Voluntary Enlistment Binds Post-Vietnam Cold Warriors
A few of my mates from RAF Lakenheath, U.K. From left, Joe Kordish, Dave Bean, Frank Ballante, Sam May and yours truly. We were together at Sam May’s house near Charlotte, N.C., in October 2018.
There’s a scene in the 1981 movie “Stripes” where John Winger (Bill Murray), a reluctant and unlikely leader, inspires his company of misfits to forget their differences – they’re all mutts, he says, descended from the “wretched refuse” who built this country – and find their inner soldier and get ready (in a matter of hours) for their graduation. Because, Winger says, they have one thing in common:
“We were all stupid enough to enlist in the Army.”
That’s what binds the boys of the 3rd Platoon, Bravo Company. Stupid or not, each one of them made the decision to enlist. Each one volunteered. And for each one the decision to volunteer was personal.
I was one of those enlistees. I entered basic training in July of 1980, seven years into the all-volunteer military. Substitute Air Force for Army and airman for soldier and Winger could have been talking to me and my buddies. I was 19. Stripes was my time. I get it.
(I should note here that the Air Force has always been voluntary enlistment – no one has ever been drafted into the Air Force. Young men often enlisted in the Air Force or Navy to avoid the Army’s draft, especially during the Vietnam era.)
For years my military service was mine – a shared experience with my comrades, certainly, but still intensely personal. Outside of the Air Force I was never recognized for my service. Nobody cared. And I didn’t care that they didn’t care. My reasons for serving were my own. They still are. For 30 years nobody cared about my service and I wish they still didn’t but the new reality says otherwise. It’s cool now to dig the military and those who’ve served.
But in 1980, military service was held in low esteem, considered by many – likely most – an option for those with limited options. The 1970s started with the country embroiled in Vietnam and ended with 52 Americans being held hostage in Iran. The Russkies were in Afghanistan. The Cold War was red hot. People were tired of it all.
Floundering my way through three colleges in two years, I too was tired of it all. I was squandering opportunity and going nowhere. I needed change, something completely different. I needed razzle dazzle. I needed the Air Force, and the Air Force needed me.
I found my mates – Winger’s “mutts” – at my first duty station, RAF Lakenheath, United Kingdom. We were B-shift firefighters at the base fire department, bound by our work, our play and our service. We were on the front lines at the time, in Europe projecting NATO strength and fending off the Soviets. We knew why we were there. Doesn’t mean we didn’t complain, incessantly, about everything, but we were there, doing the job.
Like the soldiers in Stripes, B-shift was a cast of characters who learned to love one another. And like the soldiers in Stripes we weren’t drafted. We volunteered. We enlisted. We worked hard. We partied harder. We tolerated the military much as it tolerated us – at arm’s length. The Air Force owned us, but we owned our service. We still do.
And that’s the fact, Jack.
A few days after submitting this column, I learned that a good friend, former colleague, fellow Air Force veteran and a great American, Dave Bean, had died. It was unexpected and a blow to everyone who knew him. He may or may not have agreed with any or all of this column, but he would have been the first to defend me and my right to say it. A guy who would do anything for his family and his friends, a guy who enjoyed life and living, a kind and gentle soul who you did not want to back into a corner. I had the privilege of serving with Beanie twice — at RAF Lakenheath, UK, and then at George AFB, Calif. He was from San Diego and retired after a long career as a firefighter in Southern California. He was living in Myrtle Beach, S.C., when he died, in Myrtle Beach to be close to his daughter. We had seen one another several times over the past few years and I talked to him just a couple of weeks ago and I’m thankful for that. RIP, David P. Bean. You deserve it.
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