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Draft Cards, Frank Terranella, Men, opinion, Selective Service, The Write Side of 50, Vietnam war
My son most likely will never receive a draft card – is that a good thing?
BY FRANK TERRANELLA
I was looking for something in a drawer in my bedroom recently, and came across a relic from the 1970s – my draft card. It occurs to me that the Baby Boomer generation is in a unique position when it comes to military service. While we were the last generation of men in recent times who were saddled with compulsory military service, most of us didn’t serve. So we are unlike our fathers, who mostly did serve, and unlike our sons, who may never have experienced the threat of compulsory service.
I think that every man my age remembers going down to the Draft Board and registering. Those of us who were more fortunate were able to claim college or other exemptions. The less fortunate got their induction letters, and were sent to war.
And then there was the lottery! There were lotteries held every year from 1969 to 1975 (although no one was drafted after 1973). Before that, the U.S. simply drafted the oldest man first. But beginning in 1969, the order of induction for people born in the same year was determined by a lottery based on your birthday. So for example, in 1972, the year they picked inductees born in 1953, people born on March 6 got called first. I remember watching on television at the student center at my college as they picked the numbers in Washington. It’s hard to imagine a more tension-filled scene. There we were, a bunch of 18 year olds waiting for word on the future of our lives. There was constant talk during this time about doing away with college exemptions. So having a low lottery number was seen as guaranteeing that you were going to Vietnam (or a death sentence by some more hysterical guys).
A friend of mine in this group at the student center heard his birthday called as number 008. He began to sob, and a few days later, rather than wait for induction into the Army, he enlisted in Navy ROTC. I was one of the lucky ones. My number was 234. I’ll bet that you can ask any man who participated in one of these draft lotteries, and they could tell you today what their number was 40 years ago.
The point of this is to show that men of my generation faced a lot of the stress of anticipation of military service. In fact, since compulsory military service was non-stop from World War II until 1973, all Baby Boomer boys were brought up with the certainty that they would be in the military some day. Everybody served. In fact, one of the most pleasant surprises of my life was the end of the draft. It literally changed the course of the lives of every young man in the United States.
By contrast, my son merely had to register for the draft. I think he may have done it online! It was completely stress-free because there was no chance of being compelled to serve. He could enlist if he wanted, but that was up to him.
It’s certainly true that old men wage war with the lives of young men. It’s always been that way, and always will be. So my perspective on military service is different now than it was when I was younger, and I was the one who would be called to serve. While I don’t want our young men and women (yes it must be women now as well) to have to go to war, I do think that compulsory public service is a good idea. I think that the lucky break that many Baby Boomers got in not having to serve their country resulted in a stunted sense of community and laid the ground for all of us being labeled the “me generation.” But that’s a discussion for another day.
Still have your draft card? Scan and send it to us in the comments below.
The Write Side of 59 
I must admit that I neither have my draft card, nor can I recall my exact lottery number. However, I distinctly recall learning what numbers were considered “safe,” and feeling incredible relief that I was among those – somehere above 100, I believe is where my number came out. But before I knew my number, it was almost surreal. I was in my freshman year of college, lying in bed in my dorm room, thinking that if the number came out really low, and if the college deferment ended (meaning if they killed off too many guys and needed more cannon fodder), I could actually be compelled to join the Army. I would be plucked out of my happy, lazy, half-stoned half the time college routine, and given a uniform, helmet, and gun. I would be asked to point that gun at other human beings with the goal of killing them before they could kill me. I had never even held a gun, much less tried to blow someone’s head off with it. I wondered if push came to shove, wouldf I run off to Canada, as many opposed to war and the draft had done, or would I do the “honorable” thing and risk dying in a fetid swamp in Southeast Asia for what seemed a dubious cause. Pretty scary stuff. I’m glad I never had to actually make those decisions.
Am here on the request of a dear old friend to share a bit of my 1972 almost drafted experience. I say almost as I went through the entire physical process but never did actually get drafted. My lottery number was 43 by the way.
Draft physical day started in Paterson NJ where a high school buddy of mine and I filled out the proper documentation on which we checked off having done every single friggin’ drug on the list AND that we had experienced extended and extreme depression. It was somewhat akin to being on the fabled Group W bench. Almost.
Later in the day, somewhere in Newark NJ, the Selective Service shrink saw right through our ruse allowing us to get even closer to basic training than we cared to be.
The most intriguing thing I remember is that one guy had a portfolio about 2 feet thick documenting just how bad his legs really were – not sure if had genetic problems, was injured, or what. The boy could not walk well I know that for sure. He pleaded his case to whomever pretended to listen and pretend they did. And they proceeded to hustle him right through all the necessary checkpoints. I have a strong suspicion that young man died in the jungles of Vietnam.
The other thing I remember is that on a break we took a walk and somewhere a stereo was blasting Billy Paul’s ‘Me & Mrs Jones’. But we had our own thing going on.
PEACE