In June, he reported to Lackland Air Force Base near San Antonio, Texas. It was where the fresh blood was trained, transformed in a matter of weeks from frightened young men to warriors. There were no calendars, no watches allowed in boot camp. One cadet scratched marks on the wall to count the days.
The only respite from a brutal regimen came in the few hours of sleep. But even that was taken from Williams soon after his arrival.
In the barracks, 46 guys slept on the top bunks, 46 on the bottom.
In the dead of night, the assistant drill sergeant woke Williams and ordered him to a second-floor office.
Williams stood before the sergeant in his government-issue T-shirt and boxers. He stared straight ahead, like he was supposed to. Suddenly, the sergeant choked him, threw him on the floor.
"He was all over me. He was raping me."
After it was over, Williams cleaned himself up and went back to bed.
"In the military, everyone pulls together. I did not want to be the one who let everyone down."
During training, the cadets were not allowed to make phone calls. They were not allowed to leave base. Williams kept the rape to himself, afraid to report a superior and ashamed of what others would think.
"In 1966, to be labeled a homosexual was like being labeled a child molester," he says.
Then, a few days later, it happened again. And again. The drill sergeant beat him and knee-dropped onto his kidneys. Williams was afraid to fall asleep at night. To stay awake, he sewed buttons and patches on his fellow cadets' uniforms.
To make matters worse, Williams fell hard on rocks during a physical training exercise and damaged his back. He was scarred for life, physically and mentally.
After the third rape, he went to talk to the drill sergeant. By then, other cadets had reported seeing blood in Williams' urine. His bladder was damaged, but he was not hospitalized until many weeks later. Only one kidney was functioning then. He remembers being told in the hospital that he might not make it.
By December of that year, the Air Force career that Williams coveted was over. He was honorably discharged for medical reasons and sent home to suburban Seattle.
"I did not get timely and appropriate medical care. They discharged me when I wasn't dischargeable. Like a dummy, I kept doing what they told me to do."
Williams tried to resume life in Seattle. He bought a house on Bellevue Way even before he got married so that he would not have to start a family in an apartment. He got jobs at Boeing and other places. But he couldn't make anything work.
He tried school and attended Bellevue Community College from 1972 to 1974. But he couldn't finish his degree.
Physical problems plagued him around the clock. He soiled himself constantly from the damage to his bladder and took pills to kill the back and neck pain. He suffered from depression. He slept with a light on. He had difficulty making decisions and lacked self-esteem.
He got married four times over the course of several decades. He didn't think he deserved a wife -- he called himself "damaged goods" -- so he settled for anyone willing to put up with him. All his marriages ended with divorce.
He had a daughter named Wendy and loved to take her to Enatai Beach Park. She carried her fishing tools in a little black purse, and father and daughter spent hours on the old pier.
"I held my pieces together to raise my daughter," he says. "After she left for college, I lost purpose in life."
At one point, he found himself sleeping in his car and developed a routine of eating one meal at Jack in the Box and skipping the next three. He battled the VA for medical treatment for his physical and mental problems.
No one was ever convicted of raping him. No one reached out to help him. He felt betrayed by his own government.
In 2004, he tried again to end his life, this time with alcohol.
"I have service-connected problems," he says. "I should be able to get help. I've had to learn how to live with the pain. I have not felt like I deserved anything.