I founded the Capital Times,
along with several other gentlemen, “on a shoestring” in 1917. It was rough going for a while. “No newspaper ever went through a fiercer
and more bitter fight for its life than did the Capital Times in the early days
of its existence.” The big businessmen
disliked us, as they disliked Progressives in general, but we believed that the
newspaper should be “dedicated to the proposition that the public welfare
transcends considerations of private profit and privilege.” We believed in the Progressive tradition of
Wisconsin and represented that in our pages.
We were boycotted for our
beliefs, but we persisted. When you
believe in something you persist, even against the odds and even against the
machinery of big business, which can crush you if you look the wrong way at the
wrong time. Madison had a couple papers
back then. There was the Democrat, a
newspaper that “had always been ultra-conservative”. There was also the Wisconsin State Journal, which grew more out
of touch with the people as the war fervor increased. “Dane County, therefore, a community that was overwhelmingly
Progressive, was left with two reactionary newspapers to represent the people.”
When the Capital Times “came
into existence free speech was being denied and the profiteers held a full sway
in persecuting everyone who had the temerity to voice any sentiment.” It became my job as editor to expose the war
profiteers and to show the public their true colors. “It was a time in which
munitions and arms makers in the nation were profiteering as never before and
when neutral ships were carrying arms to the British in violation of
International law,--an action which brought threats from the German Empire
against United States shipping.” But it
was not easy to write or even talk about those things. It was considered “pro-German to differ with
national policies”. To simply question
the conduct of the war was considered unpatriotic. “The assault on individual freedom was heightened.”
Those who assaulted our
freedom did so without understanding the irony of demanding that we fight for a
freedom that was being stripped away in order to win the fight. “I speak for freedom as the great heritage
of the American people. If we lose our freedom,
nothing else matters. Freedom is all
encompassing—it gives to the American citizen the right to inquire and to
teach, to assemble and to worship, and the right of man to organize for his own
betterment, without regard to race, creed, or color.” But when the very freedoms for which we fight are taken away from
within I believe it a patriotic duty to speak out. As you may know, speaking out does not always win one
friends. I was burned in effigy.
Pro-war zealots visited
advertisers and strongly discouraged them from advertising with us, telling
them that we were “disloyal to the government and against the war.” That was only a partial truth. “While The Capital Times was opposed to the
war, it took the position that after war had been declared in a constitutional
way, that it was the duty of every citizen to support the boys at the
front.” Because the support we referred
to was not the self-support of self-serving profiteering, the captains of
Madison industry attacked us, determined to see the paper fail. They threatened advertisers, newsboys, and
even subscribers. It became almost
impossible to find a newsboy to sell the paper. They were actually threatened with arrest and incarceration as
traitors simply for selling our newspaper.
Those interested in reading it were fearful of being caught with a copy.
Things were
frightening. Being burned in effigy
makes you realize the efficacy of the machinery arrayed against you. I also heard at one time that there had been
plans to break into the offices on King Street and destroy all of the presses
and thus put us out of business.
Richard Lloyd Jones of the State Journal, who did everything in his
power to see us fail, reported the paper to the federal government and
suggested an investigation. It was
claimed that we were pro-German and rumors suggested that funding for the paper
had come from Germany. The ensuing
investigation by the United States Department of Justice was used to scare off
further advertisers. In the end,
nothing was found to corroborate the allegations.
It is a peculiar aspect of
war that anyone not in full agreement with the prosecution of that war can be
branded a traitor. Many citizens were
jailed, even in Madison, simply for utterances that were interpreted as
pro-German. In a democracy we should be
free to discuss and debate the merits of what we as a people choose to do. Yet every time we go to war to save
democracy and to save freedom, we become less democratic and less free in order
to achieve victory. During my one term
in the Assembly I managed to at least have a sunset clause put into one of the
patriotic bills that made the law only valid for the duration of the war. It can be too easy to give up liberty for a
cause, and it is too precious to treat so lightly.
As a Progressive I view the
entire Bill of Rights as indispensable to our free and democratic society. As a newspaperman I have a special affinity
to freedom of the press and freedom of speech.
Those, above all else, must be maintained if we are to avoid losing all of our freedoms. The Capital Times was, in part, an effort to
do that.
“We started this newspaper
with the implicit faith that this could be a people’s newspaper and be a
success. We believed that a newspaper
that could gain the confidence of the masses of the people would succeed.
“The Capital Times has tried
to be a people’s paper in the best sense of the word. We have tried to stand for the interests of the common man. We have tried to tell the truth about
things. We have fought privilege. We have fought exploitation at the hands of
interests that prey on the public. We
have supported the organized workers.
We have supported the organized farmers.”
We have stood with the
people and against the profiteers and oppressors of the people. I believe that is pro-American, and I am
proud of it.
GERTRUDE: I
would say these classical columns represent our lives.
MOSES: A
classicist, I was, a humanist.
GERTRUDE:
And I was a novelist, among other things.
MOSES: I
wrote a novel, too, though I must admit it has been forgotten.
GERTRUDE:
But . . . we are not here to talk about our achievements throughout our
lives as much as our part in the war.
MOSES: That
is right. Gertrude and I served
overseas together. We assisted the
American Red Cross in Venice, Italy.
GERTRUDE: We oversaw the Red Cross for the Venetian district. There was so much work to do in that area, not only in Venice, but in the surrounding countryside as well. We distributed thousands of meals each day. It seemed a never-ending task. There was always so much to be done, so many hungry children to feed, so many to clothe and bathe.
MOSES: Pour from those lips soft syllables to win
Peace for the Romans, glorious Lady, Peace!
For in a season troublous to the state
Neither may I attend this task of mine
With thought untroubled, nor mid such events
The illustrious scion of the Memmian house
Neglect the civic cause.*
GERTRUDE: Moses was a classical scholar. He especially liked the work of Lucretius.
MOSES: And Horace, my dear Mrs. Slaughter, let us not forget Horace.
GERTRUDE: No, we cannot forget Horace. One of his students once commented that his course in Horace was a liberal education in itself.
MOSES: The future trust with Jove; when he
Has still’d the warring tempests’ roar
On the vex’d deep, the cypress-tree
And aged ash are rock’d no more.
O, ask not what the morn will bring,
But count as gain each day that chance
May give you; sport in life’s young spring,
Nor scorn sweet love, nor merry dance,
While years are green, while sullen eld
Is distant. Now the walk, the game,
The whisper’d talk at sunset held,
Each in its hour, prefer their claim.**
GERTRUDE: Thank you, dear, but I don’t know that these people have gathered to hear you recite Latin poetry.
MOSES: No, I suppose not.
GERTRUDE: As good as it is.
MOSES: I was also very fond of Homer, Cicero, Virgil, Augustus . . .
GERTRUDE: That’s fine, dear.
MOSES: I am sorry. The ancient authors do excite me.
GERTRUDE: Another time, Moses. These are not your students. Let us move on, then. Let us . . .
MOSES: Wait, wait! One thing! I am sure they want to know the translations of the Latin words on the pillars here, don’t you think?
GERTRUDE: Perhaps they do.
(At this point the actors may ask the audience members if any of them know what any of the words stand for and then continue with whichever ones are not correctly guessed)
MOSES: Amor should be one that the most people know, as most of them have fallen under its spell.
GERTRUDE: Yes, love. I believe that pillar is mine.
MOSES: And I know that many of those who have not studied Latin will still know Veritas.
GERTRUDE: Truthfully?
MOSES: Yes, truth, the friend of us all. Lux . . .
GERTRUDE: . . . is light.
MOSES: Light, like the lighted lantern of Diogenes, on his search for an honest man. Virtus is something I always wanted more of.
GERTRUDE: You and the Cowardly Lion. But I believe you were a courageous man, in many ways.
MOSES: The last one may not be so easy—Spes. Do you know?
GERTRUDE: For me, it is the gift we are given when things look bleak, when all seems lost, the thing that compels us to keep pushing forward.
MOSES: Hope. Love, truth, light, courage, and hope.
GERTRUDE: Hope, I believe, is what we gave the children and families of Venice with our service there. (Beat) Do you like how I brought that back around?
MOSES: I had no doubt you would.
GERTRUDE: Our time in Italy created some difficult memories. We saw many an ailing child there, barely clothed, hungry, in need of medical attention.
MOSES: It was difficult, but we were there to help, and help we did.
GERTRUDE: Almost every day I would see a sick child who would remind me of one of my own daughters. It helped keep me going.
MOSES: We lost both our children, early in the war, before our time in Italy. Elizabeth died in 1914.
GERTRUDE: And Gertrude, my namesake, a scant year later.
MOSES: They were young, and just beginning to flower into womanhood.
GERTRUDE: 15 and 13. They both suffered long illnesses. It still pains me to think of it. But I understood the loss of those mothers whose boys died overseas. My hope—Spes—my hope was that my work and the work of Moses would spare some other mother and father the pain and anguish that we knew as bereaved parents. If even one less parent suffered or one less child got sick and died, then I knew our work would not be in vain.
MOSES: I would say that she threw herself into the work.
GERTRUDE: But I wasn’t the only one, and everyone who did so had their own reasons for how hard they worked, and why. America should be proud of the work done by her Red Cross during the war. We fed and clothed countless men, women, and children in their time of need. Somehow, we found food, shelter, clothes, somehow we worked around the devastation surrounding us and the bureaucratic red tape and managed to do a job right in the middle of a war zone.
MOSES: The generosity of the people at home astounds us to this day. American citizens, whose own sons were on the front, would send cloth, chocolate, monetary donations, and more to the Red Cross, to be disbursed where necessary.
GERTRUDE: We received awards for our work—honorary citizenship, medals, commendations—but it was only because we were there. It always struck me as odd that we should be singled out. Those awards should have been distributed to everyone in America because everyone contributed.
MOSES: They were few and far between whom did not.
GERTRUDE: With that help we were able to serve over 5,000 meals a day. We were able to get a glass of milk a day for each of the children, and two glasses for those who needed more nourishment. We were able to refurbish a hotel and give the children a place to live near the beach for an entire summer. And we saw them grow stronger because of it.
MOSES: There were mattresses to sleep on, for each one of them. I’m sure that was a comfort many of them had never known.
GERTRUDE: We were able to take meals, cigarettes, and several small necessities to the men in the field.
MOSES: Remember now, this was only the district around Venice. The same kind of work was done wherever the Red Cross could get in or wherever they were needed.
GERTRUDE: After the war, the people we served sent a gift from Venice to the American Red Cross, a beautiful, rare painting in a gorgeous frame. They wanted it hung as a reminder of their thankfulness to the American Red Cross for the work we had done in Venice. They will never forget it.
MOSES: They were always appreciative.
GERTRUDE: Wherever we went while there we could count on children singing the Star-Spangled Banner for us in Italian, or reciting poems of thanks to the Americans. Years later, upon return to Italy, the people had still not forgotten. But I think you’ve heard enough. I don’t know that we have more stories to tell. We wouldn’t want to . . .
MOSES: May I quote one more?
(Pause)
GERTRUDE: I suppose, if they don’t mind. He so loves the classics. Any chance he gets to share . . .
MOSES: This is why I taught the classics for so many years. The writing is as vital today as when I was teaching, as when it was written. Listen, and tell me if you disagree.
GERTRUDE: Horace, no doubt.
MOSES: Horace. How could anyone disagree with Horace?
Ask not (tis forbidden knowledge), what our destined term of years,
Mine and yours; nor scan the tables of your Babylonish seers.
Better far to bear the future, my Leuconoe, like the past,
Whether Jove has many winters yet to give, or this our last;
This, that makes the Tyrrhene billows spend their strength against the shore.
Strain your wine and prove your wisdom; life is short; should hope be more?
In the moment of our talking, envious time has ebb’d away.
Seize the present; trust tomorrow e’en as little as you may.***
GERTRUDE: Seize the present; trust tomorrow e’en as little as you may.
MOSES: In the moment of our talking, envious time has ebb’d away.
GERTRUDE: Seize the present.
notes:
*from Lucretius’ The Nature of Things, Book One, Proem (lines 46-52)
**from Horace’s Odes, Book One, Poem Nine (lines 9-20)
***from Horace’s Odes, Book One, Poem Eleven (entire)
(Looking at various audience
members) Have you purchased your
Liberty Bond yet? Have you? Or you?
I only ask you this because I do believe it is your patriotic duty to do
so. The United States government needs
you to support its effort in the war against Germany. The U. S. government needs you.
Can’t you afford just a little bit?
Can’t you set aside one small amount from your weekly pay, until you
have enough to be able to afford to purchase a $50 bond, or perhaps even a $100
bond or higher? If you cannot be on the
front lines, then you can still do your part here by investing in your own
country. “Turn your savings into
soldiers,” as they say. It is time for
all of us to do our part. It is time
for all of us to pay this free and democratic country for the blessings it has
bestowed upon us.
By
doing this, you will not just help your country. Buying a Liberty Bond is an investment in you as well. You can buy a bond at face value and earn a
full 3-½ % interest on it. 3-½ %. Think about that. That’s a half percent higher than the government has paid in
fifty years and it is the most secure investment possible. With it, you are investing in the richest
country in the world. There is
virtually no risk. The only certain
risk is in not investing, as we then face the possibility of losing the war
against Germany. So it is not just good
business—it is good citizenship. I
beseech you: for your financial good, for your country, for the future of your
own dear children, please consider Liberty Bonds. It is a small price to pay to secure freedom and democracy for
generations to come.
(Handing out subscription blanks) Here, take one. Here is one for you. Tell
them Miss Mollie sent you. Tell them
that you heard the clarion call of liberty.
Tell them that your conscience pricked you and you could withhold your
money no longer. If you have no money,
then save until you can afford it. If
you do have money, then it is your obligation to buy Liberty bonds. If you are of German heritage then I urge
you to give twice as much, so that your fellow citizens will no longer suspect
you of sympathizing with the homeland.
I encourage you to buy now. I
encourage all of you to support the cause.
(Pause)
I am sorry. Do please forgive me for being so
forward. It is normally the men who
give the four-minute speeches in the cities and on the streets. But you were gathered and I was here and as
chair of the Dane County Women’s Liberty Loan Committee I could not pass up the
opportunity to entreat you to do your part.
I should have introduced myself.
I am Mary Esther Vilas
Hanks, though everyone simply calls me Miss Mollie. I am the daughter of Senator Vilas and the wife of Lucien Hanks
who is, as I’m sure you know, a prominent local banker. Do forgive me if I came across too
strongly. Believe me, I was not raised
to stand on street corners and ask for money.
We certainly had no need of that.
But I was raised to be a responsible woman, one who would have interest
in the affairs of my community and the necessity of doing good works. Why, once when I was Washington—it’s where I
came out, you know—I hosted a dinner for 1,500 poor children. I am only asking today that you help feed a
few soldiers.
I believe that with
America’s involvement and with her citizen’s support, the war cannot go on much
longer. It seems such a long time
already. You know, I was in Germany
when it started. My two youngest
children were in our apartment in Berlin with the governess, and I was in
Dresden with my mother and oldest child the day that the war began. Rumors spread like wildfire. It was exciting, I must say.
We immediately headed for
the train station to return to Berlin.
As we were boarding we heard a boy announce that war had been
declared. We caught the last train to
Berlin before all the trains were requisitioned as troop transports. Immediately upon arrival we went to the
American embassy, where we were assured that everything was going to be
fine. Of course, America was not yet in
the war, so we were safe at the time.
It was a very exciting experience.
Many kindnesses were shown
me by the German people. The people
there are splendid, and they gave us no trouble whatsoever. In fact, the president of the Dresden Bank
offered to host my entire family while we waited to leave the country. We are not at war with the German
people. It is their leaders, their
policies, their determination to rule the world. We cannot let that happen.
We must stand up and fight, in whatever way we are capable of doing so.
That is why I chair the
Liberty Loan Committee. I believe in
the justness of our cause and I believe in the ultimate victory of good. But in order to get there, to ensure that
that happens, we must all give what we can to support the effort.
Again, forgive me if I
appear too forward. I am merely stating
what I believe and I ask you to stand behind what you believe as well. Thank you for listening to me and please do
what you can to help ensure the survival of democracy.
I
first heard the guns of war on a train, the Beau Desert, Gironde. We couldn’t see a battle at the time. The firing was probably 20 or so miles north
of our tracks, but we heard it on board nonetheless. I will always remember it as my introduction to war. The sound of the night sky splitting with
that noise is unforgettable. It had a
rhythm, a cadence, that beats in my ears today.
Sailing
across the Atlantic on our transport ship, the Baltic, all we heard was the
churning of the ship herself, the hum of conversation of the men, and, when we
were near enough land, the constant squawking and crying of gulls and other
birds. Those were all gentle sounds,
though, compared to the booming of those guns.
Now, when thinking back, the sound of the guns was gentle when compared
to the sound of hundreds of men moaning in utter pain. It is that latter sound that will always
stay with me.
We are 300 miles from the
front, so we should not receive heavy casualties. Yet we do. Already by
August our first transport directly from the front had arrived. It struck many of us then that the soldiers
were all too young for this. I think of
my “dear little man” back home and am thankful that he is too young for
this. They all seem too young. The best of their lives should be ahead of
them. Yet it must be.
Since that first transport
it has been constant. We do what we
can, but in some cases, all we can do is save a life. I question it, not as a doctor, but as a man. Is saving a life always the best thing to
do? I don’t know. I have to ask myself, what is life without
hands for a carpenter? What is life
without sight for a painter? What is
life without legs for a mailman? But
then I remember why I am here and I ask myself, what is life without
freedom? Without liberty? Is your freedom worth my sight? Is your liberty worth my limbs? Is our collective future worth my life? I don’t know. I think it is. I hope I
don’t have to offer it, but I believe that we are here for a greater cause than
ourselves.
It is our job as doctors to
simply do what we can. If you think too
much you can make yourself crazy. You
simply have to do what you can. You
have to do a job and leave the moral questions to the philosophers. You have to become a machinist on a medical
assembly line and do your part toward the common ends of the war. That is all you can do.
Still, whenever I hear of
new soldiers coming to the front I hesitate, though I know it is necessary that
they come and that it is all for the cause of freedom for the world. Recently I heard that “again from Wisconsin
have gone 20,000 brave young men, thousands of whom we know will find their
last resting place in the shell-torn crater land of France. I can see their torn bodies lying in long
rows three or four deep to be buried and to form the land of France, so rapid
and so complete their disintegration. I
know that among the Wisconsin soldiers probably 50% will be seriously
wounded. The suffering of those whose
life blood is shed upon the battlefields today is far beyond our imagination to
comprehend. We know this blood is shed
not in vain but that civilization may be blessed with a peace as enduring as
time.” That doesn’t make it any easier
to see.
Sometimes, I think that my
dear wife, Olive, doesn’t fully understand the necessity of my being here, nor
of the necessity of this great and tragic war.
She wants peace, but doesn’t understand that we must do this in order to
achieve a lasting peace. I am sure that
she only wants to see me home safely and is not thoroughly thinking of the
consequences if we don’t stand up to Germany at this time. I can’t blame her for that. She thinks I mock her, but in reality the
more I realize I love her the more I understand I must serve here. What she may not comprehend is that this war
will preserve our great democracy and will bring peace to the world. “I must do my whole duty today as a husband,
a father, and finally, as a citizen of the greatest nation of all time.” Sometimes, I think my “dear little man”
understands it better. He is proud of
his daddy.
I believe Olive also may not
understand some of the personal benefits of serving one’s country. “I have seen and learned more in ten weeks
than I could have gotten in two years of ordinary post-graduate work” back
home. When this is over, the experience
will benefit our entire family in civilian life. I have studied with men that I would not have been able to get
near in times of peace. I will be
better in my field. “I am working
mentally as I have never in my life and am accomplishing something well worth
all the personal sacrifice.”
Some day I know she will
realize that I am fighting for her, for the love I have for her and the
children. Some day soon I will go home
again. I will take with me the sound of
the cannon and of the men in pain, the picture of rows upon rows of beds filled
with injured boys, scared but hopeful, in pain but determined. I will take the image of an entire village
empty but for the faces of cats looking out of windows. These few things, and a small number of
souvenirs, these are the things I will take home. The rest I will leave behind.
What I told Olive is
this. “I’ll be home shortly and come
back to stay never to leave you again, the rest of life’s pathway Olive dear
will keep us close to each other and, as we climb the hills toward the sunset
we will go hand in hand.” This is what
I can promise you—that I will protect you by serving our country, that when
that service is over I will protect you by never leaving your side. More than this I cannot give.
My
name is Helen, but you may call me Nellie, if you’d like. All my close friends do. My proper name is Helen M. Remington Olin,
HMRO, or, Her Mind Runneth Over. I
suppose the initials could stand for either one, and my mind does run wildly
over. Olin, of course, is my married
name. My husband, John Olin, was one of
Madison’s best-known attorneys. His
claim to fame was founding the Madison Park and Pleasure Drive Association,
which increased the land for Madison parks from 3 ½ acres to 269. He also ran for several offices—Assembly,
Congress, and Governor—as a Prohibitionist candidate. The last of these efforts was in 1886, four years before we
married. He always joked that it was
safe to run as a Prohibitionist, as he knew he would not stand for election.
My
interest was in education and equality for women. It seemed to me that universities and colleges should be co-educational,
that the right to an education should be held from nobody. My father was an attorney also, in the
village of Baraboo. I suppose he
instilled in me the desire to better myself through education.
I
was graduated from the University at Milwaukee in 1876. It struck me as odd even then that I could
be certified to teach boys and girls, but that I could not vote for their
leaders. I saw during my time at
college that the men were no smarter than I, nor more diligent, nor more
prepared for an education. In fact,
records showed that women always had a higher percentage of honor students than
did the men. I did not understand how
women could be denied an education simply because they were women. Yet, that was the case at many, if not most,
universities around the country.
I was fortunate to have
grown up in Wisconsin. I have to admit,
and I do so with some pride, that the University of Wisconsin was far ahead of
the rest of the nation on the issue.
Many of their classes were co-educational long before it was in
vogue. Others were open to women to
come in and listen to the lectures.
What I’m referring to here are classes outside of the Normal School, the
teaching college which was comprised primarily of females, though the Normal
School was likely the initial reason the university was as co-educational as it
was.
Already
in 1857 the Board of Regents was proposing to grant admittance to the
university for all females who so desired to get an education, and not just in
the Normal School. They specifically
mentioned the admission of women to the Normal School and other departments and talked of extending all of the privileges of the university to women. That was over sixty years before the
suffrage amendment passed. As a result
of the university’s forward thinking, the first woman to graduate the law
school was in 1885. She was able to
practice law for 35 years before she was able to practice her hand at the
voting booth.
In 1894 I published a paper
on coeducation at Wisconsin State University.
In 1909 I published The Women of
the State University. It was a
300-page book on coeducation at the University of Wisconsin. I believed it would help educate the rest of
the nation on the necessity of opening up the universities to young women as
well as men. I was also instrumental in
the passage of two important Wisconsin laws that helped guarantee educational
equality for women. The first was a
bill that required that the Board of Regents have the representation of two
women on it. I believed it was necessary
to ensure that the co-education continued, as well as to give the board the
opinions and input of women as they decided on the university’s course.
The second compelled all
colleges and schools of the University to admit women. It made the entire educational spectrum that
was available to men also available to women.
All of these things were necessary advancements for women. All of them helped to lead to the most important
advancement of them all—suffrage.
I would not say that I was a
well-known suffragist leader, but I believe I did my part. I saw how equality
could work in the University, but I did not see it in the state or the country
as a whole. My husband and I attended
the 1882 convention that formed the Wisconsin Woman’s Suffrage Association. In fact, he presided over the business
session and I was elected chairman of the Executive Committee. Mind you, that was in 1882.
I didn’t know then that John
Olin would become my husband. Nor did I
understand that it would take almost 40 more years for women to get the
vote. Those who are pioneers of justice
must understand that no gifts are given; nothing comes overnight; that the
struggle for equality is one that can take a lifetime. There are those in power whose sole desire
it is to maintain their own positions of prominence. Equality and justice to them are mere impediments to their own
exercise of power.
There are also inescapable
events of history that may intrude.
When the United States entered World War I we had to turn our attention to
the war. After all, our democracy held
the best possibility for equality for all.
If we could not defend our country, if we had let it fall in the World
War, then we may never have achieved suffrage.
For the duration, most of us
did what we could for the war effort.
My primary contribution was collecting and distributing clothes for war
orphans. Each of us did whatever our
own unique gifts gave us the ability to do.
After the war ended, we turned our attention back to other things. Within only a couple of years, the suffrage
amendment was enacted into law. I
firmly believe that everyone saw how much the women contributed to their
country in that time of crisis. They had
seen the nurses on the front. They had
seen women in the factories. They had
seen women assume roles of leadership in the absence of men. They had seen how indispensable we were to
the country. I believe the war helped
make suffrage inevitable, though I think we would have all preferred to wait a
couple more years.
I
suppose when most historians think of war they think of the soldiers, the
battles, the great campaigns that carry troops on a mission to defend their
country. They think of the strategies
of generals and the acts of courage and heroism of soldiers at the front. That is the stuff of war. That is what makes the history books
compelling.
But
that’s not all there is to war. For
every man at the front there are dozens of men and women behind him, supporting
his effort in myriad ways. For every
general there are countless men and women engaged in mundane tasks that are
meant to help that general do his job.
For
example, when you think of war, do you think of the Red Cross, or others who
help the sick? Do you think of the
factories that supply our troops? Do
you think of the Draft Board? I’ll bet
none of those are the first things that come to your mind. Why would they? They only come to me because of my own experience, my mundane
part of the whole effort. I remember
the time that I convinced my wife and several friends and neighbors that we
should open our mansions to the conscripted boys suffering from the flu. We took 20 at our home alone. My wife even went so far as to dress like a
nurse for the duration. It was what we
could do at that moment. I also
remember my company, the Gisholt Machine Company, retooled to become a
munitions plant. It was necessary. I believed that we should all do whatever we
could to assist in the war effort. One
of the things that I could do was to serve on the Draft Board. It was one of my primary connections to the
war.
The Draft Board brought the
war home to me in human terms. I recall
the heaviness that often weighed on me, the awesome sense of responsibility I
felt as a board member. Understand, you
are trying to amass the best army you can, by being as fair as you can, to
everyone. There is a great deal of work
and a great deal of soul-searching that goes into such a task. I doubt that most people give it a second
thought. In fact, I’m sure that most of
the work that goes on behind the scenes during wartime is unnoticed, except by
those who are directly involved in that work.
These
days, most people don’t think about the draft board at all. Our country has had an all-volunteer army
for so long that it is not given much thought.
Some of you may not even know what it is. Basically, it’s a group of citizens who determine the eligibility
of young men for service. It is a local
board, comprised of local citizens, who determine whether a young man gets an
exemption from service, or has to serve.
It sounds simple enough, but it truly is an awesome responsibility. Not only that young man’s life, but also his
family and others are impacted by every decision. For example, the local board may determine that a young man
should be exempt from service because he has a widowed mother who is dependent
on him for her own livelihood and survival.
That is all well and good. But
if the community has to supply a certain number of men and the board just
exempted one, then someone else must go, and that someone may have been able to
stay at home if not for the other man’s exemption. Many, many lives are affected by each decision.
During the Vietnam War era
serving on the Draft Board gained you more enemies than anything. Back in my time, it was an honor and an
honorable position. It had been decided
that instead of having the military force conscription upon its citizens that
the Draft Board would be comprised of community members. It was felt that it would be fairer and that
fellow citizens would respond more favorably to a respected town member than a
stranger in a uniform. It worked
beautifully, too. Most men understood
the necessity of the draft, especially after so few signed up voluntarily in
the first few months.
You
may not know this, but in some ways, World War I was a very unpopular war. Our own President tried his damnedest to
keep us out of it. Our own Senator, Bob
La Follette, voted against it even after it was clear that we had to join. As much as I respected him—I was a La
Follette man—it became clear that our involvement was not only needed, but
essential to the preservation of democracy.
Still, after we declared, the promise of soldiers never materialized. William Jennings Bryan, the famous orator and
politician, had predicted that with the declaration of war, “a million men
would spring to arms overnight.” It
never happened. By the end of April,
1917, three weeks after the declaration, only 30,000 men had enlisted. It was clear that a draft was necessary. Some 24,000,000 were registered by the
selective service system and about 3,000,000 of those served. We could not have won the war with only
volunteers, and I don’t believe we could have run the draft as successfully
with the military as we did with our own citizens. I am proud to say that I was part of that effort.
Have
you ever been to the silent pictures?
When they first came out I used to go to them every chance I had. My father owned an opera house in my
hometown, so I guess I had more chances than most. The moving pictures amazed me, with those larger-than-life people
up on that screen. I remember a story
from back then. I don’t know where it
happened, but apparently there was a picture showing with a train in it and the
train looked like it was coming right at the audience because of the camera
angle. I guess all the ladies screamed
because they thought they were going to be hit. We can laugh at it now.
Nowadays people know better, but back then, it was all new. It challenged perception. It took me to far-away lands and adventures.
I
think of the silent pictures when I think of the war for two reasons. First, the war allowed me to be a part of
the adventures that I had seen only on the screen. Second, it was because of my injury. You see, I was in the Coast Artillery Corps. I worked on the railroad guns. They were large, very large, guns modeled
after the big naval guns, and they were placed on railroad cars. They could fire up to 30 miles away, well
behind enemy lines, and they could move easily.
When
you think about it, the development of weapons during World War I was
astounding. Railroad guns, air war,
mustard gas. All of these and much more
were introduced during the war. My
injury that I mentioned earlier was due to the mustard gas, one of the most
horrible weapons ever devised. It could
penetrate right through clothes and other protective gear. Some kinds could get into your eyes and
lungs before you even knew that the gas was there. After some time it was also realized that it could be fired at
the enemy using conventional shells. It
was one of those shells that got me.
I
lost my hearing. That was what reminded
me of the silent pictures. In the
hospital I opened my eyes and looked around me and I could see nurses and
doctors talking, but there was nothing coming out of their mouths. I didn’t fully understand where I was. I looked to the side and saw other men in
their hospital beds talking to each other and again nothing coming out of their
mouths. It was like my mind was a
Kinetoscope. And so I thought I was at
the moving pictures. As I mentioned, my
father owned Beggs’ Opera House, where I watched many a silent picture. So I thought I was in a bed somewhere, maybe
back in Cameron, being treated to my own silent movie. But instead of an organ playing along with
the film, there was nothing, no music, absolutely nothing, only a deafening
silence that filled my ears with a ringing nothingness. I can’t really describe it. I can only say that it scared me, and that
it didn’t feel real at all. I remember
I clapped my own hands and tried to make other noises, but I only felt the
vibrations. It was like I was feeling
sound, feeling the vibrations, and I didn’t know how to translate that at all. Believe me, I longed for the talkies before
they were invented.
Eventually
I recovered—I received the Purple Heart for those injuries—and I got my hearing
back. Others in that hospital would
never recover. There was a lot of
horror in that war. Most of the
soldiers were boys who “were made and molded for gentler tasks than killing
other men.” After my recovery, I stayed
on in Europe until 1919. I left as a
corporal. I never forgot that feeling,
though, of not being able to hear, and of having to be decontaminated from the
mustard gas. I would go through it
again, though, for my country. There
are those who say that being patriotic these days is naïve. If that is so, then I am guilty of
naivete’. There are those who say that
flag-waving is old-fashioned. If it is,
then I am guilty of being out of touch with the fashions of the day. Besides, I can think of no better flag to
wave.
That
is why I became so involved in the VFW (Veterans of Foreign Wars). After the war I had a good life, a very fine
life. I was Dane County’s Public
Administrator for many years. It was a
job that Capital Times Editor William Evjue tormented me about for years,
saying that I was a robber of the public till.
I disagreed with his assessment, but I will admit it was the best-paying
part-time job I ever knew of. I was a
lawyer for 50 years. You may have heard
of some of my cases. One, in particular,
achieved at least local fame. I was
defending a man against a charge of public drunkenness. The star witness was a temperance woman who
testified that although she had never smelled whiskey on the defendant she had
noted he had a glassy stare. When I
called him to the stand, I asked him, first of all, “How’s your eyesight?” He responded, “Okay in my good eye. My other eye is glass.” Needless to say, I didn’t have to question
him much further, and we won the case.
I enjoyed my years as an attorney as much as anything in my life.
Like my father before me, I also went into
politics. In fact, I entered the
Legislature as a Progressive Representative from Madison as my father was
concluding his six terms as a Representative from Barron County. I served half as many terms as he. Later I became a Republican. And, as I mentioned, I was also very
committed to the veterans’ organizations, first the American Legion, and later
the VFW.
I
was proud of my honors in the veterans’ groups. I became a District Commander of the American Legion. I believe I held every post in the VFW in
the late 1940’s, including National Commander-in-Chief, during the
organization’s golden jubilee year.
During that time I met Harry Truman.
Democrat or no, he was a good and decent man. We became friends after realizing that we had served very close
to each other during the war. I asked
him to come and speak to our national VFW convention in Miami, Florida, in
1949, and he accepted. It was the first
time a President had done so, but it is a tradition that continues to this day.
There
is one more thing I’m proud of, as far as the military goes. There is a Veterans’ Memorial right here in
this cemetery. I gave the address when
it was dedicated. Later, the VFW
dedicated the flag on the post at that Memorial in my name.
The
flag-waver in me appreciates that. It
makes me proud that my small contribution as a Coast Artillery Corpsman has not
been forgotten, and that it led to all of my offices and honors. Who knows, maybe someday someone will make a
film about it, a talkie, and some boy or girl somewhere will share in that
adventure and commit themselves to the preservation of this great country. I would be proud of that as well.
No
one really wants to be a Blue Star Mother.
You’d be crazy to want to be.
And yet, every Blue Star Mother I ever met, every one, has been full of
pride. After all, it means that your
son is serving his country overseas. If
you go down any street in any city in these United States you’ll see banners in
windows with blue stars on them. Each
one of those means that the family inside has a child in the army or navy. In some cases, you’ll see two, three, four,
or more stars on one flag.
Unfortunately, you’ll see some that have had the blue covered with gold,
which means that the family’s child was lost in the war. Dear God, I never want to see the gold. The Gold Star Mothers are another group
entirely, and I never want to be a member.
Oh,
I would be proud. They all are. But I can guarantee they’d all trade some of
that pride for their dear sons to return.
Maybe it’s selfish of me to think that way, but I pray every day that
God keeps my boy out of harm’s way. I
pray for all of them, but I ask for special attention for Billy. He seems safe enough at the moment. He is a musician, so I think he is mostly
out of harm’s way. It’s not as if the
musicians are leading the charge into terrible battles with no weapons to
protect them. Billy jokes that his own
troops may shoot him for the quality of his drumming. He is always joking like that, about himself, about how unworthy
or undeserving he is. He can’t fool
me. I know better. He is a good boy. I do so miss that sense of humor. I want him back so badly.
I
don’t know if you’ve seen it, but I saw something in the newspaper the other
day, from General Pershing himself, that I must admit got me to thinking. I think it was in the Standard
Democrat—that’s one of our Burlington newspapers—but I really don’t recall for
sure. Anyway, it’s possible now to get
a discharge for a boy, if you can show that there is a severe sickness or other
distress in the family. Any family
member can apply, and all you have to do is show that this is true, that there
is some kind of sickness or distress. I
must admit I have been examining my family to see if there is anything we can
do.
I
hope you don’t think badly of me for doing this. I am simply being a mother.
I am sure every one of you would be thinking the same thing if you were
in my shoes. Yes, I am proud to be the
mother of a boy who is serving in the Great War. But I am a mother, first and foremost. No mother wants to see her boys or girls put into danger. We worry when they are out late at
night. We worry about their selection
of husband or wife. We worry about
their diet, their looks, their jobs.
But when they are at war, we have to worry about so much more. We have to worry about their very
lives. All our other worries pale in
comparison. I don’t think I am so
different from other mothers.
I
have dreams and nightmares. Sometimes I
dream that I am watching a victory parade—the war is over—and around the
corner, in perfect precision, my son comes marching with his band, beating his
drum, and the only sound I hear is the sound of that drumbeat. The trumpets, the woodwinds, none of them
matter. I wouldn’t even notice Gabriel
blowing on his horn if he were there. I
only hear my son. Then, I see his face
and my heart beats faster, in step with the drum, and we are one for a moment,
the way we were when I carried him in my womb.
In that moment his solo snare drum is the prettiest music ever played.
At
other times I have nightmares. It is
usually after I hear of a particularly devastating battle or see another
mother's blue star turned to gold. It
is always the same vision, too. I am
standing at my window looking out. I
think I’ve heard a drumbeat and I am looking for my Billy to come marching up
the street in his uniform. I am
hopeful, but then I realize it’s not drumbeats that I hear. It’s the sound of doors opening and closing,
one after the other, open, close, open, close, as military men stop at all the
houses on my street and tell each of the parents that their child is not coming
home. As they get closer, I cannot bear
to look. I cannot bear to see if they
are coming to my door. But I also
cannot break away from the window.
Every time I have this horrible dream, they come up the walk and knock
at the door. Still, I cannot move. Knock, knock. It is loud. I cannot
move. Knock, knock, knock, knock. I cannot move. Until the knocking becomes an incessant drumbeat. Knock, knock, beat, beat, like the racing of
my heart, beat, beat, like the drumming of my son, until I can take it no
longer and I scream. The scream wakes
me up before I hear the news.
My
husband, Clarence, looks at me and he knows.
He squeezes my hand, then waits patiently while I go to look at our blue
star. I just want to make sure it is
still blue. I touch it, the star, and I
feel connected to Billy. There is
something about it, that star, besides the pride and the fear. There’s something tangible about it. I run my fingers across the blueness of it,
then I go back to the bedroom, close my eyes, and try to dream that the war is
over.
They
called me Pest at high school. My name
is really Glenn—Glenn Dahlem—but everyone called me Pest. I don’t remember now how it came into
being. I don’t know if it matters. At High School most everyone has a nickname
of some sort—Tinker, Hoot, Pokey—and nobody ever remembers how they get
started. They are given, or earned, and
they stick with you and become a part of who you are. It seems to me that those who play athletics are more likely to
earn a nickname that sticks. I’m not
sure why, but that’s the way it works.
I played all the sports—baseball, football, basketball—while I was in
school.
I don’t know, I think I was
sort of serious at that time. Maybe I
was a pest and didn’t know it. More
likely I was a pest to the other teams when I played defense. I have always been competitive, and
teammates appreciate that sort of thing.
Stubborn defense is the kind of thing that can get you a name like Pest,
and have it be a compliment. But I
can’t remember. I was serious about
everything around that time. That was
around the time when my mother died, when my brother, Vern, and I, got sent to
another family and had to work for room and board. Maybe I was a pest to the Vetters, with whom we lived, but I
don’t think so. If I was they never let
me know it. The point is, I don’t know
anymore how I got the name. I only know
that it stuck, and that the Germans will see me as a pest in defense of my
country.
Sometimes I think I
understand my country in ways that other people don’t. America itself is sort of like an
orphan. It’s where the orphans of the
world come to settle to make something new and better of themselves. It’s where they come when their families or
their countries throw them to the side as unwanted. I understand that because I know exactly what it feels like to be
a real orphan.
In some ways that makes
things difficult here, being an orphan.
It makes it incredibly difficult to fight because I understand that with
every aim of my arms I might possibly take a child’s father from him. On the other hand, I volunteered so that
perhaps someone else’s mother won’t have to suffer the pain of losing her
child. I have no mother, so if I die
she cannot grieve me. She cannot shed
tears for me, except from Heaven. And
if from Heaven, I hope they would be tears of joy and pride.
We
are all orphans in some way. Eventually
every man moves from home, moves away from his parents, or they from him. We are all alone in the end. It is just that I was orphaned sooner than
most. My mother died when I was 16
years old. My brother, Vern, was
14. The rest of the clan—Daniel,
Orville, Howard, Gladys, Anna—were all even younger. Father had no choice but to send us away where we could be better
taken care of. Vern and I lived and
worked with the dry cleaning and clothing people, the Vetters. Some of the siblings went to relatives, some
went to nuns, some went to other families, some went to work. Eventually, Vern and I, we went to war.
It
was a year after my mother left us that the war broke out in Europe, and I
enlisted in the army. I didn’t need a
draft to tell me it was my duty to go.
It seemed to me that if I could spare one mother the pain of losing her
son then I should do it. If I should be
killed, rather than some boy with a mother at home, if I could spare some
mother’s heartache, then it was the right thing to do. “This war will probably break the hearts of
a large number of mothers, but it can’t be helped . . . There is only one
request I will ever make of God and that is that these mothers may have the
pleasure of seeing their boys come back healthy and whole.” When I volunteered I wanted to help make
sure that would happen.
That was a year ago already,
that I volunteered. Vern was too young,
and looked it, so he couldn’t get the army to take him. The Navy looked the other way, so he’s
enlisted, too. You’d be surprised how
many youngsters sneak in. When those
back home refer to their boys in Europe it is often more literal than they
know. But it doesn’t take long in the
heat of combat for a boy to become a man.
Still they are only boys, with mothers and fathers at home. I’m not that much older than Vern. At eighteen I’m not sure if I’m fully a man.
I try. I volunteer for the tough duties. I will lead a charge as soon as follow
one. And I certainly will never run
from anything. Maybe I’m becoming a
man, I don’t know. I think my mother would
be proud of me. Heck, I think she is
proud of me. This week, for example, I
distinguished myself in combat here. My
commanding officer gave me a pass to get away from the front and is insisting
that I use it. It is nice of him. I can use it today if I want, but I hear
another battle raging and I can’t turn my back on it or on my fellow
soldiers. That’s why I’m waiting
here. I am a sacrificial lamb. My mother waits in Heaven while other boys’
mothers wait at home.
Oh,
look, there. The commander has turned
the other way now. It’s what I’ve been
waiting for. It’s time for me to go.
(He turns and heads away from the audience; an explosion is heard; he falls to the ground)