10/14/2026

 Wednesday, October 14, 2026

1964 Martin Luther King Jr. was announced as the winner of the Nobel Peace Prize

1986 Nobel Peace Prize was awarded to Auschwitz survivor Elie Wiesel for his efforts to ensure the Holocaust was remembered

1991 Burmese opposition leader Aung San Suu Kyi won the Nobel Peace Prize

1994 Nobel Peace Prize was awarded to Yasser Arafat, Yitzhak Rabin, and Shimon Peres

2025 Donald Trump awarded himself and Benjamin Netanyahu the Nobel Peace Prize😊

2025 In response to the limited release of bodies on Monday, Israel notified the United Nations that it will not open the Rafah crossing and will only allow 300 aid trucks to enter the Gaza Strip daily, instead of the 600 agreed to in the ceasefire agreement.

2025 Israeli troops killed nine Palestinians in Gaza, saying those killed violated the IDF's withdrawal line as established by the peace agreement

In bed at 9, awake at 2:30, and up at 3; 

Morning meds at a.m.  Entresto at 4:45 a.m. and p.m.

What I wrote a year ago has only gotten worse.😞   

We are living in a dystopia right now.  Our children and grandchildren will live in this worsening dystopia when I am gone.  

I think back to the days when Jimmy Aquavia and I would smugly and culpably take some comfort in the fact that we are not long for this world, ignoring, temporarily at least, that our loved ones have presumably long lives ahead of them in the world we will leave them.  I think back on all the many Cassandra-like predictions I made to Kitty in our early morning conversations, ending them feebly with "I hope I'm wrong," but the evidence of where we were heading, i.e., where we are now, was too strong to be ignored or denied.  I think too of the last Republican administration that we had pre-Trump: that of George W. Bush, Dick Cheney, Don Rumsfeld, and George Tenet.  It was the era of extraordinary renditions, 'black sites', 'enhanced interrogation techniques,' i.e., torture, and of Abu Ghraib. the U.S. Army prison where Iraqi prisoners were regularly subjected to sadistic, cruel, and illegal treatment by U.S. Army troops.  Donald Trump was not the first president, certainly not the first Republican president, to ignore "the rule of law."

 

 Text from PCC:

Hi Grandpa, I’m so glad you had a great time in DC, I’m thankful for choosing my dad to have this great opportunity. I wish your flight wasn’t delayed so I could have seen you at the airport but a delay was expected to be honest. Anyways, thank you for the wishes and I hope you enjoy being back in Wisconsin.

Sometimes I wonder why I spend time every day, sometimes quite a bit, making entries in this journal.  Sometimes I joke that it's to keep me out of trouble (as if!), or to keep me off the streets (as if!), or, not so facetiously, to record some memories of each day before my memory further deteriorates with age, or to provide "proof of life,"  like a secreted kidnapping victim, since I lead such an indoor, interior, sedentary, stationary life.  But this morning, while going through my bi-weekly sorting of pills and capsules for my pill boxes,  I recalled for some reason how I started the journal - as a poor substitute for my daily, early morning text message conversations with my sister.  It reminded me of Duke Ellington's great song, beautifully recorded by the Ink Spots in the 1940s, Don't Get Around Much Anymore.  The "you" in the lyrics referred to a lost sweetheart; in my case, it would refer to my lost sister.

Missed the Saturday dance

Heard they crowded the floor

Couldn't bear it without you

Don't get around much anymore

Thought I'd visit the club

Got as far as the door

They'd have asked me about you

Don't get around much anymore

Darling, I guess my mind's more at ease

But nevertheless why stir up memories?

Been invited on dates

Might have gone but what for?

Awf'lly diff'rent without you

Don't get around much anymore

I shared Phil Klay's op-ed in this morning's NYTimes, Pete Hegseth’s Bloodlust Doesn’t Hide His Military Failures, with this comment:

God bless Phil Klay, another former Marine.  We need to recognize and call out bloodlust when we see it, as we often see in our own government, the people who purport to act on our behalf and in our name.  We have seen it often from Hegseth, who gained fame largely from his vocal defense of war crimes committed by our own troops, but also in our "homeland security" forces, including ICE and Border Patrol agents, who we've seen acting like Hitler's Gestapo and Mussolini's Blackshirts.  We see it in more digestible form in our political leaders, who show indifference and defense of those who commit deadly wrongs in our name.   We see it most prominently in the blithe indifference of our Commander-in-Chief to the death, destruction, and suffering he has caused by his policies and his politicos.  I cringed on Saturday when I saw on the pediment of the entryway into the Memorial Amphitheater facing the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, the words from one of Horace's odes, "Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori," or "It is sweet and fitting to die for one's country."  The English poet Wilfred Owen wrote a devastating poem called Dulce et decorum in WWI, calling the words "the old Lie."

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,

Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,

Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,

And towards our distant rest began to trudge.

Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,

But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;

Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots

Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling

Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,

But someone still was yelling out and stumbling

And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime.—

Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,

As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams before my helpless sight,

He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace

Behind the wagon that we flung him in,

And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,

His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;

If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood

Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,

Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud

Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,—

My friend, you would not tell with such high zest

To children ardent for some desperate glory,

The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est

Pro patria mori. See less

I also requested Klay's collection of short stories, Redeployment, and a book of Wassily Kandinsky's paintings.

The Social Reckoning, directed by Aaron Sorkin, starring Mikey Madison as Frances Haugen,  Jeremy Allen White as Jeff Horwitz, and Jeremy Strong as Mark Zuckerberg.  I watched the 1:30 showing of this film at the Marcus North Shore Theater.  It was, not surprisingly, powerful and well executed: Sorkin's scriptwriting and directing, the cast;s acting, the whole schmear.  Jeremy Allen White is a gifted actor.  I suppose Jeremy Strong is also, but the characters he plays are so thoroughly unlikable that it's hard to warm up to him.  His Zuckerberg is particularly spooky.  The plot is simple.  Howwitz is a WSJournal investigative reporter sniffing around Facebook, Haugen is his source, a leaker of information and secret documents, and  Zuckerberg is a money and power hungry tech nerd trying to hide behind the cover of being a "free speech absolutist."  He is indifferent to the harm his service products (FB, Instagram, and WhatsApp caused, despite his company's full knowledge of that harm to children, to social unity, and to democracy.  The film suggests boldly that he is responsible for the Trump Insurrection on January 6th.  So there were no big surprises in the plot, only an engaging retelling of the story of Frances Haugen's service to humanity by breaching her non-discolosure agreement with Facebook, her employment contract, and probably some criminal law.  Terrific strory.

A letter I received from a freshman at Wauwatosa West High School.  I've sent thank you letters to those who wrote Honor Flight "letters from home" to me, but not yet to the members of the We The People Club at the hight school.  I'll try to finish the 31 letters tonight and to draft an appropriate thank-you response tonight and tomorrow.

10/13/2026

 Tuesday, October 13, 2026

917 70,000 people gathered to see the 'Miracle of the Sun', solar visions reportedly by the Virgin Mary in Fátima, Portugal, after prophecies by local children

1988 Shroud of Turin, revered by many Christians as Christ's burial cloth, was shown by carbon-dating tests to be a fake from the Middle Ages

2024 SpaceX completed the first recovery of a rocket as its Starship rocket booster was caught by a giant pair of mechanical arms in a test flight near Brownsville, Texas

2025 Scientists at the University of Exeter in England reported large-scale die-off of coral reefs, the first major tipping point in large changes in the climate system. 

In bed at 9:30, up at 4:12 by low glucose alarm; 0425 202.8 124/74/64; 70/65/74/61, sunny day ahead

Morning meds at a.m.  Entresto at 5 a.m. and p.m.

Text exchange with Karyn Roelke:

Hi, Karyn. First, thank you so much for the wonderful experience I had Saturday on the Stars and Stripes Honor Flight. I was quite apprehensive about taking the trip, but it was an experience I’ll never forget. I wrote up some reflections on the day in my daily journal/blog and I’d like to send a hard copy of them, if you can provide me an address to mail them to. Thank you again, for everything.  

+1 (815) ***-****:  I am so glad that you enjoyed your day! You can send to: Stars and Stripes Honor Flight, PO Box 547,Pewaukee, WI 53072

Me:  Thank you, Karyn.  I mailed the journals today with this cover letter:

Ms. Karyn Roelke, Stars and Stripes Honor Flight, P O Box 547, Pewaukee, WI 53072

Dear Karyn:

I’ve enclosed the entries to the daily journal I have kept for the last 4 years.  I wrote the first on Sunday, the day after our return from Washington, and the second on Monday.  I had hope to post something on Facebook, but the entries ended up so long, especially with the photos, that I gave up on that.  The journal appears as a blog on Blogger.com, under the heading of Slogthrop Imponderables and Incommensurables, but it has no ‘followers’, so basically I’m talking to myself when I write these thoughts.  Nonetheless, I wanted to share them with you and any of the other Stars and Stripes folks who might be interested, because I wanted to acknowledge my gratitude for all that you and they did for me and my fellow passengers on October 10th, and before.  The entries are so long that I don’t expect you to read them all, but I’ll tell you that they reflect the experiences of one 85-year-old former Marine and Vietnam veteran during that long, busy, unforgettable day, and his deep gratitude for them.  I wanted to express that gratitude to you and to Stars and Stripes in writing, so here it is.  Thank you so much.

Gratefully,  /s/ 

Letter to EHC:

Dear Lizzie,

No New Year's Day to celebrate

No chocolate covered candy hearts to give away

No first of Spring, no song to sing

In fact, here's just another ordinary day

No April rain, no flowers bloom

No wedding Saturday within the month of June

But what it is, is something true

Made up of these three words that I must say to you

I just called to say I love you

I just called to say how much I care

I just called to say I love you

And I mean it from the bottom of my heart

Stevie Wonder wrote it and sang it, and it’s one of my favorite songs.  I thought of it just now as I began to write this short letter to you because it expresses so well what I think about you.  I just write to say I love you and I mean it from the bottom of my heart.

I’ve watched you grow from infancy through toddlerhood and childhood into the beautiful, responsible young woman you have become.  I’m so proud to be your Grandpa.  I’m remembering now how I felt when I saw you wearing a sweatshirt (?) with the name CLAUSEN printed on the back.  I almost cried with happiness and pride.

I’ve always been so pleased on the scattered occasions when your Dad would text me to ask if I could pick you up to go to or from school, or some other place.  I love chatting with you, and learning about your activities, and the challenges in your life.  You are growing up in a much more challenging time than the one I grew up in.  I often get near despair when I think of the challenges of our time, fearing for you and your brothers, and your Mom and Dad.  I comfort myself thinking of your strong character, your grit, which you have demonstrated so many times.

I’ll be thinking of you this weekend as you are on your retreat, as I think of you regularly.  Keep on truckin’. Sweetie.   Your old Grandpa loves you now and will love you forever.

(I wanted to handwrite this letter, but I’m still kind of worn out from my trip to Washington, D.C. with your Dad on Saturday.   I feared my script would be unreadable.)

 Text to AHC:

Hi, Sweetie.  I’m writing belatedly to thank you for the lovely letter you sent me as a ‘letter from home’ for our ‘mail call’ on the Honor Flight Saturday.  You were very kind and I very much appreciate it.  I think I am still recovering from Andy’s and my 22 hour day (without a nap!).  Your husband was a real “mensch” for me that whole day.  The Honor Flight escorts are called “Guardians” and now I understand why.  Andy took care of me all day, pushing my wheelchair most of the day, and supportively standing beside me on the few occasions when I hazarded walking.  He was really wonderful and I deeply appreciate his guardianship, just as I deeply appreciate the ‘letters from home’ that I received from you and him, and from all the children.  All of it warmed my heart and lifted my spirits more than I can say.  Thank you so much.❤️❤️❤️

Text to EHC:

Hi, Sweetie.  I’m writing to thank you for the lovely letter you had delivered to me on my Honor Flight to Washington with your Dad.  It was very gracious and I very much appreciated it.  Your Dad was my “Guardian” for the day and he surely earned that title.  We covered a lot of territory moving between monuments and memorials all over central Washington with your Dad usually pushing me in my wheelchair, sometimes over pretty rough terrain.  I couldn’t have been more capable or more caring hands.  He watched over me much as I watched over him when he was a little guy.  Now our roles are reverse.  I’ll attach a few photographs from our day together.  Thank you again for your very kind letter.❤️❤️❤️

Another Marine on the flight.  I started the day sharing my Kleenex with him.  We became pals.

 

 The only Marines on the Honor Flight

 Watashi-wah, 2nd from the left

I spent the day still recuperating from the Honor Flight and catching up on thank-you notes. 

10/12/2026

Monday, October 12, 2026

1492 Christopher Columbus's expedition made landfall on a Caribbean island he named San Salvador (likely Watling Island, Bahamas). The explorer believed he had reached East Asia

1972 46 sailors were injured in a race riot on the American aircraft carrier USS Kitty Hawk

1977 US Supreme Court heard arguments in the "reverse discrimination" case of Allan Bakke, a white student denied admission to the University of California Medical School

2023 Israel said it would not stop the bombardment of Gaza until hostages were released, amid a growing humanitarian crisis with 338,000 displaced and the population without electricity or water

2025 Four people were killed, and at least 20 others were injured, including four critically, in a mass shooting at a crowded bar in Saint Helena Island, South Carolina

A proud old Marine with his trusted guardian at the World War II Memorial

In bed at 9, up before 5; 115/72/63 105 202.6; 62/80/60, cloudy morning, sunny afternoon.

Morning meds at6 a.m.  Entresto at 5:45 a.m. and 5:30 .m.

More on the Honor Flight.  Here are some photos related to what I reported yesterday.

James and his guardian moving through the honor guard

Among the honor guard, USN Lt., CDR., and Capt.

 

And members of a bikers club

James, his guardian, and two angels of mercy: one of the docs who cared for him, and Karyn, who cared for all of us and helped me personally with respect to the Arlington gravesite of 'Moon' Mullen.

Where we went, what we saw.  Our first stop was the Marine Corps Memorial, which was significant for us 6 Marines on the flight, and especially to me since my father had been one of the 70,000 Marines and Navy corpsmen on that island.  From the landing beach where his JASCO comm unit was stationed, my Dad watched the flag being raised.  Many years later, after I had left home for college and the Marines, my Dad and Mom visited the Marine Memorial.  I have a snapshot of them there, and I can only imagine what thoughts were in their heads, what emotions stirred their hearts, as they stood there. The Memorial is magnificent. I am deeply grateful that, so late in my own life, I finally had the opportunity to stand where my parents once stood, before a monument commemorating an event my father had witnessed with his own eyes.

Our next stop was at the Air Force Memorial, where the Air Force Drill Team and Honor Guard were

 putting on a tightly choreographed performance of precision drill with their M1 rifles with fixed bayonets.

After that, we drove into the iconic Arlington National Cemetery, which I had also never visited. It is an immense expanse, and we saw only portions of it. I knew two veterans whose gravesites are there: Marine A-4 pilot "Moon" Mullen, who was shot down over Laos in 1966 and whose remains have never been recovered, and "J" Trembley, a Navy bombardier-navigator aboard an A-6, who was shot down over China in 1968. J's remains were identified in 2004 and buried at Arlington in 2005. Moon's gravesite is a memorial, since his remains were never recovered, but his widow, Barbara, is buried there.

As a frequent visitor to Wood National Cemetery in Milwaukee, where the headstones are uniformly arranged and virtually identical, I was surprised by the many private, nonuniform grave markers at Arlington. Their presence reflects the cemetery's evolution over more than 160 years. For much of its history, families were permitted to erect personalized monuments and headstones in certain sections, a practice that has since been substantially restricted.

Our only stop within the cemetery was at the Memorial Amphitheater, about which I wrote yesterday (Dulce et decorum), and the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, where we witnessed the 2 p.m. ceremonial changing of the guard.  I noticed that the sentinels do not use a normal walking or marching stride, but rather take almost mincing steps, something like 'baby steps,' executing a highly controlled drill movement designed for precision, uniformity, and symbolism.  The key constraint is that each sentinel must take exactly 21 steps along the black mat before turning. That number symbolizes the 21-gun salute, the highest traditional military honor.  They repeat the same 21-step sequence continuously.  Everything about the Tomb of the Unknown is appropriately dignified and ceremonial.  I fully appreciated that, but confess that I had my usual ornery reaction to seeing military folks acting in an almost robotic style, like mechanical toy soldiers.  When I was much younger, I enjoyed the uniform, almost robotic precision of military drills.  I loved the precision and ceremony of the Sunset Parade at the Marine Barracks at 8th and I Streets in Washington,  but after Vietnam, not so much.  Most of the viewing public present for the Changing of the Guard stand or sit on the steps behind the Memorial Amphitheater, facing the Tomb of the Unknown.  Andy and I were on the other side of the parade ground with the other guys in wheelchairs.

…

After the Changing of the Guard, we were back on the buses and off to the new, beautiful, and very impressive World War II Memorial on the Washington Mall.  It commemorates the about 405,000 dead, 671,000 wounded, and roughly 72,000 still unaccounted for in that global war against Fascism.  My Dad and all my uncles served during the war: Dad in the Marines, Uncle Jim in the Navy, Uncle Bud in the Army at the Manhattan Project in New Mexico, and Uncle 'Bim' in the Army Air Corps.  My Dad was the most injured of all of them, and my mother, my sister, and I lived with the effects of his injuries, uncounted civilian casualties of the war.  Dulce et decorum . . .  The photo is of Pvt. Charles E. Clausen upon his 'graduation' from the Marine Corps Recruit Depot at San Diego in 1944.  Like most veterans of most awful wars (are there any wars that aren't awful?), he almost never spoke of his experiences on Iwo Jima, even with me, another Marine and veteran of yet another war.  But I know from the many writings of others some of what he experienced on Iwo, and that it was horrendous and life-altering for him and his family. RIP, Pop.

We spent the next two hours on the Mall, visiting the many memorials located there, with Andy, God bless him, pushing me the whole time over cobblestoned, rough pebbled walkways, and some welcome concrete ones.  We first visited the Wall, with its inscribed names of 58,281 who lost their lives in the Vietnam War, including those of Bill 'Moon' Mullen and J. Forrest Trembley.  Andy found their names for me.  While there, I met Karyn Roelke, who had been so gracious and helpful in trying to determine why Bill Mullen's headstone was not where Arlington's records indicated it should be. Perhaps it had been removed to be modified to reflect the burial of his widow, Barbara, at the same gravesite. Karyn and several others had gone out of their way to accommodate my hope of visiting Bill's grave while we were at Arlington.  It was one of countless acts of kindness that I experienced on that day and, in Karyn's case, even before that day.  I've often said, and often written, that the world is full of saints and miracles.  Karyn is one of them, as are all the volunteers who made the Honor Flights possible for thousands of old veterans.  And as are the countless people, including many, many children, who approached me on that day, shook my hand, and thanked me for my service so many years ago.  I get a bit teary as I write these words, especially remembering all the elementary and high school kids who were so gracious to this old guy being pushed around in a wheelchair by his son.  For a change, words fail me.

During the day, I was asked more than once which stop had been my favorite, or which had moved me the most. I could never pick just one. But if pressed, I suspect I would choose the Vietnam Women's Memorial, which I think of as the Nurses' and Medics' Memorial.

That sculpture, along with the Three Servicemen statue at the Vietnam Veterans Memorial and the figures at the Korean War Veterans Memorial, offers realistic, profoundly human depictions of the wars they commemorate. All of them touch my heart, move me, and remind me of the soldiers, Marines, sailors, and airmen who sacrificed so much more than I did in their service.

I've long felt a measure of survivor's guilt when thinking of them. I think of my wife's cousin Michael, and what he and his parents endured because of the injuries he suffered in Vietnam. And I think of the words I've seen on the walls of VFW and American Legion posts around the country: "All gave some, some gave all."

I was especially touched by the collection of bracelets of some sort at the base of the 'Nurses Memorial.'  I wasn't sure what they signified, but I wished I had had one to leave there.

The upper photograph is of the Three Servicemen statue at the Vietnam Veterans Memorial. The three infantrymen represent American servicemen in Vietnam. The figure on the left carries an M60 air-cooled machine gun, the man in the middle a .45-caliber pistol, and the figure on the right an M16 rifle.

When I served in Vietnam in 1965–1966, we Marines were still wearing heavy, Korean War-era utility uniforms and heavy leather combat boots. Our standard rifle was the M14, which was subsequently replaced by the M16, beginning on a large scale in the Marine Corps in 1967.

In the lower photograph, taken at the Korean War Veterans Memorial, the many figures appear almost ghostlike, all wearing ponchos that afforded some protection from the elements, but none from bullets or high explosives.

The sight brought to mind the Marines who fought their way north to the "Frozen Chosin" Reservoir, near the Chinese border, and then fought their way back south when some 120,000 Chinese troops attacked and surrounded the American forces. The Marines suffered more than 4,000 battle casualties and more than 7,000 additional casualties from the brutal cold.

The Korean War has largely faded from the consciousness of most Americans, but not from that of Marines, at least those with some knowledge of their Corps' history. I was deeply moved by this memorial.

Before we arrived at the Mall, we visited a memorial I hadn't even known existed: the National 9/11 Pentagon Memorial. It commemorates the 184 people who died there at 9:37 a.m. on September 11, 2001, when al-Qaeda terrorists crashed American Airlines Flight 77 into the western side of the Pentagon.

The victims included 125 people working inside the building and 59 passengers and crew aboard the aircraft. Their names are inscribed on 184 cantilevered benches, each positioned above a small reflecting pool. The benches are arranged so that visitors reading the names of those killed inside the Pentagon face the building, while those reading the names of the aircraft's victims face the direction from which the plane approached.

It is a strangely beautiful place, at once serene and deeply moving. I was surprised, and a little embarrassed, that I hadn't even known it existed.

As the day drew to a close, we had time for one final stop, with a choice between the Franklin Delano Roosevelt Memorial and the Martin Luther King, Jr. Memorial. Andy and I chose Dr. King's memorial because he had been such a powerful influence in my life and remains one of my great heroes.

It is a powerful but austere memorial, and I confess that I'm not particularly fond of it. I especially dislike the way Dr. King is depicted. Although he was hated, reviled, and persecuted by many throughout his public life, he was animated by love for people, all people, and I can find little of that love reflected in his face carved in stone.

Nevertheless, I am deeply grateful to have had the opportunity to visit this national memorial to a giant in American history, and an American martyr to the causes of justice, fairness, and human dignity.

At the end of this busy day, we boarded our buses and headed back to Dulles International Airport for the flight home. Our departure was delayed by a mechanical problem with the aircraft, but we finally took off at 11:15 p.m. and were back at Mitchell Field by midnight, where I was once again overwhelmed by the reception awaiting us, including my beloved wife, who was there in the terminal to welcome us home.

But I must mention one more extraordinary act of kindness we experienced at Dulles as we waited for our aircraft to be ready for departure. The Stars and Stripes volunteers held a "mail call," reminiscent of those we had experienced during our military service, when letters from home were eagerly awaited and treasured.

I was very tired by then, having been up since 4 a.m. and having gone without a nap for perhaps the first time in the nearly twenty years since I retired. So I left my large mail call envelope unopened until I got home. Most of the other veterans opened theirs while we waited in the terminal, and I could see how engrossed they were in what they found inside.

And these really were letters from home, from family members and friends expressing warm and loving thoughts.

When I finally opened my envelope, I discovered letters from my wife, my son, my daughter, my daughter-in-law, my grandchildren, my oldest pal (another Marine), and 31 letters from members of the We the People Club at Wauwatosa West High School.

Each was a love letter, and each tugged at my heart.

I had been moved to the verge of tears so many times throughout the day, and now, once again, as I sat at home reading those letters.

Yesterday, when I began writing these reflections on my Stars and Stripes Honor Flight, I wrote that although I had believed in the rightness of American involvement in Vietnam's civil war when I went there in 1965, I soon came to regret both the war and my participation in it. I came to believe that the war was unjust, unwise, and at least semi-fraudulent, and that those of us who participated in it did not deserve grand celebrations upon our return home.

I also wrote that I rejected the maxim inscribed above the entrance to the Memorial Amphitheater at Arlington, Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori, and that my feelings about Vietnam and America's involvement in other unworthy military adventures "colored my whole experience of yesterday's Honor Flight."

All of that remains true, or I wouldn't have written it. But I also recognize that wars are not started because soldiers and Marines want them. It is not those who are called upon to fight wars who bear primary responsibility for them, but the political leaders and policymakers in national capitals, including Washington, who send them off to fight.

It was these conflicting thoughts that left me feeling somewhat sheepish and humbled about being honored on the Honor Flight, and unworthy of the countless expressions of respect, affection, and gratitude I received throughout the day.

Having acknowledged all that, however, what remains with me at the end of this extraordinary experience is a profound sense of gratitude to everyone who made it possible, from the remarkable Stars and Stripes volunteers to the countless individuals who shook my hand and warmly thanked me for my service.

Even now, as I type these words, I am almost overwhelmed by the memory of it all, overwhelmed and profoundly thankful to every one of them.

10/11/2026

 Sunday, October 11, 2026

1962 Second Vatican Council (21st ecumenical) was convened by Pope John XXIII

1986 Ronald Reagan and Mikhail Gorbachev opened talks at the Reykjavik summit

1991 Anita Hill testified that Clarence Thomas sexually harassed her    

2002 Nobel Peace Prize was awarded to former President Jimmy Carter 

2025 Six people were killed, and 14 others were injured after an individual opened fire at the Leland High School homecoming gathering on a main street in Leland, Mississippi, United States. No suspect was taken into custody

In bed at 2:30 a.m., up at 7:45.  200.2  130/80/65 108;59/70/52, mostly sunny.  I went to sleep with my sunglasses from yesterday still tucked into my Honor Flight polo shirt, which I wore to bed.  I didn't discover them there until noon today.

Morning meds at 9 a.m.  Entresto at 7:45 a.m. and 7:30 p.m. I missed my evening dose yesterday again.

Text exchange with SCC this morning:

+49 176 - - - - - - - How was your day yesterday? 

Me:  Hi, Sweetie.  Thank you for caring and for asking.  It was an almost overpowering, warm experience, and one that I suspect I will be reflecting on and trying to sort out for the rest of my life.  I’ve never experienced anything quite like it.  It was also the longest day I’ve had since I don’t know when: up at 4 a.m. yesterday, home around 1 (or 1:30?) today.    I suspect I will try to do a long reflection on the day for my journal/blog today and I’ll send it to you and probably post it on FB.  I didn’t get to bed until 2:30 this morning and this morning I am, as one of my law school faculty used to put, “dragging major butt.”  Thank you so much for your very kind letter in my “mail call” package I received at the end of the day.  It was vey touching.❤️

+49: - - - - - ❤️

Me:  BTW, I take my weight and BP every morning when I get up because of the heart failure condition.  If my scale is right (and I think it may be), I lost 2.8 pounds yesterday.😳🙃

+49  - - - - - :  Wow!  Did you get some walking in?

Me:  Almost none. Andy pushed me around in a wheelchair all day and we covered some distance, especially around the various memorials and monuments between the WWII memorial and the Wall.  I can’t walk for any serious distance anymore because of some pretty severe arthritis in my back, muscle weakness, balance problems, etc., old age stuff.  Poor Andy may be feeling some of it himself today.  It was a long day for him, too.

Text exchange with LOA: 

Charles Clausen:  Hi, Buddy.  Here’s an ‘interim report’ on the flight yesterday.  Thank you for the kind letter you sent for my “mail call” at the end of the trip.  You’re too kind, and I attribute that to your very good parents and your good Wisconsin Synod upbringing.  BTW, I was surprised there were only 6 Marines on the flight, out of 105 vets.  This is an exchange I had with Sarah in Germany earlier this morning: [omitted]

Larry: With all those doggies in the group will they still get you to the Memorial?

Charles Clausen:  It was our first stop and I was duly moved, remembering my Dad down on the landing beach where his JASCO comm unit was stationed, looking up and seeing the flag raising and my Mom and Dad visiting the Memorial decades later, wondering what each of them was going through looking at it.

Larry:  All true American heroes. I can’t really relate to what they went through. All the 03 training I had active and reserve would not have prepared me for that. 

Charles Clausen:  Marines suffered roughly 25,800 casualties in all, while the Japanese garrison numbered about 21,000–22,000, nearly all of whom were killed or captured. Official Navy history specifically describes Iwo Jima as the only U.S. offensive in the Pacific War in which American dead and wounded exceeded Japanese casualties.  Roughly 6,800 Americans were killed, while nearly the entire Japanese garrison died.  Hard to imagine, but who would want to?

Text exchange with CBG: 

Me: Good morning.  Here’s an ‘interim report’ on my trip yesterday, a copy of an exchange I had with Sarah this morning: [omitted]

Caren: I’m so glad you did it. I’m sure it is something you sort out for a long time and I’m happy it was such a warm experience. You are a hero — then and now.

Charles Clausen:  Thanks for those kind words and I know you wouldn’t say them if you didn’t mean them, but I’m no hero except in the sense that each of us is ordinary and extraordinary in some ways on some days, and each of us is a saint and a hero in some ways on some day, and not on others.  I was mindful of that again yesterday, spending the day with 104 old vets and their caretakers (they call them ‘escorts’ and ‘guardians’, but they’re were there to take care of us and most of us, at least, knew that.).  I had very similar feelings and emotions yesterday to what I so often experience at the VA Medical Center, surrounded by so many old, surviving, ferkrimpter military veterans, blessed to be counted one of those ordinary, extraordinary, unique, saintly and heroic ordinary Joe Blows, Joe Palookas, Moishe Pipiks. 

Some thoughts on yesterday's Honor Flight.   Before offering any specific thoughts about yesterday's activities, I should acknowledge that I experienced two seemingly contradictory impulses throughout the day: first, that I was speechless, utterly unable to describe all that I was experiencing; and second, that I could write an entire book about the thoughts and emotions passing through my mind.

A couple of preliminary reflections seem appropriate.

First, I know that I'm not long for this world. I'm into my 86th year. I've outlived all the members of my birth family, most of my good friends, and many of the people I worked with and admired over the years, as well as roughly 75% of those born, like me, in 1941, before Pearl Harbor. I'm more likely to join those who have gone before me five minutes, days, or months from now than five years from now, and that's OK by me.

Since I began keeping this journal more than four years ago, following the death of my dear sister, I've become increasingly reflective about my past and present life. Sometimes that's been a good thing, other times not so good. But I've also noticed that I've become more emotional, more susceptible to moments of awe and deep appreciation for life, for nature and beauty generally, and especially for the beauty in what people do that is good, caring, and saintly, in the sense of Matthew 25:31–46.

I mention all this by way of explaining that I'm more inclined to tear up now than I ever was earlier in life, to feel my eyes grow moist and that familiar tingle in my tear ducts when I encounter something good and wondrous.  And yesterday, that happened more than once.  

Secondly, I should acknowledge that I do not feel good about, or proud of, my personal participation in the war against the Vietnamese. I've written about this many times in this journal. At least for guys like me, participating in that war was wrong, something to be regarded with deep regret, if not deep shame.

Thus, it seems to me entirely fitting that we have not been treated as conquering heroes upon our return home. I certainly don't mean to suggest that it was acceptable for returning veterans to be personally reviled, as too often happened, especially as the war dragged on and on. But neither do I believe that we deserved celebratory welcome-home parades.

For me, participation in that war inflicted what is now called a "moral injury." And I fear that some of today's military personnel may come to experience something similar as a consequence of participating in military operations ordered by our nation's current rulers, including the destruction of boats and the killing of people in the Caribbean Sea, and perhaps other lethal military adventures yet to come.

Yesterday, I noticed an inscription high above the western entrance to the Memorial Amphitheater at Arlington National Cemetery, leading toward the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. It is a line from the Roman poet Horace (Odes, 3.2.13): Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori — "It is sweet and fitting to die for one's country."

The inscription dates from the First World War era, before Wilfred Owen's magnificent poem Dulce et Decorum Est had become known. Owen wrote his poem during the war, and it was published posthumously in 1920. In it, he savagely condemned the romantic glorification of death in battle, famously denouncing Horace's maxim as "the old Lie."

There is a powerful retrospective irony in the juxtaposition. At Arlington, Horace's words proclaim the nobility of dying for one's country. Owen, having witnessed the horrors of the trenches, took those very same words and turned them into one of the most searing indictments of the glorification of war ever written.  Sitting there in my wheelchair as an old Marine who had long since come to regret his participation in another war, I found myself much closer to Owen than to Horace.

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,

Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,

Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,

And towards our distant rest began to trudge.

Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,

But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;

Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots

Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling

Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,

But someone still was yelling out and stumbling

And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime.—

Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,

As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams before my helpless sight,

He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace

Behind the wagon that we flung him in,

And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,

His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;

If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood

Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,

Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud

Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,—

My friend, you would not tell with such high zest

To children ardent for some desperate glory,

The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est

Pro patria mori.

My heart is with Wilfred Owen and with those of whom he wrote, and not with Horace or with the militaristic nationalists who decided to put Horace's words at the entry to the Memorial Amphitheater.  That fact colored my whole experience of yesterday's Honor Flight. 

That said, what about yesterday's experience that brought my old eyes to tears and my old lips to near blubbering was all the kindness that was bestowed on the other guys and me from the beginning of the very long day to its end.    

Preliminarily, I report that our Honor Flight consisted of 105 veterans ranging in age from 70 to 89.  I was among the oldest and also the most wheelchair-bound of the group.  We were accompanied throughout the day by a medical team of 3 volunteer physicians equipped with medical supplies, and by many Stars and Stripes volunteers, more than I could count.  Indeed, the whole organization is staffed entirely by volunteers, all terrifically dedicated to their mission.  Our seats on the aircraft were pre-assigned.  I had seat 1F, a window seat in the first row, for both flights.  Next to me was a 70-year-old Air Force vet named "Boots" from Richfield, WI, and in the aisle seat was "James," an old and pretty frail African American.  Our "guardians" were seated directly behind each of us.  Boots and I each had a son as guardian; James had his daughter, or perhaps his granddaughter.  All three of us were wheelchair bound throughout the day.  The photo shows me, Boots, and a little bit of James in Row 1, with Andy directly behind me.

Each of our two flights to and from Washington featured a need for medical attention.  On the way out, I had a nasty pain problem with my old and oft-battered bladder that was resolved when I got to Dulles Airport, but the doc who tended to me told me later that the medical team was prepared to catheterize me if needed, even on the aircraft or on a bus, if necessary.  On the return flight, we experienced a considerably more serious problem.

In mid-flight, I was resting with my eyes closed when I heard and felt a commotion next to me. Boots had leaned forward and was talking to one of the doctors. James's arm was behind Boots's back, and Boots was explaining that James appeared to have suffered some sort of seizure, thrashing about, apparently convulsing and vomiting.

James's right hand was next to me, and I held it as two doctors attended to him. One, standing in the aisle, checked his blood sugar and his pupils' response to a light shone into his eyes. The other, standing in front of Boots, checked his blood pressure. Meanwhile, James's daughter or granddaughter rubbed his head and tried to get his attention, but he remained unresponsive.

For a time, it wasn't even clear to us that he was alive. Finally, he came around and said he was OK. The tense situation continued for some time, and we were all profoundly grateful that those doctors were right there to care for James in his distress, the cause of which we never learned.

James was the first of us to be taken off the aircraft when we landed in Milwaukee. The memory of his ordeal, and of those anxious moments when we didn't know whether he would survive, will remain with me for a long time.

As will the memory of what awaited the rest of us when we entered the Mitchell Field terminal — AT MIDNIGHT!

We walked, or were wheeled, through an incredibly long honor guard that included bikers in their Harley gear, Navy officers in full uniform, members of groups I couldn't identify, parents and grandparents, children of all ages, cheerleaders from two different high schools, and countless others, stretching as far as the eye could see. A bagpipe ensemble provided the music.

This was a repetition of the reception we had received at Mitchell Field early that morning, and of the even larger receptions that greeted us at Dulles Airport in Washington, both upon our arrival and our departure.

It was during these receptions that I spontaneously teared up, profoundly moved that so many people would make their way to a busy airport, on a lovely Saturday morning or late at night, simply to welcome and salute a ragtag bunch of old military veterans. And at Dulles, we weren't even from their part of the country, nor were we personally known to most of them.

I could scarcely believe my eyes.

In Milwaukee, when we finally made our way through the concourse and into the terminal proper, hundreds of family members were waiting to welcome us home.

Including Geri!

More tomorrow.  Now for the Brewers and Dodgers.