Tom Wakely for Congress

December 21st

 

After basic training at Lackland AFB in San Antonio, Texas, I was transferred to Kessler AFB in Biloxi, Mississippi. Now, remember this was in 1971, just 3 years after MLK was assassinated. The only thing I remember about the base commander was that he was a good-ole-boy from Alabama and an asshole. He kept the base segregated, with white airmen on one side of the base and black airmen on the other side of the base.  Barracks and dining halls were segregated. The hospital patients’ rooms were segregated as well, one floor for white airmen, another floor for black airmen. It was definitely not something I expected.

Anyway, as I looked around for friends at my new home, I found a bunch of guys from New Orleans; all of them were black, and we all hit it off. Music was what brought us together. I introduced them to some of the music I was already listening to. Creedence, Santana, Pink Floyd. They introduced me to some of the music they were listening to. Marvin Gaye, James Brown, and Sly & The Family Stone. Funny how music can bring folks of different backgrounds, cultures, and races together.

Now, it was our habit to take off every weekend if our names weren’t posted on the weekend duty roster. We would slip away to New Orleans, where most of these guys hailed from. It was only about a two-hour bus ride away. They would show me around the city, introduce me to their families, and their girlfriends. Unfortunately, over the years, I lost touch with these guys. But I will never forget the great times we had on Bourbon Street and all those hangovers that followed us back to the base on Sunday afternoon.

There are a couple of things that happened while I was stationed at Keesler, things that shaped my life and how I came to view the world around me. One day, a black airman and I, who were both seventeen, decided to go into town and grab something for lunch. We walked around downtown Biloxi for a bit, found a restaurant that looked promising, went inside, and sat down at the lunch counter. We ordered some food, but I can’t remember what it was. I do remember it looked great. Anyway, within a few minutes and after a couple of bites, we both began gagging. It was soon followed by the noon restaurant crowd breaking out in loud laughter. Our meal had been laced with something, maybe pepper, but it didn’t matter to us; we just wanted to get the hell out of there. Back at the base, we both went straight to the hospital and had our stomachs pumped.

It was probably the last straw that broke the camel’s back as far as the bases’ Black airmen were concerned. The following week, a race riot broke out on the base. On the West Coast, at Travis AFB, another race riot was exploding at the same time. I subsequently learned decades later from an Air Force sergeant who was one of the hospice patients my wife and I were caring for, that one of the bases he was stationed at in Europe went through the same thing at the same time. Racial tensions and the horrors of the Vietnam War fueled everything.  

Months later, and right after I turned eighteen, I met some older airmen who lived off base. They were all opposed to the Vietnam War, and I soon came to embrace the same. One evening at these guys’ home, they discussed what they planned to do for the 30^th anniversary of Kessler’s designation as an Army Airfield, and they asked me if I wanted to join them. A couple of beers later, I said, "Hell yes,” and the rest is history. They somehow had managed to secure two jeeps from the motor pool; how they did that, I don’t remember.  Anyway, we decorated them both with anti-Vietnam War signs and peace flags. Then, on the day of the anniversary, we drove those two jeeps onto the base and found our way to the end of the parade line. I can still see the faces of all the brass as we passed by, standing in the jeeps, saluting them. Within minutes, we were all arrested by MPs and hauled off to face whatever punishment was coming down the pike.

The Judge Advocate who represented me got me off with three days in the guardhouse and a loss of pay. A very short time after I was released, I went to see the same Judge Advocate and told him I wanted to apply for discharge as a conscientious objector. After he filed the paperwork on my behalf, my life became unbearable. A day didn’t go by without some officer giving me grief for this or that. But when I didn’t buckle under the pressure, the base commander tried another tactic. He offered me an honorable discharge if I withdrew my conscientious objector application. I said yes, and a few weeks later, I was on my way home.

That experience set me on the road to a lifetime of advocacy for peace and justice for all.