1966. The Vietnam War was heating up. Amerika wasn’t doing well. We were inexorably/inevitably losing. President Johnson (LBJ), who had become President after the assassination of President Kennedy (JFK), had done a wonder-filled job creating profound society-changing social justice programs. But then he had been successfully manipulated by the Military-Industrial Alliance and persuaded to wage an inane/insane war. I was an undergraduate English student at Brooklyn College. I remember going to Columbia Presbyterian Hospital and the friendly orthopedist asking me what I thought about the Situation. I was embarrassed. I knew next to nothing. I stammered & mumbled. However, I began to pay attention when the body bags started to come back in increasing numbers, including Bernie, a great guy who had been in my after-school Hebrew class. Also: I was nearing the end of my undergraduate life. Also: I had become engaged and the wedding date was set, 5/7/66.

 

     Things were coming to a head. I was twenty-one. I didn’t know what or where I wanted to be, but I knew enough to know that I didn’t want to be in Vietnam. I didn’t want, at 21, to be dead. 

 

     My options? Canada? No. Marriage? Not good for a draft-deferral anymore. School? I needed to get a job, graduate school would come later ( and English majors weren’t considered essential). Work? I got a job as a Caseworker for the NYC Welfare Department. Again, not considered essential. Favoritism? My fiance’s family had a remote connection to a Colonel In charge of the Draft in the New York area. I called him and asked about enlisting in a program that would guarantee I would stay in Europe. He gruffly informed me to forgetaboutit! It was a ruse. The Army would honor its enlistment promise for a year; so I would very likely be in Europe for about a year, then be shipped off to Vietnam. The proverbial Clock was ticking. So I called up my local Draft Board, nervously explained about my upcoming marriage and asked if, in the likely event of my induction, I could get a postponement until after my wedding. The woman I spoke to was pleasant/understanding, but could not make promises. Oy. Shortly after, I received the dreaded notice to report for my Induction physical at the infamous Army examination center at Whitehall Street.

                                                                                                      

 

     I was under a lot - a lot - of Stress. Perhaps this was the cause of an ugly rash on my right arm - from wrist to shoulder. Yech! I went to my dermatologist. He said it was a severe case of infectious eczema and prescribed cortisone and a tranquilizer. I told him about the notice. He smiled and said, “Don’t worry.  This will take quite a while to clear up. The Army will not take you until it does.” He wrote a note on the same white small white slip of paper he had written his prescriptions.” I heartily thanked him.

 

     I left smiling. Finally, some good news!

 

     Yay!

 

     The dreaded day came. I came armed with a note. We were told (ordered) to doff all our clothes. I found myself among a group of naked guys. We had been strangers a few minutes before. Now we were temporary buddies bonded by angst and fear. Standing naked in line we reported from station to station. At each table there was a doctor with a standing soldier -assistant holding a clipboard. Quickly/efficiently we were asked a few questions, instructed, to assume various positions, perfunctorily examined, and passed on to the next station (eye, chest, heart, ear-nose ‘n throat, feet, etc. Etc.) At every stop, I attempted to bring my little note to the doctor’s attention. They didn’t pay attention. They didn’t give a look. They could care less. Huh/oy?!

 

     Finally, I came to the end. A great table was at the end of the great hall.  Several doctors  were seated along its length. I approached one. The soldier read my name, stapled my papers, placed them in front of the doctor and announced, “ Deemed fit for servIce.” The Goode Doktor took a huge curved stamp that looked like it had come out of a Dickens” story. The lettering was visible - very. “”INDUCTEE” I watched in resignation & despair as he raised the stamp high. Vietnam, here I come!

 

     But: By this time, though I had continued to hold the note, I had essentially given up on it, forgotten it. On the mechanical downward swing, the stamp stopped abruptly in mid-air. Standing directly in front of him, my right arm at his eye-level, he had noticed the note. 

                                                                                                         

     “What’s that?”

     All I could manage to say was, “Note. Note.”  

 

     He motioned me to pass it to him across the table. He didn’t have to ask twice. Reading it quickly he exclaimed, “ You can’t be inducted with this!” I did not argue. He put the monster-stamp down, picked up another,  smaller, stamp, and used it. “1-Y” ( a 6 month physical deferment).  Life vs Death!?!

 

     Yay!

 

     After donning my clothes, I walked out of Whitehall Street with my buddies. We ate at a nearby Greek coffee shop. I was hungry- happy. So were some others, but not all. We continued to swap autobiographical stories. I remember some of them to this day, fifty-seven (57!) years later. Then we got up, divided the check, bade each other goodbye and good luck. Never saw them again.

 

     Postscript:  Months later, I had changed jobs. Knowing that my skin condition would eventually disappear, I changed “careers”, but not neighborhoods. I had been a caseworker in Brownsville, an impoverished Brooklyn neighborhood. I had taken some worthless education courses while at Brooklyn College, some more at night during the Summer of ‘66 , met the minimum teaching requirements, and in September I resigned as an ineffective caseworker and became an unprepared NYC JHS  English teacher. My changed job status came with some promise of draft-deferral, but no guarantees.  The War got hotter, my rash better,  my job-protection less certain.  My high Angst returned! Then a national draft lottery was announced and conducted. It was published in the Daily News. During lunch, I ran with colleagues to the corner candy store. (The place had a “reputation”. Years before, it had been the hangout for the notorious Jewish gang Murder Incorporated.) Each of us got his paper, and like Talmudic students began to study the Lottery lists. There were sounds! Next to the calendar dates were numbers. When a guy saw a low number next to his birthdate, he groaned. If a guy saw a high number, he’d shout with joy.             

 

     One by one, they would locate their birthdates and their possible fates. Eventually, I found myself alone. Alone! June 8-was-not- listed. What was my draft-number? I knew I would be late back to school and my classes, but I couldn’t get up. Finally, after about fifteen minutes, I found my birthdate. June 8 was at the bottom, the very bottom - the last number listed. The last! 

 

JUNE 8 - #366

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     I never received a draft-notice. I came to love Teaching, became an enthusiastic teacher. Actually, in all this Mishegoss, I had unknowingly been following a family tradition. My Grandfather, of Blessed Memory, Joseph Moskowitz, had fled Romania to avoid its Draft. Seems that when a Jew was drafted in Romania, he could be made to serve 25 years! Oy.)