Operation Memory

　　by David Lehman

　　 We were smoking some of this knockout weed when

　　 Operation Memory was announced. To his separate bed

　　 Each soldier went， counting backwards from a hundred

　　 With a needle in his arm. And there I was， in the middle

　　 Of a recession， in the middle of a strange city， between jobs

　　 And apartments and wives. Nobody told me the gun was loaded.

　　 We'd been drinking since early afternoon. I was loaded.

　　 The doctor made me recite my name， rank， and serial number when

　　 I woke up， sweating， in my civvies. All my friends had jobs

　　 As professional liars， and most had partners who were good in bed.

　　 What did I have？ Just this feeling of always being in the middle

　　 Of things， and the luck of looking younger than fifty.

　　 At dawn I returned to draft headquarters. I was eighteen

　　 And counting backwards. The interviewer asked one loaded

　　 Question after another， such as why I often read the middle

　　 Of novels， ignoring their beginnings and their ends. when

　　 Had I decided to volunteer for intelligence work？ "In bed

　　 With a broad，" I answered， with locker-room bravado. The truth was， jobs

　　 Were scarce， and working on Operation Memory was better than no job

　　 At all. Unamused， the judge looked at his watch. It was 1970

　　 By the time he spoke. Recommending clemency， he ordered me to go to bed

　　 At noon and practice my disappearing act. Someone must have loaded

　　 The harmless gun on the wall in Act I when

　　 I was asleep. And there I was， without an alibi， in the middle

　　 Of a journey down nameless， snow-covered streets， in the middle

　　 Of a mystery--or a muddle. These were the jobs

　　 That saved men's souls， or so I was told， but when

　　 The orphans assembled for their annual reunion， ten

　　 Years later， on the playing fields of Eton， each unloaded

　　 A kit bag full of troubles， and smiled bravely， and went to bed.

　　 Thanks to Operation Memory， each of us woke up in a different bed

　　 Or coffin， with a different partner beside him， in the middle

　　 Of a war that had never been declared. No one had time to load

　　 His weapon or see to any of the dozen essential jobs

　　 Preceding combat duty. And there I was， dodging bullets， merely one

　　 In a million whose lucky number had come up. When

　　 It happened， I was asleep in bed， and when I woke up，

　　 It was over： I was 38， on the brink of middle age，

　　 A succession of stupid jobs behind me， a loaded gun on my lap

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