'68 - A Novel...

CHAPTER 31: TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 5


A small Tuesday night crowd gathered at Skip’s, watching the election returns trickle in, waiting for one of the three major networks to declare a winner. After a while, they grew bored with the coverage and Skip switched to a channel showing “I Love Lucy” reruns; that is, at least until the polls closed in California. Then it was back to Skip’s favorite network, CBS, where he expected to hear the straight scoop from the veteran team anchored by Walter Cronkite. Little did Skip and his customers know that they’d have to wait until Wednesday morning for a winner to be declared.

“I can’t believe it’s this close. Humphrey was so far behind coming out of Chicago in August, I didn’t think it was possible for him to make up the ground.”

“Yeah, but he waited too long to break with Johnson and come out for an end to the bombing. He should have done that right off the bat.”

“And what about Nixon? Losing to Kennedy in ’60. Losing for governor in ’62. I thought he was dead. What a comeback!”

“You know, I think he’ll be a pretty good president.”

The lone woman sitting at the bar spoke up then, her voice heavy with emotion. “Ah, they’re all a bunch of crooks… a bunch of lousy crooks, every damn one of ‘em.”

“Come on, Alice, why do you say that?”

“Because it’s true. Look what they do: stage some phony Gulf of Tonkin incident so they can bomb North Vietnam. Send 500,000 of our kids to prop up those crooks in Saigon. And then, at the last minute, a week before the election, Johnson declares a halt to the bombing and says a peace agreement is close, just to try to throw the election to Humphrey.”

“Well, hell…”

“Do you think LBJ cares about the kids that are dying while he plays politics with their lives? He doesn’t give a rat’s ass! All they care about is power. They’ll do anything to get it, and they’ll do anything to keep it.”

“Hey, calm down, Alice. Come on…”

She was crying openly now. “My best friend just lost her son. He’s coming home in a box. And for what? Half the country is against the damn war. They’re all a bunch of crooks.”

“Well, Nixon says he’s got a secret plan to end the war.”

“And you believe that crap? If he’s got a plan, why doesn’t he tell us what it is? And what about Humphrey? He didn’t come out for a bombing halt until he saw he was getting his ass kicked in the polls. They’re a bunch of damn crooks.”

“You know, Alice may be right. Remember that Orson Welles film, where his character Harry Lime is way up in a Ferris wheel or something, and he says to Joseph Cotton, ‘See those people down there, all those little black dots? If one of those dots stopped moving forever, would you really care?’ That’s our politicians, up there in that Ferris wheel, looking down at all of us little black dots on the ground.”

“Well, listen to you, Mr. Philosopher. Since when did you get so intellectual? Orson Welles, my ass…”

Their attention returned to the election results.

“Hey, how ‘bout George Wallace? Looks like he is going to carry about five states: Georgia, Alabama, Louisiana, Mississippi and Arkansas.”

“Geez, Humphrey could really use those electoral votes.”

“Hell, those votes were never going to Humphrey. They would have gone to Nixon. The old ‘solid South’ hates the Democrats now, because of the civil rights laws.”

“Wallace was never going to win the election. What was trying to do?”

“He wanted to keep Humphrey and Nixon from getting 270 electoral votes, throw the election into the House of Representatives.”

“How the hell does that work anyway? Since they’re mostly Democrats, wouldn’t they just vote for Humphrey?”

“Damned if I know. I’m sure if it looks like it’s going that way, Uncle Walter will explain it to us.”

And so it went as the clock ticked closer to midnight. Alice’s friends took her home. Skip resisted the temptation to switch channels in search of something to laugh about. And eventually, Walter Cronkite advised his viewers that it was all coming down to Ohio, Illinois and California – all three states too close to call. Nixon would wind up carrying those three states and the country would wake up to the news that he, Richard M. Nixon, would become the 37th President of the United States, winning 301 votes in the Electoral College. The true election wonks noticed right away that if Humphrey had carried California, George Wallace would have achieved his goal.

Nixon’s secret plan took another seven years to bear fruit. In the meantime, many more sons and daughters came home in flag-draped coffins, black dots on the ground that simply stopped moving forever.
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CHAPTER 32: MONDAY, NOVEMBER 11


City Park and the surrounding streets were packed. Everyone who would participate in the Veteran’s Day parade was gathered, milling around, waiting to be organized. The parade committee was busy, walking through the noisy throng, making check marks on their ubiquitous clipboards, making sure all the elements were present and accounted for.

John Harris scanned the crowd and ran his own mental checklist. There were two high school bands, one from Vallejo and one from Armijo High in Fairfield. There was a mounted patrol on beautiful golden palominos. A dozen Shriners were present, each wearing a fez and driving one of those tiny cars. John saw the Navy color guard from Mare Island, carrying the Stars and Stripes, the Navy ensign and the California Bear Flag. On the street, several convertibles were lined up, ready to transport the Grand Marshall, the mayor, and several pretty girls wearing sashes to proclaim their titles. And finally, there were the veterans who would march in loose formation behind the band from Vallejo High, some wearing their faded service uniforms and others, like John, in their VFW caps and jackets.

The parade route would take them south on Marin Street to Georgia, then west on Georgia Street through the main shopping district, and finally to Waterfront Park. There a platform had been erected and a sound system installed so that the mayor and other distinguished guests could say a few words. In between speakers, the two bands would trade numbers, each determined to outperform the other. It was a good plan and the committee was determined that it would be executed to perfection.

John saw a group of friends from the VFW post gathered in a circle, laughing and cutting up, and he wandered over to join them. One of the men was about to launch into a story and all eyes and ears were focused on the storyteller. As he started to speak, John saw Kenji Hashimoto and Isaac Washington standing together, just outside the circle, both of them wearing their old Army uniforms.

“So I have this buddy who runs a business,” the storyteller began, “and he’s got a couple of schvartzes – that’s what he calls colored guys – working for him. So he sends the schvartzes out to make a delivery. It’s about an hour there and an hour back and he figures they’ll be gone two, maybe two and half hours. So they’re gone a couple of hours and he gets a phone call. It’s one of the schvartzes. He says, ‘Mistuh Bernie, we went like you tol us, but we cain’t find dat address. We dun drove up ‘n down ‘n round, and we is lost, Mistuh Bernie, we is jes flat lost.’ And Bernie says, ‘Hold the phone, Willie, hold the phone. Where are you?’ Willie says, ‘I’s in a phone booth at dis big inner-secshun. They’s cars flying by ever which way.’ Bernie says, ‘Okay, Willie, I want you look outside for the street signs. Tell me what the street signs say.’ So the line goes quiet for a minute, then Willie comes back on. ‘You’s right, Mistuh Bernie, I dun seen the street signs.’ Bernie says, ‘Okay, Willie, that’s great. What do the street signs say?’ Willie says, ‘They say Walk and Don’t Walk. We is at the corner of Walk and Don’t Walk!’”

The men gathered in the circle threw their heads back and howled with laughter; that is except for John Harris. John was looking at Isaac Washington’s face, and now he felt a little sick to his stomach. He pushed through the group and made his way to where Isaac and Kenji were standing.

“What’s the matter, Big John? You’re not laughing. ‘The corner of Walk and Don’t Walk’? Now that’s funny!” Isaac had a wry smile on his face.

Kenji picked up on the sarcasm. “Yeah, those darn schvartzes! Always good for a laugh.”

“Ah, don’t listen to that guy. He’s a jerk. Say fellas, I have a proposition for you. I would be honored to march with you in the parade. And if you so honor me, I will buy you both a drink at Skip’s Place when we get to the waterfront. Whataya say?”

Kenji and Isaac looked at each other and shrugged. “Hey, if Big John is opening his wallet, I’m not saying no.” Isaac nodded in agreement.

“You think they’ll serve a mixed trio like us, John? They might just throw us out on our cans.” Isaac was into the spirit of it now.

“Who, Skip? Nah, Skip’s a good guy. He takes all comers.”

Just then, the head of the parade committee clicked on her bullhorn and began to bark directions. The lead elements of the parade fell into place out in the street – the banner carriers, the cars carrying the Grand Marshall and the local dignitaries, and the band from Armijo High. John saw a float roll past, a replica of the USS California, and he felt a large lump in his throat. There was nothing like the excitement that filled the air just before a parade stepped off. Then came a shrill blast from a whistle, a rousing drum roll, and the Armijo band broke into “Stars and Stripes Forever.” The parade was underway, rolling up Marin Street.

The director clicked on her bullhorn again and ordered the veterans to queue up behind the Vallejo High band in their Apache red uniforms. The drum major split the air with a blast from his whistle and the corps of drummers went into a rousing eight bars that kicked off “Anchors Aweigh,” and they began to march. John heard Navy veterans around him singing along with the band and he lent his booming voice to the chorus…

Anchors aweigh, my boys
Anchors aweigh…

The people who lined the street smiled and waved little flags as they marched past, and John could see that they were singing along as well; after all, this was a Navy town and damn proud of it. Then another whistle blast, another eight bars from the drummers, and now it was the Army’s time to sing…

Over hill, over dale, we will hit the dusty trail
As those caissons go rolling along…

John looked at Isaac and Kenji, their heads held high, singing at the top of their lungs, calling out their numbers loud and strong. Along the street, they saw fathers with their children on their shoulders, mothers clutching their babies, and old men in wheelchairs, wearing their VFW caps and saluting as they marched past. Then another drum break and it was the flyboys turn…

Off we go, into the wild blue yonder
Flying high, into the sun…

The final break came and the Marines were more than ready, determined to be the boldest yet…

From the halls of Montezuma
To the shores of Tripoli…

John, Kenji and Isaac looked at each other and grinned, their eyes wet with the pure emotion that filled the cool November air. Black, white, oriental – suddenly it didn’t matter a whit. They were just three proud Americans, veterans and survivors of the bloodiest war in history, charter members of what would come to be known as The Greatest Generation.
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CHAPTER 33: SUNDAY, DECEMBER 22


Ruth Lev sat at her dining room table, preparing to light the candles on her menorah. This was the seventh night of Chanukah, and so she took eight of the small candles from the box – one for each day and one for the shamas – and placed them in their respective holders. She struck a match and lit the shamas, then used it to light the other candles in sequence. Finally, she replaced the shamas and began to recite the Hebrew blessings:

“Barukh attah Adonai
Eloheinu melekh ha’olam
Asher kidishanu b’mitz’votav
V’tzivanu l’hal’lik ner
Shel Chanukah (Amein)

Barukh atah Adonai
Eloheinu melekh ha’olam
She’asah nisim la’avoteinu
Bayamim haheim
Baziman hazeh (Amein)”

She watched quietly as the little candles burned, noting the colored wax that had dripped onto the menorah. Perhaps it was time to give it a good cleaning. And yet the thought of removing these remnants of Chanukah past repelled her. She just couldn’t bring herself to do it.

Ruth had purchased this menorah at a Judaica shop in San Francisco shortly after arriving in the U.S. from Germany. She selected it because it was the closest she could find to the design of the one her parents had owned, the menorah she remembered from her childhood. It was nothing elaborate or expensive. It simply reminded her of home.

She watched the candles burn to the very end, the last piece of wick consuming the last bit of wax, a little puff of smoke rising from each candle to signal the end. Then Ruth did something unusual. She removed one more candle from the box, struck a match and lit it, and then placed in one of the holders. As she did this, she said a silent prayer for Milton Jacob Lev, her grandson. She tried her best to picture him somewhere up in the snowy plains north of Toronto. She prayed that he was warm and happy. She prayed that God would watch over him and keep him safe. She prayed that He would bring peace to Milton’s troubled mind, and that one day soon he would come home safely. And again, she watched the candle burn until the tiny puff of smoke rose into the air.

Ruth wondered if this was kosher, if God would hear this prayer? She wasn’t certain and there was no one to ask such a question. She believed one thing for sure: God owed her a few answers.
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In North Korea, it was another day: December 23 to be exact. Captain Lloyd Bucher and the crew of the USS Pueblo were loaded onto buses and driven to the Demilitarized Zone that separates the two Koreas. There they were told to march south across the Bridge of No Return. Captain Bucher led the way, 82 men walking in single file, with Executive Officer Lieutenant Ed Murphy the last man to cross over to freedom.

This should have been the end of the ordeal for the men of the Pueblo, an ordeal marked by beatings, torture, mock firing squads and public humiliation. It was also marked by defiance, such as Bucher’s “confession” in which he professed to “paean” (pee on) the North Koreans, such as the photograph of the crew with raised middle fingers, which they described to their captors as the “Hawaiian good luck salute.” This defiance earned them even more intense beatings.

The U.S. Navy, in its infinite wisdom, convened a court of inquiry, which recommended that the senior officers of the Pueblo face a court martial. In a rare display of compassion, Secretary of the Navy John Chafee rejected the recommendation, saying “They have suffered enough.” And still, POW medals were not awarded the crew until 1990, 22 years later.

All things considered, one would have hoped for a mea culpa or two from the very top of the leadership ranks – the Secretary of the Navy, the Secretary of Defense, or the Commander in Chief himself. Something like this:

I made a mistake. I sent the USS Pueblo into hostile waters, loaded with sensitive material and equipment, virtually unarmed and unprotected, with no contingency plan in the event of an attack. This mistake came at a horrendous cost to the crew, their families, and the security of our nation as a whole. For this, I offer my sincere and most profound apology.

Of course, no such statement has ever been forthcoming. Whatever happened to The Buck Stops Here? Where are men like Harry Truman when we really need them?
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Next: Christmas Eve and New Years Eve. The story ends where it began.
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