PARADES FOR PEACE AND PATRIOTISM

ONCE again, on main streets and Broadway, in village halls, Statehouses and the national capital, at coliseums, campuses and churches, Americans turned out to march, argue and declaim over Viet Nam. The spectacle in many ways resembled the October Moratorium, but with a major difference. This time, answering Richard Nixon's call, the opponents of dissent also demonstrated in force, making a counterattack and a purposeful counterpoint to the antiwar protesters. For the President's "silent majority," Veterans Day provided a natural opportunity to sound the trumpets of loyalty and patriotism as defined by Nixon. No less patriotic by their own lights, the antiwar forces also blossomed with American flags in three days of nationwide activities that were anchored by mass marches in Washington and San Francisco.

Every viewpoint found its defenders: militants who would fight to the end, those who back the President's gradual disengagement policy, others who want him to move faster, advocates of instantaneous and total U.S. withdrawal from Southeast Asia. During much of the time that tens of thousands of young marchers against the war filed past the White House, the President remained aloof inside, showing no sign that he was moved to consider any policy change. He seems under no immediate compulsion to do so. The massive demonstration in Washington showed the continuing momentum of dissent. Nonetheless, the week's activity nationwide served to emphasize that those who want an immediate end to the war, regardless of consequences, still represent a minority. The week showed one marked change in the national ethos --a more sharply defined split not only over the war itself but over the legitimacy of dissent. Activists both for and against the Administration promised to increase their efforts; if they do, it seems inevitable that the national division over the war will widen.

Prominent Dropouts. The two mass antiwar demonstrations were the creation of the New Mobilization Committee to End the War in Viet Nam, a conglomerate that includes pacifists, Trotskyites, clergymen, socialists of various stripes, Communists, radicals and non-ideologists who simply want out of the war. Though there is some overlap of leadership, the New Mobe is distinct from the Viet Nam Moratorium Committee, a more moderate organization that began the M-day series last month and plans to continue them monthly as long as the U.S. remains in Viet Nam. The Moratorium leaders supported the New Mobe's marches, though the mass demonstrations in Washington and San Francisco drew manpower and spirit away from smaller observances elsewhere.

The difference between the two groups soon became starkly clear. The New Mobe, though it has a middle-aged leadership, attracted to Washington and San Francisco a youthful following. The Moratorium events, though organized by McCarthy campaign veterans who are mostly in their 20s and early 30s, managed to draw a broader cross section of support because of their less strident tone. A number of public officials who participated fully in the October Moratorium wanted nothing to do with the New Mobe's operation, for the most part because they feared becoming associated with radicals who might cause violence. Among the prominent dropouts: Senators Edmund Muskie, Edward Kennedy, Frank Church and Jacob Javits. Other doves stuck with the movement, particularly Senators Charles Goodell, Eugene McCarthy and George McGovern.

Freelance Fanatics. The apprehensions of the more cautious Senators were at least partly borne out. While last month's Moratorium activities were violence-free, a group of young extremists in Washington last week twice marred the peace kept by the overwhelming majority of demonstrators. Breaking off from the main force, an ad hoc collection of Crazies, Yippies, Mad Dogs, Weathermen and freelance fanatics numbering more than 1,000 banded together as the Revolutionary Contingent for the Vietnamese People. On Friday night, as nonviolent activities continued elsewhere in Washington, they tried to march on the South Vietnamese embassy. One chant along the way: "Two, four, six, eight/Organize and smash the state!" When District police blocked their path, the kids threw bottles and rocks. The police replied with tear gas. With one or two exceptions, they held nightsticks in check; the cops acted, in fact, with cool competence. The retreating kids retaliated by breaking store windows, stoning cars and burning a police motorcycle. Ten policeman were injured and 26 youths arrested in the skirmish, which lasted for nearly four hours.

All told, the Government had earlier mustered more than 11,000 National Guardsmen, paratroopers, military police and Marines to serve as reserves behind Washington's 3,800-man police force. Contingents of troops were placed around the White House and in Government buildings considered likely targets for extremists, including the Justice Department. The Justice Department was also headquarters of Attorney General John Mitchell's intelligence center, where information was gathered and deployments plotted for policing the march. Sure enough, Justice became the scene of the second violent incident, this one on Saturday night. Nearly 5,000 youngsters massed behind red banners, though the majority had come to watch rather than attack. The cry was "Stop the trial!"--the Chicago trial of those accused of conspiracy in last year's Democratic Convention riots. The mob got close enough to the Justice building to throw stones through windows and to substitute a Viet Cong standard for an American flag in front of the building. Again the police were circumspect, and troops stayed out of the action. New Mobe marshals tried to make the mob go back, actually interposing themselves between demonstrators and the police. It was no use. After one of the senior marshals talked to Police Chief Jerry Wilson, he ordered: "Marshals get back to the side. God help us." Using tear gas, the police then broke up the demonstration, sending the marchers fleeing in small groups. There was no punitive clubbing or mass arrests; only 32 were picked up.

March Marshals. The last thing the New Mobe leaders had wanted was violence. Unlike the 1967 march on the Pentagon and the demonstrations at the 1968 Chicago convention--both led by some of those now active in the New Mobe--civil disobedience was explicitly excluded from the advance plans. Further, leaders such as Pacifist David Dellinger, 54, Sociology Professor Sidney Peck, 42, and Economics Professor Douglas Dowd, 50, had sought out younger radical chiefs for assurances that there would be no provocation of the police or the military personnel assembled in Washington.

One potential source of conflict was eliminated when the organizers and the Justice Department compromised on the route of the mass march. At first, officials refused to consider Pennsylvania Avenue. After the intercession of the Federal City's mayor, Walter Washington, and assurances that the New Mobe organizers were indeed attempting to minimize trouble, Justice yielded on Pennsylvania Avenue--the capital's traditional parade route--but insisted that the line of march turn south before reaching the front of the White House. The New Mobe also designated about 3,000 march marshals to help keep order. The motivation was not entirely altruistic. Violence would impeach the entire peace movement, supporting the argument that to be antiwar is to be anti-America.

Most marchers probably did not think of it that way; they were just nonviolent types moved by the spirit of Woodstock--a mingling of festive mood and soulful reflection. Beginning in midweek, by bus, train, plane and car, the kids poured into Washington. Pea coats, bellbottoms, old Army field jackets and blue denim dominated the fashion scene. Those over 25 and conventionally dressed were a small minority.

The "March Against Death," the first antiwar ritual of the week in Washington, began at 6 p.m. Thursday. Disciplined in organization, friendly in mood, it started at Arlington National Cemetery, went past the front of the White House and on to the west side of the Capitol. Walking single file and grouped by states, the protesters carried devotional candles and 24-in. by 8-in. cardboard signs, each bearing the name of a man killed in action or a Vietnamese village destroyed by the war. The candles flickering in the wind, the funereal rolling of drums, the hush over most of the line of march--but above all, the endless recitation of names of dead servicemen and gutted villages as each marcher passed the White House --were impressive drama: "Jay Dee Richter" . . . "Milford Togazzini" . . . "Vinh Linh, North Viet Nam" . . . "Joseph Y. Ramirez." At the Capitol, each sign was solemnly deposited in one of several coffins, later conveyed back up Pennsylvania Avenue in the Saturday march.

Mrs. Judy Droz, 23, of Columbia, Mo., was chosen to walk first in the March Against Death. Her husband, a Navy officer, died in Viet Nam last spring. "I have come to Washington to cry out for liberty, for freedom, for peace," she said. The New Mobe organizers had recruited others who had lost loved ones in the war, but some gold-star families wanted none of it. In Philadelphia and Dallas, groups of mothers and widows of G.I.s killed in combat obtained court orders to bar use of the men's names by the protesters.

No Pesticide. Drums, this time muffled in black crape, also led the second parade Saturday morning, when the full force of demonstrators started from the Capitol on the mile-long walk to the Washington Monument. Despite the confusion and the orders unheard in the din and the cold wind, the crowd was remarkably orderly.

"Peace now!" was the chant heard most often. Some radicals who say that they want a Communist victory in Viet Nam produced Viet Cong flags, and at least 50 portraits of Ho Chi Minh were in evidence. On the other hand. American flags, distributed free, festooned the line of march. The banners, buttons and shouts showed the movement's broad diversity. One contingent followed the cry: "Big firms profit, G.I.s die!"

THE MOVEMENT NEEDS STRONG BODIES and NO PESTICIDES, PURE FOODS read other mottoes. Yet another banner proclaimed: PEACE, PEACE, PEACE, SEND SPIRO BACK TO GREECE.

Despite the militant words, the mood of the crowd was almost uniformly cheerful. Eugene McCarthy had spoken at the assembly point, telling the marchers that their mission was "to light and lift the moral burdens which rest upon every American." Ahead, at the monument, were other heroes, including Rock and Folk Performers Pete Seeger, Arlo Guthrie and some performers from Hair. There, it appeared that Police Chief Jerry Wilson's crowd estimate of 250,000 might be low. A solid, bundled carpet of humanity covered the cold, hard ground. Even at Wilson's figure, it was the biggest turnout of its kind that Washington had ever seen, exceeding even the 1963 civil rights rally, which took place on a pleasant August day.

Most of the audience stuck it out for the full five hours, though few of the speakers seemed to make much of an impression. Coretta King, Goodell and McGovern made thoughtful if somewhat predictable speeches. The afternoon's high point came not from reasoned advocacy but from litany. Pete Seeger, Mitch Miller, and Peter, Paul and Mary led the crowd in chanting a single refrain over and over: "All we are saying is give peace a chance."

The rally in San Francisco was also the biggest demonstration in that city's history. At the end of the sevenmile march from Pier 29 to Golden Gate Park, some 125,000 people had assembled. The day was entirely peaceful, though some of the talk coming from the platform was wild. The most extreme statements came from David Milliard, a Black Panther leader who spouted obscenities and declared: "We will kill Richard Nixon! We will kill any mother ---- that stands in the way of our freedom!" This was too much for his listeners, who shouted him down with cries of "No! No! No!" and "Peace! Peace! Peace!" Other speakers who attacked Nixon in less virulent terms won applause. When Ralph Abernathy concluded his speech with the chant "Let there be peace now," the throng joined in.

Patriotic Mass. If Saturday belonged to members of the antiwar forces, the earlier part of the week was far more of a contest. Spurred by the example of the first Moratorium and by Nixon's pleas for support, citizens as tired of protest as they are of the war rallied during the week to the President's side. They did not capture the national imagination--or the numbers--that the antiwar movement did, but they succeeded in showing that there are still two popular sides in the debate.

Regular Veterans Day observances in cities and small towns across the country were turned into support-the-Pres-ident demonstrations. In Birmingham, the observance lasted two days and produced the biggest outpouring of any demonstration in the city's memory. Activities there included a patriotic Roman Catholic Mass, a night rally and a three-mile parade that attracted 41 bands. In Pittsburgh, hundreds of spectators shouting "Hey! Hey! U.S.A.!" joined the line of march. At Phoenix Christian High School, students, alumni, teachers and assorted guests joined in a "run for God and country." For 48 hours, participants trotted around the track in relays, logging a noncoincidental 1,776 laps, or 444 miles.

Few of the demonstrations were large. Nixon's silent Americans seem to lack the verve, organization--and spare time --of his critics. They also lack a national apparatus comparable to the Moratorium Committee and the New Mobe. Said Bob Hope, honorary chairman of National Unity Week: "It's pretty hard for good, nice people to demonstrate." Still, the antidissent faction mustered far more activity and activists than before.

One of the biggest Veterans Day expressions of support for the Administration occurred at the Washington Monument. Started by the George Washington University faculty adviser to the Young Americans for Freedom, Professor Charles Moser, and assisted by an assortment of conservatives, the Rally for Freedom attracted nearly 15,000 people. The speakers, including Senator John Tower of Texas and House Armed Services Chairman Mendel Rivers, were all far more hawkish than the President. Rivers inveighed against the "Hanoicrats" in the U.S.--his description of war critics--and called on the country to support not only their President and their servicemen but also Spiro Agnew. The crowd roared its approval as Rivers said: "You back up Spiro and he'll continue to throw it on."

Clean-Cut Victory. Many who proclaim fealty to the Administration are unreconstructed hawks who either do not realize or choose to ignore the fact that Nixon is determined to disengage from Viet Nam. In New Orleans, Randolph Dennis, chairman of Operation Speak Out, sponsored by the Veterans of Foreign Wars, exhorted listeners to "move on to some positive, two-fisted, basic patriotic Americanism" and to work for "a conclusive, clean-cut victory against the sworn enemies of freedom." Others desperately want out of Viet Nam but cannot abide the notion of admitting defeat.

Two unifying factors bind Nixon's constituency on this issue: traditional loyalty to flag and President and evergrowing disgust with dissent. In Medford, Mass., Fred Wehage, 75, a World War I veteran, said: "The war in Viet Nam was all wrong to begin with, but there is no way we can get out. I didn't vote for Nixon, but we've got to support him now." Bob Steffenauer, 46, owns a restaurant in Pleasanton, Calif., and recently welcomed his son back from Viet Nam. He counts himself a Kennedy Democrat but says that some protest leaders "want to subvert Government policy and sink this country. I know Nixon is right in what he's doing." The antiwar protesters are, of course, just as convinced that Nixon is wrong. In the middle are perhaps most Americans--the true silent majority --who are simply on the side of an end to the war in a fashion that will not dishonor or embitter the U.S.

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