Truth Force Diary 

Hajo von Kracht

I arrived in Boulder on July 30, 1978. I was hitchhiking around the country, and a young couple had given me a ride from Denver. The guy told about someone who had handed him five bucks with the remark that someday he should pass them on to a stranger, and now that would be me. And he added two joints, which I gracefully accepted. He then dropped me off in front of the University administration building. 

After he disappeared, I realized it was Sunday and all the offices were closed. So I went to the youth hostel, only to find out it didn't open until 5 p.m. I managed to squeeze through the back door and drop my insanely heavy backpack. At 26 years old, I had just finished my university program in Bowling Green, Ohio, and was ready to travel for three months to wherever fortune and my drivers would take me.

The afternoon was spent strolling through town, checking out some of the cafés. When the hostel finally opened, I got a bed for $4.25. Later I walked around Boulder's central mall - a pedestrian area with an idyllic mountain panorama and nice little shops and restaurants. At eight there was a benefits concert at the Blue Note, featuring some local antinuke group. 

I hung around in a corner of the music hall, watching people and the band, ready to depart from Boulder the next morning, maybe to Yellowstone; then I was drawn into a chat, told the folks at my table that I was a student from Germany, travelling the country. One word led to another, and I even danced for a few minutes with Alison, who was hobbling on the dance floor. Later I learned that she had a knee injury and - when not dancing - was using crutches.

August 6 was coming up - Hiroshima day. The group was planning some action, and I decided to postpone my departure, to see how things worked out, and maybe even to participate in the activities. With the group's office address safely in my pocket, I went to the hostel before closing hour at midnight, looking forward to political action and being part of this group.

Monday, July 31 I enjoyed a luxurious breakfast at the New York Deli, which would become my favorite restaurant in Boulder. They offered health food sandwiches, great pastry, and you could sit outside. The Rocky Flats Truth Force office was crowded with people milling around. Some faces - but not the names - I recognized from the evening before. I tried to make myself useful, but nothing was delegated to an uninitiated newcomer. I was told that a few people would drive up to the occupied railroad tracks in the afternoon; this left me with nothing to do until then.

To fill the gap until then, I caught a ride to a nearby mountain and tried a bit of canyon climbing on my own. Wearing sandals, I didn't get very far. Back in the office I joined some others driving to the Rocky Flats plant, where they were said to fabricate three or more plutonium triggers per day for hydrogen bombs. There was no official information, of course. These triggers in themselves were small nuclear bombs ("small" meaning Hiroshima-bomb size), and the plutonium (enriched and therefore highly radioactive) was carried into the plant by a short train with a single white car on a solitary railroad track in the back of the facility. 

Outside the fence marking the "No Trespassing" zone, in open grassland and visible from afar, stood two teepees, the larger one brown, the other white and decorated with lovely Indian motives. In and around the teepees the occupants strolled, sat, or were lying around. There was plenty of idle time for chatting, enjoying the sunshine, or playing the guitar.

Later the crowd formed a big circle. We did the Hokey Pokey, and I felt quite foolish. Then we all sat down, cross-legged. While some more games were being played, I was mesmerized by the sight of the girl sitting on the opposite side of the circle, with dark curly hair, a white medium-length dress, cross-legged, and between her legs showing a frizzy dark thatch of hair. After a while when she noticed my stare, she pulled her dress down and covered the sight. This was the image before my eyes as we all went to sleep, closely side by side, one steel track under our necks, the other in the hollows of our knees, trusting that no train would come by tonight.

Tuesday, August 1 About nine o'clock in the morning, after an improvised breakfast with coffee and pastry brought from the office downtown, the experienced occupiers got restless. The CD training (for "civil disobedience") was not scheduled until later in the week. But now the "get busted" section was brought forward. All participants engaged in a role play. Three people acted as police; the others sat on the tracks as occupiers.

After a short battle of words, some thumps by the "cops," which were to be received passively and with kindness, we were roughly dragged off the tracks. Everything had to be accepted nonviolently, choking back all bad words. We had hardly finished the exercise when police cars showed up in the distance. "Here we go again."

 In haste, we packed our bags and loaded everything into the truck. Moments later we were surrounded. Two officers came down from the road to the teepees and gave us 10 minutes to clear the area. The teepees came down in an instant - the occupiers had practiced this before - and were carried across the meadow to the truck. Then the brave ones - risking arrest - sat down on the rails. I decided to avoid the risk and felt like a traitor.

The police, however, had changed their tactics. Earlier they arrested the obstinate and let the others walk free. This time everyone, indiscriminately - the ones on the rail, and the ones just standing by - were stuck into a large police bus. Most of us, once we had been summoned, walked, escorted by two officers. Only Patrick went limp and in a dramatic performance, in fake protective suit and gas mask, he was carried on all fours from the rails.

Inside the bus we all were very emotional. We were nervous and reassured ourselves and each other. Patrick yelled at the cops that by law they should arrest him, because he was let go by the judge on the condition he would not to return to Rocky Flats. But the police - reporting to the county of Golden - had no interest in arrests at this time, and Patrick screamed louder and louder in his unheard plea to be arrested.

Two Japanese Buddhist monks in yellow-orange gowns were with the group. They had been on the road, away from teepee and rails, but they, too, were packed into the bus. They intoned their strange monotone singing and tambouring and gave the scene a surreal mark, radiating quietness and calmness at the same time.

A ghastly, short train - a locomotive, one white wagon, and a brakeman - passed into the compound, and after a while came back out. Then we were let go. The police squadron, along with the bus, disappeared. We rebuilt the teepees, put everything back in place, and took a rest. Patrick was the hero of the day. Some people came from Boulder, and we - the incarcerated - bathed in our heroism.

One of the newcomers was Sumiko, a student from Japan, who had lived in Telluride before and now worked with the Truth Force. She greeted me by way of a short neck massage - an unexpected, pleasant, and stimulating salutation. For the afternoon, we stayed on the rails. We spent the night in the Truth Force office, which was littered with sleeping bodies.

Wednesday, August 2 I got little rest in the midst of a crowd of human and canine sleepers and got up early. Together with Cheri's blond brother Jimmy - Sumiko was beaming when she introduced him as "crazy" - and three others, we went out for a health food pancake breakfast. To me it was mainly lots of sugary syrup. 

One member of our breakfast party was "the Country Guitar Player with Black Hat." My diary doesn't have his name. He invariably styled himself in exactly the same way - either he had an assortment of identical black clothes or he never changed them. To me, he was the first to utter negative things about some of the Truth Force members. He referred to "dynastic" structures and, in particular, didn't agree with the role played by Sumiko.

Around noon I caught a ride to a court hearing in Golden against two of our peers. This was a remarkably relaxed and friendly affair. Judge Goldberger tried everything he could to give encouragement to the miscreants. "How can I help you?" For one of the defendants this was already the fourth arrest, but the judge dismissed him on the condition that he not got himself busted again. "Whatever you do in other counties is not of my concern, but, in the county of Golden, you must not look for trouble with the police again."

On my way back from Golden I stopped at the tracks for a while and was given a ride to the Truth Force house by three yippies from Chicago. There the announced CD training took place, with role playing, exercises in group dynamics, discussions about nonviolence, joint singing, and all commanded by a tough, small, skinny girl whose name I can't recall.

In the evening the Truth Force had their regular meeting. The content of the discussions didn't make it into my diary, but I was deeply impressed by how decisions were made. Different from what I was used to, there were no majority votes, but rather every little decision was based on unanimity. This implied that everybody in the room had the power to block consensus and therefore was responsible for the whole. This procedure could last for hours, as dissenting opinions had to be discussed over and over. In the end, sometimes the minority voluntarily stepped aside, not to block consensus (it even happened that the minority asked the majority to step aside, but that rarely happened). When finally something was decided, it was celebrated with hugs and ecstasy.

That night I slept in the small white teepee, which got really crowded as more and more people arrived in expectation of the big events. My place was on the very outside, and it made me feel less as an outsider than wet, because my cheap sleeping bag started to soak the moisture from the drizzle that set in at night.

Thursday, August 3 I woke up shivering in my wet sleeping bag. The drizzle had continued all night. I was grateful when young Lee invited me along with a few others - Janis and Laura from California, very young Annberry, and three more - to his apartment in Boulder for breakfast and a hot shower.

"Save water. Share a shower," we joked during breakfast. Then we were three: Tim and I under the shower, together with a girl who I hadn't met before. We laughed and applied soap to each other's backs, the girl standing between the men - all was light and playful. After a short time, the closeness of the bodies had an effect on my anatomy that I didn't know how to hide or handle; confused and embarrassed, I fled.

I joint the breakfast crowd and was feeling like a nebbish who was unable to play the game. The two came back later, chuckling and having a ball. After regaining my composure, relaxing, warming up, and listening to (vinyl) records, I had the urge to visit the tracks. I wanted to be there in case another train was coming. The others didn't think this was likely, and I hitchhiked to the teepees on my own.

A small group was keeping watch, with Patrick taking center stage. He was always great to listen to. A journalist from AP dropped in and Patrick lectured him for an hour about the history of the protest movement in the United States, connecting the Truth Force's activism with plenty of leftist political terminology, and the journalist diligently taking notes. A local newspaper reporter came by and did a few photos. The next day I found myself on the cover of the Colorado Daily newspaper. The camp on the tracks was popular with journalists.

Around half past five I returned to Boulder. Another benefits concert was scheduled for the Truth Force. I wanted to make myself useful and volunteered as a guard of some sort. I was assigned to the second shift, and, for reasons that escape me today, I was extremely disappointed. To gain some distance between myself and the group, I switched into my other role: being a foreign tourist. I went for a walk, found a cozy Italian restaurant serving surprisingly good food, had crudités, Minestrone soup, salad, and stuffed mushrooms with spaghetti and artichokes, then fruit and waffles for desert - all for $8. After that, everything looked decidedly friendlier, and I returned to the concert. I didn't do a lot of guarding but instead joined the throng on the dance floor.

Patrick again was at the center of attention with boundless expressive dancing, and I tried to follow suit. The concert was typical for the Rocky Flats Truth Force benefits concerts of these days, I was told: that is, great music, a lot of space on the dance floor, many group members, and few other visitors.

The Truth Force had only a few non-white members, and they seemed to have a complicated position within the group. Neil was one of them. Like me, he was charmed by the group's implicit promise of promiscuity, and like me, he seemed to have trouble with that promise. Different from me, he continued to openly proposition various women and was rebuffed time after time.

During the evening he got more and more frustrated and drunk. At the end of the concert he showed his anger by dramatically collecting garbage cans as if to say: "This is all you white folks think we niggers are good for." In Janis's crowded orange California van we drove to the tracks. Once again, Patrick outshone all of us with witty chat. My place was with the losers, and together with Neil, I improvised some drumming in the back of the car. Neil rose into a rampage and acted like a drunken maniac. Before the bus left town, without further ado, he was unloaded at the Truth Force house.

There were good reasons for this decision, but my not-quite-stone-cold-sober thoughts swept from racism to under-doggism and why things were as they were. The camp was growing day by day in expectation of the great events, and under a shaky construction, side by side with pretty Janis, I slept chastely, dry, and well.

Friday, August 4 Michaelanita was the second black person I met in the group. She was a tall and strong woman, generous with her firm hugs. On this morning, in private, she told me that, as she spent the night in the big brown teepee, she witnessed a couple next to her having sex - openly, noisily, and with no attempt to hide their excitement from the others - and how disgusting this was to her. She suspected that Janis's van, which served as another group sleeping place for some, was also a place of lax morals, and her anger and contempt may have been about the morals - or maybe about the fact that she was not included.

In the evening, films about the nuclear bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki were shown to a larger public at the Boulder University campus. Less time had passed since those events than between this evening and today. Many survivors of the first generation were still alive. The films were taken from the Japanese perspective. In gruesome images they showed the horror, the mass dying, and the dreadful long-term suffering of hundreds of thousands. It is hard to keep a balanced perspective when looking at such scenes; many in the audience burst in tears. I had seen similar pictures before and was put off by the blatant propaganda in the sound track. No mention was made about Japan's role in the Second World War.

After the screening of the films, Sumiko - being Japanese - made a speech. She connected the 1945 events to the purpose of the Rocky Flats plant and the fight against it. At the right moment, she shed a few dramatic tears, as did her listeners. To me this was all laid on too thickly and overly emotional. After her performance I found myself with Sumiko sitting on the university campus outside and chatting at length about the political situation in Japan, the United States, and

Saturday, August 5 On the day before Hiroshima Day, a poetry reading was staged at the tracks. Morning sunshine, clear mountain air, and a blue sky sprinkled with a few white clouds all made for a majestic setting. About 400 people gathered around the poets. Listening to one speaker after the other, I pondered why there were so many mediocre poets waiting for an opportunity to read to such a crowd. Then Allen Ginsberg spoke. He read "Plutonium Ode," so I witnessed the premiere of this poem, which has been read often since then and referenced in books and, much later, the Internet. Like everyone around me, I sensed that this was special and significant. The poem was long and difficult in language, yet we all listened intensely and in silence. Then we did the Hokey Pokey. The event ended in a joyful all-embracing mass hugging.

A small group planned a fast vigil between August 6th and 9th in front of the main entrance of the factory. I volunteered to participate. At first the group was surprised and hesitated to include a newcomer and stranger - in particular, Deborah raised objections - but after some discussions back and forth, it was decided that I would be part of this action. Later, in the early afternoon, a group of 10 set out for an excursion to do some nude bathing in a small lake in the vicinity. The weather could not have been more inviting. We found a nice place on the meadow next to the lake to settle down, relax, close our eyes, and feel the sunshine on our skin

Next to me lay Laura, and I felt the light touch of her hand next to my hip. On the other side was Annberry - tall, pretty, and very young. I tried not to stare, and it was hard. And thus, lying on the meadow close between Annberry and Laura, I felt a familiar issue rising. I wondered how the other guys handled this situation; I had to rest on my belly and was actually relieved when, after some time, we put on our clothes and went back.

In the evening I went out for a beer with Sumiko and less-than-twenty-years-old Tim. From one side of his parents, Tim was a Native American Indian, and he was mightily proud of his heritage. He was a really nice person, great to chat with, yet a bit childish. Sumiko and I discovered that we both planned to depart from Boulder at around the same time, and in the same direction. We briefly considered that maybe we could work out something together.

Sunday, August 6 Thirty-three years ago on this day, the bomb was set off over Hiroshima, killing 80,000 people immediately and hundreds of thousands in the decades to come. And we were only steps away from a place where they continued to build more and more of these devices.

Having joined the group of fasters, today's tasty fruit salad breakfast would be my last solid food for the next four days.

After some dawdling on the tracks, we departed in hot, sundrenched weather, passing Rocky Flat's main entrance, marching further to the right where - opposite to the north entrance of the factory - a large rally took place. Three active groups were fighting to get rid of the atom bomb factory: the Truth Force, the Rocky Flats Action Group, and the Bolder Mobilization Group for Survival. The three formed a coalition that was regularly plagued by friction because the other two groups didn't share the Truth Force's concept of direct action.

Today's rally was organized by the Action Group. Most of the event passed me by, because we - the Faster Affinity Group - were busy with last spiritual preparations for our vigil and ourselves. Shelli dropped by, Kris joined us for a bit to provide encouragement and cheer us up, but mainly the group was sitting in a small exclusive circle, discussing who should not participate in the action.  People were questioned in a strangely arrogant manner to see if they were really suited for this big task, and tensions rose. Jimmy got mad about the way people were being treated and dropped out. Tim was made to quit voluntarily. In the end, Chuck, Butch, Alice, Deborah, Colin, and I were the "chosen ones."

After the Action Group rally, we were brought to a small restaurant halfway between Boulder and the main entrance. We picked up our gear for the next four days and marched along the road through the searing heat, accompanied by me playing some tunes on my alto recorder.

At the west entrance, a group of Rockwell security guards blocked our way, supported by the Highway State Patrol arriving shortly thereafter. We quietly settled down on the opposite side of the road. The situation was a bit absurd: To the left of the road was Rocky Flats Nuclear Weapons Plant, subordinate to the central government in Washington and run by a private company with private security. The road - including the grass strips on both sides - was controlled by highway patrol police operated by the State of Colorado. The pasture to the right of the road was private land, for which local county police was responsible.

Shouting across the road, the highway patrol announced it to be illegal to camp along the road. When Alice and Colin were sent to them for negotiation, Colin, in a dramatic action, was handcuffed and hauled off into the police car.  Horrified, we climbed across the fence to the private meadow, which caused Rockwell to call the county police. But while the highway police appeared to make short shrift, the county police officer informed us that - as long as they didn't receive a complaint by the owner - they would not get involved.

So we were safe for the moment. Colin was released, and we spent the rest of the evening and the night under a makeshift frame built from a post which happened to stand there, a plank we found nearby, and some plastic canvas - sheltered from rain, snug, and dry. We felt very connected and, thanks to the highway police, all tensions within the group were blown away.

Monday, August 7  This was the second day of our fast, if fast is the right word. In truth, we were living it up with expensive and tasty rich fruit juices, and we probably should have called this a "vitamin diet.  I was just taking a leak a little ways from the others when the owner of the pasture we were camped upon drove up. Escorted by two companions, he let us know from his truck that he was respecting our point of view in the dispute, and that he didn't want to call the police, but he had to insist that the affair not take place on his property. And no, he would not grant us another hour until we could receive a note from Boulder about the legal situation on the highway.

We broke camp and climbed the fence again, happy when Janis's van arrived soon after to pick up our gear. This time, however, the highway police kept us waiting. After more than an hour, a single patrol car showed up, and the driver informed us that it was illegal to camp along the road, but other than that they would not find fault with our presence. Not to raise suspicions of camping, we walked in the shape of a giant sausage up the road, crossing, down the road, crossing, ad infinitum. The sound of my flute, an ample supply of fruit juices, and occasional short stops by people on their way from Boulder to the camp at the tracks or vice versa all made our march light and enjoyable.

In the evening, we found out that this worked even when we sat down for a while, or for longer, as long as we didn't pitch a tent. With some candles, a guitar, and a growing number of people joining us, we created the cozy atmosphere of a campfire gathering. About half past three, two police cars stopped by to let us know that it would be better and safer if we went to the camp on the rails. We thanked them for their advice, and they drove off. We relit our candles and stayed.

Tuesday, August 8 On this third day of the vigil, we built upon the routine established on the previous day. We stopped walking along the highway; instead we were sitting around in the grass. The fruit juice diet agreed with me fine and could go on forever as far as I was concerned. Encouraged by the friendly reactions of the others, I played the flute. Occasionally people passed by on the highway: Rockwell employees - surly looking and staring straight ahead; interested public - waving and friendly.

Seen as a political action, measured by my experience of the past, this activity was quite useless and silly, and back home I would have refused to participate in such nonsense. None of the passersby knew who we were and what we wanted to accomplish. We were not positioned - as originally planned - opposite the main entrance, but on an insignificant place along the highway. We carried not a single poster or sign or symbol giving any clue about our purpose and that we were doing this in memory of an event which happened 33 years in the past. We didn't make the press; there were no pictures of us taken; nobody outside the Truth Force even noticed us.

But in fact this was less a political action than a spiritual one. We did it because it was the right thing to do - not in order to influence others, but to be in harmony with ourselves. Refusing food and sitting in this awkward place for four days made us focus and understand that this action was about us, and that we were serious about it. Interestingly, the other members of the Truth Force didn't consider our vigil useless, and they supported us, provided unquestioned encouragement, transportation, provisions, and more fruit juice than we could drink.

Wednesday, August 9 Today was Nagasaki Day. Thirty-three years ago on this day in Nagasaki, 40,000 died in an instant, and a hundred thousand more over the next years. The bomb was of the same type as the ones produced here in Rocky Flats. Around eight in the morning our gear was carried off. With a few posters and banners we lined up opposite the plant entrance and watched the Rockwell employees - some nervous, some annoyed, some just bored - flocking to work. It felt like in a short scene toward the end of Ashby's movie Coming Home with Jane Fonda, which had been released that spring. Tensions rose. More and more security guards gathered inside the compound. State Highway Patrol cruisers lined up on the road, as well as Jefferson County police cars. Press people from various media busied themselves installing their equipment.

The place was crowded before the bulk of the protesters arrived from the camp. We heard them from afar. Three Buddhist monks clad in yellow robes, working their gongs and intoning strange chants, accompanied the entire action and contributed to me getting more intensely involved than I had intended. Daniel Ellsberg - since his publication of the Pentagon Papers one of the notables of the American alternative political scene - as well as Allen Ginsberg, who I had listened to at the poetry reading on Saturday, were surrounded by a throng of people. The press estimated us to be more than 180. After standing about for a while, we pooled in affinity groups, reasserted ourselves, and in this pose I discovered myself the next day in the newspaper. Then we advanced.

An officer informed us that we were committing an act of trespassing. A small group of negotiators - Kris and Scott among them - had arranged that we would peacefully intrude some distance into the company grounds before being arrested. We formed a large circle, a cleric performed a short service, and at exactly 11:02a.m., when 33 years ago this plutonium bomb exploded over Nagasaki, we all sank down lamenting, in a symbolic "die-in." I had been skeptical about this form of protest, thinking it might trivialize the death of the real victims, but now it felt just right.

I was determined not to get busted in this action and to retreat before being arrested; for a foreigner with a student visa, an arrest could have quite unpleasant consequences.  During the last days, however, of actions, discussions, and, in particular, the fast, I had focused much more seriously on the fact that behind the beauty of the landscape, the kindness of police officers, the gorgeous weather, and the good companionship in the group, we – a small group of powerless individuals - were confronting the world's most deadly war machine. I had listened while a few others brought forth reasons - good reasons - for not participating in this part of the action, and I thought…What the heck!

Lying motionless with eyes closed on the hot pavement I shed some tears, reflecting on the futileness of this protest. The voice of an officer gave notice that we had until 11:30 to clear the area.  A voice informed us that we had 10 more minutes left.  From time to time a soft and warm hand, a kind whispering voice touched my senses.  A voice from afar requested that we leave the place now.

An official voice - very close - asked me to get up and walk; asked me to open my eyes, please. Another voice gave advice to whomever to be cautious. Four hands grabbed arms and legs, more hands held my belt. I floated above ground. Another voice asked if I at least wanted to climb the bus myself, otherwise this might get a bit rough. A voice declared that I was now being arrested. It wasn't really rough. Inside the bus, I sank into a seat, tension falling off. We had done it, and now we were waiting for the consequences. Outside, the monks worked their gongs; a hundred voices sang "Listen, listen, listen to my heart's song; we will never forget you, we will never forsake you," and from a second bus another 35 voices shouted, drowning out heartbeat with rejoicing. Watching my coprisoners, I noticed how young they were, how inexperienced. Maybe just this is what gave them strength.

The flute played again. We were convoyed. Dan Ellsberg and Allen Ginsberg received special treatment. We stopped at the Golden Fairgrounds, which had been turned into a mass processing site for the county police. This day would create myths, not only on our side but also on theirs - how well they were organized; how they got on top of the pack. One by one we were summoned from the bus into the fairground hall, keeping the ones left behind guessing what was happening. When it was my turn in the hall, with a sheepish look I produced my German passport (in this pose I watched myself later on local TV). The officer didn't know what to do with the unfamiliar document. He decided to take some of the words in the document for my name and summoned this person (not exactly me) to appear for a trial on the sixth of October.

Identified, screened, and invited for trial, we were individually released. We gathered outside the fairgrounds. I was surprised and relieved by the sloppy treatment of my data. The minors in our group also were treated very mildly. This was a blessing. In the worst case they could have been locked away until their parents picked them up. At this time I didn't know that for some of our companions - classified repeat offenders - the bail was set at $5,000 to $15,000, so I was very upbeat.

Today's action was meticulously planned by the Truth Force organizers up to this very moment. Beyond this point, there was no plan at all. Some people proposed we should go to Pizza Hut and celebrate. Others (me included) argued we should go to the camp on the rail, wait for the people from the second bus, and consult jointly what to do next. There was general agreement that this was a great plan, and then nobody followed suit, and people dispersed in all directions. As no joint activity was taking shape, I got back on my pledge to do a fast for four days, and that would last until tonight. Together with Lee I went back to the west entrance, equipped with nothing but a bottle of water, to continue our vigil.

Silently we sat down in the place where we all had been sitting for the last three days. A highway patrol officer stopped and informed us that the area had been declared a "no-stopping-no- demonstration" area, and we should leave to avoid arrest. When we resumed our old trick of walking around in a circle, we were notified that it was permitted to walk along the road, but we were considered a hazard to the traffic and would be arrested if we continued walking back and forth. We gave up and returned to the teepees.

In the camp, meanwhile, a group had formed wanting to immediately rush forward again and block the road. I didn't see any experienced Truth Force people around.  The plan smelled like provoking skirmishes with the police (and worse) and ran counter to the Truth Force's strategy of nonviolence. As quickly as I could, I got to the office in Boulder and informed the core team about the latest developments at the camp. All were baffled. Two people drove to the tracks and fetched the overeager comrades to an extended meeting in the house. As usual, the meeting dragged on, and in the end, only two of the newcomers went back to the tracks, but no further action was decided by the Truth Force as a whole.

In the basement of the house, my affinity group met for a small party. We were all proud of what we achieved, and so the day could have ended in elated harmony, if not for… A little digression is required. I was the proud owner of a wide-brimmed leather hat, which I had purchased on the Canadian shore of Niagara Falls. It served me well against sun and rain. It also limited my field of vision upward. And I owned a leather jacket which on this warm evening - returning from a little walk outside - I carried in my arm.

When I entered the office, Jimmy, lying in his sleeping bag in the middle of the room, teased me with sayings like "There comes the German fascist pig". In a jesting manner I whirled my leather jacket around in front of his face. What I didn't see was the heavy glass plate of the ceiling light, which I hit with my jacket. It came down right in Jimmy's wide-open eyes.

Moments later not only Jimmy's face, but also the sleeping bag and the office floor, were covered with blood. My first thought was that Jimmy's eyes were ruined. The only other person present was Francine. She ran out to alarm Kris. Kris was an experienced nurse. With some effort, she managed to staunch the blood, and now it became apparent what really happened: one deep cut across the nose and another one just above the right eye. Both wounds had to be stitched at the hospital.

So this day of nonviolence and peace action ended in a bloodbath caused by me trying to be funny. Of all people, it hit Jimmy, who I had engaged with in long discussions and considered closest to me in spirit and a friend. Weak at the knees and full of self-reproach I climbed into my sleeping bag.

Thursday, August 10 After the intensity of the few last days, everyone seemed to be taking a breath today. Sumiko and I talked about our plans for departure - possibly together. Jimmy came back from the hospital, his face dramatically bandaged .I spent most of the day on the mall. Yesterday Tim went there in a fake banana suit and proudly collected $70 for legal expenses of the Truth Force. His boldness as well as nice feedback I received during these last days inspired me to place my hat upside down on the pavement and play the flute - any tune I could remember. Within three hours I earned a modest $5.49. If nothing else, it gave me comfort that if I ever would run out of money on my trip, here was a way to earn a few bucks.

Later I produced a poster with a few clippings from local newspapers and collected $22 for the Truth Force in an hour. People were more willing to give money for a good cause than for a mediocre musician, which I sort of agreed with. And I wasn't sitting there alone; soon after I got there, I was joined by two girls and two boys who had come to Boulder for the action and shared juices, bread, and granola, which seemed to be a big thing among the protesters at that time. I spent the night in the teepee camp at the tracks. Having arrived in Boulder just a week ago, I felt oddly strange in the camp, not seeing any of the - by now - familiar faces around.

Friday, August 11 Today the general assembly convened. This was the decision-making body of the Truth Force. Many faces showed up that I hadn't seen during the last days' actions. Some of them were involved earlier in the year and owned a long list of arrests already; they would have been unwise to expose themselves too much. American law enforcement seemed to work strictly by state, and it was safer for travelling protesters to get busted in each state just once and get away with it.  Local residents engaged in repeated actions faced a much higher risk of a severe penalty. The meeting revealed that the Truth Force also had a bureaucracy. Evan was the most polarizing figure: some really hated him, others loved him, but all seemed to need and therefore accept him somehow. And Evan seemed to enjoy this role.

The discussion was about financial issues, workload distribution, and more; a new house needed to be found - the current one had to be vacated, as it was owned by a church that disagreed with the amount of disturbances (and maybe lax morals). Not a minute was spent discussing the events of the last week or engaging in some debriefing or lessons learned. In this meeting the Truth Force showed a new and unfamiliar face. In the evening Francine, Steve, Kris, Chip, Annberry, and I visited a fine Italian restaurant, and I witnessed yet another aspect of the group - a mood quite distinct from the railroad tracks or the office. In those places everything was about the action, and everyone - me included - hid behind an almost childish regressive group identity. In this restaurant I was among people who were genuine, open, sincere, and treated each other as adults.

We talked about many things of a personal nature. Steve, like me, worked with computers, which in '78 were far away from the omnipresence they are today and were attacked by many in the "alternative" circles. Kris shared her experiences as a part-time nurse. I received a glance into the life of these people outside the group activities, and I felt that I was among my own kind. Particularly from Kris, I sensed soothing human warmth. After dinner, we went for a stroll through the pedestrian area with evening lights, musicians, people walking by, and between a tipsy and talkative Kris, sharing much of her inner life, and me no less tipsy, I was eager to listen. Here the seed of a small old-fashioned romance evolved. Kris had been married. She'd lived in Boulder since 1972 and seemed on the lookout for a relationship. And if I stayed in Boulder…

Kris, Annberry, and I drove Chip to the airport, from where he would go visit relatives on the east coast. He missed his plane and had to wait at the airport until eight in the morning. Sitting between Kris and Annberry I drove back and spent the night in the office between lots of other sleepers, with Kris very close yet out of reach. It took a while before I could sleep. I would not stay now, but go on my trip through the country. But I would come back to Boulder - for sure!

Saturday, August 12  I left Boulder on August 12, 1978, together with Sumiko, after an affectionate farewell by everyone present, and by Kris in particular, who looked deeply into my eyes and said "You will return, won't you?" Sumiko and I hitchhiked past Fort Collins, Gillette, Billings, and Livingston, and after some road adventures, we stayed for a few days at the Mountain Life Community in Missoula, Montana. Thereafter we took separate roads. I mingled with student aides at the Glacier National Park, spent a few days in the Blackfoot Indian Reservation, did a bit of street music in Calgary, passed Lake Louise, and Prince Rupert, took a ferry to Vancouver Island, and volunteered at a Greenpeace-organized Saturday morning recycling action in Portland.

In Eugene, I was invited to a weekend trip into the desert. On my way south, I passed through Bandon, Eureka, and many more places. In San Francisco, I spent a week, doing sightseeing, plastering election posters for the White Panther Party, and participating in a street theater performance of the People Against Nuclear Power. I toured the Diablo Canyon Nuclear Power Plant in San Louis Obispo, and made it to Santa Barbara.  At a conference of the Abalone Alliance in Santa Cruz, I listened to Jane Fonda campaigning for Jerry Brown; in Salt Lake City I got drunk in a private club, just to name a few of the countless things I noted in my diary.

All this time, my plan of returning to Boulder and seeing Kris again firmed up. I remember that in the Shady Grove - a music pub in Haight-Ashbury - after three failed attempts, I managed to call her from a coin-operated telephone, and we talked about her idea to meet at a "Healing Gathering" in Arizona (which did not happen because the gathering was postponed to late October). On Thursday, October 5, after days of arduous hitchhiking straight from San Francisco (with the aforementioned Salt Lake City carousal in between), I arrived at the new house of the Truth Force, where I found all my old friends with excitement, hugs, and kisses. Soon I learned that Kris had a new boyfriend.

Somehow this changed everything. I stayed a few more days in Boulder, but things had moved on, and I hadn't been there at the right time. I had planned to fly back home to Germany on October 15, but so far this had only been a plan. Now it became a fact. Neil was still around, Tim, and also Jimmy, whose nose was adorned with a big scar. I remember many long and intense discussions. I met Butch, Chuck, Alice, and Deborah - my complete affinity group. One evening a few of us went to the cinema and watched Scorsese's great concert movie The Last Waltz.

My diary contains many more details most of which I am skipping here. With Scott and a girl by the name of Hallee ("like Hallelujah"), I drove to a meeting of local groups in Denver; we listened to Tom Rush in the Blue Note and sent a mail to John Lennon inviting him to do a benefits concert on the tracks. But these last days were increasingly being overshadowed by my pending departure. Of all the many places I had seen in the U.S. and the crazy, kind, bizarre, hospitable mix of people I had met, this was where I felt most at home.

On October 10 I left Boulder for good.