Frank went into his bedroom and sat down on the bed to open the envelope he had taken from the mailbox. He didn’t like keeping secrets from his mother. He had to decide how to tell her. The prior November, when he’d turned eighteen, he’d had to register for the draft. She knew that, but not that he had received a form to report his plans for after his graduation. He was classified as 1-S since he was still a high school student.
Frank had ignored the college application process because without a scholarship he didn’t have the money, and he didn’t qualify for a deferment without a college acceptance. As required, he had notified Selective Service of the change in his status as a student. The job at the funeral home had given him some hope; however, it just wasn’t enough. Sure, he still had the summer to work and could enroll somewhere in September, but that was his old thinking. And the past week had brought changes he hadn’t planned on. He was ready to move on with his future and whatever it brought.
So, in a week, as of Friday, May 29, 1970, he would be a high school graduate with a 1-A classification and could be drafted into military service. He didn’t have to open the envelope; he knew this was his new card. Now he was certain he knew who had started the fire that his father had died in. It wasn’t an accident. It was murder. His father’s repair shop had been a threat to the “best mechanic in West Louisiana.” The scars on Beau’s arm were burns.
Frank took the lighter from his pocket and looked at the engraved initials, BNH. What was Harper’s middle name? Did it matter? What could he do about it? Could one eighteen-year-old make a difference?
Yes. He knew three men who’d enlisted together at eighteen, all three marines: his father, Ole Man Everett, and Fred Peterson. They had returned to Kettle Creek after Korea, and each had made a difference in his own way. His father had been a devoted family man who held a job, started a business, and was a leader in the local NAACP. Fred Peterson had gone to college on the GI Bill and come back to a career in education. Ole Man Everett struggled with nightmares from combat but used his tracking skills to hunt in the woods and alert his neighbors to suspicious activity.
What could Frank do? He still had the business card the FBI agent had given his mother four years earlier. The office’s address was in a large city about ninety miles away. He could write a letter to the agent explaining that he had found the lighter next to his father’s shoe on the night of the fire and had kept it secret all this time, but that would put his family at risk. He couldn’t do that. He put the lighter in his pocket.
Frank drove to the army base and asked to speak to Sergeant Barry, the recruiter who had come to his school. He didn’t have to wait long. Sergeant Barry greeted him and walked him back through the recruiting headquarters, a rabbit warren of cramped offices.
“It’s good to see you again. I remember you from Kettle Creek High School; you had questions about college benefits. Weren’t you a football player? Frank’s your name, isn’t it?”
“Yes, I’m Frank Woods, and I was a football player. But that’s over. I wanted to ask you more about enlisting. I’m 1-A, and I don’t want to wait to get drafted.”
“If you enlist, you serve three years active duty and three years inactive reserve. A draftee serves two years active duty.”
“My father worked in the motor pool. Is there a way I could enlist and have that assignment?”
“You want to work with your father, on this base?”
“No, he passed a few years ago. He was a civilian worker.”
“You know your way around cars, Frank?”
His mind flashed back to the day he had been under his mother’s old car with oil dripping in his eye. Changing the oil in her car that day had been the last thing he’d wanted to do, but it had given him a sense of pride. And driving the hearse for the funeral home required him to step up and recall all the things his father had taught him about cars. He hadn’t realized how much he knew until he tried to impress Mr. Fields.
“Enlisting can allow a guaranteed MOS if you qualify for it.”
“MOS?”
“Oh, sorry, MOS stands for ‘military occupational specialty.’ Tell me a bit more about yourself. Did you graduate from high school?”
Frank thought about how that almost hadn’t happened. “Yes, sir. Well, almost—we graduate next Friday.”
“Enlisting in the army was a great career choice for me, Frank. What else are you interested in?”
“Yes, I see that you’re in good shape. I guess that’s from training and practice. But we don’t do much football. We have some windmill baseball competitions in the spring, but those are for soldiers here on a permanent assignment. Anything else?”
Frank put his hand into his pocket and felt the coolness of the lighter.
“Law enforcement, maybe military police?”
Sergeant Barry reached into his desk and took out a folder. “How ’bout I give you this brochure and some paperwork for you to look over? You said you’re expecting a draft notice. If you enlist before that happens, you’ll have more control over what your assignment will be because we’ll be looking at you as a possible career candidate. You can specify what MOS or training you want as long as you qualify and don’t screw up. You can also specify where you want to go before you enlist. As long as a position is open, you’ll be guaranteed a one-year assignment there. After that, you go where the army needs you.”
Frank took the folder. He’d talk it over with his mother, but he was ready to sign up. He might wind up in Vietnam, but not everyone did. Enlisting promised to give him some choices. And someday he would find a way to avenge his father’s murder.