Well, so long Woodstock, hello Nam!
That, I suppose, would be what anyone hearing that I had been drafted back in late 1964 would think the next words out of my mouth would be, but they would be wrong.
First of all, the United States had at best a very limited presence in Vietnam at the time. Second, in a two year draftee hitch, lots actually has to happen before you become cannon fodder -- if you ever do.
Back in Liberty, NY, on the morning of November 18, my parents drove me to Monticello, the county seat, where the local draft board was located. There were a few other males in my age bracket there, perhaps five or six.
I found myself sitting on the Short Line bus with Phil Ardito, a guy from Roscoe or Livingston Manor whom I hadn't met previously. He seemed like a pleasant enough guy, although it was pretty clear that he had not been to college and had never heard of Woodstock as anything except a spot on a map. I seem to recall that he did some kind of work in the manual trades, but I don't remember exactly what. We talked a little bit on the bus ride to NYC about whether we would get passes to go home from Fort Dix (NJ, where we both assumed we were headed) for Christmas, and about factory work, where I now had a little background to talk from.
When we pulled into Port Authority Bus Terminal, I found myself more or less in charge of our little group simply because I had lived in NYC for a couple of years and could find our way down to the Whitehall Street location where draftees were processed. No problems. They had provided us with subway tokens in Monticello, and we used them without mishap.
We each had a little gym bag with us to hold our limited personal effects (mainly toilet articles as we had been encouraged to bring no extra clothes, but which also did include a New Testament we had each been handed (regardless of religious orientation, if any) before we boarded the bus in Monticello. We followed the signs in the Whitehall Street building that directed "inductees" -- our current status -- up the stairs, through some perfunctory paperwork (since they already knew whom to expect) and a physical exam.
Not much excitement yet. It was a second physical exam for all of us, since we had been subjected earlier in our lives to a pre-induction physical at the same location. We noticed that we had become part of a larger group -- perhaps 30 to 50 of us -- as the day went on. Not all of us were draftees. Some had enlisted, and some were reservists or National Guards people who were also signing in at this time for their six months on active duty.
A bored-looking lieutenant swore us all in as a part of a not particularly impressive ceremony, and the first surprise of the day came as they told us that we would be travelling by train that night to Fort Jackson, South Carolina, for "Reception Station".
I think we were all expecting to go to Fort Dix, NJ, so this was a little bit unsettling. I remember being somewhat unhappy, since I had met a girl who went to Bard College at my going away party in Woodstock, had hoped to see her on weekends, and clearly would not be able to do so if I was in South Carolina. There was not a lot that could be done about it -- other than walking away from the group while we were enroute to Penn Station, which would not have been particularly difficult to do, really -- so soon we were on a passenger train headed South.
These were pre-Amtrak days, and the train was pretty shabby. No question, it was old enough to have carried troops in World War II and had carried many civilian passengers since those days. Phil Ardito and I had acquired a third guy to hang out with, and I led the three of us into the train car and claimed what used to be called a private room. Not bad: three berths, four seats, evidently a loo under one of the seats through which you could watch the tracks roll by.
The rest of the guys filled the other private room on the train and most of the rest of the car, which later was made up into sleeping car berths. Just like in the movies from the 1930s, except the dining car, such as it was, was not fancy, was not particularly clean, and we got sandwiches for dinner. There were some jokes about Army food, but we all realized that we were being treated just like any other overnight travellers on our nation's railroads, and, in fact, a lot better than some, because we actually had beds to sleep in. Okay, berths.
It seems to me that we sat on the train, going nowhere, for about six hours in Rocky Mount, NC. Then we were hooked to another train, and finally we stopped in Columbia, SC. Here, it became a bit more like the Army and a little less like a recreational train trip in a third world country.
In South Carolina, there were sergeants in fatigues to hurry us off the train and into some military busses (like school busses, except painted olive drab), and, as soon as the roll was called and it was determined that none of us were still on the train, to yell at us a little.
Even this was pretty mild. We had all seen lots of movies about Army life, and were aware that the Army employed sergeants to yell at recruits. Okay, I guess I was a little suprised that the sergeants used "fuck" as a noun, a verb, a participle, an article, an adjective, an adverb and a conjunction when addressing us, but I definitely knew the word and I can't say that I or anybody else was much shocked by it. At that point I realized that I should have brought a pen and notebook so I could record some of the expressions. They were gramatically creative as hell, and I really wish that I remembered some of them.
By the time we assembled at Fort Jackson, I realized that our little band that had left Monticello a couple of days earlier had now grown into a basic training company of around 240 men. We were sorted alphabetically, so Ardito and Brown ended up in the same platoon. Predictably, we were the first platoon. However, there were now at least five guys named Brown -- perhaps more -- and I discovered that our squad included people from Rhode Island, the Florida Panhandle, upstate New York, and a dozen places in between.
We were all still in civilian clothes, and I have to say that we must have smelled pretty bad by this time, since it was now three full days since we had left home wearing them, and no matter how low stress the whole process had been, it was still unfamiliar enough to all of us that there had been a little bit of nervous perspiration.
We were put into barracks -- two story wooden structures left over from World War II, heated by soft coal furnaces -- told to find a bed and sack out. They got us up at 4 AM, not surprisingly, and we were then exposed for the first time to one of the most important lessons in Army life: the fact that we were sufficiently unimportant in the larger scheme of things that we would be expected to hurry up and wait.
We did a lot of that during the four days we were at Fort Jackson. There were tests to take -- very important tests if one was concerned where one was going to end up during one's Army life, but I think I was one of the very few who intuitively realized that it was as important -- maybe more important -- to try hard on these tests than it had been to try hard on the college boards. Most of the guys basically blew the tests off. Some, no doubt, actually died as a result. But that was much later on.
There were uniforms to draw. Four sets of fatigues, two web belts, two pairs of combat boots, one pair of low quarter black shoes, six pairs of boot socks, four pairs of socks for the low quarters, six sets of white boxer shorts, six white tee shirts, a fatigue jacket, two baseball caps, two dress uniforms, what was called a "cunt cap" (in polite conversation, this was to be called an overseas cap but absolutely nobody ever called them that), a flying saucer hat (the round thing like marching bands wear), an overcoat, four white terrycloth towels, two white terrycloth wash cloths, a laundry bag, a duffel bag, an overcoat, a rain coat.
We finally had clean clothes, and I have to say I was very, very happy to be wearing a uniform. I really stunk by that time.
We got military haircuts -- probably before we got the uniforms -- and I found that I, with my longish hair, and a guy named Jack who had gone to the Rhode Island School of Design and had hair that was more than longish -- were sorted out of the unit while the barbers flipped coins to see who would get to shave our heads. I was only the second prize; Jack was the first prize. Still, except for the feeling that these barbers did not expect any tips, it wasn't that unpleasant. Considering that we also had not bathed in several days at this point, I have to admit I wasn't all that sad to be rid of my very greasy hair.
We were also given dog tags. The process worked like this. In a large room, perhaps a dining hall, a sergeant would scream out your name. ("Geoffrey" was not a possible name in an enlisted Army setting in those days, something that actually worked to my advantage, so I got to guess when I was being called. Fortunately we were always called in alphabetic order so I knew who I was.) We would yell our service number (US51550342, in case anybody wonders. You never do forget that number, even thought I don't think they use service numbers any more.) and the sergeant would confirm the number against the paper on his clipboard. Then he would yell "Religion" and you would yell your religious preference back.
The responses were interesting. A large percentage of the guys yelled "Catholic". A good many yelled "Baptist". I had been raised as a Methodist, although I had not had anything to do with organized religion for around seven years at that point, but rather than improvise on what to yell, I yelled "Methodist" when my time came. As the list rolled on, a couple hollered "none" for religion. Heads turned the first couple of times. A couple of guys yelled "Jewish" and heads turned for that response as well.
It turned out to make no difference. When I got my dogtags, the line for religion said "none". I took that as a sign of divine intervention. Anyway, I already had learned not to rock the boat by telling the Army a mistake had been made. I also learned that I had type B blood, and that I was the only white guy in my platoon with type B blood.
We finally got to write a letter home, but we were cautioned not to assume this was where we would be staying, and in fact we did not stay there. There was considerable speculation among us about where we might be going. A few optimists allowed as how we would surely be going to Fort Dix now. The guys from the Florida Panhandle seemed to feel that Fort Polk, LA, was a sure thing. The true pessimists said we were sure to be sent to Korea as a unit, to be stationed on the 38th parallel, especially now that winter was closing in. Nobody mentioned Vietnam.
At any rate, with the tests done and the uniforms acquired, we were done with reception station. We had been soldiers now for around seven days. Somebody pointed out that "we" had only 723 days to go -- and discussion erupted as to who was smarter: the draftees, who had 723 to go, the National Guards and Reservists, who had about 173 days to go, or the Regular Army enlistees who had so long to go that I don't believe they actually even calculated their time left. They just looked really sad at this point.
With that, we staggered under the load of our new duffel bags onto military busses for the trip to Fort Gordon, Georgia, where we would spend basic training.
Now, here is the reading comprehension part of this test. In the preceding material, identify three experiences that would be beneficial for anyone presuming in later life to lead this nation or a portion of it. (Hint: any moron can find at least five.)
Basic Training comes next.....
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