Drafted

The attached is Chapter 2 of a memoir I am writing about my entire two years in the Marines.
Sgt. Tom Elliott
USMC 1966 -68
Thomas Elliott 2,000 Words
4711 Gate Way
Santa Barbara CA 93110
(805) 895-6095
Tr.elliott@cox.net

Drafted

During World War-2 drafted meant serving for the duration of the war. During the Vietnam War drafted meant “Two Years to Serve.”

Nothing on but my socks and underwear I stood in a row with six other guys in their underwear: some in boxers some in tighty-whities. I was a tighty-whitey guy. An older guy with Coke bottle bottom eyeglasses and a thin mustache wearing a long white lab coat stood in front of me. He held a clip board in his hand. With a tiny flashlight he looked in my eyes, and ears. He jammed a flat piece of wood in my mouth and said, “say ah.”
My head back and my mouth open, my mind raced: what the hell is happening? Yesterday I surfed perfectly shaped tubes at Stockers. Knowing I had to report for the draft the next morning, I surfed every wave like it was my last. Now I am standing here in my underwear, how did this all get started?

Out of high school I worked at a book binding factory during the day and washed dishes at night for spending money. When not hanging out at the fraternity house with my best friend Roger, I lived at my parents’ house, in a room Dad and I built off the side of the garage. I had a steady girlfriend; I owned my own car and surfboard. Life was good.
The most important thing in my life at the time was surfing. Roger and I spent the summer, 44 days, in Mazatlán Mexico and points south. We surfed every day. We fished and cooked up what we caught over a fire on the beach. We bought bread and tortillas from the local vendors and ate tacos and beans from the little palm frond shack restaurant down the beach from our camp. In town we drank Corona Beer that cost $.08 for a 12 oz. glass at the Pacifico Corona brewery. We sneaked into a nearby trailer park at night to take showers. Living the life of true surf bums and loving every minute of it.
Returning from the surf trip I was too late to sign up for the architecture class I wanted to take at Pasadena City College. I signed up for the general education classes I needed and joined the fraternity my friend Roger belonged to.
From a blue collar family, I did not have the money to attend a four year college. A poor student in high school I could not qualify anyway. A City Collage was my only option, and even then I could not go to school full time, I had to work. I was ripe for the picking by the draft.
I registered for the draft. Filled out papers and took the pre-induction physical and waited for my draft card to arrive.
When my draft card did arrive, I received a classification of 2-S, deferred because of activity in study (a student deferment). A part-time student, I did not expect to get a deferment. Then I read the fine print. The letter stated my deferment status would be re-evaluated in November.
I found a job as a blueprint apprentice. I pestered the boss to let me draw. By the end of summer, I made draftsman.
Like the small print said, in November I received a notice of classification change. Re-classified to 1A…first to go; just what the Army wanted.
In January, I got the letter, “Uncle Sam Wants You.” Ordered to report for induction into the US Army on February 1, 1966. I left the notice of induction laying on the kitchen table and went straight to the fraternity house. I told the boys I got drafted. “I need a beer,” I said.
“No problem. We just tapped a new keg.” Bill said.
“When do you have to report?” Roger asked.
“First of February.”
“Oh shit. You will miss our wedding; you’re supposed to be the best man!”
“Fuck Roger. I didn’t think about that. I hate to miss your wedding.”
For the rest of the afternoon, I drank beer with the boys to drown my sorrows. Gloria, my favorite song, played over and over on the jukebox. I drank too many beers. Roger drove me home.
I think that night was the first time my mother ever saw me drunk. Dad read the letter I left on the kitchen table. I think he understood but Mom was not too happy. She cried. We knew this day was coming. Mom really worried about me going to Vietnam. She gave me a hug. Then turned and grabbed onto Dad. “Don’t let him go Richard, don’t let him go!” she pleaded. I hugged both my mom and dad. “We will get through this one day at a time,” Dad said.
I dropped out of school and received an incomplete in all my classes. Not that it mattered much; I never went back to school. I quit work. I planned to surf as much as possible. My boss said to come back after I got out of the service. I never went back.
I sold my car, put my surfboards up in the garage rafters and boxed up all my stuff so my 12-year-old brother Tim could have my room. We grew up in a nine hundred square foot house with one tiny bathroom. My brother and I shared a bedroom with bunk beds until Dad and I built a room off the side of the garage. My brother really wanted my room. I think he was the only one happy I got drafted.
After a long tearful goodbye Mom let me go. At 7:30 AM Dad dropped me off at the induction center in Los Angeles, California. A Marine aboard the Aircraft Carrier U.S.S. Belleau Wood during WW-2 Dad said, “I love you Son,” then he said, “I hope they take you in the Marine Corps.” He knew ten percent of draftees were going into the Marines. I didn’t know want to think about that. I told my dad I loved him and to take care of Mom and Tim.
I got in line outside the induction center with other guys reporting for the draft. The guy in front of me in line said, “getting drafted sucks.” I agreed and asked him where he lived.
“San Marino” he said. “How about you?”
“Temple City, in high school I swam against your school’s swim team. Your school has a really nice swimming pool.” I said.
“Yeah, I guess so. I never swam in it.” He said. The guy was not happy at all, grumpy in fact, not a swimmer and for sure not a surfer. A rich kid from San Marino, their high school was a lot nicer than the one I went to. I thought rich kids did not get drafted.
Inside I presented my draft notice to the clerk behind the desk. He looked at his list and checked me in. He handed me a folder with some papers inside and pointed down the hall to a locker room. He told me to find an empty locker, strip down to my socks and underwear, and get in line. “Keep the folder with you” he said. Other guys stood in the line in their underwear holding folders.

Wait…I think someone is yelling at me. What is he saying? “Drop your drawers! Drop your drawers?” What does that mean? My mind snapped back to the present. I am standing here in my underwear, the guy in the long white lab coat is telling me to pull them down. I hesitated for a few seconds not sure what he wanted. He said it again. I pulled down my underwear. As soon as I did, he jams his finger up next to my balls and says, “Turn your head and cough.” I guess he did not do it right the first time, he did it again! I think he enjoyed his job too much. Finished fondling me, he handed me back my folder and said, “Pull up your underwear” and pointed the way to next station. I was glad they were not doing prostate exams.
At the next station, still in my underwear, another guy checked my hearing, and vision, including color blindness, and made a bunch of marks in my folder. After answering a ton of questions and being poked and prodded all over, the last guy I saw kept my folder. He told me to get dressed and take a seat in the room at the end of the hall. There I would be sworn into the US Army and sign some papers. I had just completed the military induction physical exam – thoroughness questionable. I could have dropped dead at the end, and they would not have known why. Basically, if you could walk and talk you passed.
Dressed again I entered the room at the end of the hall and found a seat. As the room filled up, I checked out the other guys reporting for induction. Tall guys, short guys, fat guys from all ethnic backgrounds. Guys with long hair, short hair, no hair. Everyone looked young, some two young. Some looked in good physical shape and some not; they might have trouble in boot camp. Some guys carried small suitcases or back packs. Guys started forming small groups and talked about going to Vietnam and there was a lot of bitching about the draft.
I guess the reality of the draft had not sunk in yet. No way for me to get out of it, I did not try to fight it, I just let it happen. I planned to go with the flow to see where the adventure took me. The thought of burning my draft card and going to Canada never crossed my mind.
Told to take a seat, 130 of us sat on steel folding chairs behind long rows of tables facing the front of the room. The clerk who checked me in entered the room and set a stack of folders on the front table. He passed out papers we needed to sign when told. Ink pens were laying on the table, I picked one up.
Next a tall Marine in a perfectly form fitted starched seam uniform entered the room. His chest covered with metals the sleeves covered with stripes. I had no idea what they all meant but he looked impressive. His Smokey-the-Bear hat tilted exactly right, he looked like the Marine on the recruiting poster.
He walked back and forth in front of the first row of tables as he looked us over with his stone-cold eyes for what seemed like an eternity. Everyone’s eyes followed his movement, the room, dead quiet. When he finally spoke, he announced loudly with a rough voice that he was Gunnery Sergeant Miller (not his real name). “I need ten percent of you, thirteen guys, for the United States Marine Corps. Who wants to volunteer?” he shouted. Dead silence. He stood there staring at us. I think he wanted to dare us or scare us into volunteering. Five guys slowly put up their hands. I was not in the military yet, but I knew enough not to volunteer for anything.
“Okay,” the gunny said, “I need eight more of you slackers!” When no one else jumped at the chance, he ran his hand up the stack of folders sitting on the table. He pulled out a folder and read the name, “Thomas Richard Elliott.” I stood up, threw the ink pen down and said, “Fuck!,” not loud enough for him to hear me. The guy sitting next to me pointed and said, “Ha, you gotta to go in the Marine Corps.” The gunny pointed at him and yelled, “What’s your name boy? You’re going too!”
During January and February of 1966, the Marine Corps took 10 percent of all draftees. Over the duration of the Vietnam War the Marines drafted 42,633 men. Most of the draftees saw serve in Vietnam.
A couple more guys volunteered, and the gunnery sergeant chose others to get his 13 new Marines. Actually, what he got was 13 new recruits, all of us from Southern California. We needed a lot of hard-ass training to become United States Marines.

Submit your own Story>>