Maybe with a stock answer: "For love of my country." Or, as politicians would say: "To make the world safe for democracy." Or simply: " 'Cause I hated them Japanese and Germans what got us into the war."

Then I might, in a moment of unbridled honesty, say, "Because I was sent for!"

Hardly more than a wet-behind-the-ears kid, I felt no overwhelming desire to go off to some strange place to be shot at.

Besides, it seemed to me that my family had done enough: Three older brothers were already in uniform. A fourth was sent home from the induction station after fainting as the medic was taking his blood. The Army figured that a man who couldn't stand the sight of his own blood wouldn't be so great at the bloodletting of others.

I know one thing for certain. I didn't go to war for the right to keep chickens, as a Sanford World War II vet claimed during a recent town council hearing over the town's ban against city-raised chickens.

Personally, I'm fond of chickens -- dead or alive. I kept some as pets when I was a kid. But when I became a man, I put chickens in their proper place. Preferably, on my plate, Southern-fried, although I could never bring myself to kill one in preparation for the preacher's frequent Sunday meals at our house.

Let's hope that neither John McCain nor Barack Obama picks up on the chicken controversy as a campaign issue.

Too late. A friend reminds me that during the primaries, the candidates staked themselves out on why the chicken crossed the road:

Barack Obama: "The chicken crossed the road because it was time for a CHANGE! The chicken wanted CHANGE!"

John McCain: "My friends, that chicken crossed the road because he recognized the need to engage in cooperation and dialogue with all the chickens on the other side of the road."

Hillary Clinton: "When I was first lady, I personally helped that little chicken to cross the road. This experience makes me uniquely qualified to ensure -- right from Day One! -- that every chicken in this country gets the chance it deserves to cross the road. But then, this really isn't about me..."

Do I hear cackles of derision.

A really bad word

Last Sunday, fellow columnist J. Peder Zane cleverly addressed the constraints our editors put on us to avoid "dirty" language such as the Rev. Jesse Jackson's expressed desire to geld Barack Obama.

Peder's piece reminded me of a mini-drama described to me by a Raleigh mother.

She was driving her 7-year-old to school one morning when he, upset over something she's long forgotten, said, "Mom, I'm so mad I'm going to say a bad word."

"Well, if it will make you feel better, go ahead."

"Darn!" the boy said.

When his mother failed to respond, he said, "Mom, now I'm really mad and I'm going to say a really bad word: Penis!"

After more silence, the frustrated youngster said, "I'm really, really mad now, and I'm going to say the 'F-word!'"

Bracing herself, she still remained silent.

"Fagina!" blurted the boy.

By this time they had arrived at school and the lad, purged of his frustration, erupted from the car into the school yard of happy children.

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