DRAFTED

Willie, when he wasn’t hacking from 30 years of smoking, liked to read the name of the soon to be draftee out loud, right before he slammed down his 1A stamp. Then, if he got five 1As in a row, he would leap to his feet, do an enthusiastic victory dance, and cackle like crazy. Working on the next series of five draftees, he read, “Barry James, 1A (slam); Sam Johnson, 1A (slam); Eli Jones, 1--” Willie stopped in mid-slam. He raised the paper a little closer so he could read the fine print. “Completed two years at Ohio State, B average, registered full-time - status: educational deferment.”

Willie’s lower lip protruded in a pout. He verified the school enrollment notification had arrived on time, but he could fix it, as he had so many times in the past, so this turkey wouldn’t get away. Furtively glancing around, he pulled a black pen out of his briefcase, and carefully filled in the three, until to the untrained eye it looked exactly like an eight.

The other draft board members stared in his direction, when Willie jumped up and shouted with even more satisfaction than usual, “Eureka - I’ve got him! This letter arrived two days late.” He punctuated his announcement by spitting a wad of phlegm on the cement floor that he had coughed up in his excitement.

Willie’s hand trembled at the realization of all the power he held over these young lives. Grasping his favorite stamp, with his yellow-stained fingers, he smeared on a little extra ink, and raised the large wooden weapon a tad higher than usual. His hand hesitated at the top of the arc, and then picked up speed as it raced toward the paper. With a mighty slam, the stamp hit its mark, and Willie noted with some pride that he had shook the table all by himself, as he cried out, “Eli J. Jones, 1A!”

*   *   *

Worlinski worked his way down the line, yelling insults at each guy. He reached Steve. “What are you staring at boy? You find me attractive? You want to ask me out?”

“No.” said Steve.

“NO WHAT?” screamed Worlinski.

“NO WAY,” Steve screamed back.

“NO Drill Sergeant,” corrected Worlinski.

“NO Drill Sergeant,” mimicked Steve.

“From now on every time I tell you clowns something, I want you to respond with either, yes, drill sergeant, or no, drill sergeant. Is that clear?”

I raised my hand. “So, which is it, Sarge?”

“Which is what?”

“Yes or no?”

“Yes or no--what?”

“Exactly.”

“Yes or no, drill sergeant,” he repeated.

“That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

“Are you stupid?” Worlinski’s eyes bulged from the pressure.

“I’m not the one having trouble answering the question.”

“What question?”

“What question, drill sergeant - remember what you just told us.”

“I’m the drill sergeant, you idiot. I don’t have to say drill sergeant!”

“Well, that doesn’t seem fair.”

Worlinski grabbed me by the throat and lifted me until my feet no longer touched the ground. He hissed in my ear, “Look shit for brains, I hate a smart ass. If you ever make fun of me again, I will bury you where they can’t find the body.” I returned to earth and Sarge barked, “Everyone pick up your gear. And thanks to Private--”

“Jones,” I volunteered.

“Thanks to Private dickhead, you get to run the half mile to the barracks. Platoon left face. Double-time, march.”

*   *   *

Gracie Sl