the stars and stripes forever.' memorial day in the great republic. monday, may 27, 2014

'The Stars and Stripes Forever.' Memorial Day in the Great Republic. Monday, May 27,2014.

Preface / Introduction

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Table of Contents

1. Thoughts on the "war to end all wars", mustard gas, Uncle Will, and remembrance. 2. 'The Stars and Stripes Forever.' Memorial Day in the Great Republic. Monday, May 27, 2013.

Thoughts on the "war to end all wars", mustard gas, UncleWill, and remembrance.by Dr. Jeffrey Lant.

Author's program note. This Memorial Day for the first time since the clock struck eleven on theeleventh day of the eleventh month of 1918, the day of Armistice, there are no known World War Iveterans extant. The last U.S. veteran, Frank Buckles, died in 2011 after celebrating his 110thbirthday. He served as a U.S. Army ambulance driver in Europe, rising to the rank of corporal beforethe war ended. Then there was just one more...

Florence Green died in 2012 at age 110, just two weeks before her 111th birthday. She joined theWomen's Royal Air Force in September 1918 at the age of seventeen. She went to work as awaitress in the officers' mess at RAF Marham in eastern England, and was serving there when thewar ended in 1918.

With these two deaths, now they are all dead, in their millions, the men and women who fought tomake the world safe for democracy, theirs the "war to end all wars" as President Woodrow Wilsonearnestly asserted and solemnly pronounced to a world which, after its great sacrifices, wanted sovery desperately to believe him, no one more so than William Edward Marshall, my Great UncleWill.

How an Archduke changed the life of a gridiron hero, the most handsome man in HendersonCounty.

"The Great War", as its survivors dubbed it, began when a zealous young Slav nationalist namedGavrilo Princip shot the Archduke Franz Ferdinand, heir to the throne of Austria-Hungary, and hismorganatic wife Countess Chotek at point blank range . They both died at once... while Austrianauthorities proceeded to break Princip's body like so many pretzels. Thus did Princip, just 20,become the first man of millions who yearned for home and peace, finding premature death instead.And so he died starting the invidious process that killed tit... which then had to kill tat... whooutraged, had to kill tit yet again.

Why did he plan to murder, to assassinate The Heir? For only the highest and best reasons you maybe sure... reasons for which over 60,000,000 people around the world died, every day that trail ofblood and mayhem emanating from the slumped body of His Royal and Imperial Highness grewbroader and broader still. His dead eyes asked a single question, the question hitherto unquestioningmillions would ask in their turn "Why"? The answer is to be found in part in William EdwardMarshall, citizen of Stronghurst, Illinois, 21st state of the Great Republic.

To understand World War I you must understand how Will Marshall, as everyone always calledhim, gave up everything he knew and valued to go fight on behalf of faraway people he didn't knowand would never meet, knowingly risking life and limb, remember -- for total strangers.

About Will Marshall.

William Edward Marshall achieved the highest rank his country could confer the moment of hisbirth, for then, the very instant he was born he was Citizen of the Great Republic, a title, style anddignity unknown in most of Europe whose opulent princes had subjects, not citizens. Here WillMarshal, for all that he was not a prince or count, was better off -- and knew it. Thus his belief in theGreat Republic, its whys and wherefores, came as easily as breathing. He was a free man in a freecountry, a man whose right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness was assured by theConstitution of the United States. These rights came from his relationship to God, not because of

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'The Stars and Stripes Forever.' Memorial Day in the Great Republic. Monday, May 27, 2014.

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some calculated gesture of a Machiavellian prince who might later rescind what he rued to give.William Edward Marshall's rights were sacrosanct for him.... and every other Citizen. This wasAmerica in 1890 the year Will Marshall was born, the land of the free and the home of the brave.

Football hero, farmer, respected man of peace.

Will Marshall was called without irony the handsomest man in Henderson County. "That and twobits will buy you pie and coffee," even his deflating father said. Will didn't mind the raillery; afterall, tall, well made, fleet of foot and master strategist he was that most American of local heroes...from whose agile moves came a lifetime's respect from those who would tear the goal posts downafter they had seen Will Marshall run past them -- again. Such feats are cherished everywhere inAmerica, but nowhere more than in the tiny hamlet of Stronghurst, Illinois; population still under1000 souls in 1914... everyone of them knew what a good man Will Marshall was... howhard-working, how public spirited, how well he must stand with his God. And so things might havecontinued but for the murderous meeting between an archduke on a sunny July day and a zealotdetermined to exterminate him.

Will Marshall goes to war, to France, to his destiny.

Will Marshall was not a warrior, not a man of marshal attitudes, uniforms, poses and gestures.Farmers, tillers of the land, bringing forth its bounty by their own incessant labor, seldom are. Theyknow how difficult it is to create life, to spend any of their limited time on this planet destroying it.Will Marshall abhorred war, yet went to war, the greatest and most destructive war ever, because theGreat Republic and its affairs needed him... and that was that.

"The Yanks are coming."

Thus, Will Marshall became part of the American Expeditionary Forces (AEF) and in due coursefound himself one of over one million citizen-soldiers stationed in France, over half of whom wereat the front lines, including him. There as the increasingly desperate German imperial forces grewmore desperate yet, considering, doing every single thing they could do to snatch victory fromincreasingly certain defeat, Will Marshall met his fate, in a cloud of poison gas.

Mustard gas.

Contrary to popular belief, gas as a weapon was first introduced by the French army. However it wasthe Germans with their customary organizational genius and chemical skills who perfected theprocess. For the defence and glory of the Fatherland anything, even the most horrid thing, wascontemplated, considered and ultimately used. Some apologist somewhere would no doubt advancea comfortable rationale...

And so one ordinary day an ordinary German solider lobbed the mustard gas that sent WilliamEdward Marshall, citizen, descendant of the great Chief Justice who helped shape the new nation,one of nature's gentlemen, to his knees, brought low by the toxic beauty of gas; stealthy, silent,serene.

But there, you see, is the rub. For gas is one of the cruelest weapons ever created. During the actualmustard gas attack its manifestations may not be seen, will not be seen for hours, even days. Then...the gas you inhaled, perhaps without knowing it, became the pernicious agent of your end... the gasrules you and decides whether you live or die, what manifestations and disabilities may be yoursand torment you for years, for life.

Thus, starting from the day he was gassed until the day he died, Uncle Will lived a life where hissight degenerated . Remedies were tried. Doctors consulted. Prayers by one and all given for hisrecovery, for he was a popular man. All to no avail. The effects of that gas cost him at once one eye.




The second deteriorated year by year until in 1934 he could see nothing at all. Light, for him, hadceased to exist.

Uncle Will and Me.

When I was growing up in the 'fifties, my family visited Stronghurst every so often. We never failedto visit Uncle Will and his charming wife Alma. My father made sure we behaved properly. He wasespecially keen on the handshake, "Firm, NOT limp!" And how to walk across the parlor properly,so Uncle Will knew how many steps you took. In this way he calculated how tall you were and howmuch you'd grown since the last visit.

The room was quiet, sound muted, light filtered. Uncle Will sat in a great, sturdy chair, its sizenecessary to contain the football player of old. I looked closely at his face; this was the face of aman of resignation and calm acceptance. He remained handsome, even noble right until the end.

He never complained. Never said a word about that day so long ago. Never was anything but gentle,polite, good humored and glad to see you. He had fought his war, done his bit, paid the terrible priceand could look the world in the eye, his pride deep, profound, abiding. The Great Republic hasbesought his help. He had given in full measure, and for him it was "Over, over there", not a bitterreality revisited daily.

Now not only Uncle Will but every veteran of the Great War is gone. Now they no longer die bythousands each day... but, far worse, are forgotten in their thousands each day; men and womenwhose lives were utterly and completely committed to us, now not even a moment's thought by us.Yet we are all the children of their unequalled gifts and should always be glad and glad to say so.They ask so little now, but we begrudge them even that, satisfied to take, satisfied to give themnothing, not even heartfelt recognition of our eternal debt.

May God forgive us.

Author's closing note. Like so many of his buddies, Uncle Will loved "Over There", a jaunty tunewritten by George M. Cohan in 1917.. Find it in any search engine. Turn up the sound andremember.




'The Stars and Stripes Forever.' Memorial Day in the GreatRepublic. Monday, May 27, 2013.Author's program note. It is 5:35 a.m. here in Cambridge and the day threatens to be gray, overcastand wet (at least so far), not up to the radiant holiday standard we're used to on a plu-perfectspringtime day.

But the scene outside my window is evocative and even solemn, the light filtered, the trees outfittedin pristine green, every new leaf touched by dew present and accounted for. It is beautiful, rivalingany bucolic scene anywhere on Earth, any painting by John Constable. One is always surprised bythis, so much so unlikely in the ordinarily bustling city round about.

It is quiet, peaceful, serene on the Common now, but only now. We will in a few hours host a verymixed bag of parents of Harvard graduates, their families, claques and followers in from anywhereand everywhere. Commencement activities, you see, start today and culminate on Thursday in theiconic Yard across Massachusetts Avenue so close I can almost lean out the window to touch it.

Why are the festivities so long? My bet is that it takes so long to shake down all the graduatingseniors, their parents and, of course, every alumnus still on this side of the grim reaper. I'm sure youunderstand that you cannot just tap Mr. Big Bucks, Class of '68, on the shoulder and say "Hey, bub!Pony up, you old windbag!" That is not recommended procedure.

Instead, you must have the president herself offer him a most amicable greeting, get him to down afew glasses of cordial spirits and listen with exquisitely feigned nearly angelic sincerity to hisinterminable, inexhaustible, self-congratulatory tales; the proven, practised pounce following as amatter of course... a whopping donation following that and the Mr. Big Bucks wing of a suitableedifice which could now proceed, the space already designated for chiseling the old bugger's namefor posterity. No wonder Harvard presidents have to take a holiday after this week... it would beastonishing if they didn't.

Oprah is speaking this year, and I'll be going to this single event, carefully eschewing everyopportunity (and there are many) to find my pockets lightened in the manner above mentioned. It islike going to Las Vegas and not gambling, difficult but by no means impossible. So cash donation ornot, attending is my privilege as an alumnus, but I have not made any use of it for years.

But this year, for Oprah, I intend to be present and cheer her and her many achievements to the echo.I shall probably attempt to shake her hand and look her in the eye, uttering my sincere compliments.However my balance is not all it once was and what a kaffafle there would be if I fell into her armsand came to a soft landing on her much exposed poitrine.

She would be surprised, of course, who wouldn't be? However, she might well like it; 66 I may be,but I still have my charms and shreds of an ardor once notable. One of my other so far unusedHarvard privileges is the right to be married in the chapel of University Church. I assure you I amstill young and green enough to make use of it ... and confound lesser men as well as my heirswhose response to such news would surely come straight out of Charles Dickens where those whowait in certainty at the end find their great expectations crushed and overawed by the sap which stillrunneth even when the tree is gnarled and scarred by the business of staying alive.

But this is still not my subject for today or the reason why grown men from down the road apiecewill appear in their (not very accurate) togs purporting to look like the blue and buff uniforms andtricorne hats worn hereabouts in 1775 by lads who came not to commemorate a successfulrevolution but to stake all on forging one, an event anything but certain, the stuff of treason, thenoose, and the lash -- until their side won and they got to call the shots, including what was




righteous "history" and what wasn't.

Those who come today come to re-enact, not to act. And, I feel sad to tell, had the originals donesuch a trifling job we'd all be singing "God Save The Queen" this Memorial Day. Cambridge, whatwith Harvard, the Massachusetts Institute of Technology and so many other fine collegiateinstitutions (though these are always overshadowed by the two biggest guys) has opportunities toburn.

Thus instead of regretting the loss of so many "might have beens" spoiled Cantabridgians continueyear to year happily wasting what for most any other city in the Great Republic would be the basisfor enhanced civic pride, enthusiastic endeavor, and strenuous outreach to maximize such a benefit.

I think, for instance, of one of my several alma maters (there are twelve such), the University of St.Andrews. It is Scotland's oldest university (founded 1413), far, far older than Harvard (founded1636). It has in its long life undergone many seasons of want and penury.

These would have undone lesser folk and their objectives, but not in Scotland where blood canindeed be squeezed from a stone. I am of Scottish heritage myself and I write of this often necessaryskill with consummate pride... an example which has helped me continue and overcome morechallenging times and troubles than I can recall.

Thus, the Solons of St. Andrews turned the mere fact of their longevity into coin of the realm. How?By creating a colorful parade that includes its tradition-mad students dressing up (and as accuratelyas possible, too) like the great figures of history associated with the university. These include thewoebegone Royal Stuarts, high aristocrats, word slingers, military potentates, statesmen andplutocrats. Each has added his measure and so helped create the great university which has, oftenagainst all odds, grown old and respected despite its infelicitous location hard by the unforgiving andinhospitable North Sea which has over immemorial time perfected its climactic torments.

There is nothing on Cambridge's civic calendar, nothing on Harvard's, like the Kate Kennedy paradethrough the streets of St. Andrews. You may say, so what, and perhaps dismiss the matter by singinga few bars of "Ca sera sera" (though I hope not quite as over sugared as Doris Day's rendition). But(perhaps because of my Scottish descent) I like to derive all the benefits from any situation. Somecall this niggardly. I say it's merely superior husbandry of scarce resources.

Take the Common itself. For years during my long tenure here the Common was treated as scarcelymore than open air urinal (no less pungent for all that) and doss house where the homeless anddrifters marked their living place by flattened card board boxes, handed down amongst the lost andjust passing through like so many tattered and odoriferous heirlooms.

In short, for years what should have been the verdant heart of a great city was a noisome menace,smelled rather than visited. And this continued until I, who reside parkside, said "basta!" and calledthe slothful, uncaring civic officials who were responsible but did nothing. In the face of theirmassive indifference even my needle sharp messages were not immediately successful.

It is for such exasperating, challenging moments that the word "persistence" was created. And soday after day after day after day at precisely the same time I called mayor, councillors, police andpark authorities. Each of them came to know me well; "Yes, Dr. Lant" soon became their mantra...and progress, glacial at first, lead to success although even to this day, many irritants removed, thewhole cannot be regarded as "finished" for many details, small and large, remain to be attended to.However, one needs a greater objective and inspiration than these odds and ends can provide...

... mine is the desire to see better Memorial and Independence Day parades marching down thestreets bordering the Common... Waterhouse Street, then Garden Street, then Massachusetts Avenuethrough Harvard Square, a place every educated person in the world visits once in her life, a place




pulsating with the combined energy of the young who aspire and adults who have already left theirmark and done their bit to make the world a better place.

Right now these parades are harum scarem, not merely amateurish but an embarrassment.There'sabsolutely none of that eclat, efficiency, organization, panache and spit-and-polish that a place asfamous as Cambridge should have in every endeavor, but so often doesn't. And as for thosere-enactors and their popguns... the less said the better.

Well now I've worked myself into what my grandmother called a "state". Far worse than that, Irealize that if I want better parades, polished and proud, the best Americana, I may be forced to domore than complain, may be forced indeed to interject myself into whatever organizations areresponsible for these eye-sores... and the people running the petty fiefdoms that produce them. Theseworthies, of course, will be ecstatic to see me and hear what I've got to say... not.

Hopefully I can learn to live with this mediocrity that ambles rather than marches past my door, butI doubt it. I can't fool myself. Every notable idea starts in the mind of one soul who realizes if youwant it done right, you must do it yourself; my grannie taught me that, too.....

Very well, but if I must volunteer myself as I did in the matter of the Cambridge Common, I shallinsist on three things: that the genius of John Philip Sousa, America's bandmaster, be the rousingstandard to which we dedicate ourselves, that "The Stars and Stripes Forever" (1897) be played toindicate the parades have commenced, and that a washed and highly polished convertible be madeavailable for my place... prominently identified as ""The Nudge of Cambridge." Modesty preventsme from asking for anything else.

""Hurrah for the flag of the free! May it wave as our standard forever..." especially in Cambridge.




ResourceAbout the Author Harvard-educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant is CEO of Worldprofit, Inc., providing a widerange of online services for small and-home based businesses. Services include home businesstraining, affiliate marketing training, earn-at-home programs, traffic tools, advertising, webcasting,hosting, design, WordPress Blogs and more. Find out why Worldprofit is considered the # 1 onlineHome Business Training program by getting a free Associate Membership today.

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the stars and stripes forever.' memorial day in the great republic. monday, may 27, 2014

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