A STUDY OF EVIL

 BUT FOR

I opened the door and walked into the back room of the mess hall where I saw a shocking sight. A group of my shipmates, mostly average, normal fellows but led by a sailor that had a reputation as a troublemaker, chortled like children on a playground. They had an elderly, Vietnamese man in black silks spread with his feet on a chair and this hands on the floor, making him try to do pushups as some form of punishment.

His crime? He had tried to steal six oranges from a garbage can in the kitchen of a mess hall in Camp Tien Sha, near Da Nang. He was one of a group of locals allowed to work on the base and oranges were a highly prized item for a people starved of its nutrients.

Mentally citing the “I have no authority. I only came in to see what the commotion was about.” excuse, I muttered something to the effect of “You guys are going to get in big trouble,” and left.

It was an act of cowardice equal to running away in battle or abandoning a wounded comrade. I have regretted each day since, the only faint solace being that I learned from it. At least I hope I did.

I thought of the incident as I continued to peruse the question of why people I once regarded as “normal shipmates,” so to speak, now post slogans and perform acts that would have made Joseph Goebbels nod in approval.

In the last chapter, we looked at the Milgram experiments at Yale University indicating that ordinary people, if encouraged by an authority figure, were willing to shock their fellow-citizens with what they believed to be painful and potentially lethal levels of electricity.

Less than a decade later, another university experiment, this one on the opposite shores of America shocked the academic, in fact the whole, world. Called the “Stanford Prison Experiment,” it was a social psychology study funded by the U.S. office of Naval Research. In it, college students became prisoners or guards in a simulated prison environment conducted in the basement of a building on the Stanford campus. As described in Britannica:[i]

“The experiment, … took place at Stanford University in August 1971. It was intended to measure the effect of role-playing, labeling, and social expectations on behavior over a period of two weeks. However, mistreatment of prisoners escalated so alarmingly that principal investigator Philip G. Zimbardo terminated the experiment after only six days.”

It seems that things got out of hand, even in a simulated experience. The prisoners became unruly and the guards became sadistic. All were college students paid a stipend of (I seem to remember) $15.00 for their participation. They had completed a questionnaire concerning their background, physical/mental conditions, and other factors testing for normalcy. A simple coin toss determined their roles as either guard or prisoner in the experience.

Let’s just say that things went “hugely” awry. The behavior of all participants was so extreme that the supervisors terminated the experience, as noted, after six days of turmoil.

Much time has passed since the experiment became a source of public examination. As with the Milgram experience, opinions abound. Interested readers can find a fairly precise non-academic report here.

At any rate, the Stanford Experience initiated much thinking as to how the granting of too much power can transform normal individuals into sadistic monsters, or, as we choose to term it, converting the terrifyingly normal into the efficiently evil.

Some understanding of the study’s meaning occurred in 2003. That is when details of “enhanced interrogation” techniques employed by average military personnel began seeping into the press from Abu Ghraib prison. This was an American-run prison complex in Abu Ghraib, Iraq, located some 20 miles west of Baghdad. There, prisoners detained as a result of America’s invasion of Iraq awaited resolution.

Photographs snuck from the facility showed troopers—who looked as if they may have been in one’s next-door back yard practicing basketball a year before—performing acts on prisoners that would have made Tomás de Torquemada smile. According to a report issued by U.S. Maj. Gen. Antonio Taguba to Lt. Gen. Ricardo Sanchez, these acts included:

- Punching, slapping and kicking detainees; jumping on their naked feet.

- Videotaping and photographing naked male and female detainees.

- Forcibly arranging detainees in various sexually explicit positions for photographing.

- Forcing detainees to remove their clothing and keeping them naked for several days at a time.

- Forcing naked male detainees to wear women’s underwear.

- Forcing groups of male detainees to masturbate themselves while being photographed and videotaped.

- Arranging naked male detainees in a pile and then jumping on them.

- Positioning a naked detainee on a box, with a sandbag on his head, and attaching wires to his fingers, toes, and penis to simulate electric torture.

- Writing “I am a Rapest (sic)” on the leg of a detainee accused of rape, and then photographing him naked.

- Placing a dog chain or strap around a naked detainee’s neck and having a female soldier pose for a picture.

- A male MP guard having sex with a female detainee.

- Using military working dogs (without muzzles) to intimidate and frighten detainees, and in at least one case biting and severely injuring a detainee.

- Taking photographs of dead Iraqi detainees.

Heated debates still surround the issue. Many of the prisoners, to be sure, harbored evil intentions not only against America in particular, but against the non-Muslim world in general. Some no doubt harbored information that, if disclosed, could save lives and prevent destruction.

Many, though, suffered for undisclosed and unproven claims. As with the Spanish Inquisition, rivals and seekers of gain did not disdain from seeking to have their fellow citizens detained.

Opinions have become diametrically opposed.

Opponents say, “America is better than this.”

Proponents say, “Torturing one to save thousands is not only justified, but imperative.”

We are left to say, “What is normal and what is not?”

We might conclude that power is a societal gift best granted with care, caution, and contemplation.

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[i] Britannica, T. Editors of Encyclopaedia (2020, May 5). Stanford Prison Experiment. Encyclopedia Britannica. https://www.britannica.com/event/Stanford-Prison-Experiment

Complexity

 Sometimes I post things here that I fear might rankle some. I do it anyway for I believe that thinking is preferable to clinging to, as Plato observed, false or erroneous perceptions and belief.

I saw a post about Vietnam Veterans that sparked a long simmering thought of mine. Followng us just a finding of facts, that’s all, not a condemnation.

Back in the 1960s, John McCain was doing the wrong thing, but doing it honorable on orders from, and in service to, his country. He did not order the bombing of innocent people. Self-serving and misguided people did. After being shot down, he acted in the most honorable way imaginable. He was a hero then, despite what Donald Trump may think.

On the other hand, Jane Fonda’s beliefs were honorable, but she carried them out stupidly at best, dishonorably at worst.

My take on all this? Life and the pursuit of righteousness is a complicated affair and not achievable through sound bites and Facebook posts. I’m going to work on new perceptions today. That should be the basis for action.

Fatigue

 Last night I dreamed I was chatting with the Galilean

Me: It’s these neighbors.

Him; What about them?

Me: They won’t take care of their property.

Him: So?

Me: I’ve been doing it for them for 15 years.

Him: Bless you, my son.

Me: But I want to quit.

Him: And if God cares so wonderfully for wildflowers that are here today and thrown into the fire tomorrow, he will certainly care for you. Why do you have so little faith?

Me: I don't seem to be making any progress.

Him: Are they healthy?

Me: Yes: They just don’t want to take care of things.

Him: Hmmm. If you are doing it for them, you are doing it for me.

Me: You never asked me to clean your yard.

Him: But I might come like a thief in the night.

Me: How long should I continue?

Him: You haven’t forgotten seventy times seven have you? Wasn’t I pretty clear?

Me: There is danger, venomous vipers all over the property.

Him: Fear not. I am with you. I’m on this side of the fence but still with you.

Me; But I have lost a dozen workers over the years, children of my friends.

Him: Shall I send you Saint Patrick? He rids houses of serpents in the name of God.

Me: But the serpents are their gods.

There was silence. I looked.

The Galilean was gone.

Published Previously

Please forgive me if I take a lengthy break today. I feel I must say something about Senator John McCain while he lives. After that, I will observe the ancient mandate, De mortuis nihil nisi bonum.

 John McCain is the son of a Four-Star Admiral of the World War Two era. John Sr. was the leader of the Fast Carrier Attack Force that once battled a much larger enemy fleet heroically and famously in the Pacific Theater. He also stands, if one knows where to look, in the famous photograph of the signing of the surrender documents by the Japanese on the deck of the USS Missouri in Tokyo Bay. Navy Secretary James Forrestal said of him, “He was a fighting man all the way through.”

 The junior John received an appointment to Annapolis due to his father’s service and influence and completed the four years. His was a checkered performance and might have ended without a commission had he not been an admiral’s son.

 Being in good physical shape, he qualified as a Naval Aviator, flying off the USS Oriskany (CV-34) in the South China Sea.

 Here is where I want to express my feelings. On October 26, 1967 John McCain was flying a bombing mission, his 23^rd, over selected sites in Hanoi Vietnam. He was following orders issued by the military command of the United States of America. Whether he fully agreed with those orders is a matter that only he knows.

 I question them. This was an unprovoked and savage attack upon a nation that had done no harm to our country. Oh, there was a trumped-up (good word these days) charge that one of their boats had fired a round at one of our warships in the Gulf of Tonkin but I don’t think a single serious historian believes that happened as reported, or, if it did, justified the millions of deaths that followed.

 Certainly, the women and children who were victims of John McCain’s bombs had done nothing to deserve the horrible, blistering, firestorm that his bombs created.

 Whether one supports the war or not, John McCain, on that day was flying his A-4E Skyhawk directly into fire from an anti-aircraft battery. Incoming fire hit his aircraft and he had to bail, injuring himself severely in the process. Captured, he was paraded through the streets of Hanoi and humiliated by the victims of his bombing. The Vietnamese took him to a notorious prison, called “The Hanoi Hilton.” There he remained, untreated and tortured.

 A month later, I arrived in Da Nang, South Vietnam as a war-giver, certainly not at the scale and grandeur of a naval aviator, but as one who followed the orders of my country, the same as John McCain.

 On the second day in country, I received orders to escort a Vietnamese woman and her baby to the Sick Bay on base. Wanting to make sure I understood why she was there, she removed bandages from her child’s face and I saw nothing but raw blisters and scabs where a baby’s face should have been. One dark and bottomless eye, surrounded by raw flesh, looked at me in bewilderment. I still see it sometimes late at night.

 That’s what happens when the bombs fall on the innocents. That’s what made me hate war as anything more than an absolute last chance at survival.

 But … but … but: I followed orders for the next 12 months, doing some things I’d rather not talk about and others that still make me smile. I spent two more years in the service afterwards and then went into a professional civilian job, an adventure about which I am currently reporting. In 1972. I met a young girl with long reddish hair, a mind like a polished diamond, a smile that could melt steel, and a figure that could make a monk do a double-take.

 On August 17, 1972, we had a modest but marvelous wedding with friends and relatives in attendance. Then we left on our honeymoon.

 On that date, John McCain remained in the Hanoi Hilton, lacking medical care for his injured body and suffering repeated torture. My new wife and I were in Aspen Colorado enjoying life. Our families waited at home, anxious to hear about the adventure. John McCain’s family continued to hope for his release.

  I’m not sure where Donald Trump was on that date. I’m sure he was having fun with whatever trophy-wife he enjoyed at the time. He had avoided the whole military thing. His career, too, had been boosted by his father, not by his father’s service to our country, but by his father’s money.

 John McCain stayed in prison, loyal to the country on whose behalf he had landed there. On one occasion, he was offered release, the Vietnamese believing that positive publicity awaited the release of an admiral’s son. McCain refused the offer unless all his fellow prisoners went home as well.

 More time passed. In 1973, the inmates of the Hanoi Hilton were finally released. McCain later became a respected United States Senator and ran an honorable, but unsuccessful presidential campaign against Barack Obama.

 During the 2016 presidential campaign, Donald Trump, a draft-dodger himself, insulted the service of John McCain, saying that he (Trump) preferred military heroes that “didn’t get captured.” For this sin, and similar behavior, we elected him president of the United States of America.

This week, as John McCain is facing death from cancer, another of Donald Trump’s staff demeaned a statement from Senator McCain, saying that it didn’t matter because “he was dying anyway.” Donald Trump has not disowned it as of yet, nor, I imagine, will he. Oh well, when a worm challenges a mountain, the butterflies must flutter and laugh.

 Here’s what I think:

 - I don’t agree with what John McCain and millions of us were ordered to do.

- I believe we were of the post WWII generation that believed in duty to our country uber alles.

- I believe we served faithfully and thanklessly in a misguided war, perhaps making us “The Greatest Generation.”

- I believe that our country never forgave us for our service, as witnessed by the lack of a national uproar when people like Donald Trump, and his sort, besmirch the heroic service of brothers like John McCain and John Kerry.

- I believe Americans will pay a dreadful price for our misguided blindness.

 Today I’m ashamed. Tomorrow I’ll press on, having said my piece.

 This story shall the good man teach his son;

And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,

From this day to the ending of the world,

But we in it shall be remember'd;

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;

For he to-day that sheds his blood with me

Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,

This day shall gentle his condition:

And gentlemen in England now a-bed

Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,

And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks

That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.

 William Shakespeare – Henry V

Fighting the Blues

Another day of tumultuous news. It makes it hard to stay positive. I work on it by thinking back to my parents’ generation. Can you imagine living through The Great Depression, the “dust bowl" catastrophe, and the collapse of social order in one lifetime? Just imagine the relief upon emerging alive. Then imagine seeing a faint glimmer of hope just as the radio announces the bombing of Pearl Harbor?

Oh, it may have been a “great generation.” I won’t argue that point. I think all generations have some greatness in them, along with their share of shortcomings. I know that many think the so-called “Baby Boomers” had theirs. I point out to you, though, that many of them went, when their country asked, to an immoral war during a time that had its share of tumultuousness. More than 50,000 of them never returned alive. All provided their service under criminally poor leadership, a service for which their country has never forgiven them.

We all press on, as F. Scott Fitzgerald said, “boats against the current, borne ceaselessly into the past.” Today the dreadful past has created a gaping hell hole that draws us toward the bigotry, hatred, and racial injustice from which we had thought we were escaping. We had hoped against hope that past racism lay dormant, but like a 1950s subterranean movie monster, we awoke it by electing a man of color as president.

Now, bigotry is creeping over us like a blob landed on Earth from an unfriendly planet. In its worst form, we find that it is a political tool—a highly effective political tool. “I hate the same people that you do,” has replaced "We're all in this together," and “The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.”

Will we survive? It seems up for grabs as some at the highest echelons of power seem, for some indeterminable reason, to be using all the power at their disposal to prevent it.

For hope, I look back, as I say, to the generation before mine. Their country survived, although not as intact for some of its citizens as for others. And when I think of how hard the struggle for survival was for my parents, I can only marvel at how much more difficult it would have been for them had they not been white.

Would today have been different had more Americans voted out of hope rather than out of media-induced dislike? I don't know. As Ernest Hemingway said, "Isn't it pretty to think so?"

Orphans in a Storm

 Sometimes there just isn’t anything you can say about a situation. In fact, I have come to realize that for some situations, it’s just better to say nothing. Saying something you had to think up that might fit the moment just sounds like a self-serving plea for absolution. I found that out years ago.

Two days after James Earl Ray murdered Martin Luther King, Jr. on April 4, 1968, the I – Corps area of the then Republic of South Vietnam was tense, almost as tense as it was the previous January during the Tet Offensive. Bars were closed and all access to alcohol stopped. American military bases were on “lockdown,” and nobody was saying much, not much at all in our compound just outside Da Nang. Events halfway around the world had our little universe on the brink of explosion.

That morning, they chose me—perhaps because I was a little older than most in the Naval Security detachment—and another sailor because he was an unofficial leader among what everyone called “the brothers” back then, to guard the far back gate of our compound. We knew one another as shipmates, nothing more. We were just two wary souls thrown together in the face of a storm we neither chose nor caused. They told us that no one was to leave, and no one was to enter.

I strained my brain for the six hours while we stood the watch for something to say. Nothing came. So we did our duty and stopped anyone from leaving and joining some fracas or other. I stopped the white sailors and he stopped the black sailors. Had any of them refused, I have no idea what would have happened. We, of course, would have been fully authorized to fire upon them. To this day, I don’t know what would have happened. We stood our watch and turned the post over to our reliefs. It was dark by then and tensions had cooled. We nodded to one another and parted. I was sent up to a mountain compound shortly thereafter and I don’t think we ever saw one another again.

I’m not African American, so I cannot even imagine what it would be like to be in constant strife with the authority around me. I cannot image what it would be like always to stand guilty whether innocent or not. I cannot imagine what it would be like to be viewed as a lesser form of citizen. I have endured curt glares and some caustic comments, but only because of some service ribbons given to me “by a thankful nation.” Those looks and comments mostly came from fellow servicemen, so I had to overlook them.

I’ve never been a police officer. Those I have known personally have been honorable people. I have no idea how it would feel to drive the mean streets of a city on the midwatch, with suspicious eyes staring from every windshield and every bedroom, not knowing which car seat contained a loaded pistol. I do know that I’ve been alone during those same dark hours with the safety of my comrades in my hands, so scared I would have shot my own mother had she burst out of the jungle and ran toward me.

So I’ll pass no judgement on the community of police officers. Neither will I condemn those who riot. I have no idea what I would do if my genetic improbabilities had developed differently. I’d probably be rioting, but who knows?

I’ve witnessed and watched, though, and I’ve lived a long time. I feel entitled to make some observations, not judgments mind you, just observations.

Sadly, there is a percentage of Americans who simply don’t like people of color. It may be from ignorance, lack of communion, radical nurture, tribalism, a penchant for homogeneity, shortsightedness, fear, racial prejudice, bigotry, xenophobia, or some social disorder. We used to call it all those things. We’ve now collapsed them, and linguistically elevated them to the simple “racism.” Wars on nouns are always dicey, but this one sets a particularly high bar.

Now I don’t know what the percentage of those to whom I referred is. I suspect it’s around 30 percent of white Americans, larger in the South. It's not enough to determine elections if the righteous and pure of heart wish it otherwise. I do know something about white Americans of righteous bearing. It is good to have them on your side, or at least in tacit support of one’s fundamental rights as a human being. That tacit support can be a strong ally. Ask the American Freedom Fighters of the 1960s. I also know that it is subject to being added to or taken from, sometimes becoming a welcome ally, at others a missing friend. Ask Barack Obama or Hillary Clinton, both affected by the margins. Increasingly, it seems to me, those increments determine our elections.

I'm not talking only about those who sit out elections. I'm also talking about those who may base a vote on the fact that a freeway was blocked by protesters while they tried to get their sick child to a hospital. Unfocused retribution falls on the just and the unjust.

Adroit politicians and those whose primary purpose is to win first and be right later, will avoid actions that effect the tacit support that can determine revolutions as well as elections. I know that elections increasingly turn on small increments of support.

I also know that Donald Trump is an expert at manipulating the support and moving the flexible fringe toward his side.

He needs no help whatsoever.

Motivation

I don’t understand. But yeah, I do. There’s a rationale behind our president’s behavior. Twisted? Yes. Ugly? Yes. Unpatriotic? Yes. Un-Christian. Yes. Effective? We’ll see.

Take last week, for example. The stock market took a breather from its plummet, stabilized, and rose a little. There was much oohing and aahing.

What did our president do?

He announced plans to apply additional tariffs against China. Seems they started the Covid-19 Virus in a lab and sent it here to hurt his, the president’s, reputation, standing, and re-election chances. Let’s beat them up for it with tariffs. I know. I know. It’s lunacy, reminiscent of the scene from the movie Blazing Saddles where the new sheriff thwarted the angry crowd by threatening to “Shoot the …” Well, you remember. We also remember one of the more famous quotes from my generation’s war, “It became necessary to destroy the [village] to save it.” So the prez threatened to start another trade war right in the middle of a global epidemic in order to save us.

What did the market do?

Plummeted. There was much gasping and wonderment.

Here’s the deal. Somewhere along the line, the president and his followers discovered the power of hate. The idea probably grew from the success of the so-called “Southern Strategy.” It’s like this: Haters gotta hate. It doesn’t always matter whom or what they hate. It may be minorities. It may be immigrants. Hell, it may even be the idea of health care for everyone. It’s hate that is the sine qua non. That’s all you need to control the crowd.

Hate gets them moving toward a goal, gets them going. It may be to the state capitol with rifles strapped in front of them for maximum show. It may be to sit in front of the Fox channel to get a fresh infusion of rage. It may be to the streets in an effort to scare people.

Heaven help us if it is ever to the town square with their “penis-elongating” rifles, this time in their brown uniforms, hats, and faux military insignia to complete they fantasy.

Yep, it’s hate. Get people hating hard enough and all you have to do is provide the object of the hate and yell, in Southern parlance, “Sic ‘em.”

The hate is what makes their system work. The objects of the hate are interchangeable. Right now, they’ve decided that it’s China. Look for it to focus here in America as November approaches. Sadly, many of us see lots of target groups ahead of us and figure we’ll be okay as long as the trains run on … uh … as long as the barber shops stay open. Indifference is a major catalyst for hate.

I guess it’s time for each of us to start figuring out how far we are down on the list.

Funny in a movie.
Hell of a way to run a country.

On Kneeling …

Yesterday, I spent two hours with an AT&T tech, fixing an internet snafu at our Little Rock condo. On leaving, I discovered that he had served in the U.S. Army, with assignments in the Middle East, including Afghanistan. He didn’t learn his technical skills there. He served as a medic. My mind shot back to when I was waiting for the bus to take me to the air base at Da Nang to “leave country.”

Amidst the happy, talkative group waiting to go home, there was a young man in a wrinkled outfit with insignia stating that he was a Navy Corpsman. He didn’t talk, just stared through vacant eyes into space. I remember thinking how, after a year in a war zone, I couldn’t imagine what that man had experienced. That’s why I don’t respect people who swagger around with flag decals on their lapels and ask why I don’t wear one.

My oath of enlistment stated that I would “… support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I [would] bear true faith and allegiance to the same.” I’ve researched it numerous times, and I can’t find an exemption limiting that oath to people who look and believe like me.

After we boarded the plane, and it rose aboard the blue waters of the South China Sea, applause broke out. Among the celebrants was a sizable number of shipmates and comrades who, when arriving home would find themselves denied the opportunities and personal safety that I, a white man of Northern European descent, would enjoy. Some had fought their way through Hue, during the Tet Offensive. Some had defended Khe Sahn. Some had held dying friends in their arms. Some had served on riverboat patrols.

All had spent a year or more not knowing what breath they took might be their last.

Some had been called “boy” on the same day they had had suffered wounds on behalf of their country. Some would be stopped for “driving while black” on arrival in an ungrateful country. Some would be denied the opportunity to purchase a home, as I did, in a decent neighborhood. Some would be denied jobs because of the color of their skin.

Their oath of enlistment, which they had fulfilled with honor, was the same as mine.

I think about these things. In the famous line from the movie, they just wanted “their country to love them as much as they had loved it.”

 Kneel for the music, or stand for the music, it’s your right. I don’t give a damn one way or the other, and don’t expect me to. Flag decal or no, standing without having sacrificed will never make you as tall as a kneeling comrade who was shortchanged by the country he served.