In The Desperate Search For Peace- The Maine Veterans For Peace-Sponsored March For Peace and Protection Of The Planet From Rangeley To North Berwick-October 2014 -Take Two
From The Pen Of Frank Jackman
“You know I never stepped up and opposed that damn war in Vietnam that I was part of, a big part of gathering intelligence to direct those monster B-52s to their targets. Never thought about much except to try and get my ass out of there alive, in one piece. Didn’t get “religion” on the issues of war and peace until sometime after I got out when I ran into a few Vietnam veterans who were organizing a demonstration with the famous Vietnam Veterans Against The War (VVAW) down in Washington and they told me what was what. So since then, you know, even if we never get peace, and at times that seems like some kind of naïve fantasy I have felt I have to be part of actions like today, like today with guys like you and other members of Veterans for Peace, to let people know, to let myself know, that when the deal went down I was where the action was, ’’ said Jack Scully to his fellow Vietnam veteran Peter Mullin.
Peter had been sitting in the passenger seat of the car Jack was driving when he made his comment as they were travelling back to Jack’s summer place in York after they had just finished participating in the last leg of the Maine Veterans for Peace-sponsored walk for peace and preservation of the planet from Rangeley to North Berwick, a distance of about one hundred and twenty miles over a ten day period in the October breezes, the wayward October 2014 breezes. (Mike Kelly, a younger veteran from the Iraq wars, a newer member who neither of the Vietnam veterans knew well other than he had suffered Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) and had received a disability allowance, whose story they would find out more about some time later sat in back silently drinking in what these grizzled old activists were discussing)
The organizers of the march had a method to their madness since Rangeley was projected to be a missile site, and the stopping points in between were related to the war industries or to some environmental protection issue ending in North Berwick where the giant defense contractor Pratt-Whitney has three shifts running building F-35 missiles and parts for fighter jets. The three veterans who had come up from Boston to participate in the action had walked the last leg from Saco (pronounced “socko” as a Mainiac pointed out to Peter when he said “sacko”) to the Pratt-Whitney plant in North Berwick, some fifteen miles or so along U.S. Route One and Maine Route Nine.
As Peter let Jack’s comment sink in this is what he had already had known about Jack, whom he had worked with on several anti-war campaigns previously, before he made his comment. Jack, born and raised in the Irish diaspora ghettoes of hard rock Philadelphia, had enlisted in the Army in 1968, before he was to be foregone conclusion drafted as he called it, along with his friends from the neighborhood (“a package deal” he called it so they would all go to basic training together at nearby Fort Dix), Pudge, Pinky and Five Fingers (guess what that five fingers had been doing to earn that sobriquet). None of them would have thought for a second about not going in when called, had enlisted just to get a better deal, not get stuck in the infantry like a lot of draftees (so they thought), could not have stood the gaff in the neighborhoods back home from friends, from the neighbors, and worse, from the family if they had done otherwise. Options, if they had been thought about at all, would have been eliminated out of hand, going to jail for draft refusal was not the kind of crime the corner boys of Irish working class neighborhoods in Philadelphia went to jail for back then, flight to Canada was out of the question because running away from anything human, except a pursuing cop, was unmanly, and applying for conscientious objector status was out, none of them were in that category if they had known what it was and how to apply (and an application would have been rejected out of hand since the church had a “just war” position while objection then required total opposition to war). No, Jack and his boys were reared in the traditional Irish Catholic verities of home, church and country pushed weekly at church and on television by Bishop Sheehan and reinforced by the screeds from some high-shelf pulpit of the hard anti-communist prelate Cardinal Spellman of New York City. Where was there room in that mix for a confused young man from North Philadelphia, if he had been confused, to make a conscientious stand against the war in those precincts.
And so Jack dutifully went in, was in the course of training assigned to military intelligence school to learn how to evaluate bombing runs and enemy targets and then duly sent to the only place where such specialists were in demand in those days, the hellhole sweaty, sultry god forsaken Republic of Vietnam. Right at MACV headquarters out by the airport at first then various field stations within fifty miles of Saigon (now Ho Chi Minh City) later. From about the second week Jack could sense that something was not right, that the work he was assigned to do was evil. Every day his conscience was troubled, but the way he dealt with that conflict was to try to survive a day at a time, that, and smoke as much of the plentiful dope that was always just laying around as possible.
After Jack had been a couple of months in-country it did not help that Pudge had been killed when his encampment down in the Delta had been overrun one night by Charlie. (Pudge, Pinky and Five Fingers not being as bright as Jack, who had been to a semester of college, were assigned to infantry training, their worst fear, another specialty that was then in hot demand in stinking ‘Nam). Jack had reacted to the news by taking his rifle out in the street and tried to go and shoot every “gook” (his usage at the time) that he could see. Fortunately he was so stoned at the time that he fired out into nothing in the night before his barracks mates subdued him. When after six months in-country Five Fingers was seriously wounded up in Pleiku and had to be Evac-ed home Jack began to shoot up, do H to keep the demons at bay.
Finally, mercifully, Jack’s tour was up, he had extended his tour six month just to get out of the service a few months early. After being discharged he went home but home was no longer what it had been, he deserved no hero’s welcome, deserved no free drinks at Sully’s from the corner boys and their fathers and so slipped out of town one night and headed south. The first stop was Washington and that is where he met the kindred from VVAW who talked to him, finally got him to make sense of what the hell he had been through. Through fits and starts over the next couple of years he got his “religion” and that was that.
After Peter thought about what Jack had said about his commitment to such actions as that day’s he made this reply, “You know I didn’t step up and oppose the Vietnam War very seriously until pretty late, after I got out of the Army in 1971 and was working with some Quaker-types in a GI bookstore near Fort Dix down in New Jersey (both of the other men gave the usual signs of recognition of that place, a place where they had taken their respective basis trainings) and that is where I got, what did you call it Jack, “religion” on the war issue. You know I have done quite a few things in my life, some good, some bad but of the good that people have always praised me for, that social work I did for a while, and later teaching I always tell them this- there are a million social workers, there are a million teachers, but these days, and for long time now, there have been very few peace activists on the ground so if you want to praise me, want to remember me for anything then let it be for this kind of work, things like this march today when our forces were few and the tasks enormous.”
This is what Jack already had known about Peter before he made his comment. Peter, born and raised in the Irish diaspora ghettoes of hard rock North Adamsville just outside of Boston, had been drafted in the Army in 1969, kicking and screaming a little not over the morality of the war but that he was leaving his flirty girlfriend behind who would be hit on by every guy, even his corner boys, in the neighborhood and might just succumb to some sweet talk. Unlike Jack though he went in alone since, being a little older that Jack and his crowd, his corner boys had already done their service (one, Jimmy J. from down his street, had been killed during the Tet Offensive). Here is the common drill though. None of them, including Peter, would have thought for a second about not going in when called, most had enlisted to get a better deal (so they thought), none could have stood the gaff in the neighborhoods back home from friends, from the neighbors, and worse, from the family if they had done otherwise. Options, if they had been thought about at all, would have been eliminated out of hand, going to jail for draft refusal was not the kind of crime the corner boys of Irish working class neighborhoods went to jail for back then, armed robbery being more likely, and then maybe a deal with the judge to go into the service in lieu of jail time. Flight to Canada was out of the question because running away from anything human, except a pursuing cop, was unmanly, and applying for conscientious objector status was out, none of them were in that category if they had known what it was and how to apply (and would have been rejected since the church had a “just war” position while objection then required total opposition to war). No, like Jack and his boys, Peter and his boys were reared in the traditional Irish Catholic verities of home, church and country pushed weekly at church and on television by Bishop Sheehan and reinforced by the screeds of the hard anti-communist prelate Cardinal Spellman of New York City. Where was there room in that mix for a confused young man from North Adamsville, if he had been confused, to make a conscientious stand against the war in those precincts. Where, indeed.
So Peter went in, losing that flirty girlfriend to some guy from Hull during basic training down at Fort Dix and then assigned to infantry training. And infantry trained soldiers in 1969, despite everybody with any sense knowing that the whole damn war was lost, were being respectfully requested in the hellhole, sweaty, sultry Republic of Vietnam. And so Peter went to the hellhole, and unbelievably, came back without a scratch although he lost about twenty pounds from the loss of fluids that he could never keep up with as they sweated away in the horrible humidity. But like Jack he had seen things, done things that no man should have ever had to have done. He wasn’t much for talking about that stuff, then or now, even with veterans. Spend most of his time in-country stoned on grass, maybe a little cocaine, like every other GI with any sense (except the southern boys, southern white boys, who didn’t do dope but drank their time away, mostly cheap PX whiskey).
Finally, mercifully, Peter’s tour was up, in those days, in late 1970, they were letting Vietnam guys with short time get stationed near home when possible and he was assigned to Fort Devens about forty miles from Boston. One day as he was leaving the post he ran into some anti-war protestors, mostly Quakers from around the area and not some student SDS-types from Boston who he had kind of scorned, who told him they had staged a weekly vigil in front of the fort for the previous year. He said he would to talk to them sometime after telling them he had been in ‘Nam and could sure use somebody to talk to. They told him to come to a Friends meeting, and that it probably best to do so in Cambridge away from the fort where he could relax and not be monitored. He did do so one Sunday on a weekend pass, talked a lot to a very sympathetic young Quaker woman, Susan, whom after several meeting he started to date, kind of, kind of they both called it even after they had gone to bed together later after he had been discharged.
After being discharged he went home but like with Jack home was no longer what it had been, he deserved no hero’s welcome, deserved no free drinks at Dublin Grille from the corner boys and their fathers and so slipped out of town one night and headed to Cambridge and that good Quaker woman’s arms. Stayed with Susan there until she talked him into going to Fort Dix with her and help with the GI anti-war work there centered on a coffeehouse that had been set up. Peter did that for a while, stayed with that sweet Quaker woman too but he was no Quaker and so he moved on after a while. But it was those Quakers who talked to him, talked to him without condescension, and finally got him to make sense of what the hell he had been through. Over the next couple of years he got his “religion” and that was that.
With that exchange between the two men done the three men, as the sun started setting, headed back on the last stretch to York in silence all thinking about what they had accomplished that day.
It had been a long day, a long Monday to begin a hectic week, starting early for Peter since, due to other commitments, he had had to drive up to York before dawn that morning. Those commitments included having stayed up late the night before working on a leaflet in support of the imprisoned heroic Wikileaks whistle-blower transgender Army soldier, Chelsea Manning (formerly Bradley), who had been serving a thirty-five sentence at Fort Leavenworth in Kansas for basically telling the American people, telling her fellow soldiers, telling Peter, the truth about American military atrocities in Iraq and Afghanistan and other nefarious acts of the American government abroad, which was to be passed out at the Veterans Day anti-war parade in Boston. That previous night’s task a labor of love which had also included a few years of work on Chelsea’s behalf ever since he heard about the case in the fall of 2010 which Peter saw as some penance for his own failure to speak up in the military in his time.
Jack and Mike already in York too had gotten up early to make sure all the Veterans for Peace and personal gear for the march was in order. They were expected in Saco (you know how to say it now even if you are not from Maine, or never been there) for an 8:30 start to the walk and so left York for the twenty-five mile trip up to that town about 7:30. They arrived at the inevitable Universalist-Unitarian Church (U-U) about 8:15 and prepared the Veterans for Peace flags that the twelve VFPers from the Smedley Butler Brigade who came up from Boston for the last leg would carry.
That inevitable U-U remark by the way needs some explanation, or rather a kudo. Of all the churches, with the honorable exception of the Quakers, the U-Us have been the one consistent church which has provided a haven for peace activists and their projects, various social support groups and 12- step programs. And, of course, the thing that Peter knew them for through his companion who spent many hours in such places improving her voice by practicing in front of small audiences in what he felt had been the last gasp effort to preserve the folk minute of the early 1960s by opening their doors on a monthly basis and turn their basements or auditoria into throw-back coffeehouses with the remnant folk performers from that milieu playing, young and old.
And so a little after 8:30 they were off, a motley collection of about forty to fifty people, some VFPers from the sponsoring Maine chapter (who when Peter inquired to Brent, the organizer and all-around wizard, found out that they had taken turns doing the various legs as they were able to do so from Rangeley on down), the Smedleys (who as previously mentioned were making this last leg to finish the week off in good style. Peter had mentioned to Jack on the way up to Saco that they would horn in on the accolades for the march by showing up on the last day to be before the cameras and microphones looking like they had walked the entire distance. Jack laughed that such illusionary actions were part of politics, what the hell), some church peace activist types (the usual U-Us and Quakers, but also a few from a Hindu commune in Portland, a commune of Westerners who had converted along the way seeing that religion as one of searching for self-peace and world peace, who proved to be very interesting when Jack talked to couple of them on the route, a few young environmental activists (representing the protection of Mother Earth part of march but unlike a lot of such young people linking up the tremendous social waste of the military with the soon-to-be over the top climate problems not usually connected by that movement), and a cohort of Buddhists in full yellow robe regalia leading the procession with their chanting and pacing drum beating.
These Buddhists were well-known to Jack and Peter from various peace actions in Boston and the annual peace walk they walked each year from their monastery in Northampton, Massachusetts to some distant location, perhaps as far away as Washington, D.C. Peter joked to one of them, a Westerner, that they were the walkingest people he knew. She replied that the walking freed up energies to bring some little peace in the world. And Peter to his surprise seeing them still going strong after several miles of walking swore that he picked up his own flagging pace just being part of their procession.
Those Buddhists, or some of them, had been on the whole journey from Rangeley unlike most participants who came on one or a few legs and then left. A little saunter of one hundred and twenty miles for them, child’s play. The group started appropriately enough walking up the eternal America Main Street although if you know about coastal Maine that is really U.S. Route One which would be the main road of the march until Wells where they would pick up Maine Route Nine into North Berwick and the Pratt-Whitney plant.
Peter had a flash-back thought early on the walk through downtown Saco as he noticed that the area was filled with old red brick buildings that had once been part of the thriving textile industry which ignited the Industrial Revolution here in America. Had been the place where his old friend, Josh Breslin, met out in California after he got out of the service who had tried to escape from the place and who just couldn’t get it out of his blood and eventually returned to the area now living in Old Orchard. Josh had told him many stories about growing up here, about how the mills leaving in the 1950s to head to the cheap labor non-union South had almost destroyed his father, and about the pull of the place on him after he had “sown his wild oats.”
Yes, Peter “knew” this town much like his own North Adamsville, another red brick building town, and like old Jack Kerouac’s red brick building Merrimack River Lowell which he had been in the previous week to help celebrate the annual Kerouac festival. All those towns had seen better days, had also made certain come-backs of late, but walking pass the small store blocks in Saco there were plenty of empty spaces and a look of quiet desperation on those that were still operating just like he had recently observed in those other towns. And the same look on the early morning winos, homeless, stranglers and vacant eyed they passed along the way.
That sociological observation though was about the only one that Peter (or anybody) on the march could make since once outside the downtown area heading to Biddeford and Kennebunk the views in passing were mainly houses, small strip malls, an occasional gas station and many trees. As the Buddhists warmed up to their task the first leg proved to be uneventful except for the odd car or truck honking support from the roadway. (Peter and every other peace activist he knew always counted honks as support whether they were or not, whether it was more a matter of road rage or not in the area of an action, stand-out or march). Both Peter and Jack made it their business to connect with the Maine VFPers on the march in order to update and encourage them to send a contingent down to Boston for the Saint Patrick’s Day anti-war peace parade which the Smedleys had organized for the past four years in opposition to the pro-war orientation of the “official” parade in South Boston that day after they had been excluded from that official parade (along with the GLTBQ community, generic peaceniks and anybody else who did not buy into their narrow program). They both also, since they had connections to Maine, although not having been born there like some of the marchers could never claim Mainaic status, talked to others along the way to get an idea of what had been going on in Maine since the days when everybody would march on George H.W. Bush’s place in Kennebunkport to protest his and his son’s wars.
And so the three legs of the morning went. A longer stop for lunch followed and then back on the road for the final stages trying to reach the Pratt-Whitney plant for a planned vigil as the shifts were changing about three o’clock.
[A word on logistics since this was a straight line march with no circling back. The organizers had been given an old small green bus by a supporter up in Ellsworth for their transportation needs. That green bus was festooned with painted graffiti drawings which reminded Peter of the old time 1960s Ken Kesey Merry Prankster bus and a million replicas that one could see coming about every other minute out of the Pacific Coast Highway hitchhike minute back then. The green bus served as the storage area for personal belongings and snacks and, importantly, as the vehicle which would periodically pick up the drivers in the group and leaf-frog their cars toward North Berwick. Also provided rest for those too tired or injured to walk any farther. And was the lead vehicle for the short portion of the walk where everybody rode during one leg before the final walk to the plant gate.]
So just before three o’clock they arrived at the plant and spread out to the areas in front of the three parking lots holding signs and waving to on-coming traffic. Receiving a fair share of peace signs, the ubiquitous two fingers spread apart to form a V and the occasional honk. That was done for about an hour, including massing at the Employees parking lot to take advantage of the mass exodus which had to wait at a stop sign before hitting Route Nine home. After that crowd thinned out they gathered together and formed a circle, sang a couple of songs, took some group photographs before the Pratt-Whitney sign and then headed for the cars to be carried a few miles up the road to friendly farmhouse for a simple meal before dispersing to their various homes. In all an uneventful day as far as logistics went. Of course no vigil, no march, no rally or anything else in the front of some huge corporate enterprise, some war industries target, or some high finance or technological site would be complete without the cops, public or private, thinking they were confronting the Russian Revolution of 1917 on their property and that was the case this day as well.
Peter did not know whether the organizers had contacted Pratt-Whitney, probably not nor he thought should they have, or security had intelligence that the march was heading their way but a surly security type made it plain that the marchers were not to go on that P-W property, or else. As if a rag-tag group of fifty mostly older pacifists, lukewarm socialists, non-violent veterans and assorted church people were going to shut the damn place down, or try to, that day.
Nothing came of the security agent’s threats as there was no need for that but as Peter got out of Jack’s car in York he expressed the hope that someday they would be leading a big crowd to shut that plant down. No questions asked. In the meantime they had set the fragile groundwork. Yes, it had been a good day and they had all been at the right place.
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