Chapter 38: Dodging the Draft

The war was moving from simmer to a rolling boil as I blew out the eighteen candles on my store-bought birthday cake and my childhood vanished in a cloud of waxy smelling smoke.

According to the calendar and the law, I was now officially an adult. I was a “man.” The trouble was I didn’t feel like a man. I was a kid with eighteen years of experience.

There was still a few slices of leftover birthday cake in the refrigerator back home as I reported to the Air Force assembly area in downtown Fitchburg nine days later and joined with forty other enlistees. I prepared to take the oath of enlistment in the United States Air Force. The next four years of my life would belong to Uncle Sam.

Most of the men around me were in their late teens. Several were in their twenties, and one man with prior service was pushing thirty. As I scanned the crowd, I soon realized I was one of the youngest ones there.

We boarded a bus and drove west to Springfield, Massachusetts. Upon arrival, the Air Force quartered us in a motel while we waited to be sworn in the next day. Our entire mob occupied nearly every room of the motel. Soon after we arrived, someone passed the hat to collect money for booze. After a quick liquor run, our quarters became the open bar on our floor.

It was July 6, 1966 and up until that day I had been a squeaky clean Preacher’s Kid. My experience with alcohol consisted of a single sip of beer at a wedding reception. I hated the taste so I’d crossed beer off my list of beverages.

Our bartender, a man named Tony, offered me a beer. When I declined, he offered me a double shot of Johnny Walker and Coke.

I thought the taste was delightful so I chugged it down and asked for another. Tony told me that I was free to mix my own and there was no limit. Like a kid in a candy shop, I sat next to the bar and wolfed down half-dozen mixed drinks in a row.

All was well until the dinner arrived. I stood to get a slice of pizza. As I was standing there, the floor rose up and smacked me in the face. I woke up as several guys were carrying me off to bed.

The next morning on July 7, 1966, I joined the other men enlisting in the Air Force. We were gathered together in a large room of the Springfield Armory. My memory of the event was every bit as fuzzy as my tongue. However, I do remember my oath.

“I, Dennis Nathan Randall, do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; and that I will obey the orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to regulations and the Uniform Code of Military Justice.

So help me God.”

I focused on the words and did my best not to fall over or throw-up as a world-class hangover twisted my head and stomach into knots. I called home to report that I was now officially in the Air Force. My stepfather told me that my draft notice had just arrived in the mail.

I had done it! I had dodged the war by joining the Air Force. My enlistment was my middle finger salute to my local draft board. As far as I was concerned, they could go fuck themselves.

Tomorrow we would all be flying down to Lackland Air Force Base in Texas to begin basic training. At least that was the plan.

At the stroke of midnight, thirty-five thousand airline workers went on strike in the largest labor action in aviation history. Along with several thousand others, our flight was stuck on the ground. Thus, the first week in the Air Force began with an unplanned vacation as we sat in the motel while officials scrambled to arrange transportation to Texas.

I had just learned my first lesson in being an enlisted man: nothing ever goes according to plan.

Part Two: Fun, Travel & Adventure When I decided to join the service, I was confused and conflicted. I hated the war and opposed it with every fiber of my being. Yet, I felt an obligation to serve my country. I considered going to Canada but I didn’t speak Canadian.

Most of my classmates saw graduation as liberation; I didn’t. Graduation was the edge of a cliff from which a steep forward wasn’t always progress. With my mother on one side and the war on the other, I jumped into the abyss. Enlistment was an escape from my mother’s control. I was running away from home at government expense.

I also viewed enlistment as an opportunity to establish a new identity free from the influence of my family and Joyce’s abuse. It was a chance to start over again with a clean slate, meet girls and perhaps, you know, get lucky.