Throughout the evening demonstrators talked to the guards about their political views, urged them to drop their guns and "join us," and offered them food. SDS loud speakers announced that three of the guards had defected and had then been recaptured by the military. Although it is hard to verify the defections, a number of the demonstrators say they saw at least one of the defectors. Right after the first announcement that an MP had "dropped his rifle, taken off his belt and helmet, and walked into the crowd," a soldier missing his rifle, belt, and helmet was marched (under what appeared to be armed guard) up the steps of the Pentagon and into the building.

But in all, the soldiers were unresponsive to the "teach-out" tactics that the demonstrators adopted. Occasionally one would break down and crack a smile, or mutter under his breath that he wasn't allowed to talk. Thus, save for the threats from the Marshals, the only time I heard a soldier speak was when the paratrooper in front of me turned to his sergeant and said in a disgusted voice, "Somebody's smoking grass."

Around 10 p.m. when the harrassment started up again, units from the 82nd Airborne were brought in to replace the MP's. As they stepped into line, one by one, they stamped to attention and slapped the metal butts of their carbines on the concrete making a frightening sound. While the MP's looked like a bunch of frightened kids in uniform, the paratroopers looked tough and disciplined. The next two hours proved that they were as tough as they looked; as the soldiers inched further into the crowd more people were beaten and torn away from those who tried to hold them.

A messenger came running from the North side of the Pentagon with news of violent clashes between Mar- shals and demonstrators near the access roads. "This is a picnic up here," he screamed, "people are being massacred down there. You can hear the heads splitting a block away." There was discussion about whether people should leave their positions and go down to the access roads but it was decided that it was best to stay. A boy next to me started memorizing the number of a local lawyer. Someone else from behind me said that they wouldn't mind being taken to jail, where it was warm, but she didn't feature getting clubbed.

Near midnight, the tempo of arrests and clubbings accelerated. People starting singing all the old Civil Rights songs over and over. They sang because they were scared and because they felt less alone when they could hear their own righteousness and the unity of the group ringing in their ears. They sang because otherwise they would have screamed or cried or run away. They linked their arms and legs, not so much because they didn't want to be dragged away, but because it was cold, they were scared, and holding onto someone else was reassuring.

People who had not talked with each other all evening introduced themselves and immediately befriended whoever was sitting near them. A scrawny boy named Cliff was sitting in front of me holding onto my feet. After telling me twice that he came from Maine but had been living in D.C. for the last two weeks, he admitted that he wanted to leave. "I want to get out of here, but I just can't desert--I don't know how I got here in the first place--I was going to spend the week-end in Maine."

A lot of people in the front lines were thinking this way and were asking themselves just what the hell they were doing waiting to be bashed in the head. "I didn't come here to do this," one boy announced before surrendering his front-line position. A paratrooper immediately moved up and filled his place. "Is it worth it?" one boy asked after his girlfriend had been abducted--no one had an answer.

There was a marked division of opinion between those people sitting at the feet of the troops and those standing in the back. When it was suggested that a tactical withdrawal might at least be considered, all those at the rear were for sticking it out. "It's easy for you to be so brave," a girl in the front line screamed. A boy next to her echoed her sentiment, "If you're so damn sure we should stay why don't you come up and take my place. This trooper's shoes are Goddamn hard."

During the debate a wedge of paratroopers and Marshals was forming. One of the SDS announcers asked that a military spokesman talk with one of the demonstration leaders in order to avoid further casualties. After several attempts, it became clear that the military was not going to negotiate. The wedge started moving through the center of the crowd, hacking its way through the demonstrators and splitting them in half. A girl was slapped on the side of the head with a rifle and all of a sudden coke bottles, beer cans, pieces of wood, and stones flew into the phalanx of soldiers. One trooper crumpled when he caught a beer can flat in the face. The people in front started begging with those behind not to throw anything because they were the ones who took the punishment, but it happened again and again. "If one more person throws something, I'm going to get up and leave," a girl whimpered. Another boy, right in front of the wedge (and obviously the next target) decided that he hadn't stretched legs all evening and had to take a walk. "Yeah you're going to stretch your way all the way outta here," the boy behind him complained. "Get LBJ out of his warm bed and bring him down here to see what's going on," someone said over the microphone. But nobody came to watch what was going on near the steps of the capital. Everyone who was anyone had gone home--disgusted with the conduct of the demonstrators