Tag: Vietnam War

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Rolling Thunder, by Gillian

My mother was peeling potatoes. I was standing beside her shelling peas. It was not a dark and stormy night, but it was a relatively dark and very stormy morning. As we prepared Sunday lunch the thunder crashed above us, echoing up and down the valley where we lived as it always did. My dad came into the kitchen, saying, as he always did when it thundered,

“By ‘eck, ‘ear that thunder rrrroll.”

(I chose this topic because I wanted to be able to say that! It wasn’t until I returned home after a year’s absence that I realized how strong a Welsh accent my father had. Of course, in my own defense, he was a man of so few words that perhaps it was not so surprising that I had never noticed his accent. By ‘eck, ‘ear that thunder rrrroll was about as verbose as he ever got!)

Mum and Dad and I all loved thunder storms. But this time my mother got a bit carried away in her enthusiasm and, potato peeler still in hand, opened the outside door to get a better look. Well, my mother never was the most practical of people! Simply opening the door invited the lightning bolt right in. It hit the knife blade, burned across the floor from Mum’s feet to the chimney corner, up the wall and it was gone. It happened so fast we might have thought we imagined it except for the black scorched trail it left behind. My mother felt nothing and, though speechless with surprise, was unhurt.

That little incident might, I suppose, have dampened my enthusiasm for thunder storms but it did not. Roaming around this country in our camper van for twenty years, Betsy and I have sat in many a campground, cozy inside our van, reveling in the thunder crashes and the lightning flashes, the rain streaming down the windows as the van rocked in the howling wind. We watched smugly as the poor unfortunate tent campers struggled, out in the pouring rain, to prevent their wildly flapping tents from taking flight and chased rolling camp-chairs through the trees. The most memorable that I recall was on a hilltop in Missouri from which there was a spectacular 360 degrees view. In any direction we looked, countless streaks of lightning ripped across the angry black sky, the lightning flashes lighting up the night all around us. It really was breathtaking.

I still love thunder storms, and still greet then eagerly, but must confess that in recent years they have tended to come, around here anyway, with accompanying hail storms which a do not welcome. They can be so damaging to so many things, not the least of which is one’s bank account.

Whenever I hear a good clap of serious thunder, I immediately hear my dad’s voice rejoicing.

“By ‘eck, ‘ear that thunder rrrroll!”

But sadly my love of the expression rolling thunder was dampened during the Vietnam War, when Operation Rolling Thunder consisted of a sustained aerial bombardment of North Vietnam lasting from 1965 to 1968. During that period it is estimated that we killed approximately 72,000 North Vietnamese civilians. Of course, I really had to dig to find those numbers. We rarely hear of actual human beings dying. We hear that during Operation Rolling Thunder we dropped 864,000 tons of bombs on the North, inflicting physical damage valued at $370 million. Nice clean unemotional impersonal statistics, proudly proclaimed under the inoffensive name Rolling Thunder.

Of course none of this began or ended with Vietnam. I am no military historian – nor do I want to be – but I think this practice of naming military operations began in World War Two for purposes of secrecy. And of course it involved many countries, not just the U.S. The Allies had operations under such harmless names as Primrose and Croquet, Stonewall and Teardrop. The Nazis had Wonderland, Rainbow, Reindeer and Buffalo. At least I can understand the need for secrecy, but today there is nothing secret about these operational names. Rather we shout them out for the world to hear, these harmless-sounding names. Desert Storm suggested nothing worse than a little blowing sand. Valiant Guardian, in Iraq, had something of the kindly uncle about it. Operation Crescent Wind in Afghanistan, an effort to bomb hell out of The Taliban, is suggestive of nothing more violent than a gentle parasail above the cliffs. If we called these Operations what they really are, they would boast names like Operation Spreading Terror or Operation Killing Anything That Moves. But we sanitize everything. We don’t murder innocent civilians. Instead we have collateral damage. Miriam-Webster defines collateral as: secondary, subordinate, indirect. I’ll bet it doesn’t seem any of those things to those who become collateral damage.

Good Lord, how on earth did I get so far off track? I suggested, and then chose, the anodyne topic of Rolling Thunder in order to have a gentle trip down Memory Lane. But somewhere I took a wrong turn and ended up in The Land of Ranting and Raving.

Enough!

The End

© November 2017

About the Author

I was born and raised in England. After graduation from college there, I moved to the U.S. and, having discovered Colorado, never left. I have lived in the Denver-Boulder area since 1965, working for 30 years at IBM. I married, raised four stepchildren, then got divorced after finally, in my forties, accepting myself as a lesbian. I have been with my wonderful partner Betsy for thirty years. We have been married since 2013.

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Rolling Thunder, by Pat Gourley

“If the thunder doesn’t get you the lightning will.”
Garcia/Hunter
Several thoughts came to mind with the topic of Rolling Thunder. I opened this piece with a short line from the Grateful Dead song called The Wheel.  One of my all-time favorite Dead tunes and its reference to thunder. Thunder, when associated with a rainstorm, is often rolling in nature and often accompanied by lightning and then a real downpour. Lightning is, of course, the cause of the thunder despite the fact that you might hear thunder and then see lightning. Things are not always what they seem.
I got to experience a rare thunder and lightning storm on my last trip to San Francisco this September. It was so spectacular and unusual for that city that it had people out in the streets trying to photograph the lightning with their phones. Coming from an area where such storms are common and a state with a high per capita number of lightning deaths I opted to stay inside.
I could use “Rolling Thunder” I suppose to characterize my longstanding and truly at times epic flatulence. Certainly, for the past several years, I have made a conscious effort to increase my fiber intake. My daily fiber goal is at least 40 grams with 25-30 often recommended but the average American gets only 15 grams. This can at times result in farts that seem to go on in a truly rolling fashion particularly at night in bed though I can produce any time of the day. Exercise seems to stimulate often-inopportune gas production, so I find myself these days seeking out little-used exercise machines off in an isolated corner of the gym or turning on one of the large fans if available. Then being able to fart to my heart’s content. The use of the fan makes it difficult for other gym goers to pin down the culprit.
Unwanted farts also seem to roll out when meditating and sitting on my Zafu. This is not an issue when home alone. However, when joining the evening Zazen at the Zen Center recently in San Francisco I would find myself discreetly farting into my cushion hoping for a silent escape of air and with the expulsion being into four inches of cushion an unnoticed event. As a matter of course though I believe if the setting is appropriate that farts should be released with gusto and this seems to enhance the volume. I suppose Roaring Thunder might be more appropriate for such occasions rather than Rolling Thunder.
So, before people start moving away from me here in group I’ll change the topic and share a couple of other “Rolling Thunder” references that came to mind for me in addressing this topic. The first being the Rolling Thunder Revue which was the name of a rock and roll tour in the mid-1970’s featuring Bob Dylan, Joan Baez, and many others.  Several theories existed as to why Dylan chose that name. Some thought perhaps he was referring to the Native America Shaman named Rolling Thunder. With the Vietnam War still raw and fresh in the American Psyche maybe he was referring to the code name for the disastrous and genocidal aerial bombardment by the United States of Vietnam that took place from March of 1965 through October of 1968. When asked about the urban mythology that had sprung up around the name Dylan had a much more mundane explanation. He had been sitting on his porch one day before the tour and a storm was approaching ushering in a rolling burst of thunder that seemed to stretch across the sky: this being another small blow to those who would make Bob Dylan America’s conscience.
I have included a link here to a short piece on lightning safety from the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA)
Lightning Safety – NOAA
Lightning strikes resulting in death are rare and one erroneous assumption many people have is that they disproportionately happen to golfers, perhaps wishful thinking on the part of some people upset with our country’s current leadership (POTUS). This is however incorrect with three times as many strikes happening to fisherman in boats than golfers. Overall only 10% of lightning strikes result in death per data from NOAA.
Besides the potentially negative karmic repercussions of hoping POTUS will give up golf and take up fishing it would be much more productive to continue to pursue peaceful resistance. Never being one to shy away from a cheesy metaphor I would like to think that the progressive sweep in the recent elections was a real Rolling Thunder and harbinger of great change to come.
© 12 Nov 2017 
About the Author 
I was born in La Porte Indiana in 1949, raised on a farm and schooled by Holy Cross nuns. The bulk of my adult life, some 40 plus years, was spent in Denver, Colorado as a nurse, gardener, and gay/AIDS activist. I have currently returned to Denver after an extended sabbatical in San Francisco, California. 
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Rolling Thunder, by Louis Brown

(1) Operation Rolling Thunder was the title of a gradual and sustained aerial bombardment campaign conducted by the U.S. 2nd Air Division (later Seventh Air Force), U.S. Navy, and Republic of Vietnam Air Force (VNAF) against the Democratic Republic of Vietnam (North Vietnam) from 2 March 1965 until 2 November 1968, during the Vietnam War.
The four objectives of the operation (which evolved over time) were to boost the sagging morale of the Saigon regime in the Republic of Vietnam, to persuade North Vietnam to cease its support for the communist insurgency in South Vietnam without actually taking any ground forces into communist North Vietnam, to destroy North Vietnam’s transportation system, industrial base, and air defenses, and to halt the flow of men and material into South Vietnam. Attainment of these objectives was made difficult by both the restraints imposed upon the U.S. and its allies by Cold War exigencies and by the military aid and assistance received by North Vietnam from its communist allies, the Soviet Union, the People’s Republic of China (PRC) and North Korea.
The operation became the most intense air/ground battle waged during the Cold War period; it was the most difficult such campaign fought by the United States since the aerial bombardment of Germany during World War II. Supported by communist allies, North Vietnam fielded a potent mixture of sophisticated air-to-air and surface-to-air weapons that created one of the most effective air defenses ever faced by American military aviators.
“Rolling Thunder” was supposed to have meant in part the righteousness of big rich arrogant USA intimidating 3rd world rice peasants, with 3 ½ years of carpet bombing. Thank God the world said NO!
(2) Amos: 5:23-24: “Take away from Me the noise of your songs; I will not even listen to the sound of your harps. 24“But let justice roll down like waters And righteousness like an ever-flowing stream. 25″Did you present Me with sacrifices and grain offerings in the wilderness for forty years, O house of Israel?…
My guess is that many Christians would say that “rolling thunder” suggests that, out of wrath, God will come to earth in a mighty roar and right all moral wrongs. If we imagine ourselves as pious Christians, what would God do to judge the world leaders of today? I suggest:
(a)  Donald Trump will be spared but his Republican colleagues will be overthrown, and, because of their unrighteousness, will be tossed into the trash heap of immoral leaders. Let us judge the many Republicans over the past 60 years, many of whom either left office, were thrown out of office or who died. Their profound immorality should not be forgotten. Richard Nixon, Spiro Agnew, Henry Kissinger come to mind.
(b) Vladimir Putin, as Rachel Maddow has pointed out, is a kleptocrat, meaning he is a large-scale thief. Most Russians want him out of office. Let it happen. Also he is a homophobe, let God toss him into the garbage dumpster.
(c)  Tayyip Erdogan, president of Turkey. He became president through voting fraud, religious hypocrisy and violence. Plus he is homophobic. Toss him in the dumpster.
(d)  Emmanuelle Macron of France. His sin is his backward economic theories that take France back to the 19th century. Also he is anti-union. Toss him in the trash bin.
If God performed at least this minimum of moral cleansing, I would instantly convert to Christianity.
 Wikipedia suggests “Rolling Thunder” could refer to Dylan Thomas’ well-publicized Rolling Thunder Revue of 1975. For a few months he travelled around North America promoting his music by giving live conceerts. This would have been a good study. Unlike the misnamed “rolling thunder” of the War in Vietnam, Dylan’s “rolling thunder” included a condemnation of the War in Vietnam and a reclaiming of righteousness for us peaceniks. Joan Baez, Bette Midler and many other famous singers, musical instrumentalists and entertainers got involved in this revue.
­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­________________________
Wikipedia also suggests that “rolling thunder” could refer to a Native American shaman whose name was “Rolling Thunder,” who promoted his earth-oriented religious philosophy including spiritual healing resulting in physical healing for the sick. The shaman also has the gift of prophecy. That would have made a good essay.
CNN recently put out a TV headline that read “Big Democratic victories put pressure on Trump to pass Tax Reform Bill.” If we lived in a rational logical universe, the TV headline would have read “Big Democratic victories put pressure on Trump to ditch, cancel his apocalyptically disastrous Tax Reform Bill.” As low of an opinion I have of the Republicans, nertz to the Democrats too.
© 5 Nov 2017 
About the Author 

I was born in 1944, I lived most of my life in New York City,
Queens County. I still commute there. I worked for many years as a Caseworker
for New York City Human Resources Administration, dealing with mentally
impaired clients, then as a social work Supervisor dealing with homeless PWA’s.
I have an apartment in Wheat Ridge, CO. I retired in 2002. I have a few
interesting stories to tell. My boyfriend Kevin lives in New York City. I
graduated Queens College, CUNY, in 1967.
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Joey, by Will Stanton

I was in my car, driving to
a friend’s house in town.  The
destination does not matter.  What
happened along the way is what is important, something very poignant that I
just cannot forget.
It was 1974.  The Vietnam War was supposed to be over – –
“Peace with honor,” we were told.  My
classmate Bernard had lost his younger brother Larry in Nam and still was
having a hard time dealing with it.  The
little blond boy in the class ahead of me, the one who looked to be no older
than an adolescent, he was dead, too. 
Ours was a very small town, yet we had our share of losses.  Maya Lin was the talented designer who later
would be chosen to create the Vietnam Veterans Memorial honoring the 58,000
American lives lost.  I remember her as
the little girl who once lived in our town.
As I started up a steep
hill, I saw an older man slowly making his way up the sidewalk.  Head down, he moved as though he had the
weight of the world upon his shoulders. 
As I drew alongside of him, I recognized him as Mr. Bodnar.  I stopped next to him and offered him a ride
up the hill.  Expressing appreciation, he
accepted and wearily sat in the passenger seat next to me.
Mr. Bodnar was from
Hungary.  He was an educated attorney in
his home country.  Here in the U.S., he
worked for a pittance doing furniture repair and as a handy man.  His knowledge of Hungarian law was of no use
to him in this country, and his limited English also was a handicap.
The Bodnar family fled
Hungary in 1956 when the Soviet army invaded his homeland in response to the
Hungarian people’s abortive attempt to bring a modicum of freedom to their
lives.  The Bodnars chose America to come
to, the land of peace and opportunity.  I
imagine that they were proud when they received their American citizenship.
Nicholas Bodnar was in my
class at school.  He was deemed
unsuitable for the draft, but his younger brother Joey received his draft
letter.
Joey was a very impressive
person, exceptionally bright and very talented. 
In addition to being a very good student, he was a remarkable
artist.  He was very athletic, too.  Blond, small but compact, he could swim more
than two lengths of the pool underwater in just one breath.
Because Joey now was an
American citizen, he had the honor of being drafted into the American army in
1966 and being sent to Vietnam to go to war to save the world for
democracy.  On one unfortunate day when
he was slogging through the rice paddies or dense jungles, he contracted
malaria and was removed to the rear.  He
was given time to recover his strength and eventually returned to the front
lines.  His company received enemy fire,
and Joey did not survive.  His family was
notified.  He was only twenty-two.
As I drove Mr. Bodnar up the
hill, I mentioned that Nicholas was in my class.  Mr. Bodnar then quietly asked me, “Did you
know Joey?”  I replied, “Yes,” and said
that I had admired him.  There was a
moment of silence, after which Mr. Bodnar, in a soft, tearful voice, said,
“They killed my Joey.”
It was clear to me what Mr.
Bodnar meant.  The “they” that he was
referring to were not the Vietnamese people who had killed Joey; the “they”
were not some faceless enemy.  The “they”
he was referring to was the American government that had the legal right to
draft this naturalized boy and send him off to war, adding him to the 58,000
others who were killed in Vietnam – – a boy from a family that had fled Hungary
to escape violence and governmental oppression, who had come to America to find
peace and safety.  I deeply felt the
tragic irony of Joey’s fate.
We came to the address where
Mr. Bodnar was to do some work.  He
opened the door and got out, thanking me for the ride.  I sincerely wished him well.  After the door closed and I continued on, Mr.
Bodnar’s painful lamentation continued to haunt me, “They killed my Joey.”  I never have forgotten.  Those words and the mournful sound of Mr.
Bodnar’s voice have remained with me ever since.
© 23 August 2014
About
the Author 
I have had a life-long fascination with people
and their life stories.  I also realize
that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too
have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones.  Since I joined this Story Time group, I have
derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group.  I do put some thought and effort into my
stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.
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Sweetness Personified by Will Stanton

The brief experience I’m describing here took place in college during the Vietnam War. That era seems so long ago, many people today who might read this story may have no connection with that war, perhaps little or no understanding.

The Vietnam War was a disaster for America and many Americans. Nothing positive was accomplished by it. Some people in government and some civilians knew that the Vietnamese were not about to attack Boise, Idaho; and the U.S. had no rational or moral reason to invade Vietnam. We lost more than 50,000 fine young people in that war, let alone all the injuries to those who returned . That war created turmoil and protests in our country, and much of the rest of the world looked upon the U.S. with nervous suspicion.

Something that seems to have been relatively ignored about the many forms of injuries was that a large number of people came back to the States emotionally wounded. Many suffered from PTSD, some turned to alcohol, and many had picked up the habit in Nam of smoking pot to counteract their anxiety. Marriages and families suffered. The war changed many lives.

At college, I encountered a young student name Frank. Frank was tall and slim with very boyish features. He was quite good looking. He radiated warmth and kindness, a noticeable gentleness of personality that could be described as “sweetness personified.”

I met Frank, or more precisely, Frank met me, because apparently he sought me out. To my surprise, he had become very interested in me. I felt honored that Frank found me to be attractive and personable. We began to spend some time with each other. To my regret, that period of time was all too brief. I was surprised and very moved when I found out the reason why.

Frank appeared to be like just any other young college freshman, so I was surprised to hear that he had spent a tour of duty in Vietnam, not at any base or headquarters, but right out in the jungles and rice paddies. It was very much against Frank’s nature to wish to harm anyone, and he had no desire to kill. In fact, he refused to do so. Instead, he was a medic, tending to the soldiers’ injuries as best he could.

On one occasion, and only that one occasion, Frank spoke of his experiences in Vietnam. During his tour of duty, he daily witnessed the carnage of warfare, the horrifying injuries that our young people suffered – – shrapnel and severe bullet wounds, infected punctures from punji stakes, burns, blindness. Because the Viet Cong and North Vietnamese Army soldiers were often quite small, they would aim their AK47s low and let the bullets ride up because of their kick. Poor Frank had to tend to a number of soldiers whose genitals had been shot off. Frank told me that his seeing so many boys terribly wounded and suffering changed him forever. The world no longer seemed the beautiful and promising place that he once believed in duriing his innocent childhood.

Frank grew up in New Lexington, Ohio, a very small village of about only 3,000 at the time and consisting of a string of 19th-century, two-story brick stores and quaint, modest homes.

Tucked in the green hills of Southeastern Ohio, the village must have felt like a quiet and safe harbor away from the turmoil and sorrows of the world outside.

The trauma of Viet Nam weighed upon Frank. The world seemed to be a dangerous and unhappy place. He missed New Lexington where he felt more comfortable and secure. His interest in me changed when he met another student from his own village who felt the same way as he did. The last time that I saw Frank, he told me that he was dropping out of college and moving with his new friend back home. He said that he planned to stay there, to remain isolated from the harshness of the world outside.

I never saw Frank again, yet I never have forgotten him. I hope that he found peace and happiness there. He deserved it, for he well may have been the sweetest person I ever knew.

© 01 May 2014

About the Author

I have had a life-long fascination with people and their life stories. I also realize that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones. Since I joined this Story Time group, I have derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group. I do put some thought and effort into my stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.

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Sorry, I’m Allergic by Will Stanton

In my hometown, the head of the draft board, Mr. D—-, owned an auto-parts store. He knew auto-parts. Other than that, he was profoundly ignorant, prejudiced, delusional, and full of hate. I guess that there is a plague of such people in every generation; we have witnessed far too many of them over the last several years. Unfortunately as I said, he was in charge of the draft board, and he had every intention of using it to perpetuate his political agenda.

To begin with, he had fallen “hook, line, and sinker” for the now-documented lies about Vietnam. He was convinced that those godless, Vietcong Commies were close to invading our hometown, and we had to bomb them back to the stone-age to prevent it. Secondly, he thoroughly believed that anyone who was educated, highly informed, and had good critical thinking skills was obviously un-American and a Commie-sympathizer. That meant every college student and every son of a faculty member was un-American. That included me.

So, Mr. D. concocted a whole series of tricks trying to circumnavigate the draft regulations and the laws of the land to pull every student out of college, believing that education is of no real value, and sending them as soldiers to Vietnam, where they could do God’s work. If executing his plan required blatant lying, violating the law, or making false statements to the FBI and setting them out to arrest students, as one done to my brother, that was OK with him.

My brother had to enlist the aid of a U.S. Senator to counteract such nefarious abuse.

Like so many others, I was called in to face Mr. D. for a series of delightful sessions where, for example, he would state that my student deferment had been canceled because (quote) “I had failed to fill-out and mail-back a required statement,” all the time waving the delivered statement right in front of my face. Oh yes, he was a good Christian man; lying and illegal actions were OK when doing God’s work.

Our friend and neighbor Dr. K——, who was the head of a university department, had two sons who continuously had been harassed and finally declared “1-A.” The same happened to Professor W—‘s family, whom we knew. They were well informed about the true situation in Vietnam and were steadfastly against the war policies of the administration. Seeing no alternative, they finally advised their sons to go to Canada. After all, we already had lost several sons who were acquaintances of mine, and that was a small community.

So, I finally was deprived of my student deferment and ordered to be taken to the state capital for my induction physical. There was a whole bus-load of us from my hometown.

Traveling eighty-five miles by bus took a while, so I had plenty of opportunity to chat with some of the other guys. The fellow next to me sported a well trimmed beard, which suited his geology major very well. He enjoyed explaining the geology of the area as we moved along, a tutorial which I thoroughly enjoyed. Others expressed their anxieties about the draft.

Once we arrived at the center, we quickly were required to fill out forms. I recall that one question demanded to know if the individual was homosexual. I wondered how many had the courage to mark it “Yes,” whether actually straight or gay, simply to become ineligible for the draft. We then had to strip down and start through a long line of examiners.

I do not know if all potential inductees experienced the same treatment as we did, but I was rather surprised how uncivil and belligerent each and every examiner was there. I wondered if the reason was that each examiner considered himself to be a true American patriot, but the inductees were “reluctant laggards, not worthy of being seen as true Americans.”

I brought along my medical file with me, for I knew from having read draft regulations that my life-long allergy condition was so severe that I would not qualify for service. As far back as age five, our family had to cut short a Canadian camping trip because I could not breath from reacting to all the tree-pollen. By age ten, my year-around allergies were so severe that I was taken to see a specialist. The doctor was surprised to find out that I am allergic to just about everything in nature that I find attractive, trees, flowers, grass, but also weeds such as ragweed and goldenrod. I try to do the best I can, short of living in a bubble.

My allergic reactions were not just sneezing and having itchy eyes. My throat could close up, and I could break out in hives if I just touched dandelions. I was given a series of immunization shots, but they failed to diminish the symptoms. In college, the doctor tried even cortisone shots, ignoring the cumulative, toxic side-effects. That was not much help either.

Before the physical, I reviewed my file. Then I decided to take an eye-catching piece of colored paper and type a synopsis of my allergy history. I included that in the file.

So, going through the examination line from person to person and hearing the examiners’ snarling orders, I was not surprised that each and every one of us passed with flying colors despite whatever afflictions each of us had. It looked as though no one would be exempted from the privilege of going to Vietnam.

Then I came to the last examiner who reviewed my file. He casually glanced at each page in an obviously dismissive manner. But then, the colored paper caught his eye. He read through the medical synopsis, then glared at me and said, “You know the regulations too well.” I responded, “I’m familiar with the regulations.” He repeated, “Too well!” Then with one angry motion, he grabbed a rubber stamp, slammed it down on my form, and shoved it back into my hands I looked at it. It said “1-Y, that is, to be called-up only in the case of national emergency.” I was the only one from that bus-load not drafted.

I had much to think about on the long bus-ride home. Once I arrived home, I was eager to contact my friends Ned and Derrith to tell them the news. We had talked quite a bit about this situation before I went to Columbus. When I finally met up with them, they were very pleased to hear that I still would be around, that I would not be going into the army and being shipped off to Vietnam.

Then Derrith informed me, “We knew that you would have a hard time with all of the examiners. That’s why we decided to concentrate on just the last man.” I asked what she meant.

She answered, “Ned and I did a little ceremony and concentrated on the last man, telling him that he had to let you go.” 

I was puzzled. I thought that it was my colored page that saved me. Was Ned and Derrith’s little ceremony just a coincidence?” 

I still wonder.

November 7, 2013

About the Author

I have had a life-long fascination with people and their life stories. I also realize that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones. Since I joined this Story Time group, I have derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group. I do put some thought and effort into my stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.

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Three Little Words by Gillian

The first three little words that I remember having any effect on my life were “Digging For Victory” although, born as I was in Britain smack in the middle of World War Two, I can’t really have been old enough to comprehend the significance of that slogan except in retrospect.

“Digging for Victory” encouraged turning all private lawns and flower gardens, and all public parks and sports fields, into vegetable plots or small animal farms, in order to make Britain self-sufficient in food rather than importing food via merchant sea vessels subject to German attack.

The program in fact probably saved the British population from starvation as the war lengthened and the attacks on shipping became increasingly successful.

It also continued for years after the war ended and I guess that is when I remember it from; the songs, the posters, the pamphlets lying around the house and everybody digging, digging, weeding, hoeing, bartering a basket of potatoes for a pitcher of goats’ milk.

Of course, to me, there was nothing different; life had always been like that. We had goats and chickens and pigs in our back yard, and no flowers grew except for a tiny plot behind the house where it was essentially hidden from view and over which I know my mother struggled with considerable guilt, but she could not bring herself to abandon her beloved roses.

In those days I think every back must have ached, and just occasionally I still recall, mainly when my back hurts, a ridiculous line from a Digging for Victory ditty.

“And when your back aches, laugh with glee, and keep on digging.”

A “V” for Victory campaign, another three-worder, was launched in 1941, though this was more one of signs than words. People were asked to demonstrate their support for the Allies by flashing the Churchillian “V” hand signal and chalking up the letter “V” wherever and whenever they could. People all over occupied Europe were urged to display the letter “V” and beat out the “V” sound in Morse Code (three dots and a dash.)

It was soon realized that the three short notes and one long at the start of Beethoven’s Fifth echoed the Morse code for “victory”. Those notes probably became the most played music in Europe during the war years.

“Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament”, formed in the U.K. in 1957, is definitely not three small words and its slogan became Ban the Bomb.

Every Easter weekend while I was in college I traveled to London on a chartered bus overstuffed with students and righteous zeal, to take part in the annual peace rally. There was a wonderful camaraderie at these gatherings, but whether they actually changed anything, who knows. And whether it would have been better if they had, who knows.

Maybe we had it all wrong.

Perhaps it was simply the balance of nuclear weapons on both sides that kept the Cold War cold, and all of us from descending into some nuclear winter.

By the time I became settled in the U.S., the Vietnam protests were getting underway.

It was all “Stop the War and End the Draft”. Again I joined in marches, and eventually our wishes were met, though not until we had ruined a whole generation of young men. The term Vietnam Vet rarely conjures up a positive picture.

Ending the draft meant people no longer having to live in fear of themselves or their loved ones being sent off unwillingly to yet another Hell on Earth – three more little words that are not, in fact, like all these other examples of three little words, small at all.

But perhaps we got that wrong, too.

Now we still manage to create new slices of Hell, but those who go there are overwhelmingly the poor and uneducated whose best, perhaps only, chance of employment is the Military. Those with more to lose, are protected by those with little or nothing.

Hard to celebrate.

“Stop the War “ protests will probably, sadly, never disappear because the wars never do. Just the names are different.

Along came Iraq. More protest marches.

Two sets of three little words that I much appreciated when used together were “Support Our Troops – Bring Them Home”. And finally, as we hear the sabers rattling over Iran, they are home, at least from Iraq.

And maybe even that was nothing to wish for.

In Vietnam 2.6 soldiers survived their wounds for every one battlefield death. The ratio is now 16 to one.

Wounded veterans have completely swamped the VA system with a backlog of almost 900,000 disability claims. Almost one in three returning vets suffers from physical and/or mental injuries, many of them catastrophic. And one in three recently returned vets between the ages of 18 and 24, is unemployed.

Colonel Michael Gaal, who served in Iraq, said it’s always easier to leave than to come home, one of the saddest statements I have ever heard.

So in truth, by bringing them home, we have done them no great favor.

It seems that all my three little word slogans that I got behind, those peacenik causes I espoused, have questionable results.

As long as we have wars, there will never be a “right” outcome.

So my current three little words express what I wish for myself and those I love.

Go With God, whatever your own vision of ‘God” might be, and Live With Love.

With those I don’t see how we can go far wrong.

© 13 February 2012

About the Author

I was born and raised in England. After graduation from college there, I moved to the U.S. and, having discovered Colorado, never left. I have lived in the Denver-Boulder area since 1965, working for 30 years at IBM. I married, raised four stepchildren, then got divorced after finally, in my forties, accepting myself as a lesbian. I have now been with my wonderful partner Betsy for 25 years.