Memorial Day - my scars

I was never in a battle. Never even in the service. But Vietnam was my war and with it I have my own scars and my own unique Memorial Day memories.  And for the record, I love my country and always have, but I don't always like it. 

My memories are cheap compared to others.  As far as I know, I lost no one there.  No name to etch from the Wall. No family member returned home to cope with the loss of a leg or an arm or themselves.

Of course, I have since met many men who were there and have been fascinated by their stories.  Those who would talk with nonchalance; those who would talk with pain; those who would not talk at all.  The latter were the ones that disturbed me most of all.

Vietnam was something I grew up with through grade school and into college.  Before 24 hour news channels and tons of entertainment options, we had one TV with three channels and you had to walk to change the channels. Each 6:30 network news broadcast was a mirror image of the other. It was the first war brought into our living rooms and we could see battles and killings every evening delivered to us in small digestible increments.  Journalism was learning its way with the new technology and if the competition does it, so must you. But as with most programming you see on TV, the images seem either too real or not real at all.

I went away to college in 1971 at age eighteen after fulfilling my obligation to appear before the Selective Service Board to register for the military draft.  I went to college not to escape the draft, for there were no more student deferments.  I left to escape my hometown.  The America of the 60’s had caught up with the Bladen County North Carolina in the 70’s. My senior year there were bomb threats (usually fourth period) and race demonstrations.  Elizabethtown had come of age.  If America was in turmoil, I wanted to be somewhere where there might be a chance to see hope.

In college, Vietnam was, of course, the major cause. I witnessed demonstrations and protests and I even grew to envy the extremist on both sides.  To them everything was clear.  This was right.  That was wrong.  Simple. No confusion.  Black and white with no gray allowed.  The same way I envy but despise the extremists of today. 

I think for most of us things weren’t that easy.  We didn’t want to die, but more importantly we didn’t want to be put in a position where we would have to kill.  And if we had to do either, we needed to know it would be worth something.  That was the question and no one had an answer -- no one sane anyway.

The Draft Lottery loomed large in the late 60’s and early 70’s.  Every male in those years was aware that most of the rest of his life would be changed (or at least influenced) by a simple event that would take place in October of his eighteenth year. I don’t remember the date but in my six story dormitory it was the “social event” of the season. We all cut class and gathered around the television in the lobby for the vigil which seemed to go on forever.  Winning or losing numbers were based on a number assigned to your birth date.  After about four hours my number came up -- 193.  The draft cutoff was estimated to be 165.

So I was safe.  I wouldn’t have to go serve my country and face the prospect of war if I didn’t wish to. In retrospect, the military would have been good for me.  I certainly needed discipline. But in 1971, the idea of enlisting never have crossed my mind. It was the time of Vietnam.

So I was safe.  Now what. I didn’t know quite what to do or how to feel. My life had dodged its first bullet without me having to decide or do anything at all. Those are my scars; little, but deep and definitely still there all these years later.

If my number had come up, I would have served.  Canada was always talked about as an option but I would never have done that.  I knew that then and I know it now.  But I never had to make the decision.

In the 90’s, my step-son entered Naval ROTC at Duke and then served for 5 years in the Navy serving on several warships.  He was on the USS Carl Vinson aircraft carrier as it was rounding the horn of India when 9/11 took place.  That ship would later launch the first fighter attacks on Afghanistan.  Later, ironically, he would be on the USS Cowpens when it launched the first missile attacks on Iraq in 2003.

I think of him on Memorial Day.

There was one eighteen-year-old at that long ago lottery festival that I will always remember.  I had never seen him before and would never see him again but for that one day he was famous.  He was number 1.  The look on his face – amusement, irony, resignation.  All the looks I had expected to see on my own face.  We all chipped in and bought him a case of beer. I learned later that he got roaring drunk and left school the next day.

I think of him on Memorial Day, too.