Holy Barbarians — Continued

Holy Barbarians Cover Reading "Holy Barbarians" has turned into a curious case of role reversal. I was a youngster when the book was published and the beats and squares who populate Lawrence Lipton's study of the Venice scene would have been my parents' contemporaries — although my folks were a bit older.

Today, however, although the Beats and squares have remained in their 20s and early 30s, I'm old enough to be one of their parents — and this shift in ages provides an odd perspective. I'm apt to be a little tougher on them than if I'd read the book when I was younger, and I'm also a bit more charitable toward these earnest, naive angry young artists telling the truth.

Even so, I bogged down in Lipton's lengthy defense of smoking marijuana, which may have been dangerously revolutionary in the 1950s but is trite and passe these days. For the record, Lipton didn't even smoke marijuana, which the Beats preferred to call "pod" rather than "pot." But he was "given a pass," which tells you something about the minimum requirements to be a beatnik. And I'll have more to say about that later.

In fact, "Holy Barbarians" had just about gotten a one-way ticket to the discard pile when I came across an incident that's absolutely hilarious. I can't guess why Lipton buried it in the middle of the book, but he did.

He's describing a reading in Los Angeles by Allen Ginsberg and Gregory Corso that's interrupted by a heckler. It's some square, of course, who wants to fight. Instead, Ginsberg starts undressing and dares the heckler to take off his clothes.

 "Holy Barbarians," Pages 195-198

The reading was to be held in a big old-fashioned house that was occupied by two or three of the Coastline editors, living in a kind of Left Wing bohemian collective household, furnished what there was of furniture, which wasn't much in atrociously bad taste, nothing like the imaginative and original decor of the Beat Generation pad, even the most poverty-stricken.

I consented at their request to conduct the reading, "chair the meeting," as these people are in the habit of saying. To them everything is a meeting. In this case they got more than they bargained for. Allen showed up high mostly on wine, to judge by the olfactory evidence and, after an introduction by me, in which I tried to spell out something of the background of this "renaissance," he launched into a vigorous rendition of "Howl." "Launched" is the word for it. It was stormy, wild and liquid. In his excitement he tipped over an open bottle of wine he had brought with him, spilling it over himself, over me and over his friend Gregory Corso who was with him and was also scheduled to read.

Allen and Gregory had refused to start till Anais Nin arrived, and now that she was seated in the audience Allen addressed himself exclusively to her. He had never met Anais before and knew her only from Henry Miller's books. She had written the preface to Miller's "Tropic of Cancer" in the Paris edition of the book. He was sure that Anais was one person who would be able to dig what he was putting down. For him there was no one else in the audience but "beautiful Anais Nin ." That she had long ago come to the parting of the ways with Henry Miller and was making her own scene now, a very different scene from the one they had once made together on the Left Bank of Paris, made no difference to Allen. She was still, to him, the Anais Nin of the Henry Miller saga, a fabulous figure out of a still brightly shimmering past. Artistically, he felt, she was his nearest of kin, and Anais very graciously acted out the role he had cast her in that night.

The audience, except for Anais and the people we had brought with us from Venice West, was a square audience, the sort of an audience you would find at any liberal or "progressive" how that word lingers on even though the song is over fund-raising affair of the faithful who are still waiting for the Second Coming. Few of them had come knowing what to expect. They never read anything but the party and cryptoparty press. The avant-garde quarterlies are so much Greek to them. Most of them don't even know such magazines exist any more. They associate that sort of thing with the little magazines of the twenties which were swallowed up with the advent of the Movement, the real Movement (capital M), in the thirties and transformed into weapons in the class struggle. The few who had heard rumors of what was going on in San Francisco and Venice West were there as slummers might go to a Negro whorehouse in New Orleans, to be with, briefly, but not of. But even they were not prepared for Howl, or for the drunken, ecstatic, tortured, enraptured reading Allen was giving it that night. A very moving performance, for all his tangle-tongue bobbles and rambling digressions. He was reading from the book, which had just came out, but he changed words, improvised freely, and supplied verbally the obscenities that the printer had in a few cases deleted.

As it happened, Allen and Gregory were not the only ones in the place who had been drinking. There was one other in the audience. He was someone who had drifted in, having somewhere picked up one of the pluggers advertising the reading. At first he applauded Allen's reading at all the wrong places and too loudly. Then he took to cheering, the kind of cheers that are more like the jeers they are in tended to be. I watched him and it struck me that he looked and sounded like a brother Elk on the loose, or an American Legion patriot on a convention binge. When Allen got to the poem America, the drunken square was visibly aroused. He began to heckle. Allen ignored him and, at one point, interrupted the reading to ask the heckler, very gently, to hear him out and he would be glad to talk to him about it later and listen to any comments or criticism he cared to make. That, and disapproving scowls from some members of the audience who, being squares themselves and sober dislike anyone "making a scene," stopped him for a few minutes.

Gregory Corso now got up to read or, rather, sat down to read Gregory, unlike Allen, is the gentle, relaxed persuader rather than the shouter. At least he was that night. When the drunk started heckling him, too, he turned the face of an injured angel to him. When that failed he reversed himself and tried shock therapy.

"Listen, creep, I'm trying to get through to you with words, with magic, see? I'm trying to make you see, and understand "

The square had an answer for that. "Then why don't you write so a person can understand you, instead of all that highfalutin crap?"

"You will understand," Gregory replied patiently, "if you open your self up to the images. Try to get with it, man."

You think you're smart, don't you?"

Gregory ignored the remark and went on with his reading. Nothing could have angered the drunk more. It brought out the righteous citizen in him.

"Think you know it all, don't you? I know your kind. It's punks like you that are to blame for all this -all this " he sputtered, unable to make up his mind which of the crimes punks like
this were to blame for were equal to the enormity of the occasion. He tried again, gave up, turned a beet red and, to cover his chagrin, launched into a tirade of uninspired, stereotyped, barroom profanity, ending with, inevitably, an invitation to "step outside and settle this thing like a man!"

Gregory grinned. "Yeh, I know, you want to fight. Okay, let's fight. Right here. Not with fists, you cornbalL That's baby stuff. Let's fight with a mans weapon with words. Images, metaphors, magic. Open your mouth, man, and spit out a locomotive, a red locomotive, belching obscene smoke and black magic. Then I'll say:Anafogasta. Rattle-boom. Gnu's milk. And you'll say: Fourth of July, Hydrogen bomb! Gasoline! See? Real obscenities. . . ."

The drunk was indignant. He was outraged. When he heard snickering in the audience he started toward the front of the room, menacingly, repeating his challenge to step outside and settle this thing. "You're yella, that's what. Like all you wise guys. You're yella "

Ginsberg got up and went forward to meet the drunk.

"All right," he said, "all right. You want to do something big, don't you? Something brave. Well, go on, do something really brave. Take off your clothes!"

That stopped the drunk dead in his tracks.

Ginsberg moved a step toward him. "Go on, let everybody see how brave you are. Take your clothes off!"

The drunk was stunned speechless. He fell back a step and Allen moved toward him, tearing off his own shirt and undershirt and flinging them at the heckler's feet. "You're scared, aren't you?" he taunted him. "You're afraid." He unbuckled his belt, unzipped his fly and started kicking off his trousers. "Look," he cried. "I'm not afraid. Go on, take your clothes off. Let's see how brave you are," he challenged him. He flung his pants down at the champ's feet and then his shorts, shoes and socks, with a curious little hopping dance as he did so. He was stark naked now. The drunk had retired to the back of the room. Nobody laughed. Nobody said a word. The audience just sat mute, staring, fascinated, petrified, till Allen danced back to his seat, looking I couldn't help thinking at the moment with inward amusement like Marcel Marceau, the great French mime, doing his hopping little David and Goliath dance. Then the room was suddenly filled with an explosion of nervous applause, cheers, jeers, noisy argument. Our hosts, the editors of Coastlines, had been having a huddle on the sidelines. Now one of them, Mel Weisburd, dashed up front and stood over Allen menacingly.

"All right," he shouted, "put your clothes on and get out! You're not up in San Francisco now. This is a private house . . . you're in someone else's living room. . . . You've violated our hospitality. . . .

"If this is what you call . . ."

He looked over at me as if to say, "You re chairman here, do some thing."

I rapped for order like a proper chairman and announced the next order of business. Gregory Corso would read another group of poems and then we would hear from Allen Ginsberg once more with his poems Sunflower Sutra and A Supermarket in California. Corso was all for leaving at once. "We'll go somewhere where we can get good and drunk and take Anais Nin with us."  But Allen shook his head and quietly put his clothes on, one piece at a time, in slow motion, smiling to himself with half-closed eyes. A sly, mysterious, inner-directed Buddha smile.

The reading went on amid general approval and with closer, more respectful attention than before. The incident had sobered up the drunk. When the reading was over he approached Allen and said, loud enough for everybody to hear, that he was sorry he had made such an ass of himself and where could he buy a copy of Howl?

Through it all Anais Nin, faithful to the role in which the poets had cast her, sat imperiously still, only slightly disdainful of the hubbub, like a queen on a throne.

 

  

Posted in art and artists, books, Venice Division | 1 Comment

Chessman’s Execution Upheld; Drysdale Throws Perfect Innings

1959_0708_Times_cover_thumb

July 8, 1959: The state Supreme Court upholds Caryl Chessman's death sentence. A fire breaks out at the compressor plant at Kanola and Fullerton roads in Union Oil's drilling field.

Kanola and Fullerton via Google maps' street view.

July 8, 1959, Sports Don Drysdale was the starting pitcher in the National League's 5-4
victory over the AL at Pittsburgh. He pitched three perfect innings and
edged Willie Mays for the honors as the game's top player.

Drysdale struck out Nellie Fox, Al Kaline, Rocky Colavito and pitcher Early Wynn.

Mays' triple made the difference in the eighth inning off the Yankees' Whitey Ford.

The all-stars would visit Los Angeles later in the summer, since
1959 was the first of baseball's short-lived experiment with two
all-star games each season.

–Keith Thursby

Posted in Dodgers | 1 Comment

Officer Arrests Boy, 7, in Burglary

July 8, 1899, Officer Ziegler

July 8, 1899: Officer Ziegler arrests a couple of youngsters in the theft of some tools. "Officer Ziegler holds the record for being a terror to small boys," The Times says. "All lawbreakers look alike to him, regardless of age, sex, color or previous condition of servitude."
Posted in #courts, LAPD | Comments Off on Officer Arrests Boy, 7, in Burglary

An Unusual Bet on Boxing Match

  July 8, 1889, Bet

July 8, 1889: Dutch Pete and Charles Beaucaire make a bet on the Sullivan-Kilrain fight. Evidently the loser will carry the winner in a wheelbarrow from the Anheuser saloon to the Nadeau Hotel, at 1st and Spring, and back. A band will accompany them.

Posted in Downtown | Comments Off on An Unusual Bet on Boxing Match

Found on EBay — Bullock’s Wilshire

Pink Elephant Dress EBay

Pink Elephant Dress

This rather remarkable pink elephant dress from the Playdeck department at Bullock's Wilshire has been listed on EBay. Bidding starts at $100.

Posted in Fashion | Comments Off on Found on EBay — Bullock’s Wilshire

Matt Weinstock, July 7, 1959

 

Feverish Fourth

Matt Weinstock Let us calmly reflect on the Independence Day weekend.

July 4 came on Saturday and by all rights it should have been observed then and then alone.

But
a kind of fever now seems to grip people when a holiday weekend rolls
around. There is a compulsion to go places or to gather in tribal
ceremonies dedicated to food, drink and fierce relaxation. Nothing
wrong with that except it becomes a big project. Many offices closed
Friday, ostensibly to prepare for the event. And the siege at the supermarkets was awesome. Hardly a pound of ground round or a single wiener escaped the impetuous customers.

THEN THERE
was the repetitious, head-pounding propaganda about death on the
highways. No one is against traffic safety and certainly no one is
naive any longer about what he faces when he goes for a drive on such a
weekend. One wonders if such overwhelming reminders are necessary.

July 7, 1959, Asian Counseling Almost
completely lost in the celebration was the reason for it. July 4 used
to mean something, something about a war that was fought and a document
that was written.

Perhaps it has become too safe and sane. A beach resident, anticipating
a large family gathering Saturday, thought it would be appropriate to
set off some fireworks on the beach. He'd heard that most of them were
illegal so he phoned a sheriff's office and asked if he could set off a
few safe ones. He described them, one by one. The deputy said no and
read him the law.

"How about sparklers?" the beach burgher asked. No, not sparklers either.

"How about marshmallows?" the beach resident then asked, adding, "I mean if we make sure the edges don't catch fire when we toast them."

::

THERE'S FRANTIC
competition among radio stations for the attention of listeners and no
gimmick remains untried. There's a story going around about a bright
young man who rushed into the boss' office with a great idea for an
attention getter.

July 7, 1959, Spaceship "We could make up our own weather reports," he said breathlessly, "then we'd have them exclusively."

::

HAD YOUR frightening thought for today? Bill Duniway is haunted by the implications
of the big Pentagon fire. It was one of those things that supposedly
couldn't happen. But it did. Suppose, in the confusion and excitement,
the fire had reached the inner inner secret sanctum and set off the
panic button, sending our bombers winging for Russia. A real bigoopser.

::

July 7, 1959, Abby TRAFFIC BOUND residents of San Fernando Valley may be interested in this excerpt from a deed turned up by Denny Olinger
of Title Insurance on a piece of property there, dated Dec. 28, 1910:
"An easement for an automobile boulevard for the passage thereon and thereover
of those vehicles generally known as automobiles and propelled by
gasoline, electricity, steam or alcohol, said automobiles to carry
passengers only and no such vehicles carrying freight nor any vehicles
propelled by horses, mules or animals of any description shall be
allowed to be on or use this easement."

::

ALTHOUGH
560 million new Lincoln pennies were issued in the first six months of
1959 you don't see many of them and for a strange reason. The rumor has
been spread that they're collector's items because of an alleged error
in design — the fact that the o in "United States of America" on the
reverse side is in lower case instead of upper case as it was in the previous issue.

Actually the o was deliberately changed to lower case as part of the new design.

1959 Lincoln Cent Anyway,
some coin dealers are offering the new pennies for a dime and the word
has been circulated that they may be worth 15 or even 25 cents. As a
result they're being hoarded. Even the banks are having difficulty
getting a supply of them.

To repeat — they're not worth a penny more than a penny.

::

AT RANDOM — Roger
Beck said it first: "I wonder if the two dogs the Russians sent up
there along with the rabbit were greyhounds? Maybe they're going to
start a dog track" . . . Jack Jarvis, Seattle columnist, who creates
fictitious organizations on his home printing press, is sending friends
membership cards in the I Suffer So Beautifully Assn. . . . Famous last
words: "Oh, but I don't burn, I tan!"

Posted in Columnists, Matt Weinstock | Comments Off on Matt Weinstock, July 7, 1959

Paul V. Coates — Confidential File, July 7, 1959

Confidential File

Ensenada's Brooding About Tijuana's Sins

Paul CoatesFor natives of Ensenada there's a long, lean summer ahead.

The gaiety picked up a little over the Cuatro de Julio* weekend, but so far this year, the Baja California resort city has been suffering from more than the heat.

Its problem is one of economics.

Ensenada
was conceived and weaned on the Mexican peso, but it grew city-big on
the American dollar. And it's been the American dollar which has
supported its relative prosperity in the last few decades of its
phenomenal growth.

Specifically, the American tourist dollar.

But now, I'm informed, the economy is hurting badly.

July 7, 1959, Freeway Holdup Visitors
from north of the border — once as reliable as San Juan Capistrano's
swallows — suddenly aren't reliable any more. In fact, they're
avoiding Ensenada this summer like they're unaware that the overgrown seaside village exists at all.

The reason they are, in case you can't guess, is that they're afraid.

 Not
afraid in the cowardly sense. It's just that they'd rather not take
unnecessary chances on the strange brand of justice which too
frequently is meted out by Baja California courts and police.

The
atrocious treatment accorded visitors in the border town of Tijuana and
the publicity it received in recent months have influenced an awful lot
of people to change any Baja California vacation plans which might have been formulating in their minds.

Now that the pocketbook pinch is on, I'm told that the merchants of Ensenada are beginning to wake up to the fact that some terrible things have been happening to tourists in Tijuana.

They're outright shocked, I'm told.

They're stunned by the inhumane treatment being doled out to prospective paying customers.

July 7, 1959, MacArthur Park Now they're adding their voices to the cry of clean up Tijuana.

And while I'm sad that the current economic squeeze might be hurting some of the small, decent individuals in Ensenada, I'm glad that the businessmen there are finally "aware" of conditions in the sin city 72 miles to their north.

I'm glad, even if their compassion is inspired by the dollar signs.

::

 Not just some things, but apparently everything is haywire in Gov. Long's domain these days.

I received a letter this week from a longtime correspondent of mine in the Louisiana State Penitentiary.

It was postmarked Angola, La.

The date stamped on the envelope by the post-office canceling machine was Aug. 11, 1959.

Maybe it's true, after all, that we damn Yankees are behind the times.

*Cuatro de Julio: A holiday celebrated annually in Ensenada and
Tijuana honoring Jorge Washington, whose picture is on the U.S.
one-dollar bill.

Posted in Columnists, Paul Coates | Comments Off on Paul V. Coates — Confidential File, July 7, 1959

A Kinder, Simpler Time Dept: Your Movies

July 7, 1927, Movies  

July 7, 1927: Now playing in Los Angeles, Pola Negri in "Barbed Wire."

And look! It's our old pal Rube Wolf!

What's this? "Her Unborn Child." "A startling problem play of youth   love   sex."

Posted in Film, Hollywood | Comments Off on A Kinder, Simpler Time Dept: Your Movies

Services for Theater Organist Bob Mitchell

 

April 10, 1962, Bob Mitchell Daily Mirror fan Karie Bible of Film Radar reports the death of theater organist Bob Mitchell. Mitchell was a regular feature of the Los Angeles Conservancy's Last Remaining Seats series. He was quite frail at this year's event but it was good to see him.

Mitchell's services are scheduled on Friday at 9:30 a.m. at  Christ the King Catholic Church, 624 N. Rossmore Ave. He will be buried at Hollywood Forever Cemetery, 6000 Santa Monica Blvd.

Memorial donations may be made to the American Heart Assn. or Boys Town.

Here's a field recording I made at Last Remaining Seats a few years ago of Mitchell playing "He's Got the Whole World in His Hands."

Thanks to our friend Jon Weisman of the fabulous Dodger Thoughts blog for reminding us that Mitchell was the first organist at Dodger Stadium. At right, an article from April 10, 1962.

Posted in Film, Hollywood, Music, Obituaries | 2 Comments

Angel Pitcher Exiled to Hawaii

July 7, 1969, Sports The Angels were a fine mess.

New Manager Lefty Phillips tried to get his players' attention by attacking their wallets. Five players who missed curfew were fined. Then pitcher Phil Ortega was charged $500 for being found in a Kansas City hotel lobby allegedly wearing only underwear (that costs you only $500?).

Pitcher Bob Priddy fought back, going public after he was sold to the Angels' minor league team in Hawaii. "I could no longer play for Lefty Phillips," Priddy told The Times' Ross Newhan. "I've played for many managers, but he's the worst."

Priddy wasn't exactly Cy Young. He was 0-1 with the Angels after coming with Sandy Alomar in a trade with the White Sox for Bobby Knoop.

The Angels said Priddy had publicly criticized his coaches and, besides, had told Phillips he was going to retire. "I've never heard a player talk about other players like he did," Phillips said about his confrontation with the pitcher. "He broke a code. I lost all respect for him."

Newhan saw the developing trend and wrote a smart story about the struggling franchise.

"It has been seven weeks ago that Dick Walsh … appointed his friend, Harold Phillips, as manager of the tottering Angels. The 'big' stories continued to occur off the field.

"They have, for the most part, involved fringe players and the question is, are they symptomatic or should they be forgotten? Are they indicative of dissension within or simply a change in style from the laissez-faire policy of Bill Rigney?"

It's not every day you find baseball players accusing their manager of a "reign of terror." Others suggested that the Angels were a last-place team and the manager could do what he pleased.

— Keith Thursby

Posted in Sports | 1 Comment

Policewoman Admits Perjury in Brenda Allen Case; Jive-Talking Sports Scribe!

July 7, 1949, Charles Stoker

July 7, 1949: Charles Stoker surrenders his police badge to defense attorney S.S. Hahn after being accused of burglary by Policewoman Audre Davis.

In this story, Davis admitted lying to win the conviction of Hollywood madam Brenda Allen. She accused Stoker of stealing nude photos of her, as well as a check with a forged signature.

Now ask yourself: Are these the kind folks you are going to believe without question? Especially in a self-published book called "Thicker 'n' Thieves?"

July 7, 1949, Cover

Gen. Harry M. Vaughan threatens to punch photographers in the nose if they take one more picture.

July 7, 1949, Charles Stoker

Tokyo Rose liked the glamour of her World War II propaganda work, according to a prosecutor in her treason trial. 

July 7, 1949, Sports Baseball always seemed a simple game to me, but Al Wolf's coverage of the Hollywood Stars' 12-0 victory over the San Francisco Seals required some explanation. Or translation.

Wolf turned the Stars into the Twinks (a familiar nickname often used in headlines) and the homebreds. Pinky Woods wasn't just the winning pitcher. He right-handed his way to victory.

The game was played in Hollywood so the fans were the Gilmore Gardens gazers. Hits were round-trippers or two-ply wallops. Runs were markers or tallies.

The opposition became the no-so-sassy Seals.

The best part of the story didn't have any goofy names. Wolf noted that a game later that week had been deemed "Television appreciation night," with a $500 set to be given as a door prize.

Guess the winner could gaze at a round-tripper leaving Gilmore Gardens.

— Keith Thursby

Posted in #courts, @news, Front Pages, LAPD, Nightclubs | Comments Off on Policewoman Admits Perjury in Brenda Allen Case; Jive-Talking Sports Scribe!

Architecture — Frank Lloyd Wright Jr.

Dorland House, 1370 Morada

Photograph by Erik Grammer Real Estate Photography

A 1948 home designed by Frank Lloyd Wright Jr. for the Allan Dorland family has been listed for sale at $749,000. The home at 1370 Morada Place in Altadena has been on the market only once in the last 60 years, according to the realty agent's website.

Posted in Architecture | Comments Off on Architecture — Frank Lloyd Wright Jr.

Nuestro Pueblo: West Pico

July 7, 1939, Nuestro Pueblo  

July 7, 1939: Nuestro Pueblo stops at 5000 W. Pico, site of a one-room schoolhouse.

Posted in Architecture, art and artists, books, Nuestro Pueblo | Comments Off on Nuestro Pueblo: West Pico

Streetcar Runs Over Horse

  July 7, 1889, Horse Injured

July 7, 1889: One of the horses pulling a streetcar is put to death after the animal falls and is run over by the car, breaking a leg. 

Posted in Animals, Transportation | Comments Off on Streetcar Runs Over Horse

Artist’s Notebook: City Hall

City Hall, July 3, 2009, Marion Eisenmann

Los Angeles City Hall, July 3, 2009

Since I began posting Nuestro Pueblo last year, I've wanted to feature contemporary artwork of historic Los Angeles in the spirit of what Joe Seewerker and Charles Owens did in 1938-39.

Not long ago, I met Marion Eisenmann, a German artist who was interested in a similar project. After a few discussions we decided to collaborate.

It seemed natural to start with City Hall, which is probably the building that is most closely associated with Los Angeles. City Hall appears frequently in the Nuestro Pueblo drawings, often in the background, because at that time it was the tallest building in Los Angeles.

What you see here is City Hall in the middle, with City Hall East in the background and then a corner of The Times Building to the right. Off on the left is the criminal courts building.

It's common these days for artists to work from photographs but this was done at a shady spot on Bunker Hill, in front of the Colburn School on Olive Street.

I hope to post more of Marion's artwork in the future. In the meantime, you can contact her here.

 

Posted in art and artists, City Hall, Downtown, Marion Eisenmann | Comments Off on Artist’s Notebook: City Hall

Found on EBay — Mahjong Set From Dyas Co.

Mahjong Tile Dyas

Mahjong Set Dyas Label
This mahjong set from the Dyas Co. has been listed on EBay. Bidding starts at $9.99.
Posted in #games | Comments Off on Found on EBay — Mahjong Set From Dyas Co.

Matt Weinstock, July 6, 1959

Drama in the Groove

Matt Weinstock Between
editions the other day reporters Roy Ringer and Jeff Davis invented a
game they call Trite Trite Again. The idea is to recall a key scene or
bit of dialogue in a movie or TV drama which tips off the entire plot.
Try these:

The spy story in which the sinister foreign smoothie
says to the atomic scientist, "Your government is in no position to
help you now, Dr. Conrad — the brief case, please!"

The heroic
tale of the U.S. Cavalry in which the handsome lieutenant says, "You'll
have to excuse my men, ma'am, they haven't seen a white woman since Ft.
Laramie."

The saga of the jungle or prairie in which the
assistant scout says, "Sure is quiet out there tonight." And the scout
says, "Too quiet."

The saloon scene in which the crooked sheriff
says, "Figure on staying in town long, stranger?" The stalwart hero
retorts, "Mebbe."

::

July 6, 1959, Dog AS CIVIC CENTER habitues
know, the Stephen M. White statue was moved recently from the Hall of
Records to the new Courthouse, a brassie shot away. Now bearded,
frock-coated Steve (1853-1901) admonishes traffic with upraised arm at
1st and Hill instead of Temple and Broadway.

The other day Tom
Cameron saw a passerby studying the large pedestal base at the Hall of
Records on which Steve used to stand and which authorities haven't
gotten around to removing. From his furtive look Tom got the impression
the man clearly suspected the pigeons had carried off old Steve.

::

ONLY IN Beverly
Hills — A woman ordering a caviar sandwich in a Beverly Hills
delicatessen was overheard telling the waitress, "Be sure it's imported
because I don't know the difference!"

::

OLEFINITIS
Scientists ask, "Can man
    survive on planets
    filled with gas?"
The answer lies before them
    — in Los Angeles he
    has.
    — MAURICE RICHLIN

::

FOR THOSE WHO stayed home it was a week for contemplation. And that's what we get from Frank Friedrichsen.

In
the front door of his Santa Monica home, about [illegible]2 in. above
the floor level, there is a mail slot. Last week the postman slipped
through the slot POD Form 1507 with the penciled notation, "Box too
low."

Now, if the box has become too low in the years between
1942, when the house was built, and 1959, Frank can only assume that
the house is shrinking or mailmen are getting taller or Postmaster
General Arthur E. Summerfield is bent on cracking down indiscriminately
on whatever displeases him.

July 6, 1959, Best Sellers Suppose, Frank muses, someone should
send him an unidentifiable copy of D.H. Lawrence's novel, "Lady
Chatterley's Lover," which Summerfield has banned from the mails as
obscene. Would the postman stoop low enough to deliver it? Tune in some
other weekend for another thrilling chapter in this saga of nonsense.

::

A MISSING
persons report filed at the Norwalk sheriff's station described a
vanished and sought person as a "periodical drinker." Of course, some
of those luscious ads in the magazines aren't bad, once you put them
through the blender.

::

July 6, 1959, Abby SC'S NEW
assistant dean, Dr. William H. McGrath, who competed in the two-man
bobsled championships recently at St. Moritz, said, "One can more
easily zero in on the problems of everyday living if he sharpens up now
and then by riding a cobbled ice-wall at 80 m.p.h. through a forest."

Sounds like more fun than the freeways.

::

AROUND TOWN — The
sign "Se Habla Espanol" is a familiar one in store windows. Now Leon
Levitan reports a similar notice in a house on E. 4th St. — "Se cuidan
ninos." Yep, baby sitting . . . June bugs are appearing for the first
time in years, apparently brought out by the hot, dry weather. OK, July
bugs, then . . . Harry Tatleman, TV producer, heard a man in the next
booth in an all-night coffee shop tell his lady companion, "Look, I
hate people who talk when I'm interrupting" . . . Tom Dixon got the
letters twisted in a KFAC newscast and APCD came out ACPD. And, you
know, it sounds better that way — Air Control Police Department.

Posted in Columnists, Matt Weinstock | Comments Off on Matt Weinstock, July 6, 1959

Paul V. Coates — Confidential File, July 6, 1959

July 6, 1959: “Our Boarding House With Major Hoople.” Kaff Kaff!

Confidential File

Fourth Shenanigans Shock Monarchist

I trust this raucous celebration can be considered at an end until next July the Fourth.

Now
then, if the parades have run their routes, the Elks’ bands have laid
up their wind instruments, the bunting has been swept away, the
lemonade jugs have been drunk dry and the din of the last cherry bomb
has faded, I can tell you.

I can tell you that I have little patience with all this unrestrained enthusiasm.

To me, it represents a shocking display.

Why?

Well, if you must know, old man, I’m a monarchist.

Not a militant one. Just a rather wistful, sentimental one.

And it pains me deeply, every year at this time, to note the extraordinary behavior of the colonists.

Really, it is quite bad form to make such a public spectacle of one’s feelings over an unfortunate misunderstanding that happened so long ago.

It just isn’t the sort of thing one does.

At least, this one doesn’t.

I spend my Fourth of July feeling rather sad that we were unable or
unwilling to find some gentlemanly course for agreement with our ruler,
George III.

Grant you, he was a stuffy old duck. But he was not unapproachable.

And the whole ugly mess might have been resolved to everyone’s satisfaction
if we had been guided by calmer heads. Instead we engaged in that
atrociously ill-mannered Boston Tea Party and allowed ourselves to be
swayed by the histrionics of such malcontents as Patrick Henry.

However,
that’s all water under the bridge, as the saying goes. I suppose there
really isn’t much we can do about it now. Unless, of course, there are
enough of us and we all band together.

My dedication to the crown is not totally free of emotional entanglement. The fact is, I am secretly in love with the queen.

And
I hope she’s happy with Philip. Although, frankly, I fail to see how
anyone could be happy married to a man whose idea of a ruddy good joke
is to turn the lawn sprinklers on unsuspecting newspaper photogs.

While it may be presumptuous of me to say so, Her Royal Highness is my kind of a girl.

She’s got — how shall I put it? Real class!

I love the way she looks, the way she walks and the way she talks.

And the way she talks, incidentally, is another reason that I am an Anglophile.

Lost Our Language

It is my sincere belief that when we won our independence, we lost our language.

A people who once paid solemn homage to the King’s English have been miserably reduced to speaking in a slack-jawed drawl.

It
didn’t happen immediately, you understand. It has been a gradual,
insidious process. But over the years our speech  has become infected
by an epidemic of double negatives and worse which crept stealthily up
from the bayous, down from the Ozarks, in from the Panhandle and out
from the Bronx.

The carrier has been the popular song. And the
sickness first came over us, at least in my time, with a grammatical
abortion called “I Ain’t Got Nobody.”

This was followed in quick
succession with “Yes, We Have No Bananas,” “Ain’t She sweet?” “Them
There Eyes,” “Is You Is, or Is You Ain’t My Baby?” “It Ain’t Gonna Rain
No More” and, recently, a sloppily insensible ballad called “Throw Mamma From the Train a Kiss.”

You see my point, I’m sure. If we were still part of the empire such things could never happen.

And that peculiar Tennessee Teddy Boy, Elvis Presley, would be obliged to sing it, “You Aren’t Anything but a Hound Dog.”

“It may not have much of a beat that way, but it’s proper, by gad.

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A Kinder, Simpler Time Dept: Your Movies

July 6, 1924, Movies

July 6, 1924: An elaborate drawing by Times artist A.L. Ewing illustrates a new Ernst Lubitsch film, "Three Women."

"Always to do something new, something that he has never tried to do before, is the plan that Lubitsch adheres to. So, when he finished with the romantic costume type of picture with Mary Pickford, he turned to satire and humor, which nevertheless proved rather meaty fare, in the first of his Warner pictures ["Marriage Circle"]. And now, in the second, he has turned upon both of the former and is treating seriously a serious theme….

"Every woman is at heart either a prostitute or a mother, say the philosophers. So 'Three Women' is the conflict of the mother saving her daughter from the man of the world and herself falling under his spell…"

July 6, 1924, Lubitsch

July 6, 1924, Lubitsch

Posted in Film, Hollywood | Comments Off on A Kinder, Simpler Time Dept: Your Movies

Robert S. McNamara — 1916 – 2009

https://i0.wp.com/www.latimes.com/media/photo/2009-07/47896387.jpg

Hoang Dinh Nam / AFP/Getty Images

Defense Secretary Robert S. McNamara meets with Gen. Vo Nguyen Giap, the Vietnamese communist army commander during the war.

Note: Former Defense Secretary Robert S. McNamara has died at the age of 93. The Daily Mirror presents David Halberstam's review of his 1995 book, "In Retrospect" and opinion pieces from 2001 and 2003.

Dead Wrong

Robert McNamara says he miscalculated our chances in Vietnam, but what's not in his book is as telling as what is.

April 16, 1995

IN RETROSPECT: The Tragedy and Lessons of Vietnam, By Robert McNamara (Times Books/Random House: $25; 356 pp.)

By David Halberstam

David Halberstam won the Pulitzer Prize for his coverage of the
Vietnam War for the New York Times. He is now at work on his 15th book,
about what became of the young people he covered during the Civil
Rights sit-ins in Nashville in 1960
.

About 25 years ago,
when I was working on the book that became "The Best and the
Brightest," I spent part of a surreal afternoon with Robert McNamara,
then head of the World Bank. My book was designed to explain how and
why we went to war in Vietnam, or more specifically how men who were
once viewed (at the very least by themselves and their journalistic and
academic acolytes) as the ablest men to serve in government in this
century could be the architects of what was arguably the century's most
tragic miscalculation. Suffice it to say that McNamara himself was not
very much help in my quest. He said he would see me but would not talk
about any of his experiences on Vietnam, "out of loyalty to Presidents
Johnson and Kennedy."

That day he absolutely stonewalled me on
any questions on the origins of the Vietnam commitment. But to my
surprise, he grew warmer and friendlier as he began to talk about his
efforts to bring a halt to the bombing. Suddenly he became willing,
almost eager to talk about Vietnam–indeed, he was voluble about the
latter part of the war when he, aware that our military presence in
Vietnam could not succeed, had initiated a doomed attempt to start
fruitful negotiations with Hanoi. These would be preceded by a bombing
halt, which he was working for.

The bombing halt and the attempt
to bring negotiations turned out, of course, to be futile; Hanoi knew
very well, far better than he did, that it was dealing from a position
of strength, that it had blunted our military commitment and that it
need now only wait for our inevitable departure–albeit at very high
cost to its own young men. Yet in my session with him McNamara was
willing to talk about precisely that part of his service when in fact
Lyndon Johnson did begin to think he was disloyal, but where history
and historians might feel more generously inclined toward him than the
earlier period of his service when he was one of the fiercest
proponents of escalation. For that reason he had suddenly become
cooperative.

I tell this story at some length here because
reading "In Retrospect" is very much like being with McNamara and
watching his puzzling, contorted performance on that strange difficult
afternoon 25 years ago.

This is a shallow, mechanistic,
immensely disappointing book. Had it been published 25 years ago while
the battle itself and the debate over it was still raging–had McNamara
come forth then and said, as he does here, that what had come to be
known as "McNamara's War" was "wrong, terribly wrong," it would have
been an extremely valuable part of the ongoing debate; indeed, it might
have ended the debate then and there. A secretary of defense of his
seeming certitude who came forward and said that he had been mistaken
in his earlier estimates and that the war could not be won would have
been the most powerful of witnesses and would be now a revered American
instead of one of our most divided and haunted of men. Sadly, the inner
strength to do that, to put loyalty to country and to a larger truth
above a narrow bureaucratic loyalty to a President and failed policy,
was not within his powers.

In this book, much heralded by his
publisher as a mea culpa, the agenda is McNamara's, not the reader's.
That is not surprising: He has always been a control freak, and one of
his singular skills, going back to his years at Ford, was his ability
to take command of a given bureaucratic agenda and to set the terms in
which an issue was debated according to his strengths rather than those
of potential opponents. In this book he not only gets to give the
answers he wants but he also gets to choose the questions he asks
himself. As he did with me that day, he still controls the ground rules.

In
these surprisingly bloodless, carefully sanitized pages, McNamara is
like a player at the poker table who, when the game is over still
refuses to show his cards. The book is almost devoid of mood, insight
and spiritual texture. He does not reveal his own feelings at that
terrible moment in 1967 when he realized that his military calculations
were wrong, that thousands and thousands of Americans and Vietnamese
were dying each week and that, of all the things that he had done in a
seemingly admirable career, he would be remembered more than anything
else for Vietnam. This is not his way; there are no feelings here. We
will never even know if he has ever visited the Vietnam Memorial.

Nor
is this an intellectual's book, for McNamara, despite the attempts of
so many people in the Kennedy and Johnson administrations to sell him
as an intellectual, was never very much of an intellectual; his mind
was at best technocratic. Nor is it a historian's book, lacking the
richness of texture that Henry Kissinger at his best supplied to his
own memoir, for Kissinger, with his immigrant vulnerability to other
men of power, was fascinated by all those around him and sensed the
nuance of every person he dealt with.

By comparison, McNamara
never seems to have had any interest in anyone else, save perhaps his
immediate superiors. His insights into the other key players as they
face the denouement of 20 years of deeply flawed policies are almost
nonexistent, worthy of an eighth grader: Gen. Paul Harkins, the
American general in Saigon in 1962 and 1963, a man best remembered for
deceiving Washington on the war's progress (as Washington wanted to be
deceived) appears as "tall, handsome and articulate; he looked and
spoke exactly as a general should." (In fact on another occasion,
McNamara said of Harkins, "He wasn't worth a damn, so we got rid of
him.") Or of Lyndon Johnson, about the best we get is this: "one of the
most complex, intelligent and hard working individuals I have ever
known. He possessed a kaleidoscopic personality . . . a towering
paradoxical figure."

One can almost imagine the disappointment
of his editors when the manuscript finally came in: Is this all we get?
they must have asked. Can't we get him to tell more about how it felt
in those meetings when they were deciding to cross the Rubicon?

This
most bureaucratic of histories nevertheless reveals a struggle between
two McNamaras: the McNamara who was the fierce advocate of
intervention, and the McNamara who came two years later to understand
that the war was a tragic miscalculation, that neither side could win.

The
Bad McNamara worked the Pentagon and the Good McNamara worked
Georgetown and the Aspen Institute for Humanistic Studies, where
miraculously enough, for a time he was president. The Good McNamara
tried to stop the bombing and whispered privately to his select
journalistic friends that he was a dove while the Bad McNamara tried to
signal to the military that he was still on board, that he still
believed their estimates and thought the war winnable. The Bad McNamara
was willing to go on network television endlessly in the war's early
days to help project a sense of confidence about the progress of the
war. The Good McNamara, as he is quick to tell us in these pages, went
to the President in 1965 and asked for a tax increase to cover the
otherwise inevitable budget deficit of the expanding war; when the
President refused him and told him he was politically naive, the Bad
McNamara thereupon loyally lied to the Council of Economic Advisers on
the President's behalf, advising them to forecast a small war in a
moment of dissembling he fails to mention in this book.

For a
long time the only thing the two McNamaras had in common was an
agreement that they would not talk publicly about Vietnam. Then the Bad
McNamara finally gave the Good McNamara permission to write the book,
but the Good McNamara is still so locked up and emotionally blocked–so
incapacitated by the deeds of the Bad McNamara–that he found no
freedom when he set down to write.

McNamara was always a superb
bureaucrat, a fierce apparatchik, who sensing what his superiors
wanted, took no prisoners in his struggle with peers and subordinates
alike. His rise in the post-World War II years, first at Ford, and then
at the Pentagon, symbolized the coming of the super-accountant as the
driving force of the ever larger, virtually uncontrollable
super-corporation, the man who in the computer-driven age could use
numbers not merely as small bits of information to keep a company out
of the red but, far more important, as a weapon of power, overwhelming
opponents and critics with facts or pseudo-facts.

To McNamara,
numbers still have an almost poetic quality, and one of the few moments
in this book when he comes alive and seems almost lyrical is when he
talks about them: "My mathematics professors taught me to see math as a
process of thought–a language in which to express much, but certainly
not all, human activity. It was a revelation. To this day I see
quantification as a language to add precision to reasoning about the
world. Of course it cannot deal with issues of morality, beauty and
love, but it is a powerful tool too often neglected when we seek to
overcome poverty, fiscal deficits or the failure of our national health
programs. . . ."

Sadly for him, for the nation and for the
Vietnamese, Vietnam of all wars most resolutely withstood quantitative
analysis. The numbers never revealed the burden of the immediate past;
they failed to show, for instance, that the other side's commanders
were the architects of a great revolution that had already defeated
first the French and then the Army of South Vietnam, aided and advised
by Americans. The science of quantitative analysis, which McNamara had
cherished because it seemed to have such purity, was like a god that
failed him. Bring systems analysis to a badly aberrated policy and it
is no help; humans will simply jiggle the numbers as necessary. The
computer becomes useless. Garbage in, garbage out, as they say.

McNamara,
nevertheless, was not merely a great square of the Midwest, an
apolitical man with a taste for numbers. He was in fact a great
political operator, a killer inside the bureaucracy with a superb sense
of how to put opponents on the defensive and to exploit their
weaknesses while concealing any of his own. He understood every nuance
of power and how to hold it.

While at Ford, he was so tense and
driven that he ground his teeth at night. In time this caused serious
dental problems. For treatment he selected a dentist in New York, lest
news of his neurosis get out in the gossipy, incestuous world of
Detroit; lest it subtract from the myth of his omniscience, from his
image of a man completely in control, cool and calm. Grinding his teeth
might have cost him more than dental pain; it might have cost him
power. He and those in the financial cadre he helped create and who
followed him at Ford knew little about cars and were often almost
scornful of those who did, but they knew how to bring organization to a
sprawling, poorly run company, and they learned how to destroy
opponents who were skilled in engineering or manufacturing but innocent
of politics.

What worked for McNamara in Detroit worked for him
even better in Washington for a time. He had more and better numbers
than anyone else around the Pentagon, and given the growing complexity
of weapons systems and their cost, he was a valuable ally for the
Kennedys in the early going.

One must sympathize with his early
role as the Administration's point man for Vietnam. He moved quickly
into a vacuum on a deeply flawed, essentially dishonest policy, though
he did it with no small amount of hubris and arrogance. Dean Rusk was a
weak secretary of state who accepted (all too readily) all the norms
and givens of the era. As for our real Asia experts, the Asian
equivalents of Kennan, Bohlen and Thompson, they had all been driven
out of the Foreign Service by the McCarthy era, their sin being that
they accurately predicted the collapse of China's nationalist leader
Chiang Kai-shek.

True McCarthyism, it should be pointed out, was
not just the demented ravings and accusations of the alcoholic junior
senator from Wisconsin against a few flawed political leftists; the
truest manifestation and the lasting legacy of McCarthyism was the
willingness of one political party to use the issue of subversion
against the other party (even against an Administration as hard-line in
stopping European communism as the Truman-Acheson one had been).

What
was worst about those accusations was how deeply they seeped into the
political bloodstream. The Democrats were accused of losing China to
the Communists (though of course there had been no Republican
congressional voices in favor of sending American troops to fight for
Chiang on mainland China). In time the Democrats were driven from
office, but the McCarthy charge seemed to stick in their collective
political psyche; in the future they did not dare lose a country to
communism.

Let us then set the Kennedy years in truer context: A
team of brilliant rationalists had taken office but for political
reasons they were dealing with irrational assumptions on American
policy in Asia, which they were afraid of challenging because they did
not want to take the political heat required to change the existing
policies.

Thus we were unable to see China for what it was:
nationalist revolution rather than Soviet Communist expansionism. Nor
were we able to recognize, more than a decade after Mao had come to
power, that there were important new opportunities for American policy
in the emerging, historic split between China and Russia, based again
on nationalism.

The reason the Kennedys did not see them was not
lack of intelligence but an awareness of the political cost of even
thinking about dealing with China. Even to discuss the possibility in
the most private of meetings was to open the door to severe assault
from the right. (Thus the opening to China would be left for Richard
Nixon a decade later, secure in the knowledge that when he went to
China to start diplomatic relations, he would not be red baited by
Richard Nixon.)

McNamara, nevertheless, wasn't merely the loyal
domestic policy servant he portrays himself to be in these pages. Both
publicly and privately, he was a fierce advocate of escalation, and for
a time he became the driving force of the war, the man who loved the
truth of numbers, but who would be remembered sadly, for one set of
numbers above all others: the body count.

McNamara also denies
playing an active role in the rigging of the information that came out
of Saigon. On Page 43, I encountered this truly remarkable sentence:
"None of us–not me, not the President, not Mac (Bundy), nor Dean, nor
Max–was ever satisfied with the information we received from Vietnam."
For Robert S. McNamara to write so singularly dishonest a sentence 30
years after the escalation of the war, in a book heralded as a mea
culpa is, it seems to me, perilously close to a felony, and a sign that
he is a man so contorted and so deep in his own unique self-delusion
and self-division, that he still doesn't know who he is and what he did
at that time.

(One of the ironies of this book is that there is
a rare moment when McNamara's normally muted voice becomes both real
and passionate and it is his attempt to settle an old score with Barry
Goldwater. The Arizona senator had blamed McNamara for the Edsel, which
was not a McNamara car, and the secretary of defense remains outraged
by this and by Goldwater's subsequent refusal in 1964 to drop the
charge, even after other Ford men wrote saying it was not a McNamara
car. That McNamara, by rigging the information on Vietnam through 1963
and 1964 in order to serve a Democratic President in the most blatant
political way imaginable, sinned more against Goldwater than Goldwater
ever sinned against him does not seem to occur to him.)

By 1967,
McNamara knew that the American commitment was going to be blunted,
that we had underestimated the resilience of the other side and its
essential invulnerability to our technology. Privately anguished, he
was desperate for some way out. He seized on all kinds of ideas–one
was building an electronic fence around South Vietnam, an idea
privately ridiculed by almost all uniformed officers, and another was
some kind of bombing halt that might in time lead to negotiations. But
any bombing halt was doomed, because he refused to go public and say
what he knew: that the policy had essentially failed.

Here we
see McNamara for the first time as a completely divided man. The
government position was that we were winning, the secretary of efense
knew we were not, and his more hawkish colleagues had come to regard
him as figure of ridicule. He was effectively paralyzed. The emotional
erosion this division inflicted on McNamara was, his friends thought,
considerable. He was the hawk who had been the principal architect of
escalation and who now knew that it did not work, a man at war with
himself. Finally, Lyndon Johnson, fearing both for McNamara's sanity
and health, and loyalty (ever the political realist, Johnson feared
that Bobby Kennedy would run against him in 1968, which he did, and
that McNamara might leave the Administration and go with Bobby and go
public with his doubts), dumped him and dispatched him to the World
Bank.

In the ensuing nearly 30 years he has remained silent as a
public man: distant from the public debate, a not-so-innocent
bystander, and yet still the gifted bureaucrat, a man still immensely
skilled in his private politicking with select journalists (primarily
liberal columnists and bureau chiefs) in the Washington area in order
to protect his own personal reputation and to float his own doubts in
proper, private genteel channels and keeping his reputation for being
on the right side of issues intact.

He is a man who seems to
live in a time warp. Vietnam happened but it didn't happen. No rain has
ever fallen and dampened those great reputations of 34 years ago. To
him, the Kennedy team is still as dazzling as ever, its players are all
still the best and the brightest. Mac Bundy, essentially silent all
these years over the tragedy of Vietnam, is in his words "by far the
ablest National Security adviser I've observed over the last 40 years."
Max Taylor, a man whose uniformed subordinates thought that more than
anything else he was committed to keeping American ground troops off
the mainland of Asia, and whose fingerprints are all over the fateful
decisions to intervene, and whose own memoir seems to blame the failure
primarily on the press, remains "the wisest uniformed geopolitican and
security adviser I ever met." But McNamara is not really talking about
Mac Bundy and Max Taylor and his own hope that their reputations have
remained untarnished by Vietnam; he is really talking about himself. By
implication and extension, McNamara still thinks of himself as the
ablest secretary of defense of modern times, the man who tamed the
Pentagon.

I do not believe in war crimes on Vietnam, for there
was enough responsibility to go around for everyone involved. But
McNamara, given his role in the early days and his belief so early on
that the military involvement was a failure, is guilty of something
else: the crime of silence.

He tells us that while writing this
book, he asked himself, Why speak now? Why break my silence? Though
there are many reasons, he says, "the main one is that I have grown
sick at heart witnessing the cynicism and even contempt with which so
many people view our political institutions and leaders." Indeed? What
a charlatan. Has there ever been a more insulting sentence written by a
high public official? Does he know so little about why the mood of this
country has shifted? This from the man who remained silent when a
decision to tell the truth publicly might have not only diminished
cynicism but strengthened the democratic fabric.

This should
have been an important book. But it is not. It permits us some insight
into McNamara's inability to come to terms with his role and its
consequences, and it involuntarily offers a rare insight into the
difference between the mind of a truly public man and the mind of a
bureaucrat. But that is little recompense. McNamara comes to us now as
a sad and greatly diminished figure from a tainted past. The debate has
long since passed him by.

When we last saw him some 28 years
ago, ever so confidently lecturing to us about Vietnam, he was
deceiving millions and millions of his fellow Americans. Now with this
book, he is merely deceiving himself.

::

FANATICISM

The Nature of the Danger We Face



Sunday October 28, 2001

By ROBERT S. McNAMARA and JAMES G. BLIGHT

Robert
S. McNamara, former Secretary of Defense, and James G. Blight are
co-authors of "Wilson's Ghost: Reducing the Risk of Conflict, Killing
and Catastrophe in the 21st Century."

NEW YORK — For the
first time in a long time, Americans are fearful of attacks on the U.S.
itself, a fact dramatized by President Bush's decision to establish a
new Cabinet-level secretary for homeland defense. The attacks on the
World Trade Center and the Pentagon, the emerging threat of
bioterrorism and the U.S. military campaign in Afghanistan, with its
risk of provoking new terrorist strikes against America, have produced
in a new generation of Americans an overwhelming feeling that the U.S.
is vulnerable in much the same way that the rest of the world is.

The
events of Sept. 11 have been likened to the British burning of
Washington in 1814, Gen. William Tecumseh Sherman's march from Atlanta
to the sea in the Civil War and Pearl Harbor. But there is a more
recent event during which Americans felt supremely vulnerable,
completely surprised and shocked, and fearful about where the
escalation would end: the 13 days of the Cuban Missile Crisis in
October 1962.

Not only is there a psychological similarity
between October 1962 and September 2001. There is also an unsettling
likeness in the extremely dangerous situations posed by Fidel Castro
and the Cuban people in 1962 and Osama bin Laden and the Taliban now.
Grasping their correlation may enable us to better respond to the
terrorist threat with less risk of catastrophic escalation.

Just
how close we came to nuclear war on the climatic weekend of the Cuban
Missile Crisis, Oct. 26-28, was not generally known until years later.
A remarkable series of meetings, beginning in March 1987 and ending in
January 1992, involving the former chief adversaries–Americans,
Russians and Cubans–of the crisis produced these principal revelations:

First,
any U.S. attack on Cuba would have also been an attack on more than
40,000 Soviet citizens–not the 10,000 the CIA had estimated–who were
deployed chiefly around the missile sites, which would have been
primary targets. A devastating Soviet response was thus likely, perhaps
a nuclear one.

Second, by that weekend, Castro had concluded
that an American air strike and invasion of his island was virtually
inevitable. In a cable to Nikita S. Khrushchev, the Cuban leader urged
the Soviet premier to launch an all-out nuclear strike against the U.S.
if the invasion occurred. "That would be the moment," Castro wrote, "to
eliminate such danger forever through an act of clear, legitimate
self-defense, however harsh and terrible the solution would be, for
there would be no other." Or as the translator of the cable, Soviet
Ambassador Aleksander Alekseev, put it in his own cable to Khrushchev,
Castro said: "If they attack Cuba, we should wipe them off the face of
the earth." Separately, Ernesto "Che" Guevara, Castro's colleague,
declared his willingness "to walk by the path of liberation even when
it may cost millions of atomic victims."

Third, by Oct. 27, when
the majority of President John F. Kennedy's military and civilian
advisors favored an attack on Cuba, the Soviets had already delivered
162 nuclear warheads to the island and had stored them at a depot at
Bejucal, southwest of Havana. The CIA had believed that there were zero
warheads on Cuba. Since the U.S. invasion seemed imminent that weekend,
the Soviet field commander in Cuba, Gen. Issa Pliyev, ordered the
warheads for tactical weapons out of storage and moved closer to their
launchers.

All the pieces were thus in place for Armageddon. A
quarter of a million Cuban troops and more than 40,000 Soviet troops,
armed with dozens of tactical nuclear weapons, would have met a U.S.
invasion force, initiating nuclear war, in the (mistaken) assumption
that the U.S. forces would have attacked with nuclear weapons. The
Soviet troops, the Cuban leaders and the Cuban people would have paid
the ultimate price for this misperception. Yet, so would the Soviet
people, the American people–indeed, the entire world. For the
initiation of nuclear war would certainly have provoked a U.S. nuclear
response.

Fortunately, Khrushchev ordered the missile-carrying
Soviet ships bound for Cuba to alter course, thus signaling the end of
the crisis.

Are there insights to be applied to our current crisis?

Rather
than being 13 days of gamesmanship followed by an American victory, as
is popularly imagined, the Cuban Missile Crisis was the culmination of
a long history of bitter enmity between the U.S. and Cuba. In Cuba, the
crisis stirred notions of sacred mission, manhood, duty to a higher
cause and other cultural characteristics poorly understood in North
American (and Northern European) cultures. It aroused intense feelings
of both desperation and resignation. When viewed in this light, the
willingness of Cuban leaders to take measures that entailed huge risks
appear quite predictable.

Are Cubans the only people of limited
means who feel a need to confront the U.S. directly, "inviting" a U.S.
attack? Is Castro's communism the only belief system capable of driving
people to contemplate suicide, even national suicide, in the service of
their cause? Do we now understand non-Northern European systems of
ideas any better than we understood the potent blend of nationalism and
communism that moved Cubans to take on the most powerful and
influential nation on Earth? Are there currently charismatic leaders
like Castro capable of motivating their followers to carry out what may
seem to Americans to be unbelievable acts of violence against the U.S.?
If there are, can we depend on military means alone to change their
fanaticism? At what point, and after how much escalation, will it all
end?

::

We Need Rules for War

 History shows why U.S. should back the international court

August 03, 2003

By Robert S. McNamara,

On
the night of March 9, 1945, when the lead crews of the 21st Bomber
Command returned from the first firebombing mission over Tokyo, Gen.
Curtis LeMay was waiting for them in his headquarters on Guam. I was in
Guam on temporary duty from Air Force headquarters in Washington, and
LeMay had asked me to join him for the after-mission reports that
evening.

LeMay was just as tough as his reputation. In many
ways, he appeared to be brutal, but he was also the ablest commander of
any I met during my three years of service with the U.S. Army Air Corps
in World War II.

That night, he'd sent out 334 B-29 bombers,
seeking to inflict, as he put it, the maximum target destruction for
the minimum loss of American lives. World War II was entering its final
months, and the United States was beginning the last, devastating push
for an unconditional Japanese surrender.

On that one night
alone, LeMay's bombers burned to death 83,793 Japanese civilians and
injured 40,918 more. The planes dropped firebombs and flew lower than
they had in the past and therefore were both more accurate and more
destructive.

They leveled a large part of Tokyo, which I had
seen during a visit in 1937. It was a wooden city and burned like a
match when it was firebombed.

That night's raid was only the first of 67. Night after night — 66 more times — crews were sent out over the skies of Japan.

Of
course we didn't burn to death 83,000 people every night, but over a
period of months American bombs inflicted extraordinary damage on a
host of Japanese cities — 900,000 killed, 1.3 million injured, more
than half the population displaced.

The country was devastated.
The degree of killing was extraordinary. Radio Tokyo compared the raids
to the burning of Rome in the year 64.

LeMay was convinced that
it was the right thing to do, and he told his superiors (from whom he
had not asked for authority to conduct the March 9 raid), "If you want
me to burn the rest of Japan, I can do that."

LeMay's position on war was clear: If you're going to fight, you should fight to win.

In
the years afterward, he was quoted as saying, "If you're going to use
military force, then you ought to use overwhelming military force." He
also said: "All war is immoral, and if you let that bother you, you're
not a good soldier."

Today, looking back almost 60 years later
— and after serving as secretary of Defense for seven years during one
of the hottest periods of the Cold War, including the Cuban missile
crisis — I have to say that I disagree.

War may or may not be immoral, but it should be fought within a clearly defined set of rules.

One other thing LeMay said, and I heard him say it myself: "If we lose the war, we'll be tried as war criminals."

On
that last point, I think he was right. We would have been. But what
makes one's conduct immoral if you lose and not immoral if you win?

The
"just war" theory, first expounded by the great Catholic thinkers (I am
a Protestant), argues that the application of military power should be
proportional to the cause to which you're applying it. A prosecutor
would have argued that burning to death 83,000 civilians in a single
night and following up with 66 additional raids was not proportional to
our war aims.

War will not be eliminated in the foreseeable
future, if ever. But we can — and we must — eliminate some of the
violence and cruelty and excess that go along with it.

That's
why the U.S. so badly needs to participate in the International Court
for Crimes Against Humanity, which was recently established in The
Hague.

President Clinton signed that treaty on New Year's Eve
2000, just before leaving office, but in May 2002 President Bush
announced that the U.S. did not intend to become a party to the treaty.

The
Bush administration believes, and many agree with it, that the court
could become a vehicle for frivolous or unfair prosecutions of American
military personnel. Although that is a cause for concern, I believe we
should join the court immediately while we continue to negotiate
further protection against such cases.

If LeMay were alive, he
would tell me I was out of my mind. He'd say the proportionality rule
is ridiculous. He'd say that if you don't kill enough of the enemy, it
just means more of your own troops will die.

But I believe that
the human race desperately needs an agreed-upon system of jurisprudence
that tells us what conduct by political and military leaders is right
and what is wrong, both in conflict within nations and in conflict
across national borders.

We need a clear code, internationally
accepted, so that not only our Congress and president know, but so that
all our military and civilian personnel know as well what is legal in
conflict and what is illegal. And we need a court that can bring
wrongdoers to trial for their crimes.

Is it legal to incinerate
83,000 people in a single night to achieve your war aims? Was Hiroshima
legal? Was the use of Agent Orange — which occurred while I was
secretary of Defense — a violation of international law?

These questions are critical.

Our country needs to be involved, along with the International Court for Crimes Against Humanity, in the search for answers.

Robert S. McNamara was secretary of Defense under presidents John F. Kennedy and Lyndon B. Johnson.

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