Greetings

D. E. Larsen, DVM

I was twenty years old, bouncing between school. It would be wrong to say I was struggling, but looking at my grades, you could draw that conclusion. 

In 1963, everyone graduating from high school with an aptitude for math was directed toward engineering. It had not taken me long to realize I wasn’t going to be an engineer. But if not an engineer, then what?

I had started at Oregon Technical Institute. Then, I transferred to Southwestern Community College, then to Colorado State University to try pre-veterinary medicine, and finally back to Southwestern Community College. You can sort of get the picture of a kid who didn’t know what he wanted to do but was having fun doing it.

In 1965, I was admitted to Oregon State University for the fall quarter. Because I spent too much money attending CSU, I decided to take the spring quarter off and work at the cheese factory so I would have plenty of cash for OSU in the fall. My major was still up in the air at that time; maybe zoology sounded good.

That spring, I started working full-time in the Safeway cheese factory in Myrtle Point. I had worked there part-time while in school and full-time in the summers since I was a junior in high school. It was an excellent job for a student. I made more money than working in a plywood mill, and it was much safer than working in the woods for a logging company. I could pay for all my college expenses with this job.

The thing I failed to consider in my well-thought-out plan was the fact that this was 1965. The military was in the middle of a buildup in troop numbers due to increasing involvement in the Vietnam War.

It was a month after I started working full-time that the letter arrived. When I came through the front door and set my lunch box on the kitchen counter, Mom handed me the letter, looking nervous.

“This came for you today,” Mom said.

I was twenty years old and not used to getting mail addressed to me. A note or two from girls in junior high and high school. Most of which I tended to ignore. But nothing that looked official.

This letter looked official; it was from the Selective Service office in Coos Bay.

I opened the envelope carefully and unfolded the enclosed letter. It was addressed to Mr. David E. Larsen. The writing that followed started simply,

“Greetings,” It said.

The rest of it was a blur in my memory, but basically, it said I had been selected and ordered to attend a physical exam to determine my qualifications for induction into the armed forces.

I set the letter on the table. Mom was still standing there, wringing her hands as she always did when nervous.

“I guess I didn’t plan on this,” I said. “I guess my student deferment doesn’t allow for time off to work.”

“What does it say?” Mom asked. “Can I read it?”

“It says I have to go take a draft physical next week,” I said as I handed Mom the letter.

So the Selective Service folks had my future etched in stone. I had a day off in a couple of days and used that time to travel to Coos Bay and talk with an Army recruiter. That was the best decision of my young adult life.

“Now that you have talked to me before taking your physical exam, you have the option to enlist rather than go through the draft,” the recruiter explained. “That allows me to give you some guarantees. I’m going to give you some handouts from a branch that’s looking for people like you. They want someone a little older than the average high school kid. Having a couple of years of college is a big plus. The Army Security Agency is probably right up your alley. You have to test well, but we will have that information after your physical. But if I can get you in with them, you will be pleased. The only hang-up right now is that they require a four-year enlistment. But, you know, that extra two years might save your life.”

The following Monday, I found myself standing out front of the Coos Bay Post Office with about twenty-five other young guys, waiting for the Greyhound bus that was going to take us to Portland.

The entire draft board came out the front door of the Post Office. The lady in the lead was carrying a stack of folders. She came right up to me and stopped. Then she shoved that stack of folders into my stomach.

“Here are everyone’s records,” she said. “Your in charge!”

“Who the hell elected me to be in charge?” I asked.

“Mr. Larsen, you are the oldest one here,” she said. “And you should know what that means. Your file will be at the top of the pile when we review the results. Now, when you get to Portland, you cross the street to the YMCA. They will have rooms ready for you. Everyone’s meal tickets are in these folders —take your responsibility seriously. We have a box for you to carry the records with, that way you won’t lose anything.”

The guy behind the lady stepped forward with a box and helped me load the records. We were no more than finished when the bus pulled up. We loaded onto the bus. Lucky for me, I got a seat near the front. It was going to be a five- or six-hour bus ride to Portland.

One guy from Powers sat with me. He had a fake ID and took orders, then made a trip to the liquor store during our quick lunch break at Taft (now Lincoln City). By the time we stopped at McMinnville, the bus driver threatened to kick us off the bus if I didn’t quiet everybody down. My first command position, I guess.

When we arrived in Portland, one of the guys was nearly passed out and had to be carried across the street to the YMCA. We laid him on the floor while everyone signed.

“Now, the guy on the floor has to sign in,” the clerk said.

“Can I sign for him?” I asked. 

“No, he has to sign,” the clerk said again.

So several of us lifted him up and helped him sign the paper. Then we carried him upstairs and laid him in the shower. That was another good decision, because it wasn’t long before he was vomiting.

We all had dinner in the cafeteria and a quick breakfast the following morning. Then, a brisk walk down the street, a couple of blocks to the induction center.

I don’t remember much about the day. The physical was a combination of individual exams, followed by a massive gathering of naked bodies around one room, where the doctors went down the line checking for hernias. “Turn your head and cough.”

Then everyone turned toward the wall. 

“Now, bend over and grab your ankles,” the doctor said. “Hold that position until we tell you to stand.”

The doctors stood in the center of the circle, checking everyone’s rear end. Once that was over, we dressed and started testing.

The room where the tests were given was crowded, and the windows opened to the street outside. There was a lot of street noise and exhaust fumes. It was a miserable time for a bunch of country boys.

After the testing was done, everyone loaded back onto the bus for the long ride home. We arrived in Coos Bay in the dark, and I had to work the next day. I had already lost two days of pay with this testing.

***

I passed the physical and I elected to enlist. I joined the Army Security Agency. The Army proved to be a good thing for me. I excelled in the environment, and had plenty of time to grow up.

After basic training at Fort Ord, California, I spent most of a year in training at Fort Devens, Massachusetts. Then I was in South Korea for thirteen months, followed by 18 months in West Germany. Most of my time in West Germany was on TDY pay, so I left the Army with a sizable chunk of change in my pocket.

I got out of the Army three months early to return to school at Oregon State. That first summer, I took a year of Organic Chemistry. I finished my degree with a BS in Zoology in June of 1971. I started Veterinary school at Colorado State University that September.

It was years later when I walked up the hill at Oregon’s Vietnam Memorial. The trail leads through multiple stations with long lists of the names of Oregon’s finest young men that didn’t come home. It was the last station, at the top of the hill, where I read the last plaque through moist eyes. That plaque said, “…Myrtle Point and Sweet Home gave more than their share…!”

I have always felt that that wasn’t the luck of the draw. They were fine young men, and I am sure they would have been the first to step forward.

Photo Credit: Sp4 Clarence Nishihara, Camp Humpherys, South Korea, May 1967.