Society

1-A

Barry Trutor

December 1968. I had exhausted the college option. I apparently had several other options for avoiding the United States Marine Corps. I could seek political asylum, also known as dodging the draft, in Canada with Michael Hendricks, formally of New Jersey, who later would become one of the two celebrants in Quebec’s first legal same-sex marriage. I could impregnate any of a number of willing women in Benson and join Lee Greenwood with a 3-A, a Selective Service Hardship Deferment . Lee’s deferment enabled him to stay home with his wife and young family, to perform in Nevada casino lounges, and to prepare himself for future national adulation with:

• I’m proud to be an American
• Where at least I know I’m free,
• And I won’t forget the men who died
• Who gave that right to me…

I could find Jesus as Cassius Clay had found the Nation of Islam. I could declare that war is against the teachings of the Bible as he had declared that war was against the teachings of the Qur’an. I could become a conscientious objector. I could join the National Guard. You went to boot camp lite for six months, learned a skill like giving a dry bath to bed-bound patients or changing a tire on a half-track and you were back home before you knew it with only monthly meetings and a two week vacation to Camp Drum up in the Adirondacks. No Vietnam. I suppose Dan Quayle and George Bush went someplace other than Camp Drum.

To be honest, none of these choices were really in my psyche. I had heard about these things going on but they were going on elsewhere. I felt no more ability to consider these options than I did with anything else in my life. My existence seemed to be based on choices being eliminated until there was only one choice and therefore one action left.

I was down to one choice. I would join up! I would join the Army, the Navy, or the Air Force. I would stand up like a man and make a decision. I would join the long line of American citizen-soldiers and do my part.

Out of deference to my father, I jumped in the International Harvester one crisp, cold December morning and drove to the Army Recruiter in Rutland. Located downtown on a second floor on Merchants Row, I was greeted by a warm, enthusiastic “Come on in!” A dress green uniform with a Sergeant Major patch on each arm, rows and rows of battle and service ribbons on the left breast, and many gold service stripes on one sleeve greeted me. After some initial how-de-doo, we got down to business.

“Son,” he said. “We can offer you any of over 300 skills in the U.S. Army. Let’s take a look in the Big Book.”

The Sergeant Major pulled out an enormous three ring binder with hundreds of laminated pages, each containing beautiful pictures and words describing the training you would get, the importance of the skill and how it would follow you back into civilian life.

“Son,” he said. “Let’s just open it up right in the middle,” which he did. “Why lookee-here! We can train you to be a meat cutter.”

The nuance wasn’t lost on me. I won’t detail the visions of meat-cutting in Vietnam that flowed through my mind. I’m sure the Sergeant Major was genuine in his pursuit of my military career. Brochures in hand and a promise to be in touch, I exited the Recruiting Office with now two self-evident truths. I didn’t see myself as a United States Marine and I didn’t see myself as a meat cutter in the United States Army. Across the hall, the Navy Recruiter’s door was open. I had made up my mind. I was going to join the Navy that day. I walked into Navy Recuiter’s office and found no one aboard.

“Hello?” I said to no answer. “Hello?”

From out of a side office, a man with a white sailor suit came in and said, “Can I help you?”

“I’m looking for the Navy Recruiter.”

“He’s not here. He’s out to lunch. Why don’t you come in here?” The Coast Guard Recruiter didn’t have any meat cutting skills to offer. He did speak about rescuing people on sinking ships, sailing on the high seas to faraway lands, and serving in small elite groups. He told me that the Coast Guard was the branch of the service which required the highest qualifications to join and enough other good stuff apparently so that I signed the papers to enlist. When I told my parents that night at the supper table, there was no objection. I sensed they were resigned to their and my fate. My father had a picture of the Commanding General of the South Korean Army, personalized to John my friend, hanging on his wall. My mother had been long-time friends with William B. Franke, President Eisenhower’s Secretary of the Navy, and his daughters. Two out three wasn’t bad. Heck, in any case, Son #2 and #3 as well as daughter #1 would still be college educated, serve in the Army Officer Corps and become President.

The service requiring the highest qualifications to join required among other things that I produce a doctor’s statement as to my physical well-being including that my blood pressure be at or under a certain level. I was 6 feet tall and weighed about 215. My blood pressure was five or ten points over what the United States Coast Guard would accept. Dr. Stannard, our family doctor, designed an exacting program for my enlistment. Stop eating so much and get to work and the joining will proceed. The Marines were different. You joined and then you stopped eating so much and went to work. Somehow I accomplished the task at hand and at some point between December and March I was declared fit for duty. March 31, 1969 was day one of my four years of active duty.

Barry Trutor is a writer from Burlington, Vermont. He is working on a memoir about his experiences during the Vietnam War.