War and Remembrances

Published by Rick on Tagged Uncategorized

Oh boy, here we go again, but with a few differences. What Obama is pushing for in Syria involves air strikes on selected targets, but with no ground troops, and, hope against hope, no civilian casualties. However, just like 10 years ago, when GW Bush insisted that Iraq/Saddam was the true enemy and one of the forces behind 9/11, the vote was put to Congress, who approved military action overwhelmingly. One of the few to vote against the action was Senator Barack Obama of Illinois. Interesting turnaround there, huh.

While there is slightly more credible evidence that Syria’s President Assad committed the atrocities against his people that he is accused of than what Bush was claiming against Saddam, from this corner it still amounts to the US playing the “My daddy can lick your daddy” role, and I’m truly disappointed in Obama that he’s actually going there. Congress still has to approve, and if the resolution passes, it leaves the President with the option to bomb or not to bomb. On our Asian Target checklist, Syria’s box may now get ticked.

I have hated fighting of any kind since the last time I was in a fist fight, which was over 50 years ago, when I realized A) I’m not very good at it, and B) Little is gained from it other than a temporary feeling of superiority for whomever is judged “the winner.” When the Viet Nam war was heating up, I was living in Tucson, Arizona, and at my high school, a poll was taken among 50 students, asking pro or con. 48 of the 50 were in favor (one student saying “Get in there, and fight, fight, fight!”), all the more reason this young pacifist felt out of place and relieved to know we’d be moving to California soon.

Opposition to the war probably reached its peak around the time of the Kent State University killings in May, 1970, after which a lot of us felt, “Well, I could die over here just as easily,” and backed off a bit. I had issues of my own at the time. We had a thing called The Draft, and a new system was instituted, called the Draft Lottery, where all 366 potential birth dates were put on slips of paper in a huge fishbowl, then drawn one by one, and the earlier draws were most likely to be called into service. I was 19, just dropped out of college, reclassified 1-A, and my birthday came up #30, Three-fucking-Oh, meaning I would be among the first ones ordered to report for induction.

How ridiculous was that? I, who had never fired anything more than a BB gun, was being ordered to go thousands of miles away to kill or be killed, all in the supposed name of saving the world from the threat of Communism. I had already been active in the anti-war movement, and maybe the draft board knew that, so my options were few. I’m a terrible liar, so posing as gay wasn’t going to work for me; Canada was too far away, and I didn’t know anyone there; shitting oneself may have worked for resident asshole/hypocrite/lunatic Ted Nugent, but I couldn’t imagine doing that; and applying for conscientious objector status was too long a process to get done in the little time I had before I was to report. If I chose not to report at all, I would be arrested. Lovely.

The induction ceremony, if such a nice term could be applied, was a full day of humiliation. From where I lived in Redlands, it meant catching a bus from nearby San Bernardino at 6:00 AM, riding for 90 minutes to the induction center in Downtown Los Angeles, and spending most of the day naked in a room with about 100 other naked men. All of us would have to then be examined by various military personnel, including bending over so the sergeants could see if we were hiding anything in our buttholes. As I had been enlisted a few months earlier to pick up a friend who’d been through the whole ordeal, I could surmise that return transport wasn’t even provided.

I had one possibility, a long shot, but as we’ll see, well worth the effort. I had really prominent zits, all over my body, and was seeing a dermatologist every few weeks for treatment and prescriptions. I made an appointment, and took a gamble that he would be sympathetic and do something on my behalf. There was worry that since he was a doctor, he had money, and money sometimes dances with right-wing politics. But when I presented my case, he turned out to be totally against the war, the draft, and all things associated. Big sigh of relief! Then the report he wrote out, which described my affliction as “Cystic Acne Conglobata,” made it sound like I was so contagious, I’d infect everyone in my barracks just by breathing on them. It worked, and though I was never reclassified, the army doctor that examined me the day before I was scheduled to ride the Bus of Doom agreed with my dermatologist. I celebrated with a big greasy burger, tons of fries, and a chocolate milk shake. Oh, them pores was popping away!

I continue to this day to be unequivocally against any type of military action, whether the US is involved or not, and have been active in protest marches against many of them. I’m relieved that Britain remembered its faux pas from ten years ago, when Prime Minister Tony Blair, a kiss-ass opportunist phony (on a good day), pushed UK to support Dubya’s personal pissing match against Saddam. This time, Parliament said no, much to PM David Cameron’s chagrin, so the US has had to turn to France for support. “Oh, we’re sorry we called you ‘Cheese-Eating Surrender Monkeys’ ten years ago! Really, you’re our oldest ally!” Sacre bleu!

September 1st, 2013



Leave a Comment

You must be logged in to post a comment.