I heard that some politicians who probably never served in the military are talking about bringing back the military draft. In the spirit of transparency, I did not serve in the military, but not for lack of trying. My father had given me six months to get a job or get married after college. With no prospects for marriage in sight, I started looking for a job, or the draft would soon be my employer.
My friend Bob and I were the top two in our design class so it should have followed that we would have our picks of jobs after graduation. We both interviewed at one of the top design firms in the country, and it was in Boston. The owner hobnobbed with the likes of F. Lee Bailey, the famous attorney who later got O. J. Simpson off the hook and had his own helicopter. Impressive stuff. This guy, who saved O.J.’s behind, could certainly save mine from Dad or marriage or the draft.
My interview was with his chief designer. I thought things went well, but I did not get the job, and neither did Bob. Another friend who was last in our class did. Years later, I went to work for that chief designer, who had left the highfalutin firm to start his own firm, and he told me we didn’t get hired because they liked to “mold” new designers in the boss’s image, and “Mr. Irrelevant” (a football term for the last player chosen in another draft) could be paid less.
No design firms were begging for my services so just before graduation Bob and I and another friend Carl marched to South Station in Boston to the Army/Navy/Air Force joint recruiting station to see what our options were. Bob and Carl signed up for the Army. I opted for the Air Force. I fantasized that I might land a nice, cushy assignment at an airfield in the Bahamas mowing golf-course greens as another friend had the year before.
The enlistment physical was at the infamous Boston Army Base, where endless lines of young men suffered the embarrassment of standing naked in the freezing exam area with hundreds of other recruits for what seemed like hours. (What is it they say about the Army, “hurry up and wait?”) Alas, at the end of the day, I was told that because of my eyesight the Air Force did not want me.
Graduation arrived, after which I retreated to Mattapoisett, my deferment expired, to await my call from the Selective Service’s version of “Nurse Ratched,” Mrs. Stonkas, the head of the Middleboro Draft Board. Not long after, the official letter arrived. Back to the Boston Army Base for another round of prodding, poking and penetrating, subsequently to be notified that I had failed that physical as well. Confident that I could go on with my life, I began searching for employment … again.
Yup! Another letter arrived. Back to Boston, hoping it was all a mistake since I had already failed two physicals. This time I passed!
Back to Mattapoisett, to wait to be drafted into the United States Army. Surprise! Another letter arrived “inviting” me back to Boston for a fourth round of P.P.P. Upon arrival, I was greeted with “Are you back again?” or “Couldn’t stay away, huh?” I was now on a first-name basis with the prodders and pokers.
This exam, including an ophthalmologist and a couple of other “gists,” resulted in my being told that my eyes were bad (no kidding!) and my albumin was dangerously high (who knew what albumin was). This time I failed for good. But, they said, I should see my personal doctor immediately.
Dr. York, from whose wife I bought my first car, had me pee in a cup every day for a week. He declared I was fine. Who was I to question the good doctor? (He got shaves from my dad, his barber, every week, which may have influenced his diagnosis.) I was not “sick” again for 35 years.
After basic training, Carl was sent to Army Graphics School where he worked his tail off, assuming that would get him a safe assignment somewhere stateside. He graduated first in his class and was sent to Vietnam where, he insisted, he painted naked women on airplanes.
Bob followed Carl to Graphics School a week later. Assuming it didn’t matter how well he did, he graduated near last in the class. He spent his whole time during the war driving a Triumph convertible around London, England. I spent the rest of the war corresponding with them and feeling guilty.
Carl came home with a Silver Star, married a piano teacher, had eight kids ranging in age from 21 to four-year-old twins and died of cancer at age 50. I ran into Bob years later in a Walmart parking lot. He had pure white hair and sported a long white beard. I was married and finally had a job.
Editor’s note: Mattapoisett resident Dick Morgado is an artist and retired newspaper columnist whose musings are, after some years, back in The Wanderer under the subtitle “Thoughts on ….” Morgado’s opinions have also appeared for many years in daily newspapers around Boston.
Thoughts on…
By Dick Morgado