’ll sue you into fucking oblivion!”

“Unfortunately, Jeremiah, your Pa had other plans. He wants you in the army, one way or another–so you have two options. You can either sign this paper here and go willingly, and I’ll pull a few strings, without your daddy knowing, to get you a decent deployment after basic training, or you can throw a fit, and we’ll ship you off with a forged criminal record, which basically means you’re cannon fodder. Either way, you’re going on the bus in an hour, whether you want to or not.”

“Fuck, I knew it was too fucking good to be true…” Jeremiah said, “Look–I know what you like. I’ll suck you off.”

An alarm bell went off in Wade’s mind. The young hound hadn’t said that with the air of desperation they usually used, when they begged for mercy at the end of his dick. He sounded smug–and how the hell did he even know about that, anyway? “That ain’t gonna work, boy.”

“It works for Ashton Everett, and Dusty Willis.”

Friends of his–Wade should have known those two wouldn’t keep their mouths shut, but they were both…sweet, and Wade had a soft spot for sweet, on occasion, especially since they both had to pop back around every couple of weeks to see if their bone spurs had healed up yet. Wade leaned against the desk–even if the boy knew, it wouldn’t help him, and Ashton and Dusty were about to find out just how fast bone spurs could heal. “Sorry. No deal this time. Now, are you gonna sign this paper, or are you gonna go die in a jungle? It doesn’t matter to me one bit, but it’s going to matter a whole lot to you.”

“No, here’s what’s going to happen–you’re going to unlock these cuffs, give me an exemption, or I’m going to take the recording I have of you fucking Dusty’s ass, and have it sent to your superiors. How do you think they’ll feel about that?”

“Boy, don’t bullshit me.”

“I’m not bullshitting, sir, if I don’t arrive on time for that date tonight, that tape will be in the mail tomorrow.”

Was he bluffing? Probably, but could Wade really take that risk? Then again, if he did let him loose, Beauregard would have word sent to his superiors anyway about his…dalliances. It didn’t matter what he did–so which was going to be worse for him? The word of the father, who was well regarded in various circles of the military, especially locally? Or a possible tape recording, delivered anonymously, but perhaps with much more damning contents? He was…rather loud when he was with a young man, especially Dusty. He had seemed rather eager last week, and a bit…too descriptive, of what was going on. More so than usual, at least. There was a chance he could talk his way out of either one–after all, he did meet his quotas regularly, and that was all that really mattered as far as the army cared–but Wade had never been one to take chances like this, and Lizzie…she already suspected enough. With word like this getting out, she would likely take off, along with his son. But what could he do? He couldn’t exactly fake Jeremiah getting enlisted into the army…right? Then again, maybe he could.

Having known Beau for quite a long time now, Wade supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised by his request–but he’d gotten so used to helping wealthy men of alleged character and patriotism get their prized sons out of the war, that finding one eager to send his son away was a surprise all the same. “With your connections, I’m sure I could find him a spot as an officer,” Wade said, but Beau just laughed.

“Jeremiah couldn’t lead a blind horse to water. Do you want him to murder an entire platoon in the jungle? No–basic infantry, just like I was. If he wants to survive, he’s going to have to prove he has what it takes–though I sincerely doubt he has the guts.”

Wade nodded, “If that’s what you want, the army will always have a need for strong young men,” Beau chuckled a bit on the word strong, but Wade pressed on, “but the draft is going plenty strong–why not just…wait? After all, I can’t force him to sign enlistment papers.”

Beau leered at Wade around his pipe, “I may be old, Wade, but I can still smell a two timing skunk from a mile off. I know about the little deals you have running with some of the young men around these parts–and I even know about those little examinations you do at your office, after hours, with more than a few of them. What is it you say–that you won’t excuse them from service for something like homosexuality without a bit of…evidence first?” he took a sip, “Does your wife know about your taste for teenage whelps, I wonder?”

Wade remained stoic. He wouldn’t give him a denial–if Beau had wanted him found out, he would have been carted away by an MP by now. He wanted something still–though Wade hadn’t given him nearly enough credit, apparently.

“I will admit to…having enjoyed the company of the men on my platoon, on occasion. There’s really no harm in a bit of comradery, when one is without the pleasure of a proper bitch. I can forgive you your…infidelity and perversion, so long as my son is on that bus. Forge his signature–I’ll attest to its validity, even if he denies it. Promise him whatever you’d like–a position as an officer, if you’d like. Hell, examine him if he’s…your type, but my worthless son is going to need a war if he’s ever going to grow up and make something of himself. I’d rather he come back in a box than tarnish this family’s name by running around town, proud of his cowardice. Jeremiah may have been led to believe by his mother that I have listened to her pleas, and am presently persuading you to draw up and document…reasons for him to be exempted from service, even should his number come up in the draft. I will likely allow them both to believe that up until the bus pulls up tomorrow afternoon. All you need to do is keep the rascal in your office until then–and no one will need to know anything about the sordid little things you do on your own time. I’ll even defend your honor as if it were my own. Now, do we have an understanding?”

As far as Wade was concerned, this was easier than what he’d been expecting. Less paperwork, and he’d be one young soldier closer to meeting his quarterly quota. He agreed, and their conversation drifted off to other topics, though as the old hound across from him drank more and more bourbon, he was fairly certain that Beauregard kept sneaking glances down at his crotch. Apparently, someone hadn’t had any comradery in quite a while–perhaps he missed it. Wade wouldn’t have objected–despite what Beauregard had hinted at, Wade didn’t have an interest in young men in particular. Rather, he enjoyed the desperation, and the control he had over them more than anything else. Beauregard was too proud to be a good lay, as handsome as he was. It wouldn’t hurt to keep that information in his back pocket, all the same. They each finished their pipes, and Wade excused himself. Amber Hawthorne and Wade’s wife, Lizzie, were in the dining room gossiping about the business around town when they emerged–they said their goodbyes, and left. Lizzie knew better than to ask about what Wade and Beauregard had discussed, though she had her suspicions of course. Wade didn’t broach the topic–he was cool towards her, as he was always, all the way back to their home, where their son was already tucked in by the babysitter. Just another normal night. Halfway around the world, it was daytime, and young dogs, cats, pigs, and everyone else was fighting for their lives, if not for their country. Wade wondered if it should bother him more, the whole business. Then again, if it hadn’t bothered him yet, he doubted that it would any time soon.

Some of these characters and settings are created by others, particularly the commissioner of the work.

---

Dinner had been lovely, but then, dinner was always a pleasure at the Hawthorn residence. Wade always enjoyed his time here–it was so much more pleasant that the rest of his time in town, constantly struggling to fill his quota of new recruits to send off to the jungles in the east. Here, in this beautiful antebellum manor, it was like nothing was wrong at all–no war, no protests, no riots. While he was certain that the Hawthorns kept up with the news, they made no mention of unpleasant topics over dinner conversation. Everything was bright, the conversation easy, the wine flowing. He did his best to not get too caught up in the ease, however–a wealthy man like Mr. Beauregard Hawthorne the Third didn’t invite a man like Wade, a hound mutt with nothing prestigious going for him beyond his position as the county’s army recruiter, which, in a time of war such as this, could open the strangest of doors, at times.

Now, however, dinner was finished, and Wade had retired to the study with the family patriarch for a glass of bourbon and a pipe–and for a chat, Wade assumed. He tugged the cuff of his dress uniform straight–Beauregard Hawthrorn showed him to a firm armchair and poured him a glass of bourbon. They chatted about the town for a bit, and a little about the war. Both of them knew what the chat was really about, however–the draft. This was not the first wealthy family that had welcomed Wade into their home, to plead for him to keep their sons from having to enlist. He found the conversations rather exhausting at this point, only because they had all grown so desperate. And so, he waited for the elderly hound to make his pitch.

“They should have never allowed camera over there. War never looks nice through a lens. I, for one, don’t need a play by play of how many we’ve lost, and where. All we should be hearing is about how we’re winning,” Beauregard said with a huff, blowing a cloud of smoke from his snout as he did. “I’m not surprised, really. Most of the men of character were lost in the great wars, after all. All we have now are cowards who pretend at honor, but wouldn’t know it if it was looking them right in the eye. Cowards, and men looking to make a buck off the young men doing the real work of fighting off the stinking commies. If you ask me, the press is in on it. They’re trying to undermine national morale! They’d be perfectly happy to let a red fleet sail right into San Francisco–they’d broadcast it as a great victory for America!”

He continued on like this for quite some time, and Wade only half listened. He’d heard it all before, after all, the last time he’d been over here for dinner half a year back. Wade generally considered himself to be paid well enough by the army to have patience with men like Beauregard, and he threw in an occasional courteous nod at all the right pauses. It wasn’t polite, after all, to disagree with your guests about that sort of thing in these parts. Civility, after all, seemed to be the only thing holding the country together these days.

Not that Wade was a communist by any stretch. No, Wade was, more than anything else, tired. Tired, jaded by war, sick of sending more and more men away, only for his superiors to demand ever larger quotas from him. It was easier to grow cold to it, to keep your emotions locked up tight. Desperation could be contagious, and he liked his position–besides, he had a family to support. It only bothered him slightly, that the young men he shoved onto the bus each day were only a few years older than his son. More likely than not, he’d get sent off too, just as he had been. War was, more than anything, a business, and Wade was tasked with finding the raw materials to keep the machine humming along, wherever they ended up fighting.

Beau heaved a sigh, and for a moment, Wade wondered if he was finished, and what he might say. Thankfully, he continued, sparing him the effort. “I was one of them, I should say. When I was younger. Idealistic. I thought I knew how things worked. I thought we could all get along. It takes war to understand the world, to understand yourself. I learned that in the world war, as you know.”

Wade nodded. Beau was well known in these parts not only as a fine coonhound of well bred stock (though the rumor that his great parents had been from the same litter was naturally horrible slander, never to be repeated in town, unless you were looking for an invitation to duel) but also as a war hero with a purple heart, and a slight limp to use as an excuse to talk about it. Wade always made sure to thank him for his service, when he saw him. It was both polite, and when he did that, he was less likely to hear the story of his wounding in France yet again. It was dull, mundane, and Wade had heard of far worse injuries from more capable storytellers.

“I want my son to learn it too. He has, so far, refused to enlist, and so I fear I am forced to use…rather extreme measures. I want him on a bus to boot camp tomorrow, Wade, I honestly don’t care if you hogtie him and throw him in with the luggage.”