Washington (AP) – Every draft-age man in the nation has a ticket in
tonight’s new Selective Service lottery, a ticket he received the day he
was born.
For the order in which birthdays are drawn from a big glass jar
will largely determine each man’s chances of being drafted in 1970—or
for some, in a future year.
Every man who reaches at least age 19 but not 26 by Dec. 31, 1969, has
a stake in this drawing.
For some, the waiting will be short, the result conclusive.
As the first capsule is drawn, about 8 p.m., EST and the date written
on a paper inside it is announced, men who share that birthday and are
classified 1A can be virtually certain to receive their draft call soon
after the New Year ushers in 1970.
Men sharing that first-drawn birthday, but who are deferred or exempt,
will know they stand to be drafted if they lose their deferment or
exemption.
One by one the little plastic capsules will be drawn, each containing a
different day of the year—366 in all, including Leap Year’s Feb. 29.
The White House estimates some 200,000 draftable men will join the
armed services voluntarily next year, leaving about 560,000 to take
their chances. Out of that remainder, some 260,000—about 46 percent—must
be drafted under current planning.
If it were only a matter of arithmetic, the first 170 birthdays drawn
would just about provide 1970’s draftees, but there are a lot of
unpredictable factors that blur that dividing line.
If may vary considerably from one local draft board to another,
reaching a higher number here, a lower one there.
Still, for those men with first birthdays drawn—maybe the first 140 or
150 or so—the uncertainty will end the lottery’s first hour.
They won’t be surprised to receive a draft notice next year; they
should be surprised only if they don’t.
But for the men whose birthday are called next—perhaps the next 60 or
80 drawn from the jar—the suspense will only be starting.
They can guess at their chances, but it will be late next year—even
next December for some—before they know for certain whether they will be
drafted.
As the drawing continues through its second and last hour, the suspense
will decrease and then practically vanish, however.
The men whose birthdays are called toward the end of the drawing can
feel reasonably sure the draft will not reach them in 1970 unless some
emergency causes an unexpected jump in draft calls.
Once a man gets through 1970 without being drafted, he will be even
safer in 1971, when the new crop of 19-year olds will be the prime
target and will be sweating out his own lottery.
Tonight’s drawing at Selective Service Headquarters here will be the
first time in 27 years that a lottery is used to determine the order of
calls.
"College Papers Don't Buy Nixon Lottery," Hanover College Triangle,
16 Jan. 1970, p. 5.
Washington (CPS) - - College newspaper editors aren't buying the draft
lottery.
Editorial reactions to the induction-by-birthdate system initiated by
the Nixon administration have ranged from half-hearted acceptance to
anger at the government for making false pomrises, to outright
condemnation of the draft in any form.
Small college papers have been especially vehement in their
denunciations. The Knox College Student saw the lottery merely as a
deceptive packaging of the old draft and another example of the
influence of the "bloated" and "corrupt" military on American life.
"It is frightening . . . to see the sickening contradictions between
the ideals of free men and reality of the Selective Service system," the
Student wrote. "We are told that we must give up for a part of our lives
out God given freedom, our dividuality, our birthright as Americans.
"Why? So that we might protect ourselves from those who would take our
freedom, our individuality, and our birthright." The paper said the
greatest threat to peoples' freedom in the world today is the U.S.
military. Knox College is a coed liberal arts school of about 1,300 in
Illinois.
[disconnected text]
The University of Montana Kaimin wrote: "A modern form of Russian
roulette, the draft lottery, marked thousands of young men for death and
disfigurement when the birthdates were drawn. . . Leaving the matter of
life or death up to chance is hardly the most equitable method of
selecting the men who will serve in the military."
The Kaimin expressed the hope that ROTC will dwindle in size to include
only those with low lottery numbers, and the hope that draft resistance
will increase so as to "shaft the draft."
Good morning world. It's nice to know that you're still here. I realize
now that last night's tornado was not a dream but rather a real and
devastating nightmare. I've just received word from Gary (Gary Green, a
student at Hanover) that another victim was found in the rubble of the
Hanover tragedy.
I didn't sleep in my room last night. I couldn't. There is a tree
reaching five feet into my room through the remains of what used to be a
window. Broken glass decorates the floor, beds, and dressers.
I spent the night in the room of two of my close friends. Bart and
Peanut; and went to the window almost instinctively when I awoke.
Directly in front of me was a pile of rubble with Hanover's
characteristic ancient oak trees uprooted and dismembered. They used to
form beautiful rows that accented our new multi-million dollar library.
The library still stands, but without the expensive copper roof which
was visible in different junk piles across the campus. The campus has
changed, too.
All of that propaganda and promotional jargon about Hanover College
being the most beautiful campus in America, well, I believed it. The
place had started to grow on me and I frequently took evening walks out
to the point (overlooking the Ohio River) where I wondered how it must
have been fate that I wound up in such a beautiful environment, and good
fortune that I would graduate from Hanover, but several things have
changed.
Residence halls, essentially the Theta and Phi Mu sorority houses, were
de-roofed. Parker Auditorium has lost part of its bell tower and
virtually every building on campus became the final resting place for
giant trees. Where there used to be greenery and trees, now exists
hollows where threes as tall as a water tower have been pulled up by the
roots and replanted somewhere else.
Parker Auditorium is now visible from the Hanover entrance, where
before all that could be seen was lofty tree tops. (I hear an ambulance
or volunteer fire department siren blaring again; they've been
relatively quiet for a while after screaming constantly last night.)
The estimated loss according to President John Horner is $8 million.
Everyone is preparing to go home. We all wonder what happens next. The
town of Hanover, like Madison and many other towns along the Ohio River
has been practically leveled.
National Guardsmen and a security force of selected Hanover students
have been guarding the campus all night from looters. The campus center
has been turned into an emergency free food line to aid villagers,
faculty, and students who have been involuntarily evicted from destroyed
dwelling places. The food is being rationed. One cup of milk and one cup
of coffee is allowed each individual per meal. There is a minimal water
supply. No showers, no washing up or flushing toilets. A ditch has been
dug behind Wiley Hall for sanitary excretory purposes.
They are asking, no pleading for student volunteers. I think I'll stay
for awhile and help. A reconstruction of the actual tornado event should
explain why.
A fellow track runner Gary Green, from Jennings County (Indiana), came
to my room and pulled me away from my typewriter about 3:15 p.m. to run
a track workout. We went out to run five miles around the Hanover
countryside. It started to pour rain about midway through the workout,
and we decided to finish our workout with some 220 intervals on the
track out at the stadium.
We had just started our first 220 when we heard the alarm go off at the
Hanover Volunteer Fire Department, and as we rounded the curve we looked
off into the West and saw a not too distant funnel touch down and stir
up a mass of dust, smoke, and wood.
The storm visibly was approaching fast so we decided not to attempt to
dash to a house that was about 300 yards away. Rather we sprinted to a
ditch which ran parallel to the track and tennis courts. Both Gary and I
lay flat in the ditch and grabbed hold of a metal post sticking out of
the ground. As we lifted our heads, I shouted "I don't believe it, look
at it."
I jumped to my feet and stared sprinting in between the tennis courts
and baseball diamond, with Gary following. He grabbed my arm and ordered
me to get down in a nearby washout where there was a water main sticking
about two feet out of the ground. It was just about big enough for the
both of us, and we jumped in it, lay down, grabbed hold of the pipe and
watched the approaching funnel.
We watched open mouthed as the funnel with its whippingtail ignited
explosions of brown smoke and large splintered fragments. It continued
on down the main street of town resembling an old fashioned stream
engine churing up huge billows of smoke and fragments while following
its uncharted course. Gary and I watched the funnel jolt toward the
stadium and as the tail touched down at the front of the trailer court
outside the stadium, I buried my face in the mud, my one fist clenched
tightly to the water main right below Gary's and my other arm trying to
shield my head.
My body tensed, and I started to pray. I could feel the wind swirling
around me so I lifted my head to see what was happening. Directly above
my head was a swirl of large fragments. Behind me, the 10 foot storm
fences covered with canvas wind breakers swayed back and forth like a
wing in the wind. Suddenly the fence collapsed backward to the ground
staying in chorus with the teeth grating sound of the metal posts being
wrenched from their cement foundation.
Gary turned my attention to the trailer court. His face reflected the
agony of the disaster. No trailer was left untouched. Most were crumpled
like tin foil. Others were overturned and twisted one end over the
other. We hurried to offer help.
Suddenly a van with a service station insignia on the side streaked
into the trailer court and screeched to a halt in front of an overturned
trailer. The driver jumped from the van and ran to the pile where he
bulldozed his way to the top of his ex trailer. Flinging rubbish
haphazardly and with a horrified look on his face he screamed for a
child he believed to be buried there. A neighbor assured him that his
child was okay, but a lady in the last trailer in the court wasn't as
fortunate.
Gary and I watched about six men pulling her from her trapped position
beneath a trailer wall. A young lady (mid 20's) despairingly dropped her
arms to her knees and then shielded her face as she cried. "That's all
we have. That's everything." The twisted trailer resting on top of her
car.
I returned to my room a couple of hours after the storm had subsided.
My clock was stopped at 3:53. A tree limb reached into my room through
the window and pointed to broken glass scattered about my room. There on
my desk was my typewriter where only a few hours earlier Gary had
interrupted me from typing a critique of Moby Dick for a literature
class. I scanned the line of print to the point where I had left off,
and felt a cold chill come over my body as I read the last few words I
had typed before the tornado hit. "It is significant that Ishmael
survives because Ishmael see himself as related to all men and
especially in a deep bond with Quequig. It is through the tool of his
friend (the coffin) that Ishmael is saved, once again emphasizing that
human relatedness is essential to human survival."
