Tag Archives: Draft

Chopper

Chopper: (n) a helicopter.

Knowing that my brain, like most human brains, has selective memory, and that triggers installed for certain sounds, words, or even smells, I can tell you of a truth that the word “chopper”–and the vision of one–for me conjures memories of Vietnam.

I don’t know why.

Maybe it’s because I came of age during the height of the conflict, came upon my eighteenth birthday and was eligible for the draft. Helicopters were prevalent in the nightly news, and made me think about that horrible war.

Today I call it horrible. When I was a teenager, I lived in a community that actually had its own chapter of the John Birch Society, and the violence in Southeast Asia was extolled as patriotic–our best avenue for stopping the spread of Communism.

So for me, it’s a chain of mental commands:

Chopper makes me think about Vietnam.

Vietnam makes me think about the protests.

The protests make me think about rock and roll.

Rock and roll conjures images of Woodstock.

Woodstock reminds me that I was living in a provincial village and was too frightened to go to the festival.

And being too frightened to go–as a young man, I was also always arguing with my family over a half-inch of hair over my ears, trying to rebel by listening to The Monkees.

I was no hero.

But as history moves forward, we realize that unfortunately there were no heroes during that era.

The government was corrupt, the hippies were imbalanced, the Vietnamese were crazed, violent and suicidal, the draft dodgers were relegated to the status of cowards as they drove their Volkswagen vans to Canada, and the soldiers who did go to war bled in a jungle that no one even cares one bamboo shoot about today.

So I guess when I see the word “chopper,” I think of lost causes, and I am alerted to spy them–and call them out before they generate guilt, graft … and graves.

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Amnesty

dictionary with letter A

Amnesty: (n) an official pardon for people who have been convicted of political offenses

It is a concept beyond the comprehension of any young man living in America today.

But the reality in my youth was that at eighteen years of age, if you were not bound for college or standing around flat-footed, you could receive a letter in the mail from the Selective Service Administration, be drafted into the military, endure six weeks of basic training, two weeks back at home and then be shipped off to Indochina to fight a war that was only truly understood in the minds of aging politicians and deliberate generals.

It happened to my friend, Marty. He was a gospel singer. But because he was only nineteen years of age, he could sing Amazing Grace and slip out behind the church and tell you some of the dirtiest jokes to put pink in your cheeks.

He was fun. But he wasn’t college material.

So he was drafted.

Within a month he was gone off to basic training. Two months later, he was bound for Vietnam.

But before he left for basic training, he told me he was scared, against the war and wanted to run off to Canada to get out of the military.

He said the only reason he wouldn’t do it is because it would bring shame to his family and he did not want to be branded a coward or a Commie.

So he went.

Fifty-eight days later, they sent him home in a box. It was only six years after they buried my friend, Marty, that an amnesty was declared by the President for all those who objected to the war and went to Canada.

When the grace was offered to those who escaped across the border, I thought about Marty. Yes, he would have been returning to our country at twenty-eight years of age. And his parents probably would have gotten over the shame.

There is no amnesty from the grave.

May we all remember that the next time we’re scowling at an enemy across the pond, thinking about the nastiness of war.

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