I am fully expecting a moving testimonial sometime today from Mr Trump singing praises of the heroes of the Battle of Los Angeles.
It was late night on the 24th of February, in 1942. Air raid sirens began blaring over Los Angeles. As the night turned to the earliest morning of the 25th, some people saw a formation of planes, some reports said twenty, others two hundred, others said, no, it was a blimp, advancing over the Palos Verdes peninsula, or maybe it was Culver City, or, perhaps Santa Monica.
Search lights crossed through the night, and around three a.m. local guards and military met the advancing threat with a barrage of anti-aircraft fire. Some emptied machine guns into the sky. Others aimed their rifles through the searching lights and at the enemy. No doubt a few revolvers were fired off. All in all, at least so far as military ordinance, which is of course counted, over fourteen hundred rounds were fired in these early hours.
There were casualties. Three people died from heart attacks, while five more were killed by friendly fire.
But, strangely no enemy planes were brought down, nor was there any debris found, except the expended rounds themselves.
Later the authorities suggested an errant weather balloon fired off highly anxious people.
But, those who know said, no. There was a governmental coverup. Precisely of what was debated. Some realized what people had thought was a blimp was in fact a flying saucer. Although they did agree there was a coverup.
Whatever, today we recall. The event. The people.
And what we are capable of when we get confused about our dreams.
Me, I have mixed feelings. No doubt in my heart there is wisdom to be found in crowds of people pulling together, working together. But. Also. As true as the blood in your veins, there is also a madness in crowds.
And thinking of our times and our place, it sends a chill down my back…
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