SUMMER 1963
When I enrolled at Oregon State College in the fall of 1957, I was told, or led to believe, that it was required that I sign up for ROTC. I was not one to stand up to authority. So I dutifully enrolled and joined the others playing soldier every Thursday afternoon. I continued to take ROTC through my Junior year. Over the summer between my junior and senior years, I was required to go to ROTC Summer Camp at Fort Lewis, Washington, near Tacoma. At the same time, I was heading north to boot camp, two of my closest friends, Jim Gardner and John Gould, were riding their motorcycles south to California. They were going to ride until they found a place where they wanted to spend the Summer.
I took a Greyhound bus to Fort Lewis. There, I was assigned a bunk in a barracks. There were about 50 of us in each of the barracks buildings. It was a long hall with bunk beds on both sides and doors at either end. There were several such barracks filled with ROTC cadets.
Once settled, we went to the mess hall for dinner. The following morning, we were called out of our bunks early. Our sergeant lined us up in the road in front of the barracks for stretches and light exercises before breakfast. He announced that the orders of the day included a ”medical recheck” to make sure we would survive the strenuous training that was planned for the summer.
We were taken by bus to the medical building for what was intended to be a cursory medical exam. We were told to strip down to our shorts and follow the line painted on the floor to various health check stations. One was for a hernia check. For this, we were split into two groups. The Line to the left was for those with last names starting with A through L. The rest went to the line on the right. I was to go left as my name is Lundy. I could see that the left line was very long the other line had only a couple of men in it. I thought if I were to take the short line, I would get out of here sooner. Anyway, how could it matter which line I take? But not being one to challenge authority, I dutifully stood in the long line. I was not one to buck the system. When I finally reached the testing station, I found it to be manned by a single doctor. A young man, not much older than myself. He told me to drop my shorts, turn my head, and cough. Then he did it again. He then told me to squeeze as if taking a bowel movement. Again, he checked the same two places. Each time, he held his finger against the place where blood vessels and nerves pass through my abdominal wall. When he was done, he looked up at me, with an inappropriately victorious look, and asked, “Do you know you have double inguinal hernias? “No,” I said. I hardly knew what that was. He said, “Come with me”. I followed him down a hall and through a door into a space that looked like a break room. There was a counter with a coffee pot and condiments on it. Seated at a table in front of the counter were four military officers. As we entered the room, one of these men said, “Oh, John, not another one!” The young doctor “Yes, Cadet Lundy has double inguinal hernias.” I then had to pull down my shorts to be tested by one of the medical officers before I was sent back to join the rest of the cadets. Nothing more was said. I joined the other cadets, and we were bused back to the barracks.
The next morning, when we lined up for muster, the sergeant called out three names, mine was among them. “The three of you are to report back to the medical building for medical recheck. A van will pick you up here in 5 minutes.” The van had picked up others before stopping for the three of us. There were about a dozen of us in that van. We returned to the medical facility. We were taken to a corridor which had doors on one side and windows on the other. There was a long bench under the windows. We were told to sit and wait until we were called. One by one, each cadet’s name was called to go in for his consultation. As each cadet left, they showed a powerful array of emotions. Some were elated a couple were crying. I asked one what happened. The boy sobbed, “I can’t stay at camp. They say I have a heart condition. We are a military family. My father will be ashamed of me.” The names were called in alphabetical order, but when they came to names beginning with L, they skipped me. After a couple of hours, I was the only one left on the bench. When, at last, I was called I entered an office with the same four men that I had seen the day before. I was told, “We have held you to the last because your hernias are minor. We feel that it would be safe for you to go through the summer camp training. You may choose to stay in summer camp. However, you will have to have them repaired before you can go into active duty when you graduate from college next Spring. Do you have any questions?” There was a pause. I had been raised to do what was expected and to respect authority. So it was out of character when I replied, “Yes, sir. Can I be drafted with this condition?” It was not a question they, nor I, had anticipated. It just came out of my mouth as if someone else were asking it. There was another silent pause. Then the most senior of the officers said, “No, you can’t be drafted with a hernia. Will you stay, or do you feel you should not risk it? “May I think about it and tell my sergeant in the morning?” I asked. They agreed. I left to join other cadets for the van ride back to the barracks. On the ride back, I noticed a phone booth. It was located in a grove of scrawny pine trees a couple of hundred yards from my barracks. After dinner, while the other cadets were busy preparing for bed, I slipped out the back door of the barracks, into the cool, fresh air of the evening, and walked to the phone booth. I called my dad in Eugene. As soon as he answered, it was apparent, by the many voices and clinking glasses, that he was having a party. I told him of my situation. “Should I stay or leave”? I asked. He said, “I don’t know what to tell you. Here, talk to Bill, he was in the Navy.” It was fortunate for me that Bill was at the party. He was like a second father to me. As a boy, I had accompanied my dad, Bill, and others on hunting and white water river trips. Bill had served as a gunnery officer on a destroyer battling the Japanese. He came on the line, “What’s going on Tod?” His voice was clear. I explained my dilemma. He didn’t hesitate. He said, “Get out. The police action in Vietnam is looking like it is going to turn bad. You’d better get out.”
The next morning, before we were called to muster, I found the sergeant in his small office. I told him that I had decided to leave. His reaction was blunt. “What are you talking about? Get out there and line up with the others”, he ordered. “But...” I sputtered, wanting to explain about the hernias. “GET OUT!” he shouted, pointing at the door to the parade grounds. I got out.
I joined the other cadets lined up for announcements, exercises, and marching. After breakfast, the Sergeant pulled me aside and said, “You and I are going to talk to the camp command. They are aware of your case.”
We walked the dusty road past the barracks, past the phone booth, and the pitiful pine trees to a one-story wood frame building. We climbed the wooden steps and entered. Inside, down a short hall, we found the conference room. We entered to face five men, in uniform, sitting on one side of a long, narrow table. There were no chairs on our side. These officers did not appear to be in a good mood. One said something like “So you want to leave camp, do you?” They were aware of my situation with minor hernias. They grilled me about why I was not willing to stick it out at camp. They assured me that I could quit should the hernias become a problem. I stood at attention and stuck with my decision to leave. Finally, as my sergeant was ushering me out, one of the officers yelled after me, “You won’t even fight for your country.” I kept on walking.
After collecting my bag, I was unceremoniously dumped at the fort entry to wait for the next Trailways bus to Portland. The bus route was through the back roads, passing through small towns and farm lands of south-central Washington. This rural route was magical. As the bus rumbled along, I had time to consider how the events of the last 24 hours would change the course of my life. I decided that I would not get the hernias repaired until I was over draft age. I was coming to the realization that I would not be drafted and would not be forced to serve in the military; instead, I was returning to civilian life. A quiet life, similar to that of these small towns and the people in them.
As it turned out, Bill had been correct. The “police action” became the Vietnam War. I would have been sent there as a second lieutenant to lead a platoon of infantry. As such, there is little chance that I would have come home alive. By the time the bus pulled into Portland, I had decided to complete the architectural program at the University of Oregon, but first, I would buy a motorcycle and join Jim and John in their California adventure.
In Portland, I found a motorcycle shop out on the east side of town. They were selling a BSA 500 cc for $250. I rode it around the block. It ran acceptably well. I bought it. As I rode it back into town it began to run poorly. It died on the Burnside Bridge. I couldn’t get it started. I coasted it down onto Burnside. Near the bottom of the bridge, I found a trucking company. I pushed the bike to the front of the trucking office. There, I found a driver loading his truck. We talked. I learned that he was taking this truck to Eugene. When I asked if he would haul the motorcycle to Eugene, he said the company would not allow a motorcycle on the truck. I said “thanks anyway”. and turned to walk away. He called after me. “If you give me twenty bucks, I will take it to Eugene. Management won’t need to know.” I handed him a twenty-dollar bill, and he took the bike. I was amazed at how easily it was to take care of this potentially difficult problem.
When in Eugene, I went to get my motorcycle from the trucking company. They informed me that my motorcycle had fallen over in the truck during the trip to Eugene. Gasoline had poured out of the tank, and the entire contents of the truck smelled like gasoline. The truck could have exploded. The driver had been fired. But they did give me my motorcycle.
It ran long enough for me to ride it to a motorcycle repairman’s shop located at the edge of town. I left the bike to have the motor rebuilt. I told the mechanic that I would be back in August. I then drove my twenty-five dollar, 1940 Chey sedan to Carmel Valley where my friends, Jim and John, had decided to spend the Summer.
By the time I reached Carmel Valley, Jim and John had been there 10 days. They had rented an apartment. They had library cards and had joined the local theater group. They both had found jobs at The Carmel Valley Tennis Club. Best of all, they had met two cute girls who also worked there. Two days before I arrived, they had a party with the girls. The next day after the party, the apartment manager told them that the old woman in the apartment next door had complained that the noise kept her from sleeping. The manager reminded them that old people need their sleep. John had assured the manager that they would have no more loud parties. He made this assurance knowing that they had another party with the girls planned the following weekend.
I moved in with my friends and found a job with a local home designer. I was to use the skills I had learned in Junior high shop class to build furniture for his office. He had a well-equipped shop in his garage and a beautiful wife. She would occasionally bring me tea and pastry. Life was good. It looked like we had a wonderful Carmel Valley Summer ahead of us.
In preparation for the party with the girls from the tennis club, we bought a gallon of Familia Cribari Chianti and made a pot of spaghetti. The girls arrived around 6:30. As the evening progressed, the music, conversation, and laughter became louder. Dinner was finished, and so was much of the wine, when Jim announced that he was going for a bike ride. We protested, saying he was too tipsy. He reluctantly gave up his plan. After a while, Jim loudly announced, “I’m going to take a leak.” This was a curious proclamation. His announcement inspired some jibes, such as “Glad you can recognize the need before it is too late.” A few minutes after he had gone into the bathroom, we heard his Kawasaki 500 start. Rushing out into the dark parking lot, I could see the thief riding Jim’s bike out of the lot, with the getaway car following behind. I jumped on the other bike, a Vespa 50, and took out after them. Our line of vehicles followed the curving highway out of town toward Carmel. The Kawasaki and the car were too fast for the Vespa. After falling behind, I gave up the chase and returned to the apartment to find John and the girls laughing about the situation. They pointed to the open bathroom window through which Jim had climbed. Jim was the thief of his own motorcycle. No one could explain the car that followed him. The party continued. Eventually, Jim returned.
It was about an hour later when we heard a voice outside shouting, “You boys come out here.” It was the local sheriff. He told us, “It was bad enough that boys had made so much noise that the old woman next door had to leave. But it was the last straw when you gave her a motorcycle escort out of town. Tomorrow you boys will be evicted, and there will be no place in this valley where you will be able to find a place to stay.”
John and Jim decided that they would head back to Oregon. One of the girls, Sarah, chose to go with them. On their way north, they stopped at the casino in Lake Tahoe. John had read a book on gambling. He was sure that he could make enough money to pay for the trip to Eugene. They pooled their resources and came up with $100. It didn’t take long for them to lose all of it. Totally broke. they returned to their camp. They didn’t even have money for gas. It was then that Sarah confessed that she had held back fifty dollars when they were pooling their money for the casino. With her fifty bucks, they were able to make it home to Eugene.
As for me, I decided to rent a small apartment in Carmel and continue building furniture. Each day I would drive my old Chevy up the Carmel Valley Road to my job. One morning I was pulled over by the California highway patrol. He had noticed my old car on several mornings taking the same route. He also noted that I had Oregon license plates. He informed me that since I worked in California, I was required to register my car with the California DMV and get a California driver’s license. It didn’t matter that I was only there for the summer. Upon parting, he said, “I will be looking for your California plates.”
Later that week I went to the DMV office and passed the written test for a license. When it came time for the driving test, the examiner saw my old car and demanded that I show him that it had all the required equipment, the lights, turn signals, even the horn all worked flawlessly. He then announced “I don’t care that the equipment works, I’m not getting into that junk heap”. He turned and walked away. I left and did nothing further to comply with California DMV regulations.
I returned to Eugene in late August. When I went to pick up my rebuilt motorcycle, the repairman told me he knew nothing about my bike; furthermore, he said that he had never seen me before. I had no recourse as I had not bothered to ask for a receipt when I left it with him.
Classes resumed at the University of Oregon, and I enrolled to pursue a degree in architecture. As I have thought back on that summer of 1963, I realize how lucky I was that the medical recheck at Fort Lewis led me to that particular doctor, probably a draftee himself, who had done his job carefully, and as a result, I did not wind up dying in a Vietnamese Jungle. Instead, I have been able to enjoy a happy life with a good career, a wife, and children. He gave me this long, and lovely life.