With any luck and help from the post office, you are holding this issue of The Voice in your hands, or any other appendages you use to hold the paper as you read it, not long after Veterans Day. The Post Office is closed each November 11 in observance of Veterans Day. For any of you longtime readers of my stuff, you know that I like to use a theme for my nonsense around Veterans Day with something military-related. Until I run out of military stories, today is no exception.
There was a time back in the good old days of the 1960s, when male-type kids about my age, besides spreading peace and love and smoking various organic substances, were facing the spectre of certain death and dismemberment in the war in Vietnam when we had to sign up for the draft upon turning 18 years. I was attending engineering school, but figured, and rightly so, that I’d be snatched up by Uncle Sam as soon as I was graduated. I owned a new boat dealership with a partner and my rock group was involved in recording sessions. I really didn’t care what happened to me after I was drafted, I just didn’t want to be drafted and possibly lose my business, or my chance at musical immortality.
But the day arrived when I received my “Greetings” letter. It was morning and I was seated at the breakfast table with my parents when I opened the envelope.
“I’m not going,” I told my mother and father.
“So what are you going to do?” asked my father. “Shoot yourself in the foot?”
“Oh, don’t talk like an idiot, Pete,” said my mother. “He doesn’t even know how to hold a gun.”
“Then he shouldn’t have any trouble shooting himself in the foot.”
My mother was sure I’d get sent to Vietnam and get killed. In WWII, her closest relative, a cousin she grew up with like a brother, was killed on D-Day, June 6, 1944. It still haunted her.
I did go, but surprisingly, didn’t get killed, since I was nowhere near Vietnam and at this point was only going to Chicago and the induction center. Buses picked up all of us unlucky souls outside the draft board and whisked us into the city for our pre-induction physical. It was my last chance for doctors to hopefully find something terminal in my personal body so I could leave.
I followed the yellow arrows on the floor and passed through each exam station with flying colors…until I got to the vision exam. The optometrist pulled me and another guy out of line and sent us to different room.
The doctor in there told me they’d like to see everybody have their vision correctable to 20/20 with glasses, but their instruments only could measure up to 20/400 and mine was 20/400+, so I had to go through an additional exam. When he finished, he told me to get back in line. He said, “If you have any trouble seeing, ask the guy in the fox hole next to you which way to point your gun.” With my imminent demise staring me in the face, a comedian is not what I needed.
We spent much of the day taking written tests, which my well-meaning friends urged me to screw up royally. My conscience told me otherwise, so I did my best. Sixty of us hapless souls were seated in a classroom that buzzed with conversations about our dismal futures. A sergeant, carrying a stuffed accordion file, came in and attempted to quiet us down without much luck.
“I’ve got a surprise for you, so listen up!” he said. “Quiet! Half of you will be going into the Marines.” That did it. Instant dead silence. “When I call your name, get up, take your file and go out the door.”
What?! I thought. How can they do that?! I’m a physical degenerate. My muscles are like marshmallow fluff only not as firm. I’ll never make it out of Marine boot camp alive. My imminent demise would come at the hands of a Marine drill sergeant.
The sergeant began pulling personnel folders from his accordion file in random, alphabetical order. You could almost hear the beads of sweat oozing out of 60 foreheads and dropping on the desks as he passed through each letter of the alphabet. When he got to the J’s, I clenched my teeth and held my breath until he got to the K’s. He’d passed me by.
When he’d finished, about half the room had been emptied. Those selected had stood and, one by one, dragged themselves out like zombies blindly heading to the Halls of Montezuma or somewhere even too horrible to show up in a Dante painting.
Because you’re reading this, you realize I made it through my two years. There are many expressions of thanks and appreciation going out to our vets this Veterans Day, but one segment mostly overlooked is our female vets. Until recently, they were generally relegated to clerical positions. These young women weren’t drafted; it was their choice to enlist and serve. Let them know, both vets and those currently serving, that you appreciate their service.