BLACK (Friday Nov. 14, 1969) Page 4 Continuing...

Dusk was falling but it was still too light to kindle the candles. We cross the bridge and wound our way across the street opposite the Lincoln Memorial and headed up 24th St. At each corner New Mobe marshals—youthful volunteers in most cases—monitored the marchers, keeping us in line and permitting us to cross when the lights turned green. The traffic was so heavy that we clustered at the corners and the lights. We waited at Constitution and 24th for the light to turn green. The marshal yelled, “Come on—Move it across. Keeps the line moving.” Steve, Pat and I skipped across as the light turned amber. We were moving again at last. It had taken us 45 minutes to cross the bridge and reach Constitution and 24th.

Marshalls lined the route all the way. They shouted words of encouragement to us. Several of them were shaking so violently from the cold that they appeared in the process of dismemberment. They needed more encouragement than we.

“You guys are looking good,” a marshal chattered nearly biting of his frozen tongue.

“Hey, only six more blocks and you’ll be at the White House.”

“Hey, baby, no sweat. You’re almost half way there. Keep up the good work.”

And on went the marshal chorus.

We passed the complex of temporary Navy Buildings which were in their 50th year. It was 5:30 and everybody was huddling inside the doorways waiting for their rides. We flashed them the V-signs. They looked vacantly back or averted our stares. The glass doors gave them the needed insulation to avoid confrontation and participation. We arrived at 17th and Constitution. We waited over 10 minutes for our turn to cross. In the meantime Pat had begun talking with the two guys directly behind us. The usual questioning of colleges and residence led to the discovery that both of them had gone to Oberlin. Pat was from Oberlin, and so they rummaged through memories to see if they had any mutual friends.

“Hey, when did I graduate?” Pat asked.

“1966, wasn’t it?” I said.

She pondered that a moment. One Oberlin student graduated in 1965, the other presently a senior.

“Boy, I really must be getting old.” She thought a little more, perplexed as I began to laugh. “Hey, I’m not that old. I graduated in 1967m” she said with some relief. Of course, class of 65 and class of 67 did have mutual friends. One of the guys grew up in Evanston and attended the same school I did, so I too had something in common.

We moved out again crossing Constitution and 17th. For the next two blocks we walked at a steady pace until we bogged down on the 17th Street side of the Executive Offices of the President. Now the rain came to a final stop, but unfortunately, it became even colder. I was completely wet inside my jacket and my pants felt as if they had weights in them. I had difficulty locating my feet. My left leg began to shake spasmodically and uncontrollably from the cold like that of an old dog who has lost all muscular control. As long as we walked, I could generate heat. But standing idly still in line was pure torture. Pat kept trying to comfort me. She put her hand on my back solicitously. I half-barked at her through my chattering teeth:

“Goddamn it!” You keep pushing more of the moisture inside my jacket.” She laughed commiserating. She was snug inside her warm jacket. The Oberlin guys lit their candles. We tipped our candles into their flames and quickly raised the cups above the flames to keep the wind from extinguishing them. We walked a few yards and stopped again. The wind gusted and all the candles poofed out. We repeated the lighting ceremony, but the wind was unwilling to cooperate. We decided to wait until we turned into Pennsylvania Ave before trying again. Twenty minutes later we turned the corner, hopefully more encouraging than the corner in Vietnam.

We lit up as we turned into Pennsylvania Ave. from 17th St. As we inched onwards toward Nixon’s House, the number of police proportionately increased; a solid phalanx of police formed a cordon, shoulder to shoulder, until they reached the wrought iron fence that separated the public from the House.

The light burst out from behind the side wall of the Executive Office—blinding and obliterating. The huge steel blue crater of the carbon arc lamp occupied the White House ground. Images blurred, objects transformed: the dignified wrought iron fence became the barricades of the besieged dictator; the lamp, the ubiquitous spotlight seeking those trying to escape the grip of the totalitarian state; the light, the harsh interrogation lamp of the fascist police wrenching our false confessions. The one candlepower lamp of the marchers with the soft orangish flickering flow refused to be snuffed out by the wind or blotted out by the carbon arc. We moved closer to the White House door. Each marcher, for one brief second stopped directly in front of the door, Mr. Nixon’s door of the silent majority, turned full round into the searing light, and shouted with all his might the name of the fallen GI. Each face contorted. Fear, anguish, shame and anger were etched in each face, resounding in each voice. The voices undaunted by the light raced through the fence, past the light and pounded on the door to be heard. It was the cry of a generation: not for liberty but for liberation. Not only for sacrifices of 40,000 American lives and for those yet to come, but for the destruction and extermination of a people; for the rending and polarizing internally of the American society – the alienated younger generation vs. the old; and for the calculated disregard by Mr. Nixon and his great silent majority of the urgent, unheeded needs of more than 20 million American poor – undernourished, ill housed; sullen and explosive.

I awaited my turn. I reached the spot. I turned slowly into the light and inhaled deeply trying to control my involuntary quaking and yelled with all my might: A – L – A – N M – U- - L – F – O – R – D. Pat followed then Steve, and the 2 Oberlin guys. Forty thousand voices hurled 40,000 DEAD at the doors of the White House.

Did Mr. Nixon hear? Was he listening or watching? Probably not. No, he was devising a new strategy to win the youth to his side. He must be closeted in special session with his Special Assistant on Youth Affairs, Mr. Bud Wilkinson, engineering one of the most innovative strategies to solve the domestic ills of the county: a Presidential Award to the Number 1 College Football team in the U.S.

I turned back into the line continuing the journey on to the Capitol. A warm glow swept over me; my quaking from the cold had stopped. I felt proud and patriotic. Those few moments of bellowing the poor GI’s name were worth all those long hours of waiting and cold. The pace increased now as if all of us had experienced a spiritual uplifting, and a renewed sense of commitment.

The single-file line opened up as the marchers moved on with long fast strides. We reached the corner of Pennsylvania and 15th St., where a cheering section of New Mobe volunteers handed out chocolate candy and cookies to sustain their long distance runners. I tried to peel off the gold foil of the chocolate balls but my numb fingers would not respond. I popped the candy into my mouth, foil and all. The candy never tasted to rich and good. We turned down Pennsylvania again and marched briskly for the Capitol. Thirty minutes later we had reached the stops of the Capitol rotunda. We walked up the steps and went around in a semi-circle along the path and returned back across the street to the small park surrounding the statue of Ulysses S. Grant which faces the capitol. Six wooden coffins lay in state in front of the statute. In single file, the marchers filed past the caskets. Slowly we removed the placards from our necks and severed the cord from the name. As we past the last casket, we gently handed the body of the boy who had died for his country to the marshal who laid the boy to rest.

It was now 8:15 P.M. - - 6 hours and 15 minutes from the time we began. We asked our friend if they had places to stay. The two Oberlin students were staying with a friend and Steve was sleeping at a Church. We said good-bye to our friends. Pat and I took one last look at the six lonely wooden coffins draped in the white light of the Capitol, and then headed home.