FEB. 22 1974 Page 9 mon sickness. One morning _ was taken to the operat- ing room for a marrow test, and when he camebackI asked, “Marrow hurt bad?” He replied enthusiastically, “Marrow hurt bad.” Then I had a marrow,and the same exchange took placein reverse. Weboth had a hemoglobin transfusion on the same day. I said, “Blood make you feel good.” He enthusiasticaliy agreed again. “Yes, blood feel good.” On October 27, at long last, John took the needle out of my arm and pronounced the pneumonia under control. I asked _ how hefelt for one last time, and this time he said again, “Fine. Fine.” We said good-bye, and I left the hospital. With — permission, I had written a column about him I imagine it was because of the column that someone PRIVACY ACT MATERIAL REMOVED in the Interior Department, under whose bureaucratic aegis aw. , fell, called Amandain the office about ten days after 1 had left the hospital and asked her to tell me that . was dead. Amanda hatedto tell me, but finally she did. “What did he die of?” I asked. “The man said pneumonia,” she said, and then quickly added, “But don’t you go thinking it was your fault.” The chances are that _ _ picked up whatever virus or bacteria had made mesick. But John Glick told me not to wotry, that the chemotherapy had failed and poo: ~ was terminal anyway. death deeply depressed me for a while. There was, of course, what might be called the send-not-to-ask syndrome. With my low defenses the pneumonia might well have killed me; John Glick was surprised by how quickly I recovered, given my corporal’s guard of granulocytes. There was also the depressing feeling, hard to shake off, teh. that I had somehow been responsible for _ death. There was the further feeling, as hard to shake off, that we Americans were responsible for his death—that we had killed him with our bomb. His was the world’s first death from a hydrogen bomb, and the bomb was ours. And finally, there was the feeling of the desperate, irrational unfairness of the death of this gentle, oddly innocent young man. For some time, J found a line, I think from T. S. Eliot (though I can’t find it), going through my mind: “The notion of some infinitely gentle / Infinitely suffering thing.” Before died, I had long believed in my mind that the nuclear weapon,in its indiscriminate, unimaginable brutality, was an insane weapon,suicidal, inherently unusable. NowI knew it in my heart. [This material is excerpted from Stewart Alsop's new book "Stay of Executive a sort of aemoir® published by Lippincott. We received tne ine tormation courtesy of Dulcie Tnorstensen!