I was a student at the University of Wisconsin–Madison. 1969 was the first year of the draft. I sat in the packed Rathskellar (Student Union) the night of the first draft and watched as they pulled dates out of the lottery bin. It was a tough, tough night, hearing the cries and gasps of men who faced life and death decisions from these numbers. Many that night printed their numbers in big letters on their foreheads with black markers. (I did not — my birthday was 315 — a high number and I did not want to flaunt my great fortune). The next day as I drove my car down University Avenue, I spotted a student with a large "1" on his forehead. I stopped to pick him up. As he got into my car, I said something like: "I am so, so sorry about your number." He looked me in the eye and said: "Don’t worry about it. It’s the first thing I’ve ever won."Some left the country, some cried, but most faced their fate with humor and courage. I salute all like him who did.
