I joined the United States Marine Corps at the age of 17 and went through boot camp at Parris Island, then on to ITR just like the older guys. All of that took about 6 months and upon completion, we all got to take a little vacation (leave) for about 10 days before reporting to our first duty stations. My MOS being 0311, I reported to the FMF at Camp Lejeune, NC. While stationed with the FMF, I went on what was known back then as a “Carib Cruise”. The cruise lasted about 6 months and we returned to Camp Lejeune where many of us received orders for WESPAC or as the older guys put it, “the land of the many rains”, Jarhead jargon for Vietnam. That duty lasted a little over a year and upon returning to “the world”, I got to go home for a 30 day leave before reporting to my next duty station as an Instructor at TBS (The Basic School) in Quantico, VA.
When I returned home from WESPAC, my Mom had saved a stack of letters from The Selective Service Board, all of which were in chronological order by date received. The first letter was a friendly reminder that I had turned 18 and was required by law to register for the draft. After that, it was all downhill as each letter got a little more demanding and downright nasty, finally threatening me with jail time, felonies and so forth.
Being the good Marine NCO I had become; I made a plan and prepared for battle. I got up one morning, did the 3 S’s, donned a brand new straight from the dry cleaners uniform complete with chevrons, new ribbons & shootin’ badges, new EGA’s, polished brass belt buckles and brand new spit shined shoes. I hitch-hiked down town to the Federal Building where the local Selective Service Office was located and with all those letters tucked under my arm, boldly marched down the hall and straight into the Selective Service HQ.
There was a counter about as tall as a bar in a beer joint across the front of that room with six desks behind it. I wondered where all the other office staff was because there was only one heavy set, older lady with reading glasses down on her nose sitting at one of the desks involved with important government work or a crossword puzzle. I sat my letters on the counter and announced my presence with an audible “Good morning!” The lady didn’t budge other than stare up at me over her reading glasses and in a feminine bass voice asked, “Whada you want?” To which I replied, “Well ma’am, I’ve just recently returned from duty abroad and when I got home was presented with this correspondence strongly urging me to register for the draft. So here I am. I would have taken care of this business sooner but the mail was kinda slow out on the Ho Chi Minh Trail.”
She slowly eyeballed me up and down and narrowed her stare. If looks could have killed, I would have been vaporized. The only words she grunted were “Git outta here.” Taking due notice that this lady had no sense of humor whatsoever; I immediately snatched my letters from the counter and dee-deed my ass out of the area. I never did get a draft card and have had no contact with the Selective Service since that time. If I ever do hear from them, my plan is to take my two Honorable Discharges from the USMC down off the wall in my office, tuck ‘em under my arm; march unfettered into the Selective Service HQ and let the chips fall where they may.
David Martin Snead (7/28/13)
That is funny. Back in 1973, about 3 or 4 weeks into the bootcamp experience, during mail call, myself and a few others received out draft card notices. One of us requested permission to speak to on duty Drill Instructor and told him about the letter. The DI asked if anyone else got one when several of us stepped forward. He collected them and said “DONE”. We never heard anything more about this.
I got my draft card while I was in boot camp. Platoon 1083 …Aug 1973.