Good evening, 919 Gang. A Reber entourage is going on a
trip that will include showing the grandkids the Grand Canyon. I plan to file
the next 919 Gang report the evening of Thursday, Aug. 4.
Welton Jones launched us on a great topic (the military
draft) last night, and I hope I find lots of messages about that and other subjects
when I return.
MICHAEL KINSMAN
writes:
Regrettably, I am going to take Welton
Jones’s bait here about the draft. Like most males of my generation, it was a
vexing issue of my youth and early adulthood.
My awareness of war was sparked in the
late 1960s when as a teenager I was tormented by the Friday night news when
they posted charts on the nightly newscast that reported how many American
soldiers had died that week, how many were injured and how many were missing.
Looking back, it was a gruesome thing for a 15-year-old to see every Friday.
My reading and socialization told me I
wanted nothing to do with war, whether it was in Vietnam, Cambodia, Laos on
anywhere else on the planet. Every older male in my family had served in the
military in the 20th Century, and military service in my family was regarded as
a high honor by everyone except me.
By the time I started college in the
fall of 1971, I was certain that I wanted absolutely nothing to do with war.
But I was safe – or so I thought – I registered for the draft and was
classified 1-H, which met I had a student deferment. But oops, no sooner than
that happened and I was reclassified 1-A because the government decided to do
away with college exemptions.
Nice. There I sat. I was 1-A heading
into my 19th year – the year most males were drafted. The draft lottery was
going on then and I remember vividly that day in February when the staff of my
college newspaper crowded into the little room with the Associated Press
machine to witness the draft results. The Selective Service would first pick a
date and then a lottery number, meaning that they would pick March 10 and then
draw a lottery number of, say, 332. If your birthday won a lottery number in
the 180s to 365, you almost assuredly were not going to be drafted. No one knew
for sure how many people would be drafted, but at least half of the eligible
males would be excluded.
There were shouts of glee every time
someone received a high draft number and some rather gloomy expressions on
those who got low draft numbers. I remember seeing my birthdate come over the
AP printer – Aug. 26 – and felt my blood pressure soar. Then they drew my
number: 76. I went numb, said nothing and walked outside to be alone with my
terror. My whole life had changed in a matter of seconds. I was a goner, and I
knew it. I had gone from a college student to someone who almost certainly was
going to spend two years in the Army, likely winding up in a brutal swamp
halfway around the world. I went to school with many veterans and had seen
their behavior, their paranoia and their general condition as they tried to get
back into the mainstream of life. It was not a pretty sight. And, now, I
feared, I was entering a world where I might get killed or maimed and my best
hope was that I would be one of those damaged ex-soldiers who were attempting
to get on with their life.
For the next three weeks, I went to
college every day, and sat on the grass to contemplate life. I didn’t attend
classes, but I sat there talking to people about life and war and trying to
figure out who I was. I didn’t know whether I would agree to the draft and find
myself fighting a war I didn’t understand. How would I fare as a soldier? Would
I turn into an Audie Murphy at the first sign of battle, or would I pee my
pants? Should I flee to Mexico or Canada? This was a very heavy issue for an
18-year-old to take on. I was terrified.
A few weeks later, I got a letter from
the draft board, informing me that those with numbers 1 through 75 were to
report for physical and mental exams. Numbers 76 (damn, there’s that number
again) through 125 should be ready to report at any moment. This did not make
me feel any better.
Well, I was spared. I never was drafted,
even though those with higher lottery numbers were. I didn’t bother to call the
Draft Board and tell them they forgot me. Instead, I became a mediocre college
student who had a renewed commitment to experiencing as much of life as I
could, while I could.
I hated the draft for the torment it
put me through, and I didn’t even get drafted. It was abolished in 1972, but it
had bruised me, nevertheless. Obviously, by reading this, I still have scars.
About a decade ago, I realized what
the U.S. needed was a draft. We so eagerly enter into warfare around the world,
but we send willing poor kids and inner city kids to war. That has expanded
lately into more elements of the middle class because these kids see the
military as a chance to get some education or they embrace a weird style of
patriotism that I don’t understand. It is easy to avoid war in our society. If
you don’t want to be killed in war, stay out of the armed services. Simple.
Yet, I can’t help thinking about the
democracy of the draft. If there was a draft all 18-year-old males and females
were subjected to, every household in America would have a vested stake in
making sure we didn’t enter into some fracas somewhere in the world without a
justifiable reason. I am convinced we wouldn’t be as militaristic a nation as
we are today if everyone had to feel the war first-hand.
You can’t see this, but I just happen
to be wearing my “Already Against the Next War” t-shirt that I put on first
thing this morning, well before I read Welton’s thoughts. So, thanks, Welton,
once again you have suckered me into thinking about life.
DICK DANIELS
writes:
I'm a few trips around the sun behind my old friend,
Welton, in terms our respective ages, but the draft was a very real thing to
contend with when I graduated high school in 1959. I was barely 17 on
graduation day, but it would have been highly unlikely that I would have lasted
in college until my 18th birthday eight months thereafter. Just wasn't ready
intellectually for anything beyond high school civics, study hall, and P.E.
So,
later that summer, I joined the Navy as a "kiddie cruiser" -- a
17-year-old who needed parental consent to join and whose enlistment would end
the day before he or she turned 21. Aside from getting the draft out of the way,
my Navy stint was the best thing I did in terms of making me grow up quickly
and giving me direction. Less than year after joining, I was a Radioman with a
Secret clearance, assigned to a Flag staff (Commander, Carrier Division 3 / CTF
77). A Top Secret clearance followed when I became a cryptography operator as
ship's company (a crew member) aboard the USS Lexington and later, the USS
Ticonderoga. That level of responsibility and experience would not have been
available to me elsewhere.
I
got out right after the Cuban Missile Crisis and was ready to pursue life
without the military service onus. Would I have joined the Navy or any military
branch had there not been the draft? Hard to say, but I'm glad I did.
MICHAEL GRANT writes:
In the fall of 1961, Stanford University was not only a
pretty good school, it was a safe harbor from the draft, which I had just
signed up for. “That boy is smart,” I imagined my draft board members
reasoning. I’m still wondering if I’m smart or not, but I know that prepping at
Abilene, Texas, High School (Class of ’61) had not prepared me to make good
grades at Stanford.
The draft board overlooked that, renewing my II-S
deferment, until the summer of 1966, when I was graduated a year late. By then,
the draft board had many MOS slots to fill, and I received my “Greetings”
notice in August. The draft assigned one and all to the entry MOS, which was
“infantryman.” I had two reasons for resisting the draft. One, I was a newly
minted college grad and thought myself above the “grunt” duty. Second, I was
sure that as an infantryman I would within the year be in Vietnam getting my
body shot up six ways from Sunday.
So I enlisted. It meant an extra year, but I enlisted for
Artillery OCS. Not until I got to Fort Sill did I learn that an Artillery
Second Lieutenant was stationed not on, but forward of, the front lines,
to determine fixed positions and triangulation in order to bring fire on the
enemy.
Of the 170 lieutenants graduated in my class in July, 1967,
all but 30 received Vietnam assignments. I was one of the 30. I spent the next
two years in West Germany, defending the border from the Russian threat to the
east. I also met my future wife there; she was a Jamul girl on vacation. That
begins another chapter, beyond the purview of Welton’s query of yesterday.
CHUCK BOYD writes:
In 1957 I signed up for 8 years with the U.S. Marines.
Six months active duty and 7.5 years in the Reserves. That
meant two weeks of active training (probably at Parris Island) each year and, I
think, regular attendance with the Reserve unit here in Charleston.
I was not aware of the draft when I graduated high school,
but my older brother had joined the Air Force several years before and I, like
him, did not want to spend much time around our father.
Don't remember exactly what month I joined, but the
Reserves invited me, my parents and friends to a special premiere of a new
movie about the Corps and I would get to go up on stage at the downtown theater
to be sworn in.
The theater was packed and 4 of us were sworn in and we
returned to our seats. When the movie started, it starred Jack Webb as the D.I., which, I saw to my horror, stood
for Drill Instructor!
My Reserve unit bought me a Greyhound bus ticket in July,
and I rode the 65 miles to Parris Island, wondering if all that scary stuff in
the movie was true. Most of it was!
Three months of outdoor training in hot, hazy and humid
South Carolina in July, August and September. Yikes.
At the end of my half year of active duty, I was in a good
place: a PFC, and a Combat Photographer, assigned to the Base Photo Lab at Camp
Lejeune, N.C. When they asked if I wanted to stay active, I said "Sure,
let's do this for 3 more years."
That re-enlistment meant I would not have to attend
meetings or go active with my Charleston Reserve unit. I was NOT involved with
Vietnam. Whew.
 |
| Marine Chuck Boyd |
DAVID FARMER writes:
Much
praise for Welton Jones for suggesting a rich topic--the draft. Almost every man my
age (70s) has had a brush with the Selective Service.
My first experience with the draft was
negative. I turned 18 right after graduation from Ramona High in 1956. I had to
drive to San Diego to register, as Ramona didn't have a draft board. My older
brother, Don, had procrastinated for more than a year, so he came with me. We
found the Selective Service office in downtown S.D. and registered.
A pair of young men,
only slightly older than Don and I, were hanging around the office. They wore
dark suits, short hair, and smug expressions. They were newly minted FBI agents
who chose that moment to flex their credentials. They took me and Don to the
FBI office nearby and informed him that he'd violated federal law. They let him
think he was looking at federal prison.
Finally,
the baby agents tired of their game. They let us go, but the experience did not
inspire admiration in us for the FBI.
My
final contact with the Selective Service was much more positive. I'd graduated
from USC and no longer had an education deferment. Hinda and I were married,
but marriage didn't exempt you at that time. Every young man I knew was
desperate to avoid fighting in the Vietnam War. I saw no escape.
I reported as
ordered for my physical at a large Los Angeles intake facility. (I'll never
forget the young nurses, with their appraising looks at scores of us standing
in lines wearing nothing but undershorts. It was a reverse beauty pageant with
judges, but no beauties.)
Though
hoping for a serious disease, I passed the physical and was scheduled to report
for training at Ft. Monmouth, New Jersey. Just then, Hinda learned that she was
pregnant. I was a father-to-be of the best kind: an exempt one!
I'd
always heard that being in the service was good for a young man, bringing him
discipline and maturity. But I didn't need those -- I was going to be a
journalist.
REBER: There is a draft
story Joe Stein loved to tell. He called the story “One Came Back.” In early
1962 Joe, Danny Tichonchuk and I boarded a bus for Los Angeles where we took our
pre-induction physicals. Joe and Danny, by the way, were two of the finest
individuals I knew at the U-T. Both are deceased. The bus dropped us off somewhere
in Los Angeles and we were paraded a couple of blocks then entered a Navy
recruiting station. Maybe the Army guy did this just to harass the Navy. After
a lot of cussing and yelling we were back on the street, headed for that
physical. In late June I was back at the San Diego bus station, awaiting a ride
to Fort Ord for basic training. Danny was there, too, and he and wife Cookie
were hanging on to each other and crying. A very sad scene. I, by contrast,
departed unmourned. After basic, I wound up at an artillery battalion in
Milwaukee, and I believe Danny went to Puerto Rico. Joe Stein? He failed the
physical, and for years after he enjoyed repeating to me the story he called “One
Came Back.”
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T.R REINMAN writes:
RE: The Farmer and the cowman can be friends.
A tip of the summer straw to David Farmer for reminding me
about the best two of the 10 paying jobs I’ve had in the last 50 years: being a
ranch hand and a Tribune sportswriter. If not for the first, the Tribune
probably would not have hired me. If not for the second, I wouldn’t be a part
of this group and remember to figuratively tip my cowboy hat to Jack Reber’s
dedication, as I did almost daily in Mission Valley.
I’d
suggest Mr. Farmer’s flight of fancy was based on a flimsy fact and that he
likely meant lawmen and outlaws “are probably the most mistakenly idealized
people in our history.” The vast majority of the time cowboys formed the posse
that chased bad guys behind a lawman or an itinerant hero. I found nothing
romantic in the idea of being one of a dozen guys eating dust behind the star
who was going to get both the bad guy and the girl in the final scenes. What I
did find as a cowboy was myself. Who knew I could deliver calves at 2 a.m. in a
freezing birthing shed in February; herd 40 head of essentially wild horses at
dawn three times a week in all kinds of weather; fix windmills on a two-plank
platform 30 feet up in the wind, let alone ride a horse? The owner and foreman
had their doubts the day I showed up without a clue as to what was to come, but
I learned, and there was little romantic about it, aside from living my own
dream. After that, getting a quote from Jack Nicklaus or Greg Norman or Tiger
Woods was a snap. Well, one of any substance from Woods not so much. I’ve had a
nice run through my work life but that life is winding down. Regrets, I’ve had
a few, but then again too few to mention. Except one: returning to ranch work,
hard and hardly idealized, is out of the question at my age.
JAY JOHNSON
writes:
Here's a picture of my great grand-uncle,
George Washington Thomas, brother of my great grandfather Joel Lee Thomas. He
served in the Civil War for the Confederacy.
GW Thomas's service record:
"As member of Co F, 9th Reg't of the
Arkansas Infantry, severely wounded in action at Corinth, Miss. in Oct. 1862
and furloughed. Carried by wagon to Canton, Miss., where he was hospitalized
for 6 months.
Though crippled he returned to duty as a wagoner in June 1864; captured near
Nashville, Tenn., Dec. 1864. Sent to notorious Camp Douglas (near Chicago,
Ill.). Released on oath of allegiance, June 1865 and discharged. Served
Confederacy in Arkansas, Mississippi, Louisiana and Tennessee. Returned to
Lincoln County, Ark., to farm, dying there in 1928 at age 88."
I've been fortunate to have known a
few old-timers who, in their youth, knew Civil War veterans. One old gentleman,
a former schoolteacher, I got to know well in the early 1990s. He owned a farm
near Lexington, N.Car. At that time he was in his late 70s but sharp as a tack.
He told me tales of growing up on that same farm during the Great Depression.
Once I asked him if he knew any Civil War veterans. "Many," he said.
Did they talk much about the Civil War, I asked. "Oh yes! You couldn't get
them to shut up!"
Here in Singapore there is a taxi
driver whose taxi is completely decked in US country & western. He wears a
cowboy hat, boots, jeans, country shirt etc., plays C&W music. Confederate
flag decals inside (he has no idea how politically incorrect that's become!).
When I travel in Asia I sometimes -- when NOT traveling with
my girlfriend, who wouldn't allow it (her background is another story entirely;
when I mentioned her father's name to Preston, he immediately knew who he was)
-- go full-on Western. Here's a picture of me two years ago at Sydney Harbor.
It's actually very practical; the cowboy hat is perfect for protecting my
shaved head. Plus it’s a great conversation starter.
DEAN WARINER writes:
Jack, I have
friends in Colorado, Wyoming, and Montana who were genuine cowboys who ranched,
rodeod and carried guns to kill varmits like snakes amd coyotes. Cows were
their meal tickets and rodeos were their pastimes. Granted they didn't look
anything like Roy, Gene and Hoppy but they could ride and shoot when needed.
REBER:
Right on, Dean. When we talk about rodeo, sometimes we’re thinking of Calgary,
Cheyenne or Las Vegas. But there were 89 rodeos in the U.S. just this week alone.
Plenty of opportunities for a cowboy to show what he can do.
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JAY JOHNSON writes:
Elizabeth
Gabriel, remember in 2013 we had this 919 back-and-forth re Thurber?
“JAY
JOHNSON writes:
“I
can pass along a piece of evidence, Elizabeth, which indicates that the old man
is still holding his own. In 2011, on the 50th anniversary of Thurber's death,
the WSJ or NYT (I can't remember which) did a long story about him. One of its
themes was "Does anyone read Thurber anymore?" I wrote the reporter
to compliment him on his story, and to say that Thurber is one of my all-time
faves. Surprisingly, I got a three- or four-paragraph reply. He said he had
received a flood of emails like mine. It heartened him, and me.
“Thurber
lives!”
One
more Thurber anecdote, taken from a biography, about his days as a reporter for
the NY Evening Post: "On another occasion, the editors
decreed that the leads to all news stories be as brief as possible. Thurber's
means of compliance:
"Dead.
"That was what the man was the police
found in an areaway last night."
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REBER: A bunch of birthdays
will be celebrated before I return. Happy Birthday to Joe Holly and Kelly
Murphy, July 30; Noel Osment, July 31; Bobbi Ignelzi and Don Kohlbauer, Aug. 1;
and Ed Zieralski, Aug. 4.
P.O. Box 2239
Ramona, CA 92065
U.S.A.
