A Road Not Traveled

                                               A Road Not Traveled

               Published in Marietta (GA) Daily Journal, 10/1/17

In August of 1969 my wife, our 6-month old daughter and I, were backing out of our driveway in Meridian, Mississippi.  My wife was teary, though still showing her typical steady resolve.

             I felt numb and a bit fearful, but accepted the fact that our lives were about to change.  A two-week-old letter from the Selective Service Board had determined what this day would be like.  I had a fair knowledge of world events.  I knew that if you reported for your physical and were deemed fit, you most likely landed in the jungles of Vietnam.

            All of my growing up years I heard talk about war and the military life.  Two older brothers had made the military a career and had fought in World War II.  Paul was an avid conversationalist and described the war experience in horrific details.  Pete, a quieter man, was slow to talk about the horrors of war.   

            My stalwart mother gave birth to me in 1944 while these two brothers were in Germany and Belgium.  The only time I ever saw her cry was late one Sunday afternoon while we were getting ready for church.  The radio was on and a bluegrass group was singing “Come One, Come All to the Family Reunion.”

            When my mother walked into the living room and heard the singing, she leaned against the wall and uncharacteristically began to weep.  “Please cut that off,” she pleaded.  “It reminds me too much of Paul and Pete and the war.”  I was 13.  The war had been over only 12 years.

            This scenario and all the memories of my two dear brothers flooded my mind as I backed out of the driveway.  The Selective Service letter had said I should report to Jackson for my physical.  I was doing so and would willingly go to war as my brothers had done.

            My father, an incurable news junkie, had followed the Vietnam War closely.  “Why won’t they go on and win the thing?” he groused when the death of John Kennedy dumped the war into the lap of Lyndon Johnson.  “That’s what Truman did.”

            I knew of the controversy surrounding the war which I most likely was about to enter.  Two things had set my mind on ready, two memories that also bombarded my mind as I backed my car further.  One was the noble example of my brothers.  The other was the maddening transformation that occurred on the campus of the University of Southern Mississippi while I was a student there. 

            My junior year at Southern Miss the campus was astir with patriotism.  Excitedly, students lined up to give blood for our Vietnam troops, hoping to win a contest with Ole Miss and Mississippi State.

            My senior year was different.  Anti-war fever struck.  Sit-ins occurred.  There were no clashes, but Peter, Paul and Mary and the Peace Movement were taking hold.  Ironically 58,200 American troops went to their graves so that college students could remain free to sing and protest against the very troops who were dying for them.

            Campus and war images danced in my head as my car reached the street.  Stopping the car, I took the mail from our mailbox to take it with us.  In the mail was a letter from the Selective Service.  Curious, I opened it instantly.  In typical government jargon, a lengthy single sentence told me not to report for my physical.  At the bottom of the page in blue ink were the words, “Mr. Hines, you should have told us earlier about the birth of your daughter.”

            I had been deferred so far, perhaps partially because I was a teacher in a time of severe teacher shortage.  I had no idea that the birth of a child was cause for deferment. 

            As I pulled back into our driveway, a mixture of anger and guilt fell over me.  Anger at the protesting students at Southern Miss, guilt for not having already enlisted for service as my brothers had done.  The road before me would not be what I expected after all.  

            As the war rolled on, hundreds of Americans died each and every week.  My college roommate was injured. 

            And now, “oppressed” multi-millionaire athlete-entertainers are refusing to honor the flag that those 58,200 soldiers died for.  Those athletes are ingrates.  They are pitiful, whining opposites of my brothers and their younger 58,200 fallen comrades.  They can take a knee all they want.  I’m taking a remote and punching anything other than an NFL ballgame.

Roger Hines

9/27/17