Covenant Betrayed Revelations of the Sixties, The Best of Time; The Worst of Time: Book One - The Restless Years... The Winds of Change

By Mark Dahl

One cannot understand the sixties without understanding the fifties. The fifties were the first time the American youth had excess freedom. Before the fifties they worked on the family farm from dusk ’til dawn; slaved in the sweat shops twelve hours a day, six days a week; starved in the Depression; and fought, not knowing it they would be

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stratton Press
• Release date: Nov 21, 2019
• ISBN: 9781643458236

Mark Dahl

Mark Dahl was born in Manhattan KS. And has lived all over the country, He studied the entertainment business and wrote there four books, many screen/Teleplays as well as two treatment proposals for Television series. He wrote, produced a digital movie titled HARVEST MOON about the meth epidemic in America. My day job is in the medical field. I wrote COVENANT BETRAYDE, A THREE VOLUMES to give sense to the sixties-early seventies, a time of heated debate, and like today's hostel divisions. I am student of history, not events and dates but how the people endured during tough times to give young people a perspective of attitudes that give color to history. Historians complain about the lack of more personable. To understand this gives richness and understanding history and how it affects people. History repeats itself and provides an important understanding of the complexities that are lacking in most non-fiction history books.

Book preview

Acknowledgments

I would like to thank my wife, Elizabeth, the girl who had guys chasing her like bees after honey, but for reasons still unknown to me, she chose me.

I would like to thank my parents, Sarah Jo and Earl Dahl; my brothers and sister, Chuck, Richard, Lynn, and Jerald (Mac); my children Scott and Jane; and in-laws Richard Beverly and Marylyn Cleo.

And a special thanks to all my teachers who dedicated their time in an underpaid profession. One in particular, Joanne Minarcini, an eleventh grade English teacher at Manhattan High School, 1960.

Introduction

I wrote Covenant Betrayed between 1978 and 1985. The writing part took about fourteen months; the rest of the time was research. Covenant Betrayed , like Huckleberry Finn’s journey down the Mississippi, is a historical fiction journey through the 1960s (1963–1975)—a journey beginning with romantic innocence, progressing to realism, ending with expressionism, followed by rebirth.

Today the concept of the sixties is free love, sex, drugs, longhaired hippies, rock ’n’ roll, civil rights, the antiwar movement, Black Power, and riots. The characterization is often stereotypical and superficial. The issues and conflicts of the young soldiers and their counterparts were intense, and historical fiction gives a more vivid picture within the rather dry facts and analysis of history. What was it really like? What was it like being a soldier in Vietnam, an antiwar protester, a hippie, a person of color, a man, a woman? This is what the book attempts to answer. Historical fiction gives history more meaning and understanding of the issues during a particular epoch. The emotional, intense, painful conflict at that time adds to the value of history and makes it more rewarding and hopefully educational.

In addition, today, as in all eras, there is always an attempt to rewrite history for political gain. Everything that society feels is wrong with this country was because of the hedonistic and spoiled Spock children generation; hence, this book attempts to correct this myth. What were the ’60s about? It is simple. They were about young soldiers risking their life, doing their duty in a war they did not understand. They were about people saying that black people are truly equal. Pure and simple, not just hollow words. They were about the defense of true democracy that was taught to us as children in our schools—not the pseudo democracy practiced by the government and passed off to the public as the real thing. The people of the sixties demanded that the government practice the ideals that this country was founded on. They demanded that the government tell them the truth. We were called radicals; really, we weren’t. We just believed in the principles of true democracy, which can only exist when the playing field is level and the information the government gives us is accurate and truthful, not lies, distortions, and half truths. Is this so radical? The great schism that persists today between conservatives and liberals began in the sixties, which sadly resulted in a dysfunctional government more interested in proving a point rather than working together to solve the issues and problems of the people.

Part One

1

The only people for me are the mad ones—the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles…

—Jack Kerouac, On the Road

Christopher Church had a tight, hollow feeling in his gut as he stood alone on the empty, vast interstate highway near Topeka. His childhood days of catching crayfish on Campus Creek and carp on Wildcat Creek, playing hooky, smoking and choking on stolen Lucky cigarettes from his mother at the mouth of the large drainpipe on the corner of Thurston and Manhattan Avenue, setting bowling pins by hand at the K-State union, playing pool, and just hangin’ around were now days passed. He felt trapped. Trapped on a merry-go-round, reaching for the elusive golden ring.

He was leaving an era of pink shirts and blue suede shoes. Elvis and Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens, and the Big Bopper defined a generation. Good Golly Miss Molly, That Will Be the Day, Devil with a Blue Dress On, See See Rider, and Blueberry Hill recorded a revolution that led to ritualistic public record burnings orchestrated by the religious zealots convinced the young were tempted by the devil. Dress codes forbade wearing jeans and T-shirts in high school, hemlines of skirts had to be below the knees, and girls weren’t allowed to wear pants unless the temperature was ten degrees or below. Ducktail haircuts meant rebellion, and the flat tops brought proud approval. The Comics Code was instituted by smug parents to protect the future generation, to keep them in place, and to ensure conformity and stability.

Mom and Dad watched Ed Sullivan and Lawrence Welk; I Love Lucy and December Bride were wholesome. The kids watched the fifty-some TV Westerns, but now only Gunsmoke survived. But the discontented cruised Poyntz Avenue in their ’49 Fords, ’51 Chevy Hardtops, and ’53 Fords; the ones with money were in ’55 Chevy convertibles. Many hung graduation tassels and large foam dice from the mirrors. The more daring had lowered hoods, fancy pinstripes, and lowered rear ends, eventually replaced by raised rear ends, all in attempts to scorn conformity and to individualize themselves for greater meaning.

And they listened to the bad boys of rock. Jerry Lee bellowed out Great Balls of Fire, and Eddie Cochran lamented Summertime Blues. Elvis was King. Parents fearful of the new ideas organized supervised sock hops, and in-teen town going was a definite no-no. It was squaresville for those searching for independence.

The poor were rich, gas was nineteen cents a gallon, Ike’s golf scores implied security and peace, and the boys of summer—Mickey, Roger and Yogi’s—yearly challenge to the Crosstown team in the autumn ritual relieved the boredom of summer and the anxiety of another long school year.

Despite organized efforts at conformity, discontent rumbled in the rhythm and blues songs of John Lee Hooker, Bo Diddly, and Howlin’ Wolf played by Gatemouth, the Mouth of the South, who blanketed the Midwest with fifty thousand watts from Shreveport, Louisiana, which competed with the loud Top Forty music of Larry Lujack from Chicago.

William S. Burroughs, Jack Kerouac, and Allen Ginsberg spoke to the disenchanted. Rosa Parks’s feet were tired, so she sat down in the front of the bus; Jim Crow was being challenged now on a daily basis. Sal Mineo rebelled in Blackboard Jungle, and likewise did James Dean in Rebel Without a Cause and East of Eden. Mad Madalyn Murray shocked the nation when she won the Supreme Court case banning prayers in schools.

And on February 2, l959, in the dead of night, during a bleak winter storm, three souls precipitated from the sky to the frozen tundra of Iowa. Rock ’n’ roll had died, replaced by sparkles and sequined dandies. Chris then knew that times were a-changin’. Despair beckoned chaos. A childhood was now gone. He was growing up. He couldn’t return. Fate led him down the unknown road.

Christopher Church got an early start that warm August day in Kansas. After weeks of frustration, he finally decided that it was time to hit the road. He had always been restless; now it seemed the right time. High school was in the past. His dad always gave him a hard time about getting a job or going to college, and Manhattan, Kansas, no longer offered him the satisfaction he desired. He didn’t understand anything except that he had to leave. He had a hunger that gnawed constantly at him, a hunger that frustrated him because he didn’t know what would satisfy it. All he knew was that he had to leave and try to find his way.

Chris had planned for this day for a long time. He made long lists of the essentials that he needed and took care not to leave out anything that would be crucial for any unexplained emergency. He had everything he needed in his World War II army pack with its many compartments. This included two changes of clothes, underwear, an extra belt, an army poncho in case it rained, a knife, flashlight, even a fish line and several hooks, as well as an army can opener. He also had his surplus army down sleeping bag, which was rolled around a tube tent made of plastic, and an army coat and a thick flannel shirt, and all this tied securely on top of the backpack. In total, the pack weighed about twenty-five pounds. Quite a load, Chris thought, but the essentials for someone who now was on his own.

Chris was confident that whatever problems developed, he was equipped to handle them. He could sleep out in the open, protected from the elements, and live efficiently if he had to. He could even catch his own fish if the situation required it. Chris wasn’t afraid of anything; he had the experience of scouting and knew that he could live off the land if he had to.

It was eight thirty in the morning, and the sun was already hot enough to form beads of sweat on his forehead, but the gentle Kansas wind kept him cool. He knew that by the afternoon, the temperature should approach a hundred. He had just got off from his first ride out of Manhattan and now was on the Topeka bypass west of Topeka, heading to the Kansas Turnpike going east to Illinois. Chris was surprised that he had gotten a ride out of Manhattan so early; he had expected it to take longer. He thought that maybe it was his attitude and his method of hitchhiking that helped him. His first ride was with a minister of the Lutheran church in Manhattan; he had responsibilities as pastor for the high school and college students at Kansas State University. Before Chris started out, he made sure that he got a haircut to look as neat as possible. He even wore a not-so-old-but-not-new blue blazer, which from a distance looked quite neat, but close examination revealed that the blazer sagged a little, and the shiny gold buttons had lost their shine. The pastor was going to a youth pastoral workshop in Topeka, took Chris to the turnoff at Topeka, and told Chris that he thought he that he recognized him from somewhere.

Was at Kansas State last year, Chris answered.

Sure. That must be it. God bless you, son, he said as Chris swung open the door, grabbed his pack, and got out.

Chris loved it on the highway. The wind gusted stronger now, and as each car or truck would roar by, he would hold out his thumb, not really caring if he got a ride. It felt so great to be on the road and free at last, no longer having to listen to the screams of the ole man and to wrestle with the problems with school that he wanted to leave behind him.

His first year at the university was a disaster—one that he didn’t want to repeat. He was too restless to study, and now he realized that he made the right decision, for better or worse.

Chris was on the road and was exhilarated. He had the hunger that Kerouac wrote about and the frustration of James Dean. He understood them. They spoke his language, a language that the other students in high school and college didn’t understand or appreciate. He had that hunger that he couldn’t explain to those not attuned to the vibrancy of life around them.

Chris daydreamed about the future as he looked off into the distance, to rolling hills fenced off by barbwire and enclosing square patches of farmed land, some of cut wheat, others recently ploughed for future planting, and others growing hay, soon to be ready for the last cut before winter. The air smelled sweet. The wind blew in circles at times and messed up his hair, so he would have to comb it often to try to keep it neat. He was glad he got a haircut because it was easier to keep combed.

A sudden honk on a horn startled him from his daydreaming, and when he looked up the road, he saw a car pulled off to the side and backing up.

A ride! Chris hurried to pick up his pack and began to run to the car. He quickly put out the cigarette that he was smoking and wished that he had not just lit it, for cigarettes were not the cheapest of vices, but he didn’t want to offend any driver with his smoking. It was the driver’s privilege to determine if he smoked or not. The driver backed up, stopped, and leaned over to open up the right-hand side door. Just as Chris approached, the driver flung open the door and yelled to Chris, Hop in, son, toss your pack in the back. Where’re you headed?

Chris opened the back door and noticed some neatly stacked boxes on the seat of the spotless, new-smelling Pontiac. Chris was careful to stack his pack neatly on the seat beside the packages and tried to brush off some of the dust on the bottom of the pack.

Don’t worry about that. It’s a rental. Cost me the same no matter what.

Chris nodded, slammed the back door, then got into the front seat. Thanks for the lift, Chris said as they drove away. He noticed a cigarette in the ashtray, smoke swirling up from it. The driver reached for it and took a drag. Chris reached into his pocket and at the same time asked, Mind if I smoke?

Go right ahead, son. What’s that sign say? He was referring to the crudely drawn sign that Chris carried with him to inform passing drivers where he’s going. Carbondale, Illinois. Where’s that?

Chris took a deep drag on his cigarette and blew the smoke out slowly, enjoying it immensely. The University of Southern Illinois is there. It’s in Southern Illinois. Goin’ to visit a friend. Old high school friend.

Within minutes, they were on the Kansas Turnpike, and the driver quickly speeded up to 75. As he drove, they talked, mostly loose talk about the weather and a little about each other’s lives. The driver’s name was Rolly. He was a salesman for the Kitty Clover Potato Chip Company, and he was going back to his headquarters in Kansas City. He was about thirty and married and had a five-year-old daughter who could do nothing wrong. Every time he talked about her, he would laugh and say, Boy, is she spoiled.

Within no time, they were in Kansas City. Once off the turnpike, traffic slowed to a trickle. Interstate 70 had not yet been completed through Kansas City and didn’t begin until about thirty miles into Missouri, so the stop-and-go traffic of US 40 was slow. Rolly was kind enough to drive Chris into Missouri and get him situated near the eastern edge of Kansas City.

Have a good trip! Rolly yelled as he sped away, spitting gravel from the spinning tires on Chris as he reached to put on his pack. Since Rolly left Chris still in the city, Chris began to walk along the highway, hitching as he walked, in an effort to get farther out of the city. The traffic was so busy at the drop-off place that even if a car wanted to stop, it would be difficult and dangerous.

It was noon; the straps of Chris’s pack were getting heavy and the sun’s rays hotter. The back of his shirt was soaked through with sweat, and the exhaust of the cars whistling by gagged him. In time he had walked about two miles farther out from the city, where it was less congested, so now it was a better place to hitchhike. What he needed was a place where a car could stop without creating a danger to others, and Chris thought that this was the right place.

He took off his pack, lit a cigarette, relaxed, and enjoyed his smoke. He didn’t expect to get a ride, and he felt that he needed the cigarette. After a certain amount of time, Chris craved for the ole smoke and nicotine, which was at that frozen second of time more important than a ride.

Chris stayed there for about two hours, the longest wait he had all day. He wondered if he would ever get a ride or if he would be stuck here in Kansas City all night. To be stuck in the country was one thing and not a big problem. All he had to do was roll out his sleeping bag and sleep. But in Kansas City, that would be difficult, especially since the cops that cruised by from time to time always gave him long, suspicious looks. Chris would not hold out his thumb to hitchhike whenever he saw them because he was afraid they might arrest him. Hitchhiking was illegal, although oftener not enforced. Nevertheless, the police worried him, and he had heard tales of abuse others have had with them. Sometimes though, a police car would catch him by surprise with his thumb out, and he would pull it in and pretend not to look at the cop as he passed. At times, he thought, it seemed like they actually liked to taunt the hitchhikers by driving by slowly, just to scare them a little. Regardless, Chris became nervous and picked up his pack and started walking down the road.

Just as he thought that he would have to walk all the way across the country, a car stopped right in front of him, kicking up dust in his face. A man in the car leaned over and opened the front door as Chris took a couple of quick steps and jumped in. Chris put his pack in the back and nodded hello to the man, who appeared to be another salesman.

Where’re you headed? the man asked, trying to read the sign that Chris had with him.

Carbondale, Illinois. I’m a student. Gonna see a friend. Chris then introduced himself. Name’s Chris. Chris Church.

Nice to meet you, Chris. Dick’s my name. Where’s Carbondale anyway? I’m going to St. Louis. Is that on the way?

Chris couldn’t believe it. A ride all the way across Missouri! What a break, he thought. That’s great! Carbondale’s just about a hundred miles southeast of St. Louis.

Within a few minutes they were back on the Interstate 70. Dick sped up, and before long, they were having a lively conversation. Chris felt an obligation to talk to the drivers. He felt that it was one of the reasons they picked him up: they wanted to talk to someone. They talked about the usual things, work, and Chris’s plans for the future, and Dick intertwined in the conversation the friendly fatherly advice he had for Chris. Chris talked as he watched the low rolling hills of Missouri and the small towns going by, every minute getting closer to St. Louis.

First was Sweet Spring, then Boonesville. From there they went across the wide Missouri river to Columbia, the center of the state, where the University of Missouri was located. The closer they came to St. Louis, the more Chris tried to calculate the time of arrival. He had hoped that if they kept the same pace, he could be in St. Louis by four o’clock, so there should still be plenty of light available so that he could at least get out of St. Louis before nightfall. He didn’t want to be stuck in the big city all night. Kansas City had been enough of a problem, and he didn’t want to deal with the same problem in St. Louis. Moreover, it would be worse this time since night would be coming on, and it would be more difficult to get a ride.

By five o’clock, Chris’s anxiety grew. He knew he probably would be trapped in St. Louis. They just passed through Wentzville and still had about forty miles to go. The five o’clock rush traffic picked up, and the pace slowed to fifty then forty miles per hour.

Dick changed the radio station that they were listening to and picked up a news broadcast already in progress. There was much excitement about the upcoming civil rights march on Washington and the problems in Vietnam. Dick turned up the knob on the radio and leaned forward to hear the news. He showed great interest, and he inserted his editorial comments between the items broadcasted.

And now turning to Washington, DC, we have a report on the March on Washington by the NAACP and Martin Luther King. Although no trouble is expected, the White House press secretary emphasized that the park police are ready for any counterdemonstrations and agitation by white protest groups that vowed to counterdemonstrate.

God damn niggers, spat Dick. They oughtta send ’em back to Africa. He looked over to Chris, expecting a response.

Chris was shocked at that comment, but he was expected to follow up some way. He didn’t know how to respond to the question, but gathered that he should agree with him, especially since he was a passenger and wanted to bargain for the best drop-off point in St. Louis. He knew that a negative response might result in being dumped in downtown St. Louis. Chris hoped that he would drive him to the outskirts, at least across the river.

You’re telling me, he awkwardly choked, embarrassed for the surrender of his ethics.

Why, hell, Dick said, they want everything for nothing. Just look at what they did in St. Louis across the river. He motioned ahead with his hand. East St. Louis’s ruined. Used to be a nice place, but the niggers just tore it up, they don’t care about nothin’. Fixin’ up the place would take millions. And the crime! It’s no longer safe to drive through there.

Chris used to try and milk some sympathy out of Dick and get a ride through the city. Where’s the safest place to hitchhike out of the city? You think that it would be safe at night?

Hell, no, son. He paused and looked over at Chris. But don’t worry, I’ll drive you past the bad areas and let you off on the other side of East St. Louis.

Thanks a lot! I was worried, answered Chris as he took out a cigarette and offered one to Dick.

No thanks. Can’t smoke non-filters anymore, messes up my lungs too much. Doctor told me to quit, but I can’t. He reached for a Salem. No sir, only you young folks can smoke those Chesterfield Kings.

They both smoked while Dick drove on. Chris watched the cars stream out of the city, all heading to the protection of the suburbs, away from the crime and blackness of St. Louis. As they got closer to downtown, the interstate passed the airport and then ended into the heavy downtown traffic. Now the traffic crawled, and Dick asked Chris to keep an eye out for the Eads Bridge crossing over into East St. Louis. Dick warned him to roll up his window to prevent the coloreds from breaking in. Chris thought that was absurd, but driving down by the waterfront, away from the main stream of traffic and seeing only Negroes on the streets and in the cars, worried even Chris, who was not used to the ways of the big city.

Damn, Dick groaned as he stretched his neck to read a street sign. Damn niggers rip all the signs down. Can’t see anything.

Chris saw a Negro on the corner and turned to Dick. Why don’t we ask him?

No way. I ain’t gonna ask no nigger. Are you crazy? Dick said. It’s around here somewhere. I know it. Dick swore. Finally he found the sign pointing to East St. Louis. Here we go, on our way. Nigger town, here we come. Dick stepped on the gas and sped away.

Before long, they were on the bridge crossing the Mississippi. Below, Chris could see the barges parked along the bank and several floating slowly down the river. Smoke from the factories lingered in the air, and trash from pollution floated in the river. This was a great disappointment to Chris, who thought that the great Mississippi should be greater than this.

On the other side, Dick drove through blocks of falling-down roll houses, many with trash littering the front yards and streets. Some yards had old broken-down couches and lounge chairs in front, and others had jacked-up cars, partially dismantled, with old tires lying around. This was East St. Louis, a slum. Chris had read about these conditions in the papers, but to see it in real life shocked him. It was worse than he thought. These sick, dying houses, the small dilapidated stores and bars, many of which had young Negroes hanging about, drinking whiskey out of brown wrinkled bags. And they stopped and stared at Chris and Dick as they drove by, and one felt a little self-conscious to be the only whites in the neighborhood.

Chris was glad that Dick was giving him a ride past the misery and hopelessness and anger. He thanked Dick again, took out another cigarette, and smoked it quickly, hoping that Dick would take him as far as possible from this place.

About ten miles out of town, Dick pulled over to let Chris out. They were now out of the bad part of East St. Louis, and the traffic sped along at a faster pace.

Chris looked at his watch. It was seven o’clock. Chris hoped that he could get a least one more ride before the night was out. He thanked Dick, put on his backpack, and started walking down the road, hitchhiking as he went. Within a few minutes, a car crept by and stopped a few feet ahead of him. Chris rushed over and hopped in as the driver opened the door for him.

I’m just goin’ down the road a bit, he said when Chris asked how far he was going. I only stopped because you’re a white boy, and I didn’t want you to be stuck in Niggertown all night. Might get your throat cut.

Chris thanked him. About twenty miles down the road, he was let off. Now it was dark, and the hitchhiking was not fruitful. Chris tried to get a ride, but for the next three hours, luck was against him. Regardless, he was happy that he was no longer in St. Louis, and with this thought, he decided to find a place to sleep for the night.

He walked until he found a flat piece of ground, off the road far enough so that a car wouldn’t accidentally run over him if it pulled off the road, and safe enough so that passing marauders wouldn’t see him.

Carefully he unpacked his pack, took out his sleeping bag, took off his shoes, and checked carefully in the toe of the shoe to see if the twenty dollar bill he had stuffed in there this morning was still there. He made a makeshift pillow with his shoes and went to bed, listening to the screaming of the cars and the roaring of the trucks as they approach him and then disappeared on down the road.

Chris was at peace. He was proud that he made it the first day, and now he knew that he could do anything. He now had the confidence that he needed but lacked in the last few weeks, when he anguished over his plans for the future.

2

Segregation is the offspring of an illicit intercourse between injustice and immorality.

—Martin Luther King

The next morning when Chris got up, the sun shone bright, and dew covered his sleeping bag. The sun’s brightness blinded him, and Chris put the sleeping bag over his face to protect them. He rested quietly, listening to the cars and trucks pass by. After a few minutes, he jumped out of his sleeping bag, packed, and started out on the second day of his journey. He had to move fast because he never knew which one of the passing cars might be the one perfect ride, and it made him nervous to think that it had already passed.

Chris packed his gear, checked the twenty dollar bill in his shoe, heaved the pack on to his back, and started down the highway. To his surprise, he got a ride immediately to Freeburg, Illinois. From there he got on state Highway l3, south to Carbondale. Chris was excited about his progress. He thought about stopping for something to eat, but that gnawing question of losing that one perfect ride haunted him. By now he understood the game of hitchhiking. If you want to make time, you can’t take the chance to pass up a ride. He knew that sometime during the day, he would have the opportunity to eat, perhaps when the driver stopped for a bite. Then he also could get something to eat without jeopardizing his progress.

By nine o’clock, the dew was burnt off, and the sun’s rays were warming his body. Chris stood beside the road at the edge of the small farm town. Corn and soybeans grew in the farm fields. The smell reminded him of Kansas, a smell he liked, unlike the stench of the big city. The birds sang as they flew from tree to tree and sometimes around his face. They chirped at him as he walked, as if he invaded their sacred territory.

The traffic on Highway 13 slowed, nothing but a few local farmers traveling from one field to another or to the next town for supplies, not the long rides one gets on the mighty interstates, rides which sometimes were halfway across the country in one pickup. But that didn’t bother Chris. He enjoyed himself and didn’t care if he got a ride or not. Carbondale was only seventy miles ahead, and he had the confidence that he would get there sometime that day. Progress was slow; the rides were short jaunts by old grizzled farmers going to work or to the next small town for business or a cup of coffee with the boys.

Slowly he made his way through New Athens, then Marissa, followed by Tilden, Coulterville. Then Pinckneyville, a strange name for a town, thought Chris. All these were small farm towns with small stores, a few gas stations, and older wood houses. The people who picked him up were friendly and had strange accents, unlike the southern accent, but not really a northern accent nor a hillbilly mountain accent, but what appeared to be a combination of all of them. They all spoke proudly of Southern Illinois University. Many bragged that for the first time they had children, friends, or cousins going to school there. Many of them first-generation college students, of whom many had parents with only an eighth grade education.

Chris knew he was getting close to Carbondale when he got to Murphysboro; he saw more cars with SIU decals on their windows and more people who looked like students. Carbondale was only seven miles down the road. His last ride took him through Murphysboro into Carbondale, and he was let off on the corner of Highway l3 and Illinois Avenue. He stood on the corner, took off his pack, and looked around. One corner was the railroad depot with a parked train letting off and on passengers, many of whom were students. Across the street was the Cartwheel restaurant and the Longbranch bar in the basement, and up Illinois avenue, a mixture of the usual stores one would find in a shopping district in a town with a population of twenty thousand. The business district was larger for a town that size, but the extra twenty-three thousand students accounted for the need. Cars sped up and down the streets, honking horns and screeching to a halt at stop signs. Many were filled with students, some celebrating even at the early hour of one o’clock in the afternoon. The air was filled with excitement; it amazed Chris that in sleepy Southern Illinois, Carbondale seemed so vibrant.

Chris walked over to the depot, looked for a pay storage locker, found one, and stored his pack away, carefully locking the door and tucking the key deep in his pocket. He felt relieved that now his life possessions were safe. No longer did he have to worry about protecting them, nor did he have the burden of lugging them all over town. At a pay phone, Chris dug into his billfold, pulled out a wrinkled piece of paper, and dialed a number. He cupped the phone close to his ear to listen to the ringing amid the clatter of the traffic.

Hello? Hello? Is Diekrich Bauman there? He paused, looked around, and saw people, many of them students, carrying suitcases to the train, and just as the curves of a pretty blond attracted his attention, he was interrupted.

Diek, is that you? Chris yelled into the phone to overcome the congestion and noise. Great to hear from you. Yeah, it’s me. Bet you never thought I’d come, did you?

They talked on the phone, and Diekrich told him that he would come by and pick him up by the telephone post on the corner of Illinois street and Highway l3, which was Main Street. Chris walked outside, looked for the telephone pole, and leaned against it. He watched the cars pass by and thought about Diek, his friend since grade school. He smiled to himself when he thought about the basketball games they played at Woodrow Wilson Grade School and playing in a marching band they hated with instruments they hated even more, Diek the clarinet and Chris the trumpet, because their parents made them, always telling them that someday they would thank their parents for the opportunity.

All through grade school, junior high, and high school, they were close despite the fact that in high school, they traveled separated ways. Diekrich was a star athlete, a sure bet to be in the most prestigious clique. Although Diek tried to involve Chris with his friends, Chris shied away. There was something about the pretentious phoniness of the clique environment, something that conflicted with his goals and ideals.

Since cliques lacked substance and didn’t solve the growing in Chris. He searched through books hoping to find the answers, but alas, they only made him more confused and agitated. He looked and studied maps and dreamed of far-off places and adventure. But despite their divergence and their dissimilarities, both somehow still remained true buddies, maybe because they both needed each other and the virtues one had, he would give to the other. Although both different, they were similar in ways many would not understand.

A car horn startled Chris out of his reverie. He looked up and saw Diekrich driving behind him in the parking lot by the train depot. Diek blasted the horn again as he sat in his red l957 Ford convertible, and when eye contact was made, Diek jumped out over the car door in one easy motion, ran to Chris, and they hugged each other.

Chrissy, great to see you. You little shit. Stayin’ out of trouble? teased Diek, C’mon, let’s get a beer. Hop in. Diek proudly showed off his car. Like it? Just got it, traded in the old Chevy for it.

Looks great, Chris said as he got in the car.

Diek backed up out of the parking lot, honking at the cars that were in his way or didn’t move fast enough. Chris liked the feel of riding in a convertible on that warm August afternoon. First they drove around the downtown area, and the first item on the agenda was to baptize Chris with an obligatory ride on the plastic bronco pig at Grampa John’s, a discount store.

After that, Diek pointed out some of the sites that were worthy of mentioning, such as the only place in town where you could buy liquor and beer: the bars. These included the Longbranch, one of the raunchier places in town where the wild and bawdy drinkers drank; the Flamingo, but Chris was warned not to go there because the rumor was that it was where the queers hung out; LBJ, short for the Little Brown Jug, which attracted all types, even the drinkers in the philosophy department, giving the place a little class and sophistication; and the last stop, the Club, which was near the Varsity Theater. Each place had a particular clientele, and since the Club was where the fraternity brothers held forth in glory, that’s where Diek headed.

Diek parked the car. They got out and entered the bar. At first, it took some time to adjust their eyes to the darkened bar, but once adjusted, they worked their way to the back of the bar through the crowds of fraternity brothers and sorority sisters celebrating the end of summer quarter. The place was packed, so crowded that drunks staggered into them. Others spilled beer on them as they tried to maintain their drunken balance, but it really didn’t make much difference. Everybody was having a great time. Diek would grab someone and shout hellos, and others embraced, yelling some obscene comment. Chris marveled at Diek’s popularity with the brothers and sisters, but he expected as much. Diek was popular in college, just as he was in high school. Chris would have felt uncomfortable in the Club with its fraternity environment, but since he was with Diek, he felt he was accepted, even though he wore jeans and a work shirt—quite different form the standard attire of sports coats, slacks, and button-down pin-striped oxford shirts. He was a little embarrassed since his unbathed, sweaty body had the smell of body odor, which prevailed around him.

At the end of the bar, they sat down on the stools near the blaring television set that competed with the raucous crowd and the jukebox screaming Louie Louie. Sorority girls approached Diek and threw their arms around him, smothering him in kisses as Diek attempted to introduce Chris to them.

Chris, I would like you to meet— yelled Diek, trying to penetrate the noise. Chris, although he could not understand the names because of the noise, nodded hellos and smiled and continued drinking, one beer after another, quenching the thirst he developed on the road. And it wasn’t long ’til his head spun with drunkenness and the noise of the TV and the jukebox all blended together, now no longer bothering him. They stayed until five o’clock, then staggered out to get something to eat.

In the car, Diek said, My god, I’m drunk. Can you drive?

Better not, Chris said. I’m loaded myself.

They sat in the car for a few minutes, not saying a word. Chris stared off in the distance, his head still swirling with confusion, and when he looked over at Diek, Diek nodded off and bumped his head on the steering wheel. Chris reached over, pulled Diek over to his side, got out of the car, walked around to the driver’s side, got in, started the car, and drove to the end of the parking lot, where the car came to a sudden halt. He realized he too was in no condition to drive. Slowly he drove over and parked sideways in a parking slot. Then he leaned his head on the steering wheel and passed out.

Before long, someone was shaking him awake. Chris. Chrissy, wake up. You okay? Diek asked.

Chris moaned.

Come on, let’s get a burger and some coffee. Diek opened the car door, and Chris rolled out and stumbled to get to his feet. Together, they carried each other to the nearby Varsity Theater sandwich shop. They staggered in and sat down at one of the booths.

After several cups of coffee and a hamburger, both felt better and started talking quietly about the present and plans for the future and invariably about the past.

Hey, Chris, wanna play some pin ball, you know, like the old times? Diek asked Chris.

Not now. Maybe tomorrow, after I get some sleep. Chis asked, How’s school anyway?

Shitty, of course. I really need your help, man, Diek pleaded and then perked up. Say, why don’t you transfer here? I’ll get you into the frat house. We can have great times again. Just like in high school.

Chris at first didn’t say anything as he thought about his long friendship with Diek and all the help that he gave him in high school. To Chris, school was easy, but he always felt that Diek could also do as well, only if he would learn to concentrate more. Regardless, he wasn’t ready to go back to school.

Finally he said, No, don’t think so, I can’t take it for now. Last semester was a drag. Shit, I nearly flunked ROTC.

Surprised, Diek perked up. Flunked ROTC? Only a chick could mess your head up so much to flunk ROTC. That’s the only course I got an A in. You always were getting goggle-eyed over some little pretty thing.

Chris didn’t want to talk about his frustration with school, and he knew that his breakup with Becky was one reason for many of his problems, and he knew he could talk to Diek, and Diek would understand. Chris smiled to himself and then said to Diek, You’re right, man. I get too involved…and before long, I want to get married, but I know I’m just not ready for that, and that confuses me all the more.

Diek grinned. You know you don’t have to marry ’em. Just enjoy ’em. Hell, that’s why God put them on earth. What you need’s another chick. I know someone, and she’ll fix you up real good. Believe me, she take care of you.

Well, maybe, but right now, I’ll pass. Chris paused and then asked, Say, how’s finals? They over? Shouldn’t you be studying?

‘One more tomorrow, and then we’ll party out at the lake, okay? And Phyllis will be done tomorrow. Diekrich paused. Say, let’s find her. She should be at the sorority house.

Diekrich and Chris jumped up from the booth. Both reached for their billfold, but Diekrich insisted that he pay. They drove over to the sorority house, got out of the car, walked up, and knocked on the door. Phyllis was not there, but one of the sisters that Chris thought was cute assured them that they would tell her that they dropped by.

From there they walked over to the fraternity house, and Diek introduced Chris to some of the members that he met in the hallway. Diek showed him a special guest room where he could sleep and shower; he told Chris to meet him in the living room after he washed up.

The room was small but clean. Chris washed his face, took a shower, and put on some clean but wrinkled clothes. It felt good to put on a clean change of clothes. After he was dressed, he took out a cigarette, lit it, laid down on the bed, and slowly smoked, daydreaming about Phyllis.

Phyllis and Diek had been going together since they were seniors in high school. It was generally expected that after high school they would both get married. Diek wanted to, but she didn’t. Secretly, Chris was glad. He himself had a strong attraction to her, but his loyalty to Diek forced him not to think about his feelings. His friendship with Diek was more important.

Chris dozed and was awakened by a bang on the door. It was Diekrich. Time to eat! he yelled.

Chris got up, opened the door, and walked out. I’m not hungry. Maybe I’ll just sit and watch some television.

That’s fine with me. Follow me, I’ll show you where the TV is. Diek led him to the living room and motioned for Chris to sit on the couch. Then he walked over to turn on the TV. The news was on. See you in a second, he said as he walked away, leaving Chris alone in the big room with the news. Chris leaned back on the couch, relaxed, closed his eyes, and listened.

Today in Vietnam, the fifth suicide by a Buddhist demonstrator took place in the coastal town of Ninh Hòa. This time the suicide was of a twenty-year-old Buddhist nun who drenched herself in gasoline and lit a match. This was the first time that a woman committed this ultimate sacrifice in protesting the government of President Diem—

Chris couldn’t help but look up to see the fiery body burning in the middle of the street. He was horrified. He couldn’t understand what the protesters wanted and why. One suicide, a nut could be explained, but now five, all dousing themselves in gasoline and lighting a match. Ugh, Chris thought. It’s an epidemic. What the hell do they want, to overthrow the government? They are probably Communists. Chris was well aware of the situation in Vietnam and the attempts of the Communists to take over, as well as the efforts of the American government to prevent it. Last spring he wrote a paper on it for his ROTC commander, and he learned how twelve thousand special forces troops in Vietnam were training the Vietnamese to combat the Viet Cong. What made Chris was angry was that so far, a hundred Americans already died fighting against the Communists—for their freedom—and the Buddhist monks now threatened the plan for victory that was just around the corner.

Chris felt that he was an expert on Vietnam. Most Americans knew very little about the war. He knew that the US success was to fight the war on the guerrillas’ own terms. And that’s exactly what the special forces have been trained to do. The key to sure victory was the fast response of helicopter assaults.

The Communists could no longer dominate the countryside because freshly trained Green Beret soldiers on the shortest notice could be sent in to interdict the enemy or reinforced troops by helicopters. This technique, coupled with the development of the strategic hamlet concept of protection, a plan to train the villagers to protect themselves, assured victory against the Communists.

Chris got an A on the paper. A paper he had to write, or else he would have flunked ROTC because he had 73 demerits that semester. A record, some say. Chris would smile to himself whenever he thought about the fact that he had claim to that record. He never liked the regimentation of ROTC, but since Kansas State was a land grant college, all males in the first two years had to take ROTC. Now there was nothing wrong about flunking ROTC, but he didn’t want to repeat it, so he bargained with the commander: Chris would write the paper in exchange for a D.

The news continued with a discussion of the upcoming March on Washington, and a recap on the violence that spread throughout the South that summer. Chris was sympathetic to the Negro movement and hoped that the Southern senators wouldn’t filibuster the upcoming civil rights act proposed by the Kennedy administration, which had lost much of their support from the traditional southern Democrats and many of the northern working class in the large cities, all who felt the Negro was demanding too much from the government. Chris hated racism and the people who espoused it. He couldn’t stomach the word nigger and even grimaced when Diek used it, more frequently down here than back in Manhattan. He knew that he was not a racist in the way that the Southerners were, but he only said the word because others did, and he felt compelled to talk the way the locals talked, sometimes to evoke a response from someone. Chris’s initial feelings about the people in Southern Illinois and the students was that they were more racist than those in Manhattan and Kansas State, probably because Southern Illinois bordered on the Southern states, thought Chris.

The news ended, dinner was over, and students milled about the living room. Diek came out, and he introduced Chris to all the brothers. Chris felt somewhat uncomfortable around them. They were not his type, but he tried to be conversational and friendly, asking questions about Southern Illinois, where they were from, and daily amenities. Most came from either Southern Illinois or the Chicago area. Many were the first in their families to go to school, and all spoke highly of the president of the university, who had a knack to get lots of money invested in the university.

After a short visit, Diek took Chris to Phyllis’s sorority. The night was warm, and the crickets screeched in their rhythmic cadence. It reminded Chris of the hot summer night in Kansas. Phyllis was not home, still at the library studying for her last final examination. They looked for her there but did not find her, and by ten o’clock, they gave up and headed to the Club to drink more beer. Chris reminded Diek to study, but Diek assured him that he didn’t need to. They spent the rest of the night drinking. Neither knew what time they got back to the house. Neither cared as both were smashed. Chris passed out on the bed, too drunk to get undressed, and slept soundly ’til late morning.

3

I believe in the doctrine of non-violence as a weapon of the weak. I believe in the doctrine of nonviolence as a weapon of the strongest. I believe that man is the strongest soldier for daring to die unarmed.

—Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi

The next morning, Chris slept in late. The morning sun shone through the window and, much to his despair, woke him up. He had a terrible headache and felt nauseated. He pulled the blanket over his face and listened to the silence of the fraternity house. A look at his watch told him that it was eleven o’clock, and probably all the other students were out of the house by now. The longer he lay, the more he ached to pee, but the thought of getting up overruled that until the aching was so great that he had no choice but to get up and relieve himself. With one surge, he jumped out of bed, causing his head to throb with pain that subsided after he rested a while, leaning against the wall. In the bathroom, the relief of peeing made him feel better until he looked into the mirror and saw his tousled hair and the pained look on his face. He moaned. Jesus Christ, I look bad. He turned on the faucet and washed his face with cold water, wet his hair, and combed it backward. Then he took three aspirin and swallowed it with water from his cupped hand. He felt better now and returned to his room to get dressed.

As Chris finished dressing, Diek popped into the room, staggering and hung over. Fuck, we really tied one on last night. Diek plopped on the bed and covered his eyes with his hands. Oh, Chris, why did you do this to me? I drank too much. It must’ve been the vodka. I shouldn’t’ve had the vodka, should’ve known better.

Chris sat down beside him and patted him on the shoulder. I know. But it was fun, wasn’t it? I needed to tie one on.

Me too, groaned Diek. Diek got up and looked at his watch. Oh my god, I gotta get running. I got a final exam to go to. Diek dragged himself up, headed to the door, turned around, and looked at Chris. Hey, Chrissy, you stay here. Be back in no time. We’ll pick up Phyllis, head for the lake this afternoon, and relax. And have some more beer. Whatta you say?

Sounds great, said Chris as he got up and tucked in his shirt. You know what they say? Chris smiled as he looked at him. The best thing for a hangover is to take another drink. Beer with tomato juice, for the vitamin C.

You betcha, answered Diek as he waved goodbye and closed the door behind him.

Chris took out, lit a cigarette, and sat on the side of the bed, enjoying it by taking long drags and blowing out the smoke slowly. Nothing’s better than a quiet smoke in the morning, he thought as his head began to clear and the stimulant of the nicotine jarred his consciousness. The aspirin began to take effect. After he finished the cigarette, he walked outside into the warm August sun. It was going to be a hot day, Chris thought as the rays warmed his skin. He took a deep breath, lit another cigarette, and walked down to the campus lake.

The lake was adjacent to the university-built fraternity and sorority houses and was located in a wooded area called Thompson Woods, about ten acres donated to the university to use as long as they didn’t use it for buildings and preserved the peaceful wooded surroundings. A place of refuge for the students.

Once there, Chris sat on a log and watched the water bugs dance on the mirrored still water and listened to the flies buzz around him. A squirrel jumped and ran through the trees, and birds fluttered about, chirping as they chased after each other. Chris thought about his journey and where it would take him next. He thought about Washington, DC, his next destination, perhaps to see the civil rights March on Washington. He had read about the planning for the last six months and wanted to do his part in the protection of civil rights for the Negroes. All summer he had read reports about the sit-in demonstrations all across the South, police violence with dogs terrifying the protesters, and wanton church bombings.

He couldn’t understand any of it. How could someone be so demented as to bomb a Negro church? Not to mention the murder of Medgar Evers in Mississippi by a white racist just because he was a Negro. This wanton abuse, man against his fellow man, was wrong, and Chris knew that it must stop. The biggest question that Chris asked himself was what he could do.

Chris closed his eyes, leaned against a tree, and relaxed, dreaming of the future, when he heard the rustle of footsteps behind him. He didn’t pay much attention but was startled when soft hands covered his eyes. Just as he was ready to panic, he heard a voice. Guess who? she whispered as she gave him a small kiss on the back of the neck.

Chris knew immediately that it was Phyllis. For one thing, he knew her softness and her voice. He turned around and saw her smiling in all her glory. They both immediately hugged each other, and tears mixed with laughter and warmth came to their eyes. Finally Chris was able to talk, but just as he was about to say something, Phyllis likewise began to talk. Both were excited and laughed at the attempts to talk at the same time. Finally Chris said, Phyllis, it’s great to see you. You look wonderful.

You do too, she answered and gave him another hug and kiss. It’s been too long…I missed you so much. Diekrich told me that you might be coming by. She wiped a tear of joy from her eye and continued, But I didn’t want to believe it…because if you didn’t, I would’ve been crushed. Tell me, how’s everything going? Phyllis straightened out her skirt and sat down with Chris as he took out a cigarette and lit it.

"Been