I Have Been Drafted

I Have Been Drafted by Gary Benton
article copyright

In 1971, I was having some problems deciding on what to do with the remainder of my life. I knew it was only a matter of time before I was drafted into the Viet Nam war. I decided, with no little help from the draft, that I should take the bull by the horns and join the service of my choice. I figured I might as well get my military service over with, because in my family college was not an option. I came from a family of veteran’s and we expected each man to do his patriotic duty and serve.

I took the entrance exams given by each branch of service and passed with flying colors. After some long and serious thought, I selected the Air Force. The following week my draft number was selected and it was 11. By that time however, I was in basic training and more concerned about survival than anything else. Basic started rough, or so a boy off the street thought, and didn’t stop until the bus drove out the gate many weeks later. Being a red neck from the hills didn’t make the situation any easier.

The first morning of basic I woke up at about four, got up, showered, shaved, and got dressed. This was normal getting’ up time back on the farm. I made my bed, or so I thought, and sat on the corner of it wondering what time the show would start; I didn’t have long to wait. At about 4:30 a.m. the Training Instructor (T.I.) showed up. I am sorry to say that on my first day, I made him extremely mad and ruined his day, or so he said.

He marched right smartly up to the foot of my bed (I learned later it is called a rack), put his hands on his hips, leaned forward and screamed with all of his might, “Maggot! What are you doing out of bed this time of the morning? Don’t you realize the United States government wants you well rested? The military says you are to be in bed from 9 p.m. until 4:30 a.m. Now what are you doing up?”

I noticed as he screamed his face was a dark red and he was spitting a lot. He reminded me of Uncle Clyde when he had been hitting the moonshine on Saturday nights. Of course, the T.I. used just a few more verbs, the real action type, and adjectives during the conversation, but I have forgotten them.

Before I could even respond he quickly added, “Now, get your butt back in that rack and don’t get up until I tell you to.”

I crawled back into the bed and started worrying about the sergeant. At the rate he was going, I figured he would have a stroke or heart attack if he didn’t learn to control his temper. I began to wonder if mayhap he had come from a divorced family. But, before I had the opportunity to really figure out his problem it was time to get up again and I know I had not been back in bed for more than twenty minutes. Suddenly the lights came on, a trashcan was kicked down the center aisle of the barracks, and the T.I. was yelling bad things about everyone and their ancestors.

Since I hadn’t been issued a uniform yet, I quickly got up and stood at attention in my bib-overalls. I discovered my choice of clothing was a huge mistake. I would have caught less flack if I had been standing in front of my rack bare butt naked.

The T.I. straight walked up to me, leaned forward, placed his nose almost against mine and said in a low, but firm voice, “On behalf of the Commanding General, I’d like to welcome you, Jethro, to basic military training.”

I was confused, because my name was Gary, not Jethro. It was then I broke rule number two, I spoke without the sergeant’s permission.

“ Excuse me Sar-gant, but my name is Gary Benton, not Jethro.”

Pages: 1 2 3