Warday

When he is three-quarters of the way up the fence, two of the U.S. Army types raise their machine guns.

“Look, kid, you’re going to die in ten seconds if you don’t climb back down.”

The young man stops. He sags against the fence. Slowly he climbs down, into the arms of two other soldiers, who handcuff him, then connect the handcuffs to leg irons and lead him clanking away.

“Okay,” Captain Clipboard calls out, “everybody hold up their entry permits.” Hands thrust up full of green paper. “Hey, good car! This is gonna be a nice day.” He casts a frown at Jim and me.

From another car there rises the sound of female screaming. It goes on and on, trembling into the heat.

Captain Clipboard works his way along the aisle. One after another, he puts the green forms on his clipboard and goes over them with a lightpen. Two people are sent to the yellow door. They walk quickly across the platform, pointedly ignoring the chainlink fence, carrying their green forms and all of their belongings in their hands. Others, from other cars, straggle along as well. Finally there is nobody left in the car but us illegals.

“All right, now it’s joker time! All of you displaced persons off the train, line up along the white line on the platform, and don’t make sudden moves. You’d be surprised how nervous those dumb army boys get, standing out there in the sun. Let’s go!”

Sixteen of us shuffle off the train, mostly threadbare, eyes hollow, about us all the furtive look of the new American wanderers.

We are facing the toughest port-of-entry system in the United States. The odds are that all sixteen of us will be on the outbound train later this afternoon.

“Hey, Sally,” Captain Clipboard calls, “you recycle fast, sweet-heart.”

“I’m working on a tunnel,” one woman mutters in reply, her head down.

I wonder how many of us are repeaters. But, watching the soldiers across the platform watching us, I decide not to strike up any conversations. At a barked command, the soldiers move forward until they are facing us. “All right, folks,” the giant voice says,

“single file to the pen, please. Move out. Double time!”

As we shamble away, the train gives a long blast on its horn and starts to roll. Not a few heads turn back, watching it pass the open track barrier. The lucky few inside are already reopening their newspapers and settling back for the run to L.A.

We are herded into a fenced-off area about three acres square.

There is acyclone fence twenty feet high, topped by razor wire. At all four corners of the enclosure there are guard houses. Fifty feet beyond the fence there is another barrier: arun occupied by six huge hounds. I see light towers stretching off into the distance, wonder if the whole California border could be lit. As we won’t be here past 4:00 P.M., when the outbound train arrives, I’ll never know.

“Bomb-out,” I say to Jim.

“Maybe. I think we ought to try to talk our way in.”

I assume that as a newsman, he’s more practiced at this sort of thing than I am. “What do you suggest?”

“We can try the reporter gambit. I’ve got my News Herald ID.” We walk over to the gate.

A soldier, smoking a cigarette, closes his eyes for an instant and then regards us with a blank expression.

“I’m a reporter for—”

“No talking.”

“—the Dallas News Herald.” Jim holds up his press card.

The soldier stares, his eyes glazed with boredom.

“This man is also a writer. We’re on our way to interview the Governor of California.”

There is a flicker of interest. “You have any verifying documentation?”

“I’d have to make a call.”

The flicker dies. “Then take the afternoon train to Kingman, which is the first place you can get off, and make your call from there. They’ll mail you letters of entry and give you an access code for the border police.”

He starts to walk away. I decide to try another approach. “How long have you been doing this?”

I can see him sigh. “I was drafted in ’91. Six weeks of basic and a month of crowd-control training and here I am.”

“You’re with a U.S. Army unit?”

“That’s right. Regular Army, 144th Military Police, to be exact.

And I ain’t supposed to be talking to you.” Again, he starts to walk away.

“Look, is there any way out of here?”

“Sure. People get out all the time.” He laughs. “Two, maybe three in the eighteen months I been here. And they were caught within the hour. I got to tell you, all those signs you see warning you about gettin’ shot? They’re for real. I’ve seen it happen. I’ll tell you another thing. Captain says, soon as he sees you two, ’We oughta just go ahead and paint those assholes. They’re gonna be trouble.’”

This time he does walk away, smartly. An officer is approaching, a tall, gray man with sparkling, sad eyes. On his chest is a nameplate that reads O’MALLEY. He wears the oak leaves of a major. “Keep this area clear, Private,” he says. His voice is dry and quick.