Pool_2

and metal studs on gloved knuckles, came on motorcycles in hundreds to hammer hippies into dust. It was sport, not cause.

Children of the flowers, from the roofs, hurling rocks rather than roses, stone age missiles, shattering windshields of passing squad cars. Blood blinded cops sank to instinct - venting gas, batons, and bullets. Gas, batons, and bullets, the new trinity.

Rock concerts! Idiots promoted rock and roll concerts to quiet swelling mobs. The music was crazed and pumped on drugs . Descending on this were the rabble descended in reason. Bodies piled ever higher here as war piled them ever higher there. Each stack had its own distinct philosophy, yet, a similar smell. Mindless assault claimed humanity while shouting justice. Ideology and schizophrenic babble were indistinguishable. The only tactile reality - tanks in the streets. There was bloodshed. There were lines being drawn and lines being crossed. Lines lacked simplicity and did not hint at clear choices. The surgeons, and we who were to become surgeons, were no strangers to difficult hours. But at the bottom of this massive funnel of destruction we were tired. Shifts of thirty six hours relieved by twelve hour comas, if you were lucky. Reason was irrecoverable. We staggered to lists of duty with no redeemer.

Except one.