I was never in the military. Had I been drafted, I would have served. I never considered volunteering.
My prime service years coincided with the war in Vietnam. I signed up for the selective service as required when I turned eighteen. Shortly after that I started college and received a student deferment while I continued my education. My student deferment expired when I graduated from Western in June of 1969. The following August I landed a job as a teacher, and received a deferment that allowed me to continue teaching. That deferment expired on December 1, 1969 when the first draft lottery since 1942 was held.
My lottery number was 226. My local stopped selecting numbers when they hit 195.
For one night I was an unofficial member of the United States Air Force, stationed at Selfridge Air Force base in Harrison Township near Mt. Clemens, Michigan. It was the night before my cousin, Gene, got married.
Gene and I picked Sergeant Storm up from the airbase to celebrate Gene’s impending wedding. I was eighteen and preparing to serve as his “best man”. The evening consisted of several stops at local bars that Gene frequented. Since I was underage, I assumed Stephen’s identity. His military identification did not have his picture. It contained his name, rank, and serial number. I memorized everything and was prepared to present myself as Sergeant Stephen Storm whenever I was asked for my ID that night. That’s the only night in my life that I planned to use false identification. No one asked.
Gene’s about to be wife, Sandy, had a brand new Pontiac LeMans and that was our transportation for the evening. The top number on the speedometer was 140 mph. We never reached top end that evening, but I thought about it when we hit Metropolitan Beach Highway. Gene sat up front with me, “Stormy” in the back, and I was the driver for the trio.
Gene was known to his friends as Woody. Everyone knew him at every stop we made. We never paid for a drink. His reputation in Mt. Clemens was all he needed. Stormy and I were with him, and welcomed as equals. Several girls sought his attention. That’s the night I learned that girls like military men even if they’re out of uniform.
Gene may have collected a kiss or two, but other than that he didn’t succumb to their flirtatious advances. That was when I was sure that Sandy was truly “the one”.
We stayed out until all the bars were closed. Gene and Stormy never turned down a drink. Since I was the driver, I paced myself. I drove back to Selfridge to drop Stormy off. By now he was in the front seat, and Gene was in the back. I presented my real identification to the guard at the gate, and told him that I was returning Sergeant Storm to his barracks. He could barely walk, so I made sure that he got inside. After that he was on his own.
I made the drive to Gene’s house and parked near the back door. I tried to get Gene out of the backseat, but he was out cold. I couldn’t budge him.
I slowly opened the back door of the house and slipped off my shoes. I was ninja like in my every move. I didn’t want to wake anyone up, nor draw any attention to our arrival. After slipping off my second shoe on the back door landing, I looked up the three stairs and saw my Uncle Harry dressed in his tighty-whities.
“Where’s Gene?”, he asked.
“He’s in the car. I can’t wake him up.”
That was it. I walked down the hall to Gene’s room and went to bed. When I woke up the next morning, he was sleeping on the living room floor.
We seldom spoke of our travels after that evening. If you asked me for a number or list of bars, how many people we met, how many girls made a pass at Gene, how many beers were consumed, I couldn’t provide an answer. I only remember the three traveling companions, the make of car we drove, and my fictitious military rank and name. My serial number is lost forever.