Words at war. This is the story of a man of simple heart who went out and did something about freedom and justice and decency. He did not rest his foot on a rail and pound words into a mahogany bar. He clenched his indignant fists and moved in wrath against the forces of evil. Some people who knew Bill Donaldson, people in his hometown in Regina, Canada, others in England, they think of Bill as a boy who disgraced his family. But to those who have seen his soul as I have, he's one of the great unrecorded heroes of our time. A hero, despite the fact that he said, there's nothing else I can do, believe me. I'm going to desert from the British army. I tell you he was a hero, and you will see why. When I have told you the story of my brother, Bill. The National Broadcasting Company in cooperation with the Council on Books and Wartime presents another program in the widely discussed series Words at War. Many of the books dramatized on this program deal with issues which have stimulated considerable controversy. It is not the purpose of Words at War or the National Broadcasting Company to take sides on these issues, but merely to bring you the most representative books of this great world conflict. Our story tonight is based on a portion of L.S.B. Shapiro's book They Left the Back Door Open. Mother always said that Bill was typical old country. My sister Betty and I had studied and worked to make a place for ourselves in the new world. But Bill, Bill still belonged to the crowded poverty-stricken slums of Glasgow. Well, there's all kinds has to be to make a world. And I'm one of the kind that's easy satisfied. Ah, Bill, Bill. You are your father all over again. You're as old country as he was. And is that bad? Oh, here he goes again, Britain first and forever. No, no, Bill. That's a fine thing to say, Betty. Marking the very country that gave your birth. Oh, Bill, I was just joking. Is England something to joke about then? Or is it something to thank the Lord for every day of your life? Yes, it was the only thing, really, that could make Bill's simple mind glow. To him, Britain was a religion. The Empire was the greatest power for decency and freedom on the face of the Earth. I suppose if the world had stopped spinning through the years, if it could have been riveted at one time, Bill would have been one of the happiest of men on his chosen level. But the world has a way of tearing loose from its moorings. And in 1935, a great poverty fell on the Canadian Northwest.  Any luck today? No, Mum. Not a blooming thing at all. There's such a thing as a job about it, and I can't seem to find it. Ah, well, a bit more time, and you're bound to hit some luck. Don't think so, Mum. It's more than six months now. I've got to do something. Going to England. To the army. To the army? Oh, no, Bill, there's no call for you to do that. John and Betty, they'll do for you. You know that. It isn't that. John and Betty have treated me fine, but I've figured it out. And something else, too. That'll be a grand thing. What, Billy? Setting my foot on the soil of Britain. Something I've dreamt about all my life, Mum. To be in England, serving His Majesty, but one at the same time. Mum, would it be a grand thing? We begged Bill to stay with us, but we couldn't answer his logic. A soldier's life offered security and a simple existence. Combine that with service to king and country, and you have the sum total of Bill's demands on life. So Bill worked his way to Liverpool and signed up for a six-year hitch as a private in the British army. Then an amazing development took place in Bill. His letters. They were startling. Long and eloquent. Detailing every moment of his new existence. He was like a child in a land of fantasy. Dear Mum and Betty and John, well, what do you think? I'm on my first leave, and where do you think I am? London. Did you ever dream that your Bill would get to see London? Well, I certainly never did. I got here two days ago with Alex Rantz, a buddy of mine. Would you believe it? I was so excited the first night I couldn't sleep at all. I sat up all night looking out the window and waiting for morning. Hey, what are you doing out of bed, Bill? Nothing, Alex. Just can't sleep, that's all. I'm thinking of seeing London tomorrow. Carl, what do you think you'll find? A circus? No. No, but, well, all the things I've only seen in pictures, Alex. Waterloo Place, Nelson, the Palace, Westminster, and... I can't sleep thinking of it. Makes you glad to be British, doesn't it? It was the fulfillment of a dream for Bill. Viewing these London scenes, he felt a deep satisfaction. A sense of homecoming. A few months later, Bill closed one of his letters with an important announcement. You see, he had even developed a sense of climax in his writing. I'm just about to say goodbye in this letter. Here's the news I've been saving till the very end. We've started training for India. India? Imagine Bill Donaldson going to India. What an empire. How grand it is to be British. Well, I'll tell you even more about it in my next letter as ever, Bill. Well, I guess Bill has found his niche in life at last. And it's a healthy life, too. A good life. Ah, but there are two ways of looking at that, John. He's a soldier when all is said and done. He may have to fight someday, may it be. Oh, nonsense, Mum. Bill and no more have to fight them. Well, nobody wants war, do they, John? No, Betty. Nobody wants it, I guess. And there won't be any either, thanks to Mr Baldwin and Mr Chamberlain. They're sensible men, really. They believe in settling things by diplomacy, not by force. Why, look at the Italian situation in Ethiopia. Ah, Mr Chamberlain does seem to be avoiding a fuss over that. The seed of appeasement so carefully nurtured in the halls of state. Borat's flower in the summer of 1936. The date was July 20th. I think those headlines must have escaped Bill's attention because he made no mention of them in his letters. He wrote of his training for India. And he mentioned one other thing, too. Lisa. She's pale and thin, but she's neat and her hair is blonde, real blonde, and piled on top of her head. No, that isn't Bill to the minute. She's pale and thin, but she's neat. And living on one pound a week. Oh, no, I ask you. Isn't it just as easy to fall in love with a substantial girl? Oh, Mama, I'm sure Lisa's very nice or Bill wouldn't have taken to her. It was only joking, Betty. The poor creature. Imagine cooking and keeping hosts for five motherless children since she was 12 and saddled with a father who can't work. Isn't that terrible? What a burden for poor Bill. However, that was only the beginning of Bill's trial. For in October, he wrote that Lisa had become seriously ill. Lisa. Lisa, does it hurt Lisa when you do this? Not much, Bill. Really? It tears at me every time. Listen, Lisa, I won't take no for an answer. The doctor says you've got to quit your job and quit your will. Oh, Bill, I can't. I've told you that. What led me to be bothered under five kids? They'd start for sure on the pitons that count you last. Then we'll get married. That's what. I want to tell you something, Bill. You're the grandest person I've ever known, and that's straight. But I can't let you marry me. I can't. I'm not going to listen, that's all. You've got to, Bill. Can't you see?  I'm an infected lung, Bill. That's a bad, bad thing to have. Oh, it's little sick, Lisa. That's what it is. If you quit the factory, you'll be well in no time. And it's in my mind to take you out of that place. We'll be married the next leave I get. Bill's determination was brave but hopeless. Lisa died a few weeks later. With her body, Bill buried his tragic romance. But not his rancor with the conditions which throttled her life. He wrote bitterly of the drab burial. Come away, son, and stop your grieving. He's a million times better off than us left behind to face this world. It's going to be hard for you, sir, isn't it? What will you do now? Five little mites to feed. Nothing but the dough to do it on. It can't be worse, no more than it has been. You've got to do something, man. Those kids will starve. Something's got to be done. Full of fire, ain't you? I was too as a youngin'. Well, you'd best get rid of it, son.  And I've sort of gotten over it now. Say, have you all been reading about the Spanish situation? I think it's a terrible thing. It was in the early months of 1937 that Bill began to ponder in his simple, puzzled manner the plight of the Spanish people. John, do you think maybe Bill's been meeting up with left-wing friends? Don't think so, Betty. Or he would have mentioned it before. Just not right, that's all. Not fair. The Republican government was elected by the people of Spain. It was their government. What does this man Franco want? The justice of the thing seems all wrong to me. Looking back at it now, I can see pretty clearly the link that explains Bill's disturbance over Spain. From his brief and tragic romance, from the pitiful condition of Lisa's family, an overtone still sounded in his mind. It made a kind of communion with the suffering of the Spanish people. I think it's just a matter of time until Britain takes a hand in Spain. It's no more than England's duty. You can bet she'll do her duty, just as she has every time in history. Franco has got to be stopped, and we're just the boys to do it. Anyway, I certainly hope we go to Spain instead of India, as ever, Bill. Now what on earth has gotten him to him? Poor Bill. He's in for a big shock if he thinks wheel metal in Spain. Yes, there was a deadly, serious note to Bill's adoption of the Spanish cause. And he didn't keep it to himself, as mother hoped, either. He wrote us a detailed account of an angry discussion he'd had with another soldier. I tell you, it's just a matter of time. We'll never let Franco in. What if we do?  You're in the British Army, and what happens in Spain is none of your business, and don't you forget it. Now you listen, the British will never let them get away with a crime like that. Just you wait and see. And in still training pretty hard for the trip to India, I suppose you read what a walloping the loyalists gave Mussolini's boys at Guadalajara. Well, I've heard rumors that the loyalists have been receiving secret aid from the British. It looks more than ever now that we may be sent to Spain. I just can't understand it. The loyalists are in the right. Everybody admits that. They're losing battles one after another. Why don't they send us over? The government must be asleep. That's what. We could save the Spaniards so easily, too. Good heavens, listen. I sat up a lot of nights thinking about this. The British have always done their duty well. If the government doesn't see it that way, some of us who are British have got to make up for it. It is hard. It hurts me very much, but... There is nothing else I can do. Believe me. I'm going to desert from the British army. Dear John, right here under this picture of Chamberlain. The British army announced today that they are seeking the arrest of William Donaldson of Regina, Canada and charges a desertion to avoid foreign service. Oh, could not. He's done it. Oh, my poor Bill. Oh, what has got into him, John? Why should he want to go to Spain? What's it to do with him or Britain? Tomorrow I will be across the border. I know I'm doing the right thing. And I'm sorry if mum feels I've brought shame to the family. Please cry and explain to her that I'm really fighting for Britain and that someday she will understand. I'm in Madrid now and just fighting my time. You'll probably laugh if I tell you what I'm waiting for. A rifle. No kidding. They can't send me to the front until another man returns from the fighting with a rifle. That was the last letter we ever received from Bill. We wrote again and again, but got no answer. Meanwhile, the fascist shadow broadened and lengthened over the olive groves of Spain.  Finally, human courage reached the limit of its endurance. And on March 28, 1939... ...the mass came over the radio, John. Franco has entered Madrid. Bill's side has lost. We didn't know then whether Bill was alive or dead. There were thousands of loyalist prisoners in French and Spanish concentration camps. Our only hope was that Bill might be among them. We regret to inform you that since your brother was not a member of the Mackenzie Papineau division, no definite information about him is available. However, we will continue to make inquiries and if we uncover anything... By the fall of 1939, we began to adjust to the idea that we might never hear anything of Bill. We were a little distracted too by the ominous clouds rolling across Europe just then. When these clouds burst, they showered the bitter truth upon the people of Britain. It was the fruit of the Spanish tragedy, World War II. Then, one day late in 1940, while I was with the Canadian Army in England, I received a frantic letter from Betty. I have news of Bill. The Mackenzie Papineau people wrote that he was wounded... ...and in Spanish hospitals for many months. Mum is frantic, as you can imagine. You must try to find him. I was stunned. I couldn't understand it. How could Bill be alive and out of Britain all this time? Where would I look for him? Whom should I ask? Bill Donaldson? No, I'm afraid we've never heard of him.  I'm afraid Scotland Yard will be no help to your captain. There's a very little we can do, not the way London is today. You might try the Friends of Republic and Spain. Bill Donaldson, of course I knew him. He was one of our great fighters. Was? Yes. He died on the field at Aragon. I wasn't too shocked by that. The hope I had was there's nothing but a flicker anyhow. Well, with my purpose knocked out from under me, I wandered aimlessly through the streets of London. Darkness was falling. When I came across a queue of people shuffling into the underground shelters for the night, then suddenly the bombs fell almost simultaneously with the sirens. I looked myself on the pavement. Then the shouts began to sound in the cowering night. I looked around at the frightened figures racing through the dark night, all the screams of pain and watched the great fires. I was glad that Bill was not here to see it.  I felt suddenly that Bill's fate was not entirely without pattern. This fearsome night completed the desire. I scrambled to my feet and made to the shoulder. I squeezed my way into the far end and found a foot of sitting space between a gaunt, fierce, stricken woman and a one-legged young fellow. He picked up his crutch to make room for me. Have a seat, Canada. Thanks. This is your first raid? Does this happen every night in London? They've been giving us a packet most every night for three months. Three months? Yeah. At least you'll be able to go after them.  They fixed me for fear. Bombs? No. Bullets. France? No. Spain. Why, my brother fought there, too. So? Mackenzie Papineau Division? No, went over by himself. Well, what's his name? Bill Donaldson. Pure Bill Donaldson's brother? How do you know? What's he doing now? Bill, he was killed. Oh, that's rotten. Where? Here? No, in Spain. Bill Donaldson? Stocky little Canadian? Yes. I'd say the wires are crossed somewhere. Look, my friend, he was in a hospital in France with me, and he left for England before I did. Last I heard he was living right here in London. Well, tell me where, if I haven't said... I was sure he was dead. Where can I find him? I wouldn't know. I'll tell you what I'll do, though. If you give me your name and address of your station, I'll ask around among some of the fellows. If I find out where Bill is, I'll write you. Week after week went by, but no word came from the website. But no word came from the one-legged stranger. Then one day I opened a letter. It was neither dated nor signed. It read, Bill Donaldson is living at 136 Strathcombe Street, near the London Docks. The handwriting was not Bill's. You can imagine the state of my nerves as the train raced to London. The waves of heat and cold that whipped over me as the taxi rolled slowly, painfully to the address near the docks. It was a grey, shabby, two-story house. The landlady, short and shapeless, came to the door. Mr. Donaldson's brother, is it? His first name is Bill, isn't it? Oh, yes, yes. Bill Donaldson, that's him, and a very nice gentleman he is, too. He's not in at the moment, but if you can't await, sir. Oh, yes. Yes, I'll wait. I sat there in the dimly-lit parlour, and every one of those minutes had a wait, I did it. Whenever the doorbell rang, I jumped half out of my chair, then relaxed when it turned out to be the postman or the raid warden.  Oh, Mr. Donaldson! Yes, Mrs. Mayor? There's a visitor to see you in the parlour. I didn't know you were the brother here. Brother? Well, let's have a look. Hello there, were you looking for Bill? Bill, I thought I heard her say something about a brother. There must be some mistake. It's mine. My mistake. I was looking for a man named Bill Donaldson. I was told he lived here. I am Bill Donaldson, and you were... My name is John Donaldson. Bill was my brother. He was missing after the Spanish war, and I... You thought I was he? I'm sorry. Rarely sorry. I know how you must feel. Well, I... I better be going. No, stay, please. I can't take away the disappointment you've had, or maybe I can make up for it a bit. What do you mean? Well, you see, I fought in Spain, too. I'd like to tell you some things about your brother that you probably don't know. You knew him? I'm happy to say I did. People were always getting us mixed up in Spain. Same name and birth coming in Canada. In fact, I often lived in his reflected glory. He did a good job, then. One of the best. The Spaniards loved your brother very dearly. No matter what happened, the bad times, defeat after defeat, hunger... Bill was always cheerful, laughing all the time. And he hated the fascists. The wait must have been very deep and very strong inside him. But you know, I mean... Well, what happened to him, finally? Yes. And I'd be proud to tell you, it must have been around the middle of March in 1939. You know what was happening to us in Spain, then? Yes. We were done for and we knew it. And one of the last days, the situation was really desperate. Death was all around us. An escape lay only across the French border. But we were hemmed in by a ring of fascist steel. There was hope in only one course. If a small force were to carry out a fainting action against the circle just enough to distract the enemy, then the rest of us would be able to flee through the breach they made. Volunteers were called for, and Bill's whole section stepped forward. We had nothing to give them but a few grenades. Such paupers were we in the way of arms and ammunition. But Bill fashioned himself a club from the branch of a tree and gave the grenades to his men. Then in broad daylight, he led his section against the fascists. He was last seen clubbing hand, advancing in a machine gun post. With a club, do you hear? A club against machine guns. Bill Donaldson died in a way that will never be forgotten. Not by the Spanish peasants. He was one with the blood of their hearts. No, don't send flowers. Bill's grave is unmarked. Unknown, unrecorded. But there are monuments all around. If you want to say a prayer? In the might of allied forces everywhere. In our ships and planes and guns. Battling the enemy. The same enemy. They are all monuments to the common heart and courage of my brother. Bill Donaldson. Tonight on Words at War, you heard a dramatization based on a portion of L.S.B. Shapiro's book. They left the back door open. The radio version was written by Edward Jurist. On Donaldson, the narrator was played by Brent Sargent. And Paul Mann was Bill Donaldson. The music was arranged and played by William Meader. And the production was under the direction of Anton M. Lieder. To restate something we've said before, many of the books presented on Words at War deal with controversial issues. And it need hardly be pointed out that the views expressed in them are not necessarily the views of either Words at War or the National Broadcasting Company. Words at War is offered only in the spirit of furthering free discussion and thinking. Join us again next week for another important program. This series brought to you in cooperation with the Council on Books and Wartime, by the National Broadcasting Company, and the independent radio stations associated with the NBC...


Last month, I took a look at Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles 2, the arcade game, one of the very best co-op games, and one of my personal favorites for the NES. And as I mentioned at the end of that video, there was a sequel, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles 3, The Manhattan Project, a game that was more or less completely ignored when it came out very late in the NES lifespan in 1992. Because not only was the Super Nintendo already going full bore, but that system had its own Ninja Turtles game, Turtles in Time, which just happens to be one of the best home console beat-em-ups ever made. So yeah, Ninja Turtles 3, The Manhattan Project, practically reached obscure status. I mean, even I ignored this game back then, and today, considering I first chose to do a video on the second game. This is an excellent sequel though, and once again a fantastic co-op game, and a very good beat-em-up in general. There are some significant differences in the gameplay, however, and in lineage as well as The Manhattan Project is not an arcade port, it was made as an original title for the NES. Of course this game is co-op, but it features the A and B multiplayer mode, with B being normal mode, and A allowing the wonderful feature of being able to hit each other. Seriously, do people like this? I never get why this is included in these games, other than for comedic purposes I guess, or anger purposes. Anyway, the gameplay nuts and bolts remain largely unchanged, with Attack and Jump the same, but in addition, when you press down and attack, it flips the enemy over, and that kills him in one hit. That's convenient, right? The thing is, you get a lot less points doing this, so don't do it too often, or you'll be waiting forever to get that extra life. You can also switch between all four turtles when you die, and that's important not just for aesthetic reasons, but because each turtle has their own special move, and some lend themselves much better to certain parts of the game than others. For example, Michelangelo's weird backward jump kick here works great on these helicopter things. Bear in mind these moves cost you health, though. So yeah, Turtles 3 adds a bit of a different flavor to the NES beat-em-up genre, even though, I mean, why wouldn't you just do the flip attack and jump kick through the whole game? That's really my main criticism here, is that the flip move is almost too powerful. Yeah, I get the idea that you don't get as many points doing that, but well, you're not going to need them if you're not taking as much damage thanks to that move. Also, this game is very flickery, even for an NES game. It's almost always noticeable, so that can get very annoying very quickly. Anyway, yeah, despite its gameplay differences, Turtles 3, the Manhattan Project, is right up there with its predecessor Turtles 2, the arcade game. You really can't miss with either game, but I personally prefer the second game. I can't fault you if you liked the third game better, though.