Nineteen year old kids are way too stupid to be out in the world, and I was no exception. In fact I was the poster boy for Brain Dead Teenager.
Many of you went through the draft physical experience in those days, and it was not a pleasant thing…to say the least.

Young men today, from GenX to GenZ have no clue how it was to live your life where every day brought the possibility of being kidnapped by your government. And flown to the other side of the world to be shot at by vicious strangers.

These modern youth think “words are violence” and that not giving them thousands of dollars to pay off their student loans is a crime against humanity.

They would FAINT like 19th Century debutantes and have to change their underwear.

When I got my notice to go for my physical, I was living in North Tennessee. I had moved there because my girlfriend’s (and future wife’s) family had transferred there. Ironically, her dad’s assignment was Air Force recruiter for that area. I was still legally a Mississippian at that point so I had to report to Jackson.

When I was kicked out of Mississippi State and the ROTC program, I had lost my student deferment and was back to 1-A. As usual, I hadn’t looked ahead at the consequences of that splendid decision.

Staying at my dad’s house in Columbus, I boarded the bus that Uncle Sam sent for us downtown along with my unlucky compadres. Not a cheerful ride…no singing “99 Bottles of Beer.” It looked like they were taking the Death Row inmates at Parchman Farm for one last field trip.

When we arrived in Jackson, we were taken to a multi story, bland government building full of swarming young bozos like myself being herded and yelled at by Army sergeants. How unpleasant!

In the turmoil and noise of a couple of hundred young men, I noticed that the soldiers were yelling, but calling us by our last name. I knew because they looked my way shouting, “CARACCIO!”

I yelled back “HERE Sergeant!” NOT “Here, SIR!” I lived in a sergeant’s home for 18 years. Sergeants do not like that.

Then another guy in uniform looked over at me: “Hey s ***head!”

Trying to be helpful, I tried to explain that I was CARACCIO and I didn’t know Sid Head, but I would keep an eye out for him.

Man, that guy was really a grouchy dude!

First we had to go to a room and fill out papers. One pile basically asked you stuff like, “Do you have the following: 2 legs, 2 arms, 10 fingers and at least SOME eyesight if using glasses?”

The other pile had questions like: “Do you confess to being a spy for the U.S.S.R.?” [YES] [NO] [MAYBE] Check one.

In that second pile was a sheet of paper that read: “Have you ever been a member OR KNOWN ANYONE WHO WAS A MEMBER of the following organizations…” And there was a list of every right or left wing organization in this country since George Washington’s day.

At the bottom of the page was a warning that if you didn’t truthfully answer…well, you may spend your adulthood in Leavenworth Federal Prison.

During my shockingly brief college stay, I had contact with some girl I knew who was a member of the SDS…Students for a Democratic Society…a left wing radical group, the same that wrecked the Democratic National Convention in 1968.

My “contact” with her amounted to her handing me a couple of pamphlets just as stupid as the ones the GenZ’s hand out today and winking at me. And thrusting her somewhat large chest at me.

I didn’t know what to do, but the thought of Federal prison jumped off the page at me, and I checked the box.

After that, we went in for the 4 ½ minute extensive medical exam, kinda like the ones they do at the White House.

Thinking that my VERY bad eyesight might get me a pass, I told the Army doctor about it. He said, “No biggie. They’ll probably recommend you for helicopter pilot training.”

“Is that safer?” I asked. He replied, “No, but the life expectancy for helicopter pilots is about two weeks after arriving, so there’s not much time to worry about it.” Unfortunately I passed all of it…here comes 1-A.

As we were lining up for the bus back to Columbus, a sergeant with a clipboard pulled me out of line abruptly. “You’re not going anywhere!” (He left out “you Commie punk!”…but barely.)

The U.S. government decided to keep me for three days and interrogate me about what the Russians and I were planning during the invasion. There was a barracks on the second floor.

Most were there for medical observation as in, “We gonna see if that high blood pressure stays high that long. Or if we ship you right from here to boot camp!”

I was getting mighty ticked off, and the next morning a guy in a suit introduced himself as being from Army Intelligence. I answered with, “Isn’t that a contradiction in terms?” Not a good start to the interview. And it got way worse from there.

Every night, there would be “lights out” in the barracks at 9:00 – twenty one hundred.

There was another political prisoner up there with me. He had checked the very right wing “KKK” box for the same kind of reason. I’m not even sure he could spell KKK.

The two of us organized a “no shut off the lights” protest which made them have to come upstairs and turn the light off themselves. Then when they left, we would turn it back on. And so forth. They were glad to see us go on the third day.

When I got home, I was informed that my draft classification was totally suspended while I was being investigated. It ended up like that for a year and a half. By then, the new draft lottery had begun, and I had a high (safe) number. Seemed like all was good.

Except for that car with government plates that sat across from my dad’s house every night. And the suit-wearing guy with binoculars.

Thom Caraccio ([email protected]) is a retired musician and retired motion picture scenic artist living in West Palm Beach, Florida who hails from Columbus. He graduated from S.D. Lee High in 1968 and still considers Columbus his real hometown.

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