The other day I went to Wal-Mart to get a pack of 1044 rolls of toilet tissue. As usual, I shot the bull with 85-year-old Isaac Fendish. Isaac is a veteran of the Spanish American War. I've been to his home and seen his notebook covering the war that was started by William Randolph Hearst (see http://www.zpub.com/cpp/saw.html). Isaac has a picture of himself with Rough Rider Teddy Roosevelt! The Spanish American War started in 1898. That's why I know that Isaac lied about his age to get his Wal-Mart job. Isaac stands at the entrance of Wal-Mart and says things like, "Welcome to Wal-Mart!" Actually, Sam Walton himself hired Isaac, a fact that I have verified and of which Isaac is very proud. Isaac said, "Welcome to Wal-Mart!" He pushed a cart in front of me. I said, "How are things going, Isaac?" He said, "Ehhh!" I pulled on my ear. Isaac fiddled with his Wal-Mart hearing aid and said, "I've got you now!" I tapped on my eyeglasses and Isaac reached for his glasses which are usually hanging on a piece of boondoggle from his neck. He put on the glasses and said, "Oh, it's you!" (You can learn to boondoggle like Isaac at: http://www.boondoggleman.com/) Both Isaac and I are combat veterans who hate war but are always talking about it. I said, "Got any good war stories today?" "Which one?" I said, "How about World War I? That was a biggy." Isaac got gassed in France. That is why he coughs all the time. The gas was not mustard gas but phosgene, the non-detectable killer that fills your lungs with water. That makes breathing difficult. When I was a professor at Iowa State University, I provided technical information to the Governor who was concerned about the United States Government rail shipping phosgene (left over from World War II) through our corn fields. The phosgene was made just in case Hitler would use gas in World War II. (He didn't for some reason, mainly because we had more than he did.) I knew about phosgene first hand. I was called during a first aid emergency in one of our plants when working in Colorado. Phosgene was accidentally produced in one of our operations. Workers were collapsing all over the place. I borrowed a car and drove two exposed ladies to the hospital in Denver. On the way, one would pass out and then the other. Each time, I decided that one had died. However, we got to the hospital, and because the particular hospital was equipped for gas attack, the two ladies were soon breathing pure oxygen. Other than slightly inebriated reporters (it was just after lunch) jerking oxygen masks off the faces of the injured so that they could talk to them, everything worked out pretty well (not counting the fight between one reporter and our Director of Research. One of the ladies I brought in recovered after several weeks of treatment. We had two long term cases like that. The others were released from the hospital the next day. Fortunately, none were killed. The problem with phosgene is that it is so easy to make. I also talked to the Governor of Iowa on coal strip mining in Iowa. I was against it. The governor was probably the most intelligent man (who made a living in politics) I ever met I'm not mentioning his name because I want him to remain incognito. I'll tell you how smart he was. I said, "We need someone like you in Washington. Why don't you run for President? (I said that despite the fact that he was a member of one of our two major political parties.) This is what he said, "I'm not going to raise MY kids in that town!" Back to Isaac and the Great War. (You can read about WW I at http://www.worldwar1.com/) I knew several veterans of WW I. One, Harry F., was gassed with mustard gas and somehow survived. He was a great square dancer who danced with all the town ladies except his wife. She said, "I don't care who he dances with as long as I'm the one he takes home." What a great attitude. The second veteran I knew walked past our house several times a day whistling a tune that my sister said sounded like her favorite, Worry, Worry, Worry. His name was Claude. I befriended him and we would walk down the street together whistling, Worry, Worry, Worry. The third gentleman I never knew by name but I saw him many times down by the railroad station. I worked for a peddler that some evenings (when we were finished peddling vegetables around the town) stopped at a bar near the railroad station. He always said, "I'll be right back. I have to take this head of lettuce into the bar." He would go into the bar for his beer and chit chat, coming out later with a big grin on his face still holding the head of lettuce. I usually practiced driving while he was in the bar. The first time I tried that (because of the tricky way you had to use to get into reverse gear), I went up over the curb. When I backed up, the truck was cockeyed in the parking space. I sat there and whistled Worry, Worry, Worry. However, when he came out of the bar he just said, "Boy, I sure pulled in here crooked!" That's when I whistled Yankee Doodle. Diversion is a great part of warfare. Please forgive me. While waiting for the peddler to come out of the bar, I loved to watch the third veteran (I referred to) direct traffic in the middle of the street. He also ran in and out of the several bars conveniently near by. I learned that in the bars he reported to his commanding officers. He was a very good MP and he often saluted imaginary officers and gave reports right out there in the street by the Union Pacific railroad depot. War does strange things to people. When I was in Korea, a private from the First Calvary was sent to my unit. He still had open wounds. The theory was that his wounds would finish healing before we went back upon the line. As the day got closer for us to leave reserve and go back into combat, the crazier this young man became. Finally one night, he went completely bonkers trying to get everybody out of their sleeping bags and into a game of baseball. (We are still trying to figure out where in all Hades he got a baseball bat.) I learned in Korea how those who are crazy from combat are treated. I drove a company jeep to our division headquarters so I could talk with an officer I knew in the states. I picked up this incoherent individual who had come down out of the hills to keep from getting his butt shot off. At headquarters, the CID grabbed him. I had never seen less humane verbal treatment of a soldier in my life. (I was not surprised by the way we treat our current military prisoners.) War is hell! I said, "Isaac, war is hell?" He said, "Ehhhhh!" His hearing aid had stopped working again. CopyrightJohn T. Jones, Ph.D. 2005 |
