Critical
Mass—
Earlier I described the Midway as being
like a one-fifth mile long chunk of the United
States. Now I would like to tune in on the
compressed life that buzzed within. Life on board
ship could be likened to that within a
hypothetical, irregularly shaped detention building
measuring 1,001.5 feet in length by 258 feet
wide. Except for supplies needing to be brought
in from the outside, this building would be
self-supportive as to most services and functions. Sorry, no elevators for
personnel use. In this hypothetical building
the inmates would work and play on the premises, pressed together by
commitment, necessity of day-to-day activities, requirements of teamwork, and a
moat that just wouldn't quit. Only the executives would have private or
semi-private quarters. All others would live and sleep in dorm areas of various
sizes and human density.
The people living aboard the Midway
were a multiracial mixture of diverse human beings.
We carried with us a complete assortment of typical human idiosyncrasies. These
included generous portions of humors, interests, habits;
likes, dislikes, passions; moral/ethical standards; religious convictions;
regional pride as to school, home town, state, even family's Civil War
affiliation; and ideological/political beliefs.
In this melting pot (another change of metaphors) could be
found vices including hypocrisy, prejudices, and bigotry,
even shades of criminality. Add to this soup the fact that all inmates were
male, sealed into a controlled environment where outside news could be
(and often was) severely limited and adjusted. Then turn up the heat and
humidity and let simmer for the greater part of six months (the typical length
of time for a Westpac cruise). The natural yield was not homogeneous.
The tendency on board ship was for the
various elements to separate out and each person align with others of his own
kind, whoever he decided that to be. Thus, subgroups
would be fostered. The process and result of
separating created constant tensions between,
and even within, subgroups, since there were
so many categories that a person could fall into more than one. However, the
greatest tensions were between subgroups.
Each clique became like a living entity,
feeding on that difference around which it formed. At some point, after a new
person came aboard, he would be
recruited and absorbed
by at least one, sometimes more. There also
were loners who either rejected or were rejected by
subgroups.
The older the vessel, and the longer since its
commissioning, the stronger and more indelible
were these cliques. They did not differ widely from ship to ship, except they
were larger and more intense on the carriers because
of the concentration of such a large number of
men. The difference between the sway of subgroups
on the Midway, which had a brand new
crew, and that of her sister ship the Coral Sea,
for example, was apparent. The Midway's cliques were in their forming
stages when we put to sea for our first Westpac cruise. They did not have much
opportunity to grow or solidify when we were mostly in ports. When on liberty
our freedom of movement and outside interests allowed each of us to go our own
way for much of the time. Thus unencumbered by
strong cliques it was easy for us to meld into a fully cooperative state when
necessary for drills, exercises or battle
maneuvers. In comparison, though I did not know how well the Coral
Sea responded to drills and exercises, I knew, from scuttlebutt,
that one of her subgroups, the criminal
element, had so entrenched itself that members of her crew
were advised not to travel the passageways alone because
of roving gangs of hooligans.
Tensions within and between the subgroups
were bad enough, but
in the military all these groups had to pull together and function as parts of
the whole. Thus the military created its own, adhesive tension that constantly battled
the separatist tensions of certain subgroups.
Some cliques had as their object the hatred of
certain other cliques, races, philosophies, religions, etc. Unfortunately, as
the military needs forced members of these
"anti-" cliques to continually come into contact with their
opponents, the resulting bad feelings tended
to build. Consequently, if not sublimated
these feelings would seek to explode into some form of negative activity.
Four of the greatest of these sets of hatred cliques consisted of:
1) certain blacks who hated whites;
2) certain whites who hated blacks;
3) pro-Vietnam War advocates who hated war protesters; 4) anti-war
advocates who hated those who espoused the military cause. When there was
violence it usually had to do with extremists from these four sets. The Midway's
officers were exemplary in their sensitivities toward these
sects, so the amount of trouble we had on board, or even ashore, was small. However, we sometimes heard
of riots and other incidents involving other ships.
Dwelling in the midst of these tensions, both
on ship and ashore, it seemed that Armageddon was just around the
corner. In my mind's eye the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse were approaching
on the horizon. It was a testimonial to the officers and crew of the Midway
that we kept our heads, when it would have been
understandable, and sometimes even justifiable,
had we not. We fought the boredom and monotony
and tensions as best we could, and the Captain
almost never had to resort to force or mass punishment in helping us to align
our human or military priorities.
- - - - - -
The war in Vietnam
began its steady, death-throes escalation with
the mining of Haiphong
Harbor,
two days after which I wrote the following poem:
The Deed is Done
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The deed is done
and, heirs, the people wait
Back home where hearths are warm;
Sons of the Future are returning
Back from a world of hate.
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Raise the flag
and strike a merry note
For those who have been afar;
Deck the halls with laurels and trophies
For on posterity's back we
wrote.
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Shield the babe's
eyes from his father's woe
And cover his young ears to slander;
As the Ships sail from the Apocalypse*
Whose role in Fate we know.
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Bid farewell to
the sweet life and society
Whose tenets have shown such flaws;
Sing praises to the gods of lust and vice
That the only sin may be
propriety.
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Burn the cities
whose environs kill the soul
And lay the foundations for misery;
Take up the carving knife and arm
Against your neighbor—that
his head may roll.
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Deal harshly
with the conservative man
And do not tolerate the liberal;
Steal from the rich, whose manners you despise
But give to the poor, whose baseness
you cannot Stand.
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Herd those who
number but
a few
Into "protected" areas beyond
your home;
Thus to make the world free of prejudice
See now what you must do?
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Do all you can
to pave the road
For the dauntless approach of the End;
Hate, hate and hate once more to grow
From shoulders of responsibility
drop the load.
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When the Finale
comes to seek you out
Let apathy transform you into a zombie;
Cry innocence and ignorance of Fate
That emptiness might hear your shouts.
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Then remember
the day not too long ago
When you stood by the ocean's
crest;
A deed was done and the Sons of the Future returned
Back from a world of hate.
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Written May 10, 1972
(on board U.S.S. Midway, doing business
at Yankee Station, Vietnam)
* Through literary license, the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse ride in on
Ships.
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- - - - - -
Intellectual tensions were not the only, or necessarily even the strongest,
areas of stress. Sexual tension, with its attendant psychological and biological
urges, was our constant, insistent, and personal companion at sea. Each man was
thrown upon his own resources to deal with the menace. We spent much of our
port time in the Philippines,
so this kept morale reasonably high, if in
some cases not morals. Mostly we spent weeks at sea with no liberty
at hand. The men had to learn how to get through those weeks as best
they could.
The absence of women did not,
unfortunately, cause the absence of desire to
have sex. The Armed Services long ago had given up the practice of reducing the
urgency by lacing our food with saltpeter. One
response to the situation, similar to the one no doubt
espoused by the ship's share of homosexuals,
was for some men to make bi-sexual compromises
considering the needs of the moment. The longer we deployed the more
overpowering became the need for compromise.
Of course, homosexual acts of any type or for any reason were not tolerated by
the Authorities and fell under the UCMJ's articles on
"sodomy." [The Uniform Code of Military Justice was what we in
the military were under instead of the United States Constitution or Bill
of Rights.] Caught in such an act would quickly get one kicked out of the
service with a dishonorable discharge. This
deterrent did not stop all such activity, though it contributed
to extreme discretion. The best response to
the sexual urge crisis was sublimation, using
the unspent energy to engage in an assortment of other available
activities and hobbies.
This type of answer also helped alleviate the sailor's other constant and
personal companion, the anxiety of what to do during off duty hours.
The problem of "what to do" was
less relevant for men of some departments, especially for the flight deck crews
and others who worked the greatest number of
hours each day. Yet for some of us there were many hours that we needed to fill
with some form of diversion. Once we left port, it was up to each man to use
his own ability in finding interest and
entertainment. If a fellow was busily
protesting being on the ship, in the Navy, or being
near Vietnam,
his frame of mind would tend to exclude the possibility
of having fun. There were many sailors who glummed about,
fuming and actively being miserable.
Others sat about spending their free awake
time reminiscing and dreaming about girl
friends, wives, families, children and returning home. These possibilities
could be quite entertaining. However, the men
partaking of these tended to be bitter
and under extreme stress, planting seeds of psychological problems
down the line, even many years away.
An overly used form of entertainment was sleeping away off duty hours. (I
call this tendency the Sleeping Beauty Syndrome. When they finally awaken it
will all be over.) Still others chose
recreational eating. There were several ship's stores,
where we could find an almost unlimited quantity of junk food to buy.
Some fellows started getting fat, though the biggest
problems were rotting teeth and general
ill-health. A case in point was a Radioman seaman who came aboard
and refused ever again to eat Navy chow. This was after he spent some months
working on the mess deck and saw what was done to the food. When in port he ate
ashore, and when at sea he subsisted on candy bars,
potato chips, shoestring potatoes, Vienna
sausages, sodas and other, similar types of foods and drink. He crammed his
locker with goodies in case the stores ran out. Consequently, he became
very puny and sickly looking, and his teeth definitely were on their way out.
(When it came to Navy chow, though I heard the same gruesome scuttlebutt
as did everyone else, I survived by
maintaining the motto "Ignorance is bliss.")
Television and movies provided some entertainment. Each berthing
compartment had a lounge, and each lounge had a color TV. The ship's TV station
was KMID/TV. At certain times it presented (via cable)
news shows; interviews with the Captain, pilots and others on the talk show
"Forum;" many hours of flight ops as they happened; and local TV
telecasts if we happened to be near enough to
a broadcasting station. Of course, overseas
the local shows tended not to be in English. I
do not recall watching canned entertainment over the TV, though there may have been
such programs.
Evening movies were offered on the mess deck directly over our berthing
compartment, but I did not attend very many of
these. The folding chairs and bombs
we sat on tended to be very uncomfortable,
and the projection equipment didn't always produce the best
quality sight and sound.
Card games were popular and consisted primarily of poker, hearts and spades.
As might be anticipated, there were card
sharks around to keep a portion of the crew adequately fleeced while enhancing
their own Navy pay. Also, after our first liberty
in Japan one
could hear the frantic dropping, bouncing,
pinging of the small, steel pachenko balls
almost any time of day or night. Pachenko was like a
vertical pin ball machine.
There was listening to records or tapes (cassettes, 8-track or reel-to-reel)
for whiling away the hours. Sound equipment could not be
turned up very loud as a matter of courtesy, since there were always off-shift
men sleeping in the compartment. Thus headphones were popular, especially the
heavy, multispeaker kind that encased the listener's
ears, popular before the invention of the
small, dynamic headphones generally used today. I had a pair of
stethoscope-like headphones that could be
switched either to stereo or dual-ear monaural. Many were the hours spent in my
lower bunk listening to cassettes (cassette
players being a relatively new invention).
Each pay day my collection of these little packages of entertainment grew.
There were many fellows who relished the adventure of shipboard
existence and were constantly on the lookout for different things to see, do
and experience. These men were open to accepting entertainment in many guises
and from many sources. Also, quite a few sailors had talents and so could
entertain others in addition to themselves. Included in this latter category
were men aboard who kept themselves
entertained by playing one or more of a
variety of musical instruments, mostly guitars of every type and some wind
instruments and drums. I had three harmonicas including a one-incher, a thirteen hole chromatic and a sixteen hole
chromatic, each of which I frequently played. When tired of these I dabbled
with playing my two English recorders, one soprano and one alto. I never heard
complaints as to my playing but did hear
compliments and encouragement.
The forward mess deck provided a popular gathering site for impromptu jam
sessions when musicians got together. When we had "smokers," or
evenings of planned entertainment on the hangar deck, besides
a tight rope walker, boxing matches and the
like, we were always treated to music performed by
men who had gotten together formally into bands.
Some of these groups were quite professional-sounding. My good friends, Airmen
Fisk and Chapman, were in such a band.
Sunbathing was popular as were
sight-seeing, picture taking, and flight deck sports. The ocean provided an
ever-changing panorama of waves, churning white caps, occasional vegetation and
assorted sea life. Especially entertaining were the flying fish and porpoises,
which played around the ship as it steamed ahead.
Cloud formations, too, could be quite
spectacular, and a fellow could get religious watching the displayed beauty
and powers of Nature.
The Executive Officer, who was responsible
for crew morale, would sponsor a smoker, a hangar deck barbecue,
or even an occasional (though rare) civilian performance. On this last note,
the only civilian entertainers I recall coming aboard
were several Miss America Pageant contestants. They arrived by
helicopter on one of our plane elevators during a stint on Yankee Station. They
wiggled about for a while, like in the movie Apocalypse
Now, and sang a little. Then the troupe jumped back
on their bird to disappear like a warm and
unfulfilled dream.
A sailor who had his last pay burning a
hole in his pocket, and had not been
completely fleeced by a shark, could drop by
one or more of the ship's stores to buy junk
food or sundries such as stereo, camera or housekeeping equipment, assorted
clothing, hygienic supplies, cassettes, knives, ship's souvenirs, you name it.
If these pursuits did not satisfy his needs, a crew member
also could use the money to buy illegal drugs.
Illegal drugs provided a major form of entertainment (or at least time killing)
aboard, and the ship's aft mess deck was the
main distribution point for these substances.
When sailors first came aboard they would
spend a few months as mess deck workers. Here they soon were introduced to the
drug acquisition network. Subsequently, when
they moved on to their rating locations, most of them carried the knowledge of
connections, and some carried a supply of the drugs. For some, as with the card
sharks, it was a way of supplementing their regular pay. For others, as with
the shark's victims, it was a way of emptying their pockets. The problem
was not invisible, and the crew was subjected
to occasional sneak inspections. Users and pushers seldom got caught, though,
since they learned early where to hide the drugs. Also, word about
an impending inspection got out to them in advance.
One way used by the Midway to help
counteract the drug problem was to provide a
place optimistically called a Drug Rehabilitation
Center. It was down a short, dark
passageway on the level just above the hangar
deck. Next to the Drug Rehab's entrance
was an exit hatch that opened out onto a sponson. The
medical officers were ultimately responsible
for the Rehab area, but
a certain petty officer was the one a fellow usually saw supervising the
Center. The petty officer worked with men who were having drug problems
and claimed to want them handled. He always had recourse to medical officers
for either medical or psychological assistance, if he ran into something he
could not resolve.
The Drug Rehab
Center was set up to simulate the
kind of place where drugs typically (stereotypically) would be
taken in the civilian drug subculture.
Included in the Rehab room were groupings of
pillows, cushions and rugs to be used for
lounging upon. There were psychedelic posters on untypical, colorful bulkheads
illuminated by blacklight,
while the smell of incense and sounds of rock 'n' roll or acid rock music
wafted throughout. Also present were tables
and chairs, assorted light reading materials, checker boards,
playing cards and other toys to keep minds and hands amused and occupied.
I deduced, after talking to the petty officer in charge during my occasional
visits, that the idea behind the layout was to
create a drug subculture-type environment
without introducing the chemicals, themselves. Theoretically, a habitual
user would enter the Rehab room and be
exposed to the scenery for a while, possibly
re-experiencing past drug trips, until, hopefully, he
would realize he could enjoy the trappings by
themselves and without drugs.
There were some fellows who went to the Center just to get a touch of a
civilian lifestyle left far behind in distance
and time. A third group consisted of users who would get "lit" before
entering the Rehab
Center. Frequently, getting lit was
done on the sponson deck next to the Center. It was
the perfect place to light up a marijuana joint and
toke away, with the escaping fumes dissipating into the night air. Then these blokes
would enter the Center and nestle themselves back
among the cushions to enjoy their chemical reactions. Although this last may
seem ironic, it actually served a useful purpose. The visits gave the petty
officer a chance to identify users and to influence them in trying to kick
their drug reliance. My visits to the Center were the result of curiosity on my
part plus a desire to talk with these men about
their drug-related problems and fixations. I
also gave a few talks to the men regarding some principles I thought might benefit
them.
Three of my personal favorite ways to keep mind occupied were reading,
writing and discussion. There were many things to read, what with
correspondence, magazines, and newspapers coming in with the mail
nearly every day at mail call. There also were military-generated newspapers
like the Stars and Stripes and a shipboard
paper called the Three-Mile Limit. I had a brainstorm
near the end of the first Westpac cruise. I even went so far as soliciting
Captain Harris' support and approval for the ship to produce a literary publication
called the Outer Limit. It was to include creative writings and even art
work provided by crew members.
Captain Harris gave the go-ahead for me to solicit material and edit the paper.
Yet, before things got started we had arrived
home, and the Outer Limit died of neglect. By the time we left on our
second Westpac cruise, about six months later,
I was no longer interested in pursuing the project.
My writing released difficult to express ideas regarding the Vietnam
conflict and generally those things in existence I thought were below
par. At first I wrote about religion and my
changing views toward the one I had grown up with, i.e., Methodism in
particular and Christianity in general. Topics had little to do with doctrines
and mainly dealt with unethical (sinful, if you would like) manifestations by
some claimed adherents.
From the topic of religion the writings grew increasingly toward politics
and man's imperfect political nature. However, several essays were never
finished. Sometimes I would start a project and continue several pages only to
find I no longer believed what I had started
out to expound upon. The final yield was not a finished draft, in these instances,
but crystallized thinking. It became
a process to un-brainwash myself
of an entire life of enforced orientations. As my views on life changed and
crystallized, the process inspired me in my next love, discussion.
Certainly a major form of entertainment on any ship was bullshitting,
sitting around swapping tall tales, actual exploits, stories, and mixtures.
This was quite wholesome, since it gave the fellows a reason for getting
together to have fun in sharing life's experiences (real and imagined). The
value of bullshitting only went so far,
however. The men always had to put forth a tough image and only talk about
things distant from their inner selves. For me, this was not enough. My need
was to talk about deep things that would
challenge the soul not just solicit chit chat.
I had become involved in the teachings,
religion and spiritual counseling techniques of L. Ron Hubbard
shortly after arriving in San Francisco
from the San Diego Naval
Training Center's
Service School Command. The one thing that helped me most through the last
years of my military time, as my opinion regarding our presence in Southeast
Asia soured and I began looking
forward to release from service, was my concentration on this framework of
knowledge.
My friend Skiff and I helped form a group espousing Ron's religious
philosophy while on our second Westpac cruise. We, as a group, wiled away many
hours discussing religious matters or just whatever came to mind. The welcome
distraction was joined by many fellow sailors,
including some who did not necessarily embrace
our beliefs but
who enjoyed and added to the diversity of topics.
It took several months for the group to be
recognized as a legitimate entity by shipboard
Authorities. Eventually, we received official permission to exist, a
technicality necessary to use the ship's chapel legally for gatherings.
Recognition also allowed us to have our meetings announced over the ship's 1MC
address system. By the time this acceptance occurred, however, Skiff and I were
already out of the Navy and back stateside. It
was up to our friends Fisk and Chapman to safeguard the group's persistence.
All told, there were many things to do on ship. Some things were more
personally beneficial than others, but
all were used to kill that evil creature that we had to deal with
constantly—TIME. I fell into the genre of sailors who had a
smattering of several tendencies. However, the longer I was aboard
the more I moved from the adventurer toward the protester. Yet, it was not
without a fight. Another Facconer, McGovern, once
asked how I managed to remain so cheerful.
We all had choices. We could have wallowed in self pity, slept excessively
and withdrawn from it all, coasted without personal involvement, ate junk food
until reaching a state of hyperglycemia, escaped through use of drugs, or
thrown ourselves into our circumstances with hopes of salvaging something worth
keeping. For me, what was worth keeping was the storehouse of impressions I
collected over my enlistment period. We all carried away something, but
few of us realized what would be the long term
effects of these Navy years on our future lives. I, for one, expected that,
when I left the service, the service would be
left behind. Too late I learned that the Navy
interlude would continue for many years as a part of my continuing
consciousness.
Regarding the shipboard tensions, human
dignity never died or had to be subdued
on the Midway. Her officers remained sensitive to the needs of the few
as well as those of the many. She, and other locations like her, proved that
diverse peoples could live and work together in close association and under
pressure without exploding into anti-social behavior.
They showed that what it took was personal, caring, intelligent and humane
treatment of individual people rather than an impersonal "handling of the
masses." Order and discipline could be
maintained without the necessity of brandished
force, or induced loss of individuality through brainwashing
minds into homogenous sameness.
Unfortunately, during those days this kind of enlightenment was more the
exception than the rule. Moreover, I did not appreciate how comparatively sane
was my command. My attention, instead, fixed on the many squeaky wheels. What
sank me near the end was the very fact that I had been
such a successful entertainment seeker during the two Westpac cruises.
Eventually I became saturated, even jaded, and
my imagination ceased to dream up new vistas. The resulting "what to
do" anxiety added fuel to a growing glumness and dissatisfaction with the
goings-on in Vietnam.
We had it pretty good, all things considered. For
example, special care ensured our having excellent food during our typical
one-month-long stretches on Yankee Station. Although this was not always the
case, there were many times when we would be
treated to steak, lobster, scallops and the
like, during a single sitting. Yet there was not a man aboard
unaware of the plight of his G.I. comrades on land not many miles away. We had
heard and seen news documentaries, read articles, and some had talked to men
who had served in Vietnam.
In the back of my mind, always, was the solemn
appreciation "There, but for the Grace of
God, go I."
Ship's crew were very lucky to be
removed from the action. Yet it had not been
without conscious forethought in this regard that most of us had joined the
Navy. We wanted to avoid dodging bullets, bombs,
personnel mines, etc., in Viet Cong-occupied rice paddies. Yet in joining the
Navy, as with anything else in the big gamble
called life, there was still the element of risk. After all, the Navy manned
landing craft and gunboats that patrolled the
dreaded rivers and deltas.
Our lives were not without hazards, yet our dangers were incomparable
to those furiously lurking ashore. Sailors with any amount of compassion at all
empathized with the land forces in ways similar to a hypothetical fellow,
locked in a room and fed a feast fit for a king, who yet knew that next door
someone was being brutalized.
In other words, our benefits did not rest
easy.
Following are excerpts from a September 28,
1971, letter written to my father and stepmother. Contained within
the letter were ideas and beliefs I had
already written about in the essays "Vietnam—Proving
Ground for Militarism, Materialism, Christianity" (1970) and "The
American Way" (1971). Some beliefs would be
talked about later in other essays, like
"Concerning a Way of Life" and "American Heritage" (1972).
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"You're right about
the economy. We've watched the fluctuation in value of the US dollar in respect
to foreign money, and it's getting more shaky.
However, not only does the President and the government have to step down on
the causes, but also there must be
considerable voluntary efforts by
corporations, industries and the public.
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"It's a fact that the United
States is going through a period of
adjustment, where the accent is shifting from a wartime
to a peacetime economy. Suddenly the market for war industries is dwindling
drastically. Also, nowhere near the present number
of men will be needed in the Armed Forces.
Those released will be needing jobs
that are in decreasing supply . . ..
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"The Armed Forces are changing along with everything
else, and they are leaning toward volunteer forces. The Navy is undergoing
changes both in the modernization and
reduction of its fleets and in its outlook toward the men and their morale.
Policy changes are commonplace, and benefits
are increasing daily for career oriented men. This, of course, is going to
cost taxpayers. However, the end product is a Navy with an adequate number
of new, up-to-date ships manned by men who
are happy with their jobs and well
motivated.
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"The United States
should be able
to continue its traditional leadership and strength in international affairs as
long as it maintains proper leadership and accurate economic guidance blended
with the cooperation of the citizenry. We can set a pace that will set a
precedent in peacetime prosperity. On the other hand, weak guidance and
failures to move to the dictates of the times could plunge us economically,
politically and militarily below the
surface. Our destiny could become like that
of ancient Rome, Greece,
Carthage, Egypt,
France, Great
Britain, Germany
and others.
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"It is my view that the United
States has psychologically backed
itself into a box canyon. Because of our
haphazard and ill-regarded police action in Vietnam,
unmindful of pragmatic policies and lacking true direction of intention, the
government has instilled within the people a growing apathy. Now, due to the
nature of apathy, many people do not wish to accept responsibility
any longer for governmental actions. After all, to `rise against' is a waste
of time and effort when political ears are deaf and minds fixated (on what,
pray tell?). Thus citizens defer their votes to `personalities' or PR images
instead of men who will seriously resolve issues.
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"Some people just grumble,
or they get back at the `System' or `Them' by
defeating local measures. Retaliation was the motive for the defeat of a badly
needed education millage recently voted down for my
old alma mater, Jackson High
School. I heard the comment that this was the
case from more than one voter in the school district. A credibility
gap separates the people from involvement in timely issues concerning the
government and its policies, both foreign
and domestic. Those few that do become
involved all too often find that the only vent for their feelings is through
joining demonstrations . . ..
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"When a person becomes
a politically active member of a Party, he
or she must ultimately compromise any variant personal wisdom for that of the
Party, i.e., sell their soul. When a person has
reached the point where the party considers them to be
worthy of running for office, especially for the Presidency, you can be
sure that the prospective candidate is not likely to stray far from Party
lines . . .. The black sheep
and reformers are weeded out long before
they have a chance to reach the Presidency . . ..
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"Now the people say `Let Them take care of the
government and economy. I've had enough kicks in the butt.'
Suddenly things start changing for the worse. After carrying on a mistake
(police action) fifteen years longer than it should have, the government
withdraws its forces. As a backlash the
economy wavers dangerously. A new era begins,
and cooperation is needed from fat war industries looking on lean times and
from apathetic people no longer looking. Money and hardships are required of
the people, profits and expansion are denied
industries that have paid good money, and lots of it, to keep their people in
office. Also, wisdom and foresight are expected of a President who must both
answer to the Party and be watchful of the
coming elections. I cannot imagine a nation surviving under tremendous odds
such as these . . .."
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My correspondence verbosity was diminishing
by the time August 6, 1972, arrived. I had run out of things to
say, though the feelings now were stronger than ever. My twenty-third birthday
three days earlier had been particularly
gloomy, since I had not received a single card, letter or package. Of course, I
knew why. In late July the plane carrying mail for the Midway flew to Hong
Kong by mistake and crashed. The
pilot, crew and mail were lost. Following is the August 6 letter I wrote
to my poor father and stepmother.
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"The Midway is still afloat and is still
dropping bombs
and doing other laborious missions of
horror. The chaplain is still coming over the 1MC address system and asking God
to `Bless our mission,' `Bring our planes back
safely,' and `Protect us from the enemy.' B-U-L-L!"
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Not all of my writing projects were serious. In fact, the nonsensical
ventures were the most beneficial to my
morale. Following is a series of special newspapers I wrote over a span of time
spent in Radio II (Transmitter I) using the typewriter located in that
compartment. It was during the summer of 1971, and we were on Yankee Station.
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S P E C I A L E D I T I O N
N E W S P A P E
R
A public
service newspaper that has its
customers' sophistication in mind
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Agnes Freeb Slings Cupid's Arrows—Agnes Frebe, winner of the Alabama semi-annual (tri-annual on leap year)
cotton picking contest, said today in a fast-paced news conference that she is
looking for a mate. Living with her father and helping him harvest his crop
every year for the past thirty years, Agnes has not
taken time off to do any courting. Now she says she's ready and will start
considering offers.
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A few vital statistics she offered were that she's single,
six feet eight inches, 496 pounds stark naked but
wet, with a real honest-to-goodness down home face and a natural knack for
cooking. Asked about her approximate age
Agnes blushed in her cute, maidenly way and
said "I'm old enough to know better but
young enough to dare."
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According to reliable
sources who have been
following Miss Frebe's career,
she has been looking for a husband
ever since her dear father died of ptomaine poisoning last spring. Dr. Elroy Pots,
family doctor of the Frebes' for
sixty years and frequent dinner guest, said he wasn't surprised when
questioned about the elder Frebe's demise. Clyde Frebe had
suffered 182 severe cases of the same poisoning since his wife, Mildewce, died six years ago. Agnes, feeling deep concern
for her father's condition would allow nobody
else to cook for him. She claimed that only she should cook for Clyde,
since he had such a susceptibility to
ptomaine.
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Agnes, a stout cotton picker from way back,
says that her idea of a husband is someone about
half her height, a peace advocate, and reserved in mannerism and opinion. She
believes that such a mate would be
ideal, since she could keep on picking without much opposition.
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* * * *
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N
U T S - I N - A - N U T S H E L L N E W S
|
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Goodwitch Decries
Title—Famed star of television and very talented actress Granny Goodwitch has taken a plunge in the eyes of her craft
guild. Granny was made immortal in her role as cereal sponge in Sugar CrispR commercials co-starring with that sexy bear
Sugar Bear Robinson. However, she recently
has taken to living on Wai Ki
Ki beach with a
23-year-old beach bum
by the name of Beacher
Boye. This course of action created a sensation or
two and caused Granny to become a Sandwitch. She was forced to change titles when the
American Witchery and Leprechaun Laundry Association decided she was not being
good.
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In the heated dispute that followed, Granny's boy
friend Boye decried the decision. He claimed that
any person Granny's age who could satisfy a
23-year-old man had to be good.
Although a polite nodding followed this statement, the decision was that the
new name should stick.
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* * * *
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E D I T O R I A L
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These news articles come to you from the hot typewriter of
"Chuck the nose" Paige. His painstaking dig for behind-the-headlines
news is a continuing effort to keep the world informed and keep his pockets
lined.
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* * * *
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L A B O R P A R T Y G A Z Z E T T E
Paper for
conditioned minds whose aim is
for justice for the working class
|
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Charges Unfounded But Hopes
High—Cannons and gum wrappers have parleyed for progress in a
nine-week drapery walkout. Informed sources say that a candid poll taken
recently to predict the turnout of the teamsters' vote clearly defined defeat
for management.
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|
Harley Davidson, noted socialist and head of the striking
union, predicted that talks concerning a halt to the walkout would make
progress only when better retirement plans
are available to teamsters. According to
Davidson's chief advisor Harriet Shitzpatrick, member
of the American Nazi Youth movement, it seems that the gum wrappers are
simply discarded, draperies get sent to the cleaners, and cannons, due to
their questionable working conditions, become
shot.
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A special White House investigating team has been
called in. Davidson, who has been harried by
continuous pressure from political factions, hopes that the team's findings will
expose the corruption of management and lead to a negotiated settlement. One
prominent member of the special
investigating team, Phil E. Buster, once-heralded Democrat from Louisiana and
elected nineteen times as that state's Senator, claims that the management of
Randomity Incorporated has remained within the law, although often on the borderline.
He said that the teamsters must resort to loop-hole digging if they wish to bring
criminal charges.
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Davidson, in response to Buster's findings, said that his
lawyers believe they can indict management
on litterbug charges. "However,"
says Davidson, "both labor
and management will continue their attempt to settle differences out of
court."
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* * * *
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C R I M E O N T H E S T R E E T S
Paper designed to
keep its readers wary
|
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Ethyl Trap Puts Wuf Wuf In Doghouse—Ethyl
Trap, noted seamstress and Internal Revenue investigator, filed charges today
against her dog Wuf Wuf.
The 96-year-old matron claims that the defendant neglected his duties while
serving as night watchdog in her plush East Chicago pad. This neglect, demanded Miss Trap,
allowed a prowler to ransack the apartment and steal various valuables.
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When confronted about the
extent of the theft in an exclusive WPUK radio interview, Miss Trap broke
into a sob and listed the articles inhumanly
stolen. Among those listed items was half a broken
watch chain belonging to her deceased uncle.
The watch chain had been savagely severed by
an arrow at the Little Bighorn. Also on the list were a once worn engagement
ring made of sparkling fool's gold embedded
with twelve lustrous rhinestones, and a dead canary, stuffed and hung by
its feet from the ceiling. Lastly, and her primary concern, the goldfish Blub
Blub
was missing.
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Ethyl claims that the ninety-eight pound goldfish has been
with her for the past fifty-six years. "He seldom spoke, but
I've always admired the strong, silent type." She fears that, since the
fish has attained such an extreme age, withdrawal from getting his daily
smack might kill him.
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Wuf Wuf,
indicted and booked in the Cook
County jail, with bail
set at 90,000 dollars, has taken quick action. He hired an experienced lawyer
belonging to the Sacramento,
California, branch
of the ASPCA and is expected to file counter-claims against the plaintiff.
His response to the claims against him is to say he was drugged. According to
a sworn statement made by watchdog Wuf Wuf, Ethyl Trap staged the
robbery
herself to exterminate Blub Blub. Blub Blub is a co-beneficiary
in Miss Trap's late father's will. The canine believes
that Ethyl was afraid Blub Blub would outlive her.
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* * * *
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G U I
D E T O P O L I T I C S
Paper aspiring to those
who want to get their hands dirty
|
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Perspectives On A War—Alice
Smith, a typical homemaker from Creepborough, South Dakota, has gone on record as against
the war in Vietnam. "Just look at the inflation
it's caused," she remarked last week at a bridge party.
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Alice is not
alone in her disgust of the war. Harry Eagle, long-time aspirant for the
senate of Idaho and devout
Democrat, has made it clear that he is putting his entire effort and
influence behind the peace movement. Harry
made his statement when asked by reporters
at a party caucus just what his platform would be
in the next election. When asked if the Pentagon Papers might affect his
chances as a Democrat in the next election, Harry exclaimed that the findings
of the Papers will have no more effect on his party than Spiro Agnew has had
on the Republicans.
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Mr. Eagle, carrying out his promise, has assigned his
entire staff, consisting of Mrs. Eleanor Rigby,
Burty Sweeney and Katherine Althouse,
to investigate all possible peace
perspectives. Although Harry is going all out in his election pursuit, it is
commonly believed that he won't make the
primaries. "If I fail again," commented Eagle, "I'll retire
from active politics and take up my real dream, to be
a transient peach picker in Nevada."
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Meanwhile, the Vietnam
subject bounces
back and forth across the country. In Washington,
DC, where the problem
is really a priority, Mr. Nixon has decided to forego his summer vacation so as
to discuss solutions with his Chiefs of Staff. The discussions will take
place aboard the Presidential jet on its way
to Florida. When they reach
their destination the troupe will compare notes between
holes while golfing and make tentative plans over juleps while basking
in the Tampa sun.
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When the President returns to Washington
next month he plans to address both the
Senate and House with the findings and to seek a Presidential pay raise to go
into effect after the coming election. Sources close to the President believe
he is confident about winning the coming
election. However, this belief has not been
verified by an official White House
statement.
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It is widely believed
that Nixon will seek all possible ways of
not only getting out of Vietnam
gracefully but of getting the affected
Communist governments to allow the US
to make trade agreements with them. Executive advisors, after consulting
well-informed but anonymous sources, told
the President recently that no trade agreements will be
possible until the US
cuts down its trade with Japan.
It seems that the Chinese, nurturing wounds suffered in World War II, have a boycott
on Japanese goods. The Chinese fear that, since just about
everything sold in the US
comes from Japan,
such products would eventually end up in our exports, too. Mr. Nixon said he
would make allowances for this unexpected development but
had already initiated a cutback in Japanese
imports.
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[See related article TWO US
ORPHANS—TAIWAN AND JAPAN—JOIN FORCES]
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Copyright 1992, 1998 Charles W. Paige
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