Chris Eiben shares his thoughts about the draft:

The Selective Service Draft Lottery

 December 1, 1969

Reading classmates’ recollections of the student strike and the subsequent Washington protest made me think of another unforgettable event a few months earlier: the Selective Service Draft Lottery on Monday night, December 1,1969. 

Even before we arrived at Williams in 1967, the Vietnam War hung over us like the Sword of Damocles.  My dread began in earnest the day I registered for the draft the summer before our classes began, an awful awakening experience.  Upon turning 18, we were legally required to register pursuant to The Selective Service Act (1951). The Act also required us to carry our Government issued ‘draft cards’ at all times and be prepared to produce them whenever requested by someone in authority.  I dutifully kept my draft card in my wallet behind a secreted condom, a forlorn reminder my student years at Williams were destined to be romantically disappointing.

For me, getting drafted and going to Vietnam – actually shooting people and getting shot at – was frankly inconceivable… something to be avoided at all costs.  What that meant I hadn’t a clue, anticipating (hoping) for clarity over the next four years while shielded by my cherished ‘student deferment,’ subject of course to my not failing and getting booted out of Williams.  Back in the fall of 1967, four years seemed a very long time to figure it all out, but clearly not long enough as the years passed quickly.  By our Junior Year, the Vietnam War and the military draft loomed large.  Becoming increasingly desperate, I hoped my disclosure to the Selective Service when registering might possibly be disqualifying.  The registration form included an open-ended question, “Do you have any medical or physical conditions that might impair your ability to serve in the military?”  After some reflection, I wrote, “I suffer from frequent and terrifying nightmares,” thinking I could build upon it later if absolutely necessary.  But then… almost magically… another possible way out was officially announced: the Selective Service would stage a lottery to determine who’d be drafted into the military.  In other words, luck would decide who’d go to Vietnam and who’d be spared, not the distrusted local ‘Draft Boards.’

We learned that the lottery drawing – the first since World War II – would be held on December 1, 1969 at the Selective Service National Headquarters in Washington, D.C.  The drawing would determine the order for induction into military service for all men born between January 1, 1944, and December 31, 1950.  This was how it worked: a large container was filled with 366 blue plastic capsules, each containing one of every possible birthdate, which were then individually drawn, opened and its date read.  The order of the birthdates drawn would determine the order of induction for men between ages 18-26, which included everyone in our Williams Class of 1971.

Immediately afterwards, a second lottery would then determine the order of induction of men born on the same date by randomly drawing the 26 letters of the alphabet.  In the order drawn, the letters would be linked to surnames to determine the order of induction.

On the evening of December 1, 1969, dozens of us descended to Perry House’s basement television room, a fetid airless space crammed with moldering sofas and chairs to watch the lottery live.  Though strangely quiet, the tension in the room was unmistakable as we awaited our fate, many of us clutching bottles of ‘ardent spirits’ to ease our anxiety.  My friend and classmate Pete Jensen anxiously sat next to me, his fingernails digging into the arms of his chair.  Then the lottery began and Congressman Alexander Pirnie (R-NY) of the House Armed Service Committee withdrew the first capsule and announced the date… September 14th.  Face ashen, Pete turned to me and disconsolately said, “That’s my birthday.”  I didn’t know what to say to him… what could I say… he was so screwed. 

I spent the next hours in paroxysms of apprehension as birthdates were drawn and declared.  After number 200 I started to relax and was nearly euphoric by the time my birthdate March 24th was finally drawn… number 258… forever after my lucky number.  Meanwhile, Pete Jensen kept sitting there, watching in stunned silence, pondering his awful fate.  After the birthdates, the letters of the alphabet were then drawn one at a time.  The first letter was… “J”… as in “Jensen”… and with that the Sword of Damocles impaled kind and gentle Pete Jensen.  I imagined Pete receiving his draft notice within days… instructing him to report immediately for his pre-induction physical examination, something he’d surely pass.  Pete was a fine athlete and physically fit.

As history would soon reveal, among those eligible for the draft and subject to the December 1, 1969 lottery, only those with numbers 195 and lower were drafted and inducted into the military.  My number 258 was solidly out of harm’s way.

Then came the invasion of Cambodia, the Kent State Shootings, and the Student Strike.  Despite the gravity of the situation, life at Williams was oddly festive… burning draft cards… crafting protest signs… painting red-fists on scavenged bed-sheets… hearing inspiring anti-war speeches at Chapin Hall…  professors and students standing shoulder to shoulder… and lastly the student/professor softball game solidifying goodwill and shared purpose.  I played shortstop. 

I remember nothing of the game except for one extraordinary moment.  Playing for the other team, Pete Jensen hammered a pitch deep to the outfield and imprudently tried to stretch a solid single into a doubtful double.  Covering second base, I watched Pete chugging in my direction and then sliding to beat the tag.  One of his legs snagged, twisted, and then buckled.  Almost instantly, Pete began writhing and screaming in agony.  Looking down, I saw that his kneecap had oddly migrated to the far side of his injured leg.  The pain must have been terrible.

Then it hit me like a lightning bolt.  Bending down close to his shrieking face, I yelled, “Pete… Pete… you won’t be drafted… you’re physically unfit … you’re saved!”  Pete’s transformation astonished me.  For the briefest moment, he stopped screaming and thrashing as if his pain had vanished, looked up at me and calmly said, “You’re right… I won’t be drafted.”  Then he flopped back down… howling and twisting in pain until carted away.

Pete and I lost touch after graduation, but occasionally I’ve wondered what became of him. He surely received a well-deserved medical deferment.  I just hope his leg healed completely, something I hope to learn at our 50th Reunion… whenever that may be.