War Story #21 The Dark Side of Draft
The Dark Side of Drafting Soldiers
Democrats are talking about registering girls for the military draft.
This reminds me of the Vietnam War and my experience with draftees, race relations, and the dark side.
It was during the height of the ’68 Tet Offensive and the Vietnam War that, in my senior year of college, I witnessed demonstrations, protests, suicides, and students leaving for Canada.
For some, the draft for war was unfair, and worse, like a death sentence. For others, it was an adventure or at least an obligation as a patriot that they would serve.
Some made every effort to join the National Guard, Kennedy’s Peace Corps, the Coast Guard, the Air Force, or wherever they could get a job stateside, a desk job, or any job that would not be a risk in war. Some would marry as teenagers and have kids to avoid the service.
After graduating from High School at 18, I went to the Quincy, MA, Selective Service Office and registered for the draft. Then, off I went to college with a student deferment. Having no money, I had to work full-time while carrying a full 5-course, 15-credit load. If any student got below a C-average in grades, they would be drafted immediately. There was no consideration for taking longer than four years for college.
The pressure was on! Forget about joining fraternities, beer parties or other fun on or off campus. It was not a time for me to have such luxury play.
I decided that getting my bachelor's degree was critical, if not lifesaving, so I could enroll in Officer Candidate School. I did not want to be an infantry private. I thought I could lead men in combat. I wanted to be a Platoon Leader in the infantry, and I would volunteer three times to go to Vietnam AFTER getting my commission as a Lieutenant.
It would also give me a few years to mature and get into both the mental and physical shape needed for war.
Looking back, I realized that our OCS class had 126 men finish the grueling six months of serious training. I went back to my graduation album and counted six who were black African American officers. Our company was divided into five platoons, and no blacks were in my platoon.
My only exposure to black soldiers was during basic and advanced infantry training, but I noticed nothing of consequence. They were just like the rest of us, focused on following orders and doing the requirements for Army training. The same was true at jump school to become paratroopers.
After arriving in Vietnam, I was on my first patrol to “look, learn, and listen” with a platoon crossing rice paddies. After two hours, the world blew up, and I was now the Lieutenant in charge, replacing two who were seriously wounded—including the experienced Lieutenant who was black from whom I was to learn how to operate in enemy territory. Unfortunately, he led us into a known minefield by mistake.
The third platoon consisted of 23 soldiers, including 4 blacks. One of them, a Sergeant, was outstanding. I respected his role as a squad leader. He was smart, took the initiative, showed respect, and took appropriate action as needed. He was killed 3 months later by a booby trap in a hedgerow that hit him in the head with a devastating blow. I was really upset to lose him. I needed his leadership as I was the oldest and short-handed with no experienced Sergeants.
My platoon consisted of nearly all 18-20-year-old soldiers who got 12 weeks or so of army training after high school (whether or not they graduated). Most were draftees.
They were all “colorless” to me. We all had a duty—to survive and kill the enemy before they got a chance to kill us. No one was treated differently. We looked like hell, without clean clothes for weeks. We were on the front line “Chasing Charlie” (the Viet Cong), and we needed to look out for each other. We were all in the same situation, and there was no way out.
I do recall after attacking and capturing a hill and killing several NVA soldiers in their foxholes, the tension was extreme. We rolled their bodies down the side of the hill and prepared to spend the night for a counterattack. Two of my black soldiers were bitching and moaning that this was a “white man’s war” and that they “did not want this kind of shit!”
I thought nothing of it. It was just typical complaining. For me, it was incredibly exciting. The level of fear and the adrenaline rush was overwhelming. I had no one wounded. It was the moment when I knew I could deal with it. I had proved my metal as a man.
After four months, we had finished a particularly rough time in contact with NVA (North Vietnamese Army) soldiers. On one patrol in the jungle, my platoon met an enemy squad coming at us on the same trail. Both point men fired at each other. My guy shot once, the enemy fired off a half dozen rounds. My guy was shot five or six times and laughing and joking when we put him on the Medivac chopper smoking a cigarette. The enemy soldier had been shot once in the face and killed. The rest disappeared in the jungle.
Well, there was a way out after all – getting wounded badly or killed.
We came back to our Battalion’s defensive perimeter at an old Special Forces dirt airstrip near the Laotian border, we got resupplied and readied for our next patrol in the jungles. We also got some replacements flown in – new kids with nice, clean uniforms. One of them was listening to the stories of our recent encounters and got so upset that he shot himself in the shoulder with his M-16 just so that he would be sent back out to the U.S.
He was a white soldier, a kid. Courage is also colorless.
Then the day came again when I would be wounded by a booby trap explosion and serious enough to be airlifted out to Brigade and then Division hospital. I was totally exhausted and dehydrated with a bleeding arm. After some minor surgery, I recuperated for a couple of days and decided to go for a walk outside the hot hospital tent in the late afternoon at sunset.
Walking along a dirt road from the tent, I saw a formation of soldiers in the distance. I decided to walk about a hundred meters to learn what was going on.
It became clear to me that it was about 30 or more black soldiers who were demonstrating against the war.
I was shocked. How could this be? We are in a war zone, and soldiers are protesting. It was just unbelievable to me.
I heard the shouts and banging of pots, and many of them were wearing all kinds of beads and necklaces, crazy hats, and other paraphernalia that was totally “out of uniform” by Army or any standards. The conduct was unimaginable to me.
I was in jungle fatigues with no name or rank. I thought it wise to turn around and walk away. I did not want to be caught up in it at all. But the memory of such disrespect and discipline seared into my brain.
Later, I asked about what the hell was going on. I was told that many blacks, draftees, were expressing their outrage that they were unfairly drafted in a “white man’s war”. I also learned later that it was not true, but such was the accepted rumor.
Also, for the first time, learned that some officers and senior noncoms were “fragged” by other soldiers having grievances. The idea that a soldier could toss a grenade into the tent or foxhole of another soldier, regardless of rank, was most unsettling.
I needed to get back to my platoon. Division headquarters had too many disgruntled REMFS (rear echelon mother fuckers). It was incongruous. Being in a rear location was relatively safe compared to being out in the paddies and jungles.
While I would continue to fight the enemy for months to come, I would also be wary of the enemy on both sides of this controversial, chaotic, and deadly war. In the end, most draftees were true heroes who, at an early age, made the commitment to patriotic service during war, and some sacrificed their lives doing so.
I felt that I was living in a moment of my life that I would remember all my days, and I wanted to make sure I could look back with pride and believe that I did a good job. I was no “Army Lifer”.
No hero, but no coward.
No regrets but peace of mind.
Yes, I would do it again.
So, help me, God.
1LT John Shoemaker, 3rd platoon, Bravo Company and H&HC Commander, 2nd Battalion, 1st Infantry, 196th Infantry Brigade, Americal Division, 1970