I sat in the parlor of a dormitory with a group of worried males, most of us with our girlfriends, in December, 1969, to hear the numbers read out on the radio. Next to me was a guy whose birthday came up number 1. He rose silently and walked away (in order, I discovered later, to phone his dad and get into a Guard unit).
My birthday came up 256. I was pleased, of course. Less pleased was my twin brother for whom it was too late to get out of ROTC and four years in the Air Force. I found the lottery random, of course, and frightening, but certainly fairer than enjoying a deferment just because I was in college.