The Induction Physical

D. E. Larsen, DVM

It was one of those bright spring days in Western Oregon. I left my chemistry class a few minutes early. Southwestern Community College was housed in old military buildings at the North Bend airport in 1965.

If I hurried, I could get to Myrtle Point and punch the time clock at the Safeway cheese factory thirty-seven minutes after two. That way, I would get paid from two-thirty.

Traffic through Coos Bay always seemed to slow me down a bit, but when I hit the edge of town, I pushed on the accelerator of my Corvair and made up some of that lost time. 

Everything was going well, and I was on track to make my time when I approached the two-lane section of the highway. Then I noticed the state cop with his lights flashing coming up behind me. Where was he hidden?

I stopped and pulled to the side of the road, and the state policeman put on his hat and got out of his car. I got out of the car and retrieved my driver’s license from my wallet.

“Do you have oversized tires on this car?” the state cop asked.

“No, everything is standard,” I replied.

“Do you know what the speed limit is on this highway?” the policeman asked.

“Yes, I know it is fifty-five miles per hour,” I said. “And I know I was going a little fast. However, I attend school at SWOCC, and I work at the cheese factory in Myrtle Point. After class, if I leave a couple of minutes early and hurry, I can punch the time clock to get paid from two-thirty. That extra fifteen minutes each day adds up to over an extra hour every week. When I am paying for school, that means a lot.”

I could tell from his expression that he thought I was telling a big story, so I continued.

“You can see my work clothes and lunch bucket in the back seat,” I said, pointing out my neatly folded white pants and T-shirt nestled in the rear seat beside a large gray lunch bucket. “My school books are back there, too.”

The cop looked in the back seat and then sized me up again.

“Okay, you convinced me,” he said. “But an extra hour each week doesn’t mean much if you’re in a wreck. So, you need to slow things down. Maybe leave class a couple of minutes early.”

“You are probably right,” I said. “I knew I was pushing it today.”

“I patrol this section of the highway often,” the state policeman said. “And I have a good memory. I am going to let you off this time. But if there is another time, you will get a ticket.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said as I got back into the car. Looking at my watch, I saw the half-hour was gone, but I could still catch the forty-five-minute mark if I hurried. But I pulled back onto the highway slowly and watched the cop make a U-turn and head back toward Coos Bay. When I rounded the first corner, I pushed on the gas pedal again.

I parked in front of the cheese factory and rushed in to clock in right on the number two fifty-two. Then, I stopped at the office to talk with Art Henry, the manager. 

“Mister Henry, I was wondering if I would be able to work full time this spring if I dropped out of school?” I asked.

“Sure, Dave, we will be busy enough to give you full-time status,” Art said. “But why are you going to drop out of school?”

“It’s only for the spring,” I said. “I just got my acceptance letter for Oregon State for next fall. I want to make sure I have enough money for the full year.’

“Okay, that sounds good,” Art said.

So it was set. I would drop out of school and work full-time for the spring and summer. That would provide enough money for the next two years if I worked the following summer as well.

When the Winter Quarter ended, I dropped out of school. 

My plan was well thought out, except for the draft deferment that went along with college enrollment. The military was in the process of building up their numbers for the Vietnam conflict. A few weeks after I dropped out of school, I got my greetings letter from the draft board.

---

There were about eighteen of us standing in front of the Coos Bay Post Office, waiting for the Greyhound Bus to take us to Portland for our induction physical. We stood there, a bunch of strangers, each lost in their own thoughts.

As the bus rounded the corner, the draft board member came out the post office doors, almost as if it were a timed event. The lead lady, whom I assumed to be the chairman of the board, was carrying a stack of folders. 

She marched right up to me and extended the stack of folders.

“Here, Mr. Larsen,” she said as she thrust the folders into my chest. “These are everyone’s records. All the meal tickets and hotel reservations are in these folders. The YMCA is right across the street from the bus station. You are to eat all your meals at the YMCA. And after your physicals tomorrow, you catch the evening bus back to Coos Bay. You will get back here around ten tomorrow night. You’re  are in charge.”

I took the folders, and a bit overwhelmed, I gasped, “Who elected me to be in charge?”

The lady looked me in the eye, and with a stern voice, she said, “You are the oldest one here, Mr. Larsen. And you know what the means!”

One of the men behind the lady stepped up and helped me get the folders into a large bag. “This will help you keep track of everything,” he said.

With that settled, we boarded a half-full bus bound for Portland. It was nearly a five-hour trip.

I placed the folder bag above my seat, along with my overnight bag. Jim was right behind me and threw his bag into the same compartment. I squeezed into the window seat, and Jim settled into the aisle seat beside me.

We introduced ourselves. It was the first words exchanged in the group. We were all in the back of the bus, and you could begin to hear a little chatter from our ranks.

Jim was from Powers and a year younger than me. I was twenty years and a few months old. 

“They have been drafting everyone,” Jim said. “How did you manage to hold out so long?”

“I was in college,” I said. “I dropped out spring term to work. I guess that wasn’t such a good idea.”

“Yeah, this Vietnam thing is getting big,” Jim said. “I need to figure out how to flunk this physical. The thing I hear, however, is that they are taking everybody.”

“I’m thinking that I will enlist,” I said. “That way, you at least have some control over what happens to you.”

The bus crossed the bridge heading north out of North Bend. I settled in my seat, hoping for a bit of sleep on the trip to Portland. I knew the road well until Tillamook; after that, it would be new to me. 

There was a constant chatter now coming from our group. Jim seemed a little restless and obviously had no intention to sleep.

There was no stopping until we got to Taft. The Greyhound station was in a house just over Schooner Creek as you entered Taft (now Lincoln City). 

“I have a fake i/d,” Jim said. “Let’s take some orders, and I will buy some booze. The liquor store is just up the street.”

Jim didn’t look eighteen, but the clerk at the liquor store was only worried about the date on the card. We distributed the bottles and the change as best we could. Most of these individuals had little experience drinking whiskey directly from the bottle. 

As the bus continued north, the idle chatter gave way to a dull roar. When the bus got to McMinnville for a stop, the driver caught my arm at the door.

“You need to settle those guys down, or I’m going to put you all off this bus,” the driver said. “You will have to figure out how you are going to get the rest of the way to Portland.”

I was learning that this leadership role wasn’t going to be as much fun as I thought. I made my way to the back of the bus when everyone got back on.

“You guys are going to have to quiet things down, or the drive is going to kick us all off the bus,” I said. There were a few moans, but everyone straightened up, and we made it to Portland.
Getting everyone off the bus was another story. One guy was passed out. Two of his buddies carried him off the bus and across the street with his arms around their shoulders and his feet dragging on the ground. We laid him on the floor in front of the check-in desk.

I gathered all the materials from the folders and got everyone registered. 

“Now, I need everyone to sign the register,” the clerk said.

One by one, everyone signed in. The clerk looked at the guy on the floor.

“He has to sign also,” the clerk said.

Once again, his buddies hoisted him up, put a pen in his hand, and made some sort of a signature. That satisfied the clerk. Then we hauled him upstairs to the rooms and laid him down in the shower. It was a good thing because he vomited shortly after hitting the floor this time.

---

Morning came, and I overslept along with several others. But we survived; everyone got their breakfast ticket, and we hurried down the street to the induction center.

The morning was filled with testing. The test seemed easy to me, and I finished all the tests early. It was not a pleasant environment, with street noise and exhaust odors from the busy streets just outside the window.

Then, we all got the experience of a mass military physical exam. Strip naked and stand in a large circle around the room. Teams of doctors would start around the circle. One group listened to your heart and lungs, one after the other, down the line. The next group studied your head, ears, nose, and throat. Then came the hernia checks; turn your head and cough, and again. One group looked at feet and knees. Then, for the last item, everyone turns around, bends over, and spreads their cheeks. That seemed to last forever. 

Then, it was hearing tests and any rechecks for individuals with items identified in the mass gathering.
After that, it was to get a bite to eat and kill some time until the evening bus. 

The ride home was quiet. Almost everyone slept most of the way. I have every little memory of the trip home.

The good thing was, my car was intact and waiting. In those days, there was little concern about vandalism or theft involving cars parked on the street or in lots for a day or two. 

I drove home, rested, and slept well that night. Now, you only had to wait for the results in the mail to find out what your classification would be. 

Mine, like many others, was 1A, ready for service.

Photo Credit: Malcolm Hill on Pexels.