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War: It bears many deep scars within my emotions. I have lived World War I in the heart and mind of my grandfather. He was an infantryman in the U.S. Marine Corps. He was hit and took shrapnel in the jaw, then was sent home after serving 18 months. His injuries were not the only scars he brought home. The true Injuries were of the time served in France, and the relentless injuries that persevered, not only amongst his fellow soldiers, but also amongst the common people.
This went on. That same instilled "pride" was now given a new form in my mother. She was the only child in my Grandfather's life. She, too, joined the Marine Corps during WWII. She served in the motorcade as a driver, and wound up driving in Hiroshima and Nagasaki after the deadly atomic bombs were dropped. She received no injuries, except the scars received from the sights of a people that were mutilated and destroyed in body, heart, mind, and all aspects of their environment and life.
These sights will long be remembered and are kept within the hearts of the people of every country that decides to enter into war. No one wants to recognize the fact that there was some unjustifiable terror in the dropping of Hiroshima's uranium bomb, "little boy", and Nagasaki's plutonium bomb, "fatman", but what they did to the Japanese nation will never be forgotten. Yes, this stopped a war short in its path. Yes, this was a necessary defense to stop another Nazi regime from perpetrating massive killings and destruction. But, it was the war of an idiot, a meaningless starving artist, a puppet turned madman, Adolf Hitler, who had the charisma that hypnotized his countrymen.
Time went on and, in 1969, I graduated from an all boys Catholic high school. I had a baseball scholarship to attend college that I did not take immediate advantage of. I did attend a Junior College for 6 months for mapping. I watched the war of VietNam rage on for the past 5 years. I became a hippie, and protesting the war seemed to have a most true meaning in my life, until I received a letter, "Greetings". My number on the draft was 27, and my birthday was of err. I was only 17, not 18. But I was raised by my Grandfather, who had little time left in life. He believed that any "American" war was of necessity. I still, even after having been abandoned by my mother, respected her and the "BERNIE, USMC" tattoo she had across her thigh. So I knew I would respect their wishes, but not without recourse.
Basic training, Fort Lewis, Washington: We kids were told to repeat the words, "To kill, without mercy," and "Kill a Gook for God,” over and over again before each breakfast lunch, and dinner and multiple times during and after our "P.T." {Physical Training}. I couldn't bring myself to chant these adversarial lines that mocked everything I stood for!
One time they chose the two biggest men from each platoon to have a "weapons fight". Pugil sticks were chosen and given to the two "combatants". The Pugil stick was a plastic, rifle stock shaped "training tool" that trainees were to use to learn to fight using their gunstock. It had foam wrapped on each end. Well, my opponent was a big, warm loving man, Packard, of about 6'7" and 320 lbs. {I, 6'5", 225 lbs}. We faced off and he took a slow and sensitive swing. I moved quick and returned with 3 quick shots that brought him down. Believe me, he wasn't hurt as bad as I was.
I helped him up, and the drill sergeant told us to start fighting again. I looked at "Packard" and the big man’s eyes melted my heart. I threw my pugil stick down to our drill sergeant. The the drill sergeant watched as I took Packard’s pugil stick in my hands. The drill sergeants wanted nothing to do with me. It let me down to see that it was obvious. It was a big game to turn us into something we were not, but they didn't want no part of getting hurt either. Basic training became a joke but a rude awakening to, obviously, more brain washing!
From there I found myself going to an intelligence HQ, following up in my knowledge of land surveying, topography, and land mapping. They found I would be very useful in a recon squad. So I was back to where I started in basic training. Left there, 1-14 cavalry, reconnaissance. Gee thanks, 6'5", and trying to sneak up on the enemy. I was their "Warhorse", lol not! I was in a position only to help others survive. I was still a strong opponent against the war. I had displayed bitter resentment towards the war machine, my hair quickly not "regulation", my mustache was not "regulation" and the hair below my lower lip was not, lol, "regulation".
In the military, they say you are "owned". Yes, "owned" by the military during your term of enlistment. Well, I was not enlisted, I was drafted. You are not to be tattooed in any way, this is against "Military Regulations". But, sorry, I had a Zig-Zag man tattooed on my right forearm that was as big as the muscle around it. When saluting, it was plain to see how unhappy my "superior officers" were to see the insult of the salute, especially with my size and my grin. All done and said, I followed orders with the slightest of respect.
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Timothy G. Branfalt Sr.
We are all within each other. When that is realized, our prejudice and communication interference will be that of telepathic communication. We will be one with each other and one with the world. These bodies are only temporary forms that keep us restricted from our own heavenly place.
It is only a temporary restriction, especially upon those who intend to use their "physical attributes" with just the selfish, social advancement of themselves.
If this world had started to gain acceptance and understanding of all problematic errors within, we may have been able to share these "advancements" with our brothers and sisters, who are NOW--not later--in danger, not from the immediate natural disasters, but of those that will not surrender the help they need to overcome their immediate handicaps.
The ones of unshared power with food, shelter, clothing, and then to add the militia.
The militia could have been justified, if its intentions were there for the less fortunate, not to take more from the unfortunate.
I live on my lifelong work of gathering a pension, which is paid back to me only due to many years of work. Others work hard, and see nothing. All I have to Always say is "Me casa, es Su casa!", Mucho Amore e "Pura Vida!"
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