A Remembrance

It came on a particularly humid Saturday morning in late June, 1968. I had almost finished mowing our front lawn when the mailman handed me my draft induction orders. Just a few sentences on official government stationary telling me where and when to report for my draft physical in two weeks -- assignment orders to follow immediately thereafter. I folded the letter, tucked it into my back pocket and finished mowing the lawn.

The next few hours were spent lying panic-stricken on my bed, bawling like a baby. I longed for my mother's calming voice and embrace but she had died suddenly the previous year.

I made my decision right there -- I was not going to Vietnam. I had not believed in this immoral war since its inception and had actively protested it in college, once lying on the street in front of Defense Secretary MacNamara's oncoming car. Since my dad had become a melancholy alcoholic after his sweetheart died, I could not trust him to raise my sister, Colleen. I'd have to take her to Canada with me.

I decided to tell my father the plan and I prepared myself for his outrage. I handed him the draft orders as he sat down in his well-worn, red leather chair. Colleen sat next to me on the couch, unaware of the fate I had planned for her.

He began to cry as he silently read the letter. My sister has said that it was the second time in his life that she saw him cry -- the other being the occasion of my mother's death. He pounded his fist on the red leather and said, "I did not fight in World War II and see young men die in my arms so my boy could go to fight in a war that is wrong." He stunned me. I never loved him more than at that moment.

My father had been a decorated platoon sergeant and medic on the European battlefields of World War II. It was there that he had felt the most alive and valuable in his life. He had called his war years "the best time of my life and the worst time of my life." He talked very little about his experiences, but on one rare occasion, he gave me his definition of war: "Son, war is smelling death from miles away."

My father, the war hero, was instructing me to go to our family doctor to see if there was any way that I could get a medical deferment. The doctor determined the curvature in my spine deemed me unfit for active duty. I was never inducted. My father was overjoyed. I never told him my plans to escape to Canada with my sister.

Thirty years to the month have passed since my life changed forever and my father helped to save me from certain disaster. He died twenty-one years ago. Dad showed uncommon courage in speaking out against a war his conscience could not allow his son to fight. Here's a loving salute to you, Dad.

More on: Father's Day