The Draft

The Houston draft board was notorious for bringing kids in and quickly certifying they were ready for Vietnam.

Things were going great for us.  Bubble Puppy had rented a beautiful four-bedroom, two-story house on Cullen Boulevard in Houston, a lovely part of the city with many trees and stately old homes. Life had settled into a routine. When we weren't gigging, we would wake up late, eat breakfast, then go downstairs and rehearse the entire day. We had a pretty great life. Our single, “Hot Smoke and Sassafras,” was rocketing up the charts. Life was good.

Then I got the news that my good friend from high school, Danny Jericho, had died in Vietnam. He was a door gunner in a helicopter and had gotten killed shortly after he arrived in Vietnam. Danny was a great guy. I was shocked. He didn't deserve this early death; he was only about 17 or 18. The odds were high that you would be killed if drafted and sent to Vietnam.

So, imagine my surprise when I received my draft notice. I was in shock. It was well known that you were going to Vietnam if you got your draft notice in Houston. This draft board was notorious for bringing kids in and quickly certifying they were ready to be shipped out. It was rumored that you should pack a bag and take it with you in case they inducted you on the spot.

I was ordered to report to the Houston draft board for my physical. I  remembered Danny dying in Vietnam, and I knew the Houston draft board more than likely would certify me fit for duty. I also knew that I had no business being in the military. Being a skinny kid with little physical ability, I would probably die the first day I arrived in Vietnam. I knew in my heart that's what would happen to me.

Don't get me wrong. If the cause were good, I would fight for my country. But we all knew Vietnam was a s*** show, and the United States had no business being there. The US was arrogant in thinking we could maintain a supply line halfway around the world, fight in the jungles, and defeat a determined enemy. We learned no lessons from the French getting their asses kicked in Vietnam before us. Our roadie, Lynn Leese, had already been to Vietnam as a medic. Lynn told me firsthand what a f***** up situation Vietnam was.

Left to right: Lynn Leese, Roy Cox, David Fore, Gene Corbin, Bill Corbin. Seated: Rod Prince, Todd Potter. Photo credit: Alan Pogue

As you can imagine, my decision about whether to go to Vietnam was a simple choice. I could die in a foreign country or continue touring the nation with my fabulous band supporting a hit record. What was I to do? I think you know the answer. I was going to beat the draft. So I started planning my approach to get out of the draft.

I would pretend to be a junkie when I presented myself to the draft board. I wanted to avoid heroin, so I scored some morphine instead. Lynn said he would help me. He had some biker friends; not surprisingly, these bikers were into all kinds of drugs, including morphine.

We showed up at the bikers’ house. Lynn knocked on the door. After a long pause, a voice from inside said, "Who is it?" We said, "Lynn and Dave from The Bubble Puppy." They let us in. It was pretty scary, with weapons and drugs scattered around the room. We negotiated a price for the morphine. But before we left, someone else knocked on the front door.  Instantly all the bikers in the room grabbed shotguns and pointed them at the door. The head biker said. "Who is it?" That's when I realized that they had pointed shotguns at us when we knocked on the door. If we had given the wrong answer, they would have shot us.

I had a week until my physical. Lynn helped me by scoring clean needles. Every night I would shoot up morphine. My arm was pretty bruised by the end of the week, which is what I wanted.  Those bruises would prove to the draft board that I was a junkie. I remember quickly developing a tolerance to morphine. The last night before my physical, I injected an entire syringe and didn't feel the rush or any effect from the morphine. This part of my plan was fun; morphine was terrific. You get this big rush in the back of your legs, and all your cares disappear.

When I arrived at the draft board, I wanted to be in bad shape, so I stopped eating much and slept little. If I appeared psychotic at the physical, great! I felt I had prepared well.

I felt tortured by my lack of sleep the morning of my scheduled appearance. My hair was long, and just seeing me pissed off the redneck staff. They weren’t pleasant, especially at orientation when I didn't listen to anything they said.  I just sat at my desk, tearing a cigarette into tiny pieces. They poked and prodded me and asked me all sorts of questions. After what seemed an eternity, I was sent to my exit interview.  The interviewer asked me why I felt I should be rejected. I told him I was a junkie, and he said they didn't care. They drafted junkies all the time. I told him I was a homosexual, which is funny because I had no idea what a homosexual was. He asked me to describe a homosexual act. I faked it and said some crude stuff that I made up. He didn't go for that either. I was pretty sure I was toast.  Then, out of the blue, he said, "Well, son, this man's army doesn't want you. I'm rejecting you and marking you 1-Y." After everything I had done to make myself undesirable, I weighed 119 pounds. That was ONE POUND under the 120 lb weight limit cut-off.