Chapter 2: SPUTNIK, THE DRAFT, AND THE PROLES: 1968

E-commerce links for hardcopy of book containing this chapter (DADT 1997).  The hardcopy text is slightly more explicit in a few places.

Narrative summary link for this chapter

See Consolidated Footnotes including new notes since publication

Note: This file is slightly edited for compliance with the 1998 Child OnLine Protection Act (which is now, however, enjoined). For details see adult access (>= age 14).

See Section_01  "S.C."

See Section_02  "Greetings"

See Section_03   "White Resigns"

See Section_04  "Mr. Oread"

See Section_05  "Reception Station Scoops Up College Grads"

See Section_06   "This is Basic Trainin'"

See Section_07   "Prepare to Rush...Rush!"

See Section_08    "Special Training Company"

See Section_09   "A Direct Commission (for a BAD DETAIL MAN)"

See Section_10   "McNamara and Remembrance"

See Section_11   "Safe Place for a Chickenman's Revenge"

See Section_12   "Is the Cold War Really Over?"

     Section_01 

     S.C.

    

       Around 1 A.M. on Friday, February 9, 1968, I peered out of the utility bus window the two-lane blacktop aiming through a southern pine forest.  There was a highway marker like "S.C. 79," and I thought, oh, no, the making-me-into-a-man would start momentarily.  But another sign read, "Columbia 68," and I knew I had another ninety minutes or so to enjoy relative freedom.

     Not that it was easy to get comfortable.  The Army sent us from the Entrance and Examining Station in Richmond down to Fort Jackson on a commercial Trailways bus; but the padded bucket seats had been ripped out and replaced with plastic benches.  You could put your feet up, and your head would brace against a metal armrest.  So there would be no real sleep.

     ---

     Tuesday night, three days before, a college friend from GW had come over, and on my last night of freedom we had played some games of chess.  I think I won the last one with White.  I also played a recording, on the 1962 Voice-of-Music stereo, of Haydn's exuberant 104th Symphony, the last classical music I would experience for four months. 

     Wednesday, I took a Greyhound to Richmond, and got there too late to be sworn in.  So the Army put me up in the decrepit Hotel Jefferson (today fully renovated).  I wandered downtown to see Valley of the Dolls, and had just gone to bed when my first assigned Army “buddy” wandered in. I had thought I would have this last night to myself.  He told me he had just gotten married, and resented getting drafted right after graduating from college.  I remember being horrified¾and embarrassed¾when he took off his shirt and revealed a huge chest scar that he claimed had been left from a disfiguring accident involving sulfuric acid in a chemistry lab. The notion of casualty passed through my brain.  In fact, I had once spilled bromine on an index finger in high school, and the sliver burn had taken six months to heal completely.

     Thursday, we took some pencil tests, and then another quick draft-type physical. Some of the recruits were tawdry indeed.  One had walked in off the street, and just said, "I just wanna join the Army," and had no idea what this was all about.  Some sergeant said, "Sign him up for supply."

    Around three in the afternoon, we were sworn in by a Navy officer in a small classroom.  There were perhaps fifty of us, going into all the services, most actually enlisted.  Fortunately, the Marines were no longer drafting.[1]  There was one guy enlisting for his fourth tour, and his fourth service, the Army this time. After swearing us in, the officer immediately warned us about going AWOL, and then congratulated us for being "in the Service."

     We had a couple of hours free, until the bus left.  The recruiting station gave us meal tickets for the Greyhound "Post House."  I actually felt proud to be in the Army, like I had joined something and become bigger, almost like marrying something. Technically, I had enlisted for two years, and would carry a “Regular Army” (RA) rather than draftee (US) service number. And I had worked my way back from “mental illness” to getting my official greetings from Selective Service, even if I had “volunteered” for the draft, by asking them the “SS” to move my name to the top of the heap.  At supper, I sat down next to another recruit, a seventeen-year-old, who actually answered my small-talk with ++ derogatory statements about sexual activity ++.  And what had he signed up for?  He had no idea.  I finally got the words, "wire maintenance" out of him.  And this was still four years before Ethernet. This kind of slave-guy made convenient cannon fodder.    

     I finally really did doze off, and when I awakened, the sign now read, "Ft. Jackson  1."  The bus moved down the macadam framed by pine trees like a motorbike in a Tron virtual reality game, then turned an abrupt corner, and the whole presence of the Army knocked me down.  There were perhaps two miles of neat parallel rows of stuff ready for deployment: jeeps, light trucks, wooden barracks, coal bins, and a soldier, with complicated gray-green gear all over his back, his slung rifle pointing toward a cloudy heaven.

     The bus driver took maybe fifteen more minutes finding the Reception Station, and gave me another grace moment to relax in fantasy before facing the demands of the world - but the opening rounds of Total Regimentation went quickly indeed.

     ---

     After an hour of Army life, you tend to feel you've been in the Army all your life, like the previous world "on the outside" was really a wet dream (climbing Jacob's Ladder) from which you just awakened.  Actually, the first moments of “reality” were about what I had expected.  A babyfaced teenage corporal yelled orders at us to file into a dingy auditorium, and pick up field jackets.  "You ++no-goods++ from New York stay in line, or it's right off to the brig."  We counted off, and I was assigned a Company Processing Number, C-307.   We filled out some cards and filed by a balding medic who drew blood to check for VD (just the classics in those days), and then we filed into the mess hall and were fed a mushy breakfast of fried eggs and hominy on aluminum trays, served by gleeful EM (enlisted men), glad not to be in Nam.  Who wants to eat greasy, lumpy eggs at 3 A.M.?

     We waited outside for a few minutes¾it wasn't too cold, perhaps around 40 degrees F., but the air reeked with coal and sulfur.  In a few minutes, a Hispanic NCO (non-commissioned officer) wandered by, and asked, "how many of you mans (sic) has been to college?"

     Everyone had advised keeping the mouth shut to overtures like this, but the guy sounded sincere.  I spoke up. After all, in grad school a colleague had predicted, “they’ll put you in charge of something.”

     Perhaps I was duly rewarded for honesty. Ten minutes later, I was "supervising" the punching of pasteboard nametags in a noisy shop behind the clapboard auditorium.  The other soldiers actually did the work ¾ rotating a disk to the next letter and slamming a press ¾ and I carried the tags over to another desk and manually sorted them.  I enjoyed my thirty minutes of management-class prerogatives and privilege, as if this could be lifelong.  It was almost as if the Army were poking fun at its own hierarchy of command and narrow span of control, a mockery that would take hold in the civilian workplace in grand fashion twenty years later.

    

     Section_02

     Greetings

 

     Almost two years later, as I prepared to stop playing soldier and finally become a vigorous, independent grownup at twenty-six, I braved a seedy Newport News, Va. neighborhood a few miles from Ft. Eustis to see the X-rated flick, Greetings, a wonderful and willful satire (both gay and straight) of the counterculture and, especially, the draft. And in the 1996 BBC film Stonewall  we would watch a charismatic “masculine gay” played by Frederick Weller coach his stereotyped drag-queen boyfriend on how to flunk his draft physical, and then see an angry Marine Corps NCO stamp “unfit for military service” on the drag queen’s papers, a few weeks before the riots.

     Military conscription and its “civilian” enforcement agency, the Selective Service System, would provide the fulcrum for most young men’s concern with the Armed Forces. During the 1960’s, compulsory military service provided an electric fence adolescent boys would have to scale to get to enjoy adulthood. Some would be sacrificed like chess pawns ¾ killed or maimed ¾ during their passages. The most gifted or privileged might have a gate opened for them (deferments), or, if recruited, given relatively (or even completely) sheltered non-combatant jobs. Unfit men were “rewarded” by permanent exemption, a practice that amounted to reverse darwinism. And women were not required to risk their lives at all. Only a generation before, they had died often enough merely by bearing children.[2]

     The general public is barely aware that every male is still required to register by mail with the Selective Service System within 30 days of his 18th birthday. The registration requirement ends at age twenty-six. Selective Service information bulletins, available at any post office, emphasize that “registering with Selective Service does not mean that you are joining the military,” but also that “registration provides our country with a means to develop and maintain an accurate list of names and addresses of men who might be called if a return to the draft is authorized.”[3]  Men would be called up by lottery, starting at age twenty. 

     The Selective Service System is still very much alive, if not entirely well, today. Its 1995 Annual Report shows that, while downsized, it survived the worst of the budget cuts for FY 1996, and still employs about 180 civilians, 550 reserve military officers part time, and many “volunteers.”   Selective Service cooperated enthusiastically with my recent Freedom of Information Request, sending me considerable historical information on the various draft status categories even if they suspected I have political aims to put it out of business. The Service, when it sent me my own draft status history, improperly included a sheet showing the handwritten comparable history of a number of other registrants, at least one of whom I remembered from high school.   

     In 1994, the Pentagon did a “bottom-up review” to update the mobilization requirements for Selective Service. The government wants to be able to induct recruits starting thirteen days after a mobilization order, and to accumulate 100,000 recruits within thirty days, should the tactical need for a draft arise. The Pentagon believes the current volunteer force could handle simultaneous conflicts in the Persian Gulf and Korean areas, but waffles a bit when it admits that the volunteer force has never been thoroughly tested under “weapons of mass destruction” such as chemical or tactical nuclear weapons.[4]  The Pentagon has specific concerns about its ability to recruit physicians and nurses, as well as with the general educational level of recruits it can attract. A letter from President Clinton to the Speaker of the House, dated May 18, 1994, reinforces these findings.  Left unstated is the possibility of a large re-emerging communist or nationalist threat from Russia (still possessing undercharged nuclear warheads) should its difficult trend toward democracy and a free market ultimately fail. Without support from the Pentagon (but aided surprisingly by far-right Representative Greg Solomon) President Clinton covertly resisted efforts by moderate House Republicans in 1995 to eliminate the Selective Service system altogether.

     The Selective Service System still vigorously defends the legality of a male-only draft by mentioning the “continued restriction on women performing duties involving direct ground combat.”[5] The Selective Service Law, in 1996, still expresses the old national belief that the survival of our democracy ultimately can require that men, specifically, lay down their lives ahead of women and children.

     ---

     Prior to the Persian Gulf  “Desert Storm,” every American war (since the War Between the States[6]) had seen conscription. During the Civil War, wealthy young men in the North could pay $300 for a poorer person to serve in his place. Draft boards became active during World War I, but the Selective Service System of the “modern era,” with its well-known classification system ranging from 1-A (available to serve) to 4-F (unit for physical or “moral” reasons) was established in 1940, about a year after the Nazi Blitzkrieg into Poland.  In 1942, the Selective Service reduced the minimum draft age from 21 to 18 (at that time, one had to be 21 to vote). Hitler, however, conscripted teenage boys and Mussolini drafted men as old as 60![7]  About 80% of all men of draft age served in the military during World War II; for the Vietnam War that portion would drop to 40%.[8]

     Even during World War II, Selective Service maintained a long list of deferments, including student and “essential” occupations (starting with scientists[9]). Conscientious objector status was recognized with variations allowing the possibility of non-combat duty.  Peace Corps or VISTA (Volunteers in Service to America) service got a young man at best a temporary deferment; service in these times meant burnt offerings of your bod. The draft boards have always been able to decide who was too “valuable” to be risked on the front lines.

     Today, we forget that marriage - “family values” - was for a long time associated with special rights to avoid or postpone being drafted. From 1948 until 1951, married men living with their families were deferred; after 1951 (when Korea had exploded) most childless husbands were again available for induction. In 1956, an Executive Order established that fathers could only be called after men without kids.

     But President Kennedy would make a public show of wanting to excuse married men from the draft, ironically as part of his nationalist liberal agenda. In September 1963, a new Executive Order provided that 1-A (available for immediate induction) single men and delinquents would be called before 1-A married men, called “Kennedy husbands.”[10]  In August, 1965, shortly after the escalation in Vietnam, President Johnson issued an Executive Order making childless men married after August, 1965 inductable in the same order as single men. In 1973, shortly before conscription was stopped, marital status was removed as an item affecting potential draft selection.

     I was oblivious to most of this, becoming much more preoccupied with the double edges of student deferments, and with whether my past history of mental treatment and statements about latent homosexuality could be used to brand me for life if I was ever called up. The clock was indeed ticking on the student deferments and the draft; first, deferments for graduate students outside of the sciences were ended, and then most deferments were replaced by a lottery system that would begin under Nixon in December 1969 and last until the termination of conscription in 1973 after the peace treaty was signed guaranteeing American withdrawal from Vietnam.

     ---

     The other side of “liberal” government’s attempt to prefer “family” men in draft selection would always be its inconsistent but sometimes downright sordid treatment of homosexuals in the military.

     Until shortly before World War II, the military never gave much thought about gays as a nettlesome class of misfitted soldiers; it satisfied itself with punishing homosexual acts. The Navy had developed its notions about “sodomy” from old English seaman’s law; other services had developed their punitive approaches to sodomy from a combination of martial and ecclesiastical law.  In 1919, the Articles of War were amended to make “sodomy” a crime under military law. Assistant Navy Secretary Franklin Roosevelt, however, would approve a purge of gays at a Navy Base in Rhode Island, which went so far as to use sailors to entrap civilians (as well as other seamen).

     As World War II heated up, the mental health industry was selling the military on the notion of homosexuality as a “sickness,” and that homosexuals could be identified and excluded or separated even while still “latent,” before ever being caught in the act.

     Until mid-1941, the Selective Service’s draft boards did the screening for homosexuality and other “psychiatric disorders,” until this responsibility was turned over to the military services themselves, who now ran the induction stations.[11]  At times, Selective Service enjoyed its prerogative to turn over draft records of “mental” rejects to civilian employers.  Ever since, regardless of military anti-gay policies, Selective Service has registered only men and (until 1973) sent them to draft physicals regardless of sexual preference. Were the draft to be reinstated, the same would hold today: gay men would be ordered to report, but women would not.   

     Quickly, the Army and Navy would (somewhat separately) develop complicated regulations and administrative procedures that honored contradictory aims: to punish homosexual acts, to keep in the service straight men who engaged in essentially “prison homosexuality,”[12]  medically evaluate and exclude the sissy “latent homosexuals,” but, as manpower needs intensified, “rehabilitate” and redeploy “reformable” homosexual soldiers after all. With the mental illness paradigm, it was less acceptable (and practical) to imprison gays, and efforts focused on the degree of embarrassment the services could cause with a discharge category, including the notorious “Section 8” discharges for essentially moral turpitude or insanity.  

     At times, the military’s efforts to identify practicing homosexuals became comical (if Gestapo-like and medically wrong-headed), by testing suspect soldiers for their oral “gag” reflex, or ability to achieve erections. In time, however, the military became more concerned with the “personality” issues. A Navy directive in 1944 created for the first time an administrative category of persons with self-declared “homosexual tendencies,” or “latent homosexuals.”[13] The military’s growing preoccupation with homosexual status would help create the climate for my own William and Mary experience, including the Dean’s “understanding” but intolerant attitude. Military correspondence would complain that gays exuded a smugness and superiority complex ¾ artistic, intelligent, cliquish, a special elite rather than a group of town queers ¾ that would undermine unit cohesion.[14]  Induction stations would sometimes question male conscripts about whether they “liked girls.” At the same time, commanders in the field, short of manpower (even as only about 25 percent actually saw combat), often ignored all the regulations about gays. In quieter times, there were sporadic but frightening purges. Marvin Liebman was “hospitalized” and then discharged for when a letter to a gay friend was intercepted.[15] Another soldier was discharged for running a gay newsletter for civilians.

     By 1945, however, the Secretary of War had issued an order reviewing all gay discharges with the idea of deploying men who had not committed any “overt” acts, and the War Department even considered releasing convicted “sodomites” to join units with other military prisoners. When it really needed men, the military was not afraid of stop-loss.  

     After World War II, the emerging Cold War and paranoia of McCarthyism would emphasize driving gays out of civilian government employment and purging other fields (such as entertainment) more than the military. Despite General Eisenhower’s awakening to the presence of lesbians in his field units during the War, he signed as President an Executive Order in 1953, directing  the federal government not to employ those guilty of “sexual perversion.” As a corollary, no person (military or civilian, government employee or private contractor) known to engage in homosexual acts could hold a security clearance.[16]  The circular notion that gays were security risks was fueled in a large part by FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover’s desire to cover up his own homosexuality and relationship with Clyde Tolson.[17]  Circular myth held that effete homosexuals formed underground networks that somehow ruled the world.[18]  In fact, various witch-hunts, especially in the State Department, had, even by 1950,  ferreted out gays by going after those caught in johns or bar raids and offering deals to those who would “name names.” Government astronomer Frank Kameny was called in by his superiors in 1957 and confronted with accusations of his homosexuality by a former boyfriend and then fired. He would live hand-to-mouth for several years, only to become one of the country’s leading gay activists.

     The military services, during the postwar period, would gradually reformulate their regulations. They had just started the uncomfortable process of racial integration, as ordered by a defiant President Truman in 1948,[19] against the advice of commanders who threatened to resign and who complained that white men would not want to bunk with or fight alongside blacks.   There were half-hearted attempts to adopt and maintain a uniform no-homosexuals policy. In 1949 the Department of Defense (DOD) issued a memorandum requiring immediate separation of “known” homosexuals[20]. In 1959, the DOD issued a regulation authorizing (less than honorable) administrative discharges (without court-martials) for “sexual perversion.”  In 1965, a DOD directive allowed servicemembers faced with a less-than-honorable discharge for homosexuality “the chance to present their cases before administrative discharge boards and to be represented by counsel.”[21]  By 1967, there had emerged a Committee to Fight the Exclusion of Homosexuals from the Armed Forces; already young men realized that homosexuality was indeed a dangerous “poison pill” for evading the draft.

     The chain-of-command structure of the Armed Forces, however, gives individual services and commands within them tremendous discretion in interpreting many policy directives. For gays, this tended to encourage the services to rewrite the details of their gay policies to their likings. In 1946, the Army actually experimented with allowing some gays (those not caught in the act) honorable discharges.  In 1949, the Army defined four categories of homosexuals. Class I comprised those who had engaged in overt acts with aggravation, such as force, rape, or involvement of minors. Class II comprised those who had engaged in overt acts with consenting adults, in or out of the military. Class III consisted of those with “homosexual tendencies” like me. Class IV comprised those seen associating with known homosexuals. For Class I, prosecution and prison were required, for Class II, an undesirable discharge was required. For Classes III and IV, general discharges were usually indicated, although a commander was allowed his own discretion in keeping soldiers not believed to have committed acts. Other services maintained regulations requiring separation of those engaging in homosexual acts and even those who stated they were homosexual. The Air Force, however, allowed retention of airmen in cases where a commander believed future homosexual behavior was unlikely.

     The utilitarian approach of the military towards homosexuality and its concerns about the public perception of servicemembers would continue throughout the 1950’s and into the 60’s as public opinion of  the military fractured over the Vietnam War. The Navy would discharge only a third as many men per year during the Korean War as in the year that followed the armistice at Panmunjon.[22]  In 1954, the Navy entrapped and discharged one’s of its most celebrated young physicians, Tom Dooley, when the rumors about his homosexuality became too much; yet Dooley’s humanitarian service in “Indochina” would provide military commanders with a warning preview of the Communist aggression that would eventually lead President Johnson to his crisis over Vietnam.[23] In 1957, the Navy commissioned a study  updating its information on homosexuals in the military. The study report, which became known as the Crittenden Report, found no reason to conclude that homosexual men were inherently unfit for military service or even for security clearances.  The report also contained a rather bizarre section of double-talk which conceded that the military must not progress ahead of the civilian society it served on social issues as sensitive and fundamental as sexuality.[24]

     The looseness of the military’s anti-gay rules and the military’s proclivity to ignore the regulations when it really needed men, would, by the 1970’s, begin to weaken (among more progressive circles) the public credibility of the military’s ban, which the military had always feared it needed to retain public respect. Nixon’s ending of the draft in 1973 and the sudden self-interest of the military in replacing draftees with women (and the military’s quick recognition that women could do the jobs) seemed to contribute to even more softening of the military’s everyday attitude toward gays, and even old-fashioned notions of military machismo. Even so, there were several high-profile cases, such as Navy Ensign Copy Berg[25] and Air Force Sergeant Leonard Matlovich. Berg’s lawyers would actually unearth the Crittenden Report.  In the 1970’s, Judge Giselle would rule, in the Matlovich case, that military policy was illegally ambiguous about when a servicemember must be discharged or could be retained. Matlovich, already well-liked as an instructor in race relations, would eventually win a large settlement and become the subject of a TV movie.

     Throughout the middle Twentieth Century, from World War II through the Vietnam War, the government would capriciously play with its power over the lives of young men. It could draft them to fight into wars ¾ sometimes but not always necessarily fought to protect the freedoms of the rest of us ¾ and then could label and exclude certain young men as morally unfit to too “girlish” to fight and therefore subsequently fair game for exclusion from many areas of civilian life. The Armed Forces’ need for men where there were real wars to fight would, of course, mitigate this temptation to government. Perhaps my comment sounds paranoid, as politicians have always had other hot potatoes to play with besides homosexuality. But, it is still a chilling thought: with a Selective Service in place, the legal right to draft, and a strong political sentiment today that known homosexuals must still be kept out of the military, a future Administration, if sufficiently hostile, could still turn its guns and butter against us “queers.”

     This draft-and-gays conundrum raises a practical, psychological question. Should men (other than those obviously disabled through no fault of their own) be required to prove themselves as “breadwinners” and “protectors” of women and children before they will be respected as individual adults, as well as have their basic political citizenship rights?

     A lot of “old-fashioned” people really believe that all “able-bodied” men do owe such an obligation. But consistent with this belief would be limited but mandatory military service for all men (maybe even women). The Swiss do it. So does Israel, which views the military as a tool of “national socialization”[26] and, until the 1990’s, sometimes allowed homosexual men to live at home rather than in the barracks.       

     Throughout the years following my debacle in college and subsequent “hospitalization,” I would gradually show the world that I was not a parasite. I would be no hero in uniform, but would at least take my turn as a citizen “on call.” Only gradually would I question the moral right of the “state” or of others to demand this of me for their own political purposes.

             

            Section_03

            White Resigns

    

     Filmmaker Ken Burns is right.  The sea-change that led to today's schizophrenic society had first been seen in baseball.

     In late 1957, both the New York Giants and Brooklyn Dodgers packed their bags and moved to California, despite that both teams had been winning and drawing well in their legendary inner-city neighborhoods, at their band-box ballparks, the Polo Grounds and Ebbetts Field.[27]

     The worst days of McCarthyism, and the memories of the horrors of war (both World War II and Korea) were receding, and the standard of living was rising.  Residential air conditioning was becoming affordable.  People began to think about themselves (and only then their own families) more.  They began to move where, within their families, they could focus on their own lives and forget the trouble of the world. This meant a gradual flight from the old cities and urban neighborhoods, to the suburbs, and the sunbelt.

     Part of this, of course, was motivated by race. So some families decided they would “legally” segregate themselves by moving away from their old city neighborhoods, and businesses would inevitably follow.  They would try to provide their children culturally homogeneous and prosperous backgrounds rooted in family, financial stability, safety, and cultural simplicity.

     I continued to follow baseball ¾ the “new” Senators in the 1960’s.  I still enjoyed the mere physics of the game, the spectacle of the sliced or pulled batted balls in fight, caroming off outfield “Green Monsters.”  And the team still gave me a geographic identity, as a part of a particular community. The old team had already moved to Minneapolis, but the new one was even more ineptly managed, unable to field a solid batting order or consistent pitching staff.[28]  On long Sunday road doubleheaders, I would wait until late to tune in, as I didn’t want to “know” they were dropping both ends until it was all over.  Washington, despite being "First in War, First in Peace," was a government artifice; it wasn’t a real city.  It claimed no skyscrapers, and real people and real businesses didn't live there.  Today, you hear conservatives say the same thing.  With so many transient residents, management behaved as if nobody cared. District of Columbia residents could not vote for anyone (today they can elect their city council, mayor, and school officials). Still, Washington was home (even though I lived in Arlington), and my connection to it was a modest concession to tribalism.

     ---

     But just as professional sports began to reflect the increasingly decentralized personal values of Americans by the late 50's, the Cold War began to push the issue of sexual roles into two directions at the same time. Since Sputknik, the government had, by 1968, become absolutely eager to excuse promising young men from military service if they could carry out critical research or production in chemistry, physics, aeronautical or mechanical engineering, medicine, or, just now barely visible as a career field, computers - and if they remained politically loyal. 

     I saw this as an opportunity.  It seemed, nerds suddenly could be valued as they were and would not have to prove themselves as macho men.  Since I had always liked chemistry (there was a copy of the 1928 edition of Smith's College Chemistry in our home), I decided to go into it. Perhaps my interest was aesthetic; I was fascinated by the colors and textures of various metals and compounds. My father wanted me to stay in the sciences, and let my music and piano playing remain "an avocation," for purely pragmatic, and probably patriotic, motives. A field like chemistry would promise a stable career in, say, manufacturing or perhaps pharmaceuticals, or safer yet, the Federal government.  In the days before William and Mary, I saw chemistry as an anchor into “reality,” a bridge between real recognition and the cheaper attention that comes with self-effacement.  

     At the same time, the likelihood of war, and the need for men to be ready for it, seemed to be increasing.  But now, there were going to be obvious exceptions to the ukase to serve. And the tide was turning from excusing men because of their conventionally expected roles as fathers and husbands to protecting the new model of self-motivated students, scientists, and engineers.

     Everybody believed that young men who didn’t date girls but stayed home with their books, slide-rules, or chemistry sets turned out to be better students.  A major in the hard sciences (at least, as compared to liberal arts or something like music) could, even when carried to graduate school, keep a young man’s bod from getting torn apart or scarred up on the “conventional” battlefield.

     The unfairness of the draft would fuel rapidly growing opposition to the war in Vietnam. President Kennedy had already been asked about the possibility of a volunteer Army, and he had retorted that it would become an "all black Army."  Once Vietnam escalated, however, it became apparent that African-Americans (because the often came from disadvantaged backgrounds and did not qualify for student deferments) would (with the rest of the “working class”) still take a disproportionate share of the casualties. Johnson would try to hide this with his Civil Rights initiatives, his call for a “Great Society,” and affirmative action. Students more radical (and probably morally sensitive) than me started to protest. Soon, the head of the Selective Service would be threatening to pull student deferments for those arrested at war protests. Some students saw the higher moral ground and went to Canada.  A few years later, President Nixon would have the gall to say that these students were the “luckiest and most privileged young men alive.” Well, maybe they were.  My father kept warning me that Hoover’s FBI kept files on dissenters to keep them from getting good jobs after we got around to winning the war.  Lyndon Johnson used both the CIA (illegally, since it is not supposed to spy at home) and FBI to ferret out “communist” support for the anti-war movement; Johnson’s underground “plumber” style activity may have eventually become almost as egregious as Nixon’s would later.[29] The large pool of baby-boomer population allowed Johnson the liberty of considerable duplicity in his draft policy, as he never had to get around to ending undergraduate deferments, at least, despite considerable congressional pressure as early as 1966.  There was never any clear correlation, however, between economic or educational level and attitudes toward involvement in Vietnam.[30]

     A new cultural divide was developing.  Just as society was beginning to realize that discrimination on the basis of race was wrong, a new kind of stratification based not just on race, but more on economic class or background and intelligence was forming, and was becoming legitimate in the eyes of government and the ruling "industrial complex."   The Bell Curve[31] would set up a privileged meritocracy. Getting married and becoming a parent would not necessarily protect you, and adopting conventional family commitments was beginning to count for less.  That animal recklessness that many young men exhibited and which had once been necessary to provide for women and children, as on the American frontier or perhaps today in volunteer fire departments, was now becoming a liability.  If poor young men got drafted and went away to war, big government might take care of their dependents with all those new "Great Society" programs. Still, the privilege of inheritance and, to a large extent, race, seemed a predictor of life and death, and expendability. These circumstances, which I knew to be unjust, could remain hidden even in my own mind.

     The sudden recognition that many young women were capable in science and math (going back to Navy Commander Grace Hopper, who had invented several of today’s programming languages) and the  encouragement for them to pursue science careers, provided me with a welcome excuse for not wanting to court them.  In 1957, a major women's magazine had published an article encouraging young women not to go to college, because they would be denying spaces for the men who were supposed to support them. ("Who would you rather have the degree, you or your husband?")  Our high school Science Honor Society had included one woman.  Women, I thought, wouldn’t need to be supported by men much longer. We could do what we wanted, if we could just win one more war. 

     In retrospect, it seems shocking today that “national liberal,” Democrat government should have been allowed to get away with playing political games with the lives of its young men (often black), for ambiguous foreign policies. Lyndon Johnson’s motive for murder was (we learned twenty years later) apparently something as uncomplicated as not wanting to be the first American President to lose a war in the morning box-scores[32]. Today, government plays with lives in more insidious ways. But, given the currency of World War II, Korea, and more recently the Cuban crisis, it becomes more understandable that respect for young men’s lives in a democracy like ours (or, say, Israel today) would have been relative at best.

     ---   

     After I left NIH, I lived at home and went to school full time (except I went part time the year I worked for National Bureau of Standards) until I graduated from GW, with honors, in the spring of 1966.  The four years went without incident; I never talked about "it."  Well, not quite.

     During that period, I redirected by career from chemistry to math.  I had been pretty awkward in the lab at work, getting chewed out once for breaking a viscometer.   At night, I was taking notorious Organic Chemistry, and every Wednesday night there was a three-hour lab.  (Organic is the kind of course where, if you don't keep up with the memorization every day, come the first test, you'll get a "big fat 20 just as sure as the sun rises in the east.") We had to finish all our “preps” in the 16 sessions (with no make-ups), and I fell behind quickly.  One night I broke a beaker, and cut the palm of a hand on it.  A chemistry professor gave me first aid to stop the bleeding, putting his arm around me in an embrace of consolation.

     I was already hopelessly behind on the lab assignments, and decided the next day to drop the course and change my major. A couple of weeks later, and a few days before John Kennedy was assassinated, I was sitting in the canteen in GW's "firehouse" student union on G Street, talking to another student about the incident in the chem lab.  That student had just chided me for dropping Organic; "what can you do with a GW Math Degree."  OK, I was now a GW math major, and would listen to 6 PM lectures on what “matrices are good for.” Chemistry, after all, had (in 1963) still seemed to have so much more substance, in a realm of real “things,”  like space ships and other planets.

      I mentioned the chemistry professor’s partial hug of me. The rather homely  student gesticulated and talked about another professor: "He put his arm around me once and I brushed him off. If he does it again, you think I wouldn’t go down to the police station on K Street and swear out a warrant for his arrest as a homosexual?"

     I jumped in my chair, but I dared say nothing!  How can somebody get arrested just for being something?  Or for an innocent, if careless, gesture that suggests, but doesn’t prove, that he might be doing other things in his "private life." I let it pass, though. Even living at home and attending a school with a very practical administration, I sensed a danger.

     Quickly, I would prove my acquaintance wrong on the value of a degree in mathematics.  My last undergraduate summer, 1965, I got a summer job at the Navy's David Taylor Model Basin, doing "scientific" programming in FORTRAN on the IBM-7090.  The IBM 360, which offered less real memory and disk storage than an average desktop personal computer today, had been developed.  These were the days of plug-boards, coding sheets, keypunch machines and one compile-and-go-a-day turnaround.  It was hard to finish anything in one summer. My co-workers were surprisingly full of radical ideas, I thought, for even civilian employees of the military. One African-American talked over race riots moving out my way into the suburbs. Another man, while making jokes about seeing men kissing on K Street or finding hair salons filled with feminine accoutrements, would rail at Johnson’s escalation and his tirades against Vietnamese women and children. There was one older man, an introvert who lived alone in a basement apartment, who would strike up conversations with me and tell tales about the Ann Arbor, Michigan police department watching, through peepholes in men’s room graffiti-defaced stalls, commit homosexual acts.

     Randy Shilts, in fact, reports that it was not unusual for colleges through the mid 1960’s to conduct purges of practicing homosexuals, and for campus police to call in students and force them to “name names” under the threat of flunking out (and getting called up for their draft physicals).  At one school in Illinois, more than 200 students were under investigation in 1965.[33] Even so, most of the expulsions were for admitting (or being “named” in) actual sex acts, not for admitting, as I had, latent homosexual interests.           

     ---

     During my undergraduate days, I took up one other avocation (besides music) which would quickly become important: chess.  My father had taught me how to play, and I quickly had learned some of the tactical fork and hurdle tricks and crude opening traps.  My father used to talk about the power of "a pawn and a bishop."  The GW chess club met on Friday afternoons in the Library tower on G Street, and in 1964/65 I quickly became competent enough to be a reasonable "club" player and score some victories in United States Chess Federation (USCF) rated tournaments. A chess game is an ultimate individual struggle, to demonstrate one's "superiority" over another.  One has complete command of and responsibility for one's resources. One's opening repertoire and endgame skill is something like a big league manager's pitching staff.  Yet, as in professional football, "upsets" are common; in any given game between two players reasonably matched, anything can happen.

     My own “career” bears that out. I have never had the time or concentration to become a consistent tournament (as opposed to club) player. As with music, I had too many interests to master just one and gain full recognition for obvious accomplishment.  If I am “on,” I, like a knuckleball pitcher with his “stuff,” can be very difficult for anyone to gain advantage over and beat. I have upset masters and lost to C players[34] in the same tournament! I am one of those players for whom, in any contest, the lower-rated player wins almost half the time, and who often scores better with Black. Playing with White is like having home-field advantage in other “sports”; the privilege of moving first gives one an initiative to “defend.”   Losing with White is like starting out in life with the advantages of good upbringing and still failing. Well, not quite - maybe resigning (particularly as White)  is just a lesson in how good it can feel to yield to a better man.  

    Chess theory development seems to parallel other moral issues  and values in life.  One notion in chess theory is “control of the center.” But when is a pawn center strong, constricting the opponent and keeping his minor pieces separated into isolated detachments on the edges of the board, where they can get picked off? And when, instead, is the pawn center just a sign of over-extension and weakness or congestion behind the lines?  Or, take the notion of initiative, which means control of the course of events. But many games are lost when pressing for “initiative”; one burns bridges,  and leaves a critical square permanently weak as one advances past enemy lines. Taking the initiative means commitment and giving up some options, which one’s opponent can then reclaim in a winning, if reactive, counterattack. Sometimes one plays “positionally” and forces the opponent to declare his intentions first with a bad move.  In purely psychological terms, one could believe “Black is better,” or “less is more.” In the 1960's, “closed openings” (particularly Queen Pawn Openings) were becoming popular; the theory was that building up a position slowly, posing problems for the opponent and giving him the opportunity to self-destruct, is more likely to succeed than direct attack. This became a “moral” dilemma for some players, who preferred the direct attacks in open games (as symbolized by 1 P-K4 with White, and the Sicilian and Kings Indian with Black), as a way of keeping control over their situations, or of asserting their “masculinity.” The more patient (feminine?) players would let their opponents beat themselves.

     The endgame provides another mirror for undeleting life. The King, who has to keep his clothes on modestly early in the game, becomes a formidable fighter on his own, like the scrambling quarterback. Positional advantage often resolves itself as better King position (or “the opposition”) in the endgame.

     Chess games sometimes become ego battles, where the winner feels he has “demonstrated his superiority.”  The deterministic quality of the game (when compared to poker, bridge, and backgammon - but not to Go!) makes players see a contest as a test of personal power, or at least competence.  One friend would become so “addicted” as to flunk out at GW, and get drafted in 1967. He would write to me about his fears of a ground attack on his Signal Corps bunker in Vietnam. Another dropped out, but enlisted in the Army and went to language school and then military intelligence.  

     I spent a lot of time on openings in those days, as I tried to define my own psychological identity by mapping it to the paradigm of the chessboard. The world of sports and games provided a sense of stability; by capturing our rooting interest, it models the “moral” battles of the larger world with sacrifices, stolen bases, field goals, punts, and mates. Chess opening theory, and conceptual understandings of “initiative” and space advantage, would soon change rapidly, especially with the use of computers, as would human social life in general. Deploying a chess opening repertoire for the individual club player came to be like managing a baseball team’s pitching staff. I didn’t like to hear proposals to let the visiting team bat last in baseball, or force openings to be drawn out of a hat in chess tournaments. It will be a personal loss for me if computers ever play chess out; now the IBM supercomputer “Deep Blue” can beat World Champion Kasparov, at least with White.

     Chess, after all, is a model of teamwork - and even “unit cohesion.”                   

    

     Section_04

     Mt. Oread

 

     In February 1966, I began working on a Master's in Mathematics at the University of Kansas in Lawrence.  I arrived in the middle of a brutal cold wave, delayed two days by Washington's notorious "Blizzard of ‘66." I would live in a modern high-rise dorm, McCollum Hall, on top of “The Hill,” on the ninth floor in the same room, with its view of the prairies beyond Iowa Street,  for two years.  I wanted to be in a dorm again, and prove I could handle it.  The University would mix graduate students and undergraduates in the dorms, and unlike William and Mary a few years earlier, did not seem to be very interested in monitoring dorm life or behavior with men. Women, however, still observed strict curfews. (The boys were controlled by keeping the girls home, and, according to unfounded rumor, by putting potassium nitrate in the dorm cafeteria food[35].)  At the time, I still had no concept of independent living, with a car or mobility and a private apartment or home.

     Graduate school was a bit of an adjustment.  The courses required a much deeper understanding of the theoretical material, and the ability to apply theorems in new settings, rather than spew the "proofs" (in the spirit of syllogisms of  “statements and reasons” from high school plane geometry) from a textbook or lecture.  A typical blackboard hour examination might comprise four new "theorems" to prove, with solutions not always easily motivated, any more than a chess problem "mate in five" is easily seen.  For recreation, I tried to continue my music with private organ lessons, having been inspired by a young organist I had met at the First Baptist Church. My instructor tried to impress upon me that organ musicianship (at least with baroque music) dealt with levels of volume rather than crescendos.   

      One guy on my floor in the dorm used to brag about "rolling queers" in Kansas City.  He claimed that he would solicit ++ homosexuals for sex hit them over the head with a lead pipe.++  "Just one less queer left in the world."  In the spring of 1967 there was a knock on my dorm door one afternoon, and couple of stereotyped G-men in gray flannel suits walked in, asking me about him as he had applied for a sensitive Federal job. I snitched, perhaps sadistically applying my own “honor code”; or maybe I thought I was really saving lives.  This is the only time in my life that the “fibbies” have consulted me in a background investigation.

     The second semester there, I had a freshman pre-med roommate. Even he picked up on the homosexual theme, embracing me (with his legs) once in jest and making jokes about a janitor who had supposedly been fired for giving a student an earring. But this time the jokes were really “in fun,” and they never created any real tension. I wasn’t going to let another “William and Mary” happen. The largely female dormitory staff used to say about the student help, “The boys are wonderful.”

     The third semester, I finally had another math graduate student (by request), a physical but normally docile fellow who would scream during his take-home tests, “I cannot work problems!” but he always did. I would try to draw him into debates about the unfairness of the sacrifice required by the draft, and he would answer, “War is war, and anything goes.”  Then how did an international tribunal have legal authority to conduct the Nuremberg trials, I wondered. Why should young men’s lives be regarded expendable?       

     I did become close to several people, and eventually roomed for a semester with a slender engineering student, Rick, who would introduce me to objectivism and the ideals of author Ayn Rand.  We formed a little club that met in the cafeteria, or sometimes in the dorm stereo listening room, and extolled the principle that most accomplishments that make the world work for everyone derive from the initiative and efforts of one person. I read The Fountainhead and my roommate and I, as we talked before going to sleep, would enjoy mapping its characters, the “heroes” and the “second-handers” (like Howard Roark and Peter Keating, respectively) to real people we both knew.  Our discussions got as far as the notion of “self-concept” and the desire to break away from depending on the opinion of others. Rick (enthusiastically heterosexual) may have been the first person to articulate to me the notion that a person should set his own goals, regardless of social approval.  Enlightened “selfishness” had become virtue. The idea that one owed service to others or to, most of all, the state (that is, our country) as an underlying citizenship obligation, was viewed as intrinsically evil. With Rick, and several other friends, I did a bit of traveling out west for the first time, with two trips to the west coast and one to Colorado and to Rick’s parents’ western Kansas ranch.

     More concern about the draft drew out of this little “fraternity” (which did include women). We sponsored informal debates about the draft and deferments, with some speakers insisting that the draft was absolutely immoral. Government has no right to force anyone to give up his life or limb, let alone conscript into what amounted to at least temporary servitude. “Enlightened self-interest” would lead men to volunteer to fight together when their homes and families were really threatened. The University never objected to these forums, since they were always orderly; there was never the unrest that occurred on other campuses.

     Sunday mornings, I would walk a mile into downtown Lawrence and try various mainstream churches, and found the Vietnam War quite a concern, much more than the Bible, especially since the war was resurrecting our concerns about “manhood.” The pastor of the First Presbyterian Church, true to a reputation for funny sermons, gave a long improvisation on our preoccupation with “what it means to be a man,” all the way from the Jacob and Esau story in Genesis to modern James Bond movies, where a “real man” is the kind of guy with the personal connections to keep the bad guys from incinerating the whole planet or knocking the earth out of its orbit.    

     ---

     I had been called up for my first draft physical in September 1964, well before major escalations in Vietnam, during the year I was a part-time student and therefore 1-A (which meant, available for immediate induction).  I had once discussed the draft with my individual therapist after leaving N.I.H., and he replied, “I wouldn’t worry about it. You’re being very cooperative with the draft board, and you’re not qualified.”  I didn’t worry too much while working full-time that year; my attitude, after the Cuba crisis and Kennedy assassination, was that if there was any war, they’d throw all their rules out the window anyway. 

     We had been bussed to Richmond, with hundreds of us paraded around in a large bay in front of a red-haired Army "doctor" who threatened us with "state penn."  For some of the men, it must have been humiliating.  Some were overweight, some had obvious handicaps and glaring physical defects (even in the genitalia).  I didn't feel so bad off.

     At that time the Armed Forces questionnaire included, as its last question, a box to check off admitting to "homosexual tendencies."  I did mark it, and wrote a sentence trying to communicate what had happened at William and Mary.  I was pointed to another table, where another “doctor” questioned me only briefly, and I again stated that I had regarded myself as a "latent homosexual."  I actually thought I was being honest. “That’s all I need to know,” the doctor said.  A few weeks later, I received the results, a “4-F” classification, meaning not available for induction under any circumstances. I might as well have been a girl.

     Once Vietnam heated up, however, I knew that something like this on my "record" would foreclose many future jobs.  I would constantly have to explain why I had been excluded from the Army, even as I had recovered from William and Mary well enough to finish college at George Washington, with a 4.0 grade point average. I contacted the draft board, and they agreed to have me re-examined.  In April 1966, I took a second physical, this time in Kansas City.  I actually took a train from Bonner Springs the night before, and spent the night in a YMCA-like "barracks" downtown.

      By 1966, the Armed Forces had dropped any mention of homosexuality on the questionnaire forms.  Unofficially, the policy had become, "don't ask, don't tell."  However, the examination station had a copy of the records from my previous physical.  Once again, there was a very brief interview. “We see you have a history of mental illness,” the doctor said. “I don't know why they called you in.”  But my draft classification was upgraded to “1-Y,” which meant I would be conscripted only in a genuine “national emergency.” As I rode back on the bus, I sat next to an Army PFC (Private First Class) who assured me that Basic really wasn’t too bad, and that he was starting Officer Candidate School (OCS) in thirty days. 

     Finally, in August, 1967, I was examined a third time in Richmond, again by my own request.  There were no “homosexual” questions, and this time the military seemed to have no record of my previous examinations.  I passed easily, and I was classified “2-S” for about a month, and then “1-A” as my matriculation approached.  I never heard very much about young men being turned away for homosexuality. Besides the real fear of post-draft discrimination, many gay men probably felt, as did I, that if they were half-way proud of their sexual feelings, they didn’t want to use them to get out of an obligation. If the war was really wrong, or if the draft was wrong, there were more appropriate things to do - mainly, go to