Boomers . . . and How They Got That Way

Epistle 14 – Conscription

No, children, the lottery was not invented to make a couple of people rich while millions like me waste their hard earned money on tickets that have worse odds than the lottery board sending you a big check just for the heck of it. No, long before that, the lottery meant a free ticket to Viet Nam . . . if you lost. And way back before that there was conscription, an evil custom whereby the government dragged an innocent lad by the scruff of the neck from the comforts of hearth and home. It was commonly call the “draft”, not to be confused with professional sports teams conscripting innocent (?) athletes or the government blowing air up your . . . scholarship.

The government didn’t actually knock on your door in the middle of the night like the Gestapo. They were much more diabolical than that. They sent you an innocuous letter that started with “Greetings!” How devious is that? I got two of them. After the first I dutifully presented my case before my local draft board. I shaved, wore a clean shirt, and proved beyond a reasonable doubt that I was not some Communist pinko draft dodger. I was a “legitimate” college student, pouring myself into my studies when I wasn’t pouring down a few beers and agonizing about my friendly, local draft board.

Anyway, I got my student deferment back . . . for two months when I got another “Greetings!” letter. This time I shaved, wore a clean shirt, claimed police brutality, and shamelessly begged for my freedom, but it didn’t help. Seems I went to the wrong school where student rowdies had actually insulted the general who ran the Selective Service System. Can you believe that? I don’t, but the general promised to draft every mother’s son of us. And he did, me included. Twice.

To be fair, I was given time to avoid the draft by enlisting, a dubious choice I thought. By 1968 the only remotely civilized branches of the military were the Navy and Air Force Guards, but they had really long waiting lists and you couldn’t get in unless you knew somebody. All I knew were Germans and Swedes and they were no help. The Marine Guard would have welcomed me with open arms, but they looked like real soldiers so I cast my lot with the citizen soldier’s US Army. Off I went to Ft. Polk, Louisiana on a bus filled with members of a black Chicago street gang whom the judge had “conscripted” in lieu of jail time. What a good idea.

Is it any wonder my military career was less than distinguished? But I went. I don’t know why. Some guys I knew went to Sweden instead. Maybe I already knew too many Swedes. Maybe it was the green suit with brass buttons. Maybe it was the warm, friendly “Greetings!”

Be thankful you don’t get as much government as you pay for.

We Will Win

Filed under: Boomers . . . and How They Got That Way

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