I’m 19 years old and a sophomore in college. I am an average student…unfocused and disinterested in school. The Vietnam War is raging and I lose my student deferment. Now I have a problem. I visit my parents. My father, a Korean War Veteran, tells me that he saw too many young kids my age dead, mangled… stacked up like cordwood. He does not want me to be one of them. He tells me there is an opening in the Naval Reserve and I need to get in my car and drive to the Treasure Island Naval Recruitment Center and join up…this minute. These openings are rare and precious. I will have two years of active duty preceded by bootcamp and a year of reserve meetings before the “real thing” starts. He says: “Get in your car and leave now.” By the look on his face, I know he isn’t messing around. This is serious.
Like all of my friends, I am totally against this war and the last thing I want to do is support it in any way. But what do I do? Virtually all of my close friends that lose their deferments choose one of these options below:
1. Dodge the draft and move to Canada: I don’t know a soul in Canada. It doesn’t seem like a viable option. Where in Canada would I even move to?
2. Declare myself a conscientious objector: Nothing in my background or the religion I was raised in, qualifies me to go this route. Not a prayer nor a chance in hell will this ploy work.
3. Refuse induction and go to jail: Nope, way too scary.
4. Take lots of drugs, act crazy, and hope this makes me 4F and exempt. Unfortunately, this only works for guys who are really dedicated…and crazy. I only have one friend who chooses this route and he has FUCK YOU tattooed on his saluting hand. He is a little nuts anyway and this works for him. But I am still suffering from my last LSD experience months before and feel unstable mentally… especially now that I may be drafted into the army and be maimed or die in Vietnam. There is no way I can do this and not tip over into that other side…maybe for good.
5. Join the military but desert before active duty. At least one of my friends actually does this. He flees the National Guard and moves to the island of Ibiza off the coast of Spain. Years later, along with thousands of others, Jimmy Carter gives him a pardon. I can’t do this and as you will see I choose not to do any of the above. The reasons are both simple and complicated. It’s another story completely.
I get into my car.
Months later, after bootcamp and of course… that military crew-cut, I‘m back in school and attending monthly reserve meetings. That haircut is not hip and it is certainly not me. All my friends have long hair, wear beads, and have peace sign decals pasted on their car's rear window. None of us wants anything to do with this war. I live that year feeling alienated and alone, dreading what is to come.
The day arrives and I show up at Treasure Island for my duty assignment. A Chief Petty Officer tells me that this ship I’ve been assigned to, CVA-31, is a gun boat on the Mekong River and “Good luck with that buddy!” This freaks me out but he is just being an asshole. It isn’t all that bad. CVA-31 is the USS Bon Homme Richard…an aircraft carrier. I board the ship in San Diego and soon we weigh anchor and cross the Pacific to join the 7th Fleet. Command stations us off the coast of North Vietnam. We all get “hazardous duty pay” so now I’m making a little over $200 a month! Our fighters and bombers take off and do their thing 24/7 rain or shine. We are out at sea 30-45 days at a time. Between these periods we visit various ports in the Philippines and Japan for three or four days of liberty. This goes on for over 9 months. I never see Vietnam in daylight. I only see it occasionally at night under bomb flashes. The Navy will not let big important ships like carriers too close to an enemy. Even then, one day the intercom alarm bell screams: Ding Ding Ding Ding Ding, and an insistent voice loudly proclaims: ”This is NOT A DRILL…This is NOT A DRILL… General Quarters General Quarters all hands man your battle stations!” We all run like hell. My battle station is in the hanger-bay where all the jet fuel is stored for immediate use as well as the bombs and missiles ready to be attached to our planes for this days’ sorties. They are all around me. My job is to close the hatch to below decks…with a sledgehammer. If we are bombed and sinking no one is getting out of there unless I pick up the sledgehammer again. The guys around me are gleefully shouting: “Wow, maybe we’ll see some action!” I’m thinking that the hanger-bay is a death trap and they are out of their minds. Luckily, nothing happens…whew! We don't lose anyone that day. But on other days: we have a chopper crash (12 dead), bomber and fighter pilots are shot down and killed or captured. Our Captain comes on the intercom every night and tells us how many trucks were destroyed on the Ho Chi Minh Trail, weapon dumps taken out, troop concentrations bombed, and buildings disintegrated that day. Occasionally, he speaks of these pilots that never make it back to the deck. One day we are warned to stay off the superstructure as a typhoon is roaring outside. I go up into the island to see how rough it really is and I see waves washing over the flight deck. The flight deck is at least 60 feet above the waterline on these WW2 era carriers. These seas are humongous. Four idiots take a look anyway and are washed overboard. We steam around the area for a few hours looking for them but it’s hopeless. On our next liberty in the Philippines one of our crew is stabbed to death by a prostitute. Dear God.
But thanks to any gods that were listening I easily live through it all and don’t have to kill anyone...directly that is. I do my part in that immoral war though. Do I feel guilty about it...then or now?
No.
After my tour-of-duty I go back to college. I'm almost 22 years old now. The girlfriend I wrote to faithfully during my adventure dumps me soon after. She is a stewardess (flight attendant if you prefer) for United Airlines and falls for one of her passengers…a pharmacist. I find out years later he gifted her a daunting prescription drug habit. Anyway, I grow my hair long, paste that peace sign on the rear window of my VW bus, and decide to major in Sociology. I have a great Sociology professor and one day after class he asks me to attend the big protest demonstration in the streets that afternoon. He knows I am older than the rest of my class, have military experience, and am anti-war. He seems to think that with my “maturity” I can perhaps help keep people from going to extremes and avoid getting hurt or hurt someone themselves. I attend. Thankfully, nothing bad happens. I have to say though, after my time in the Navy I never feel comfortable participating in these demonstrations. On board my ship, our division of 80 men (mostly 18-22 years old kids), live and work together in close quarters. We depend upon each other and we become good friends. None of us wanted to be there. None of us believed in the war. We were all just stuck. I will never blame them for participating in the war, or myself. In fact, I will never blame those acquaintances of mine that had to or wanted to actually be in combat and do the killing. I won’t hold that against them. Shit happens in this life. Big time. And, in case you’re saying to yourself right now after reading this that “Hey Steve, you really went through something there!” I say: "Nah…I’m good…I had it easy and I’ve been through worse since. You probably have too. It's just a story amongst the other stories of my life." This one starting in 1966.
