Chapter 30: Lottery

WHEN WE ARRIVED at the Draft Board at ten-thirty, over a hundred people had already arrived on the sidewalk in front of the County Courthouse where the Board had its offices. Dad and Uncle Nate were greeting people and thanking them for coming. Dad peeled off and joined Mom and our little entourage. Uncle Nate stayed outside to organize protesters. I saw a sign on one side that said “Stop draft discrimination!” Another, over near where Uncle Nate was—in uniform!—said “Veterans Against the War in Vietnam.” There were over a dozen men in uniform, including my brother-in-law and our town hero, Billy Lamont, and our new Constable, Stoney Stoneburner. Beside him stood a bewildered-looking Lori.

When we were conducted into the hearing room, it already had a number of people in it. Among them, I saw Dr. Ranger, the Columbia College Provost and Jordan Marsh, Beth’s father. I’d done what I was told to do to prepare for the hearing and had a statement all ready to read that described why I should be deferred. I had two other statements prepared, as well. One was my renewed application for classification as a Conscientious Objector. The other was my charge against Clyde Warren for discriminating and attempting to rid the county of young men of racial minorities and his personal enemies.

The chairman of the Board rapped his gavel and read out a purpose of the meeting notice. Then he called me forward. Lowell went with me.

“Please state your name and age,” the chairman said to me.

“Nate Hart, age twenty.”

“And who is with you?”

“I’m Lowell Graves, attorney at law, representing Mr. Hart.”

“Is that really necessary?” the chairman sighed. “Just state what the problem is that has caused so many people to flood our hearing room.”

“I received notice dated October 13, 1969, indicating that my student deferment was being canceled because the institution I am attending is not accredited,” I said.

“I don’t recall that letter,” the chairman said, looking at the other members of the Board. My attorney stepped forward and handed him a copy which he quickly scanned.

“I believe this never came before the board,” I said. “It was originated and sent by the Secretary of the Board, Clyde Warren. There are many such letters that have been sent over his signature that have not come before the Board. I have the provost of Columbia College with me here to respond to the accreditation issue.”

The Board were busy consulting with each other and didn’t even notice Dr. Ranger step forward. He didn’t wait to be acknowledged.

“I am Dr. Joseph Ranger, Provost of Columbia College Chicago. Columbia College Chicago is Certified by the State of Illinois to grant Bachelor’s degrees in the Arts and Fine Arts. Our accreditation by the Higher Learning Commission is pending. We have discussed our status with the State of Illinois Selective Service Board and they have confirmed that students at our school qualify for deferment under the clause ‘College, University, or similar institution.’ We have a letter on file to that effect and copies of the letters confirming Nate’s status as a student in good standing,” the Provost said.

Lowell stepped forward and presented copies of both letters. The chairman shared the letters around and Warren was scowling at the end of the bench.

“I see no reason your II-S classification should not be continued. It doesn’t seem all this representation was necessary at all. Stay in school and stay deferred. This case is closed,” the chairman said.

“No, sir. That is not enough,” I said.

“You came here to get your deferment reinstated. That’s all that’s on our agenda.”

“The reason for this needs to be addressed,” Lowell said. “The most recently added member of this Local Selective Service Board has been routinely sending out letters changing classifications and requiring young men to appear for induction without review by the Board. This has been done specifically to make sure that minorities in the county are drafted first and to pursue personal vendettas. Such blatant racism has no place on the Selective Service Board. We require that Clyde Warren be dismissed from the Board.”

“Who are you to require anything?” Warren demanded. Before Lowell could respond, the chairman broke in again.

“Are you certain you want to pursue this rather minor matter, Nate? I can appreciate that you had a run-in with Mr. Warren when he was constable in Tenbrook, but you have to put aside your grudge against him.”

“Mr. Chairman, 500 protesters outside your window disagree that this is a minor matter. We are turning evidence of Mr. Warren manipulating the draft to the Justice Department for prosecution and are joining a class action lawsuit against the Board, naming each individual on the Board, as well as against the State Board and the National Selective Service System and its director. That this war is immoral, unjust, and illegal is bad enough that thousands of protesters will join together on November 15. But when it is used to advance the ends of a racist it must be considered and prosecuted as a war crime. We will pursue this in court if the Board refuses to take action,” I said.

“I see,” said the chairman. “You really give us no choice then. Decisions regarding the reclassification of Nate Hart will be postponed until the lawsuit and criminal charges are settled. The reclassification indicated in this letter will stand until that time. Effective January 1, 1970, you will be classified I-A and subject to induction into the army.”

“Then I request an immediate reclassification hearing under my previous petition to the Board which was postponed two years ago to be reclassified as a Conscientious Objector, I-O. I object to all military service of any kind,” I said. Lowell had warned me that the good old boys would rather band together behind one of their own, even when it was obvious he was in the wrong, than consider a just solution.

“You can do that upon receipt of your letter of induction,” the chairman said. “This hearing is adjourned.” He stood up and walked out in spite of the shouted protests from all my supporters in the room. Clyde Warren wore a smirk on his face as he followed the chairman.

“We’ll file the appeal to the State Board immediately,” Lowell said. “There’s no reason for you not to receive a deferment. And I’ll argue the case for your change of status as a CO when the hearing is scheduled.”

“I won’t appear before the Board again,” I said. “If they want to pursue me, they’ll need to visit me at my home in Stratford, Ontario where I own property.”

“Nate, keep that information under your hat. You shouldn’t have even told me that. We can pursue every legal avenue to avoid the draft, but evasion is a felony. You’d never be able to return to the US.”

“It’s a price I’m willing to pay.”

The crowd in front of the courthouse was quiet and orderly, though there was a cordon of local and State Police patrolling to keep them back from the steps. When I stepped out, there was a cheer, though I’m not sure they knew what the outcome was in the hearing. They started a rhythmic clapping and I stopped on the steps to wave. Someone yelled “Speech!” and the crowd took up the chant. I raised a hand and the 500 or so people out there silenced.

“People of Hunter County!” I yelled. I had no microphones or amplification, so it was all whatever I could provide for volume. “The Hunter County Selective Service Board has chosen to protect one of their own in the face of overwhelming evidence against him, rather than to pursue justice, fairness, and racial impartiality. The decision on my reclassification has been postponed until the legal issues regarding Board Secretary Clyde Warren have been resolved.”

There were a lot of boos and I scanned the crowd. Many people were holding photos of men in their families who were either serving of had died. Of those, there was an inordinate number of racial minorities. My uncle, wearing more medals on his uniform than the rest of the uniformed men in the crowd put together, stood with the Veterans Against the War in Vietnam. And near the front of the crowd was a person who nearly made me cry to see.

“We are not done. My personal classification is a minor issue in the larger battle we have before us. We must end this war. We must bring home those who have been forced into a kill or be killed situation. We must stop the brainwashing of soldiers to believe they are protecting their loved ones when all they are protecting is the military/industrial complex and political fortunes of Richard Nixon. Next Saturday, November 15, there will be a National Moratorium Against the War in Washington, DC. If you are able, please join me there to add our voices to others who have been harmed by this illegal and immoral war, and by the war criminal Clyde Warren. If you cannot be there, I encourage you to return to this spot and join in the protest here before our local draft board. This insanity must end. Peace now!”

I flashed a peace sign and fished my peace symbol out of my shirt so it was clearly visible. Then I continued down the steps with my girlfriends. The four of us went straight to the front of the protesters and I crushed Christine to me in a hug.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” I said. Her brother and sister and a whole bunch of students and former students from Tenbrook stood behind her. Kat rushed to Julie and Brian to hug them.

“I was never really a very good girlfriend,” Chris said. “But it wasn’t because I didn’t love you. I can’t be a girlfriend anymore, but neither can I fail to support the ones I loved in a just cause. Good luck, Nate. I always wish you well.”

“Thank you, Christine,” I said.

We were jostled apart as the protest began to break up and others vied for my attention. Ronda got some time to hug Christine, but there were a hundred other people who wanted to thank me for organizing this protest and exposing the corruption of the board.

I hadn’t really done any of it except appear before the Board with my prepared speeches. I hadn’t even intended to go to Washington DC the next weekend until I stood on the steps.

My uncle and Mr. Barkley had organized the World War II veterans in the county. I guess Mr. Barkley was a member of the local VFW. Stoney and my brother-in-law John had organized the Vietnam vets. That included an appearance by several guys who had served with Tony. Of course, they really wanted to see and meet Patricia. She and Little Toni were almost overwhelmed as she was thanked for the photos that had kept morale up within Tony’s company.

Dad, Miss Ludwig, and Jim Kowalski had gotten on the phone to the parents of draftees in the county. Tor and Elise Berg jumped in to join the calling tree. Mom called all the ministers of every church in Hunter County and sent out postcards to all the United Methodist preachers in the district. There was a field of clerical collars, ecclesiastical robes, and suits around where she went to join them. I wasn’t sure how the members of my class and the class of ‘69 had been recruited, nor how the kids who were supposed to be in school had gotten out and got to Huntertown.

I owed this community big time. I truly felt like we could win this battle to end the war.

The next Thursday afternoon, Patricia, Toni, and Anna arrived at the apartment. I’d already taken the VW out to get it serviced and filled with gas. The temperature was only in the mid-thirties and I suspected we might have a little rain. Patricia and Anna went straight to work on packing food for our trip. I’d already packed the Nikon and a dozen rolls of film plus all three lenses.

“You should go ahead and prep the back of the van for camping,” Anna said. “Inflate the air mattress and we brought extra blankets and pillows in Patricia’s car. It’s going to be cold. We’ll just have to work around Toni’s little bed over the back.”

“Fortunately, she loves road trips,” Patricia laughed. “Don’t you, sweetheart?”

“Go!” Toni said. It had been one of her first words. I was amazed that she was communicating. Mostly just single words, but she got her message across. When she saw me, she ran across the floor toward me saying, “Dance!”

I finished preparing the bus and when Ronda got home from her classes, we ate dinner, cleaned up the apartment and loaded in the van. Our strategy was to have two people in the front, a driver and a navigator, keeping each other company, and two in the bed in back, supposedly sleeping. We’d rotate on and off driving so we could go straight through. Top speed on the bus was 60 and we’d already proven many times that we simply couldn’t hold it there constantly. It was 700 miles to Washington, DC and between crossing the mountains and getting to points where we just had to park and sleep, we figured we’d be in town Friday night.

We’d already discovered there were no hotel rooms in town. We’d be parked in some parking lot and sleeping in the bus. We’d join the protest on Saturday and be back on the road home Saturday night. Maybe it was all a futile effort. I’d joined the first Moratorium with a number of classmates to march up and down Michigan Avenue on October 15. It didn’t seem like a lot and everyone was wary of police rioting and just beating us to death like they did in front of the Conrad Hilton during the DNC a year ago. Nixon’s response to the October 15 Moratorium, held with tens of thousands of demonstrators in a dozen cities, was to say, “There is nothing you kids can do to change things.” We were out to prove him wrong.

The call that went out had firmly established the Moratorium as a nonviolent protest. Pete Seeger was going to sing on the Mall, as well as several others. Even Senator McCarthy was planning to address the protest from the steps of the Lincoln Memorial.

The last news we heard before we loaded into the bus to start east was that nearly 45,000 people, many of them college professors, ministers, and entertainers, were marching from Arlington Cemetery to the Mall carrying placards with the names of war dead or Vietnamese villages that had been destroyed. There were people standing in front of the White House reading the names of the war dead aloud.

I took the first shift driving. Patricia and Toni were in the seat beside me and we talked and listened to the radio as we headed out of town and hit the toll road across Indiana. The objective was to get Toni ready to fall asleep in the nest we had for her over the engine compartment. When we reached South Bend, we stopped at the Oasis and took a stretch and bathroom break, and filled the tank again. I was tempted to get a cup of coffee, but Anna had me get in back with Ronda and start my sleep shift. Patricia shifted over to drive while Anna read stories to Toni. I was proud of my girlfriends who had all learned to drive the VW’s bizarre stick shift—even the shortest of them.

The next stop was just across the Ohio border and Patricia moved back to lie beside me and get Toni settled in her nest. Ronda took over navigating while Anna drove.

We pulled into a travel plaza west of Cleveland to get gas. Both Anna and Ronda crawled into bed with Patricia and me. We wanted to make sure it was daylight when we split with I-90 and followed I-80 south of Cleveland and into Pennsylvania where we’d change to I-76. We’d covered three hundred miles and it was nearly three in the morning.

We went into the plaza to get a sandwich for breakfast and make sure everyone was refreshed. I had a fresh cup of coffee and slid into the front seat with Ronda to direct her onto the right route. Anna and Patricia sat in the back playing games and reading to Toni.

We got into Washington DC about six that evening and started looking for a place where we could park. We lucked out with parking just a couple of blocks away from the Mall where there was a National Monuments visitors’ lot. We walked over to the Mall, pushing Toni in the stroller. We definitely didn’t want her running loose. We passed a hotdog vendor who was packing up to go home and convinced him to sell us dinner. It wasn’t all that much, but we were too excited to eat anyway.

Park police had already given up on trying to get people to leave the Mall. There were no tents, but people were definitely settled in for the night. I started taking pictures and Anna had a pad of paper and a pen, taking down the frame numbers and locations of each batch of pictures I took. She kept glancing at her watch and noting the time. When I finished a roll, she handed it to Ronda to label while I reloaded. It was getting dark and I loaded a roll of 400 ASA film and changed all my settings to push it to 1600.

We wandered among the little gatherings on the Mall where people were wrapped in blankets and had guitars out, singing protest songs. When I found a group that looked really interesting, I asked if I could take their pictures and Anna collected names and addresses so I could send them prints. I used the telephoto lens from near the Washington Monument to take a picture of the Lincoln Monument with the silhouettes of people against the lights of the monument.

Toni was getting pretty sleepy and we headed back to the bus, which had already been ticketed for being parked after closing. I left the ticket on the windshield. I figured if it had already been ticketed, they wouldn’t ticket it again. I was sure there were too many parking violators in the city tonight to worry about it.

We crawled into the back of the van and after a little while to get Toni settled and asleep, my girlfriends and I pulled all the curtains on the windows and got naked. I don’t often try to make love to all three in a single night, but this was a special time and I was determined to show each of them how much I loved them. It seemed they were just as determined to show each other.

There were thousands of people on the Mall already by the time we joined the march around the perimeter. We walked from the Lincoln Memorial to the Capitol and then back past the White House. And we made a plan. We were never to have fewer than two of us together. Ronda and Patricia were paired up with Toni. Anna and I would stick together since she was recording what I took pictures of. We set up meeting times at the VW in case we got separated. We wouldn’t be panicked about trying to find each other.

By eleven in the morning, there was music playing from the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. When you looked out from the memorial, the thousands of people who wore signs naming the dead were gathered to the left. Many wore skeletal makeup as well. It was spooky. Patricia and Ronda needed to find a place where they could feed and change Toni, so we agreed on the next meeting time, either on the west side of the Washington Monument at five o’clock or at the VW at six o’clock.

None of us anticipated the number of people who came to the Moratorium. Anna and I managed to make it fairly close to the Lincoln Memorial to get pictures of Pete Seeger and of a couple of the speakers. There had to be half a million people on the National Mall. Nixon had to listen to us. One of the speakers said there were another hundred thousand gathered in San Francisco and smaller gatherings all over the country. Nixon had been making noises about escalating the war in Vietnam. There had even been references to possible nuclear strikes. The guy was insane. He had to hear the voice of the people.

It was closer to seven o’clock by the time we made it back to the bus. There was a second ticket on the window, but at least they hadn’t towed it. We were all exhausted and Toni was cranky. She’d never seen so many people, even shopping on the Loop in Chicago. Once we were satisfied that we were done with the protest, we headed out, joining the slow crawl of cars leaving our nation’s capital.

We weren’t concerned with whether we made it back in exactly twenty-four hours this time. If we didn’t get into Chicago until five a.m. Monday morning, Ronda and I would just go to class and sleep there. I really couldn’t afford to miss any more classes. They didn’t exactly take attendance in college, but part of our grade was based on participation. You can’t participate if you aren’t there.