Phoenix - Fall 1970

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A never-ending search for justice

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Fiction Editor Richard Robyn Poetry Editor Michael Galligan

Non*Fiction Editor Lamont Ingalls Art Editor Mike Altizer

Photography Editor Harlan Hambright Editorial Assistants Ray Trotter, Terry Hillman Linda Hensley, Nick Long K. Alicia Blaine, Jane Austin

Advisory Committee Mr, Richard LeFevre Layout and Production Juanita Thurston Managing Editor-Charles Wm. Logsdon

EDITORIAL COMMENT

Proofreader ■ Joyce Woalsey

In This Issue VOLUME 12 NO. 1 Fall 1970 Non-Fiction Herman Melville’s White Jacket, And The UCMJ, by Charles Wm. Logsdon ........................................................... page 3 Changes, by Joyce Woolsey ............................................ page 7 Chaos, Order, And Religion, by Lamont Ingalls...........page 4 Fiction Hunger, by Ray Trotter....................................................page 9 Last Bus To Charleston, by Robert Dominic............. page 16 Sunday’s Black Mood: Monday’s Lament, by Jim McDonough .......................................................................................... page 20 Pictorial

By Harlan Hambright ....................................................page 23

“Justice is twofold; that which is unwritten, and that which is according to law.”

Aristotle, who wrote that, would be 2,324 years old this year. Let us pause in our wOd celebrations of his birthday this year to consider what he had to say.

Man, being an essentially moral creature, seeks justice as an outlet for his own inner feeUngs of right and wrong. Innumerable channels of ex­ pression are open to those who feel annoyed by man and God, but to the first men the most logical seemed.. .The Law. The first law drafters were artists in a sense, for they tried to define a dark and chaotic universe and give it the order and meaning they themselves felt.

Unlike the artist, though, they were prey not only to critics, but also to those who would append and distend, cut away and add to their original work.

Thus The Law, instead of the sense of justice within man himself, was exalted.

And men, looking at the ills of the world, prescribed another law, like the doctor who solemnly adds just one more leech to his patient’s body.

Man does have a senseof justice, and often he seeks it in mysterious and sometimes misguided ways. But that is his prerogative, and to restrict him is to restrict the god that is within him.

We are fond of saying that justice and freedom are the cornerstones of our democracy. With that in mind, let us try not to build an oppressive skyscraper of laws on top of them.

Richard Robyn

Poems Pages....................... ....................................6, 8, 18, 19, and 22 Contributors: A.W. Powell, DC Berry, Don Eastman, Roy Morris, James Goldfeder, Tina Inge, Robert G. Harwood, Kip Reel, Michael D. Galligan, Gail McClain Cover by Mike Altizer, Centerfold by Linda Hensley.

Copyright 1970, all rights reserved. The PHOENIX is published three times a: year during the Fall, Winter, and Spring: quarters by The University of Tennes-: see Publishing Association, Inc. Submit: editorial contributions to PHOENIX,: The University of Tennessee, Knox-: vine, Tenn., 37916.

Phoenix Feature NOTE: For purposes of comparison, the author of this paper has taken the UCMJ as applied by the Naval Service. The reason behind this decision is the author's familiarity with that branch of the American Armed Forces.

Herman Melville’s White Jacket and the UCMJ

by CHARLES WM. LOGSDON l^he basic disciplinary laws for the armed forces of the United States are stated in what is known as the Uniform Code of Military Justice (the UCMJ). These laws are somewhat more stringent (as indeed they must be) than comparable civilian statutes. They are concerned with offenses ranging from the “sleeping of a sentinel” to “cowardice before the enemy,” which are strictly military in nature; and they also include familiar civilian offenses such as “murder,” “looting,” and “rape or carnal knowledge.” The punishment for breaking these military laws is, again in most cases, more severe than that punishment imposed by civilian authorities. For instance, in time of war a person sleeping on duty may be put to death, and in peace time may suffer imprisonment. Civilian laws make no such distinction towards police officers sleeping on duty (other than dismissal or suspension from the force). The controversy over the tragedy at My Lai has brought many of these UCMJ articles to the attention of the non-military public, and in many cases that public has been confused by the unfamiliar procedures of military justice.

It is not the intention of this paper to either criticize or praise military law, but rather to point out the fact (among other things) that this type of law has been in existence since the creation of a standing army and navy in the United States.

To accomplish this objective, a comparison between the Articles of War of 1850, as stated in Herman Melville’s novel.

White Jacket; Or, The World In a Man-Of-War, and the UCMJ of 1950, will be made. There is no such thing as a concise legal authority, either military or civilian, since the very foundation of jurispmdence changes from generation to generation; however there is the questioning mind of mankind. With this thought in mind, let us now look at the old and the new military justice.

In 1850, Herman Melville published a book based upon his experiences aboard an American man-of-war (USS United States, from August 1843 to October 1844). Although the book was seemingly a semi-autobiographical novel, it had more far reaching social consequences than mere entertain­ ment. It influenced, more than anything else, the abolition of

Phoenix: Fall 1970 3

flogging in the United States Navy. A copy of the book was placed on the desk of every member of Congress, and it brought the cruelty of flogging to the attention of the national legislators.

While noting the necessity for military discipline, Meville, at the same time, pointed an accusing finger at the law which allowed despotic officers to punish their men for minor infringements of that discipline. The Article of War which permitted this injustice was Article XXXII. It stated that “all crimes committed by persons belonging to the Navy, which are not specified in the foregoing articles, shall be punished according to the laws and customs in such cases at sea.” This law was, in essence, a “catch-all” article. A sea captain could vent his anger or spite, or empose his authority, on a sailor for the most trivial of occurences. If a common seaman could not be brought to “mast” for any other offense, and if his captain so desired. Article XXXII could be inforced, and the man flogged for “spitting,” or “looking askance” (whatever the hell that is), or “muttering,” etc. The modern Navy, while it has no such punishment as flogging, does have a similar “catch-all” article in the UCMJ. Section 934, Article 134 (the General Article) states that “though not specifically mentioned in this chapter, all disorders and neglects to the prejudice of good order and discipline in the armed forces, all conduct of a nature to bring discredit upon the armed forces, and crimes and offenses not capital, of which persons subject to this chapter may be guilty, shall be taken cognizance of by a general, special, or summary court-martial, according to the nature and percentage of offense, and shalll be punished at the discretion of that court.” Again, a vindictive officer has some

Phoenix: Fall 1970 4

power by which he can oppress his men, but thankfully, that power has been decreased somewhat in today’s more humane society.

The Navy in Melville’s day was necessarily concerned more with good order than with the human characteristics of its personnel. Article of War XV (1850) provided that “no person in the Navy shall quarrel with any other person in the Navy, nor use provoking or reproachful words, gestures, or menaces, on pain of such punishment as a court-martial shall adjudge.”

It is easy to see why this article was conceived. There should have been some sort of mediation in the affairs of the seamen of those times. However, it is difficult to understand why the Navy refused to admit that its sailors were human, and that they did deserve more leniency than they actually received.

Perhaps it was (and is) the close confinement of men at sea which necessitated such a rule. Melville himself concluded that men will always compete with other men, and that in this competition, will sometimes give voice to heated or “provoking” words.

Whatever the reason behind such a law, it was evidently considered to be well worth keeping on the books. The UCMJ of 1950 says in Section 917, Article 117 that “ .. .any person subject to this chapter who uses provoking or reproachful words or gestures towards any other person subject to this chapter shall be punished as a court-martial may direct. ...”

It would seem that the present-day Navy has changed very little since the Navy of 1859 when it comes down to this article, but then neither have many of the civilian authorities changed in their attitudes toward slander.

Melville, while not a complete pacifist (if there are degrees of pacification), did hold the opinion that a man should not be

condemned to death for surrendering to the enemy. Melville qualified this attitude by admitting, that the surrender would be honorable AFTER all efforts of resistence had failed. Not so, according to Article of War IV. Here, “if any person in the Navy shall pusillanimously cry for quarter, he shall suffer death.” Melville’s reasoning was why should a man fight to the death in a hopeless situation and be threatened with death if he did not. There is no way to rationally consider the alternatives in this article.

The 1950 UCMJ has two articles relating to this matter, one of which deserves more attention than the other. Section 900, Article 100 (Subordinate compelling surrender) provides that “any person subject to this chapter who compels or attempts to compel the commanding officer of any place, vessel, or aircraft, or other military property . . .to give it up to an enemy or to abandon it, or who strikes the colors or flag to an enemy without proper authority, shall be punished by death or such punishment as a court-martial may direct.” At least this article permits surrender under “proper authorization.” Of course, that authorization would not by permitted in most cases, but that’s not the concern of the ordinary seaman.

Mutiny, that great fear of all navies, still retains its unquahfied punishment. The old Article of War provided “death” for any person engaged in, or plotting a mutiny, and the 1950 UCMJ considers the same offense to warrent death.

Mutiny on the high seas is comparable to civilian insurrection, and in many ways more serious than the latter. Think what could happen if a mutinous crew took an armed warship into the sea lanes where ships of peaceful nations ply their trade.

Not only would the United States be responsible for the mutinied ship, it would also be responsible to the nation or

nations which that ship molested. Insurrection ashore could be dealt with much easier (since the area of revolution could be confined), and no neutral nation need be involved if the conflict remained within the borders of the United States.

The most important comparison between the Articles of War of 1850, and the 1950 UCMJ, is in the field of “curel and unusual punishment.” Article XLI of 1850 states that “a court-martial shall not, for any one offence (sic) not capital, inflict a punishment beyond one hundred lashes.” This is the primary reason for Melville’s book. One hundred lashes is, in fact, a death sentence. Not many seamen could stand that much physical abuse. The 1950 UCMJ prohibits such a decision by courts-martial. Section 855, Article 55 states that “punishment by flogging, or by branding, marking, or tattooing on the body, or any other cruel or unusual punishment, may not be adjudged by any court-martial or inflicted upon any person subject to this chapter.........” In itself, this modern article justifies the meaning of justice. No man, whatever his position or authority, has the right to empose a harsh punishment on his fellow man in a “cruel and/or unusual” manner.

Perhaps, in some future day when there is no longer any need for armies and navies, military justice will become obsolete. Perhaps when men use inteUigence instead of strength to settle their differences, there will be no reason for ships and planes, and tanks. Yet, until that day arrives, there is need to control the individuals within the armed forces (the same as civilians require laws to guide their actions), and of the two discussed in this paper, the modem UCMJ seems the more just in an unjust age.

Phoenix: Fall 1970 5

Dog poem (For those epic academicians, Charles of Reynolds and Richard The Marius) a dog barks behind me his barks Natalia Makarova has defected Soon, almost soon enough.

Her life turned around In the pit of her stomach.

Whirled and fell silent And waited its chance To turn thetable over On the deal that flew.

Marked for a murder.

From the bottom of the deck.

On there would be doubters: History was in Her every footstep, followed.

She slipped her cold past Down a narrow street Whose name she read off backwards.

A thousand Russian Winters, in her eyes.

Thawed to a western morning.

Her war was a window The world looked into.

Searching its bruited double; But found her only.

Between two curtains, A lady between two lives.

Unsetting the stage That held her, dancing To daylight across thin ice.

Roy Morris

as full of air as a huge balloon his head full of the pure shock of himself turning for his tai I or a flea hoping to bite down on the butt of reality if not the head or a flea

DC Berry

On my soul

On my soul Your imprint As indelible As lasting And as sure As the century stenciled pencilings Of waves on stone The growth rings in a tree The fracture in a bone.

A. W. Powell

Phoenix: Fall 1970 6

CHANGES

by JOYCE WOOLSEY

It is relatively hard to examine ones’ attitude-an attitude which has been in the formation process for some time. I will attempt to trace the sources of the formation of my attitude on racial integration.

I lived in a small town in Tennessee for eighteen years.

Negroes were not allowed in that town overnight. It was the sight for Klu Klux Klan rallies, one of which I attended at age seven. My parents are from small towns in Mississippi. The church I attended was totally segregated and although they preached brotherly love, they subtly defined by their actions who belonged in the family. My peer group used to go down Ninth Street (the Negro section in Chattanooga) and throw rotten vegetables and eggs. We had a number system which gave you six points if you made a Negro jump out of the street onto the sidewalk. We also had a standard joke: “What is the greatest confusion in the world?” Answer: “Fathers’ Day in nigger town.”

Odd as it may seem, I never had the opportunity to speak to a Negro until I was around thirteen years old.

I was glad when Martin Luther King was shot in Memphis.

And then slowly the pendelum began to swing .. .

My rooiTunate at Memphis State University was an arch civil rights advocator. My misinformation and uneducated views could not hold up to her arguments.

I read an article in the "Atlantic Monthly", by Jim McPhearson about his being black. In the article he told about his childhood and his misunderstanding of whites. My isolation from blacks and his isolation from whites struck a resemblance too striking for me not to recognize.

Pubhc opinion was also changing. It was no longer the vogue to hate blacks. The educated middle class, to which I aspire to belong, became generally to support equal rights.

As a result of the social changes in the United States, two playwrights, Rado and Ragni, wrote the Broadway musical hit

“Hair,” and afterwards the Memphis State University Theatre Department produced it. I will use an excerpt from “Hair” as an exaggerated example of the misconceptions I was and many are guilty of.

“Walla Walla Goona Goona I’m a Colored Spade A Pickaninny Jungle Bunny Jigaboo Nigger Coon and Cotton Picker Mau Mau and Ubangi Lipped Swamp Guinea I’m Uncle Tom and Aunt Jamima Voodoo Zombie Little Balck Sambo Resident of Harlem ....

And if you ask him to dinner, feed him.

Watermelon Hominy Grits Alligator Ribs And Shortin Bread

“Hair” presented a liberal description of society and its components from one extreme to the other. The action on-stage with the black and white intermingling of the tribe members, made a greater impression on me than any other stage actions had made. For to me, it was like picking up poison-ivy and rubbing it between my hands until the juice came out and not finding a little red rash the next day. There was no punishment for the “awful” act, either immediate or latent.

My attitude changed further when I added blacks to my peer group, and together we worked out our misconceptions of each other.

"Odd as it may seem, I never had the opportunity to speak to a Negro until I was around thirteen years old. I was glad when Martin Luther King was shot in Memphis."

Phoenix: Fall 1970 7

In a crisp dolor of October's Ochre blend, The tread through a thinning grass Between the red and brown hills Was silent but for sedge wisping About moving legs.

October anniversary

Michael D. Galligan

A blackbird stirred Flew into the whirling fall Flew, until swallowed by an ochre blend.

Carved aged in cool relief A torpid cemetary edged with black And graying wrought iron pickets Etched upon the mind a bleak reality.

Oh, austere among the mountains and hills Death rides like dew in the morning wind.

And fall flies like eternal wings Singing, oh shrieking through the mysterious mind.

After the vulgar creak of a rude, rusted gate Overtakes the hefty silence.

Then the solemn tripping through drying weed And leaning stone.

Stone and fence and weed Amass the pourous senses.

As forsythia yellow contrains stark brown.

Stone and iron project in perilous stances The image of man softly falling down.

After the bending over the stone Thirteen years ago placed, thirteen years worn Read the image inscribed, "A thawing snow refreezes Under the shadow of a blackbird."

Flying leaves sift downward Matting the soil for wind-felt snow.

With a weak shaking in the nervous wind His voice cracked the silence, mumbling The memories of a grandfather's October dying, A maudlin anniversary chilling the chaotic flight of leaves Boy, man, and aged rush like the wind, A solitary figure unravelling against the October blend Stream from the hill, and run; in the end There is but a single way Of looking at a solitary Blackbird.

Art by Nick Long

Phoenix: Fall 1970 8

HUNGER The war, the good, and the hungry.

by RAY TROTTER

Out of the smoke and rubble he just appeared that evening before dusk, asking for food, not begging, just asking, simple as that. It was just like nothing had happened. I was guarding what had been the bridge on the road that came up out of what had been the village, and when I saw him I wasn’t even sure how long I had been looking at him or when I had first realized he was there. Ham, the corporal, was asleep. The letter he had been writing to the girl in Seattle was still in his hand when I went in to wake him.

“What? Where’d he come from?” Ham wanted to know as soon as I had shaken him awake.

“Down there,” I said, jerking my head in that direction.

“What you think we should do? I tried to make him leave.”

I could tell by the way Ham looked at me that he didn’t believe it. “The town?” he said.

“Look,” I said, too tired to argue. “I don’t know where he came from. It looked like from down there to me, but it might not have been.”

“What’s he want?”

“Says he’s hungry,” I said. “Hasn’t had anything to eat since yesterday.”

“Tell him we’re hungry too, goddamn it. There’s a war going on. He can’t just walk up here like that.”

“He hasn’t eaten since yesterday,” I repeated. “Says his wife is down there ...”

“Damn it, there’s still a war going on. That changes everything. He can’t just walk up here like that. The C 0 would bust a gut if he knew.” Ham glared at me. “We got orders. Tell him to go eat somehwere else.” Ham had been demoted from buck sergeant to corporal three weeks before for his part in a brawl in the NCO club back at camp and I could teU he wasn’t taking any chances of letting it happen again.

Until now the old man had watched us in silence. Now, when he was us looking at him, he resumed nodding his head and jabbering in English. It was exactly what he had told me becore. He was hungry and had no food and his wife was hungry and, somehow, he had lost his daughter.

“He speaks English too good to suit me,” Ham said. “Ask him where he’s from. Where you live, Papasan? Where you learn to speak English? North Vietnam?”

“No North Vietnam. North Vietnam numba ten. Ho Chi Minh numba ten.” He shook his head convincingly. Somehow it had all become confused in his mind so he told us again what he had told us before, and added some. He was hungry and had no food; his wife was hungry too; his house was gone, and he’d lost his daughter. It sounded like a broken record.

Phoenix; Fall 1970 9

Art bv Marv Revenig

“No North Vietnam. North Vietnam numba ten.

Ho Chi Minh numba ten.”

Ham swore under his breath and said something I didn’t understand. I could tell he didn’t like it. “He might be checking us out,” he said, looking at me, wanting me to argue with him. “There weren’t any people left in that town anyway. Our guys went through there afterward.”

“Maybe he came back,” I said. “Maybe they ran away and slipped back in later. When it was over.”

“No,” Ham said, staring at him. “He wouldn’t have come back this soon.” Then he looked at me. “Goddamn,” he said.

“What’s it to us anyway? We just follow orders, huh? And our orders say nobody gets near this bridge, huh? That’s all. We’re not even supposed to talk to anybody. Isn’t that what our orders say?”

“Well,” I said. “OK. I’m just a PFC. I just work here.”

The old man was still standing where I had halted him thirty yards away. The whole time we talked he listened gravely with attention that was still somehow detached—tired and stubborn and humble at once—as though he didn’t know what we were saying but knew what the outcome would be, just the same.

“Maybe we should call the captain,” I said. “If you really think he might be checking us out . .. .” It made me shiver to think of it, just two of us out here and dark coming on.

“Naw,” said Ham. “No need getting the C 0 involved in it.”

Phoenix: Fall 1970 10

He turned suddenly to the Vietnamese and said loudly: “Go away.”

I stared at the old man, who showed no intention of going away. He just stood there like he wanted to argue, like a beggar who won’t take “no” for an answer. The evening was quiet now except for the dull thud thud thud thud of a .50-caliber far away; and even this was a restful sound, almost peaceful, and yet almost fitting for the end of such a day. This time of day always brought a touch of homesickness: somewhere, I remembered, darkenss still came naturally—the twilight cry of a wood thrush, crows quarreling in the cool stillness, the first call of the whippoorwill; but here was only the monotonous beat of the machine gun and an occasional splash of a fish breaking in the river. I began to think of home.

The old man shifted his weight uneasily and when he did.

Ham’s rifle came up. suddenly, as though with a mind of its own. Someone’s stomach growled. I felt the cramp again and looked at my watch. Seven o’clock. It was six hours since we had eaten. Therewere a couple of “C” rations in the bunker of course, but I wasn’t that hungry yet. A convoy was due around with hot food for the guard-posts any time now. I had heard them on the radio earlier, talking with post 4,which was a mile up the road, though a mile could take forever on that road.

“Maybe they’ll have something extra we could give him when they come,” I said, and added: “Be a good way to get rid of him.”

“Rid of him heU.” Ham looked at me. “What you want to do is adopt him. Give him something today and tomorrow he’ll be back, only with his wife and family and all his sick friends. You should have worked for the Red Cross.”

I started to reply, but at the sound of our voices the old man had edged closer and was starting to tell us about his wife and house and daughter again. Just then Ham gestured with his rifle and told him to get the hell away or he would shoot.

The old man retreated a few steps back down the road, where he turned and looked back at us with that tired stubborn look like he still wanted to aruge. It gave me an odd feeling,like I could see his eyes glowing at us like two embers up out of the dusk. Of course I really couldn’t.

“Goddamn slopes,” Ham said under his breath. He turned and went back inside the bunker. I could hear him settle onto the cot.

“Why don’t you rack out,” I suggested. “I’ll wake you when the jeep comes.”

He grunted something I didn’t understand. Then he remembered the letter and came out where the light was better to finish it. He wanted to send it out with the convoy. There was barely enough daylight left to write by, and he bent low over the paper, racing with darkness. He was using one of the sandbags as a table. It all struck me as being a bit odd. Ham didn’t seem like the letter-writing type; yet he had been writing this one girl regularly for almost six months now.

Once, back at the unit when he had had a couple of beers he had told me all about her. He planned to marry her when he got home, of all things. Somehow it just didn’t sound like Ham. He was one of those people it was impossible to picture

as being married. He had met her at a USO dance in Seattle five days before shipping over and they had become engaged—ring and all—before the day his plane left. And he had received an average of four letters week—and sometimes five-up until a month ago—the same week he had gotten busted—and after that, one or maybe two letters and for the last week or so, none. But he continued to write her anyway.

It was odd all right.

The air had cooled off now. Mosquitoes descended in clouds, ruthless and insistent. I could feel them on my hands.

I squashed one on my hand and another against the back of my neck and delayed turning on the spotlight until the last possible moment to keep from attracting them. When an early moon came up and I found I could see the bridge and water easily enough, I decided not to turn on the light at all. The machine gun thumped on into the dusk. A heficopter clattered by on the horizon, invisible without its running lights. Once there were flares. A faint odor of citronella and camphor drifted from the bunker, where Ham was having his own troubles with mosquitoes. I heard him stir on the cot, swearing, then getting up to lower the net. There was a joke someone had told about a mosquito that got trapped inside the net with a Vietnamese and starved before morning. I tried to think of all the good jokes I had heard recently. Later, when I started getting sleepy, I would try to think about things that would keep me awake. There was the big brunette at the topless restaurant where some of us had gone a couple of times back in San Francisco; that was always good for a half hour or so when I started getting really sleepy, and of course there were other things I could always think of or daydream of in order to stay awake. But I always tried to save those things until I really needed them. Now I thought about the old man.

Ham was having trouble going to sleep and kept tossing and rolling-on the cot. I knew he wasn’t asleep so I-spoke to him.

“How many do you reckon are still down there?” I said.

“How many what?”

“People. How many people are still alive in that town. How many houses.”

“I don’t know,” he said, then added: “Most of them probably got out.”

“It’s funny when you think about it,” I said.

“What?”

“Them and us. What they want out of life and what we want. Give them a bowl of rice and a piece of fish and they’re happy,” I said, parroting something I had heard a dozen times before.

Ham said, “Yeah.”

“It’s not that way with us,” I said. “It’s so simple for them. ..”

Ham moved on the cot and suddenly sat up. “It’s coming. I hear it coming. That bitch better have written.me.”

I stopped talking and listened. I had been about to say something profound, I remembered later, though I couldn’t remember what. Something was coming, but it wasn’t the jeep.

It was the old man again. I halted him very near where I had halted him before and turned the spotlight on him to be sure he was alone and not carrying anything. My hand had begun to

shake. It gave me the creeps, having him walk up in the dark like that. Damn but it gave me the creeps. I’d had about enough of it too.

Ham was beside me in a second, shouting, though he didn’t need to shout. “What’s he want this time?” he shouted. Before I could answer he had shouted the unmistakable, incontestable command which all guards knew; it was the command to which there was no appeal and no suitable reply except immediate obedience: “Di di mau, Di di mau, GET AWAY.” I reached over and flicked the light off, my hand shaking so that I had to grope for the switch. Somehow it was more confortable to have it off because, with it on, I could see everything within fifty yards but nothing beyond; with it on, I always had the feeling of being on display.

He was still wanting to argue. We could see him standing there with his stubborn defiance in the moonlight.

“Go away,” Ham shouted, swearing at him. “Go by god or I shoot you dead. ” Very quietly from out of the darkness the voice began: “You have food. I am very hungry please. Mamasan she very hungry please. For two days.” Then he went on to tell us about his house, which was destroyed, and his daughter who somehow had been lost during the day.

“Go away,” I shouted, feeling my temper rise. I got one of the cans of rations from the bunker and threw it toward him.

He shied away like he thought it was a grenade or something, and then he didn’t even pick it up. I could feel myself beginning to shake again, half expecting the red streaks of tracers to come pouring in from a dozen places out of the darkness any time now. I started to explain that there was food in the can, but I couldn’t do it. I was shaking too hard.

“What’d you throw?” Ham was shouting.

“A can of “C’s” I shouted back. “He didn’t even take them.” I looked at the Vietnamese. “Go away.”

“Not go away,” came the voice out of the darkness. It sounded hoarse now, a httle unnatural.

“OK,” Ham said, and that was all. He had said it so quietly, without emotion, that I had to glance at him to be sure he had said it. I had no idea what he meant by it.

There was a long pause while I tried to decide what had happened and what would happen next. It was as though everyone had stopped to think before making a move. In the silence I could hear my own pulse, like lying at night with an ear against the pillow. That was when it happened.

Slowly and deliberately and without speaking. Ham drew back the operating handle of his rifle and let it go. The metallic clink of the bolt flying forward violated the stillness, the very darkness itself. A round had been chambered.

The voice, which was in the act of starting again, stopped abruptly and compeetely then, and the old man turned and fled, silently and unmajestically, in the direction of the town.

The machine gun thumped into the night. Gradually my shaking tapered off, then subsided completely and was replaced by a dull ache in my stomach. I stared down the road after the old man, but by now he had already disappeared into a clump of trees beside the road. It was one of the few spots of vegetation still left after the day’s bombing of the village.

Phoenix: Fall 1970 11

i %

Chaos, orde

by LAMONT INGALLS She hears upon that water without sound, A voice that cries, “The tomb in Palestine Is not the porch of spirits lingering.

It is the grave of Jesus, where he lay.”

We live in an old chaos of the sun, Or old dependency of day and night.

Or island solitude, unsponsored, free.

Of that wide water, inescapable.

—“Sunday Morning”

by Wallace Stevens

The mind of man has often attempted to define “justice” as a term connected with and dependent upon a set of rules in existence upon a plane which man in his mortal body cannot enter, and can barely conceive. These all-encompassing ideals of justice are in turn created by a supernatural form which stands outside of man to define and shape his behavior, and to resolve the reasons for his being. The configurations of the supernatural are worshipped in innumerable forms through the performance of multiformed ritualistic behavior. This last statement is especially made clear through consideration of the fact that each religious group practices a given set of actions to conform to the group doctrines relating man to the supernatural.

Man requires this ritualistic performance of himself because he has perceived the order of his life and of the world as deriving from supernatural influences which can only be communicated with and influenced by a certain series of ceremonies and sacraments. His divinations, auguries, liturgies, consecrations and ceremonies are designed by man from the contingencies he sees placed upon the world by forces and beings outside himself.

Man, thus, has placed contigencies deriving from the

Phoenix; Fall 1970 14

supernatural upon the order and the chaos of his societies and of his world. This reality of order and chaos, however, is not dependent upon any supernatural forces to shape and limit its directions . Instead it is composed of probabilities and permutations in infinite combinations. It contains its own essence in a seemingly haphazard ziggurat of circumstances comprehended, from man’s physically limited niche, as moving in a random pattern. These sets of circumstances are perceived as random because we are unable to see all combinations instantaneously. Were we able to know all the combinations simultaneously then, and only then, would events appear predictably. However, we are unable to do so and our vision of ordered reality is limited to a small portion of the whole.

Accordingly, we are reduced to examining the present and the future in terms of probabilities and hopeful expectations.

This inability to know existence in a manner that allows true prediction enables man to see himself as subservient to a supernatural set of beings and forces which determine order.

Man, in reality, has disposed this supernatural set in harmony with the logic of tens of thousands of years and the natural chaos of two billion years of evolution. He controls this reality in that it ceases to have meaning without the mind of man. All outside of man’s consciousness is a collection of objects which merely exist without inherent meaning until man defines them.

By willing a religion based upon the supernatural,man is free to interpret the forces of his invention. By imagining a divine and eternal set of principles man can mold the actions of his personal self to conform to the set of transient principles he translates from this imagined set of ideals. Thus, man can justify whatever form his actions assume by explaining to

"Man's religion is a constantly evolving state. This perpetual evolution, like organic evolution, takes place over the millenium."

and

religion

himself and to others that his performances upon the world and his fellow human beings are ordained and justified by a set of principles eternally existing in a never changing order. This order, however, is in a constant state of flux because its creator, the mind of man, is in a non-fixed state.

Man’s religion is in a constantly evolving state. This perpetual evolution, like organic evolution, takes place over the millenium. Unlike the evolution of nature, though, the pace quickens as the scope of its creator’s mind increases its’ understanding and control of the natural forces around it, and of the psyche within it. Thus, man’s religion has changed over the tens of thousands of years in which man has increased his awareness of his role as prime mentor t o the perceived order.

This gradual control over his environment has contributed in no small way to the evolution of man’s religion. Through archaeological evidence it is possible to ascertain these changes. One major change in man’s reUgion gradually occurred between the pre-historical periods known as the Mesolithic and the Neolithic eras. During this period of time the essence upon which man’s then current religions were based was greatly modified.

At the beginning of this change man’s religions were based upon the individual and the particular effect the supernatural had upon this one limited person in such categories of behivior as his hunting prowess. These forces were seen as controlling the individual in his relationship to the natural world. This essential concept gradually evolved as man became socially aware of other human beings, and as man increased his control over the environment through his collective action. Instead of religious ceremonies being based upon the individual nature, these rites came to pertain to the community and the natural

world. In addition to this basic change, the direction in which religion became re-oriented was one guided by principles based upon the community and the relationships within this community. The community became the social unit which mediated between man and the transcendent creations of his own imagination.

Although man’s concept of religion gradually changed from one in which an individual view of religion changed to that of a group concept,he has retained the belief in transcendent supernatural forces controUing his individual part and the whole of reality. However, with the advent of increased control over self and environment man appears to be gradually moving toward a new definition of religion in which the individual is seen as responsible for shaping and ordering reality. Where no transcendent forces other than those within the scope of his own mind have arranged a universe to assume the forms of chaos and of rationale. A religion based upon the self and placed within a self concept which has no other gods before it (including a state and its doctrine).

Perhaps then man would better relate to his environment and to his fellows if he perceives the source of his systems of justice as being within himself. To see his own mind as giving a measure of symmetry to the universe by imposing an interrelated order—an order not existing until man’s mind perceived it as an harmonious arrangement. To see himself as creating a God or gods in his own image.Then, with this idea in . mind, man may introspectively examine the systems which ^ previously he relegated to being created by a “higher authority.’’Possibly, then, the systems may be molded by man to better fit his interpersonal relationships and the needs of a social environment in a state of flux.

Phoenix: Fall 1970 15

Last bus to Charleston

by ROBERT DOMINIC He was going home. He had been away for more than four years, traveling mainly throughout Southeast Asia with the Marine Corps. And now he was waiting in the Jacksonville, Florida, Greyhound Bus Station for his New York-bound bus.

He studied his wristwatch carefully. “The bus ought to be here be now,” he thought to himself \\fiUe fumbling through his pockets for a cigarette. Instead, he found his military name-tags in his top shirt pocket and began to read softly to himself,” Ralph W. Thompson, serial number 234-56-87, U.S. Marine Corps.” He smiled.

“Hey, marine! You got a match?” a tall and aged Negro called out.

“Yes, come and get it,” Ralph answered a little annoyed.

The tall balck man walked over and took a seat next to Ralph on the long wooden bench. Ralph handed him the match. “Thanks, thanks for the match. Where you headed for?” the stranger asked.

“New York,” answered Ralph.

“You live up there?”

“Yeah, I live up there.”

“I guess you’re waitin’ for the nine o’clock bus. That’s the last one headin’ North tonight,” the old Negro said. “You got your ticket?”

“Yeah, I got my ticket and I come from New York and I’m waiting for the nine o’clock bus. Okay?” Ralph was aimoyed.

But quickly he caught himself and said, “I’m sorry. It’s been a heU of a long day and I guess I’m getting a bit grouchy.”

Phoenix: Fall 1970 16

“Oh, that’s okay.” The Negro stood up and apologized.

“I’m sorry for bothering you. I’llleave you alone.”

“No, no,” Ralph broke in. “Sit down and talk some. I need the company anyway.”

A few minutes later, an announcement over the public address system revealed that the North-bound bus was boarding. Ralph picked up his dufflebag and walked over to the bus. The Negro, who was also going North, followed close behind the marine.

The bus driver, dressed in a gray shirt with matching trousers, called out from the waiting bus’ platform and said, “Tickets, tickets please.” Ralph walked up to the driver and pulled out his ticket. “Here you go, Mac,” he said.

“The name’s Clem,” thy driver snapped back, snatching Ralph’s ticket out of his hand. Ten other passengers boarded the bus, and then came the old Negro.

“Here’s my ticket. I got it right here,” the black man showed the driver.

“Thank you, now move along, move along,” the driver instructed.

With an old brown suitcase in his hand, the old Negro entered the bus and made his to the back where Ralph was already sitting.

Smiling at Ralph the black man asked,” You mind if I sit next to you?”

“No, not at all,” Ralph answered. Then he added, “I hope you don’t get sick on buses.”

“Oh, no, not me. Hell, I never really been sick in my whole life,” the black man smiled, and sat down. The two men settled back in their seats.

After a few minutes of waiting, the bus driver told the passengers that the bus would be making two stops: one in Savannah, Georgia; and the other in Charleston, South Carolina. “At Charleston,” he said, “youll have to transfer to another bus for New York.” He then turned off the overhead lights and began moving the bus down the dark and narrow streets of Jacksonville.

After the bus had been on the road for about an hour, the old Negro turned to Ralph and began to speak. “Hey, marine!

Do you drink?”

“Listen, Mac, I got a name,” Ralph quickly interrupted.

“Just call Ralph and we’ll get along real fine. Okay? ” “Okay, sure. I’m sorry,” the Negro said. “I just thought that since you are a marine, you wouldn’t mind being called marine.”

Ralph turned and peered directly into the black man’s dark and bloodshot eyes. “After midnight tonight, I won’t be a marine anymore.” He paused. “Say, what about that drink?”

The Negro reached to an inside pocket of his moth-ridden overcoat and pulled out a pint bottle of red wine. “You like wine, Ralph?” he asked. “My daddy used to tell me that it’s good for your blood,” the black man added.

Ralph switched on the reading light and gazed at the pint bottle. “Where’s the label?” he asked.

“Hell, I done made this stuff myself,” the old Negro answered. “Try some?”

“What the hell,” Ralph laughed. “Pass it here.”

By the time the bus reached Savannah, both men were feeling their spirits and talking quite freely.

“Yes, sir. I’ve lived in the South all my life,” the old black told Ralph. “I got some relatives in the North, in -Brooklyn, but I never see them. When I was a little boy, though, they’d come down sometime, but that was a long, long time ago.”

“I’ve never lived in the South,” Ralph said. “But I’ve heard some pretty nasty stories about it.”

“It aint all that bad,” the Negro chuckled. “I never seen no hangin’ or muggin’ in my whole life. I been beat a few times.

Well, I guess that I deserved it.” Leaning over to Ralph’s ear the black man whispered,” I got beat for stealin’ whiskey.”

The two men laughed.

The bus made a short stop at Savannah, and then started off again towards Charleston. By this time, the talk between Ralph and the old Negro had long ceased, and both had fallen asleep. While they slept the bus moved onward, passing broken-down farms, dark and lonely swamp-ponds, thick wooded forests, and shanty little Southern towns. Three hours later the overhead lights came on and the driver spoke, “We’ll be arriving in Charleston in about ten minutes. Passengers continuing to New York will have to change buses there.” Soon afterwards, the bus pulled to a halt at the Charleston Greyhound terminal.

Rubbing his eyes, the old black man nudged his new friend.

“Look’s like we have to get up.”

“Yea,” answered Ralph. “We have to change to the other bus.”

“My lord! All this confusion when I was gettin’ some nice, peaceful rest,” the tired Negro complained. “You think there’ll be a bus waitin’ on us?”

“There it is,” Ralph answered pointing his finger out the window to the other bus. “Well, let’s get going. Chum.”

The two left the old bus, leaving the empty win ; bottle on the floor where they had been sitting, grabbed their baggage from the bus driver, and climbed onto the new bus.

“Let me help you with those bags,” the black man asked.

“Well, thanks . . .thanks a lot.” Ralph smiled to himself and thought, “He’s a damn nice old fellow.” They moved to the rear of the new bus.

While both men were searching for a seat on the New York-bound bus, a policecar with its red llights flashing and its siren wailing sped into the terminal. “Hold that bus! Hold that bus!” a policeman shouted from the car.

Onboard the bus, Ralph looked at the Negro and said, “Look at that! I wonder what’s up?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know,” muttered the Negro, a sudden look of apprehension comingover his face.

The policecar came to a screeching halt next to the bus, and three policemen jumped out of the car. The three entered the bus, drawing their re\olvers as they moved, and proceeded quickly to the rear of the bus. Then one of them stopped suddenly and aimed his gun directly at the head of the black man.

“Your name Daniel Watson?” the policeman asked the Negro.

“Why .. .yes.. .it is. Is something wrong, sir?”

Turning to the policeman standing behind him, the first officer said,” It’s him. Yea, it’s him all right. Let’s get him out of here.”

Ralph stood up and shouted, “Hey, what’s going on?”

“You a friend of his?” asked one of the policemen.

“No, not really. I met him at the Greyhound terminal in Jacksonville,” Ralph explained to the officer.

While Ralph was talking to the policeman, another moved quickly up to the Negro and handcuffed him. Soon, he was being led away by the other two officers. The third policeman stayed behind with Ralph.

“You say you just met this guy in Jacksonville?” questioned the officer.

“Yes, officer, but could you please tell me what the hell you’re taking him away for?” Ralph was anxious. “Did he do something wrong?”

The policeman then whispered in Ralph’s ear, “He’s wanted for murder in Florida. We got a teletype on him from the Florida Highway Patrol about two hours ago, and it said that he was heading this way.” With those words spoken, thy policeman turned and left the bus.

Ralph fell back in his seat and sighed, deeply moved. He looked out the window.

Over the bus’ public address, the new driver spoke to the passengers. “Just relax, folks. It’s all over.” The driver then turned off the overhead lights and pulled out of the terminal.

In the back of the bus, Ralph closed his eyes and thought of New York . .. and life.

Phoenix: Fall 1970 17

Our young provincial

Poem Paths the children know Under the leaves where do they go?

He who believes In paths will never grow Older, though danger go Under the leaves Unnoticed and small And deadliest of all.

Tina Inge

Thinks he will to France To see the showgirls dance.

Hear harmonic played The melody of brocade.

'An agony of France Dying into a dance' Will salve the sores And cure the mores In mirrors and romance.

From this idyllic integration.

He proceeds.

Naked in that world of naked women the prophylactic passport powders nothing: Connecting (his dispensation for chaos) is a fiction; There are there no shadows To hide nakedness.

Then will the trashman come

Among the rusty cans And broken-bottled beer The chocolate-covered hands begin to reach For bric-a-brac and sacks of junk Called men.

Where everywhere the heat Slides down the street And covers the balanced children.

Standing in the shadows and shades.

The greedy hands begin to eat Vanilla ice cream in the street And with the heat Fall teeth and bones And everywhere the junkman loans His cart to carry off the dead.

And when, in every metropolitan swamp.

The alleygods begin to rise To feed the animals their lies.

Where no one even tries To analyze the truth— Then will the trashman come.

And when the scales and chains begin to tip Toward legal dreams and junk.

Where chalk and profanity is sung On every wall and every tongue— Then will the trashman come.

Ro bert G. Harwood

Phoenix: Fall 1970 18

Antony bestriding has no face in the entangle­ ment of bodies: Nameless in the contorted convulsions of arms and legs.

Our hero has no mirror to fathom The pumping, bubbling image of cancerous etcoplasm.

Which gives the lie To penicillin.

Don Eastman

Poem two little men bundled by mother against an early march wind play in the darkening dusk. run past the outhouse around the coal pile through the fence and out of sight.

Kip Reel

Time

On reading poems to a senior class at south high lor Fish poem)

Before 1 opened my mouth 1 noticed them sitting there as orderly as frozen fish in a package.

Slowly water began to fill the room though 1 did not notice it till it reached my ears and then 1 heard the sounds of fish in an aquarium and 1 knew that though 1 had tried to drown them with my words that they had only opened up like gills for them and let me in.

The implication is That all of time Is a shadow Unfolding and echoing forever

James Goldfeder

An angry retort defending my love

Those who have not heard of Hume Assume Red and blue make purple.

Oh do not break the neck Of my freedom With causes and effect: Tothe ignorant lilacs You see.

Purple is a primary color.

Don Eastman

Together we swam around the room like thirty tails of words till the bell rang puncturing a hole in the door where we all leaked out.

They went to another class 1 suppose and 1 home where Queen Elizabeth my cat met me and licked my fins till they were hands again.

D.C. Berry

Poem How long must i abide this place?

A century this aire?

Games, games thrice today And thrice i won them fair.

Whereupon, the blessing mine, 1 stood tortured there As shallow minds in disbelief Condemned my soul to hell For what i deemed the coral reef Was labeled Infidel.

Gail McClain

Phoenix: Fall 1970 19

Sunday’s black mood Monday’s lament 1Noamblood; Jesus Christ.

I walk on water with fishes and bread.

by JIM McDonough

Phoenix: Fall 1970 20

The Devil tempted me and we joined together to plot against and destroy the world. I digested the knowledge of the world and the dust sifted through my nostrils. I choked. The knowledge is naught. It is a mere skeleton of opinions: words filling the great void between our bones as flesh. World with no order, no meaning. Words, senseless symbols of our imagination of objects that don’t exist. Never did exist. Words filling that great emptiness which lives only in man’s mind.

Only he has a need. We are bom. We live. We work. We work to occupy that great expanse of time from birth to death—work that keeps our minds away from our eventual end.

Ah, the mystical wonder life holds for us who pursue and seek its answers.

The vomit of previous generations has placed the burden of civilized behavior upon us. Their mistakes are our lessons, their lessons are our mistakes—but I still exist. I wander fromlocale to locale seeking anything which is not there. I sit for hours looking at the same dust. Occasionally I brush my teeth. Once I was stabbed by a toothpick. There was no pain, no blood, no mark on my body. I went home and tried it myself, sticking all the sharp toothpicks I could find into my body. I marveled that there was no pain, no feeling at all. I was about to cut off my foots when the ’phone rang. It was a wrong number.

I am in life’s slaughterhouse. One of the cattle is to be slain.

There is nothing to fear because everything is cut into little pieces and wrapped in clear cellophane—maybe even Baggies.

When death comes, maybe I’ll turn into a rosetta stone—but most likely sandstone. Written on the slaugterhouse wall was “death” in big capital letters in an Old English script—so thoughtful of them. Smells and odors. Sounds. This couldn’t be death could it? Yet it looks familiar. It is my room.

I do not start from the beginning. I do not start from the end. I fly from noplace to noplace. I do not know where I came from—this is not important. I know not where I’m going—this makes no difference. We are all coming and going.

Idealism where am I now?

It’s dark. I’m hot and dusty. I have ended my journey to no

"The Devil tempted me and we joined together to plot against and destroy the world. I digested the knowledge of the world and the dust sifted through my nostrils."

place—I have arrived. The atmosphere is pleasairt, easy. The souls who are really non-souls of non-beings in a non-place have non-faces and non-personalities. Here one commits himself to nothing. There are no responsibilities or obligations, no objectives. There are no opinions to be stated. Were one to venture an opinion, he would be banished, exiled; sent away, and then where would he go? Where do you go when you leave noplace? There are no leaders. There are only followers. They walk a broad and dusty circle with non-expressions affixed to their rotting faces. The stench of decayed, lost non-ideas fills the already heavy atmosphere. Yet, there must be a being or spirit who conceived this empty noplace. I see no evidence of its presence. They say it’s that fat, jolly old man with a white beard in a red suit who has an affinity for reindeer. I lack the characteristics of these non-beings. I have not their features. I am only a visitor. It is a purgatory and I dwell in the centuries awaiting my sentence. But there is no judge. The dark silence.

The mystic of the minds has, past. There dwells no more, the colored, distorted past. The present is in the future, the past is today, and the future is never. Maybe I’m never leaving. Could noplace be the end? Is there no other journey to take? Life here is meaningless. This must be the end. It is noplace.

Life is an affectation of the mind; ambition its force. No one exists. I don’t, you don’t. Only our minds exist and they create all of the situations which surround us.

The mind is my spirit, body, and soul. It creates the situations I encounter; it provides me with all of my illusions.

It is the desert mirage, I want it to be there, so I see it, but in reality it does not exist.

Ambition digs its dirty fingers into the deep innards of my mind. It clouds my vision as my optic nerve is injured during the implanting. It becomes a wart on my nose so big that I cannot look without seeing it. It makes me crosseyed. I see double. That gives me a headache. The headache makes me nauseous. I take two aspirin; the pain is gone.

A veritable septic tank of ideas full of the waste—excretion of the mind—stated in mere poetic fashion. Endless dirty rooms full of nothingness, void of anything. Holden Cauldfield is a hero, and I am Jesus Christ.

Mood .. .dark naked, stark.

Light.. .red, dim, cold Season ... JioUow, brown, solemn.

Sight.. .dirty, dingy, old.

You’re a non-person.

1 could tell by the non-expression on your non-face. I like it here, there’s so little to do. Boredom is the greatest embodiment of pleasure ever to exist. It’s hard to decide how I want to do nothing. I can’t decide whether I want to be bored not working, or not playing. Of course I could not participate, but I’ve done that so many times it’s getting too interesting. I guess 111 be bored not working.

I’ve adjusted here very quickly. Still no sign of the old man with the beard who has that fixation for reindeer. Actually I wish they’d let me know if I’m going to stay or be kicked out.

The pressure is beginning to show. Lately my mind has been dwelling on vaguely old-fashioned New England gardens, old lavender log cabin of dreams, the romance of the German forest and the sexual stemess of Puritan days.

I am a reincarnated kleptomaniac. The other me lived in the days of yore during the time of kings and queens. I personally don’t steal, but my mind does. It stole my body and took me to purgatory. For some strange reason it brought me back. It’s fortunate because my mind is getting weak. It is dying. It has been a long and slow process though prusued with great determination by the assassins. Cause of death—sublimation of ideas, lack of adequate stimulation; lack of interesting conversation. I must get the assassins, they’ll be anxious to know. They’ll sit around my brain watching it die. They’ll choke the last impulse. I must hurry, it’s almost gone. Oh, Holden Cauldfield really isn’t a hero, and I’m not Jesus Christ.

Phoenix: Fall 1970 21

Photo by Harlan Hambright

*

Poem

Ain't it fun to be drunk?

Ain't it grand when the whole world squirms up into your head and takes a peek out of your very own eyes?

When nobody gives a damn And everybody's alive?

Ain't it swell to get drunk And meet a long blonde animal Who crawls off somewhere With you attached?

Ain't it fine to get drunk And pour yourself Like a big pitcher of pleasure Down some hot blonde Who's moving like a freight train And you're a bum who's drunk And damn glad he hopped this particular freight?

Ain't it fun to be drunk?

Robert G. Harwood

Phoenix: Fall 1970 22

...with liberty and Justice for all.

Phoenix: Fall 1970 23

The turn is hard to twist in shape Of sound, And thoughts of fading molds are lost In cluttered lives. To live this fate Until the end is not a childish task.

Michael Galligan