AFTER DECEMBER SEVENTH, Gareth could no longer put aside the wrenching conflicts of his conscience. Boyhood friends were joining up before they got drafted, making choices as to which branch of the service they wanted to join. He could no longer avoid the issue, no longer equivocate, no longer study how he could put his knowledge of horticulture, landscaping, to a creditable war use. Still, his lifelong horror of war persisted, influenced no doubt by the attitude of his father, Jeff, and the pacifism of Kitty Traherne. He finally convinced himself that if he tried to enlist in some kind of alternative service, it might be construed as “draft dodging” and bring down the scorn and wrath of relatives like Stewart and Luc, who had already joined, respectively, the navy and air force. He could no longer sit on the fence; he had to act.
War propaganda was at a fever pitch, enlistments were high, the patriotism of all was up for scrutiny and examination. When Gareth decided to report to the draft board and declare himself a conscientious objector, he knew he would be exposing his deep-felt convictions to the scathing skepticism of some. Knowing he could not shield himself, Gareth hung on to his resolve.
Outwardly composed, he felt keenly the steely-eyed contempt of some of the members of the draft board, the tinge of sarcasm in the voice of the chairman as he was questioned. With only slightly concealed disgust, the man ordered Gareth to fill out additional papers, then wait to be assigned.
Gareth had known it would not be easy, but he had not realized it would be this hard. He felt as visible as Jews in Nazi Germany must have felt with the yellow stars sewn prominently on their coat sleeves.
However, it was a choice he had made without anyone’s counsel, approval, or disapproval. He knew he had laid himself wide open to criticism, not only from those of the public who knew of his decision but also from members of his own family. He was made aware of relatives who disagreed violently with his stand.
Aunt Kitty was the only one who understood. She had written him a beautiful letter, which he kept folded in the inside pocket of his jacket so he could take it out every so often and reread it. In it she wrote,
Sometimes courage is construed as cowardice. That is when we must be strong and show by our actions that this label is wrong. I believe this quote from J. F. Clarke says it all: “Conscience is the root of all true courage; if a man would be brave, let him obey his conscience. “ I know you are a good man, honest, true to your convictions, and I pray God’s blessing on you wherever this leads you.
Where it led Gareth was to a janitorial job in an army hospital on the West Coast.
The dirtiest, grubbiest, most menial tasks were allotted to him, along with the mocking sneers of the sergeant in charge, who issued orders, assigned duties.
However, when Gareth’s papers caught up with him, when it was learned by the commanding officer in the administration office that he was a landscape architect, Gareth was reassigned to a nearby convalescent hospital converted from a luxury resort hotel, and placed in charge of the extensive gardens.
In a more congenial atmosphere and with work that used his talent and abilities, Gareth had more time to himself. Many of his off-duty hours were spent in the chaplain’s library, as well as in the hospital chapel.
Morning and evening he went to the chapel to quiet the turmoil in his heart, to pray earnestly for peace, for Brooke’s safety and their being reunited. Day after day he surrendered his life, his dreams, his hopes for the world, for himself, for his future life with Brooke. Sometimes he felt himself enveloped in a powerful sense of peace. Other times he felt dull and unrefreshed. But he continued to meditate and pray.
One weekend, given leave, Gareth took the bus to Santa Barbara to visit his Grandmother Blythe, and in a spontaneous moment of intimacy Gareth confided some of his true feelings, his doubts and uncertainties, even what he suspected might be a lack of faith.
They had been sitting together out on her balcony, the balmy ocean breeze rustling the leaves of the trees that shaded her yard. The scene was so beatific, it was hard to imagine that battles were raging elsewhere in the world.
Suddenly Gareth broke the peaceful silence. “I don’t know, Grandmother. Sometimes I wonder if I did the right thing, if any of it really counts. Sometimes I worry I might lose my faith.”
“No, dear boy, you’re not losing it. You are being tested. Faith doesn’t come whole cloth, permanently—not to anyone, if I’m not mistaken. Always there is some struggle. We read Scripture, listen to sermons, study, hear other people’s testimonies. I believe it is a lifelong search—a rewarding one nonetheless. And every once in a while we get the encouragement of an ‘Aha!’—an enlightening. Then we know we have a glimpse of God’s mercy and his love for us.” Gareth tucked away that bit of wisdom from his grandmother with the letter from Aunt Kitty. They kept him going when the going got rough.