From the Chronicle of Higher Education:
Episode 16: A Coast Guard Vet Forms a ‘Band of Brothers’ at His University
June 1, 2011, 8:13 pm
By Sara Lipka
Daniel Stuart Wilson“We sort of have this saying: ‘No one can do for us what we can do for each other.’ ”
Daniel Stuart Wilson
University of California at Santa Cruz
In this episode, we hear from Daniel Stuart Wilson about his transition from eight years of service in the U.S. Coast Guard to campus life at the University of California at Santa Cruz.
MOre:http://chronicle.com/blogs/saysomething/2011/06/01/a-coast-guard-vet-forms-a-band-of-brothers-at-his-university/?sid=at&utm_source=at&utm_medium=en
Ensign Bafflestir:
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Ensign Bafflestir by artist Ron Marlett
Ensign Bafflestir is a cartoon strip created by the artist Ron Marlett during his enlistment in the United States Coast Guard. The cartoon ran from 1971 to 1974 in the US Coast Guard publication Pacific Shield, and featured a tongue-in-cheek look at daily life in the Coast Guard, as expressed through the exploits of a fictional ensign.
Contents
[hide]
* 1 Background
* 2 Setting
* 3 Characters
* 4 Popularity
* 5 References
* 6 External links
[edit] Background
As a teenager, Marlett's sense of humor was influenced by Mad magazine, especially the one-page cartoon strips contributed by Don Martin. In 1970, Ron joined the Coast Guard and was stationed aboard the 255-foot cutter Winnebago, homeported at Honolulu, Hawaii. The following year, the Coast Guard District Office was in need of a driver who would also serve as a representative in their Public Relations office.. Ron was chosen for the position, and within a couple of weeks was spending most of his time answering the public relations phone and working on a monthly news magazine called Pacific Shield. The public relations officer Lt Gary Boyer came up with the idea of having Ron create a small cartoon strip that would run every month in Pacific Shield. Ron drew a four-panel strip, and JO1 (Journalist 1st Class) Jim Gilman wrote the dialogue for the characters. Gilman named the tall, skinny ensign in the strip "Ensign Bafflestir;" Ron liked the name so much that the next issue of Pacific Shield saw the strip christened Ensign Bafflestir. Ron took over the responsibility of writing his own storyboard, and the strip eventually became a full-page piece. Ensign Bafflestir became famous within the Coast Guard, and Ron enjoyed an unusual working relationship with the commissioned officers. After Ron's discharge from active service in 1974, he pursued a career in the fine arts, and Ensign Bafflestir was shelved.
More: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ensign_Bafflestir
Caught in the Draft By Jim Castagnera Attorney at Large
North America
North America
Source
Source: LawFuel.com
Posted on Friday, November 24, 2006
Caught in the Draft
By Jim Castagnera
Attorney at Large
Congressman Charlie Rangel has proposed reinstating the draft. The last time Representative Rangel raised the issue, at the onset of the present Iraqi War in 2003, the bill went down in flames on a vote of 402-2. Its chances are no better now.
Talk of reinstating the Selective Service system brought back memories, nonetheless. In the 1960s draft classifications were an alphabet soup that could spell life or death. Being 1-A meant that a likely lad, such as myself, was 100% available to serve Uncle Sammy. Almost every other letter in the regulatory alphabet provided some sort of shield against harm’s way.
The designation 1-A-O meant “conscientious objector.” This tag couldn’t keep you out uniform, but it did keep you out of combat. Not a very desirable designation in my book: the other guy got to shoot at you, while you declined to shoot back. I guess that’s what turning the other cheek is all about, isn’t it?
At the opposite end of the federal alphabet was 4-F, meaning “not qualified for any military service.” Now that seemed more like it to me. Unfortunately --- or so it seemed in 1969 --- I was healthy as a horse, a war horse at that. In April of that year I was still two months away from walking across the stage to collect my college diploma and the dean’s hearty handshake. No matter… the Carbon County (PA) draft board wasted no time informing me that my precious 2-S (student) deferment was about to evaporate.
Calling the board, I spoke to a little old lady, who cheerfully told me that I was on the list for July but could push induction back to August, if I cared to lodge an unsuccessful appeal. Armed with that graduation gift, I hauled myself up to a job fair at the University of Scranton, there to shop the military services for the best deal.
That deal came from Charlie Golf… the U.S. Coast Guard. For a mere four years of my life, the USCG gave me nine glorious weeks of basic training in sunny Cape May, New Jersey, followed by another 16 weeks of resort-style living at Officer Candidate School in Yorktown, Virginia. What was boot camp in Cape May like? Suffice to say it took my wife ten years to persuade me to even visit the town again, never mind vacationing there. OCS was a bit better. The drill instructors there called my comrades and me “gentlemen,” instead of “pukes,” as they put us through our paces. (During one of my nine weeks of basic training, a Congressional fact-finding team came to Cape May to investigate the death of a recruit who drowned in the base pool during drown-proofing exercises. Our DI advised us, “I’ve been told I cannot refer to you men as ‘pukes’ while the investigators are here. So this week, you are all ‘vomits.’”)
In between boot camp and OCS, Charlie Golf parked me on Governors Island in New York harbor. Assigned to Personnel Division, my job was discharging guys whose time was up. To maintain my sanity, I discharged myself once a week. My greatest fear was that old Captain Logan, who looked in profile like the American eagle, would discover my stash of discharge certificates and transfer me to one of the cutters bound weekly for Southeast Asia.
Some shipmates from Cape May had no such concerns about preserving their sanity. To the contrary, they did their best to express insanity. One comrade took to fishing in a large puddle after every rainstorm that swept Governors Island. After a few such fishing expeditions he was sent across the harbor to the VA hospital on Staten Island. From there he was eventually sent home. His new classification was “Section 8.”
One year after I enlisted, most of the alphabet soup was thrown into the garbage can of history, replaced by a numbers game. The draft lottery was the Power Ball of life and death for young men, who gathered around the hearth (read TV set) to see their fates determined by the numbers. Birthdays were randomly matched with numbers 1 through 365. Those fellas whose nativities matched one and two-digit designations knew they needed to enlist, abscond, or wait for the call that would almost certainly come. Those in the mid-range had to hold their breath for a year, until the next Superpower Ball was bounced. Those above 300 could sip champagne and get on with their lives.
Now forever classified a Vietnam-era Disabled Vet, I sometimes think some form of compulsory national service might rekindle our lost sense of citizenship. But while Representative Rangel has the right name to take this on, I fear the idea is 4-F from the get-go.
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