full military pomp and ceremony. When the lone bugler played 'Taps,' the gut-wrenching cry of Pete's mother made me shudder. She clung to the casket until they began to lower it. His father finally collapsed and was tended to by several deacons.
What a waste, I said over and over as I walked the streets alone, headed generally back to the office. That night, still alone, I cursed myself for being so silent, so cowardly. I was the editor of the newspaper, dammit! Whether I felt entitled to the position or not, I was the only one in town. If I felt strongly about an issue, then I certainly had the power and position to editorialize.
Pete Mooney was preceded in death by more than fifty thousand of his fellow countrymen, although the military did a rotten job of reporting an accurate count.
In 1969, President Nixon and his National Security Adviser, Henry Kissinger, made the decision that the war in Vietnam could not be won, or, rather, that the United States would no longer try and win it. They kept this to themselves. They did not stop the draft. Instead, they pursued the cynical strategy of appearing to be confident of a successful outcome.
From the time this decision was made until the end of the war in 1973, approximately eighteen thousand more men were killed, including Pete Mooney.
I ran my editorial on the front page, bottom half, under a large photo of Pete in his Army uniform. It read:
Using bad language would be good for a few slaps on the wrist, but what did I care? Strong language was needed to give light to the blind patriots of Ford County. Before the flood of calls and letters, though, I made a friend.
When I returned from Thursday lunch with Miss Callie (lamb stew indoors by the fire), Bubba Crockett was waiting in my office. He wore jeans, boots, a flannel shirt, long hair, and after he introduced himself he thanked me for the editorial. He had some things he wanted to get off his chest, and since I was as stuffed as a Christmas turkey, I placed my feet on my desk and listened for a long time.
He'd grown up in Clanton, finished school here in 1966. His father owned the nursery two miles south of town; they were landscapers. He got his draft notice in 1967 and gave no thought to doing anything other than racing off to fight Communists. His unit landed in the south, just in time for the Tet Offensive. Two days on the ground, and he had lost three of his closest friends.
The horror of fighting could not accurately be described, though Bubba was descriptive enough for me. Men burning, screaming for help, tripping over body parts, dragging bodies off the battlefield, hours with no sleep, no food, running out of ammo, seeing the enemy crawl toward you at night. His battalion lost a hundred men in the first five days. 'After a week I knew I was going to die,' he said with wet eyes. 'At that point, I became a pretty good soldier. You gotta reach that point to survive.'
He was wounded twice, slight wounds that were treatable in field hospitals. Nothing that would get him home. He talked of the frustration of fighting a war that the government would not allow them to win. 'We were better soldiers,' he said. 'And our equipment was vastly superior. Our commanders were superb, but the fools in Washington wouldn't let them fight a war.'
Bubba knew the Mooney family and had begged Pete not to go. He had watched the burial service from a distance, and he cursed everybody he could see and many he could not.
'These idiots around here still support the war, can you believe that?' he said. 'More than fifty thousand dead and now we're pulling out, and these people will argue with you on the streets of Clanton that it was a great cause.'
'They don't argue with you,' I said.
'They do not. I've punched a couple of them. You play poker?'
I did not, but I'd heard many colorful stories about various poker games around town. Quickly, I thought this might be interesting. 'A little,' I said, figuring I could either find a rule book or get Baggy to teach me.
'We play on Thursday nights, in a shed at the nursery. Several guys who fought over there. You might enjoy it.'
'Tonight?'
'Yeah, around eight. It's a small game, some beer, some pot, some war stories. My buddies want to meet you.'
'I'll be there,' I said, wondering where I could find Baggy.
Four letters were slid under the door that afternoon, all four scathing in their criticism of me and my criticism of the war. Mr. E. L. Green, a veteran of two wars, and a longtime subscriber to the
