Veterans Day Remembrances

The eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month is when the Great War (WWI) ended. Formerly known as Armistice Day, it was renamed Veteran's Day by Dwight D. Eisenhower in the 1950s.

I never served in the military, although there were/are many times that I wish that I had. Just too busy with things, and it never fit in the schedule. Same with golf, but that is another story. I was nineteen years old in 1970, and classified 1-A in the selective service draft. The Vietnam war was winding down, and educational deferrments were suspended in favor of a national lottery. On Jul 2, 1970 and with great anticipation draft age boys looked for their lottery numbers in local newspapers the day after the much ballyhooed drawing. My number was 172, and I believed it was on the cusp.

My dad was a Navy man, so I decided to go down and talk to the Navy recruiter, who "silver tongued" me into signing up. I took the all the tests, physicals and filled out all the forms necessary for induction. Apparently I did very well on the exams, and got my pick of schools, and a submarine assignment. But the whole "cattle car operation" of military induction I believed, was a bellweather of an impending surrender of my individuality, and made me think that I was being hustled. I really never had a problem with America's position on Vietnam per se, but I always believed that we were being "prevented" from winning the war from within. I mean, why not bomb Hanoi? Only because the press and peaceniks at home were running amok, and the Nixon Administration had a PR problem.

The recruiting office was in a run down main Post Office on San Jacinto St. in downtown Houston. As I sat across a worn wooden desk from the naval recruiter, the smells of old wood, leather and old stuff filled my head. He lifted a file filled with all my particulars from a drawer and offered up an official navy form. He said, "Just sign here, Sonny and you're in the Navy."

"Hold that thought." I replied. "I'll be back to see you when I get my draft notice."

He smiled and said, "We'll be here when you're ready." That was the closest that I came to military service. Whether you view this as bad or good, that's how it happened.

In 1971, Dad was fired from his job as an air traffic controller for the FAA because of his involvement with the controllers union, PATCO. The firing launched Dad and the rest of our family into a crisis. In 1971 we moved to Toronto, Canada when he landed an ATC job there.

No, I wasn't dodging the draft. In fact, shortly after moving, I made a trip to Buffalo, NY and registered for the selective service there, indicating our address in Toronto. The recruiter just smiled at me. Even so, No. 172 was high enough because the draft notice never came, and the highest number ever drafted from the lottery (accoring to http://www.sss.gov/lotter2.htm) was 125.

Fast forward to the year 1981. I was a senior at the University of Houston, and finishing up my engineering degree. My life comprised working full time to support my family, attendance in part-time night classes, weekend family events, and little else. The average work day for me was 14-16 hours long. This particular semester, I was taking an elective course, "U.S. Military History" as well as a technical course. Often after class some friends would gather at the "Cougar Den" bar in the University Center to blow off steam, and to share a pitcher of draft beer before hitting the freeway for the long drive home.

It was Veteran's Day - four guys and three girls joinned me that evening at about 9:00pm. As the beer arrived, we talked about the class, our professor, and just things students normally talk about. Ironically, while I remember this event with stunning clarity, I do not remember anyone's name at the table that nignt. In fact, after this event, we never met there again. The brain's primary function, remember?

The beer flowed and table talk turned to the somber subject of Veteran's Day. All the guys at the table were Vietnam Vets, and talk soon turned to homecoming experiences. All were very, very bad. First one guy then the other told of getting off the airplanes in their uniforms to be greeted by shouts of "Murderer!" and other horrible insults. One person was spat upon, another ran quickly into a restroom and changed out of his uniform. One after another, I realized these vets were very scarred from events in Vietnam, as well as the revile experienced by their countryment upon coming home from the war.

After a few moments of somber silence, all eyes at the table turned to me. And what was my Vietnam experience? I related the draft board story above, and predictably, those same questioning eyes showed stunned disbelief.

"Well, I'm not going to sit here and drink beer with a son-of-a-bitch like you." The angy vet rose to his full 5'-6" height and glared at me. He did not cut a particularly imposing figure, as he was as round as he was tall, had long unruly black hair and an untrimmed beard. The slammed his empty beer mug down on the table and stormed out of the bar. I was a very fit 6'-1", and despite my sympathy for the story he had revealed to us, he had actually called my manhood into question, and in front of ladies! I followed him out of the bar, fully intending to kick his unstable ass.

The cool November air was invigorating as I passed through the door, and I looked around only to find my potential adversary slumped in a corner, head-in-hands, sobbing deeply. I sat down, put my arm around him and tried my best to console his obvious grief.

That legacy of Vietnam is with us still.