I, actually, finally flipped my lid about this.

We were driving in this van, talking about the American Civil War and Army Joe was wondering why in hell people would line up and walk across an open field and uphill, through massive cannon barrage and rifle fire, to attack a fortified position.

Like Pickett's Charge at Gettyburg.

Then it came out that he was a Vietnam Vet. Cool. That's ok with me.

I told him about my Lucky Number in the First Draft Lottery -- 235, as I recall, and they stopped the draft that year at number 233.

A unique grin crossed his face with he heard this information the same grin I've seen on six or seven faces before.

I told him how when I told my Dad this inform...

I, actually, finally flipped my lid about this.

We were driving in this van, talking about the American Civil War and Army Joe was wondering why in hell people would line up and walk across an open field and uphill, through massive cannon barrage and rifle fire, to attack a fortified position.

Like Pickett's Charge at Gettyburg.

Then it came out that he was a Vietnam Vet. Cool. That's ok with me.

I told him about my Lucky Number in the First Draft Lottery -- 235, as I recall, and they stopped the draft that year at number 233.

A unique grin crossed his face with he heard this information the same grin I've seen on six or seven faces before.

I told him how when I told my Dad this information my Dad, a WWII vet (who built airstrips just behind the front lines of Marines who were 'island hopping,' their way to Tokyo )

With a total lack of hesitation and much to my surprise my Dad practically yelled: "Don't Volunteer!"

As expected, this led my new Vietnam Vet friend break out in laughter. "That's right," he said. "I learned that pretty quickly."

My Dad, BTW, would have reacted differently if I didn't have the Lucky Number and had been picked for the draft. He would have taken out his police handicuffs, handcuffed me and dragged me down to the first train (or plane) to Vietnam -- if I didn't go willingly.

So I went on, blagh blagh, felt do something blagh blagh Peace Corp blagh blagh blagh.

Then Joe said when he came back home, went to Denny's with his folks. THEY WOULDN'T SERVE HIM!

THEY CALLED HIM A BABY KILLER!

Damn. And Bill Bob had told me a similar story (being spit on) and Tough Tom and Sam Jones.

It had been actually hard to believe. (Protest the war, okay, Dad said. But don't put down the soldier).

I finally believed it.

Pissed me off. "Fuck them!" I said. Fuck them.

And I flipped my middle finger into the air.

This unexpected shout startled Army Joe and my raised middle finger partially blocked his view....but we got back on the road ok.