Prisoner's dilemma: how '60s anti-war activists let today's chicken hawks off the hook. A draft-resister's story.

• Author: Poe, Robert

On the surface, the war with Iraq seems a simple case of hypocrisy gone lethal. With few exceptions, those in and around the White House who beat the drum most loudly for the invasion of Iraq had not seen a day of combat in their lives. Some, like Vice President Dick Cheney, avoided the Vietnam draft with college deferments; others, like President George Bush, served out their time in safe, hard-to-acquire berths in the National Guard; and the number of medical deferments awarded to now-vigorous conservative leaders is suspiciously high. Meanwhile, many top officials who had seen combat, including senior uniformed officers at the Pentagon and retired soldiers like Secretary of State Colin Powell and Sen. Chuck Hagel (R-Neb.), were dubious about the administration's choice to attack Iraq as the next move in the war on terror. Even those who came around to support the invasion openly worried about the best-case scenario "plans" for post-Saddam Iraq made by civilians at the Pentagon, few of whom had ever worn the uniform. These concerns proved valid.

In the months since May 1, when the president donned an aviator's jumpsuit, landed on an aircraft carrier, and declared the end of major combat, more than 155 American soldiers have died in Iraq. The number of wounded has skyrocketed to over 1,000, up 35 percent in August alone, according to The Washington Post. Exhausted, middle-aged reservists have had their tours of duty lengthened. And the administration has had to go back to the United Nations for a mandate to spur the international community to bail out the United States with additional troops and resources.

Soldiers are rightly proud of what they have accomplished so far in Iraq, and understandably irritated at the press for only focusing on the negative. Yet disgust with the Bush administration's slipshod planning mad careless use of troops is steadily mounting. At a recent gathering of current and retired military officers, retired Marine Gen. Anthony C. Zinni--who endorsed Bush in 2000, became his Middle East coordinator, but then broke with the administration over Iraq--spoke for many when he said, "My contemporaries, our feelings and sensitivities were forged on the battlefields of Vietnam, where we heard the garbage and the lies, and we saw the sacrifice. I ask you, is it happening again?" according to The Washington Post's Thomas E. Ricks. Last month, after Bush gave a speech to returning members of the Army's 3rd Infantry Division thanking, them for their bravery, one young soldier told the Los Angeles Times, "He likes war. He should go fight in a war for two days and see how he likes it."

Curiously, such anger towards hawkish civilian leaders who avoided putting themselves in harm's way is not something most Americans share--at least not yet. While Bush's poll numbers have been plummeting, the drop reflects worry over the continuing chaos in Iraq more than any growing anger at administration members for ducking service in their youth. Partisan Democrats may be furious that a president who sidestepped combat now poses as a war hero. But what really drives Democrats crazy, is that Bush seems to have paid no political price for doing so.

This tolerant public attitude did not begin with Bush. In fact, in the last three presidential elections, a candidate who had served in the regular military was defeated by a candidate who had not (Clinton v. Bush in' 92; Clinton v. Dole in '96; Bush v. Gore in '00). It has now become unremarkable for those who in their youth avoided putting themselves on the line for their country and their ideals to successfully impugn the patriotism of political opponents who served with honor. Think of Sen. Saxby Chambliss (R-Ga.). He got out of Vietnam with a bum knee, but unseated former Sen. Max Cleland (D-Ga.), a Vietnam veteran and triple amputee, with ads attacking Cleland as soft on national security. Somehow, in the public mind, the ancient link between physical courage and patriotism has been broken in this country.

One can imagine any number of reasons for this shift. One obvious factor is the end of the draft in 1973, which no longer forces every young man to consider the possibility of military service. Another is the triumph of individual market thinking in this country--the growing sense of personal freedom and individual entitlement in modern life, and the corresponding fading of the notion that one has a duty to anything outside one's self and family. But there is another, related factor for which liberals--especially those of my generation, who came of age in the late 1960s--bear heavy responsibility. Too many of them opposed the Vietnam War in ways that required no personal sacrifice, while at the same time successfully grabbing the banner of high idealism by growing their hair long and marching in anti-war protests. Though they may not want to admit it, members of the anti-Vietnam War movement, who today dominate the opinion-making class, helped erode the connection in the public's mind between patriotism and courage, idealism, and sacrifice. And that change in public attitude has let today's so-called "chicken hawks" off the book.

Children of privilege

I was 20 in 1968 when I faced the draft. Young men of my age had to choose one of several paths. Many went to Vietnam, though often without wholeheartedly supporting the war. Whatever their motivations--whether instinctive patriotism or fear of going to prison--I respected their choices. Others were indifferent to the war or even supported it, yet used student deferments or doctors' notes to avoid being drafted, thus assuring that someone else would have to take their place in the rice paddies. I didn't know such people and couldn't even have imagined their thinking. But a number of them are now running the war in Iraq. To me, theirs was by far the most cowardly and least patriotic choice of all.

Then there were those who opposed the war and were determined not to fight in it--either out of conviction or fear or, probably in most cases, both. Some fled to Canada; I had visited Canada myself in 1967, but rejected friends' entreaties to stay there to avoid the draft. The vast majority, though, stayed in the United States mad worked the loopholes, garnering student or medical deferments which let them protest the war almost risk-free, having fun or seething with rage but suffering few lasting consequences, unless they got unlucky during a demonstration. It seemed a solution tailor-made for children of privilege: the opportunity of a lifetime to don the mantle of idealism, no real sacrifice required. But it didn't work for me. I felt that because the reasons the government gave for the war didn't make sense, the only honest course of action was to refuse to participate in it, and to accept the consequences of doing so.

In mid-1968, I received a notice to report for induction in Los Angeles. I went to the induction center, passed the physical, and told them I was going to refuse. I went into a room, where an officer told me three times to step forward. I refused each time, and he asked me to write a statement saying that I had refused induction. I did so, and went home. One morning, an F.B.I. agent came to the house in the Oakland Hills where I was living. He put handcuffs on me and took me to the Oakland County jail. My housemates called a legal service. A lawyer filed papers to have me released on my own recognizance. After several trips before judges, and a couple of weeks in the Los Angeles County jail, I was sentenced, at the age of 21, to 42 months in federal prison.

Fish in the tank

Two other young men and I rode to the Federal Correctional Institution in Lompoc, Calif., in the back of a U.S. Marshal's car. Located in a rural area north of Santa Barbara, the place boasted blue skies and ocean breezes. Eucalyptus trees lined the parking lot. The prison itself, a three-story concrete structure, looked in many ways like a standard-issue government building--say, a regional water-district treatment plant--except, of course, for the pair of tall chain-link fences, each topped with several strands of barbed wire, and for the manned guard towers standing at the corners of the grounds. After the overcrowded hellhole that was Los Angeles County jail, the prison looked almost inviting.

One of the marshals opened the back door of the dark sedan and let the three of us out. Our handcuffs were linked together by a small chain, and ankle chains limited each of our steps as we trudged toward the two glass doors that bridged the gap between the fences. A buzzer sounded, and the first glass door clicked open. As soon as we entered the room, the door closed behind us. Another buzz and click, and we walked into the prison grounds and into a basement-level room in one of the wings. A guard, in navy slacks, light-blue shirt and red fie, and a khaki-clad inmate were waiting inside. The marshals, joking with the guard, took off our cuffs and chains, and left.

We took off our street clothes, which would be sent home, and went through what would become a familiar ritual: stand naked, hold your hands out to your sides, turn them over; mouth open, raise your tongue; run your hands through your hair; turn around, bend over, reach back, and spread 'em. The inmate handed us each a set of white boxer shorts, clean, well-pressed khaki trousers and shirts, white socks, and brown leather shoes. We got dressed, and he gave us quick haircuts. We each got two blankets, two sheets, a pillow case, and a toilet kit, then followed the guard upstairs through the cell block I later learned was called "M unit." It was late morning, and only a handful of inmates were walking in the hall. Two sets of double doors on the right opened onto a high-ceiling dining room, where I could see square tables, positioned diagonally, each surrounded by four brightly colored plastic...