every veteran’s day, i remember that I am a veteran

”What should we do?” asked some soldiers. John replied, “Don’t extort money or make false accusations. And be content with your pay.” (Luke 3:14)

I was drafted into the US Army. I didn’t go necessarily willingly, yet I went.

In 1969, any young man who was not in college or employed in some sensitive occupation, something that was government related, was drafted. It wasn’t personal, it was just a fact of life.

A lot of times, guys would join another service to get out of their army service, but that just made them serve four years instead of two. I didn’t want to go any longer than I had to so I was drafted.

After I had gotten the dreaded draft notice, I began the process of giving everything away. My father suggested that, on the off chance that I lived through my service, that I should keep a couple of things. So I kept my car. I did, however, spend all the rest of my money on my girlfriend, who I hoped would become my wife. (She did.)

But I was afraid. I had already known one young man to die in Vietnam. I didn’t want to. But, at the same time, I didn’t want to run away from my duty.

And it was the duty of every young man to serve in the army, or at least one of the armed services.

Those who didn’t, those who were not drafted for one reason or another, always have a hundred reasons why they didn’t go and feel eternally obligated to explain. Guys who went, went. And that was that.

It was a shared experience. You can always tell a former soldier by the way he walks. He takes shorter strides. We all found out that it was a fat lot easier to walk with shorter strides than longer when we marched places.

A former soldier also had his gig line straight. The gig line is the line that your shirt placket, your belt buckle and your fly make on your clothing. A soldier had to keep it straight, and even years afterwards, you do so. On a guy who was not a soldier, it is all crooked.

I suppose that the gig line thing was lost on modern soldiers with their untucked shirts and all. But for my generation, it was real.

The thing was, I went. I didn’t want to, I would have chosen not to, but I did. And if I had it to do again, I would go again. As I said, it was a shared experience that I would have hated to have missed out on.

I do not feel particularly special to have been a soldier. I look at the pictures of me during that time and almost have trouble remembering it. It was, after all, forty years ago. And I did not go into combat, so there are no memories of that.

But sometimes, I can remember.

I was so afraid when I went in. It was totally out of my area of knowledge. People were screaming at me and making me do things I didn’t want to do.

But, on the other hand, I was in phenomenal shape. 6’3” tall, 185 pounds, straight and tall – I looked like a Louis L’Amour character. I could do 100 pushups and God knows how many situps. My stomach was hard as a rock, my shoulders were broad (when I came home, my sport coat was too small through the shoulders). I could run forever. I was healthy and in shape for the first and last time of my life.

I would give a lot if I could be somewhere near that again. Handsome and straight and true – a United States Army soldier: PFC John Cliver.

I would not trade it for a million dollars and I mean that phrase. It was worth doing. And I wish my son could have gone through it.

Every Veteran’s Day, I remember that I am a veteran. I served. I went unwillingly, yes, I was drafted and would have chosen not to go if given the choice. But I was not given the choice, and I went and I am glad.