Journal of Jfk Assassination

November 22, 1963

The cheers and cries of the crowd were roaring and still escalating as he approached. The 1961 Lincoln Continental peered over the corner. The flap of hands in the air blocked the lens momentarily. Two security motorcycles made the turn on Elm Street and I felt excitement circulate my entire body as I knew any second the 35th President of the United States, John F. Kennedy, would appear. My legs trembled as I felt the breeze of the motorcade approach me. I was perched on a stone on Elm Street grasping my 8mm Bell and Howell camera. To Kennedy's request his automobile would be without a top. Kennedy was now focused on my camera. I attentively filmed the hands of the President waving to the crowds of spectators; but if they had only known they were about to be spectators of a ghastly tragedy. And right then and there, on a clear November 22, 1963, John Fitzgerald Kennedy was assassinated. The laudation of the motorcade instantly turned into an outcry of thousands. An ineffable blanket of terror covered me; yet I stood concretely filming the bomb of blood explode in my front of my eyes until the vehicle violently swerved and disappeared into an overpass. My heart dropped to the floor. I saw the world, I felt the world enter utter commotion, but my ears were not receptive to sound. A silence domed the scene.

BOOM! The unbearable noise rang in my ears. I saw his body jump forward and his head swing back wildlyÐ'...I stared, I tried, but I could no longer be reluctant to the truth.

September 5, 1959

The scolding became part of the norm. The drill sergeant loved to yell and torment all of those under his command. I felt compassion especially for a man who seemed to have persistent trouble with the Corps. He was considered an outcast by many. Out in the range he had very poor marksmanship. Drill Sergeant Peters seemed to enjoy decrying this man. If he would become hesitant due to exhaustion from physical training, Sergeant Peters would soon enough get on his case and verbally torture him. I looked into the man's eyes and saw a subtle expression of fear, anger, and distress cooking up all at once. A mask veiled despondent inside of him. He surely was not an exceptional shooter, or the fittest man there. But it was beyond that, he had hard knocks with many tasks. His dissident actions only made things worse. He was caught once firing arms in the woods, lonely with a rifle. Odd behaviors as that became usual disobediences of this man. Finally, he was discharged in 1959. The unnecessary tampering of a man because he was not the fastest or the most accurate was gone. When his displacement arrived, there was placidity inside of me.

And never did I have courage enough for even small talk with a man I observed daily. Fear was not a factor of why there was never any converse. He walked the narrow, unparalleled walls of the exit from the base; and I thought his existence to me would end then.

November