ONE DICTIONARY SYNONYM for appendix is addendum; ano plement. A secondary definition in the Random House Dictionary goes: ‘‘ The short tube at the bottom of a balloon bag by which the intake and release of buoyant gas is controlled. ’’
Leaning heavily toward the secondary definition, the appendix of this book contains quite a bit of material, all relating to the author’s life and writing, but only indirectly or not at all related to the subject of this book.
Please forgive the uncontrolled release of buoyant gas, but the author suggests that your skimming through the appendix might produce some laughter or tears or general interest, a kind of, forgive the mixed metaphor, frosting on the cake.
A Presidential Distinguished Unit Citation is awarded those units (be they squads, platoons, companies, battalions, regiments, division) who performed in battle, as a unit, which, if an individual soldier so performed would have resulted in the soldier receiving the Distinguished Service Cross.
Following is the War Department citation of the 148th Infantry Regiment, for its performance in the Philippines, Jan. 9, 1945 until March 4, 1945, particularly for the regiment’s key role in the capture of Manila. The author was an officer in the 148th Infantry Regiment during that period.
DISTINGUISHED UNIT CITATIONS
The 148th Infantry Regiment is cited for outstanding performance of duty in action against the enemy at Luzon, Philippine Islands, from 9 January to 4 March 1945. In every phase of the campaign in which it participated, the 148th Infantry Regiment achieved spectacular success, carrying out its missions with courage and speedy efficiency. By its capture of the critical road junction of Plaridel by spearheading the drive into Manila from the north, advancing 137 miles in 24 days, by its liberation of the Americans interned at Bilibid Prison and the patients and refugees at the Philippine General Hospital, by establishing, under fire, the vital bridgehead across the Pasig River and by the major role it played in destroying the fanatical Japanese garrison in Manila, the 148th Infantry Regiment contributed immeasurably to the brilliant success achieved by the United States forces in the Luzon campaign. In every engagement, the regiment exhibited outstanding combat efficiency by uniformly inflicting severe losses on the enemy, while sustaining only moderate casualties. Each unit of the regiment performed its assigned duty with consummate skill and fidelity. Service troops worked unceasingly to supply the combat troops, the medical detachment performed innumerable acts of gallantry in caring for both soldiers and civilians, and the cannon company gave invaluable direct fire support. Over open ground, through city streets, the 148 Infantry Regiment met and decisively defeated the enemy wherever he chose to make a stand. Its brilliant combat record is a tribute to the courage and skill of every man in the regiment and exemplifies the finest traditions of the military service. [General Orders No. 34, War Department, 10 April 1946.]
Also receiving the Presidential Distinguished Unit Citation was the author’s first infantry assignment, Co. F, 148th Infantry Regiment, for its heroism in Bougainville. Although the author was not a member of Co. F during this action, many of his first platoon and fellow officers were a part of this heroism, and a number were killed or wounded in the action.
Company F, 148th Infantry, is cited for the magnificent gallantry, heroism, teamwork and will to win that it demonstrated in this crucial operation, and for its tremendously significant part in the action on Hill 700, which resulted in a victory of major importance to the entire United States defense of Bougainville Island.
During the recent offensive action by Japanese forces against the United States positions on Bougainville Island, Company F, 148th Infantry Regiment, participated in a counterattack against enemy positions atop Hill 700, which resulted in the destruction of Japanese forces in that sector and the removal of a major threat to our positions.
This action, which took place on 12 March 1944, was a double envelopment by Company E and Company F, 148th Infantry Regiment, and represented one of the outstanding examples of daring and courage to occur in this theater. The proximity of the enemy to our lines prohibited the use of supporting artillery, and the rugged terrain precluded the use of tanks. Our attacking forces were compelled to advance against almost every conceivable obstacle. The enemy enjoyed a commanding position, excellent fields of fire, superior observation, and the natural advantage accruing to the defender. Company F, on the other hand, had to execute a difficult flanking movement, across precipitous, fire- swept terrain, against a determined and confident enemy occupying strong defensive positions.
The attack, begun simultaneously with the advance of Company E on the east flank, was a charge against enemy positions under a withering hail of fire at point- blank range. Utilizing rocket launchers, flame throwers, smoke grenades, and other infantry weapons, the men of Company F swept over the Japanese positions, made contact with Company E approaching from the east, and secured the objective. Company F lost three enlisted men killed, and four officers and 39 enlisted men wounded in this assault. The enemy lost 407 counted dead in this immediate area, and were practically annihilated. The backbone of the entire enemy offensive on Bougainville was broken. [General Orders No. 50, War Department, 17 June 1944.]
Speaking of Awards, 45 years later, the author’s tribulations in trying to collect some of his medals, led to a recounting of the experience in a column he wrote for This Week Magazine. Here’s the story:
SNAFU . . . Situation Normal All Fouled Up. It’s been 45 years since millions of us left the WWII armed forces . . . and that acronym. But, events of the past months have reassured me that SNAFU is alive and well . . . perhaps with a dash of Murphy’s Law sprinkled in.
About a year ago, my 37th Infantry Division Monthly Newsletter advised WWII veterans of the Fighting 37th that if they had not received any medals, earned in those bloody 3 1/2 years in the S. Pacific, they could write to Army Personnel, St. Louis, Mo. and get them. All of us, at various occasions these past 45 years, had worn our ribbons, the colorful, paper- clip- size symbols of our medals. But the metal Medals
. . . the beautiful silver and bronze, heavy and designed hanging decorations
. . . had not been issued. So, because I have an 8 year old grandson in his Army- GI Joe stage, passionate for live medals, I wrote to Army Personnel, identified myself as having served 5 1/2 years in the Armed Forces in WWII, the last 3 1/2 years overseas and in combat.
Two weeks later, a shocker- letter arrived. Personnel advised me politely but firmly that a careful checking of their files did not turn up any record of my ever having served in the Armed Forces, in WWII . . . or any War. When I reported this to a friend . . . who suddenly became an ex- friend . . . he snidely opined that my name was probably filed under ‘‘ Coward’’ . . . and no medals due.
In truth, I became the Unknown Soldier . . . not known for ever having fired a shot in anger in any battle fought by my country. Out of my enraged subconscious drifted my Army Serial Number . . . which I had not thought of for 45 years: 0- 1794932. Quickly, I dashed off a note to Army Personnel giving them this dogtag identification. Two weeks later, a shoebox- size container was delivered by the mailman, full of dozens of plastic wrapped and some beautifully boxed medals. Many I knew and recognized . . . the Bronze Stars, Oak Leaf Clusters, Combat Infantry Badge, Presidential Citation, Sharpshooters Medal, Good Conduct Award . . . and on. In addition, there were many I had never heard of . . . Philippino Victory Medal, Asiatic Campaign Medal, Solomon Islands Freedom Medal, Conqueror of Manila Award, Liberation of Luzon . . . and so forth. The less important the medal, of course, the more dazzling.
The following weekend, we were invited to that ex- friend’s house for dinner, and for the first, and last, time in my life, I wore all the medals. The combined weight didn’t help my hernia, but revenge was sweeter than the pain they caused. Then, I put them back in their containers and delivered them to my grandson, who was ecstatic. He pinned a medal onto the pajamas, and wore several to Trinity School. His teacher was impressed, not enough to permit him to wear them all day, but enough to ask Adam to recite what his Grandfather had done to win each one. Adam, having been subjected to my somewhat embellished and not-so-modest tales of bravery, almost every weekend the past two years, did himself and his Grandpa proud.
End of story? EOS? Not on your life. SNAFU? Of course. For, every two months thereafter, an identical box arrived, conveying the identical medals . . . again and again and again. I could have gone into the second- hand medal business. Instead, I used these duplicates and triplicates, once at my nephew’s wedding, highlighting the pre- nuptial dinner with a speech- making ceremony, pinning a combat infantry badge on the blouse of the bride and the Good Conduct Medal (billed as ‘‘ an advance’’) on the groom. Others to the children in the wedding party. Just two weeks ago, another box arrived from Army Personnel
. . . this one, to my disappointment, was small . . . the size of a deck of cards. I unwrapped the little package to find it contained only one medal. A letdown. Except, this one, as I read the inscription, was for . . . hold onto your seatbelt…. ‘‘ Bravery in KOREA’’. I had never been within 1000 miles of Korea; was not in any way involved in the Korean War.
Now . . . I realized that my name must have been cranked into the computer, and I live day to day, expecting my medal for bravery in Viet Nam … Granada … Panama. Or . . . perhaps they’ll jack the whole process up a notch or two and toss me some really significant Awards
. . . like the DSC . . . Distinguished Service Cross . . . or . . . as the end of SNAFU nears . . . maybe even that long coveted Congressional Medal of Honor.
Then . . . and only then . . . will I write to Army Personnel, asking them to shut off the spigot. My guess is that their reply will read something like this: ‘‘ Dear Mr. Frankel: We have searched our files and we cannot find any records indicating that you have ever served in the Armed Forces of the United States in any war. ’’
As long as they don’t ask for their medals back!
Still More On Awards
Medals are usually earned though the author cautions the general public that often woven into the formal citation is that germ of truth, surrounded by some degree of hyperbole and literary license. This is particularly true, says our author, about awards he received, mostly a ‘‘ poetic’’ extension of the truth. In any event, with those disclaimers here are some of the awards recommended for our author and/ or actually awarded to him. He urges those readers who find immodesty disturbing to skip over the next three or four pages.
Headquarters 148th infantry
Office of the Regimental Commander
APO 37
15 June 1945
Subject: Award of the Legion of Merit.
To: Commanding General, 37th Infantry Division, APO 37.
1. Under provisions of AR 600- 45, it is recommended that the Legion of Merit be awarded to Captain Stanley A. Frankel, ASN 0- 1794932, Regimental Adjutant, 148th Infantry Regiment, for exceptionally meritorious conduct in the performance of outstanding services at New Georgia, Guadalcanal, and Bougainville, Solomon Islands; and Luzon, Philippine Islands from 18 July to 3 March 1945.
2. DESCRIPTION OF THE ACT:
a. Date– 18 July 1943 to 3 March 1945.
b. Place– New Georgia, Guadalcanal, and Bougainville, Solomon Islands; Luzon, Philippine Islands.
c. Narrative– During the campaign at New Georgia, Solomon Islands, Captain Stanley A. Frankel, then First Lieutenant, distinguished himself by his outstanding services as Executive Officer of Headquarters Company, 148th Infantry. Captain Frankel repeatedly displayed fine leadership in leading his unit against well- concealed enemy defenses in the dense jungle interior. By constantly checking and applying all security measures to the utmost advantage, he counteracted the natural advantage that the dense foliage afforded the enemy. Whenever his company bivouacked for the night, Captain Frankel efficiently assisted the Company Commander in arranging the perimeter defense and interior security. On many occasions he increased the efficiency of carrying parties going to the forward elements by personally directing their movements over the muddy trails. Captain Frankel devoted much time to the coordination of the movement of the limited transportation available, in order to assure the front- line companies of an adequate supply of precious water.
On one occasion a wire party led by the Assistant Communications Officer was halted by an enemy ambush consisting of a light machine gun team and several riflemen. Locating the approximate position of the enemy weapon by its distinctive sound, Captain Frankel led his men off the narrow trail to within 30 yards of the enemy machine gun. While he had his men lay down diverting rifle fire, Captain Frankel made his way alone over an alternate route in the direction of the communications party. This movement exposed him to the extreme danger of being shot at by the enemy or by uninformed friendly troops. After successfully making contact with the communications party, Captain Frankel maneuvered it out of its precarious position to safety.
With the successful conclusion of the New Georgia campaign, the 37th Division returned to Guadalcanal. In early November the division resumed military operations against the enemy at Bougainville, Solomon Islands. Captain Frankel remained in command of the 148th Infantry rear echelon consisting of about 100 men. On 16 November 1943, replacements for the 37th Division, numbering 30 officers and about 600 enlisted men, arrived at Guadalcanal. As it was not intended to send these replacements forward for a period of three weeks, Captain Frankel, on his own initiative, submitted a plan to the Commanding Officer, 37th Division rear echelon, for training these replacements during the coming two weeks. Based upon his experience in the New Georgia campaign, Captain Frankel outlined an intensive two- week training schedule covering jungle warfare and including combat firing problems, lectures on jungle tactics, and field exercises. Captain Frankel organized the replacement officers and enlisted men into three temporary companies and supervised the training program, in addition to his regular duties as Personnel Officer. The realistic and specialized nature of this training program fitted these men for jungle warfare, and they were easily absorbed into the division’s regiments on Bougainville. Captain Frankel was highly commended for his excellent achievement by a regimental commander.
Near the end of the training period, 26 November 1943, Hell’s Point Ammunition Dump was ignited and at 1: 30 P. M. shell fragments began to land in the rear echelon area. Captain Frankel decided to evacuate the area as a precautionary measure. Ordering a formation of all replacements and rear echelon personnel, he instructed an officer to march the men along the beach away from the ammunition dump to a clearing 500 yards east of a nearby Naval Construction Battalion and to await further orders there. Captain Frankel then made an inspection of each tent, discovered several soldiers in their tents, and ordered them to join the departed troops. By this time the explosions grew louder and two shells burst almost simultaneously in the area. Captain Frankel, nevertheless, continued his inspection until he was sure that everyone had left the danger zone. As the explosions mounted in intensity, shells began to fall in the new troop- assembly area. The number of military personnel had been greatly augmented by hundreds of men from all units, including natives, marines, Australians, army and navy troops. Captain Frankel succeeded in maintaining effective control among his men despite the prevailing confusion. He immediately issued orders to his officers to lead their men across the Tenaru River 200 yards further down in order to safeguard his men from injury by flying shell fragments. Upon reaching the river bank, Captain Frankel noticed several men floundering in the water and, with the aid of several volunteers, he succeeded in pulling the men to safety. He then had all the men who were unable to swim form a chain by holding one another’s hands, and led them over a shallow sand bar where the water was only shoulder deep. By this method about 400 men crossed the river safely. His cool and intelligent leadership was responsible for a swift and orderly evacuation of over 600 men under particularly difficult and hazardous conditions.
In March 1944, when the Army announced the rotation program for men who had been overseas a specified length of time, the Regimental Commander inaugurated a program for training new men to replace key non- commissioned officers throughout the regiment. Captain Frankel requested that he be permitted to train administrative personnel as replacements for those clerks eligible for rotation. Organizing what was then the first formal Clerks’ School to be held in the Southwest Pacific, Captain Frankel set up a two- week program of lectures and practical work in army administration for 60 men who possessed qualifications for this type of work. This school proved to be eminently successful, and one year later 43 of the 60 men were engaged in important administrative work throughout the regiment. Captain Frankel was highly commended by higher headquarters on this innovation, and several other units requested and received permission to have some of their enlisted personnel attend the school.
During the entire period that Captain Frankel was Personnel Officer, all his work was performed in a superior manner. After two inspections by higher headquarters, the 148th Infantry Regiment was commended for the up- to- date completeness of the personnel records, commendations which reflected Captain Frankel’s meticulous attention to duty and his administrative ability.
On 28 January 1945 during the Luzon campaign, Company L, 148th Infantry, was ordered to seize the towns of Mexico and San Fernando. It was imperative that internecine strife be prevented if the regiment’s progress were to continue unimpeded. Traveling through 14 miles of territory which had not yet been cleared of Japanese, Captain Frankel caught up with the motorized company and entered San Fernando with the advance elements of the strong combat patrol preceding the column. He immediately contacted the two opposing factions, pointed out to their leaders that any conflict that directly or indirectly endangered the security of American troops would be dealt with summarily, and then outlined a compromise which was readily accepted by both factions. This skillful diplomatic action facilitated the entry of the regiment’s troops into the town, and hastened the advance on Manila.
On 5 February 1945, it became necessary to evacuate 1275 civilian and military prisoners from Bilibid Prison in Manila. Fierce fires set off by enemy demolitions were approaching the front of the prison yard and the lives of the prisoners were endangered. In addition, the flames were forcing the Japanese toward Azcarraga Street, immediately south of the prison, and the Second Battalion, 148th Infantry, was engaged in numerous fire- fights around the prison walls. The Regimental Commander assigned Captain Frankel as assistant to the Regimental Executive Officer who was in charge of the evacuation. Captain Frankel helped organize a truck convoy and expedited the leading of litter cases on trucks and ambulances. After making a thorough inspection of the hospital wards, despite the fact that he was subjected to enemy machine gun fire, to assure himself that no one was left behind, he led the convoy five miles to the Ang Bay Shoe Factory. He then returned to assist in supervising the withdrawal of combat elements of the Second Battalion, and departed from Bilibid Prison only after all troops had left the area. His prompt action materially contributed to a swift evacuation of all the internees.
Captain Frankel has been recommended for the Silver Star for gallantry at Malacan˜ an Palace on 7 February 1945, when he rescued two wounded soldiers during an intense mortar and artillery barrage, and for establishing and maintaining a forward command post on the south side of the Pasig River under heavy enemy fire, on the following day. Captain Frankel’s keen judgment, extreme devotion to duty, and outstanding leadership have been vital factors in maintaining the highest standards of both combat and administrative efficiency in the 148th Infantry Regiment.
3. The service of Captain Stanley A. Frankel has been honorable since the acts on which this recommendation is based. This recommendation is based upon the attached statements of four eye- witnesses. I have personal knowledge of all facts herein contained not included in supporting certificates.
4. Captain Frankel’s home address and next of kin are: Mrs. Olive Frankel, (Mother), 1215 Amhurst Place, Dayton, Ohio.
D. E. SCHULTZ, Lt Col, 148th Inf, Commanding.
A TRUE COPY
R. BOLINGER Capt, 148th Inf, Per. Off.
3 pages for pick- up of awards and certificates
This is a rare picture which might well be captioned: The Sublime and the Ridiculous, for it features, on the left, Major General Robert S. Beightler, Commanding General of the 37th Infantry Division throughout the entire War; and on the far right, author Stanley A. Frankel, at that time a buck private. In the middle is writer, John R. Tunis, who visited the 37th Division in training at Camp Shelby, Miss. to do an article for Look Magazine on a national guard outfit being prepared for combat, shortly after the War began. Frankel, who knew Tunis, had been chosen as liaison between the 37 Div. staff and Tunis.
Following the picture is an article which Tunis did for the N. Y Herald- Tribune Magazine about . . . not the General . . . but Frankel. Make of it what you will, and don’t forget the word : hyperbole.
WORLD WAR II IN THE SOUTH PACIFIC
How a smart youngster came to realize he’d been too smart for his own good
by John R. Tunis
It was the spring of 1939. I had just returned from three months in the tragic continent of Europe when I was asked to talk to the student body of a large Midwestern university. So there I was, trying not very successfully to make those thousands of eager- faced boys and girls see what was coming. And I asked them to make up their minds, before the drums started to roll, whether they’d fight. And if so, what for.
Were there any questions? There were. A fellow rose from the crowd, slender, slight, bespectacled. Even before he spoke I guessed he was president of the debating society, and probably an undergraduate leader. He had, he said, only two questions.
First: Was I a veteran of the World War?
Answer: Yes. Second: Was I a member of the American Legion?
Answer: Yes. He sat down, very pleased with himself.
Applause.
In other words, I was an alarmist. I was a warmonger. I was the older generation. I was convicted out of my own mouth. There were no more questions.
Afterward he came down to the platform, one of a group of pressing youngsters below, and announced somewhat truculently that he was a pacifist. It appeared he was not fighting in any ‘‘ imperialistic war. ’’ And so forth.
Later I heard from him by mail. He turned out, as I’d suspected, to be president of the debating society and also president of his class. He was alert, intelligent, articulate. We corresponded at some length after his graduation that June, when he got a job as a ‘‘ leg man’’ on a Chicago daily. In the fall he heard of an opening in the publicity department of a broadcasting chain in New York. He wrote me about it. Luckily I knew one of the men in charge, and could recommend him. He got the job. And delivered, as I expected.
All the while, events in Europe were slowly forcing him to change position. Though at the time he hardly realized this. The Russian- German pact in the summer of 1939 shook him badly. The invasion of Norway in the spring of 1940 was a blow. The defeat of France that spring really upset him. He was confused and distressed. Then in the fall of 1940 he was drafted.
He went reluctantly. He was leaving a good job. He didn’t enjoy Army life, Army food or Army officers, and his letters every week concealed nothing. That winter of ’40- ’41 was far from amusing. No equipment. Nothing much for an active mind to do. Life was grim and monotonous.
Last spring, however, the tone of his letters changed a little. Equipment started coming in. He was over his basic- training period. He talked with some slight scorn of the new draftees who expected ‘‘ swimming pools and hostesses. ’’ His division got organized and equipped. Last summer they went on maneuvers in Louisiana. When Stanley left Camp Shelby he was a recruit. When he returned he was a soldier.
He was a soldier but he was still not mentally prepared for the task ahead. Then one sunny afternoon in December it came. Like that. The Japs were on our necks. The next day so were the Germans and Italians. Several weeks later he wrote me. This letter was different.
‘‘ I guess you think I’ve been a damn fool. I wasn’t really. I was just too smart for my own good. Back at college we thought we had war all figured out. The big shots started the wars– and stopped them– and made their millions out of them. While the little guys fought in them– and paid for them.
‘‘ So we figured we’d toss war out the window. The warmongers wouldn’t fool us again with that old gag about making the world safe for democracy.
‘‘ Then this war started. For a while it was like all the rest. But gradually it dawned on us that this was different. This time the little guy was fighting his own war. Not to save democracy in some far part of the world, but to save himself from slavery.
‘‘ Now we know. All of us. Every guy in this camp and others I know about. We’ve got to win this war. It’s for us– it’s for everything that means anything to us. It’s for the very things we thought we were fighting for when we were campus intellectuals.
‘‘ I wish I could write. I’d like to write a letter to all the older people who’ve been wondering about the younger generation. They can stop wondering. We’re all right. Hitler and his gang better watch out. ’’
Someone ought to write it, Stanley Frankel. As long as you can’t, do you mind if I do it for you?
One of my staff sergeants who was tremendously helpful to me at war’s end in writing the History of the 37th Division, was Jack Mac-Donald, now writing impressive weekly columns of material for columnists and disc jockeys as well as conducting his own radio- TV show and putting together an occasional book of his own. Jack sent me the following ‘‘ An Old Colonel’s Laws of Combat’’ which, like Murphy’s Law, has more serious truth in it than funny fiction. Jack was a combat infantryman with the 148th in WWII and can attest to these truths, the actual source of which we do not know:
A wise old army colonel, with plenty of infantry experience, put together some ‘‘ Laws of Combat’’ for new young officers. They may have more validity than anything to come out of the training manuals. The colonel’s ‘‘ Laws’’ include:
1. Anything you do can get you shot, including doing nothing.
2. The only thing more accurate than incoming enemy fire is incoming friendly fire.
3. Body- count math is three guerrillas plus one probable plus two pigs equals 37 enemy killed in action.
4. Friendly fire isn’t.
5. Things that must be together to work are never shipped together.
6. No combat- ready unit has ever passed inspection.
7. If the enemy is in range, so are you.
8. The easy way is always mined.
9. If you are short of everything except enemy, you are in combat.
10. When you have secured an area, do not forget to tell the enemy.
11. All five- second grenade fuses will burn down in three seconds.
12. If you are forward of your position, the artillery will fall short.
13. The enemy diversion you are ignoring is the main attack.
14. If you take more than your fair share of objectives, you will have more than your fair share to take.
15. When both sides are convinced they are about to lose, they are both right.
16. Professional soldiers are predictable, but the world is full of amateurs.
17. Don’t look conspicuous– it draws fire.
18. If your attack is going really well, you are in an ambush.
19. If it is stupid but works, it is not stupid.
20. Never share a foxhole with anyone braver than you are.
21. When in doubt, empty the magazine.
22. Never forget your weapon was made by the lowest bidder.
Speaking of Colonels, Colonel Lawrence K. White, second of my three superior Regimental Commanders, has shown up in this book from time to time, and his comments on my published account of the famed (bloodless) Battle of Balintawak may interest and amuse you:
As the Regimental Commander of the 148th Infantry who ‘‘ took’’ Balintawak Brewery in the Philippines, I was particularly interested in the account written by my staff officer, Major Stanley Frankel, which appeared in your Mar. 9 issue (of This Week Magazine).
May I take the liberty of adding a few more details which may amuse your readers.
On the whole it is pretty accurate. With regard to Gen. Krueger, Commanding General of the 6th corps he actually did show up. I remember well standing on the bank of the river with Krueger and General Griswold as we observed the soldiers wading the river holding their helmets full of beer over their heads. Gen. Krueger asked why they were carrying their helmets that way. I told him they were full of beer. He then said, ‘‘ What’s all this shooting I hear just up the road? ’’ I explained that we had a pretty good fire fight up around the Bonifacio monument. Then he said, ‘‘ Well, what do you think about soldiers drinking a helmet of beer and going right into a fire fight? ’’ I said ‘‘ Sir, I don’t know but I wouldn’t like to try to stop it. ’’ Gen. Krueger then said ‘‘ Well, I don’t think I would either. ’’
Having finessed that one pretty well I said I was then going to cross the river and go into Manila on foot. We could not yet get any jeeps across. Gen. Krueger than said to me, ‘‘ As soon as you get in try to make contact with the First Cavalry. I haven’t heard anything from them since they got into Santo Tomas yesterday. ’’ This I did by taking a Buick away from a Filipino who had just stolen it. He agreed to drive me to Santo Tomas which he did as I stayed prone in the back seat with my forty- five in his back ready to carry out my promise to take him with me should anything untoward happen enroute.
In the introduction, the author mentions his pacifism as well as Time Magazine’s recognition of his efforts while in college to keep the U. S. out of the war. Here’s a copy of an excerpt from that Time article.
Every leader knows that to fight a war, whether for conquest or in self- defense, he must give the young men of his nation a cause so good and just that they are willing to be ripped apart by shrapnel, choked by gas, gored by bayonets without losing the will to fight.
German youth was long ago convinced that Nazi destiny is more important than death; French and British youth have found their cause in Hitler’s aggressions. But last week as 1,250,000 U. S. students of military age assembled peaceably on the grounds of 1,500 colleges and universities (see p. 46), they were still quite sure they had nothing to fight for, and some of them doubted whether any cause was worth the unpleasantness of dying.
Like their elders, whose passions and opinions they reflected, the young men of the U. S. were bewildered by war, undecided how they should react to it. In their campus newspapers they brooded on such problems as encirclement and invasion, debated how the U. S. might be kept neutral. One thing only they agreed on unanimously: they did not want to take up arms in Europe.
Most emphatic undergraduate journal in the East was The Dartmouth, only daily newspaper in the town of Hanover, N. H., and a member of the Associated Press. Wrote Editor Thomas Wardell Braden Jr.: ‘‘ In the last great war men of our age died:
1) for democracy, 2) to crush German Imperialism. These words don’t always mean what they say. We need to remember that there are ideals of truth and realism stronger than the fake ideals which are battering at us from Europe. ’’
‘‘ We hardly feel justified, ’’ said Editor Braden, ‘‘ in terming Mr. Roosevelt’s party a peace bloc. ’’
Other student papers were more restrained, contented themselves with warnings and prayers. Said the Yale Daily News: ‘‘ Secure from a military and economic standpoint, America will only become involved in the present war if she again heeds propagandist pleas to preserve democracy and stamp out Hitlerism. Let us be on guard against being persuaded to fight for the economic interests of England and France. ’’
The Harvard Crimson, under Blair Clark’s supervision took its stand with one leg solidly behind the Allies: ‘‘ The best chance of our remaining neutral is the success of Allied arms. ’’ But in the next breath the Crimson added: ‘‘ Americans wishing to remain neutral must make a new resolve to stay out of this war at any price– Allies win or lose. ’’
Ralph Hinchman Cutler Jr., returning as a senior to Harvard after a summer abroad, wrote in the Crimson: ‘‘ In the present European war there is only one thing at stake: the supremacy and preponderance of the British Empire. The war appears to be merely a clash of rival imperialisms. ’’
The Daily Princetonian had nothing to say editorially about war. But Editor Robert P. Hazlehurst admitted: ‘‘ There’s not much doubt as to how Princeton men feel about the war: we are naturally biased in favor of the Allies. ’’ Meanwhile at Vassar College, in the Miscellany, Editor Nancy McInerney of South Bend, Ind., spoke for young womanhood: ‘‘ We don’t want our husbands shot. We favor the cashand- carry act because it is more neutral. ’’
Southern colleges were almost unanimous in their sympathy for the Allied cause, but they too leaned toward isolation. Said the University of North Carolina’s Daily Tar Heel: ‘‘ We Americans still are for the most part unaware of the ever- engulfing holocaust of screaming bombs, earthy blastings, and flying shrapnel. We are out of range. ’’ In the Rollins College Sandspur Editor John Henry Buckwalter III exclaimed: ‘‘ President Roosevelt is absolutely right…. ’’ The Daily Reveille of Louisiana State University thanked God for 3,000 miles of ocean.
One of a handful of college publications with the bulk and attitude of a metropolitan newspaper is The Daily Texan, published by students of the University of Texas at Austin. War news (by International News Service) was played down in the Texan, Editor Max B. Skelton noted an increase in student registration, added as an afterthought: ‘‘ The people of the U. S. should be thankful that the youth of college age are beginning to worry about mathematics and physics instead of watching for the approach of enemy bombers. ’’
At Northwestern University in Chicago, brilliant, political- minded Stanley Frankel, editor of the Daily Northwestern, founded a College Front for Peace with the platform: ‘‘ We will not fight in Europe. ’’ He sent letters to editors of 250 other college papers, inviting them to join; at week’s end some 50 had accepted.
In the Northwestern Stanley Frankel wrote: ‘‘ The countries of Europe have found an interesting pastime for their youths. They give them guns and airplanes and cannons and bayonets and nice uniforms! We youth in America don’t want to play soldier. We want the U. S. to keep out of war. ’’
Like the Texan, The Daily Illini at the University of Illinois in Urbana is weighty and professional; it leases an AP wire, carries the syndicated Washington Merry- Go- Round. Unlike the Texan, last week it played the war to the hilt. Editorial Writer Wallace Dooley was judicial, weighed the factors favoring neutrality.
Midwestern students on the whole were wary of U. S. intervention in Europe’s war, for any cause.
As the author has discussed before, he wrote many articles about fighting in the S. Pacific, some of which have been reproduced in the body of this book and also in the appendix. However, he also wrote many magazine articles, mainly non- fiction, unrelated to the War, and several of his favorites have first been published in national magazines and newspapers and then often republished in literary anthologies. Following, in no particular order of event, chronology, or favoritism are those hand- picked pieces marked for, the author hopes, some form of posterity.
Illustration to come
by Stanley A. Frankel
Adlai E. Stevenson of Illinois died 25 years ago. This year he would have been 90. We had been friends ever since he ran for Governor in 1948 and I wrote . . . or, better . . . tried to write . . . speeches for him. I can’t think of him as a 90 year old; to me, he’s forever young . . . my friend, my boss, and in some activities, my collaborator. I think of that sparkle in his eyes, his warm and gregarious personality, and above all, his finely honed sense of humor . . . never unkind or cruel . . . but sharp and always ‘‘ on the button. ’’
Many incidents come to mind, but the one involving Westchester might be the most relevant. An associate and I called on Governor Stevenson in 1960 shortly after he was named U. S. Ambassador to U. N. We had come up with an idea to put him on TV regularly, a series which did go on thereafter for two years and won a Peabody Award. This was our initial meeting on the subject, an effort to sell the idea to him.
As I was in the middle of my presentation, Miss Roxanne Eberlein, the ‘‘ Guv’s’’ secretary, rushed in, whispered a few words into his ear, and left. Stevenson apologetically said:
‘‘ Stan, the Secretary of State is outside. Would you mind if he interrupted our talk? ’’ We said, quickly, ‘‘ Of course not . . .’’ and got up to leave the room. With that, Dean Rusk bounced in.
Now, I had known Dean Rusk for many years. He was a Scarsdale neighbor, and we often walked to the railroad station together and participated in many of the same activities. As he walked in and saw me, he was taken aback, for we had not known each other in this political context.
As we shook hands, there flashed through my mind the magnificence of the opportunity: Stevenson and Rusk as a captive audience, at least for a moment, an opportunity to toss the two most powerful statesmen in the U. S. my ideas on Cuba, Viet Nam, the Berlin Wall. But often our tongue does not keep up with our mind; I must confess this is the dialogue: ‘‘ Dean, remember two years ago when you were program chairman of the Scarsdale Junior High PTA? ’’ ‘‘ Yes, Stan. ’’ ‘‘ Well, you know the year after, they made me chairman. ’’ ‘‘ Oh yes,… that’s right. ’’ ‘‘ Then, last year, when you coached the sixth grade year, I’m the coach. ’’ ‘‘ Oh . . . I had heard that . . . nice going . . . how’s the team? ’’
‘‘ Fine . . . Dean, but this will really throw you. You’ve been chairman of the Senior High School program committee until you were called away to Washington. Guess whom they selected to fill in for you? ’’ ‘‘ You mean . . . you were selected . . . that is a coincident! ’’ Meanwhile, Stevenson, who had one ear cocked while listening to this scintillating conversation, shook his head and commented sorrowfully: ‘‘ That’s just like Scarsdale
. . . always jumping from the sublime to the ridiculous! ’’
Properly, and yet gently, rebuffed
. . . I prepared to retire inconspicuously from the room . . . backing away from my seat, toward the door. Unfortunately, Stevenson had a large plastic contour map of the western world on the floor, next to the door, and as I backed away, I inadvertently stepped onto the map. It gave way with a crunch.
Both Stevenson and Rusk quickly walked over, and noticed the broken parts. Stevenson looked up with a humorous gleam in his eye, ‘‘ Great work, Stan, you’ve accomplished what we’ve been trying to do for years
. . . you’ve crushed Cuba. ’’
As I mentioned before, we did persuade Stevenson to do the TV series, and it went on, every Sunday, over ABC- TV for two fulfilling years, until he died. Many of the programs were memorable, the ones with Nehru, and Humphrey, and Rusk, all as Stevenson’s guests. One I recall, most, the
program aired the Sunday before Christmas, 1962. Stevenson commented on the world situation and his eloquent remarks remain fixed in my mind. The tape of this particular program has been lost, and there was no official transcript. Therefore, I may have missed the exact quotation, but I think I have salvaged the meaning and most of the style.
‘‘ It might be a good idea during this Christmas season to remind ourselves about the nature of men . . . and Man. Men are sometime cruel, but Man is kind. Men are sometime greedy, but Man is generous. Men are mortal, but Man is immortal, and I believe along with Faulkner that Man will do more than survive. He will prevail. ’’
As a grandfather I must believe that the eloquence of my friend, Adlai Stevenson, will not only survive in history . . . but that his lofty ideals for this nation and the world will eventually prevail.
(EDITOR’S NOTE: The writer, Stanley A. Frankel, has served on Presidential Commissions for the Peace Corps and Youth Opportunity; is President of Phi Beta Kappa Associates; is a senior officer at Ogden Corporation; was a speechwriter for a number of Presidential candidates including Adlai Stevenson, Hubert Humphrey, George McGovern and Robert Kennedy; won a Peabody Award for the Adlai Stevenson TV series; is a distinguished Phi Beta Kappa lecturer, and lives in Scarsdale, N. Y. He’s also a much decorated combat infantry man from WWII battles in the South Pacific. And he has served on the N. Y. State Governor’s Task Force on High Education, the Chancellor’s
N. Y. State Panel on Long Range Planning and Remediation; and the Baruch College Ph. D. Board of Visitors).
by Stanley A. Frankel
My Dad died when he was
34. I was 8. His death resulted from a kidney ailment called Bright’s Disease. A decade later, Sir Alexander Fleming discovered penicillin; and shortly afterwards, it was learned that one shot of penicillin knocks out Bright’s disease in 24 hours.
Etched in my memory is my last visit with him. Dying in the Miami Valley Hospital, Dayton, Ohio, he asked to see me . . . his only son. My mother and her family debated for some hours the advisability of my going to his oppressive sick room. But, his quiet wish, spoken with slurred speech between bouts of unconsciousness, won the day, and I was brought up to his hospital ward. I walked over to him, noticed how puffy and pale his face was; his eyes were closed and he was still. I gingerly took his hand, and he opened his eyes and tried hard to smile. Not much of one. Then, haltingly, indistinctly, he whispered: ‘‘ Son, kiss me goodbye. ’’
I knew exactly what that meant, and as I leaned over to give him a peck on the cheek, I broke down, sobbing, buried my head in his shoulder
Reprinted from N. Y. Daily News
and lay half on top of him as I had done so often in years past. He gently patted my cheeks and ran his fingers through my hair. I heard him say, now clearer than before: ‘‘ Stanley, son, don’t cry for me . . . be a strong boy
. . . don’t cry, ever. ’’
My mother came to the bed, led me away as he closed his eyes and put his arms alongside his wasted body. I didn’t look back as I went out the door. I fought back my tears though I felt a wrenching pain in my stomach.
Two days later he died, and the friends and relatives at the funeral must have been startled by the sight of a stoic little boy, sitting next to his father’s casket, looking straight ahead and not expressing one whit of emotion.
Since then, like everyone else, I’ve had my share of grief and pain, but I have never cried, not even in those moments of exaltation when tears of joy would have been appropriate.
And life has treated me well, including the blessing of an eight year old grandson whose interests and priorities practically coincide with my own. Our first love is baseball, and we play pitch and catch by the hour; we throw a tennis ball against the side of the house for the other to reach; and we bat against the pitching machine at Sportsland. Since he lives fairly close by, we spend lots of time together on our other interests, viewing Phantom of the Opera, going to horror movies, and haunting Yankee Stadium. We chase frogs in Bermuda after dark, wearing the T- shirts his parents gave us: ‘‘ Frog Hunting Champions of the World; ’’ and when he stays overnight with us, we lie in bed together, watching the goriest TV we can locate, covering up each other’s eyes with our hands as the hatchet descends on the unsuspecting victim.
He loves my WWII stories, especially the one about the Japanese soldier in the Solomon Islands who stumbled into my foxhole, fell on top of me, flush against the bayonet I had pointed in the direction of the falling body. At Grandparents Day at his Trinity school, he proudly introduced me to his teacher as ‘‘ Pa, the solider’’ pulled a medal I had given him out of his pocket and told her I had won that for the rescue of some American prisoners at Bilibid Prison, Manila. She had me recite the full story to his class while he sat next to me in obvious pride, dangling the medal in front of the class.
We both loved my 89- year- old Uncle Arthur . . . his great- great Uncle
. . . and when we visited Uncle Arthur in his Dayton, Ohio nursing
home, Adam was responsible for getting Uncle Art out of bed and walking, hand in hand with his great- great nephew around the Home. When we planed back to NY, I asked Adam if he’d like to come back next year to celebrate Uncle Arthur’s 90th birthday. Adam replied matter- of- factly ‘‘ Sure, Pa . . . but you know that Uncle Arthur isn’t going to make it. ’’
Uncle Arthur didn’t . . . and my wife and I flew to Dayton for the funeral. When we returned, Adam was overwhelmed with questions since he had buried his pet hamster only a week before. ‘‘ Did they put Uncle Arthur in a box? What was he wearing? Did they put the box in a hole? Did they cover the box with dirt? Was everyone sad? ’’
Adam, I reported to him, this death was not sad because Uncle Arthur was old and very sick. To which Adam responded: ‘‘ Pa, are you ever going to die? ’’ I explained to him as discreetly as I could that as time goes on, everyone passes on, probably to a better life.
To which Adam began tearing, grabbed me around the neck, and blurted out: ‘‘ Pa, when you die I want to die, too. ’’ And then he sobbed hysterically, burying his little head in my shoulders . . . as I had done with my Dad sixty years ago.
And…. yes. . . . I cried, too.
… Dad…. please forgive me.
Hopefuls
Stanley Frankel has earned many honors in his life, but he is particularly fond of one that will never hang on any wall– that he made President Nixon’s ‘‘ enemies’’ list in the early 1970s. For an unreconstructed liberal like Frankel, honorable mention on the Nixon list was gratifying recognition that his political activities had not gone unrecognized. Frankel’s speechwriting for such standard- bearers of the liberal faith as Adlai Stevenson, Hubert Humphrey, and Robert Kennedy earned his place on this Dean’s List (it was Nixon aide John Dean who revealed the existence of the enemies list at the Watergate hearings). At the same time that he was freelancing as a highly valued speechwriter, Frankel pursued a successful business career and has been teaching at Baruch since the late 1960s.
Now semi- retired at 70, Frankel is hardly slacking off. Although he hasn’t done much speechwriting lately, Frankel is an active freelance magazine writer, contributing to such publications as Good Housekeeping (he had an article in the December issue) and such local papers as Town &
Village (see accompanying article). And he teaches a course on Management in Society two days a week as an adjunct professor at Baruch. ‘‘ I go for what pleases me, ’’ he says simply about his wide range of interests, ‘‘ but whatever I do, I try to do it with dedication. ’’
What has pleased him about working as a speechwriter is that it put him ‘‘ in the privileged position’’ of working with men like Humphrey, Stevenson, and Bobby Kennedy: politicians he revered and who were political kindred spirits. ‘‘ If you are on the same wave- length as the person you are writing for, it is even possible to get some of your own ideas into a speech, ’’ he declares. He has never accepted fees as a speechwriter, believing that this allows him more freedom as a writer.
Starting with Stevenson In the late 1940s, Frankel worked as a junior editor at Esquire in Chicago and first became involved in speechwriting. Adlai Stevenson was running for governor and looking for speechwriters. Frankel was recommended to him as a talented writer with sympatico political views. Frankel would have a long and close association with Stevenson, writing for the Illinois Reprinted from Baruch Alumni Quarterly Democrat throughout his political life, while Stevenson, in turn, would further Frankel’s speechwriting career by introducing him to Humphrey and others. Frankel later repaid Stevenson this professional debt by becoming executive producer of ‘‘ Stevenson Reports, ’’ a public affairs television program in the 1960s that provided the former UN ambassador with a platform for his ideas during the waning years of his career. The show earned Frankel a prestigious Peabody Award, the industry’s recognition for outstanding programming.
Reflecting on his long association with Stevenson, Frankel is most pleased to have been one of those who urged Stevenson to bring the issue of a test ban on atmospheric testing into the public view during Stevenson’s unsuccessful bid for president in 1956. At that time, the dangers of fallout and nuclear radiation were not as universally understood as they are now, Frankel explains. During the closing stretch of the campaign, famed nuclear physicist I. Rabi, one of the inventors of the atomic bomb, approached Stevenson, suggesting that he use his influence to push for a ban on atmospheric testing. Stevenson, however, was reluctant at first to embrace the unpopular issue. ‘‘ I was one of those who pushed Stevenson into really going public with the issue, since I believed that it was a vital one. ’’ Roughly two weeks before the election, Stevenson reversed his position and took a strong stand against testing in the atmosphere during a speech crafted by Frankel. Not long afterwards an atmospheric test ban was passed by Congress. ‘‘ I don’t claim any great influence on history but I do feel that I did play a part in persuading Stevenson to start the ball rolling for such a treaty, ’’ Frankel says.
On other occasions, Frankel’s advice was not followed. In 1968, Frankel tried to persuade presidential contender Hubert Humphrey to take a strong stand against the Vietnam War. With former FCC chairman Newton Minnw (Frankel’s brother- in- law), Frankel drafted Humphrey’s acceptance speech at the notorious Democratic convention in Chicago– including a call for an end to American involvement in Vietnam. ‘‘ Humphrey liked the speech but was afraid of taking an anti- war position believing that it would anger President Lyndon Johnson, ’’ Frankel says. But 10 days before the election Humphrey revised his stand and spoke against the administration position. Frankel wonders ‘‘ What would have happened during the convention if Humphrey had gone ahead and taken a stand against the war? Perhaps it might have defused some of the violence and atmosphere of confrontation at the convention and changed Humphrey’s public image. ’’
One of the Least Rewarding Literary Forms While political speechwriting has given him a glamorous ringside seat in the political arena, Frankel is less than enthusiastic about speechwriting as a craft. ‘‘ It has to be one of the least rewarding forms of writing, ’’ he declares, ‘‘ because as an anonymous craftsman you have virtually no ego reward. ’’ On the other hand, a good speechwriter is always in demand, he says. ‘‘ You have to be something of a chameleon, able to take on the voice of many different people. ’’ The key, Frankel explains, is to know your subject thoroughly. ‘‘ You have to know the words with which they are comfortable, their sense of humor, and their speech patterns. For example, you should know whether they favor long or short sentences. You have to really spend time and become totally familiar with their ideas and speech idiom. ’’
Frankel came to speechwriting as an offshoot of his work in journalism and advertising. Graduating from Northwestern in 1940 with a BA, Frankel worked briefly as a police reporter in Chicago and as a public relations writer at the Chicago CBS radio affiliate. Drafted at the outbreak of World War II, a year stint in the army turned into a five- and- one- halfyear tour of duty in some of the bloodiest action in the South Pacific. Frankel entered the service as a private and came out commanding a battalion, receiving six decorations for bravery– including two Presidential Unit Citations. ‘‘ I kept getting promoted when all the other officers around me kept getting killed, ’’ Frankel says matter- of- factly.
Returning to Chicago after the war, Frankel resumed his career in writing. He was a freelance writer and then junior editor for Coronet and Esquire. When Esquiremoved to New York,
Frankel also relocated, now as head of the magazine’s advertising and promotion division. In 1954, he left the magazine business to become vice president for communications at Ogden, a billion- dollar conglomerate then involved in food and manufacturing products. His over thirty- five years with Ogden have been happy ones, says Frankel, noting that he has been particularly grateful that the company has allowed him leaves of absence during the periods when he worked as a campaign speechwriter. Retired from full- time work with the company, he still spends one day a week as a consultant with Ogden and gives another day as a consultant to the public relations firm of Manning, Selvage & Lee.
A Teacher Who Gives His All Education has been, along with politics, his other major extracurricular concern. A strong advocate of educational opportunities for the disadvantaged, especially black teenagers, Frankel helped pioneer the YMCA project for youth in Bedford-Stuyvesant. In this program, more than 500 unemployed area youths were given an intensive nine- month vocational training, and the majority of them went on to find employment in their chosen trades. Frankel has also been a member of Governor Carey’s Higher Education Task Force and served as assistant chairman of the State University’s Long- Range Planning Committee under Governor Rockefeller.
Frankel began teaching at Baruch by filling in for a professor. More than twenty years later, he is still happily at the front of the classroom. He currently teaches a course on Management in Society that examines the place of business in terms of ethics, corporate responsibility, philanthropy, and other issues. ‘‘ I love teaching at Baruch. But I am most interested in students who don’t do well in the beginning. I try extra hard to get them involved with the work so that they eventually do well. ’’ His concern for his students is reciprocated in the strong rapport that he has with them: he is always one of the highest- ranked members of his department in student evaluations. He is also generous with his time outside the classroom, meeting with students after class, advising them on their classwork, and helping them with larger questions relating to school and careers.
It is indicative of his interest in these students that has even got his family involved. He notes with some pride that both his sons, who are bank presidents, and his daughter– manager of InFoQuest, the AT& T science and technology museum– have hired his former students. ‘‘ The rewards of teaching far outweigh the financial return, ’’ he says.
Students’ Success Still the Best Test
by Stanley A. Frankel
Open admissions has been unjustly found guilty of killing the quality of undergraduate learning at, among others, Baruch College, part of the City University of New York (CUNY). My 20 years experience as adjunct professor at the college, located near Gramercy Park at 23rd Street and Lexington Avenue, has proved otherwise to me. A large number of my night and noon- time students have been beneficiaries of New York’s open admissions program, whereby any student with a high school diploma is guaranteed a place in some higher education facility in the city.
Now, I can’t speak for all of the 16,000 undergraduates studying at Baruch, but I can tell you about that microcosm of 70 who take my course in Business and Society each semester. They range in age from 20 to 60; half of them male; half female, including a heavy proportion of blacks, hispanics and orientals and a small scattering of whites. Most of them work full- time in banks, corporations, accounting firms, taxicabs, and fast food restaurants; plus there’s a sprinkling of policemen, firemen, and United Nations employees from various member nations. They go to college from three to 12 hours a week in search of their undergraduate degree in business, which most of them will eventually achieve, not in four years but in five, six or seven. Some of them have difficulty with written and spoken English, and I suspect that most of their high school educations were inferior. But they made up for communications handicaps with motivation; and for inadequate high school preparation with gutsy determination. They substitute street wisdom for book knowledge, and they apply what they learn earnestly and doggedly.
An Example from El Al An example: ten years ago, a former Israeli pilot, then working on the ground for El Al security at JFK Airport, detained a ready- to- depart El Al (Reprinted from Town & Village.) flight because the pilot had inadvertently slipped by the sign- in register. The plane was delayed while the furious pilot had to identify himself faceto- face, before the man who was my student. The pilot subsequently filed charges. My student defended his actions thus: ‘‘ I had the responsibility for making sure that the pilot was the pilot. I felt it was my obligation to postpone the take- off until I was sure. My upside risk was a one- hour departure delay; my downside risk was a possible hijacking. ’’ In the hearing, that student was not only exonerated but praised, and one year later was promoted to security chief. He had thoroughly learned what our textbook taught– that authority and responsibility in business management are inseparable. In fact, he brought his textbook and class notes into his hearing, liberally quoting from both.
Great Strides Most of these students have made great strides, some from a very low base. My own definition of higher education is simple, maybe even simplistic: ‘‘ Higher education means higher when you finish the course than when you began. ’’
I recall the Japanese youngster who labored over the text and the lectures. I provided him with my lecture notes because he couldn’t keep up with my classroom verbalizing; and I advised him to carry a pocket radio with him at all times– tuned into news programs. He earned a B in the course, with an 80 on the final, after a 40 on the first midterm. The last third of the semester he was taking his own lecture notes, walking into and out of class with the radio pressed against his ear.
Quotes Dr. Salk My first lecture always begins with a line from Dr. Jonas Salk: ‘‘ Failure is not, not succeeding; failure is not trying, ’’ and I manage to mention that line at least once a month each session. I persist in reminding them that ‘‘ Nothing in the world can take the place of persistence. Talent will not: nothing is more common than unsuccessful men with talent; genius will not; unrewarded genius is almost a proverb; education alone, will not; the world is full of educated derelicts. Persistence alone is omnipotent. ’’
Coming out of often horrendous high school backgrounds and deprived home life, they arrive with motivation, and I keep fueling that fire by quoting Dr. Benjamin Mays: ‘‘ The tragedy of life does not lie in not reaching your goals. The tragedy lies in having no goals to reach. It isn’t a calamity to die with dreams unfulfilled; but it is a calamity not to dream. It is not a disgrace to fall short of getting to those stars; but it is a disgrace not to have stars to grasp for. Not failure, but low aim is a sin. ’’
In my first- day course expectation handout I explain that if they attend all the classes, are punctual and alert, do their homework assignment, read their textbooks and listen to the lecture, there is no way they won’t do well in my course. If they do all of these things and fail one of my exams, it is not student failure but teacher failure, for I haven’t been able to reach them. I assure them that I don’t intend to goof and they don’t either. And they don’t!
Motivation Is Key Some of them are quicker than others; many of the foreign- born students have great difficulty with our language, and I’ve even had a few who came into my class reading at a sixth grade level. But I have found that the brighter, better prepared students aren’t slowed down by those at the other end of the intellectual scale, for many of those who got into Baruch through open admissions possess superior drive, desire, and motivation. No one forced them to go to college but themselves. These qualities– persistence, determination, a moving kind of reverence for the professor, the textbook, the college– enrich my class far beyond the dimensions of high IQ and inherited cultural backgrounds.
Since I, too, am part- time (a corporate officer eight hours a day and an adjunct professor noons, evenings, and weekends), I derive a rich reward of tremendous psychic income from my city university gang, while I earn a monetary return from teaching, on an hourly basis (if all classroom, transportation, grading, homework reading, and lecture preparation time are factored in), very close to the legal minimum wage.
But where else would we adjuncts receive such a spiritual lift than from these eager young- and- often- older learners, who are there every day or night to absorb as much as they can in spite of missed meals, four- hours- anight sleep, crowded subway trains and the unkindest cut of all– the charge that they are responsible for a deteriorating quality of education.
I love those hundreds upon hundred who have come to me but have not really gone; who write me thank- you notes which make my wife cry; who invite us to their weddings; who have moved up in their business careers and call on me to recommend my current students so they can hire them.
And if I had a modicum of religion, I would be thanking God every night for my golden opportunity– and the open admissions plan which made these golden hours and years possible– for all of us.
The term ‘‘ open admissions’’ a used in Professor Frankel’s essay refers to a policy of the City University that provides a place in a CUNY institution to graduates of New York high schools. Students with a grade point average (GPA) below 80 in academic subjects are admitted to a two- year college in CUNY. From there, they can transfer to a bachelor degree- granting senior college such as Baruch if their associate degree performance meets transfer standards. In 1990, admission to Baruch as a freshman requires a GPA of 83 or combined SAT score of 990. In an average year, only 50 percent of the freshmen and 75 percent of the transfer applicants are granted admission.– The Editor
by Adlai E. Stevenson with Stanley A. Frankel
I have often wondered what magic lies in the age of 21. The day before our 21st birthday, we are considered immature, uninformed and not responsible. Then suddenly, a strange alchemy remakes our legal and moral selves: overnight we become independent, self- sustaining and competent citizens of the Republic.
One day, we are, for all practical and lawful purposes, children. The next, we select presidents, send men to jail, and sometimes inherit the right to squander money which, until now, has been prudently denied us.
Whatever it is– the 21st birthday is about as decisive and pivotal a 24- hour spate of time as any man is apt to have in his life.
Actually, we all know that 21 is no more than an arbitrary, imaginary equator marking off youth from manhood and womanhood. Society said long ago: there has to be some point at which to refurbish voting lists and cut umbilical cords– and 21 seemed to be a happy figure. And I suspect that it was selected by solemn, elderly gentlemen profoundly mistrustful of radical, impetuous youth, to whom anything younger than 21 would be risky indeed.
In my case, however, I cannot recall that I was impressed by the significance of this magical age. To be sure there was hilarity and the 21- candle cake. There was my diploma– in sight at last. And there was the privilege of voting. There was also the sudden opening of a Pandora’s Box of decisions: would I teach, be a reporter, a rancher, study law…. And while the prospect of earning a living and supporting a family must have been sobering, I can’t remember feeling any acute anxiety about the future or doubting my adequacy to meet whatever challenges the years would bring.
It wasn’t long though before I skidded to a tentative stop, chastened by the realization that all of the regalia of maturity I had acquired was largely symbolic. How very unfortunate, I now chide myself, that 21 had to be wasted on me when I was so young.
Yet– what do I know now that I didn’t know at 21?
Whatever it is, as I once tried to put it, it is for the most part incommunicable: ‘‘ The laws, the aphorisms, the generalizations, the universal truths, the parables and the old saws– all the observations about life which can be communicated readily in handy, verbal packages– are as well known to a man at 21 as at 55. He has been told them all, he has read them all, and he has probably repeated them all– but he has not lived them all.
‘‘ What he knows at middle age that he did not know when he came of age boils down to something like this:
‘‘ The knowledge he has acquired with age is not a knowledge of formulas, or forms of words, but of people, places, actions– a knowledge not gained by words, but by touch, sight, sound, victories, failure, sleeplessness, devotion, love– the human experiences and emotions of this earth and of one’s self and other men. Perhaps, too, a little faith, a little reverence for things you cannot see. ’’
Yes, there are things I would do differently if I were on that equatorlike dividing line of 21 again. I think I like to think, that rather than breathing a sigh of relief at blessed release from classrooms, I would begin educating myself, in earnest. I would rediscover the nearest library– and many of the books I had glanced through with one eye on the report card and the other on the next game. I would try learning, for learning’s sake– not for my diploma’s– or my parents’– or my ego’s.
I would look hard for the inner meaning of the great classics instead of playing a guessing game with my examination questions. I would read, read, read. I would soar where curiosity took me, not just where the recommended reading list pointed. I would be guided by a hungry mind, not by the instinct of competition and survival. And I would question– question everything.
Looking back, I feel that, more than by any other single factor, imaginative, healthy youth is characterized by rebelliousness. It’s a good thing, and normal to inquiring youth’s uncorrupted vision of pure justice and goodness. It is good for man at every age to seek, to question, to rebel– to keep alive and up to date in body, mind and spirit. Change and progress are the fruit of our re- examination of the methods, attitudes and customs we have taken for granted; they are the fruit of rebellion and rejection of the old.
Our century cries out for boldness, imagination, experiment– for people, as I have said before, ‘‘ who take open eyes and open minds into the society they inherit. ’’
But in the impetuous rebellion of youth against all the evils that the children of God have contrived, I would go slow. Of course our 21- year- old need not, must not, swallow whole all the tribal beliefs, modes, manners which have been poured on us by parents, teachers and friends. But neither would I automatically throw out whatever I had been told to accept on faith– whatever didn’t yield a simple satisfactory explanation to superficial study. I would try to keep 21 the age of the suspended final judgment, the re- evaluation of our moral and political environment.
As a matter of fact, I don’t think my generation at 21 rebelled against much of anything. We were just emerging from the first world war and we thought we were on the threshold of everlasting peace and prosperity. It was the age of ‘‘ flappers, ’’ cynical materialism– and normalcy!
But if not of rebellion, it was a period, I think, of irreverence: there was too little of God and the eternal verities in the air when I was 21 and too much talk just of getting a job, making money, somehow, anyhow, and having a good time. It was smash and grab, and devil take the hindmost.
Today, at 21, I would try a little harder and a little sooner to understand that it is not public demonstrations of reverence but the content of religious convictions that really matters; that there are absolutes of religion and morality by which we shall be judged; and that we need God all the time, not just when we are in trouble.
There are so many things I would do if I were 21 again, or at least should do! I would, for instance, participate actively in the political life of my community, my neighborhood, my block. How easy it is to look down disdainful 21- year- old noses at politics and politicians! But that is to default in the basic, never- ending fight for democracy. Far better to get to work in the political party of our choice– to let rebellion and reform do battle in the arena, not the grandstand.
If we are prepared to fight and to die or our democratic ideals when they are threatened from without, why not fight and live for them when they are threatened from within? They always are. And the basic struggle takes place every day, and in your own town.
That is why, since 21, I have learned never to underestimate the precinct captain. He is more effective, in his field, for good or for ill, than a July 4th political orator who throws back at a noise- deaf crowd the platitudes it wants to hear. There is no more eloquent expression of democracy than a sincere man persuading his next- door neighbor to vote for his alderman.
I now know that the most elemental expression of our belief in democracy is exercising our right to vote. A genuinely free and an honestly informed people will ultimately triumph over intolerance, injustice and evil from without or within. But a lazy people, an apathetic people, an uninformed people, or a people too proud for politics, is not free. And it may quickly be a mob.
While paying deference in this atomic age of infinitely complex problems to the specialist and the technician, I would avoid an easy acceptance of another’s thinking.
After all, the great issues of the day are not technical, they are moral. And in a thriving, full- bodied democracy, the moral issues are best decided by a consensus which can only evolve when people– and I mean all the people– reason together, reason reason their way to clarity of judgment and unity of purpose. How often we have observed the great body of public opinion slowly, clumsily perhaps, arrive at moral decisions which are wiser than those reached swiftly, smoothly by specialists– or computing machines.
And, speaking of specialization, at 21 I would not take any job just because the pay is good or the practical prospects bright. The world’s work is vast. Each man who labors at his own job to his best ability, happy in his work, has a dignity that cannot be classified. There is no second- class citizen– or worker– in our great nation. The artisan stands equal to the judge; and the truck driver’s contribution to a free, strong nation is as indispensable as the comptroller’s.
Einstein once wrote that if he had it to do over again, he would have been a plumber. How much better off many of us– less gifted than Einstein– would really be if we resisted the snobbish temptation to take whitecollar work and followed instead a natural bent to work with our hands and muscles! There is incomparable satisfaction in building, repairing, conserving, producing with our hands. It brings most of the beauty and utility in the world. And how much happier many people would be to go home at night with dirt under their fingernails instead of inkstains on their fingers, tired instead of nervous!
No matter what job I took at 21, I would not go into it with the conviction that it would be my last. I would not be afraid to experiment in the search for satisfaction. And while I know how hard it is, I would dare to take on bigger assignments than I was sure I could handle, and I would try to work for bigger, better men than I.
To trade integrity for a quick promotion or to sacrifice self- respect and conviction for the boss’ favor is a price I would not pay. Better to be fired for the right cause than to sell your talents for the wrong one. You won’t have an opportunity to try out your idea and ideals, unless you resist the temptation to sell them out. Conscienceis a fragile thing. It dies easily but the pain lasts forever. You have to live with yourself, and hypocrisy is an uncomfortable companion.
If I were 21 I would try a variety of things on the side to see where my interests led me. I would always seek an hobby quite different from my work.
For health and well- being I would also take up a sport. Even if our participation is crude, even embarrassing, there is more health and physical satisfaction in playing games badly than in watching professionals play them well. And I say (with selfconscious concern) that I fear there may be some correlation between the fat that accumulates around our middle and the fat that invades our heads.
So, in my recreation as well as my work, I would start at the beginning of adulthood to develop the whole me, with an aim at perfection but an understanding that the aim, not the achievement, is the important thing.
If I were 21 I would hope for a prompt realization that doing for others is not only a Christian obligation, but also life’s greatest satisfaction. A neighborhood boy’s club would especially interest me at 21 because too many of us get interested in juveniles, not to prevent delinquency but because of delinquency. Our interest comes too late.
Most young men nowadays find their lives interrupted by several years of military service. It seems to me that a young man who fully understands that each generation must pay a price for the freedom to make its choices would accept this duty with enthusiastic loyalty and eagerness to make the most of it. I would learn the soldiers’ or sailors’ or airmen’s trade, and seize this chance to make new friends among men of widely varying interests and beliefs. I would study with fresh curiosity the new places I saw, nor overlook the opportunities for education and skills which the services offer. I would wear my country’s uniform with pride and try to bow gladly to discipline in the knowledge that a team is often more important than an individual player. Our greatest batters have to know how to lay down a sacrifice bunt.
Growing up in this Age of Anxiety, the Age of the Hydrogen Bomb and international hysteria, I would expect of my country’s leaders good sense, maturity and consistency in dealings with friends and enemies alike. I would accept in good faith the proposition that while all the ordinary peoples of the world want peace and a better life, the aims and methods of the Western and Communist leaders differ widely. And I would also try to remember that no other people have as much as we do: that misery, ignorance and desire still afflict much of the world, and that we dare not lower our guard while working for the peace and well- being of all mankind, regardless of race, color or geography.
Finally, and most of all, I would try to understand, to know, to feel, the hopes and fears of my contemporaries rich and poor, from town and country, that I might better share and influence my generation– a generation destined to live in an exciting, perilous golden age.
There is nothing so fine as to be 21 and an American. One is for a fleeting instant– and the other is forever. So live– decently, fearlessly, joyously– and don’t forget that in the long run it is not the years in your life but the life in your years that counts!
Reprinted from Coronet Magazine, The N. Y. Post Syndicate, and a number of anthologies.
by Stanley Frankel
His lovable antics have delighted millions of children; here is the inspiring story of how he was born when a father tried to comfort an unhappy little girl.
On a december night in Chicago ten years ago, a little girl climbed onto her father’s lap and asked a question. It was a simple question, asked in childish curiosity, yet it had a heart- rending effect on Robert May.
‘‘ Daddy, ’’ four- year- old Barbara May asked, ‘‘ why isn’t my Mommy just like everybody else’s mommy? ’’
Bob May stole a glance across his shabby two- room apartment. On a couch lay his young wife, Evelyn, racked with cancer. For two years she had been bedridden; for two years, all Bob’s small income and smaller savings had gone to pay for treatments and medicines.
The terrible ordeal already had shattered two adult lives. Now, May suddenly realized, the happiness of his growing daughter was also in jeopardy. As he ran his fingers through Barbara’s hair, he groped for some satisfactory answer to her question.
For Bob May knew only too well what it meant to be ‘‘ different. ’’ As a child he had been weak and delicate. With the innocent cruelty of children, his playmates had continually goaded the stunted, skinny lad to tears. Later at Dartmouth, from which he was graduated in 1926, Bob May was so small that he was always being mistaken for someone’s ‘‘ little brother. ’’
Nor was his adult life much happier. Unlike many of his classmates who floated from college into plush jobs, Bob became a lowly copy writer for a New York department store. Later, in 1935, he went to work writing copy for Montgomery Ward, the big Chicago mail- order house. Now, at 33, May was deep in debt, depressed and miserable.
Although Bob didn’t know it at the time, the answer he gave the touslehaired child on his lap was to catapult him to fame and fortune. It was also to bring joy to countless thousands of children like his own Barbara. On that December night in the shabby Chicago apartment, May cradled the little girl’s head against his shoulder and began to tell a story …
Once upon a time there was a reindeer named Rudolph– the only reindeer in the whole world that had a big red nose. Naturally, people called him ‘‘ Rudolph the Red- Nosed Reindeer. ’’ As Bob went on to tell about Rudolph, he tried desperately to communicate to Barbara the knowledge that, even though some creatures of God are strange and different, they often enjoy the miraculous power to make others happy.
Rudolph, Bob explained, was terribly embarrassed by his unique nose. Other reindeer laughed at him; his mother and father and sisters and brothers were mortified too. Even Rudolph wallowed in self- pity.
‘‘ Why was I born with such a terrible nose? ’’ he cried.
Well, continued Bob, one Christmas Eve, Santa Claus got his team of four husky reindeer– Dasher, Dancer, Prancer and Vixen– ready for their yearly round- the- world trip. The entire reindeer community assembled to cheer these great heroes on their way. But a terrible fog engulfed the earth that evening, and Santa knew that the mist was so thick he wouldn’t be able to find any chimneys.
Suddenly Rudolph appeared– his red nose glowing brighter than ever– and Santa sensed at once that here was the answer to his perplexing problem. He led Rudolph to the front of the sleigh, fastened the harness and climbed in. They were off! Rudolph guided Santa safely to every chimney that night. Rain and fog– snow and sleet– nothing bothered Rudolph, for his bright nose penetrated the mist like a beacon.
And so it was that Rudolph became the most famous and beloved of all reindeer. The huge red nose he once hid in shame was now the envy of every buck and doe in the reindeer world. Santa Claus told everyone that Rudolph had saved the day– and from that Christmas Eve onward, Rudolph has been living serenely and happily
… Little Barbara laughed with glee when her father finished. Every night she begged him to repeat the tale– until finally Bob could rattle it off in his sleep. Then, as Christmas neared, he decided to make the story into a poem like ‘‘ The Night Before Christmas’’– and prepare it in booklet form, illustrated with crude pictures, for Barbara’s personal gift.
Night after night, Bob worked on the verses after Barbara had gone to bed, polishing each phrase and sentence. He was determined his daughter should have a worth- while gift, even though he could not afford to buy one.
Then, as May was about to put the finishing touches on ‘‘ Rudolph, ’’ tragedy struck. Evelyn May died. Bob, his hopes crushed, turned to Barbara as his chief comfort. Yet despite his grief, he sat at his desk in the quiet, now- lonely apartment, and worked on ‘‘ Rudolph’’ with tears in his eyes.
Shortly after Barbara had cried with joy over his handmade gift on Christmas morning, Bob was asked to an employees’ holiday party at Montgomery Ward’s. He didn’t want to go, but his office associates insisted. When Bob finally agreed, he took with him the poem– and read it to the crowd. At first the noisy throng listened in laughing gaiety. Then they became silent– and at the end, broke into spontaneous applause.
Several Ward executives asked Bob for copies. Then someone suggested: why not put the poem into booklet form as a free gift of Ward customers the following Christmas? Next year, 1939– a year in which Bob labored to pay his debts and keep Barbara fed and clothed– 2,400,000 copies of the book were printed and given free to youngsters whose parents were customers at the hundreds of Montgomery- Ward stores all over the country.
The story of the reindeer caught on immediately. Psychologists, teachers and parents hailed Rudolph as a perfect gift for children. Newspapers and magazines printed stories about the new hero. Ward’s stores and catalogue offices, placing orders for the following Christmas, asked for 3,000,000 copies.
Meanwhile, May won acclaim– but little else. Montgomery Ward owned the copyright. Yet May was happy in the knowledge that his child– and millions of other children– loved his red- nosed reindeer.
Then the war came, and the giveaway project was shelved. Throughout the war years, however, requests poured in for Rudolph books, toys, games, puzzles, records– all nonexistent. And the demand mounted each
Christmas season as parents got out the old Rudolph book and read it to growing families of new Rudolph enthusiasts.
Meanwhile, Rudolph’s success did things to Bob May. He forgot his pessimism, began to laugh again and associate with friends. And among those friends was a pretty brunette, a secretary at Montgomery Ward’s. In 1941, Bob married Virginia Newton. Together they created three new Rudolph fans– Joanna, Christopher and Ginger.
Finally the war was over– and Ward executives planned a new Rudolph book for Christmas, 1946. More than that, a message came from Sewell Avery, president of Ward’s. Touched by the beauty and simplicity of the Rudolph story, he ordered the copyright turned over to Bob– so that May could receive all royalties.
In 1946, 3,600,000 Rudolph booklets had been distributed by Ward’s. Promptly a deluge of demands for Rudolph products swamped Ward’s and Bob May. Businessmen wired, telephoned and called, seeking permission to manufacture toys, puzzles, slippers, skirts, jewelry and lamps.
A special recording of the poem was made by Victor. Maxton Publishers, Inc., bought the rights to produce a bookstore edition in 1947. Parker Brothers brought out a Rudolph game. Even Ringling Brothers- Barnum and Bailey circus proudly exhibited a pony, equipped with antlers and an electrically lighted red nose, called ‘‘ Rudolph the Reindeer. ’’
Christmas of 1947 was the brightest ever for Bob May, his family and Rudolph. Some 6,000,000 copies of the booklet had been given away or sold– making Rudolph one of the most widely distributed books in the world. The demand for Rudolphsponsored products increased so much in variety and number that educators and historians predicted Rudolph would come to occupy a permanent niche in the Christmas legend.
Sellouts all over the country inspired merchants to make even more elaborate plans for Christmas, 1948. A special feature is the cartoon in Technicolor directed by Max Fleischer and narrated by Paul Wing which is being run this Christmas season in thousands of film houses. Manufacturers are already blueprinting Rudolph merchandise for 1949- 1950- 1951– with each item sold returning a royalty to Bob May.
His fortune has now been made, and the years ahead look even brighter. Today, Bob is still a shy, thin, affable man who wants more than anything else to build security for himself and his family. He still works at Ward’s– now as retail copy chief– and tackles the job with the same perseverance which has characterized his whole life.
Through his years of unhappiness, the tragedy of his first wife’s death and his ultimate success with Rudolph, Bob May has captured a sense of serenity. And as each Christmas rolls around, he recalls with thankfulness the night when his daughter Barbara’s question inspired him to write the poem that closes on these lines: But Rudolph was bashful, despite being a hero!
And tired! (His sleep on the trip totaled zero.)
So that’s why his speech was quite short, and not bright– ‘‘ Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night! ’’
Reprinted from Good Housekeeping Magazine.
by Judge Julius H. Miner with Stanley A. Frankel
Some day you may face a jury, perhaps accused of a crime you did not commit. Or you may be serving as a juror, sworn to pass on the innocence or guilt of one of your fellow citizens.
In the first case, could you expect a fair and impartial trial? In the second case, would you know how to administer that same fair and impartial justice to the accused?
As a judge of several years’ experience in the Chicago Circuit Court of Appeals, my reluctant but honest answer to both these questions is ‘‘ No! ’’
For instance, it is on record that a citizen of Bangor, Maine, sat on a jury for days before it was discovered that he was stone deaf. And the judge of an Arkansas municipal court reports that one jury foreman in his court read a verdict thusly: ‘‘ We, the jury, find our client, the defendant, not guilty. ’’
In an important Eastern case, the jury voted six for conviction and six for acquittal. Rather than debate the issue for two or three days, the jurors decided to draw a number between one and 100. The juror whose age came closest to that number would make the decision for all.
Recently I presided over a murder trial in which both prosecution and defense refused to call the only eyewitness to the crime. Both lawyers feared that he might unduly influence the jury. In other words, both sides were unwilling to trust the jury with the truth.
Daniel Webster said: ‘‘ Justice is the great interest of man on earth. ’’ And in pursuing his great interest, man has established the jury system as a special safeguard against injustice. Yet today, trial by jury is a farce . . . a mockery of justice . . . a thing frequently of ‘‘ sound and fury, signifying nothing. ’’
Why has trial by jury fallen so low? Part of the answer lies in the low caliber of the jurors themselves. The men and women chosen to listen and weigh and consider are generally unqualified for the task. In fact, many prospective jurors would be rejected for ordinary duties by private employers. Why foist them on a court and expect intelligent results? National and state laws specifically exempt many citizens ideally suited for this work. Doctors, government officials, clergymen, lawyers, schoolteachers, newspapermen and many others are exempt from jury duty. Further, our ‘‘ indispensable’’ men who don’t relish a few dollars a day for jury service usually present perfectly legitimate reasons for being excused.
Getting an eligible man excused on some pretext has become an invaluable asset of small- time politicians. Judge Robert Stewart Sutliffe, famed jurist of New York City, wrote: ‘‘ Jurors are a lot of men picked from poll lists who have not enough political pull to get off, or who are out of a job and want to pick up a few dollars a day. ’’
If by chance an intelligent group of men and women are ‘‘ stuck’’ with jury duty, even then justice and truth are elusive. Is it reasonable to expect 12 untutored, legally nai¨ve jurors, straight from the kitchen, shop or office, to deal wisely with involved principles and technicalities of the law? It would be just as foolish to summon a judge or lawyer to an airplane factory to decide a problem in aerodynamics.
In one case, after five days of trial of a desperate gunman, the jurors passed a note to my bailiff: ‘‘ What does the Judge mean when he says ‘sustained’ and ‘overruled’? ’’ Unfortunately, this amazing ignorance of the basic vocabulary of a low court is common.
One judge instructing a jury said: ‘‘ If you find the defendant did, with malice aforethought, project, propel, and/ or otherwise with force or violence, insinuate the aforesaid bullet in, on, against, and within the body of the corpus delicti, then you must bring in a verdict of guilty. ’’
In reply, one of the baffled jurors blurted: ‘‘ Okay, Judge, but what if we just find that the guy sitting over there shot and killed the other guy who ain’t here? ’’
It is downright scandalous to expose 12 well- meaning but nai¨ve citizens to sharp, high- powered, battlescarred lawyers who are masters at the art of appealing to human sympathies and prejudices. Under ‘‘ solemn obligation’’ to their clients, these shrewd barristers in a criminal case will hammer away at such things as ‘‘ reasonable doubt, ’’ ‘‘ moral certainty’’ and ‘‘ presumption of innocence’’ until there is unconditional mental surrender by even the hardiest juror.
Not long ago a jury awarded $10,000 to the plaintiff, but the decision was such an obvious miscarriage of justice that the judge set the verdict aside and admonished the jury. When asked how they arrived at such a patently ridiculous decision, one juror replied frankly:
‘‘ We couldn’t make head or tail of the case, or follow all the messing around the lawyers did. None of us believed the witnesses on either side, anyway, so we just made up our minds to disregard the evidence on both sides and decide the case on its merits. ’’
Court- wise defense lawyers follow a pattern, aimed at confusing the inept jurors by beclouding the real issues. They assail the police as vicious and corrupt; they ridicule the state’s attorney as an ambitious tyrant trying to make a record of convictions for political advantage; they imply that if the defendant is found guilty, the judge, an unmitigated sadist, will give the poor, wronged angel the maximum allowable punishment.
Continually I am amazed at how this ‘‘ underdog’’ technique works, even if the defendant is guilty beyond all doubt. Finally the attorneys wind up waving the flag, crying that to do otherwise than return this man to his wife and children would be to negate the American guarantee of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.
A wife, a child, or an aged parent is always an asset to a man charged with anything from picking pockets to murder. Pretty faces, shapely figures, hospital cots and crutches are flaunted.
One lawyer asked the jury to look at the defendant’s white- haired mother, sitting up front in the courtroom. This angelic little lady won the day for her son, for no jury would ever believe that she could possibly have given birth to a murderer. ‘‘ Mother’’ was later discovered to be a waitress in an underworld night club.
Defense attorneys prefer their clients to be tried during the Christmas season, when the quality of mercy is particularly unstrained. Jurors have a way of passing out Christmas gifts of freedom or light sentences to criminals who at other times would be sent up for years. And if one of the jurors has a birthday during the trial, his fellow- jurors help him to celebrate by going easy on the defendant.
In one trial, an expectant father succeeded in getting a fast acquittal for an obviously guilty man because the other jurors agreed that ‘‘ it wasn’t fair’’ to keep the anxious father- to- be waiting around while they tried to reach a verdict.
One of my colleagues tells of a jury composed of many nationalities, a most sentimental jury which in an entire term of listening to cases hadn’t returned a single verdict of guilty. Finally an Italian appeared before them for trial, accused of grand larceny, and the evidence against him was so conclusive that the jury voted 11 to 1 to send him up.
The lone holdout was a fellow Italian who spoke up bitterly: ‘‘ You have been acquitting Irishmen, Germans and Jews right along. Now an Italian comes along and you want to send him away. No! ’’ The 11 abashed jurors hastily rectified their ‘‘ injustice. ’’
The law that all 12 jurors must reach unanimous decision has produced a bookful of ‘‘ unusual’’ pronouncements from all parts of the U. S. In Easton, Pennsylvania, an impatient judge who had been waiting for a verdict warned the jury that if they took much longer he would lock them up overnight. The jurors quickly reached the verdict, but it developed later that two of them, unable to make up their minds, had decided the issue by tossing a coin.
Some lawyers and even judges contend that the answer to the abuses of jury trial is to eliminate juries altogether. That is out of the question. The system is too deep- rooted in our American philosophy of life and law. It is the greatest guarantee for a fair trial yet conceived, and no one who truly believes in a free society should advocate its abolition or the diminution of its power.
Yet there are certain commonsense changes in the system that would alleviate most of the abuses I have pointed out. Here is a list of minor reforms that I believe would reimplement the jury as an instrument of justice:
1. Abandon the requirement for unanimous agreement of 12 jurors to reach a verdict. A majority of one in our electoral college elects a President: the majority principle determines the outcome of all elections. And yet it requires a unanimous verdict of 12 to convict or acquit a moron or vicious gunman. This rule of unanimity is nothing less than legalized coercion. It condemns an honest difference of opinion; it makes jury service disagreeable; it is an incentive to corrupting jurors.
2. Judges should be empowered to strip courtroom procedure of its confusing side issues, keep the language understandable and restrict lawyers in their befuddling techniques.
3. Judges should further be empowered to assist in and accelerate the selection of jurors, while the practice of lawyers to resolve on the least intelligent, instead of the most intelligent, jurors should be curtailed.
4. Jury duty should be broadened to include many classes of citizens now excused from serving. Furthermore, the ease with which men escape jury duty should be stopped. Jury service is a sober civic responsibility, and every American citizen should be required to take his turn.
5. Lastly, and most important, all jurors should be required to undergo a short, intensive course in legal terminology, procedure, obligations and duties. This school should be administered by neutral representatives of the bar association, law schools or the courts, and should cover points which have relevancy to a trial. In fact, a brief course in jury service could easily be conducted in our public schools. After all, we train dispensers of liquor behind the bar. Why shouldn’t we also train dispensers of justice before the bar?
Chief Justice John Marshall once wrote: ‘‘ The judicial department comes home in its effects to every man’s fireside; it passes on his property, his reputation, his life, his all. ’’ The jury is an indispensable part of that judicial department. But unless it functions efficiently, our liberty is insecure and the administration of justice a mockery.
If justice is not to be found in the courts, then the American way of life is in jeopardy. A few minor reforms in our jury system will speedily remove much of the danger, and perform for our citizenry a good that is far in excess of the slight energy required to effect the changes that experience and common sense dictate.
Reprinted from Coronet Magazine.
by Stanley A. Frankel
Behind my desk is a fading picture of the Northwestern University freshman baseball team of 1937. Though I’m one of the smaller members, the photographer placed me in the back row, so the bottom of my uniform didn’t show. I was issued a team shirt but they ran out of baseball pants my size so I was wearing sweat pants, which, in the interest of harmony, were shielded from the camera.
I worshiped baseball, loved pitching, and was perfectly miscast for an activist role. My build was slim and my hands were grotesquely small. But I had a passionate desire and plenty of practice time. I devoted my high school summers to pitching American Legion baseball in Peoria, Ill., where I visited a rich and lonely cousin. Without any muscle power, I developed an assortment of junk pitches, curves, and knuckleballs and those, plus exquisite control, got me by.
When I tried out for the freshman team at Northwestern, the coach, Maury Kent, an old Brooklyn Dodger utility infielder, sized me up quickly; he watched me throw a few not-so-fast balls and decided against spending the five dollars for the lower half of my uniform.
For two weeks, I came to practice, shagged flies, and never pitched, not even in batting practice. I became desperate for a chance to exhibit my small and slow talents.
I found the angle. As a Daily Northwestern reporter, I befriended the sports editor who asked me, in response to some strong hints, to write a piece about NU’s freshman baseball prospects, sans byline. So . . . I drafted a lengthy analysis, half the verbiage on the pitchers. Ignoring several giants with impeccable credentials, I laid it on heavy when it came to ‘‘ the leading prospect, Stanley Frankel, who curveballed his way to an American Legion championship last year. ’’ Hedging my flowers a bit, I concluded, ‘‘ If the sore arm that Frankel picked up last summer is cured, he should be one of the great Northwestern twirlers of the decade. ’’
The story appeared Tuesday morning, and I went out for practice that afternoon. The coach called roll, came to my name, looked up, smiled broadly, and inquired why I wasn’t in full uniform. I explained they had run out of trousers, so he yelled at the manager to outfit me then and there because ‘‘ Frankel is starting against the varsity today. ’’
The pants were too long and I was nervous, but I did get the call and threw my weird assortment of slow junk against a varsity team that had been fed straight, wild, and fast balls for two weeks. In two glorious innings, no one got a clean hit although a couple of squibblers were beaten out because the freshmen had a leadfooted third baseman. I was happy and proud, and when Kent came to the mound in the third inning, I figured I was in for some roses. Instead, looking sad, he put his arm around me and pronounced the verdict: ‘‘ Frankel, I can tell that sore arm is killing you and it takes tremendous pain and effort for you to get the ball to the plate. Better take it easy for the rest of the season and save that arm for next year. Or better yet, take up golf. ’’
He broke my heart and, of course, I quit the team. The anti- climax was even more humiliating. Two years later, a close friend of mine, Stan Klores, was named freshman coach. Stan attended college one semester a year, and the other semester he was on a Chicago Cubs minor league team and labeled one of the better outfield prospects in the Cubs’ organization. He knew my tragic tale, and over a chocolate soda at the Goodrich fountain, he wondered aloud if I’d like to come out again, my senior year. I was thrilled, but then remembered he was a freshman coach. What would I– an aging senior– be doing with the freshman team? ‘‘ Well, ’’ Stan said, halfwinking, ‘‘ I’m a great believer in psychology. If you pitch batting practice to my sluggers, they’ll hit you so hard that it will give them confidence. ’’
Some joke.
Reprinted from Northwestern Perspective, September 1989.
by Stanley A. Frankel
Iwas recently invited by Baruch College Center for Management to address a group of visiting Chinese graduate students sent by their government to study American methods of management. The center had an intensive two- week schedule for working with these young people, and my assignment was to talk about corporate communications, a vineyard in which I’ve labored for almost a half- century.
But events of the past several weeks in China and elsewhere in the world have reduced my assignment to trivia and irrelevance. Instead, I will lecture to them . . . and listen to them
. . . on the meaning of the present Chinese Revolution.
In shorthand, the meaning is obviously freedom, and I must discuss with them the freedom that I know
. . . the freedom I’ve studied and written about . . . and the freedom I fought for in World War II as a combat infantry officer in the South Pacific.
I feel I must remind them that, for all good intentions, freedom is not an end, but a means, and historically, some revolutions, such as the one the
French celebrate on July 14, begin in idealism and glory and end up in abuse and betrayal . . . and a net loss in the freedom for which so much blood was shed and treasure spent.
The concept of freedom itself is as old as man. Theologians tell us that God, in creating man, endowed him with freedom which, in its essence, was the priceless gift of the ability to choose between good and evil. Freedom is a beautiful word, which has at times been put to ugly use; it is an adult thought which has often been adulterated; it has a ringing sound, but it is occasionally wrung dry by some who act as if they had discovered it.
Our own founding fathers proclaimed ‘‘ Let freedom ring, ’’ but they did not contend that they had invented the idea. They perfected it. The great genius of American spirit, behind our Revolution, was the recognition that the cause of freedom is the cause of the individual. This individuality, this God- given right to choose, is the basis of practically every value in human life– spiritual, moral, intellectual and creative. Our freedom means the right to one’s dignity, and in a free society, no individual or group of individuals being entitled to diminish the dignity of another. Indeed, our Revolution was unfinished until the Civil War
. . . and still unfinished until Martin Luther King Jr. . . . and still not yet finished.
For many of us to be free, every one of us must be free. Free to make that choice between good and evil, or between a greater and a lesser good, or even between a greater or a lesser evil– with no man or woman, organization or government, working within the pretense of freedom, entitled to take away the freedom of another.
When I speak to these Chinese students, I would remind them, while giddy in their initial battle for freedom, to be careful not to lose the war. How often have we seen true believers wrapping themselves in the mantle of freedom, and then denying that freedom to others?
The right to use freedom to achieve one’s ends implies responsibility. We have long recognized in our American society that freedom is not license. The father and mother might be the heads of the family, with the freedom to discipline their children, but not possessed of the freedom to beat and abuse them. A man’s home may be his castle, but he has no right to burn it down and endanger others’ lives or leave them without shelter. He is free to drive his automobile, but not to travel at seventy miles per hour in a thirty mile per hour zone, nor to race through a red light, nor to drive on the left- hand side of the road or while intoxicated.
I will discuss with my Chinese friends that responsible freedom suggests the need for a structure with the fine balance of a democratic society. I will gently point out the Student Rebellion in China twenty years ago, against the Gang of Four . . . and how that ‘‘ revolution’’ went awry– all in the name of freedom. We must maintain a flexible arena of choice; we must understand the limits of our freedom: My freedom to swing my arms as I walk stops at the end of your nose.
Thus, the beauty of the American brand of constitutionally validated freedom is that even in a democracy where a majority rules, no majority, no matter how large or strong, can persecute or tyrannize a minority, no matter how small or weak. Those limitations on the freedom of a majority are embedded in our Bill of Rights, in those first Ten ‘‘ Unamendable’’ Amendments. It is undeniable that freedom is not divisible; a people cannot be half- slave and half- free. But, historically, man has always possessed two basic freedoms, and we must understand the difference. The first is natural freedom . . . the freedom of man on a desert island, in a state of nature, as a ‘‘ noble savage. ’’ He has no restraint; he can carouse; he can lie, he can drive his car 100 miles an hour around the island, swigging bourbon. He can hurt only himself.But when he leaves that desert island, and joins the community of man, as Rousseau has written, he enters into social contract with his fellow man, and agrees to give up some of his natural freedoms in exchange for something else: civil freedom, where consideration must be given to the greater good of the greater number. This concession, this compromise, enables the state he has contracted with to protect him against internal and external threats, to ensure the safety of his person and his property. These stated protections may be considered as having started with the Mayflower Compact of 1620 and continue up to the Civil Rights Act of 1964.
The greatest freedom of all might well be the right to be wrong. Under this freedom, Voltaire may cry out, ‘‘ I disagree with what you say, but I defend to the death your right to say it. ’’ This is the real freedom of choice, the real freedom to search out universal truth. Trial and error are both scientific and moral processes. In the long run, the will and voice of the people, we believe, will be right; but in the short run, we try and we often err in the trying. Freedom of choice will inevitably lead us to the right, and our faith in man’s eventual discovery of the right has been confirmed again and again.
The balance is never perfect, but it strives for perfection. Our grasp must exceed our reach or, as Browning wrote, ‘‘ What’s a heaven for? ’’ Within this delicate balance we have established minimum and maximum boundaries beyond which governmental powers cannot diminish or grow. We have established safeguards, a system of checks and balances, so that our freedom can fulfill its mission without destroying those whom it was designed to serve.
Freedom does not insure the future, but it keeps the future open. Freedom does not guarantee the good life, but it contains the seed and the promise of achieving that life. As one of our leaders, Thomas Jefferson, wrote about a new university in 1820: ‘‘ This institution will be based on the unlimited freedom of the human mind. For here we are not afraid to follow truth wherever it may lead, not to tolerate any error as long as reason is free to combat it. ’’
There have been periods in America’s quest for the unfinished business of freedom when a free man’s right to examine all sides of an issue was called guilt by association; when a free man’s right to criticize society was called disloyal; when a free man’s right to be a nonconformist was called subversive. But free men have pervailed; they have beaten the challenge of McCarthyism, of Watergate . . . and we continue in our unfinished quest.
I would tell my Chinese students that there is nothing so powerful as an idea whose time has come, and it appears that the idea of freedom has caught hold in their native land. Above all, their fight for freedom must be grounded in a deep faith, in a belief in their fellow man . . . for, as John Faulkner wrote: ‘‘ I believe in man. I believe that man is good, and I believe that man will not only survive, he will prevail. ’’
Editor’s Note: As we went to press, the world learned that the Chinese people were unable to escape their history of Totalitarianism and that the government has forcefully moved to suppress the movement towards democracy. This, in no way, takes away from the truths expounded in Stanley Frankel’s article.
Reprinted from Westchester Spotlight, July 1989.
by Stanley A. Frankel
I joined City News a few weeks after graduating from Northwestern University in 1940, being propelled from editorship of the Daily Northwestern to the bottom CNB assignment
. . . night police reporter. I was warned that my summer would be not only a trial, but the hardest, meanest schooling a fledgling newspaperman could get.
My first couple of weeks at City News were a nightmare. Sent out cold to cover the South police beat from 4 p. m. until midnight, I would invariably be at the wrong station when big crime news broke. I felt the police were uncooperative, uncaring and contemptuous. When I politely asked the sergeant if I could go behind his desk to check the police teletype bulletins or the station blotter, I was bawled out, cursed and told to get my gabardined can out of the way.
Every night I was being scooped and didn’t find out about murders or robberies on my beat until the next morning when an editor would present me with the clips from the morning paper. One hardboiled CNB copy editor began passing the word that this kid Frankel couldn’t report a killing if it happened to his Thompson Restaurant waiter while being served a ham sandwich!
Searching for a solution I turned to the father of a freshman I had befriended while at Northwestern. He was Jake Arvey, Chicago’s political boss. At a meeting with Arvey, I recited my troubles and that, most likely, I would be jobless in a few days. Arvey could not have been friendlier, recounting the many times his son had told him how I had helped at Northwestern.
Arvey picked up the phone and called Police Chief Michael Prendergast. ‘‘ Mike, I’m sending a dear young friend over to see you in 15 minutes. Give him anything he wants . . . anything! ’’
I thanked him and went to Central Police Headquarters. Prendergast stood up when I walked in, put his arm around my shoulders and told me how good Arvey had been to him. ‘‘ Son, whatever I can do for Jake, it’s done. Tell me . . . how can I help you? ’’
I repeated my story about my problems, fingering the desk sergeants on the South Side. He said, ‘‘ Son, the next time any of those bozos gives you a hard time, reach for the phone on their desk and dial 111 . . . that’s my direct line. Tell me you’re calling with a problem and then give the phone to the guy at the desk. When I’m finished with him, you’ll find he’ll be 200 percent cooperative. ’’
Almost floating on air, I left Prendergast’s office and headed directly for the meanest adversary of all, the desk sergeant at the Wabash Av. station, to me a particularly obnoxious character who seemed to take delight in making my life miserable.
Without asking, I opened the swinging door to the cubicle, brushed aside the sergeant and helped myself to the police blotter. I dallied with the reports, then plopped the blotter down in front of him and made my way to the teletype machine, all the time feeling the sergeant’s gaze. Taking notes from the teletype, I turned and faced the sergeant, whose temperament shifted from a glare to a puzzled uneasiness. ‘‘ What the hell do you think you’re doing? ’’ he finally asked, but without the old bite.
‘‘ I’m doing my job as a reporter, ’’ I shot back. ‘‘ You want to make something of it? ’’ I edged toward the phone on his desk, readying myself for that magical phone call to 111.
His answer, soft and apologetic, startled me. ‘‘ Hey, kid. Take it easy. Help yourself to whatever you need. Just let me make a living too. ’’
From that moment on, in other stations and with other tough policemen, I never had a bit of trouble. Policemen became friendly and cooperative. For a while I thought Prendergast had passed the word. Not so, I learned later. There had been no instructions from headquarters. What really happened was that in the world of muscle and intimidation, to concede that you were timid was to lose. But to demonstrate you couldn’t be shoved showed you knew how to handle the police in their mean and gray world.
Reprinted from Chicago City News Bureau Centennial Book.
by Stanley A. Frankel
Hold on, now. The enemy is not Saddam Hussein or Arafat or Qaddafi.
We have met the enemy and he is us.
Over ten years ago, our nation, after its trauma with the OPEC oil crisis and the attendant gas station lines, put in place a Grand Plan which would have made us independent of Arab oil, certainly before 1990.
This Grand Plan included 55 miles per hour speed limits, additional exploration of continental and off- shore oil, energy conservation laws such as mandating autos using fewer gallons per mile, penalties for one- driver- percar commuters; also shifting energy use from oil to liquified natural gas, synfuels and solar, and even greater reliance on both coal and nuclear energy with a willingness to pay the extra costs for pollution control and safety.
Had this plan, and others, been fully implemented, today our young men and women would not be at risk in the Persian Gulf; nor would we give a damn what Arab tyrant ruled which emirate or sultanate or tribe.
Instead of implementation, once the crisis eased, we went back to our wasteful energy ways; we stopped enforcing conservation; and now we are compelled to repeat that lesson in recent history which we had quickly forgotten.
And we elected politicians who followed our lead, who lacked the foresight and wisdom to insist on following through on our target of energy independence. Most Americans voted for Reagan- Bush and their clearly outspoken pledge of laissezfaire, all is well, ‘‘ don’t just- dosomething; stand there’’; deregulate and don’t enforce those rules.
Maybe Mencken was right: ‘‘ No one ever went broke underestimating the intelligence of the American people. ’’ We shall see whether we can learn what we must now do to insure oil independence by 2000; or do we have to endure stupid, weak leadership, and not only gas lines, but body bags, again . . . and again.
Don’t blame Reagan and Bush
. . . or the several Husseins . . . the enemy is us.
Reprinted from City University Press Reporter.
by Stanley A. Frankel
It’s July 27, Old Timers’ Day at Yankee Stadium with Joe DiMaggio and the 50th anniversary of his legendary 56 game hitting streak.
This time, we were wise enough to bring along our 10 year old grandson, Adam. Two years ago, it was just Irene and I. My wife has many interests, the least of which is baseball, but I had euchered her into accompanying me since a Yankee executive had invited us to his box and the exclusive Yankee Club restaurant before the game. We showed our special passes to the security guards, were ushered into the Club, and sat down for lunch, with our Yankee friend. Soon, an attractive young lady introduced herself to us as Jill Martin and asked if she could join us. Of course . . . and was she related to Billy Martin? Yes, she was his wife, which of course meant nothing to Irene.
After a pleasant, animated chat with Mrs. Martin, we ordered dessert, and Jill said: ‘‘ If you’ll wait here a few minutes, Billy and Mickey will be here to join us. ’’ To which one of us . . . she shall be nameless . . . inquired: ‘‘ Mickey WHO? ’’ The silence was deafening . . . but we quickly ate our ice cream and left.
Now . . . July 27 . . . two years later . . . we’ve added Adam who has become an ardent Yankee fan, baseball- obsessed. Again, we were invited to the Yankee Club where we ordered lunch, looked around for baseball celebrities, noticed none. We were a little uneasy at the slow service and my grandson complained that he wanted to watch the oldtimers take batting practice. We skipped dessert and quickly went out to the elevator bank. About 20 fans were crowded around the elevator door . . . to find that it wasn’t working. With that, Adam again pouted that he was going to miss the practice session, and another gentleman, whom I was jammed up against, also complained: ‘‘ I have to get down to change into my uniform. ’’
I looked at him. It was JOE DIMAGGIO! I nudged Adam: ‘‘ Look who’s here! ’’ Adam gazed up, blanched, and his eyes popped. ‘‘ It’s JOE! ’’
I turned to the baseball icon and pled: ‘‘ Mr. DiMaggio, would you mind if my wife took our picture together? ’’ He looked me in the eye, about four inches from his, and shrugged his shoulders. In a sad, sweet voice he responded: ‘‘ What the hell can I do? ’’ And as Irene snapped away, I couldn’t get Adam, now shy, into the picture. But the Instamatic worked; the picture peeled off, and we got Joe to autograph the backside to Adam. Ecstasy!
But this ecstasy had at least been equalled a few months back when we took Adam to Ft. Lauderdale for two glorious weeks of Yankee spring training. Our executive friend was able to slip us into the locker room and onto the playing field, in the morning of the games, and Adam romped around the bases, had pictures taken in front of Steve Sax locker (he’s Adam’s #1 hero), and sat in the dugout.
The afternoons were reserved for the exhibition games, and Adam’s only wish now was to meet Steve Sax, flesh to flesh. Since Sax left each game early, we went for a week before we realized he always beat us out of the locker room. Zoom. So . . . our Yankee friend said he’d position us on a bench near the locker room, on the way to the Yankee outside garage. When Sax left the game, we did, too, while our friend unlocked the garage gate and led us to the bench. I told Adam to stay there while I skipped to the Men’s Room. Leaving the Men’s Room and heading back to the bench, I noted, to my horror, that Steve Sax had left the locker room and was on his way to his car. I ran (and a 70 year old runs when his grandson’s happiness is at stake), grabbed Sax around the waist as he was getting into his car, and in my most persuasive, sad voice begged: ‘‘ Mr. Sax . . . please say hello to my grandson. ’’ He smiled
. . . ‘‘ Sure, Pop’’ . . . and I saw
Adam, just behind Sax, waving frantically to me and calling out: ‘‘ Pa . . . let him go. I got him already. ’’
Sax laughed, turned to Adam, tousled his hair and asked Adam how old he was. ‘‘ I’m going to be 10 tomorrow’’ Adam replied. What’s your last name, son? ’’ ‘‘ Frankel, Mr. Sax. ’’ He took out a pen and paper and made some notes. ‘‘ And where are you staying? ’’ ‘‘ At the Ft. Lauderdale Westin, ’’ I answered. ‘‘ Well, goodbye Adam and Mr. Frankel, ’’ continued Sax as he got into his car. ‘‘ Adam, you’ve got some grandfather. ’’
The next morning as we awakened, I noticed an envelope had been slipped inside the hotel room door. I figured it was the bill. Opening up the envelope, I discovered it was addressed to Adam, and it was a Yankee birthday card, signed by Steve Sax and six other Yankee ballplayers!
Ecstasy, compounded! And I made a quiet wish that when I came back to this world in my next appearance, I wanted to come back as Stanley Frankel’s grandson.
The birthday was a banner day . . . for before going to the afternoon game, we ran into Yankee left- fielder, Mel Hall, in our hotel lobby. Mel was known as a loner; he had brought his wife and daughter with him, but instead of staying with the other Yankees, he had checked into our hotel. Somewhat uneasy because of Hall’s reputation as a tough customer, Adam approached him gingerly, and asked for his autograph. Hall gave him a hard look, grabbed the scorecard Adam carried, asked his name, signed the card and handed it back. ‘‘ Thanks a million, Mr. Hall, ’’ glowed Adam. ’’ Hall gave us a big, broad smile and responded: ‘‘ Sonny, it’s an honor to be asked. ’’
We ran to the swimming pool to show our find to Grandma who was sitting on the chaise longue with a beautiful young lady whom she introduced to us as Mrs. Hall…. Mel’s wife . . . and to his 10 year old daughter. Adam and the daughter tossed a beachball in the pool, and as we started to leave, the little girl accosted Adam: ‘‘ When my Dad gets back from the game this afternoon, he promised to play catch with me. Would you like to join us? ’’
To play catch with a Yankee left fielder . . . a 10 year old dream . . . yes . . . and a 70 year old dream . . . for at 5 pm that afternoon, the Halls and the Frankels tossed a rubber ball back and forth for a half hour. Adam and Mel didn’t drop the ball once; the daughter missed a few; and I dropped four easy tosses!
Our anti- climax the next day was bumping into Don Mattingly, his two kids and pregnant wife outside the summer stadium, and he not only gave Adam his autograph, but with a gentle sweetness, put his arm around Adam and talked to him about school . . . one of his own kids was entering grade school the next fall, and his wife and he were interested in Adam’s ‘‘ inside’’ information.
All in all . . . a nice ending to our exquisite fortnight . . . which, of course, only set up the July 27 Joe DiMaggio confrontation.
We had learned the answer to the plaintive Paul Simon musical question: ‘‘ Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio? ’’ Into the Frankel lair!
Reprinted from Scarsdale Inquirer.
by Stanley A. Frankel
Having reached that age when the older generation has disappeared and our peers are falling fast, I find it ever more difficult to sweep those sometimes harsh reminders of inevitability under the rug of my memory. My only grandson, Adam, has experienced his losses, but on another plane. For in the last year, moving from 5 to 6 years old, he has buried his pet lizard, his beloved hamster and his constant companion turtle.
Then four months ago, he was introduced to the grown- up world of permanent departure when we took him with us for the first time to a Dayton, Ohio, nursing home to visit his 89- year- old great- great uncle Arthur, my own all- time favorite relative.
Uncle Arthur brightened visibly when Adam bounced into his room, hugged his old great- great uncle and said ‘‘ Let’s take a walk! ’’ To which, Uncle Arthur, promptly, but ever- soslowly, strained out of bed, dressed with the help of his nurse, asked for his cane, and then led– and was led– through the halls of Covenant House by his great- great nephew.
They were a touching sight as they slowly, painfully made their way to the therapy room, the dining room, the television room and finally into the living room, where the other 39 octogenarian patients, most in wheelchairs, were being lectured by a guest nutritionist who was pointing out that eating the right food would insure longevity. We guided Adam and Uncle Arthur to a piano, and the lecturer asked if the little boy would play something for the, until now, inattentive audience.
Adam didn’t cotton to that idea at all, but I whispered to him that if he played, I would buy him an extra toy, so he sat down at the piano bench with Uncle Art alongside, and punched out ‘‘ Chopsticks, ’’ one of the few tunes he had been taught. Uncle Art nodded to the beat of the music and the audience, coming spiritedly to life, applauded with amazing vigor for men and women major debilitating ailments and averaging 87 years old.
Adam looked to me after the applause and held up two fingers. To the group, that was both an acknowledgement of the applause as well as a sign to quiet the ovation. To me it meant: ‘‘ Two toys for another tune? ’’ and I returned the ‘‘ two’’ sign. He punched out another quick and easy number to more applause, and then the three little fingers up in his right hand and I waved three fingers back and we went on until six tunes had been performed.
Afterward, we walked our uncle back to his room and bed, and Uncle Arthur, afflicted by the impression that he was financially destitute, reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet and fingered a one- dollar bill. Our affluent uncle first carefully looked at the dollar, then at Adam, then at the dollar, and then again at Adam. Finally, he handed it to his little pianist with the remark: ‘‘ Adam, the next time you visit me, I’m going to give you two of these. ’’ To Uncle Arthur, with his delusion of impending poverty, this was quite a generous concession.
We said our good- byes, as it happened, for the last time, left the nursing home, took a taxi to the airport and flew back. While on the plane, I told Adam that Uncle Arthur was going to be 90 years old in two months and I asked Adam if he would like to return for the birthday. Adam responded rather grimly: ‘‘ Yes, I would like to go back, but, Pa, I don’t think Uncle Arthur is going to make it. ’’
And he didn’t. He passed away two weeks later. We returned for the funeral without Adam, but then upon our return home told him the bad news. His eyes teared up, but he insisted on all the details, probably measuring this event against the deaths of his pets: ‘‘ Did you bury Uncle Arthur? Did you dig the hole? How big was the hole? Did you bury him in a box? ’’
‘‘ Yes, Adam, I supervised the digging of the hole, and the box was a beautiful wooden box called a casket, and flowers were piled on the casket and it was lowered into the grave, and then earth was put on top of the casket. ’’
Adam was tearing up again at these grim details, so to console him, I explained: ‘‘ Adam, in the years to come, a long, long time from now, we’ll all be with Uncle Arthur again. ’’
And Adam, his tunnel vision focusing only on the black hole and the dirt on top of the casket, responded bluntly and unequivocally, ‘‘ Uncle Arthur is gone forever. ’’
Then he turned sorrowfully to me, his grandfather, ‘‘ Pa, ’’ who had that special relationship with a grandson which only you grandads understand. He asked: ‘‘ Pa, are you ever going to die? ’’
‘‘ Oh, Adam, such a question. We all finally die, but it will be years and years from now. ’’
To which Adam responded by grabbing onto me, burying his head in my shoulder, and sobbing uncontrollably.
To which, I hugged him back– and cried a little, too.
Reprinted from New York Sunday Times.
I think I have made clear in the Introduction to this book, and perhaps more subtly, throughout, my aversion to being shot at by . . . and shooting at . . . fellow human beings. These feelings rose to the surface when I read in 1988 that the then- vice- Presidential candidate
. . . and current Vice- President, Dan Quayle, had tried hard to get out of going to Viet Nam, mainly by applying for a post in the Indiana National Guard which did not appear headed to Nam. So, I wrote this tongue- in- cheek column about his successful efforts . . . and my own failed attempts . . . to stay as far away from combat zones as possible.
by Stanley Frankel
This World War II combat veteran isn’t mad at Senator Quayle for his success in avoiding the horrors of war. Rather, I am full of admiration and sorry I didn’t have some of his smarts and connections. My own efforts to beat the draft and, then, infantry- action are redolent with stupidity and blunders.
When the draft was legislated in 1940, I was working in New York. I opted (cleverly I thought) to register out of my hometown, Dayton Ohio, rather than New York City because my favorite Uncle Max was chairman of the Dayton draft board. When the draft lottery was held, sure enough, I won first place and soon received instructions to report for my draft physical exam. Not to worry.
I phoned Uncle Max, who, I was sure, wouldn’t let me be dragged into the army. Wrong. He congratulated me enthusiastically, opined that a oneyear army hitch would be good for me and pointedly advised me not to be late for my physical.
But I did have another ace: my eyes were 20/ 400, without glasses, far below minimum army requirements. I was, again, so sure the army medicos would not accept me that I told my New York roommate not to pack up my things. I’d be back from Dayton in a few days.
The army oculist asked me to read the top lines on the chart, and I responded with the hoary gag, which was no joke at all to me: ‘‘ Doc, I can’t even see the chart. ’’ He laughed and patted me on the back and guessed that the army could always find some job for a near- blind draftee. After all, it was only for 12 months. He okayed my eye exam.
I entrained for Camp Shelby, Miss. to join the Ohio 37th National Guard Division. I was assigned to the finance department, a fairly safe haven.
More disaster, however: draft enlistment was extended in October for another year; and in December, Pearl Harbor. Two months later, my division boarded the SS President Coolidge, bound for Fiji.
Suva, in Fiji wasn’t bad duty. For six months, my work consisted of paying the troops. Then, my finance colonel suggested I attend the Jungle Warfare Officers School being run by returning Guadalcanal officers. He promised that if I passed the 90- day OCS, he’d pull me back to Finance where I would serve out the war in the rear echelons of the division, but as an officer not an enlisted man. I ranked last among the 130 candidates in weaponry, agility, short- order drill and foxhole digging.
On graduation day, the newly commissioned second lieutenants assembled in the mess hall to learn their next assignments. The commandant
came to my name: ‘‘ Frankel, assigned to Co. F., 148th Infantry Regiment. ’’ What a horrible mistake. I dashed up to the commandant and told him of his error. ‘‘ No mistake, Frankel. You were requested by Finance but there is a terrible shortage of platoon leaders, and we’ve decided anyone who graduates from this course will go into the infantry. ’’
‘‘ Sir, may I resign my commission? ’’
‘‘ You forget it or I’ll have you court- martialed. ’’
So, this near- blind, bumbling new officer soon became the worst platoon leader in the South Pacific theater. When they asked me what kind of weapon I wanted to take into combat, I told the supply sgt: ‘‘ A seeing eye dog. ’’
One month later, we hit New Georgia, Solomon Islands, up the chain from Guadalcanal; and the old adage was confirmed: ‘‘ Good platoon leaders get killed and bad ones get their men killed. ’’ After a month of mud and blood and dysentery, we had won the ugly little island and my platoon had been decimated.
Up the Solomon ladder we went
. . . next to Bougainville . . . followed by another request for transfer, a request denied for the same reasons
. . . then Manila in the Phillippines
. . . request submitted and denied . . . a mountain flight for Baguio . . . more consolation prizes, but no transfer.
It had become apparent that I led a charmed life. Men were being hit all around me, and I hadn’t been grazed. The rumor mill in the regiment ground out the real poop on Captain Frankel’s invulnerability. The Japanese had made a tactical decision not to shoot at Frankel . . . he was their best chance to win the war.
And finally . . . not one . . . not two . . . not three . . . not four years after my induction . . . but five years later . . . while we were chasing Japanese up the Cagayan Valley, the Japanese surrendered. I had amassed so many points awarded for years overseas, months in combat, medals accumulated for surviving, that I figured I would be sent home at once.
Another disaster: I received a summons from Commanding General Robert S. Beightler. In his tent, he returned my salute with a warm handshake and a generous comment: ‘‘ Major Frankel, I have been aware of your interest in writing, and I felt bad having to turn down your many requests to be transferred to a writing assignment. However, you know there was a shortage of qualified infantry officers. Now I am happy to tell you that I have decided to honor your request. ’’
‘‘ But General, the war is over. I didn’t make any request. I want to go home. ’’
‘‘ Major, someone has to stay here with my staff and me for the next few months to assemble and draft the history of division, and we have chosen you. After all, Major, you realize that there is a peace to be won. ’’
We finally sailed back to San Francisco, received our discharges, and went back home. My uncle Max was on hand to greet me. Four and a half years beyond the time he had promised. But I decided against bitterness and recrimination. I had quietly pledged to myself during those bad years that if I got out of this period alive and in one piece, I would never complain about the army, or anything else, again.
And so, I am not really complaining here. I admire and envy the Republican vice- presidential candidate for pulling off, with ease, what I had tried and failed to do many times in many different ways.
Mad at him? I quail at the thought.
Fittingly . . . and last . . . a tribute I wrote in college to my closest friend and cousin, Jack ‘‘ Pee- Wee’’ Margolis, who died our senior year at age 21. This article is presented in memory of all of my beloved relatives and friends who have preceded me off the stage . . . my sainted Mother and my Dad (who died at age 34); my sister, Phyllis, who never had a chance; my aunts and uncles who surrogated my childhood: Dot and Bart, Arthur and Ruth, Max and Roma, Janet, Ethel and Joe, Fanny and Jacob; first cousin and first friend, Jack Coney; friends Norman Gitman, Dotty and Frank Weprin, Alvin Ablon, Rudy Van Dyke, Bordy Greathouse, Phyllis Kessel Finn, Persis Gladieux, Hubert Humphrey, Adlai Stevenson, and Bobby Kennedy, Irene’s folks: Bessie and Salem Baskin and Uncle Neel. I pray they all know that they will never be forgotten . . . ‘‘ in war and peace’’ . . . ‘‘ from here to eternity. ’’
by Stanley Frankel
Jack always liked to fool around with chemicals; with me, it was a typewriter. Everyone said that he had sulfuric acid running through his veins– and I had printer’s ink.
For Jack, you see, was my best friend– a senior and honor student at Purdue. And I said my last goodbye to Jack one week ago at a little cemetery in Dayton, Ohio.
Jack died of an incurable blood disease. He was a victim of certain chemical reactions of the blood, dread chemical reactions which he himself had often planned to eradicate.
And now I can’t forget the twentyone years we spent together. The struggle for grades and the football games and the double dates, everything comes back to me clearly. And through our close association, a certain theme was prevalent.
That theme was our plans for the future. Jack always felt deeply the suffering of others. This sensitiveness to the feelings of his fellowmen was one of his greatest characteristics, and many times as we talked together, he revealed to me his overwhelming passion to become a great chemist so that he could contribute something to eliminate the disease and the pain of others.
We dreamed our dreams for twenty- one years. His highest goal probably lay in discovering a cure for cancer, anonymously. Mine, I must admit, lay in fields bordering, more closely, the heroic and the glorious.
Yet his heart and his dreams were both bigger than his frail body. And when he came home from Purdue several weeks ago, he was suffering from this deadly blood disease.
All of us pitched in to help. I gave him a blood tranfusion when he was very low. Wonder of wonders, it looked for awhile as if he would be the one in one thousand to survive.
And last week, just two days before he died, the doctors were quite optimistic, and they claimed that he would recover, barring unforeseen complications.
But the very night of the optimistic hopes, he began to fade away. Queer things– chemical reactions– were happening to his body.
As he lay on his deathbed, unable to lift even a finger and yet clear of mind, he kept repeating in prayer, ‘‘ Oh God, give me a break! ’’
‘‘ Give me a break, ’’ he asked. A mind which gave promise of so many contributions to human good still nurtured hopes for the future. He wanted to live– for many reasons to be sure– but one of the strongest motives was his own desire to utilize his education and his wisdom and his ingrained ingenuity so that others like himself might live.
And as he pleaded with his Maker to save him so that he might save others, those queer chemical reactions with which man cannot cope kept on happening. And he died of leukemia– another victim of an incurable blood disease against which science must accede to prayer.
But, as he died, still pleading for life, his case reached the ears of specialists in this region. And upon his death, a complete examination of his body by competent medical authorities gave those authorities the answer to many of the questions on chemical reaction which, until this time, had remained unsolved. These answers are of such universal interest that they will soon be published in a medical journal, and the doctors feel that a step in the direction of overcoming this disease has been taken.
And so Jack never knew that, in death, he perhaps accomplished what would have taken him many more years of life to achieve. He was overcome by chemical reactions which he had hoped to understand and to prevent. And in this tragic end, lay perhaps the realization of his hopes and his dreams.
Ironically enough, Jack would have given a lifetime to find the cause of and the cure for leukemia. He might have done just that in a glorious lifetime of twenty- one years.
Reprinted from Daily Northwestern