BLACK (Friday Nov. 14, 1969)

BUSINESS AS USUAL? Read the posters. For President Nixon and his sidekick Spiro there was no doubt. Or was it the other way around—Vice President Agnew and his sidekick Dick? For Pat, and me and thousands of other the answer was a trenchant no.

At 1:00 p.m. today, Pat and I left the house and headed for the staging ground across the Memorial Bridge in front of Arlington Cemetery for the March of Death. We crossed Constitution Ave. The Lincoln Memorial loomed large and white ahead; his serene presence bestowed a sense of dignity and benignity on the youthful marchers who filed past the rear of the monument as they crossed the Memorial Bridge. The marchers seemed shaggier and more youthful today. Last night when the March began, the marchers faces were ensconced in the shadows of the night; only the small yellow memorial flames—candles protected by a lily cup—and the white cardboard placards could be clearly seen. The ghosts of the 40,000 GI dead had arisen from their jungle graves and haunted the streets of the Nation’s capitol. The spectral faces of the last night transformed themselves into serious, intent, somber faces in the light of day. We crossed the Memorial Bridge on the side of the street opposite the Marchers. The sun broke through, the air was warming. The Potomac flowed peacefully below the bridge out to sea. Only the smokestacks of the soap factory and the stacked 727’s navigating up river belching fetid white and black debris marred the otherwise picturesque landscape.

At the end of the bridge on a small green knoll sandwiched between the George Washington Parkway and the river, hundreds of people queued up. At the bottom of the knoll three tents were strung together consecutively with only a small portal of space between them. Pat and I spent nearly 15 minutes trying to find the end of the line loops to begin the 4 ½ mild procession which would pass Mr. Nixon’s residence and then on to the Capitol. We fell in line behind a young college student with a misshapen black felt hat, hazel eyes and a carbuncular face partially hidden by a scraggily beard. I nodded hello.

“Where you coming from?”

“I just came down from the University of Buffalo”

“How many of you came down here?”

He smiles, “Twenty-one busloads and man, you should have seen all the other busloads of kids coming from everywhere else, Oh, WOW.”


We fell into easy conversation with Steve. A special feeling of camaraderie knit us together almost instantly. It seemed so natural once we arrived to be standing in line with Steve and hundreds of other people, mostly youth and even some middle-aged Americans. An air of freedom, a feeling of liberation and a sense of duty and purpose filled the souls of all those present at the March, waiting, waiting.

A few drops of rain ricocheted off Steve’s scarecrow hat. I looked up and a bank of ominous black clouds began chasing the open sky away. I looked down and Steve had already transformed himself into a poncho tent and was replacing his capacious black hat back on his head. His thick boots caked with mud were impervious to any moisture. Woefully, I had come unprepared for the rain and the oncoming cold. Pat was well bundled in her Navy pea-jacket. Son-of-a-bitch. The rain came down now. The crowd shuffled uneasily, at first undetermined whether to run and seek shelter or give up the march, or to stay. A few ran, but after the first drops, the water did not seem to bother us. I came to march, as had Pat and the others, and the rain and cold would not deter us.

An hour and a half had passed since our arrival; we had been drenched now for 30 minutes, since the loops of people had been moving slowly. We finally entered the last coil that filed into the first tent. The sun, too was undeterred by the inclement weather. It began poking its rays between the black clouds. The rain eased. And then a magnificent rainbow appeared. The soaked marchers roared and clapped their approval. But almost as suddenly as it had appeared, it vanished. The sun shone through now and warmed the chilled air of the afternoon shower. We passed by the food concession trailer by the shivering collectors for the New Mobe and into the main tent only to be met by more solicitors for the New Mobilization.

“Buy a button, Help the cause.”

“Only a $, any button, just one $.”

At the front of the tent, a student marshal yelled in to the megaphone. “Come on people, the New Mobe is over $100,000 in debt.” Some tugged at this arm and whispers in his ear. “Listen, we’re more than $200,000 in debt and we need your support. Please buy a button.”