March 10, 1972, was a rare sunny day in Seattle, Washington. At the Military Entrance Processing Station, I found myself surrounded by dozens of other young men about to begin an odyssey that would likely place most of us in the war-torn jungles of Vietnam. For the very first time since making my decision to join the US Marine Corps, I felt the stomach-churning fear of what might lie ahead. Aside from the fear and uncertainty about how my future was about to unfold, the experience was almost comical as I stood urinating into a small jar among dozens of other young men doing the same, with varying degrees of success. I couldn't help but be somewhat amused as I watched those who either had stage fright or were possibly thinking that if they couldn't pee into that damned little jar, just maybe that would be their way out of a thirteen-month military duty in Vietnam.

It was an odd mix of Pee-wee Herman types, high school jock types, guys with more pimples than muscles, and the burly, macho, kill-a-commie guys who could hardly wait to get their rifles and fire their first rounds into the jungle at the faceless Communist enemy. Regardless of what any of us imagined it was going to be like to be a marine serving in the Vietnam War, it was hard to imagine any of us striking fear into the hearts of the Viet Cong. There we all were, walking around in our underwear with our little green bags of personal valuables dangling down like purses, hardly looking the part of natural-born killers who were preparing to defend democracy.

After making it through Urination Hall, we all moved on to the next station. This time, we endured the typical examinations by military doctors who listened with their stethoscopes, grabbed our testicles while we all faked a cough, and, of course, subjected us to the ultimate indignity, by making us bend over and spread our butt cheeks. I figured this was more for the humiliation effect than it was to determine whether we actually had any medical issues up our asses that would prevent us from carrying rifles and pulling the triggers.

I couldn't stop thinking about Annie, my girlfriend and high school sweetheart, knowing that it would be a long time before I would get to hold her and kiss her again—if I ever would. The Marine Corps recruiter was the last recruiter I had gone to see once I had made the decision to leave school and join the military. After giving consideration to the navy and the army, I became convinced that the US Marine Corps was the branch for me, not just because two of my friends had already become marines, but also because it would allow me to enlist for just two years instead of three in the army or four in the navy. I didn't envision the military as a career, and the shorter enlistment period would allow me to get back to Annie sooner. Although I was sad to leave Annie, my family, and all that was familiar to me in my hometown, I was excited to be a marine.

As I looked around at the other young men also about to dedicate their lives to a war that seemed to have no end, I tried to imagine which ones would make it home to hold their wives and girlfriends, to see their families again, and which ones would come home in boxes like the thousands we saw while watching Walter Cronkite every night on the CBS Evening News. I just prayed that my parents, my sister, and Annie would never have to welcome me home in one of those boxes draped with the American flag.

I stood in line waiting to take my turn for the hearing test as several other young men sat in the antiquated-looking cubicle with headphones on, raising their hands and looking like a herd of fearful cattle, all making moves in unison in response to a perceived threat. Finally, I was seated in the box with fifteen others while a man who introduced himself as Sergeant Aster gave us instructions. I couldn't help but think that with a name like Aster, he should have been assigned to the all-important duty at the last station—Operation Ass Probe.

"This is a simple hearing test, so don't make this any more difficult than it is. Put the headphones on, with the side with the wire on your left ear. Shortly after I close the door, you will begin to hear a series of beeps varying in pitch and length. When you hear the sound in your left ear, raise your left hand for the duration of the sound. When you hear a sound in your right ear, raise your right hand for the duration of the sound. Are there any questions before we begin?" No one said a word as Sergeant Aster closed the door.

In just seconds, the others began raising their hands in unison like synchronized swimmers, while I heard nothing. I took my headphones off and jiggled them, thinking that there must be a loose wire. I put the headphones back on but still heard nothing as the others continued raising their hands. Suddenly, the door opened, and there stood a scowling Sergeant Aster. I felt the tight grip of his powerful hand clamp down like a vise on my right shoulder. I took off the headphones as Aster sternly said, "Bronstad, come with me."

Are you kidding me? I haven't even made it through the physical examination, and I'm already in deep kimchi? He led me down a hallway to the room where we all had disrobed and instructed me to get dressed. He then ushered me down another hallway, saying nothing as we walked. I followed dutifully, and in my mind, I rehearsed my explanation as to how I honestly had not heard anything in the box—if, indeed, that was what all this was about. We entered a stark, windowless room with a table and four wooden chairs. The only other thing in the room was a small table with plastic glasses and a pitcher of water.

"Take a seat, Bronstad, and someone will be with you shortly."

I couldn't believe this was happening, and my imagination began to go a little wild as I thought of what kind of trouble I might be in for the egregious crime of having faulty headphones. After about fifteen minutes had passed, the door finally opened, and in walked two men wearing what appeared to be identical dark suits and nearly identical neckties. I can't hear the fucking tones from equipment that looks like Soviet-made hand-me-downs, and they have two goons from the FBI up my crawl?

The taller of the men had a receding hairline, a rather pleasant-looking face, and a thick, dark, neatly trimmed beard. Without any introduction or explanation as to who he and his partner were, he said, "Mr. Bronstad, we would like to ask you some questions. Would you like a glass of water before we begin?" The other fellow was short and stocky with a square jaw, a square head, square shoulders, and menacing dark eyes that gave me the impression that if he didn't like my answers, he would not hesitate to inflict the kind of pain you read about in Mafia novels.

"Look," I said, "first I would like to say that I'm not trying to get out of going to 'Nam if that is what you're thinking, and this could all be cleared up if someone would just check that 1950s Soviet-looking crap equipment in that damn testing box. I've never had trouble with my hearing, and I'm damn sure not a faking coward! And who are you guys anyway?"

"Mr. Bronstad, we're simply here to talk with you about a few things from your past. This can all be very easy, or it can be very difficult ... that's entirely up to you."

Tall Guy opened a file that was at least an inch thick, which I assumed was filled with standard questions that FBI guys asked young men who were trying to avoid military duty. It appeared...