For a long time, there were recurring nightmares. I had seen a TV documentary on atomic bombs and radiation. Some scientist mentioned that fish caught near nuclear test sites proved to be so radioactive that, when placed on x-ray plates, they literally took their own pictures. In my dreams, a ghostly, skeletal turtle slowly swam around in a tank of weird-looking fluid. I would watch it in horror until it swung around to look me directly in the face. My screams woke the household.

Twenty years later, President Reagan and the Soviets tossed bellicose statements back and forth across the seas during the final stages of the Cold War. This time the populace reacted with rage as well as trepidation. Anti-nuke protesters took to the streets; books, TV shows and movies decried nuclear war. Learned authors such as Jonathan Schell jostled with semi-learned celebrities for attention. One representative film, The Atomic Café (1983), featured Bert the Turtle along with considerable footage from Duck and Cover. The makers of this documentary intercut Duck and Cover with films of actual nuclear explosions and the spectacular carnage that resulted.

It was clear that survival was simply not possible. The message we knew even as children was made explicit — Civil Defense was kidding no one. Their true agenda may have been the avoidance of panic, and reassurance that life could, and would, go on. Perhaps our government simply wished to inure us to the idea that radioactive slugfests were inevitable.

Duck and Cover portrayed kids rolling themselves up against walls, ducking under desks and cowering beneath their seats in a school bus that was unfortunate enough to be on the road when Armageddon began.

In the end, we are no safer now than we were when Bert was just a sketch on a storyboard. Ultimate destruction is still possible. The difference is the bombs are bigger, the club has more members and some of the latest aspirants are dedicated fanatics. Unless we dedicate ourselves to changing it, such is the world we must now accept. Still, I have to ask — why did it have to be a toon, a perversion of all that is innocent and fun about being a kid, who first riveted those dire facts into my head? I don’t care if you are in the National Film Registry, Bert. You lied to me with a smile, and I hate you to this day. If you must duck and cover, do so out of shame; a hundred megatons is too good for you.

Martin “Dr. Toon” Goodman is a longtime student and fan of animation. He lives in Anderson, Indiana.