"I'd rather you come home in a casket draped in an American flag than be a coward who refused to fight for his country." Those words were not spoken by the local Marine recruiter who leaped over the trashcan while reaching for my throat or by the secretary of my draft board doing her patriotic duty to rope and hogtie another "red-blooded American" to go fight for the Red White and Blue in Vietnam. Like hot tar on exposed skin those sentiments were given a life of their own one cold winter day in the Year of our Lord 1968, by Sam Stovall, expressed out of anger and frustration to be sure, biblically speaking to the fruit of his loins and eldest son, that be me. It was the straw that broke the camel's back in what had heretofore been a warm loving relationship. Vietnam had come home to roost, as if Agent Orange itself had taken up residence.

Should you perchance be tempted to be overly harsh on Sam Stovall for expressing his druthers, it should not be overlooked that I was far from innocent during those days of heated exchanges. I gave as good as I got, throwing to the wind unforgivable vileness in his direction not to mention a son's need to hold back a disrespectful tongue when speaking to his father. Whenever Mount Vesuvius and his son rumbled into the same room other family members present were predisposed to head for the hills before the coming eruption covered them with spewing lava. According to an ancient Proverb, 'He who brings strife in his own household shall inherit the wind…', which for the Stovall family household proved to be right as rain, there being found 'little peace in the valley'. On his death bed my dad apologized for letting his tongue get out in front of his heart years earlier when he intimated that it 'preferable to have a dead hero than a live coward for a son'. I was slower to get out the gate making apologies, done only years later in absentia…

America's effort to prevent the spread of Communism still had seven bloody years of killing yet to go. The 'Silent Majority' was just beginning to awaken from its slumber, their young'ins taking to the streets in national protests against the draft and an end to the war; from the Halls of Montezuma to the Shores of Tripoli they shouted, 'Hey, Hey LBJ, How Many Kids Did you Kill Today?' and "Hell, No, We Won't Go!". "My Fellow Merkins," as Lyndon Baines Johnson was known to express it on special occasions when addressing his 'Fellow Americans', in a surprise announcement on national television he said he would not be seeking re-election. Like millions of others I was elated to see this 'Son of a Biscuit Eater' give up the political ghost, hopefully making room for someone who would truly give peace a chance, for the nation and the people of Vietnam. Unfortunately that was a wasted hope.

It would be fair to say '68 was a topsy-turvy year, a wild roller-coaster ride with little or no brakes to keep the parts from flying every which way but loose--in addition to the war in Indochina the Civil Rights Movement was still running on a full head of steam, including the assassinations of Dr. Martin Luther King and Senator Robert Kennedy. If these events were insufficient to overturn the apple cart, the take no prisoners, Katie bar the door sexual revolution was in full swing. Just between you, me, Tiny Tim and his rendition of "Tiptoe Through the Tulips", it was not till the next year or a tad later that I would be introduced to the titillating temptations of the day.

You could say the Stovalls were the antithesis of pacifist Quakers, from the top of the noggin to our tippy toes we were God fearing 'Better Dead than Red', "Kill a Commie for Mommy" Southern Baptist. Be it Wrangler, Levis or hereditary DNA, it was in our genes to volunteer for any ruckus that came our way. We seldom ever found a fight that wasn't inviting, especially when it was promoted and egged on by our government... In general the men folk took literally Jesus' suggestion that we 'render unto Cesar'. It mattered not a hill of beans if our Country was right or wrong but even in the most remotest of possibilities, even if wrong, 'My Country Tis of Thee' never could be so wrong that the fish smelled so God awful bad you couldn't swallow whatever was put on your plate, hook, line or stinker. Daddy Stovall didn't serve in WWII but it wasn't for a lack of trying. He attempted to enlist in the army after Pearl Harbor but a bad back kept him on the sidelines. To his way of thinking it was now Stovall Jr's time to step up to the plate. At this early stage in life I was chomping at the bits to comply. I attended Allen Military Academy my senior year in high school, figuring West Point or the Naval Academy might be in the cards after graduating from the military prep school, either that or maybe enlisting in the military, go to Vietnam--find me a Gook to kill for Jesus and the USofA.

What a cockeyed world it proved to be, how with the blessings of God, Country and my daddy I was ready, willing and able to go kill rice growing peasants eking out a living the other side of the world, who like the song says, somehow, someway, another somebody had done America wrong, while sensitive me refused to go hunting 'cause I would have to kill a bird or Bambi's mamma. Course my squeamishness killing animals didn't prevent me from enjoying gnawing on a juicy steak my mamma paid an arm and a leg to a butcher to hack the poor creature to death. I guess it wasn't all that different if somebody chose not to put on a military uniform to go kill themselves a slant eyed Cong but supported with their taxes and hip hip hurrahs for their country to send others to go do the killing. Me doing the killing or paying someone else to do so probably doesn't mean I should forego receiving some of the credit. It's probably a stretch of credulity to think time had come when the one threatening to kill you figures he's serving his God and Country. Oh well, as I said earlier, a cockeyed topsy-turvy world it was…

All my highfalutin plans, however, were set aside and put on the back burner when I received the 'call to preach'. Being called to preach was for a Southern Baptist like getting a long distance phone call from God himself. Daddy was of a mixed mind over the change of events but Mamma Stovall overruled any possible protest from her husband. "You don't hang up on a call from Jesus," she reminded him. Sam Stovall had been known to argue with a fencepost but only when he thought he had a fair to middling chance of winning. He knew it was a complete waste of time and energy to argue with mamma. 'Mamma's Reality' he called it. "A person be better off French Kissing a rattlesnake than mess with mamma's faith", he said to anybody listening, especially when it was her son that was about to follow in the footsteps of the Saul of Tarsus, aka, the Apostle Paul. The Selective Service System, or simply 'The Draft Board' as it was known to most folks, automatically handed out 4-D draft deferments to Ministers of Religion or those preparing to become a member of that profession, meaning there was a greater chance of drafting Mary, mother of Jesus, than yours truly. Little did that seem to matter at the time, given I was more than willing to do Uncle Sam's bidding if that's the way the cookie crumbled or what my country had in mind for me.

I hoped to acquire the necessary credentials to become a certified, bona fide Southern Baptist preacher while studying at OBC, a small Arkansas Baptist college located in the foothills of the Ouachita Mountains overlooking the banks of the Ouachita River. For what it's worth, OBC was the same college Mike Huckabee attended, who you may recall was later to have a varied career as governor of Arkansas, presidential candidate and political commentator. Hopefully my aspirations of becoming a preacher-man were set to a tad higher standard than what was required to become a politician, or as Mark Twain put it, "Politicians and diapers must be changed often, and for the same reason."

Pastor Reverend Gibbons, sat me down for a little chat prior to my leaving for college, sharing with me a quote by Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr. "Every now and then a man's mind is stretched by a new idea or sensation, and never shrinks back to its former dimensions." As it happened, my brain was to be stretched to its outer limits, never to return to its earlier self! "Your beliefs will be challenged while at OBC in just about every area of life, including your faith," Reverend Gibbons said, "and that's a good thing, that's how you grow, so long as you are a seeker of the truth". He was now on a roll, "Don't fear new ideas but be careful not to throw out the old and replace it with the new just because new is fashionable." He finished up with a smile that would do a Cheshire Cat proud, letting his words sink in before concluding with the following whimsicality: "By all means we should be open-minded, but not so open-minded that our brains drop out."

While a few sacred and not so sacred cows would be thrown under the bus I took special care not to throw the baby out with the bath water. A smattering of long held cherished beliefs actually grew stronger after withstanding the scrutiny of being held under the sunlight to a critical view. It finally dawned on me, 'bout the same speed of a slippy slidey tortoise traveling uphill, that faith, hope, reason and intellect could co-exist, while not always under clear blue skies. On occasion you might even find yourself having to tippy-toe through landmines to reach your destination but it was doable.

Just 'cause someone says something is True-Blue or Patently-Untrue, Good or Bad don't make it so, even if the person(s) doing the telling is someone you might otherwise trust. Like sailing the ocean blue, with the wind blowing you hither and thither, my thinking evolved, almost never in a straight line, oftimes leaving you luffing in the No-Go-Zone or going-noplace fast while stuck in Sargasso seaweed. On occasion you find yourself left hibernating in the doldrums but with a little effort, patience and if you were of a mind, prayer, the Almighty hisself would sooner or later put wind in your sails, allowing you to go just about anywhere your mind wanted to travel. My parents credited the professors I was later to give credit to for liberating my mindset of corrupting their son's way of thinking.

Akin to going to the dentist or studying 'warmed over death of a bygone era', history class was something I endured the first twelve years of school. It took a different turn, however, after I signed up for a course on the American Civil War. Prof Steward, much like Jesus raising Lazarus, was able to breathe life into characters long dead and buried. From the age of antiquity to the more recent past, the study of history was transmogrified into a rewarding adventure--reading, analyzing, questioning and turning over hidden gems, there but for the asking. A lot of my time was spent researching Indochina, Vietnam and the like.

Once upon a long time ago someone had the perceptivity to declare, "I didn't know how much I didn't know." I found if you dig deep enough and bypass the easy pickings of glittering pyrite stones of fool's gold staring back at you, often planted there by those wishing you to stop and look no further, you can uncover all kinds of unimaginable truths. Not unlike going blackberry picking. Cursory pickers often bypass the choicest of the fruit of the vine, fearful of face slapping thorns or a possible snake bite, thereby ending up with only the slimmest of pickings. Only the bravest of the brave willing to risk life and limb, venturing where the timid dare not go, were rewarded with the sweetest, juiciest, tastiest nectar. Same with studying history. No pain no gain!

Jim Ranabarger, Professor of Political Science at OBC, invited me to join him in a public debate on the Vietnam war, he and I opposing the conflagration, the other side supporting. One member of the opposition included a former Arkansas Governor and retired major general in the Marine Reserve. Why I was asked to participate in a debate on the Vietnam war I can't rightly say. Looking back over yonder year I readily admit to being little more than a wet behind the ears snotty nose kid, especially when going up against so distinguished a fellow as a former Governor and a bona fide war hero. I was not yet a twinkle in my daddy's eye when the Gov. was a Marine Lt. Colonel fighting Japs in one of the bloodiest engagements of WWII in the campaign for the Solomon Islands. The debate was held in the Chapel at OBC but I'll leave it to others to decide who won. Be that as it may, this probably marked the time where I was starting to question my calling to preach; the seed had been planted but had yet to sprout.

Early on in my studies I was reminded of the Biblical story where Saul of Tarsus was blinded while traveling on the road to Damascus. He regained his sight, the scales falling from his eyes when the disciple Ananias placed his healing hands upon him. I too began to see things more clearly as the fog bank slowly lifted from my eyes, allowing me to differentiate catnip from cat litter, separating the wheat from the chaff. Had I a crystal ball, which I didn't, I would have known aforehand before all was said and done, just how bad the war in Vietnam would turn out to be. The death toll would reach between three and four million souls, give or take, double that number if you include the wounded and half again that number if you threw in those made homeless. Most of the dead and wounded and those left homeless were civilian women and children. The more I researched, the deeper I dug, at some point I found it difficult to continue accepting the political and religious justifications for a war that earlier on I soaked up like a sponge, as if it was the Gospel Truth itself. Justifications were continuously fed across the airwaves and byways, like mom's apple pie, for the public to gobble up. I was reminded of a sermon I once preached in a small countrified church in the hollows of rural Arkansas, titled, "All Satan's shiny apples have worms". Our government, corporate elites, financial higher-ups, most of those in the media in the early stages of the conflict and many in the religious leadership all took part creating sugar-coated 'shiny apple' reasons that were spoon fed to 'We the People' to justify our complicity in the Vietnam war, from stopping the ungodly Communist to making the place a bastion for democracy. Seldom discussed was the initial and actual reason for our involvement--to help the French re-take their former colonies in Indochina--Vietnam, Cambodia and Laos, an endeavor paid primarily by the U.S. Taxpayer. After the French lost their derriere at the battle of Dien Bien Phu in 1954, God-Bless-America's pea-picking heart took over the fight. Whispered usually only in polite circles, well away from the prying eyes of nosy citizens, where hidden just below the surface were a whole slew of attractive and enticing economic reasons for our being in Vietnam. Hush, Hush, Sweet Charlotte, don't you cry, the secrecy and smoking mirrors were necessary to cover up the killing and dying sacrifices required for the husbands and sons perishing on the battlefield.

I had a modicum of uncertainty on whether I was really cut out to live the exemplary life of a man of the cloth, a proper role model if you will. The bulk of questioning I kept to myself, figuring such vacillations and shilly-shalling were normal teething pains. Anyone worthy of their salt had to expect internal battles, have their mettle tested 'when the going gets tough' sorta thing... As it turned out my time as a minister-to-be was short lived. Shortly before graduating I abandoned my 'calling' to preach, foregoing attending Seminary to take up graduate studies in history at Stephen F. Austin University, a twenty mile drive from my hometown in Texas. Not studying for the ministry meant giving up my 4-D Ministerial Deferment, which to tell the truth always seemed a tad hypocritical on my part. Many of the same ministers, of which there was no short supply thereof, Lone Ranger hi-yo silver gung ho's in their support of the Vietnam war, had no moral quandaries gobbling up this special 'Godly dispensation' to avoid military service. I informed the Draft Board that I was no longer studying to become a minister. Course I suppose that took no special courage on my part cause I still had a one year student deferment while at SFA--which I was happy to use, not just to enhance my education but equally if not more important, to avoid the draft....

Metaphorically speaking, with the draft board breathing down my neck with less than six months left to graduation and the loss of my student deferment, I was starting to feel a little like an egg frying on the hood of a car in the midday Texas sun. Ironic how so much had changed in so short a time. I no longer desired to go to West Point or the Naval Academy or anxious to volunteer to take up arms in a war I now thought wronger than all get-out. Nor could I any longer wrap my faith around my country's well oiled killing machine, allowing my government to be God's translator of right and wrong, good and evil or blindly accept religious leaders or the corporate and media elites who allowed it to be so. Unfortunately for me the clock was ticking and time was fast running out.

It was about at this point in the telling of my story that Mount Vesuvius and me were locking horns on an almost daily basis. I couldn't help but give a smidgen of credence to thinking that perchance Stovall's son might indeed be a coward, in family parlance lower than dirt. Maybe I was just hiding behind all those draft deferments. Tens of thousands of American boys had already been killed, one or two I went to school with. I certainly wasn't hankering to add to that number, even if it would serve as latent proof to my dad that I wasn't his cowardly son.

Tim, my closest and dearest friend went through two years of ROTC, Reserve Officer Training Corps, same as me, when we were students at OBC but he also signed up for an additional two years of Advanced ROTC. He was in Vietnam, a genuine Army Ranger officer fighting for what he believed was the right thing to do. I never ever, not even once, gave any thought that scrawny Tim was braver than I, nor that I might be his cowardly friend. Of course if I didn't go to Vietnam how was I, for all eternity, to know if I might indeed have a yellow streak a mile wide running down my backside, a personal flaw in need of expunging? Thing was, for me the war was wrong, my country, no matter how much I loved it, no matter what justifications it could conjure up, was wrong, all the killing taking place was wrong. It would certainly be wrong if I went to Vietnam, took up a gun, killed a few namby-pamby pajama wearing Viet Cong in the process, just to prove I wasn't a coward. But if I refused to go most everyone that mattered to me and many more that didn't count for a hill of beans, would find themselves walking on the other side of the street whenever they saw me coming their way. Heck over time I might not like what I saw staring back at me in a mirror, possibly forcing me to cross the street whenever I saw me coming.

I passed the Armed Forces recruiting office every day to and from school. Naturally I often thought of my friend Tim. I heard through the grapevine that he been promoted to a First Lieutenant. Knowing Tim he was probably already a Captain. I figured if you had to be a grunt in Vietnam you'd be lucky to have Tim as your commander. If anybody could keep you alive after all was said and done it would be Tim. No doubt he would think it funny, maybe ironic, that his anti-Vietnam, draft dodging, 'cowardly' friend was thinking of him, wondering if he was still alive or dead. I had been giving a lot of thought to the idea that maybe I still could find a way to serve my country even if, heaven forbid, I were to end up in Vietnam. I convinced myself that I could serve as a medic or maybe cover the war as a journalist or photographer with the Army or Navy. Who knows, I might even end up taking a picture of Tim on the battlefield or patch him up if he was wounded. I made the decision to stop by the recruiting office.

Upon entering the recruiting office I saw one civilian who looked in a vague sorta way vaguely familiar. He was sitting at the Marine recruiter's desk. The army recruiter wasn't anywhere to be seen but the navy Petty Officer First Class glanced up at me, inviting me over for a friendly chat. Bottom line, the army was the only service that guaranteed you a job, even though it might not be the exact one you wanted. The navy would "do it's best" but there had to be a good deal of flexibility on my part. To my way of thinking that was the nearest thing to a used car salesman's pig in a poke guarantee. Of course once you put your John Hancock on the dotted line there was no refund if you were dissatisfied, too late to complain. Your body and mind at that point belonged to Uncle Sam. I asked him to give me an example of what type of work I might do if I were a Navy photojournalist. "Photojournalists are few and far between in the Navy," he said. "You could end up serving aboard a carrier off Vietnam where you would interpret photos for the next day's bombing runs."

At that point in the conversation I decided it best to be open and frank with the recruiter, mindful of course of where I was sitting and with whom I was addressing. "Under normal circumstance I don 't consider myself a "CO", a conscientious objector", I told him, meaning someone who on the grounds of moral or religious reasons opposed for all eternity ever serving in the armed services. The draft board had an even more stringent definition of a "CO". To qualify you also would have refused fighting the Nazis in WWII or be unwilling to shoot an ax wielding burglar threatening life and limb of wife, kids and pets. That pretty much crossed me off the list, that and the fact that I was a Southern Baptist who had a history of fighting anything that had two legs and sometimes just one. "I am opposed to the war in Vietnam," I said matter-of-factly, with perhaps a little too much overemphasis on the word 'opposed', "so I guess that kinda makes me a 'CO' of sorts. I am willing to serve in any capacity in the Navy or any other branch so long as I'm not required to carry a gun or do something, like picking out targets for a bombing run, or doing anything that would require me to contribute to the killing of anyone."

It was exactly at that point all hell broke lose in the pews, a loud banging sound, like a chair being knocked over on its side. The Marine now standing taller than the Empire State Building was obviously annoyed, a bull in a huff and puff, his desk chair overturned and fore you know it, faster than Superman's speeding bullet, he was halfway between his and the Navy recruiter's desks, making a beeline towards me. He leapfrogged the garbage can, an enraged fire radiating from his eyes and hell-bent on reaching my throat with his outstretched arm before the Navy fellow could intercede. I discovered a quickness about me that heretofore I did not know existed, where with the combination of quick thinking and a natural survival instinct I put the Navy recruiter between myself and the exasperated Marine. "You better get out of here and pronto, and don't come back," the Navy guy shouted while trying as best he cold to hold back the oncoming Semper Fi freight train! I did as he suggested, figuring I had overstayed my welcome.

My run in with the Marine recruiter left me with few alternatives, no doubt leaving the draft board salivating in their mess kit. I read someplace that Canada had opened its borders to American Vietnam war resisters, offering them political asylum. It angered me when I first learned of this a few years earlier but I soon realized it might be my only real option, either that or go to jail.

I contacted Professor Ranabarger at OBC, seeking his advice about Canada or any other possibility that might be open to me. As luck would have it he had a much better solution in mind. It was the irony of ironies that LBJ, the Crème de la crème promulgator of the war in Vietnam was also the President who set up the "War on Poverty" in the USA, which included the VISTA program (Volunteers in Service to America). The first Volunteer program in Arkansas was sponsored by OBC. Professor Ranabarger was its director. Becoming a VISTA Volunteer was a possibility which also included a one year draft deferment. I filled out the paperwork. My first preference was Seattle Washington but under the circumstance just about anyplace would do. I was approved to serve not in an urban area in the Northwest but in a small rural town in the Southeast of the country, in Waynesboro, Georgia, with a Black Farmer's Co-op. Apparently I was mistaken for a farmer, given at one point in time I lived on 40 acres in Texas, raised one cow, fed a few chickens, rode horses every chance I got and was a member of the FFA, Future Farmers of America. Barely able to discern a black eyed pea from a pinto bean, never ever milked a cow or slaughtered a hog, my dearth in farming expertise nonetheless qualified me to serve as an organizer to 500 farmers who I later referred as my black brothers and sisters. They knew more about farming in their little pinky than I would ever know in a lifetime.

The day before I was to fly off to Atlanta to begin my VISTA training a customer walked into my dad's car dealership. As later relayed to me by the Parts Manager: Dumpy, also referred to as the Sales Manager, talked with the customer about buying a new car. Out of the clear blue the guy blurted out, "Heard tell that Stovall boy is a Pinko Commie Coward who got his butt kicked by a Marine down at the recruiting station." Dumpy, who I might add was like a close uncle, stood there all stupefied, not certain what to do or say, not until the idiot opened his mouth one too many times. "If he was my boy I'da beat him to an inch of his …" Before he could finish Dumpy had him in a headlock, pushing him against the wall. Everyone within earshot came running, including my dad, who ended up pulling Dumpy off the guy before he could do any real damage. Stovall tried to calm things down and get to the reason for the ruckus. It took a few seconds for it to register but when it did, with one hand daddy threw the fellow up against the wall, his other hand cocked into a fist getting ready to knock him into the next county. With some effort Dumpy and a couple other men observing the commotion pulled daddy off the guy. Dumpy booted him out the door, threatening to give him a serious butt whooping if he ever came back. One less car was sold that day. I caught a flight the next day knowing Stovall thought it ok for him to tell his son that he was a yellow-belly, something he was startin to backtrack on, but not just anyone who walked in off the street who wasn't family should be permitted to mouth such gobbledygook….

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Jimmy Coleman’s first appearance on our fair planet took place at some point during the last millennium. The earlier years of his sojourn among his fellow mortals were expended during the tumultuous times of separate water fountains, segregated schools and the KKK. It was also an exciting era where many of his generation did battle to help improve the situation as it was. A series of short stories and poems reflecting the give and take of bygone days are a major aim of Mr. Coleman’s writing herein and elsewhere. The first short story, “Mr. SOB” can be found at https://www.seattlestar.net/2022/05/mr-sob/ The poem, “the birds sing…Jesus loves us….life is good…” can be found at https://www.seattlestar.net/2022/02/the-birds-sing-jesus-loves-us-life-is-good/