iiobemfaer 5,1993
fITQc
Editor in Chief. .JoatiMalloch
Associate Editor. Karen Rowan
Adviser. JeffJeske
Writing Editor. Justin Cohen
News Editor. Gail Kasun
Perspectives Editor. Ashley Clifton
Features Editor. Joe Wallace
Sports Editor. Will Cooper
Copy Editing. JCinsey Gitnbel,
JCiley Holder
Layout. Caroline A. Wolfe,
Dan Boulden
SubscriptionSfCirculation
Reagan Hopkins
Business Brian Burton
Photography. Eric Forman,
Ben Cadburu
The nature of war
Bob Clegg
Staff Writer
When I was a twelve-year-old
boy, I was riveted by the gripping
magnetism of toy soldiers. I was
fondest of the tiny ones, maybe an
inch or so tall, properly balanced
so they didn't need those wide,
fake-looking plastic bases. Oh, the
glorious wars I presided over in the
middle of my bedroom floor! Hun
dreds of miniature army men, clad
in military shades of green and
blue, reenacted all the great battles
of American history. Pickett's
charge at Gettysburg, Jackson's
sweeping flanking maneuver at
Antietam, Sherman's crushing on
slaught at Chickamauga all un
folded once again. My flickering
forefinger tipped the toy figures as
the shrapnel of ideology picked
them off one by one.
At about the same time, the
movie "Patton: Salute to a Rebel"
was big news. My buddies and I
went to see it, and we all left con
vinced that George Patton sits next
to God when Jesus goes out for a
coffee break. Our Sunday School
teacher, who fought in the Euro
pean theater in World War n, had
actually shaken the hand of the sto
ried general in the days after the
BatUe of the Bulge. We took it as
a challenge to see how long we
could forestall the start of Sunday
School lessons by peppering him
with questions of his experiences
overseas. The glamour of life be
hind the lines, of sauntering about
as the quintessential liberator and
all-around good guy, fueled my
fantasies like petroleum gushing
beneath a burning oil rig.
Responding to my constant
blathering about military history,
my dad suggested I ask Walter
Middleton about his time in the
army.
I
p i
Clegs
Old Walt was at least fifty, an
cient to my mind, and I had always
pictured him as a rather broken
down mountain preacher who had
probably never traveled outside of
Jackson County. But Dad filled me
in on Walter's other side-he had
been captured in the Philippines in
1942, had participated in the infa
mous Bataan death march, and had
defied his Japanese captors by sur
viving three long years in a Man
churian prison.
A few weeks later, I found my
self in the back seat of my dad's
car, riding with Dad and Walter to
Camp Truett, a Baptist camp about
an hour from home. Somewhere
on the back side of Chunky Gal
Mountain, I began to pester Walter
about the war. He opened up,
slowly at first; something inside
told me to shut up and listen, that
this was going to be good.
Strangely, though, Walter didn't
have a lot to say about meeting
generals and learning foreign lan
guages. He worked backwards,
first telling about life in prison,
about fellow soldiers who would
give up on the inside, lose some
intangible glint in their eyes, waste
away, and die within weeks. He
told about the death march, whose
victims had their skulls crushed
with rifle butts in retribution for
falling alongside the road, while
itatfpectffc*
€bitorial ffolicp
Opinions expressed in editorials and
letters to the editor do not necessarily
reflect the views of the staff and editorial
board.
The editors reserve the right to edit all
submissions for length, style, and taste.
The Guilf ordian encourages submissions.
Typed articles and letters are due by 6:00
p.m... Monday. Letters are limited to 250
words or less and must include author's
name, phone number and P.O. Box. Write
to:
P.O. Box 17717
Guilford College,
Greensboro, NC, 27410.
the survivors drank their own urine
in their struggle to endure the
seven-day, 140-mile hike with no
food and water.
Walter was talking as a man lost
in a time warp, and I was rapt with
attention. He reflected back to a
hot afternoon when he was alone
in the jungle. He was patrolling the
American perimeter along the
north end of the isthmus. Edging
his way around a stumpy papaya
tree that had been sheared off by a
mortar, he suddenly came face to
face with a solitary Japanese infan
tryman about forty yards away.
Their eyes met in the same instant.
Walter got off the first shot, but
missed, and quickly ducked behind
a coconut tree. The other guy fired,
his bullet embedding in the trunk
with a sharp thud, then jumped
behind a tree of his own. Walter
peeked out, squeezed off another
round, and hit the Japanese
soldier's tree, too-but the bullet
went all the way through. His ad
versary crumpled, and the encoun
ter was over.
Krysta Banke
As starving men, the Americans
stranded on Bataan only naturally
searched the bodies of the dead for
anything that might be useful.
Thus, Walter crept over and
combed the pockets of his van
quished foe. Like men everywhere,
this fellow had a wallet. Inside,
Walter found the usual official
looking documents, inscribed in
Japanese. The one with the picture
must have been a driver's license,
and another one looked something
like a military identification card.
Tucked inside a little flap, con
cealed deep inside the wallet, he
found a flat little packet of foil.
Inside were pictures-one of a
pretty Japanese woman, another of
three beaming children, and a third
of the woman and the children
posed together. A family portrait.
See WAR page 6
Hobart Anthony Jeff Johnson
Krysta Banke Daphne Lewis
Chris Behm Susan Mers
Naomi Blass Krista Mitschele
Jason Caplain Christian Scanniello
Rebecca Chamberlain John Simon
Rob Davidson Rachel Salzberg
Jeannette Dye S. Scott Spagnola
Mignon Ezzell Louisa Spaventa
Eric Forman Celia Wenig
Courtney Frankhouser Jonathan White
Nat Gray Robert Withers
Christina Haworth Ann Witt
Chris Hosford Sarah Woodard
Staff meetings are held weekly in the
Passion Pit, second floor, Founders Hall,
Monday evenings at 9 o'clock.
All are welcome.
Creative
Resistance
Naomi Blass
Staff Writer
Course: Women's History 101,
Text: The Mvth of the Goddess:
Evolution of an Image, by Anne
Baring and Jules Cashford.
During the Paleolithic period,
the Mother Goddess is the central
religious figure through most of
Europe and Asia. She comes in
many forms, as varied as those
who worship Her. For some, the
caves of northern Spain and south
western France are Her womb, Her
sanctuary, and "entering one of
these caves is like making a jour
ney into another world, one which
is inside the body of the Goddess"
(16).
And what if one were to look
outside the Mother's womb? At
night the moon shines brilliantly
in all of its different phases. "The
crescent moon [is] the young girl,
the maiden; the full moon [is] the
pregnant woman, the mother; the
darkening moon [is] the wise old
woman, whose light [is] within"
(18).
Contrary to our modern linear
mode of thinking, of distinct
points, a beginning and an end,
the moon represents cyclical
time," a pattern of growing and
decaying endlessly renewed" (19).
Similarly, unlike the Judeo-Chris-
[Grief, Loss, and Sadness?
We are offering a support group and individual aid for those who are \
. affected by the loss of a family member, or close friend, or by anticipated
' loss due to illness.
I Come share sadness, helpful thoughts, and common experiences in I
| hopes of ongoing and deeper understanding.
The group will meet on Wednesday from 1:30 to 3:00 P.M. in the Hut I
I beginning on Nov. 3.
Please feel free to contact us with any questions or needs.
Jane Caris, Max Carter, Dick Dyer
I— ————
Hi)t &tultorbian
tian religion, individual men and
women are not separate from the
Goddess. Rather, "everything [is]
an expression of the Goddess"
(19). Individuals, animals, plants,
insects, etc., are manifestations of
the Goddess, who live in a con
firmed, existing relationship with
Her (19).
The dark phase of the moon as
mentioned above represents an
important step in the developmen
tal stage of human consciousness
and thought.
"When the dark phase of the
moon is included as an essential
part of the continuing cycle of
light, it requires the capacity to
hold at present in the mind an im
age of what is not actually visible
to the eye" (20).
Abstract thinking, imagination,
may have developed from "the un
derstanding of the moon's phases
as four instead of three" (20). Sec
ondly, viewing "the darkening
moon [as] the wise old woman,
whose light [is] within" depicts a
positive image of elderly woman,
and the process of aging in gen
eral.
Think how different this reality
is from our modern society where
elders, women and men, are con
sidered sexless, or asexual, feeble
minded, slow, useless, or worth
less, and where death is no longer
a rebirth. Think.
5