Richard Hixon
Richard Hixon: ROTC, Signal Corps, and a Life Built on Showing Up
Richard Hixon’s story starts in Clearwater—born and raised, all his early schooling there, graduating Clearwater High in 1966. He skipped a grade, which meant he arrived at the University of Florida at just 17 years old. And that’s where his military story begins in a way that surprises people today: at UF in 1966, ROTC was mandatory for freshman and sophomore men. So before he even had a draft card, Richard was already marching, drilling, and learning basic soldiering.
He wasn’t new to discipline or the outdoors. His father was a hunter from Pennsylvania, and Richard had grown up shooting rifles and hunting wild pigs in Florida. He was also a Star Boy Scout—pathfinding, navigation, and “figure it out” competence were already in his toolkit. ROTC didn’t create that—but it sharpened it and, later, it changed the options available to him.
A family pattern of service—and the shadow of Vietnam
Richard frames his service inside a deep family tradition: someone on his father’s side served in every American war, from the Revolutionary War onward. That matters because, for his generation, Vietnam wasn’t abstract. On the UF campus in Gainesville, he was walking around in uniform at a time when protests were intense and the country was split. He remembers it as “sometimes very unpleasant,” but it wasn’t optional—he had to fulfill the requirement.
And Vietnam was personal:
A high school acquaintance, Michael Murphy, volunteered right out of high school and died in Vietnam.
Later, Richard visited the Vietnam Veterans Memorial and saw names of people he knew—both from home and from service—which he describes as one of the most moving experiences of his life.
A close friend joined the Marines, came home, and “was never the same.” Back then it was “shell shock,” not the language and treatment frameworks people recognize today.
He also remembers the cold reality of the draft hanging over young men’s lives. In freshman year they told students: “Look right, look left—one of you won’t be here in January.” He watched it happen, including men in his dorm who flunked out and were immediately facing the draft.
Law school decisions shaped by ROTC realities
When Richard graduated UF in 1970, the war was still going. He wanted a “gap year,” but the system didn’t care. His choice was clear: advance ROTC and graduate school, or go into the Army as a draftee/recruit. He chose to continue ROTC—and chose law school.
He was accepted at Columbia, but Columbia didn’t have ROTC. The University of Virginia did—so he went to UVA, loved it, and took two more years of ROTC while carrying a full law school load. He describes it as “double duty”: law all day, ROTC three times a week, maneuvers on weekends. He wasn’t alone—UVA’s valedictorian (John Jeffers) was in ROTC with him.
That pipeline led him to commission as a Second Lieutenant.
Boot camp: the “reduction” phase
Richard explains boot camp the way veterans often do: not as drama, but as a deliberate process of stripping you down.
He doesn’t dwell on the profanity, but he paints the specifics civilians tend to doubt:
Barracks life with zero privacy (“20 toilets facing each other”).
Scrubbing floors with toothbrushes.
The psychological shift when the government fully “enters your life” and you realize you’re not operating on your own terms anymore.
He also credits his Boy Scout compass skills in a way that’s both funny and revealing: in a land-nav exercise where two West Point guys ended up “found up a tree,” he was the first one back. Not because he was tougher—because he knew how to use a compass and stay calm.
Signal Corps and the luck of timing
After law school, he attended Officer Basic at Fort Gordon, Georgia, and entered the Signal Corps. This is where timing likely saved his life: early on, everyone believed they might be sent to Vietnam. Richard notes bluntly that Signal Corps second lieutenants in Vietnam—operating forward, setting up comms with small teams—had a very low life expectancy. But as the war wound down, they didn’t need him downrange. He calls that “very lucky.”
In Signal, he worked in an era before modern computing—message encryption with machines and by hand. He took the tests, qualified, and that became part of his value.
Reserve Captain, 32nd Transportation Unit, and real leadership lessons
Richard served 1973 to 1981, primarily in the Army Reserve. His standout assignment was the 32nd Transportation Unit in Tampa, a massive organization with aircraft, trucks, ships—the works. He was assigned as the signal officer, and he emphasizes a classic junior officer truth: you may be “in charge,” but the NCOs and specialists are how you survive and succeed.
He landed as a second lieutenant in a major’s slot, then progressed to first lieutenant and captain largely because:
The billet was above his rank
Strong evaluations kept him advancing
His crew was excellent (including experienced senior enlisted leaders and skilled civilians from telecom backgrounds)
His leadership philosophy is straight out of the professional officer playbook: listen, learn, and let competent people teach you how the job actually runs—without abdicating responsibility.
He also describes field assignments with a veteran’s blunt humor—Camp Mackall in the Okefenokee swamp (bugs/snakes), Fort Stewart, Fort McPherson, and Fort Eustis (which he calls a dump, “not the nice part of Virginia”). He remembers a “graveyard of ships” on the James River at Fort Eustis during that era.
Unlike today’s reserve tempo, he notes that his unit was never called up—another form of luck in that period.
The “public service” arc: law clerk → AG → legislature → judge
Parallel to his reserve career, Richard built a serious civilian public-service career:
Federal law clerk in Tampa (a rare opening that aligned with his graduation timing)
Deputy Attorney General in Tallahassee
General Counsel roles for the legislature
Judge to close out his career
He mentions working major cases (including mafia cases) and being connected to desegregation-era federal work that required marshals walking staff to their cars. After 9/11 he was staff director for a security committee. His point isn’t résumé padding—it’s that his military experience complemented credibility, trust, and selection in high-stakes public roles.
What the Army taught him, in his own terms
If you had to reduce Richard’s “lesson learned” to one sentence, it’s this:
The military taught him he could do things he never thought he could do—or would ever choose to do.
He gives vivid examples:
Height-and-water confidence tests (climb high, repel over a lake in rain, in combat boots, with people freezing up above you)
Survival training where they issued a live chicken and rice—his farm background let him process it while other groups literally set partially-feathered chickens on fire trying to “burn feathers off,” resulting in “chickens on fire running around camp.”
And he’s honest about the psychological shock of the system: standing naked in a line for an Army physical, being “treated terrible,” and realizing the machine is bigger than you.
His Vietnam lottery number: 192
One of the most concrete, sobering details is the draft lottery: if your number was below 195, you were still eligible. Richard’s number was 192. Close enough to feel fate breathing on your neck. He didn’t choose combat, but he did choose to fulfill what the country required of him—and he frames that as the central “blank check” idea of service.