EDITOR’S NOTE: The following is the fifth in a six-part series about the quick collapse of the 1960s movement and culture, lifted from a never-published book, Breadcrusts.”
One of the biggest hallmarks of the history of the 1960s was opposition to the War in Vietnam. Perhaps the widest support the anti-war movement had was the soft and shaky variety from young men who very simply did not want to fight and risk being killed in Vietnam.
In a nutshell, anti-war sentiment was a mile wide and an inch deep.
Lyndon Johnson had made the colossal blunder of allowing college student deferments for high school graduates, thus creating a huge population of nervous young men who had four years to think of creative ways to avoid the draft. When all else failed, many of them marched with the peaceniks out of pure self interest, to save their own asses. Other than the Vietnam war issue, most of these young men had virtually nothing in common with the New Left. Their interest in the movement was superficial and self-centered.
So when the rules of the draft game were changed, a good part of the movement collapsed.
It was easy for many young men to dislike Gen. Lewis Hershey, the ancient director of Selective Service under President Johnson. He was replaced in 1969 by Nixon appointee Curtis Tarr, a younger and more intelligent director who immediately promised that he would make the draft selection process more fair.
It was in late spring 1970 that new draft procedure guidelines were put into place. Student deferments were eliminated and a lottery was established.
So there came a big day in which the lottery numbers were drawn according to birthdays. If a 1 was drawn for a specific date, then all young men between 18 and 26 born on that date would be selected first. When a 2 was drawn, all those born on that date were selected for the second round.
Therefore, a low number meant a certain letter from Selective Service:
“Greetings from the President of the United States… Effete, get moving!”
“Yes, sir.”
“What’s that, boy?”
“Ah, Yaas, sur.”
“SPEAK ENGLISH, TROOP!”
“YAAAAAS SUH!”
— The Firesign Theatre, from “How Can You Be in Two Places at Once, When You’re Not Anywhere at All?”
Conversely, a high number meant you likely were off the hook, you were one of the lucky ones who very likely wouldn’t have to go.
I held my breath and then noted on the big day that my number was 260. In other words, there were 259 complete rounds of selectees to be chosen ahead of me.
Wasserman’s number also was fairly high, though I’m not sure it would have made any difference since he had been reclassified after his visit to the little old lady at the draft board. But his younger brother Bill was stuck with the number 4, and off he went immediately to begin a 20-year career in the military.
So now everything was decided, as far as who was or wasn’t going to risk getting his ass shot off in the rice paddies. Most of those with low numbers, instead of fleeing to Canada, going to prison or serving a conscientious objectorship, grumbled and signed up with Uncle Sam. Most with the high numbers then went back to being students, quit marching against the war and once again became apolitical and apathetic, now that they were relatively safe.
It was another dagger into the heart of the anti-war movement, a well-placed divide and conquer operation. I had to give Nixon and Tarr credit. Though I still considered them treacherous, they certainly weren’t stupid.
In that first draft lottery, I drew lucky number 330. But I was already back from the war, enjoying college life by way of the GI Bill.