Dialogue from Television – Star Trek ~~Introduction~~

Space: The final frontier
These are the voyages of the Starship, Enterprise
Its 5 year mission
To explore strange new worlds
To seek out new life and new civilizations
To boldly go where no man has gone before

Excerpt from “The Rape of the Netherlands” by E.N. van Kleffens ~~ Rotterdam~~

Finally, when after more than four days neither The Hague nor Rotterdam had been captured, the Germans did a monstrous thing. They resorted to a merciless bombardment on a colossal scale of the open town of Rotterdam, where the Dutch had never dreamt of fighting, and where fighting had only taken place because the Germans had attacked the city. This bombardment was one of the worst crimes of military history. Two groups, each of 27 aeroplanes, systematically bombed the centre of the town with heavy high-explosive and incendiary bombs, leaving not a house intact, hardly a soul alive.
Thirty thousand of innocent victims, among whom were scarcely any soldiers, perished during the half-hour this loathsome raid lasted – old men, young men, women and innumerable children. Who, in the face of such facts, is there to speak of “Deutsche Ehre,” of “Deutsche Treue” ? There is every reason to put this question – it is by no means a mere rhetoric one.
At 10.30 a.m. of that fateful day, the Commander of the troops which had come to Rotterdam to resist the German attack on that otherwise undefended city received an ultimatum in writing to cease fire forthwith, failing which the severest measures would be taken against the town. A reply was demanded within two hours. The document was unsigned. Fearing that it might be a mystification, the Dutch Commander received orders from Headquarters to reply that a demand of this kind could only be examined if it were duly signed by a qualified officer.
This reply was handed to the Germans at 12.15 – a quarter of an hour before the expiration of the time stated in the unsigned document. More than an hour later, at 1.20 p.m., a fresh ultimatum arrived, this time duly signed. It gave another three hours delay.
At 1.22, the first squadron of German bombers approached the city. The Germans twice caused a red flare to be fired, which meant, according to the declarations they made later, that the bombardment was not then to take place. But if this meant anything at all, it did not prevent the bombardment from being executed at once with the utmost brutality.
It is not too much to say that, even if this was not bad faith but culpable negligence, culpable negligence of this magnitude reflects most seriously on the honour and trustworthiness of the German command. Errors of this scope, resulting in the wiping out of thirty thousand human beings most of whom were civilians, are unpardonable. An army like that of the Germans, priding itself on its sense of organisation, ought to feel deeply humiliated by such a ghastly event.

Note: This was first published in September 1940.

 

“Crucify Your Mind” by Rodriguez

Was it a huntsman or a player
That made you pay the cost
That now assumes relaxed positions
And prostitutes your loss?
Were you tortured by your own thirst
In those pleasures that you seek
That made you Tom the curious
That makes you James the weak?

And you claim you got something going
Something you call unique
But I’ve seen your self-pity showing
As the tears rolled down your cheeks

Soon you know I’ll leave you
And I’ll never look behind
‘Cos I was born for the purpose
That crucifies your mind
So con, convince your mirror
As you’ve always done before
Giving substance to shadows
Giving substance ever more

And you assume you got something to offer
Secrets shiny and new
But how much of you is repetition
That you didn’t whisper to him too

Excerpt from “The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy” by Douglas Adams ~~Dolphins~~

It is an important and popular fact that things are not always what they seem. For instance, on the planet Earth, man had always assumed that he was more intelligent than dolphins because he had achieved so much – the wheel, New York, wars, and so on – whilst all the dolphins had ever done was muck about in the water having a good time. But conversely, the dolphins had always believed that they were far more intelligent than man – for precisely the same reasons.

Curiously enough, the dolphins had long known of the impending destruction of the planet Earth and had made many attempts to alert mankind to the danger; but most of their communications were misinterpreted as amusing attempts to punch footballs or whistle for titbits, so they eventually gave up and left the Earth by their own means shortly before the Vogons arrived.

The last ever dolphin message was misinterpreted as a surprisingly sophisticated attempt to do a double-backwards-somersault through a hoop whilst whistling the ‘Star-Spangled Banner’, but in fact the message was this: So Long, and thanks for all the fish.

In fact there was only one species on the planet more intelligent than dolphins, and they spent a lot of their time in behavioural-research laboratories running round inside wheels and conducting frighteningly elegant and subtle experiments on man. The fact that once again man completely misinterpreted this relationship was entirely according to these creatures’ plans.

“Don Martin Dept” by Don Martin ~~Frog’s Legs~~

Excerpt from “The Color of Law” by Mark Gimenez ~~Jury~~

A SCOTT FENNEY, ESQ., stood before the twelve members of the jury and said: “When I was a boy, my mother used to read her favorite book to me at bedtime, To Kill a Mockingbird. You might’ve read it or seen the movie. It’s the story of a little girl and her father, a lawyer named Atticus Finch. He was an honorable man and an honorable lawyer, unusual even back then, in the 1930s when the story took place.

“Every night my mother would say to me, Scotty, be like Atticus. Be a lawyer. Do good. She even named me after him, Atticus Scott Fenney. Well, my mother’s dead and I’m a lawyer, but I’m no Atticus Finch. I haven’t done much good. I made a lot of money, but I didn’t make my mother proud.

“But that’s another story.

“Or maybe it’s the same story. Because this story, our story, the story playing out in this courtroom, is also about making your mother proud.

“See, in the book, Atticus was appointed to represent a black man named Tom Robinson. Tom was accused of beating and raping a white girl. Atticus showed the jury that the girl had been beaten by a left-handed man because the right side of her face was bruised, but that Tom’s left hand was disabled due to an accident years before. Atticus proved that Tom didn’t do it. And Atticus also showed the jury that the girl’s father was left-handed and a mean drunk to boot. Well, everyone in the courtroom knew that Tom didn’t commit the crime and that her father did. But the jury, twelve white men, convicted Tom Robinson anyway, just because he was a black man.

“Now, that story took place in Alabama in the thirties – in a different time and a different world – back when the color of law was black-and-white. But our story is taking place seventy years later, in Dallas, Texas. The world’s a different place today, things have changed – not everything and not everywhere and not enough, but in our courts of law things have surely changed. Judges have changed. The color of law has changed. It’s no longer black-and-white. My former senior partner told me the color of law is now green. Today, he said, the rule of law is money. Money rules. And he’s right. Lawyers use the law to make money, politicians sell the law to special interests for money, people sue each other for money. Everywhere in the law, it’s all about money – except one place. Right there where you’re sitting, in that jury box. You’re not here for money. You’re here for the truth.

“The Man From Snowy River” by A.B. (‘Banjo’) Paterson

There was movement at the station, for the word had passed around
That the colt from old Regret had got away,
And had joined the wild bush horses – he was worth a thousand pound,
So all the cracks had gathered to the fray.
All the tried and noted riders from the stations near and far
Had mustered at the homestead overnight,
For the bushmen love hard riding where the wild bush horses are,
And the stock-horse snuffs the battle with delight.

There was Harrison, who made his pile when Pardon won the cup,
The old man with his hair as white as snow;
But few could ride beside him when his blood was fairly up –
He would go wherever horse and man could go.
And Clancy of the Overflow came down to lend a hand,
No better horseman ever held the reins;
For never horse could throw him while the saddle-girths would stand,
He learnt to ride while droving on the plains.

And one was there, a stripling on a small and weedy beast,
He was something like a racehorse undersized,
With a touch of Timor pony – three parts thoroughbred at least –
And such as are by mountain horsemen prized.
He was hard and tough and wiry – just the sort that won’t say die –
There was courage in his quick impatient tread;
And he bore the badge of gameness in his bright and fiery eye,
And the proud and lofty carriage of his head.

But still so slight and weedy, one would doubt his power to stay,
And the old man said, `That horse will never do
For a long and tiring gallop – lad, you’d better stop away,
Those hills are far too rough for such as you.’
So he waited sad and wistful – only Clancy stood his friend –
`I think we ought to let him come,’ he said;
`I warrant he’ll be with us when he’s wanted at the end,
For both his horse and he are mountain bred.

`He hails from Snowy River, up by Kosciusko’s side,
Where the hills are twice as steep and twice as rough,
Where a horse’s hoofs strike firelight from the flint stones every stride,
The man that holds his own is good enough.
And the Snowy River riders on the mountains make their home,
Where the river runs those giant hills between;
I have seen full many horsemen since I first commenced to roam,
But nowhere yet such horsemen have I seen.’

So he went – they found the horses by the big mimosa clump –
They raced away towards the mountain’s brow,
And the old man gave his orders, `Boys, go at them from the jump,
No use to try for fancy riding now.
And, Clancy, you must wheel them, try and wheel them to the right.
Ride boldly, lad, and never fear the spills,
For never yet was rider that could keep the mob in sight,
If once they gain the shelter of those hills.’

So Clancy rode to wheel them – he was racing on the wing
Where the best and boldest riders take their place,
And he raced his stock-horse past them, and he made the ranges ring
With the stockwhip, as he met them face to face.
Then they halted for a moment, while he swung the dreaded lash,
But they saw their well-loved mountain full in view,
And they charged beneath the stockwhip with a sharp and sudden dash,
And off into the mountain scrub they flew.

Then fast the horsemen followed, where the gorges deep and black
Resounded to the thunder of their tread,
And the stockwhips woke the echoes, and they fiercely answered back
From cliffs and crags that beetled overhead.
And upward, ever upward, the wild horses held their way,
Where mountain ash and kurrajong grew wide;
And the old man muttered fiercely, `We may bid the mob good day,
NO man can hold them down the other side.’

When they reached the mountain’s summit, even Clancy took a pull,
It well might make the boldest hold their breath,
The wild hop scrub grew thickly, and the hidden ground was full
Of wombat holes, and any slip was death.
But the man from Snowy River let the pony have his head,
And he swung his stockwhip round and gave a cheer,
And he raced him down the mountain like a torrent down its bed,
While the others stood and watched in very fear.

He sent the flint stones flying, but the pony kept his feet,
He cleared the fallen timber in his stride,
And the man from Snowy River never shifted in his seat –
It was grand to see that mountain horseman ride.
Through the stringy barks and saplings, on the rough and broken ground,
Down the hillside at a racing pace he went;
And he never drew the bridle till he landed safe and sound,
At the bottom of that terrible descent.

He was right among the horses as they climbed the further hill,
And the watchers on the mountain standing mute,
Saw him ply the stockwhip fiercely, he was right among them still,
As he raced across the clearing in pursuit.
Then they lost him for a moment, where two mountain gullies met
In the ranges, but a final glimpse reveals
On a dim and distant hillside the wild horses racing yet,
With the man from Snowy River at their heels.

And he ran them single-handed till their sides were white with foam.
He followed like a bloodhound on their track,
Till they halted cowed and beaten, then he turned their heads for home,
And alone and unassisted brought them back.
But his hardy mountain pony he could scarcely raise a trot,
He was blood from hip to shoulder from the spur;
But his pluck was still undaunted, and his courage fiery hot,
For never yet was mountain horse a cur.

And down by Kosciusko, where the pine-clad ridges raise
Their torn and rugged battlements on high,
Where the air is clear as crystal, and the white stars fairly blaze
At midnight in the cold and frosty sky,
And where around the Overflow the reedbeds sweep and sway
To the breezes, and the rolling plains are wide,
The man from Snowy River is a household word to-day,
And the stockmen tell the story of his ride.

 

“Rush” released by Big Audio Dynamite II

If I had my time again
I would do it all the same
And not change a single thing
Even when I was to blame

For the heartache & the pain
That I caused throughout my years
How I’d love to be your man
Through the laughter & the tears

Situation no win
Rush for a change of atmosphere
I can’t go on so I give in
Gotta get myself right outta here

Now I’m fully grown
And I know where it’s at
Somehow I stay thin
While the other guys got fat

All the chances that I’ve blown
And the times that I’ve been down
I didn’t get too high
Kept my feet on the ground

Situation no win
Rush for a change of atmosphere
I can’t go on so I give in
Gotta get myself right outta here

(Man)
Yes, yes, delightful, delightful

Rush for the change of atmosphere…

(Man again)
mm, I wish I could sing like that. Not everything’s singing, you know,
the only ‘portant thing these days is rhythm
and melody. Rhythm … and melody …

And of all my friends
You’ve been the best to me
Soon will be the day
When I would pay you handsomely

Broken hearts are hard to mend
I know I’ve had my share
But life just carries on
Even when I’m not there

Situation no win
Rush for a change of atmosphere
I can’t go on so I give in
Gotta get myself right outta here

Situation no win
Rush for a change of atmosphere
I can’t go on so I give in
Gotta get myself right outta here

Gotta get myself right
Gotta get myself right
Gotta get myself right outta here

Gotta get myself right
Gotta get myself right
Gotta get myself right outta here

 

Excerpt from “Recollections of a Regimental Medical Officer” by H.D.Steward ~~Withdrawal~~

At Alola, in addition to the normal Battalion RAP, there was also a combined RAP to handle casualties from any of the four battalions then in the line – the 39th, 53rd, 2/14th and 2/16th. Captain A. B. Hogan, RMO of 53rd Battalion, and I each had a dual role: to treat our own casualties from Abuari and check the wounded from 2/14th and 39th Battalions staging at Alola, a half-way house between Isurava and Eora Creek. Most of the patients were in a large hut previously used as a quartermaster store. Here I first saw the boys from the 39th Battalion, gaunt spectres with gaping boots and rotting tatters of uniform hanging around them like scarecrows. Their faces had no expression, their eyes sunk back into their sockets. They were drained by malaria, dysentery and near-starvation, but they were still in the firing line, facing a much more powerful enemy equipped with much heavier weaponry.
From Abuari the Japanese overlooked Alola, and their heavy Juki 57 mm machine-guns swept the areas of both Brigade and Battalion HQ, and also the RAPs. This weapon outranged any of ours, and spat its lead with a deeper, repetitive thud than lighter machine-guns; the troops called it the ‘woodpecker’.
We told the wounded men to lie as flat as they could but, although most of the bullets went high, we had five casualties, including one man killed. Captain Hogan was shot through both legs, a flesh wound in one and the other fractured. A recent graduate, he looked little more than a boy as he lay there looking ruefully at his wounds. He touched our hearts as he said how worried his mother would be. In a little while I would be thinking more about my own mother.
It now seemed certain that the wounded would have to be evacuated to Eora Creek, a carry of five or six hours. The RAP boys and I moved through the rows of wounded men, assessing those who would need stretchers and those who would have to walk. It was a silent pilgrimage. I wondered what I should say to the men in greatest need who were to receive an injection of the merciful morphine. I was a stranger to the men from the other battalions, but even with my own men I knew what an anxious moment it is when a doctor approaches with a hypodermic in his hand. I said: ‘I’m giving you an injection to relieve your pain’. To have said ‘to make you more comfortable’ might have raised in their minds the most appalling doubt of all.
. . . Not one of these men complained. Their restraint and dignity lifted them above common humanity. That grim afternoon proved for me the dictum of the great war correspondent Quentin Reynolds: ‘The wounded don’t cry’. Often they don’t even talk. Yet what could be more demoralizing for a wounded man to lie there under machine-gun fire, when he was entitled to believe that he had already done his bit, and that he ought now to be allowed to live?
All was quiet in this communal aid post, where men from four infantry units lay in silence with their thoughts. Their fate lay with us, and not one doubted that we would get them out. It is easy to feel proud that not one man was abandoned at the RAP, but one should not forget that they would not have got that far without the help of their mates in the platoons, and of the gallant stretcher bearers, every one of them a Sir Galahad. The bearers were not caught up by the mad exhilaration of violent action, and they carried no weapons to strike back. But each man for the sake of mercy exposed his life again and again on that long withdrawal to Ioribaiwa.

Excerpt from “The War of the Worlds” by H.G. Wells ~~Rout~~

Had the Martians aimed only at destruction, they might on Monday have annihilated the entire population of London, as it spread itself slowly through the home counties. Not only along the road through Barnet, but also through Edgware and Waltham Abbey, and along the roads eastward to Southend and Shoeburyness, and south of the Thames to Deal and Broadstairs, poured the same frantic rout. If one could have hung that June morning in a balloon in the blazing blue above London every northward and eastward road running out of the tangled maze of streets would have seemed stippled black with the streaming fugitives, each dot a human agony of terror and physical distress.

. . . Never before in the history of the world had such a mass of human beings moved and suffered together. The legendary hosts of Goths and Huns, the hugest armies Asia has ever seen, would have been but a drop in that current. And this was no disciplined march; it was a stampede–a stampede gigantic and terrible–without order and without a goal, six million people unarmed and unprovisioned, driving headlong. It was the beginning of the rout of civilisation, of the massacre of mankind.