Draft dodgers

Dear editor:

With July Fourth here, many Americans’ thoughts turn to patriotism. In that vein, a letter appeared in The Sentinel-Record from Mike Williams. Mr. Williams took issue with a previous letter from Gary Vogt. Mr. Vogt had labeled President Trump a Vietnam draft dodger. Mr. Williams, using a dictionary definition, distinguished between legal draft avoidance and illegal draft evasion. Then, with an interestingly detailed account of Trump’s draft record, defended the president in his avoidance of military service during the Vietnam War.

Of course, most Americans of a certain age recall the stories of how celebrities and the sons of the rich and powerful were able to stay home, while the sons of parents of color and lower socio-economic status were not so fortunate. Examples include a president who was alleged to have gotten his son, who later became president, into an Air National Guard unit when enlistments were closed to others. A vice president who wrangled multiple student and family-related deferments and later, while safely serving as the hawkish VP, told a Washington Post interviewer, “I had other priorities in the ’60s than military service.”

Then there was “Broadway” Joe Namath and his bad knees. Which kept him out of the military and allowed him to prepare to quarterback the New York Jets to a historic Super Bowl victory. Finally, at the extreme, is musician, gun lover and boisterous defender of Donald Trump, Ted Nugent, who bragged about not bathing for a month before his draft physical and showing up wearing pants “crusted with urine and feces.” Although he later disavowed the claim, he did not do the same with his assertion of snorting a line of crystal meth before his physical because “I wanted to see the look on the sergeant’s face.”

As one who did his time in Vietnam, I’m reminded of the Phil Ochs song, “Draft Dodger Rag,” when reading or hearing the now more than half a century old, yet continuing, disagreements about “draft dodgers.” I think Ochs summed it up best. So with men such as those mentioned above firmly in mind, I offer the following print version of Och’s satirical ode to his draft board:

“I’m only 18, got a ruptured spleen and I always carry a purse. I got eyes like a bat, my feet are flat and my asthma’s gettin’ worse. Think of my career, my sweetheart dear and my poor old invalid aunt. I ain’t no fool, I’m goin’ to school and workin’ in a defense plant. I got a dislocated disc and a ruptured back. I’m allergic to flowers and bugs. And when the bomb shell hits I get epileptic fits and I’m addicted to a thousand drugs. I got weakness woes, can’t touch my toes, can hardly reach my knees. And if the enemy came close to me, I’d probably start to sneeze. … But if you ever get a war without blood and gore, I’ll be the first to go.”

Steve Rittenmeyer Hot Springs Village