E book 24447_60762849 one, two, three edited

'One, Two, Three, What are We Fighting For?'

Preface / Introduction

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Table of Contents
1. 'Look away Dixie Land!' The day that determined the outcome of the U.S. Civil War. The Battle
of Hampton Roads, March 9, 1862. And you are there....
2. Thoughts on the "war to end all wars", mustard gas, Uncle Will, and remembrance.
3. 'One, two, three, what are we fighting for?' Thoughts on the turbulent life and times of George
McGovern, dead at 90, October 21, 2012.

Chromolithograph depicting the Battle
Of Hampton Road


'Look away Dixie Land!' The day that determined the
outcome of the U.S. Civil War. The Battle of Hampton Roads,
March 9, 1862. And you are there....
by Dr. Jeffrey Lant
Author's program note. The American Civil War began April 12, 1861 with the firing of the rebel
forces on Fort Sumter in the harbor of Charleston, South Carolina. It officially ended on April 9,
1865 when General Robert E. Lee surrendered his army at Appomattox Court House. In between,
212,938 people from both sides were killed in action, with total casualties exceeding 625,000 in
what was the most bloody war ever fought on this planet... and the most embittered, as is always the
case when brothers fight each other to the death, enraged, grieving, broken hearted but determined
to have victory, whatever the cost...
This war was filled with incident, great deeds of valor, deeds, too, of squalor, treachery, unmitigated
cruelty... and chivalry... but of all the deeds in this great struggle, the deeds of just a handful of men
determined the outcome. These were the men who fought each other at the Battle of Hampton
Roads, Virginia March 8-9, 1862. And I am taking you there today... for you will want to know who
won, who lost, and why it happened the way it did.
For the incidental music to this article, I have selected Daniel Decatur Emmett's famous tune,
"Dixie," also known as "I Wish I Was in Dixie," a song originating in the black face minstrelsy of
the 1850s. It is a tune that makes even the least likely ready to jump up and whirl. I have selected it
today because, as Abraham Lincoln himself said on April 10, 1865, it's "one of the best tunes I ever
heard" ... but also because of its famous line, "Look away, Dixie Land." After the Battle of Hampton
Roads, Virginia and all the other Confederate states had nothing to look forward to... and everything
to look away from.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FDyF9n5pOqw

But it didn't look that way on March 8, 1862... quite the contrary.
News of the most alarming portent arrives in Washington, D.C., Sunday, March 9, 1862.
Gideon Wells, a New England journalist, found himself urgently summoned to the White House.
Come! Come at once! And this Connecticut Yankee, in his unlikely role as Secretary of the Navy,
scurried to a meeting where he found Mr. Edwin Stanton, Secretary of War, in the greatest possible
dismay... and so alarmed himself that he was alarming, too, the President of the Dis-united States of
America.
It was a scene to brighten every heart in Dixie... and cause shrewd financiers to sell U.S. Treasury
bonds short before Wall Street opened Monday, to chaos and defeatism.
Mr. Stanton could not keep still, could not hide his profound anxiety and fear. He sat down, only to
jump up again and rush to the windows... What was he looking for? A savior for the Union cause...
What did he expect to see? The CSS Virginia in all her glory steaming up the Potomac, sinking the
Federal cause with effortless grace. It was a scene of destiny, and every man on both sides of the
struggle knew that history of the gravest magnitude was happening now! To them! At Hampton
Roads! And so depending on their point of view and allegiance they either gave way to unbridled
joy... or profound despair and lamentation. No one was neutral on this urgent matter.
USS Merrimac into CSS Virginia.

http://www.LizsWorldprofit.com Copyright Elizabeth English - 2012 4 of 13

The largest naval installation of the Great Republic was at Norfolk in Virginia... and so after the Old
Dominion seceded (April 24, 1861) it became a matter of the greatest urgency to both sides to



arrange matters there to their greatest advantage. This to the Federal forces meant moving as much
as could be moved, destroying the rest. And, to the rebels, to do just the reverse.
Thus was the USS Merrimac, unable to be removed in time and against the rebel sentiments of her
crew, burnt and sunk... but not effectively. Her new owners quickly discovered both hull and
engines were serviceable... and so began her transformation into the CSS Virginia, the vessel which
made Secretary Stanton quail with acute fear and humiliating anxiety.
Why?
Because CSS Virginia, for all that she had just weeks ago been scuttled, was transformed into the
mightiest ship of all the navies of all the seas... a ship sheathed in iron, designed to deal death to the
picturesque, now ineffectual sailing ships of every navy, but without suffering a single nick at all.
Thus did the dead Merrimac come to be the super weapon the Confederacy needed to pulverize the
Union and secure their freedom from the meddling, inept Yankees they despised.
Confederate triumph March 8, 1862.
The world changed this day... as the Virginia, with the merest motion, rammed the hapless USS
Cumberland, 121 seamen going down with her... then the USS Congress was put out of action,
surrendering... and everyone, from the merest cabin boy, saw the future... and knew that every
gallant wooden vessel, yesterday puissant, was now dross. And so, as cat to mouse, Virginia moved
to her next sure triumph, USS Minnesota... while every telegrapher sent on the news, the news that
so discomfited Secretary Stanton... and every other brave Union heart. Armageddon was here... and
it flew a Confederate flag.
Until...
In August, 1861 Gideon Wells authorized work on a top-secret Union ironclad... and in due course
the USS Monitor was born, the most radical naval design ever; the invention of Swedish engineer
and inventor John Ericsson. And it was this curious, much mocked vessel that steamed into
Hampton Roads March 9, just in time, to reverse what but yesterday had seemed certain, Southern
command of the seas and therefore victory.
And as Monitor and Virginia battled each other to a draw, each unable to finish its deft opponent,
the entire strategic scene changed. All wooden ships, every single one, was now obsolete; thus a new
arms race started for command of the seas. USS Monitor had, simply by maneuvering to a draw,
stopped the South's "certain" advance and commenced a war of bloody attrition, a war the North
could win, and the South had most reason to fear. For without access to the world, the South could
only rely on itself... and that would never be enough to ensure independence as every Southern
family would, in tragic due course, come to understand only too well. As for both the historic ships
of this engagement, neither sailed for long. Virginia was burnt again and sunk when Union forces
took back the Norfolk port facilities in May. As for the plucky Monitor, she sank December 31,1862
off North Carolina. The remains of one of her stricken crew, 24-year-old James Fenwick, were just
recently brought to the surface for honorable burial. He had been married just a few weeks before
Monitor embarked on her final voyage; her history short but epochal.
"Old times they are not forgotten; Look away! Look away! Look away! Dixie Land."



Thoughts on the "war to end all wars", mustard gas, Uncle
Will, and remembrance.
by Dr. Jeffrey Lant.
Author's program note. This Memorial Day for the first time since the clock struck eleven on the
eleventh day of the eleventh month of 1918, the day of Armistice, there are no known World War I
veterans extant. The last U.S. veteran, Frank Buckles, died in 2011 after celebrating his 110th
birthday. He served as a U.S. Army ambulance driver in Europe, rising to the rank of corporal before
the war ended. Then there was just one more...
Florence Green died in 2012 at age 110, just two weeks before her 111th birthday. She joined the
Women's Royal Air Force in September 1918 at the age of seventeen. She went to work as a
waitress in the officers' mess at RAF Marham in eastern England, and was serving there when the
war ended in 1918.
With these two deaths, now they are all dead, in their millions, the men and women who fought to
make the world safe for democracy, theirs the "war to end all wars" as President Woodrow Wilson
earnestly asserted and solemnly pronounced to a world which, after its great sacrifices, wanted so
very desperately to believe him, no one more so than William Edward Marshall, my Great Uncle
Will.
How an Archduke changed the life of a gridiron hero, the most handsome man in Henderson
County.
"The Great War", as its survivors dubbed it, began when a zealous young Slav nationalist named
Gavrilo Princip shot the Archduke Franz Ferdinand, heir to the throne of Austria-Hungary, and his
morganatic wife Countess Chotek at point blank range . They both died at once... while Austrian
authorities proceeded to break Princip's body like so many pretzels. Thus did Princip, just 20,
become the first man of millions who yearned for home and peace, finding premature death instead.
And so he died starting the invidious process that killed tit... which then had to kill tat... who
outraged, had to kill tit yet again.
Why did he plan to murder, to assassinate The Heir? For only the highest and best reasons you may
be sure... reasons for which over 60,000,000 people around the world died, every day that trail of
blood and mayhem emanating from the slumped body of His Royal and Imperial Highness grew
broader and broader still. His dead eyes asked a single question, the question hitherto unquestioning
millions would ask in their turn "Why"? The answer is to be found in part in William Edward
Marshall, citizen of Stronghurst, Illinois, 21st state of the Great Republic.
To understand World War I you must understand how Will Marshall, as everyone always called
him, gave up everything he knew and valued to go fight on behalf of faraway people he didn't know
and would never meet, knowingly risking life and limb, remember -- for total strangers.
About Will Marshall.
William Edward Marshall achieved the highest rank his country could confer the moment of his
birth, for then, the very instant he was born he was Citizen of the Great Republic, a title, style and
dignity unknown in most of Europe whose opulent princes had subjects, not citizens. Here Will
Marshal, for all that he was not a prince or count, was better off -- and knew it. Thus his belief in the
Great Republic, its whys and wherefores, came as easily as breathing. He was a free man in a free
country, a man whose right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness was assured by the
Constitution of the United States. These rights came from his relationship to God, not because of



some calculated gesture of a Machiavellian prince who might later rescind what he rued to give.
William Edward Marshall's rights were sacrosanct for him.... and every other Citizen. This was
America in 1890 the year Will Marshall was born, the land of the free and the home of the brave.
Football hero, farmer, respected man of peace.
Will Marshall was called without irony the handsomest man in Henderson County. "That and two
bits will buy you pie and coffee," even his deflating father said. Will didn't mind the raillery; after
all, tall, well made, fleet of foot and master strategist he was that most American of local heroes...
from whose agile moves came a lifetime's respect from those who would tear the goal posts down
after they had seen Will Marshall run past them -- again. Such feats are cherished everywhere in
America, but nowhere more than in the tiny hamlet of Stronghurst, Illinois; population still under
1000 souls in 1914... everyone of them knew what a good man Will Marshall was... how
hard-working, how public spirited, how well he must stand with his God. And so things might have
continued but for the murderous meeting between an archduke on a sunny July day and a zealot
determined to exterminate him.
Will Marshall goes to war, to France, to his destiny.
Will Marshall was not a warrior, not a man of marshal attitudes, uniforms, poses and gestures.
Farmers, tillers of the land, bringing forth its bounty by their own incessant labor, seldom are. They
know how difficult it is to create life, to spend any of their limited time on this planet destroying it.
Will Marshall abhorred war, yet went to war, the greatest and most destructive war ever, because the
Great Republic and its affairs needed him... and that was that.
"The Yanks are coming."
Thus, Will Marshall became part of the American Expeditionary Forces (AEF) and in due course
found himself one of over one million citizen-soldiers stationed in France, over half of whom were
at the front lines, including him. There as the increasingly desperate German imperial forces grew
more desperate yet, considering, doing every single thing they could do to snatch victory from
increasingly certain defeat, Will Marshall met his fate, in a cloud of poison gas.
Mustard gas.
Contrary to popular belief, gas as a weapon was first introduced by the French army. However it was
the Germans with their customary organizational genius and chemical skills who perfected the
process. For the defence and glory of the Fatherland anything, even the most horrid thing, was
contemplated, considered and ultimately used. Some apologist somewhere would no doubt advance
a comfortable rationale...
And so one ordinary day an ordinary German solider lobbed the mustard gas that sent William
Edward Marshall, citizen, descendant of the great Chief Justice who helped shape the new nation,
one of nature's gentlemen, to his knees, brought low by the toxic beauty of gas; stealthy, silent,
serene.
But there, you see, is the rub. For gas is one of the cruelest weapons ever created. During the actual
mustard gas attack its manifestations may not be seen, will not be seen for hours, even days. Then...
the gas you inhaled, perhaps without knowing it, became the pernicious agent of your end... the gas
rules you and decides whether you live or die, what manifestations and disabilities may be yours
and torment you for years, for life.
Thus, starting from the day he was gassed until the day he died, Uncle Will lived a life where his
sight degenerated . Remedies were tried. Doctors consulted. Prayers by one and all given for his
recovery, for he was a popular man. All to no avail. The effects of that gas cost him at once one eye.



The second deteriorated year by year until in 1934 he could see nothing at all. Light, for him, had
ceased to exist.
Uncle Will and Me.
When I was growing up in the 'fifties, my family visited Stronghurst every so often. We never failed
to visit Uncle Will and his charming wife Alma. My father made sure we behaved properly. He was
especially keen on the handshake, "Firm, NOT limp!" And how to walk across the parlor properly,
so Uncle Will knew how many steps you took. In this way he calculated how tall you were and how
much you'd grown since the last visit.
The room was quiet, sound muted, light filtered. Uncle Will sat in a great, sturdy chair, its size
necessary to contain the football player of old. I looked closely at his face; this was the face of a
man of resignation and calm acceptance. He remained handsome, even noble right until the end.
He never complained. Never said a word about that day so long ago. Never was anything but gentle,
polite, good humored and glad to see you. He had fought his war, done his bit, paid the terrible price
and could look the world in the eye, his pride deep, profound, abiding. The Great Republic has
besought his help. He had given in full measure, and for him it was "Over, over there", not a bitter
reality revisited daily.
Now not only Uncle Will but every veteran of the Great War is gone. Now they no longer die by
thousands each day... but, far worse, are forgotten in their thousands each day; men and women
whose lives were utterly and completely committed to us, now not even a moment's thought by us.
Yet we are all the children of their unequalled gifts and should always be glad and glad to say so.
They ask so little now, but we begrudge them even that, satisfied to take, satisfied to give them
nothing, not even heartfelt recognition of our eternal debt.
May God forgive us.
Author's closing note. Like so many of his buddies, Uncle Will loved "Over There", a jaunty tune
written by George M. Cohan in 1917.. Find it in any search engine. Turn up the sound and
remember.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wbggEGUaE28

World War 1 Veterans



'One, two, three, what are we fighting for?' Thoughts on the
turbulent life and times of George McGovern, dead at 90,
October 21, 2012.
by Dr. Jeffrey Lant.
Author's program note. On Election Day November, 1968 my father and I walked to the polling
place in West Los Angeles where I proudly voted for the first time (as he told the poll worker), for
electors pledged to Richard M. Nixon for president of the United States.
Four years later, now a graduate student at Harvard and a resident of Massachusetts, I walked alone
to the Cambridge polling place and with a pencil cast my vote for electors pledged to George
McGovern.
All that was missing was the tune the victorious new Americans played at Yorktown in 1781 when
the British forces under Lord Cornwallis surrendered; that tune was "The World Turned Upside
Down"... and so it was. What had caused this seismic change in me and in the Great Republic?
Vietnam. A word, a place, an event, a symbol, a tragedy, a charnel house, a quagmire, a conundrum.
A squalid moment in the often squalid affairs of mankind... a place where many erred and far too
many died .. but where one decent, thoughtful man gained honor and the hard-won title of "patriot",
a designation he would gratefully have laid down if that would have spared a single young life.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=594JpY2ahFg
That man was George McGovern. This is his story. And this is why it matters and why, upon the
occasion of his death, it must be recalled, if only to remind what one individual of vision,
commitment, and determination can do to right the greatest wrongs and make the crucial difference.
Born George Stanley McGovern, July 19, 1922, Avon, South Dakota.
To understand a man you need to know where he comes from, who his people were and what they
believed in and stood for. George McGovern was born in the 600-person farming community of
Avon, a hamlet which shared a name but nothing more with Shakespeare's verdant village. Those
who love South Dakota, and he remained one of them for life, never underestimated or glamorized
its stark, unyielding, punishing realities. Life was hard in the Dakotas, but it offered the one thing
that made life worth living: freedom. Freedom to work hard, to risk all, to find God and to look
every man squarely in the face, the equal of all, subservient to none. In short, it was, despite its
unending challenges, the best possible place on Earth, for here was everything that mattered.
His parents were stolid Republicans, of Northern Irish, Scottish, and English descent. And they were
Methodists, his father the pastor of the local Wesleyan Methodist Church. As such they were the
heirs of John Wesley's "Great Awakening", commencing in the 1730s; people who knew what God
intended and accepted the necessity, yes the privilege, of being responsible for improving, not just
accepting, present reality. This was a key factor in McGovern's life and work, for he was no
respecter of present realities per se but only the necessity to improve them. And so he set to work on
his first reform project, targeting himself. He realized he could not ask others to improve if he would
not improve himself.
Thus this painfully shy boy, average in everything, forced himself to talk, to learn, to advance, to be
better. Tongue-tied, he turned himself by assiduous, painstaking effort into an admired debate
champion.
And when in seventh grade, a gym teacher called him a "physical coward", in the thoughtless way of
that ilk, McGovern vowed to show him. And in due course in the "good war", World War II, he did;

flying the B-24 Liberator, one of the most difficult airplanes to fly because in the early part of the



war, they didn't have hydraulic controls. McGovern likened it to "driving a Mack truck without any
power steering or power breaks."
He flew 35 combat missions as a B-24 pilot, receiving the Distinguished Flying Cross and an Air
Medal with three oak leaf clusters. He was no coward, physical or otherwise. Nor did he brag about
his achievements; few, even friends, knew anything about his valor and pluck. He was a
professional. He had been called to do a job. He had done it well. He was ready for his next
mission... and the one after that.
A learned man, a growing sympathy for the underdog.
Like all the great reformers, McGovern recognized the importance of education, not just for children
and young people, but for everyone. And so he studied for the ministry at Northwestern University;
then took a Master's degree (1949) in history; then in 1953 his doctorate. His 450-page dissertation
was titled "The Colorado Coal Strike, 1913- 1914". It was a sympathetic account of the miners'
revolt against Rockefeller interests in the Colorado Coalfield War. His thesis adviser, eminent
historian Arthur Link, later said he had not seen a better student than McGovern in 26 years of
teaching. He was far indeed from the awkward, shy, tongue-tied boy of yore.
From teaching history to making it.
Having graduated, he did what most newly minted PhDs did: he taught college history and politics
for several years. But research, contemplation, writing and teaching weren't enough. He itched to do
more than write and lecture about history's reformers; bit by bit, as he knew himself better, he
admitted he wanted to become one. And the fertile field of South Dakota politics lay open before
him. What he did next was bold, audacious, a course of genius or just madness. He decided to bring
the Democratic Party to one of the most Republican states of the Great Republic; a state where every
office-holder was Republican and 108 legislative seats out of 110. With his family background and
exemplary war record, he might easily have joined the majority party.
However, he'd been touched by FDR, Henry Wallace, Harry Truman, and Adlai Stevenson, the man
he named his only son after, in 1952. They enlightened him; they clarified; they enthused; they
motivated. In the 1954 elections he showed what he could do; 25 seats went Democratic and
McGovern was launched. The party he forged then sent him to the U.S. Congress in 1956; to the
U.S. Senate in 1962 (after losing the 1960 race to Senator Karl Mundt whom he loathed as a Red-
baiting McCarthyite).
In office, he focused on improvements for rural America, farm support, and the popular Food for
Peace program. Under usual circumstances a senator in his position could have reasonably aspired
to the chairmanship of the Senate Agriculture Committee, even the Cabinet as Secretary of
Agriculture. These were worthy, if not stellar, objectives. However, in September, 1963 he rose on
the Senate floor; his subject was a nation not one in a thousand citizens of South Dakota could even
find on a map; a small, far-away nation; a nation now engulfed in war and disintegration. Senator
McGovern rose and admonished America on its course of involvement and escalation. America soon
enough would have reason to rue the lack of care and attention it gave his pressing message.
Vietnam. The apotheosis of George McGovern.
Now the dance macabre began. North Vietnam and its allies advanced; South Vietnam fell back; the
United States escalated its support; McGovern escalated his disapprovals, condemnations, and
denunciations. And all the while vulnerable flesh paid its bleeding price in death, disfigurements,
dismemberments, each incident blighting a young life, sundering a great nation and causing
worldwide disbelief and censure. McGovern, however reluctantly, took up the cause as his crusade.
The Great Republic had fashioned this man for its great need. And the man was ready.



This was what the man came to believe and what he told his Senate colleagues, the Great Republic
and the world in September, 1970:
"Every Senator in this chamber is partly responsible for sending 50,000 young Americans to an
early grave. This chamber reeks of blood. Every Senator here is partly responsible for that human
wreckage at Walter Reed and Bethesda Naval and all across our land -- young men without legs, or
arms, or genitals, or faces or hopes... If we do not end this damnable war those young men will some
day curse us for our pitiful willingness to let the Executive carry the burden that the Constitution
places on us."
But the Senate defeated his position 55-39. At this the greatest moment of his life, he knew he would
have to run for President because only the President could end the war, end the unending blood and
futility, and redeem the nation.
He runs, he loses, 1972. Plane talk with RMN.
One day in 1991, McGovern found himself on a plane sitting next to the man who crushed him in
1972 in a electoral rout of near historic proportions. "We had a nice talk," said Nixon. "He was
always a very decent guy who had the guts to stand up for what he believed in." In other words, the
man on the moral high ground ran the worst possible campaign with Nemesis its manager.
Democratic House Speaker Thomas P. O'Neill, Jr. quipped that McGovern had been nominated by
the cast of "Hair". He was tagged with the label "amnesty, abortion and acid." He goofed every
aspect of the campaign, not least the fiasco of his vice presidential choice Missouri Senator Thomas
Eagleton. Eagleton was hardly vetted at all; was found to have a history of mental instability and
shock treatment.
McGovern said he'd stand by his man "1,000 percent", then promptly dropped him. The next 5
prominent Democrats he asked to run with him turned him down flat -- and publicly. He never laid a
glove on Nixon. Famously McGovern carried only Massachusetts and the District of Columbia.
Decency alone wasn't nearly enough. Being right wasn't enough. You needed a unique set of
attributes, skills and a willingness to do everything, go anywhere, say anything to get elected.
McGovern didn't have them... as I came to see for myself when I met him at Harvard in 1977.
Food for peace, food for thought.
In those days, McGovern was focusing on what he should be more widely known for: feeding the
world. He came to Cambridge to collaborate with Dr. Jean Mayer, internationally known for his
work eradicating hunger, promoting proper nutrition, fighting obesity, each and every one a
lifetime's work. Because I was one of Dr. Mayer's assistants, I had the run of the house and so met
George McGovern (re-elected Senator in 1974) at Mayer's Dudley House residence. And in my role
as fly on the wall, I noted everything. I already knew just how much historians value the smallest
detail, the detail that, in a few words, provides the critical aperture to understanding.
There was none of that divinity that doth hedge a king about McGovern. His charisma was zero. I
own to being disappointed. This was my man; I wanted to be impressed, awed, bowled over by wit
and wisdom. But that wasn't how he was, especially on that day.
It was easy to talk to him, and I made good use of my opportunity. I told him of my family in and
about Blunt, South Dakota, the Lauings. He said, as one does, that the name was familiar. I didn't tell
him they were rock-ribbed Republicans. He probably deduced as much for himself.
Then the phone rang as it would ring for him many times that day. It was his son, his only son Steve,
alcoholic, problem, lifelong worry. I could tell from Mcgovern's side of the conversation that there
was a crisis brewing; the calls were frequent, short; arrangements were being made. McGovern



looked worn, tired, fretful. There was nothing I could do; just stay at hand in case he needed
something. It was the kind of support South Dakota folks provided, useful, silent, not worth
mentioning, coffee's on the stove; the essence of Prairie friendship and true grit.
McGovern knew, none better, the tragedy of adult children in crisis, children he loved but couldn't
help, couldn't reach; first Steve who finally found peace July 27, 2012; then his daughter Terry
December 13, 1994. He captured her harrowing struggle in his 1996 book "Terry: My Daughter's
Life-and-Death Struggle with Alcoholism." He would later say that Terry's death was by far the most
painful event of his life. It was no wonder he seemed, pre-occupied, distant, distracted the day I met
him. It was the kind of day one faces often with alcoholics and drug abusers; a day where there is
pain and where any hope at all is the greatest self-deception. He no longer hoped... and for such a
man that was torment.
Envoi.
In 1976, George McGovern, uncomfortable with Jimmy Carter, moved right as ex-Democratic
presidential candidates not infrequently do (John W. Davis, Al Smith) and voted Republican, this
time for Gerald Ford, the decent man who performed the healing role McGovern might have liked
for himself. He could appreciate the many virtues of such a man, for he was such a man. No wonder
his last creative work was his 2008 book on Abraham Lincoln and his recorded narration for Aaron
Copeland's "Lincoln Portrait", done with the South Dakota Symphony Orchestra. Find it now in any
search engine. McGovern found solace in the work, peace, tranquility, and a renewed belief in great
America and its Great Republic, of the people, by the people, for the people.
... and so will you.

George McGovern



Resource
About the Author Harvard-educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant is CEO of Worldprofit, Inc., providing a wide
range of online services for small and-home based businesses. Services include home business
training, affiliate marketing training, earn-at-home programs, traffic tools, advertising, webcasting,
hosting, design, WordPress Blogs and more. Find out why Worldprofit is considered the # 1 online
Home Business Training program by getting a free Associate Membership today.
Republished with author's permission by Elizabeth English http://LizsWorldprofit.com.


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