I received my draft notice in January 1969. I don't remember the exact date. I went to Key West with Stan Ferrell after getting the notice.
Contrary
to what many think I was not part of the Selective Service lottery; that didn't
start until almost a year later. I was part of a massive draft during the first
three months of 1969 - over 30,000 young men per month were drafted to feed the
war machine in January, February, and March of 1969.
I
weighed my options. The chances of getting in the National Guard or Reserves
were slim at best. It seemed you had to know someone and I didn't. I went to
Boston and talked to some draft resistance groups but what they proposed wasn't
all that appealing (take copious amounts of drugs before the physical, feign
homosexuality, or outright refuse and go to prison). I figured I was a smart
guy, I drove a large tow truck, and was a budding auto mechanic so I figured
I'd get some cushy job in Germany. Yeah sure.
I
was sent to Fort Dix, New Jersey for Basic Training. At the end of February.
Fort Dix in the winter is not a nice place. Basic Training was eight weeks -
two months. I lasted four weeks give or take. It was the weather that did me
in.
I turned twenty on March 28, 1949.
One
morning while standing at attention waiting for breakfast I passed out. The
Sargent thought it was just because I hadn't eaten but once I came to he sent
me to 'sick call'. By myself. "Hotchkiss report to sick call!" Sure
thing Sarge, I just fell flat on my back and was still wobbly but I'll get
there.
So
I made my way to the medical unit, kind of like an urgent care place. They
looked me over, listened to my lungs, and said you need to go to the hospital
for x-rays. Okay, how do I get there? I was directed to a bus stop. On my own.
Again.
Now
let me tell you a bit about medical care at Fort Dix in 1969. It was terrible.
There had been deaths from spinal meningitis recently. It was a scandal. Add in the suicides and Dix was not a healthy place.
Anyway
I made it to the hospital and got my chest x-rays. I was told to go back to the
medical unit. When I got there the medic said, "Where's the x-rays?" Uh I
don't know, at the hospital? So the medic did the smart thing, he told me to go
back and get them! And I'd missed the bus. Thanks. It was a couple of miles and
I trudged to the hospital and back with my x-rays. When the medics looked at
the x-rays they said, and I'm not kidding, "You need to be in the
hospital." No shit Sherlock. This time someone drove me. I was diagnosed
with pneumonia in both lungs.
I
spent over a week in the main hospital. Every other day they x-rayed my chest
and on the alternate days they took blood. I felt like a pin-cushion and thought I might glow in the dark. When I had recuperated enough they
transferred me to the hospital annex, a run-down, one-story, group of buildings
with peeling paint (probably lead based) built most likely for WWII. I spent
two weeks in the annex.
By
the time I was fit for duty it was too late to rejoin my unit so I was sent
home for a 'rest and recuperation' of six weeks. Then I was supposed to report
back to Fort Dix and start all over again.
I
left Fort Dix with the clothes on my back. I took a bus from Dix to Newark
airport figuring I'd get a plane home to Bradley. That didn't work out. So I
took a bus from Newark to the Port Authority in New York City, where I
connected with a bus to Hartford, CT. I called my mom to meet me at the
Hartford bus depot.
When
I climbed down out of the bus my mom was there to meet me. She gave me a hug
and I looked at her and said, "I'm not going back." She didn't
believe me.
It
seems like some people have opinions about my going AWOL. One I've heard is
that I was afraid of dying. Well that's partially true. I figured the Army had
one chance to kill me (pneumonia) and I survived. Once was enough. But there
was more to it.
I
had been against the Vietnam War for a long, long time. I really didn't want to
join the military because I had a decent job and was a productive member of
society. But I wasn't anti-military.
I
doubt that anyone drafted wanted to die. Or be maimed. I think many of the kids
drafted just thought it wouldn't happen to them. But they were wrong. Ask
my friend Doug Fraser - oh wait you can’t, he died in Vietnam.
Besides
not wanting to die, especially not for some ill-defined 'domino theory' war, I
saw no reason to kill others. By the time I was drafted it was pretty clear to
me and millions of others that the war was wrong.
I
was lucky that my family supported, or at least accepted, my decision. Doing
what I did was difficult. I left my friends, family, and country. I went to
Canada and became a refugee. But I wasn't alone. And I don’t regret it.
