Not Paid Eleven Cents An Hour to Think
Jim Gibson was flying to the other side of the world into what he thought could be the end of his life. Our country was suffering five hundred soldiers a week dead in Vietnam, and he was a twenty year old Army Private, a trained Combat Medic, dressed in brand new, scratchy, combat jungle fatigues and boots. He was
wondering if he could survive and make it back home alive.
He had been against the war, but it made no difference. Young men like him were being forcefully drafted against their will into a war that made no sense to them; a war being conducted by old white men whom they saw as relics; corrupt politicians. The FBI would come looking for them if they tried to resist, even at their parent’s houses.