Like many of the men entering Carleton in the fall of 1971, I feared being drafted out of school and sent to Vietnam. Men were eligible for conscription into the Army during the year in which they turned 20, which was 1973 for me and many others in our class. Our classmates were no longer able to avoid the draft while in college, as Congress had recently eliminated all student deferments.
The draft lottery was instituted in 1968 and was intended to make the military draft process fairer during the Vietnam War by randomly assigning numbers to birth dates to determine the order of induction. The lottery assigned each birth date a number, with lower numbers being called to service first.
The draft lottery for those born in 1953 was held in the Commerce Department Auditorium in Washington, D.C., on February 2, 1972, during Winter Term of freshman year. Red capsules containing slips of paper inscribed with the 365 dates of the year were placed in a large plexiglass drum on one side of the auditorium stage. Another drum, on the other side of the stage, was filled with blue capsules containing the numbers 1 to 365. Each time a red capsule was drawn, a blue one was picked also, and the date and the number were matched. A man’s place in the draft sequence was determined by the number that was matched with his birthdate.
The lottery was broadcast over the radio. The draft numbers were announced as they were drawn and posted on a bulletin board outside Carleton’s radio station, KRLX, on the upper floor of Willis Hall. Clustered together outside KRLX, a buzzing crowd of male freshmen waited anxiously as the birth dates and numbers were paired, voicing despair or relief as they learned their numbers. The crowd shrank as guys learned their numbers and left. The lottery took about two hours.
One of my roommates, Bill Wickesberg, whose birthday was March 7, was the first to receive bad news. I can still hear the relief in his voice after March 6 was posted as #1: “I’m glad my mom held off for another day, or I’d be first.” Some minutes later, however, Bill wailed as March 7 was posted as #2. What was the likelihood that March 6 and 7 would be 1 and 2? He trudged off to be alone.
Born on February 17, I received a low number, 46. I figured that I was cooked, as the Selective Service had drafted through 210 in 1971. Though the draft law was set to expire on June 30, 1973, I would almost surely be drafted. What should I do? Enlist in the Navy? Move to Canada? Wait it out and hope for a miracle? Many others were asking the same questions. The mood in the Burton Hall dining room that evening was somber. Those with high numbers were quietly respectful of those who weren’t so lucky.
On June 28, 1972, in a campaign move to undermine the anti-war movement then raging, President Nixon announced that no new draftees would be sent to Vietnam unless they volunteered to serve there. Nixon also declared that 10,000 more troops would be withdrawn from Vietnam by September 1. Things were looking better, but I still faced “college interruptus.”
In November, I received a notice from my local draft board ordering me to report to the Minneapolis Armory for my induction physical two days after my last final. I was unhappy because that cut winter break short, but I stayed at school the extra two days and put the physical behind me.
I rode to Minneapolis on a chartered bus with others from southern Minnesota having their draft physicals that day. The Armory had a concrete floor with stenciled red footsteps for us to follow to the different testing stations, including blood pressure, foot exams, eye charts, and blood-draws. The footsteps eventually led to a large open room where we were ordered to strip to our underwear and form a large circle. In the middle, three doctors in white coats with clipboards told the group to turn around, “drop trou,” bend down, and spread our cheeks. I looked between my legs at all the other rear ends: “red eye” all around. The white coats walked around the inside of the circle with flashlights, checking for hemorrhoids.
Returning to the center of the circle, the white coats asked, “Has anyone ever had an eye operation?” I was the only one to raise my hand. They called me to the middle, where I explained that at age 4 I had had strabismus surgery, an operation to correct crossed eyes. They shone a small flashlight into my eyes while having me watch a finger moving back and forth in front of me. Looks fine, they said, and sent me back to my place in the circle. They then bellowed, “Has anyone had rheumatic fever?” I was again the only one to raise my hand and was called back to the middle. I explained that I was diagnosed with “questionable rheumatic fever” when I was 5 and had been told that it did not leave me with a heart murmur. One of them put a stethoscope to my chest, listened briefly, declared me healthy, and again ordered me back to my place in the circle. The doctors next asked whether any of us had a third medical condition. Every eye in the room turned toward me, expecting me to raise my hand for anything and everything. This time, I didn’t move.
The red footsteps eventually led us to a large room with tables, chairs, pencils, and a written test. One of the test sections consisted of a series of questions asking which of four sketches was unlike the other three. I remember one set of four machines, three of which had a cord with a plug; the fourth did not. I passed.
My draft card arrived a few weeks later. I was classified 1-A, which meant I was “available for military service.”
Then the miracle. On January 27, 1973, Nixon issued an executive order that he would not draft anyone in 1973. Congress did not renew the draft legislation that expired on June 30, 1973. I was reclassified 1-H (“not currently subject to processing for induction or alternative service”). College continued as planned.