WHEN I PULLED INTO THE PARKING LOT AT Badger Army Ammunition Plant in May 1966, I had no intention of working there. That morning, Mom had said, “Why don’t you stop by the plant? I hear they’re hiring because of the war.” I had just completed my freshman year of college, and her well-meaning suggestion grated against against my newfound independence. As I surveyed the chain link fence surrounding the facility, a wave of resentment rose in me. It looked like a prison. But I was eighteen and I needed a summer job.
The Vietnam War had become a stark reality in my life a year earlier when some of my high school classmates enlisted before graduation; others were drafted. Several family members had fought in World War II and the Korean conflict, but the Vietnam War was unsettling because of what happened to my classmates—people my age who I grew up with. Even so, the war on the other side of the world was not foremost on my mind that day in May. My parents allowed me to use the family car to find a job, so I was compelled to stop at Badger to placate Mom. I was quite confident I would not be offered a position. I had no experience in manufacturing, and although I had done some clerical work, how many summer employees would an ammunition plant need?
Constructed on the beautiful Sauk Prairie almost immediately after the attack on Pearl Harbor, the plant
