The day the Earth stood still.  Two miniscule 6.5mm bullets from a war surplus Italian rifle, snuffed out the life of one of the greatest political leaders of the century.  John F Kennedy. On a scale of 10, Kennedy scored 9 plus.  By comparison, today’s political lightweights, Bush, Blair and Clinton would struggle to reach 2.

It is said that everyone over the age of ten at the time of the assassination can remember where they were and what they were doing, in quite remarkable detail, at the time the news broke.  I certainly can.

It was about 7.30 PM GMT on a Friday evening.  I had arrived at my girlfriend’s house on my BSA motorbike, with the intention of going to the pictures, a usual Friday event for us at the time.  My knock on the door was answered by my girlfriend’s father, and I could immediately sense that something was not right, he was ashen faced, and shaking.  I thought that perhaps my girlfriend had had an accident.  I asked him what was wrong, he said "Kennedy's been shot."  I remember my reply very clearly.  "That'll mean war with Russia."

We spent the rest of the evening watching the story unfold on a grainy black and white television.  Kennedy had been shot.  He was taken to hospital immediately.  No one was sure if he was alive or dead.  Gradually the details emerged.  Death was confirmed.  Speculation was rife.  The conspiracy theories were still to come over the following weeks and months and years, but at the time it seemed obvious that there could be only one culprit.  Russia. 

John Kennedy had only recently forced Russia to back down over their plan to install inter continental ballistic missiles in Communist Cuba. Right in the America's back yard.  Kennedy was having none of it, and sent in the American fleet to blockade the Atlantic Ocean, preventing the Russians from delivering the ICBM's to Cuba. For several days the World held its breath.  Russia took their rockets back home. We lived through the Cold War, knowing all about the so called three minute warning.  If Russia went to war with America, Britain was in the middle.  We were in effect an aircraft carrier for the American Air Force, and would be targeted by Russia.  We would have only three minutes warning of incoming nuclear ICBM's.  In true Brit fashion the jokes went around. What could you do in three minutes, if you weren't lucky enough to suffer from premature ejaculation?  Boil an egg perhaps. 

I lived in Oxford at the time.  Oxford was surrounded by Air Force bases, both American and British.  We were aware that such areas had been designated by Russia as 100% overkill zones.  That is, if it were calculated that a given zone needed (say) 10 nuclear bombs to completely take it out of the picture, then they would send in 20, just to make sure.  For us in Britain at the time the threat of such action was a constant shadow over normal life. We knew for certain that the possibility of war was always present, as we knew that America had a fleet of giant B36 bombers (later B52's) always in the air, 24 hours a day, flying over the arctic waiting for the word to 'go'. As soon as incoming ICBM's were detected the bomber captains would open their sealed orders and head their craft toward predesignated Russian Targets.  Britain was in the middle, and we lived with it. 

Little wonder that the 1960's turned out as it did.  Rock 'n' Roll and teenage rebellion.  It was really just a way of putting the unthinkable in its proper place.

Submitted by DeeGee