We were scheduled as lunch guests of Gene Smith in Lexington. He was sheriff of Oglethorpe County and had given an interview to the local press about the lunch invitation. He had stated he was going to "show us all the inside of the jail." We had heard about the newspaper article, so wondered whether our invitation was a dubious honor; though we knew we were not going to be arrested, maybe we would be used in some publicity stunt. The sheriff was coming up for re-election soon.
But before lunch came two meetings with unusual features. First, coffee and doughnuts hosted by a veterinarian absent on a bovine emergency; the man receiving us didn't tell us his name and feigned deafness. Next, a service before the courthouse statue for Confederate war dead; a churchless preacher who had founded his own religion offered a prayer and I read a few pages from CONFEDERATE GENERAL FROM BIG SUR. A post gave the directions and mileage to all the other Lexingtons on earth.
As the time had come to "see the inside of the jail," we climbed the iron steps outside the building and Sheriff Smith met us: a tall man about forty. He smiled widely and shook everyone's hand, giving each his card yet not quite fully at ease. We walked down a short hallway to the kitchen with him and reporters.
We were served fried fish with Japanese noodles and vegetables. Gene made it clear to us and the reporters that he paid for the food and its preparation himself -- except the fish, confiscated from a man fishing without a license. We did not get much of a chance to talk with the eheriff, who popped in a couple of times to ask how everything was: just fine. He was holed up with the reporters. I say "holed up" but Morishita and I always said we were "captured" by our media interviewers, thinking of Gandhi's observation after release from prison that now he had less control of his time.
Soon it was time to leave. We had seen the sheriff and the hallway of the second floor but we had not seen the jail, though some of us had asked to. We were told it was in the basement, but a tour wasn't offered. We shook hands with the sheriff and the two cooks and said goodbye.
We walked on and now passed the junior and senior high schools. A young friend of the Durhams had approached the high school principal but was turned down: our walk would not "do any good." He hadn't gone to the junior high and there, the entire student body and faculty came running out of the building to check us out. We had an unscheduled program and talked as loudly as we could to different groups of excited students, most Black. After ten minutes, we resumed walking and they their classes, first lining behind us and walking to the edge of the school property.
Some insisted on carrying our banners. "Man, you all are about the funkiest thing to ever happen to Oglethorpe County," confided one girl. Oglethorpe County was also one of the funkiest things to happen to the Peace March.
At our rest break at the local priest's house, Lucy Wilson welcomed us. An FOR member and our Washington coordinator, this congenial woman wore a fur coat. She and five other elderly women, also in fur coats, walked with us the last couple of miles into Washington -- a striking contrast to the core walkers, dressed in jeans and even a colorful blanket or two. We passed large houses with columns in front, houses that, a century ago, could have been homes of plantation owners. Easter lilies were blooming in the yards, our first sign of spring. We were to follow spring northward the next six weeks.
Soon it was time for a scheduled program at the Women's Club. We found it and quickly set up our photo exhibit and literature table. We were to sit in a semi-circle in front of an assemblage of some hundred people who seemed to be either professionals or members of the Southern aristocracy, well-dressed, careful and correct of speech. Behind us we saw a gigantic painting of a battle of the War Between the States. Additional chairs had to be brought in; we began to worry. We looked at the well-dressed people, the war painting, the program printed on expensive paper, and thought maybe we were out of place. But we weren't prepared to alter our presentation and gave a very brief version of the program at Emory.
We weren't prepared for what followed. The local people gave a better program than we ever gave. Every religious leader of the community was seated on the front row. The "outstanding citizen of the year" was there and was recognized. The superintendent of public education sang a peace solo. A high school art teacher had put together a simulated radio program similar to "Sixty Minutes", called "Radio LOVE". High school students were anchorpersons, reading reports of nuclear weapons accidents and reports of the arms race. Almost everyone there viewed our photo display and signed our petition.
We had l5 minutes to reflect on what had happened so far today. Bill and I tried to figure out Sheriff Smith's motives. Not often did a sheriff use his office to welcome a peace march. Ray helped us out: the sheriff needed the vote of Black people to be re-elected; he had helped Ray in exchange for Ray's help in the coming election.
After refreshments we met with representatives from the local Jaycees. We were given the Jaycee scroll which stated that they were working for peace; they asked us to take it to SSD-II. During potluck supper a few of us had the opportunity to talk with a young eighth-grade teacher. He was from the Three Mile Island area and aware of the dangers of nuclear energy and nuclear weapons. He taught a class of "under-achievers". He asked to take one of our photo booklets to his class to illustrate the dangers of the arms race. He was pessimistic about results, saying he was unable to get his students interested in current events.
A couple of days later he would join us at the vigil at Fort Gordon bringing 90 letters from his students for us to take to the UN. They were some of the best letters for disarmament I have read. Most of his students were fifteen or sixteen. Few even knew that nuclear weapons even existed, much less that they had ever been used. When they saw the results of the bombs, each wanted to write. I remember one letter, from a l6-year-old girl, which ended, "I don't want my family to die this way. I don't want to die like this. Please, Mr. Reagan, Stop it!"
After supper we divided ourselves into four different categories to sleep in different places. Carole slept in a private house. The monks slept in one church. The non-monk Japanese and the European (Shima, Kurimori, Mercury) slept in another church. The non-monk, non-Japanese, non-European, non-woman group (John, Bill, Andy S., and I) slept in a third church. "Maximizing our exposure."
March 2, Washington to Thomson
I awoke with a sore and swollen ankle; shouldn't have walked yesterday. Unable to walk, I joined Ray Durham in the support car. And now I could notice things unseen before: the expression on people's faces as they first heard the chant (puzzled), then as they first saw the march (even more puzzled), finally as they began to figure it out. The latter change was excitement, either favorable or antagonistic. One woman in her bathrobe rushed out to shout her hatred: "God damn you Japanese sons of bitches," over and over. After the day's walk I asked Bill what he thought of this woman. He had not heard her above the drumming and chanting.
We could see our supporters as they came out to wave, but I wondered how many of those less friendly we had missed. We stopped for lunch beside a small store. Our Washington hosts had fixed a really big meal -- three sandwiches, corn bread, cake, and fruit.
March 3, Thomson to Augusta
We were driven to the main gate of Ft. Gordon Army Base, some quarter-mile from the main road; those of sound ankle walked. Coordinator Marge Reese and I drove to the gate and gave the young MP some of our literature. We told him who we were and that others were coming to the gate on foot to pray for peace, but wouldn't try to go past the gate nor stay much longer than 15 minutes.
He offered no objections; for a second his face showed excitement and -- support? We then drove back toward the others.
The march had not gotten far when stopped by an MP who then began talking with Carole. The rest continued toward the gate. Margie and I jumped out of the van and ran up to the MP. He was talking in code on his radio, obviously calling more MPs. Margie interrupted him to say we had just talked with the MP at the front gate; he was totally unsympathetic, said this was a closed base, and ordered us off immediately.
Now our tactic was to stall long enough to allow the monks to go through their prayer. The MPs were very nervous. Probably this day had started out like any other day for them, but here were a dozen people walking up to their gate to pray for peace. We had to be the strangest sight they had seen in a long time. First two bearded long-haired men carrying a large banner that called for disarmament. Then four Japanese following in saffron robes and a half-dozen others including a woman carrying a peace flag. Almost all beating on a hand drum and chanting loudly "Na Mu Myo Ho Ren Ge Kyo." This gang walked past the MPs, ignoring them. They didn't know how to handle us and, afraid to make any decisions alone, radioed for other MPs. These called their superior officers to inform them of this happening.
At the gate, we were met not by one or two MPs but by about a dozen, lined across the road. All had rifles ready except for two with machine guns.
No way were we going to pass the gate.
The monks began their prayer as soon as they got to the gate. Margie and I talked again with one of the MPs, to stall for time. They denied permission to pray and remained unaware that the monks were praying already in Japanese. Our stall continued as we recounted the history of the peace march. The monks finished praying and bowed thrice. We told the guards we had just finished our prayer and were walking back to the road. "Thank you very much." Jeeps full of MPs followed the quarter-mile to the public way. We stopped there, just outside the base, now on "our" property.
We stayed there for 15 more minutes; there was a lot of traffic entering the base. I was surprised at the large number who responded positively. Many waved or gave the peace sign. At the base entrance, a group of Black GIs were policing the area, picking up trash. Each gave us the clenched fist salute. But a few people gave us the finger and shouted disapproval. At the end of this vigil, Ishiyama noticed that MPs were still watching nervously. He took them a handful of leaflets so each knew who we were. During the rest break, Shima decided he could walk no more today and joined me in the van. He was having trouble with his appendix, as diagnosed in Tokyo some months before; I saw him treat himself several times by a form of acupuncture, placing hot incense on his right inside calf. Co-coordinator Lynn Ferguson now replaced Margie as driver and drove us ahead to her home in Grovetown. While lunch was heating in the oven, I jumped as always at a chance for a hot shower; but while in it heard the drums heralding our arrival. I leaped out and hastily dressed, only to wait twenty minutes. The sound of drumming and chanting really carries. After lunch we got to a shopping center outside Augusta. Thirty people were waiting to walk the final two miles, including Sandy Bishop and Mary Helms. They had driven Mary's green station wagon from Washington state to walk with us the rest of the way. The "FOR SALE" sign in the rear window dampened our hopes of a permanent support vehicle, but then we could have hardly afforded gas to New York, not even for her VW. The media were waiting at another shopping center; one reporter asked whether the mayor would give us the key to Augusta on our arrival as he had indicated a few weeks ago. I had had no contrary message but knew the chances were slim. It would have been bold action in an elected official between Ft. Gordon and the Savannah River Plant. Housing for Sandy and Mary had not been arranged, but my and Andy's hostess Marlene volunteered to host two more to live under a roof already sheltering husband Bill and four children. Bill was a doctor at Ft. Gordon and also a member of Physicians for Social Responsibility. The children cheerfully gave up their bedrooms and slept in sleeping bags on the floor downstairs. go to page 21