GoodReads meta data is 331 pages rated 3.95 by 39 litizens.
Genre: biography*
Verdict: Scatter gun does occasionally hit targets.
William Lever (1851-1925) was born a dry goods store owner’s son, who learned the business sweeping the floor. That was an especially onerous duty in the backroom where large bars of all-purpose soap were cut into one pound sizes. The trimmings that fell to the floor were profuse and sticky. This boy had a lot of trouble sweeping them up only to throw them away. That seemed like wasted effort and so the first of a long string of innovations came. He wrapped these floor sweepings neatly and labeled them soap flakes. After all, to use the one-pound lumps of soap a housewife had to scrape flakes off it, thus buying ready-made flakes was a labour-saving step and they could be sold cheap since they had been heretofore waste, and it proved popular and profitable. His father soon gave him his head and stood back.
There followed many other elementary changes that brought a competitive advantage, like cutting the soap into bars of a hand size. Later he distinguished between soap for laundry and soap for person with additives in the latter. And so.
He made his soap first a national and then an international business, scattering innovations like seeds in the wind. Some did not work out, most did. He was quick to make use of new-fangled advertising and made innovations in that, too.
The paternalism in him led to philanthropy, although he always denied that he ever gave anything away. It was all a business investment in his mind. He built an ideal community in Cheshire near Liverpool for his principal manufacturing plant, called Port Sunlight (after his most successful product line), which we visited in 2004. It reflects the man in that the architecture is varied, not uniform as it is in other model communities, and endowed with art works and green spaces galore. An art gallery was located between the residences and the factory so that workers on the way to and from home could walk through it for their edification. It provided a dry-cut when it rained and was designed to accommodate wet feet and umbrellas with drains and mats.
He collected art by the simple expedient of buying the complete collections of others, selecting for his private residences the works he liked, and using the rest to adorn Port Sunlight and Lever offices around the world. He was something of a magpie in collecting as the museum at Port Sunlight shows.
He established the eight-hour day at Port Sunlight. Paid the highest wages in the land, and turned gigantic profits much of which he ploughed back into Port Sunlight, while expanding the business overseas and vertically integrating it with suppliers. In time, with increased mechanisation, he cut the week from 6 to 5 and 1/2 to 5 days. He was widely detested for all this by business rivals who tried to blacken his name with smears and innuendo. Each of which he batted off with a team of lawyers.
The Gallery at Port Sunlight
He was a lifelong supporter of the Gladstone Liberal Party, including its efforts to end the state religion and grant home rule to Ireland, and was elected to parliament where his sole purpose was to advocate and agitate for a national old age pension comparable to that which he paid his retiring employees, both men and women. The norm at Lever Brothers was equal pay for equal work between men and women. He carried that over more generally and was an advocate of female suffrage. Thus he practiced and preached equality for women with men, but that was not enough for some people.
One zealot made an example of him by burning down his house (and all its familial and artistic contents), she said, to light a beacon for women’s suffrage, further saying that until that goal is achieved everything has to be attacked, even allies, it seems. It is a kind of Pox News logic of attacking a soft target. No one was home and no one was injured but it both hurt his feelings and angered him so that he rebuilt the house…in stone, so that it could not be burned again by another nutcase. It did not cause him to weaken in his advocacy of the suffrage, but he did take pleasure when the malefactor was slammed up.
His efforts at vertical integration in the Solomon Islands and then the Congo led him to realise how terrible colonialism was, and he treated the natives he dealt with better than any other European had ever done. This fact does not spare him the troll attacks on Wikipedia today where he is castigated for not having 21st Century sensibilities by people whom in turn will be castigated one day for not having 23rd Century sensibilities. History has become troll berate troll.
He was a micro-manager even as the business grew and grew to become an international behemoth. To do so he wrote – yes wrote, not dictated – 50,000 letters a year. The archive swamps most biographers. This one did not even dip a toe into it. As the majority owner he did not distinguish his private interest from those of the company and in time that came unstuck. Lever Bros did not quite recover from World War I and its aftermath, when prices fell, competition emerged, foreign markets disappeared. Lever tried to keep doing things the old way as the capital dissipated, until there was a management coup d’état in 1922-1923 and he finally let go of the reins, reluctantly, slowly, sporadically….
In the 1930s Lever Bros merged with United Soaps of the Netherlands and become UniLever which remains a diverse and gigantic multi-national. It long operated a large plant nearby in Balmain (established 1895) until land prices made it profitable to sell the area (for residences) and relocate to Minto south west of Sydney. Here are a few of the current UniLever brands: Vaseline, Ben & Jerry’s, Knorr, Magnum, Vif, Comfort, Domestos, Lifebuoy, Dove, Omo, Sunlight, and so on and on.
How his formative years led him to these ventures, how he learned and changed as he went, his relationship with his long-suffering wife (for he insisted throughout his life on sleeping in the open air on specially designed rooftops – true!), his response to failure (and he had a few), are invisible in these pages.
Adam McQueen
*The book has to be catalogued as biography but it isn’t, hence the asterisk above. It is a string of anecdotes that reflect the interests of the author more than the importance of the stories in forming or revealing Lever. It is also punctuated with the sort of snide, adolescent ad hominem cheap shots so prolific in Bill Bryon’s sophomoric books.
There is a short, grudging entry on Lever in Wikipedia that hardly does the man justice. Pedants note. There was a younger brother who worked in the business initially, hence the name, but left it after few years.
I listened to an episode of the BBC Radio 4 program Great Lives about Lever while on my walks across north Newtown, and recalling our visit in 2004 to Port Sunlight, I followed up with this book. Lever is certainly worth reading about but I cannot recommend this book to any serious reader. It is too self-indulgent, too one-eyed, and superficial. The author is the star of this show, not the subject.
Maigret’s World (2017) by Murielle Wenger and Stephen Trusell.
Good Reads meta-data is 245 pages rated 2.83 by 6.
Genre: Manual.
Verdict: Frequent Readers of Maigret only.
Georges Simenon (1903-1989) wrote 75 novels and 28 short stories featuring Maigret from the first in 1929 to the last in 1972. At the height of his powers, he published six novels and more stories in a year. Whew! The Maigrets were not his only fiction. He also wrote what he called romans durs, numbering more than a dozen along with scores of short stories. Double whew! But wait there is more! He also published more than a score of other novels under several pseudonyms. That brings the total of novels to a 100+! Is there is such a thing as ‘Triple whew!’ Then there are the volumes of an autobiography! Wikipedia suggests that 500 publications bear his name. (I have read a couple of the romans durs and they are memorable but that is for another time. Suffice it to say that these are his ‘hard’ [in the sense of durable] novels. We might say ‘serious novels.’ Or in the language of bookstores these days ‘literary fiction.’)
Readers of Maigret often comment on the atmosphere Simenon creates in each story, usually but not always set in a Paris enclave. Indeed it is the central motif of the Maigret stories that he enters a (nearly) closed world and gradually learns to navigate it so as to understand the attitudes and motivations of its inhabitants. He comes to discern first the wind waves on the surface of the locale, the tides, and then the underlying reefs and shoals and later the wreckage now submerged, to extend the metaphor. That microcosm may be a stable at the Longchamps race course, a dilapidated mansion in Ivry, a nightclub in Pigalle, a flotilla of canal boats plying the River Seine, an automobile factory shop floor in Belleville, a brothel in Montmarte, a private clinic near hôpital Val de Grace, a cul de sac like Rue Mouffetard (where I stayed once up a time), a student boarding house at Montsouris, a luxurious apartment in St Germain, and so on. Each time Simenon stamps the reader’s visa for this world.
He draws these places with such economy that most of the novels run to 150 pages in a Penguin edition. The style is impressionistic not descriptive. Often the reader has no reason to know what a character is wearing, eating, sitting on, or even looks like. Those Ikea, Elle, and Gourmet details that deaden while inflating so many krimis are often absent. It is true that sometimes he does describe a character and place in these terms to reveal character and situation. It is not done mechanically but rather as an organic part of Maigret’s immersion into the cast, costume, and the play that is performed in that milieu. The handbag Louise Laboine carried was carefully described and later that proved decisive. A reader learns to trust Simenon. If he describes something, it will prove to be relevant to the story, not a mere ornament to fill pages.
Liège
In each case the novels are deeply rooted in the geography and culture of France. The aroma of aioli is in the air. That is Piaf on the radio in the background. Cloudy Pernod is the drink.
Yet after his early successes Simenon wrote nearly all of his novels abroad. A few were written just over the Jura mountains in Switzerland, but a great many (scores) of these very French novels were written either in Vermont or Arizona in the United States. In each state he hired a cabin and set up a typewriter. Snowed-in among the White Mountains in Vermont, or sun-struck in the Sonora scrub of Arizona, he evoked the streets of a rainy Paris, a bone chilling winter near the Ardenne forest, a seedy bar in Montmartre, a dentist’s immaculate mansion in Neuilly, a flop house in Pigalle, a respectable bourgeoisie home on the banks of the Marne, or a small hotel for commercial travellers in the banlieues…
Reminded of his preference for visiting the States puts me in mind of another Yankeephile, Jean-Pierre Melville, the film director, who likewise had an affection for the USA. I wonder if Melville ever filmed any Maigret story. Certainly the stories have been filmed by some of the greats in French cinema, Jean Renoir, Julien Duvivier, Henri-Georges Clouzot, Marcel Carné, Bernard Tavernier, Henri Verneuil, and – yes – Jean-Pierre Melville.
Everything from the size of Maigret’s shoes to the colour of his neckties and preferred pipe tobacco is to be found in this catalogue raisonné of les chose de Maigret. What a spreadsheet of facts these two über-nerds have compiled from the Maigret oeuvre. After objects they move onto Madame Maigret, including her wardrobe, and his only friend, Dr Pardon. Then onto the Quai des Orfevres where we meet the quatre fidèle: Lucas, Janiver, LaPointe, and Torrence. Maigret’s relationship with each is discussed, particularly through the use of tutoiment. Yet the more such fine distinctions are magnified, the more they blur. Voilà, Simenon was not consistent throughout the oeuvre. He did not work from a spreadsheet it seems.
While Simenon and Maigret have been subjected to much examination, this volume is not a commentary on the stories, but a catalogue of details. For the some of the scholarship try the Centre d’ètudes Georges Simenon at the Université de Liège.
In the Maigret oeuvre English characters occur now and again, and I am sure some PhD has been devoted to dissecting them, but I cannot locate it right now. Among the English (speakers) I count Inspector Pike who visited Quai des Orfevres, the deceased Mister Brown, the vanishing Monsieur Owens, the seldom sober Sir Walter Lampson on the canal boat, the likeable rouge James in the two-sous bar, the wastrel Oswald Cark, the elusive Colonel Ward, the mental Miss Simpson, and, well, there are probably others.
GoodReads meta-data is 208 pages rated 3.68 by 144 litizens.
Genre: biography.
Verdict: A singularity!
Josephine Baker (1906-1975) of East St Louis Missouri was illiterate and unwanted, married at age 13, and abandoned at 15, all of this does not sound like a good start in life. Yet before she was twenty she had a national reputation, soon followed by an international one, and a career singing, dancing, and starring in film.
She started in show biz by washing dishes in a gambling-club kitchen at about fourteen. In breaks she watched the floor show and volunteered to work unpaid as a maid for one of the performers after finishing in the kitchen. That performer began to teach this teenager to read and write as recompense for her work, and invited her to come along on tour, and off Baker went without a backward glance. (She was slow learner and even years later while she could read printed text with difficulty, say on programs, but she could not decipher even copperplate writing, and barely do more than scrawl her own name.) Then one night at another club, a member of the chorus line fell ill, and the director grabbed Baker (because she was the same size for the costume) and put her at the end of the line. Not knowing what to do, she stumbled around and got laughs. The director liked that, and the audience applause ‘electrified’ her, she said later. She was, as they say, stage struck and stayed that way, beginning a fifty year career on the boards that end in a 1975 swan song.
In the earliest days, travelling with a troupe of women, she experienced lesbian sex and that stayed with her, but she also liked men when they were available. She was a lifelong switch hitter.
This might be the place to indicate a conflict within her that the author handles well. On the one hand, Baker wanted a conventional life of husband, home, and children such as she had seen in magazines and movies, but never experienced personally, but on the other hand the limelight’s beckon was irresistible and the gaudy and bawdy life of sex and drugs that went with it. At times she oscillated between these two poles.
As a dancer she had a daring (topless at times and that banana skirt), an energy, a vitality, and physical wit that caught the eye of a producer preparing a revue for Paris and looking for fresh talent in the States, who recruited her. At no more than sweet sixteen she went from last in the line chorus girl sharing a room with three others with one meal a day, to a luxury suite on an ocean liner bound for Europe. The transition went to her head and for years thereafter she behaved like a spoiled brat rock star or oafish star athlete with tantrums, laziness, rudeness, and so on. Some of those outbursts arose from the clash of those two poles: domesticity versus show biz.
In time — years — she did grow out of these childish ways but she was never the professional who was on time, on target, on budget. She was often late, unprepared, and exhausted. But once she got in the limelight, the current flowed. Late, yes, but never absent. She always turned up.
She was one of those who put the ‘Roar’ into the Roaring Twenties, and she pretty much did, on this telling, take Paris by storm. As a teenager, she was the headliner of Folies de Bergère with her picture plastered onto every kiosk in Paris, playing to sold out houses eight shows a week. Her petulance did not intrude on the stage, though she often missed rehearsal and ad libbed her way through. In this period she waged a campaign to sing rather than (just) dance, and when a lead singer got sick, Josephine stepped in because she had learned all the songs.
Men, there were more than a few moths attracted to this flame. She soon learned that white men might shower her with gifts, take her to Maxim’s, buy her astounding clothes, pay for ever grander apartments as a trophy, and adorn her with precious jewels, but marriage was, as one said, ‘out of the question.’ Her conclusion from these experiences was a personal declaration of independence, made possible by the money she was raking in; she would buy everything for herself. Ergo she thence turned down and sent back innumerable gifts from many rich and famous men (and some women). She still liked men, but on her terms, not theirs. P.S. She also still liked women.
A producer in her first years in France had been a mentor who tutored her in French, table manners, dressing and so on as part of his investment, and now, in these subjects, she was motivated to be a quick learner. Through the years she remitted money to her mother and siblings in St Louis. After the War she convinced all of them to join in France and she bought and remodelled a chateau for them.
The boite du nuit patrons kept coming during the Great Depression and the money kept coming, if in smaller quantities, and she kept spending it, trying hard to outdo other celebrities with bizarre behaviour and dress. All that has a contemporary ring to it. She concentrated more on singing, in French, than on dancing, and that extended her career. She also branched out into products like hair gel, clothes, and jewellery, reaping the profits. She became one of the richest women in the world, and perhaps the only one at the time who had made all the money on her own talents. It was at this time that she began supporting children’s charities, giving away a great many francs with no tax benefit in so doing. However much money came in, more went out. She always spent faster than she earned, and in time that deficit caught up with her.
In 1934 she married a Frenchman, a Jew, and became simultaneously French and Jewish in so doing according to the laws of the day. At the time she added the accent agui to her name to make it French – Joséphine. Briefly, they had the home life a good part of her had always longed for, but then happily pregnant, she miscarried and that tragedy came between them, a year later the husband decamped, and she became ever more temperamental, while throwing herself even more frantically into work.
She made a French talkie called ZouZou (1934), and by this time was fluent in conversation. She never liked movie-making because there was no audience. Having toured European capitals several times with critical, popular, and financial success, in that year she accepted an invitation to return to the United States to star in a production of the Ziegfeld Follies. She and her European entourage arrived in New York on a luxury liner to great fanfare at the docks thronged by journalists and photographers. Off they went to the first class hotel booked for the group, where she alone was denied registration because of her race, and she was likewise denied at three other downtown hotels, before she gave that up to bunk with a woman journalist who had accompanied her from the pier. Welcome home! Everything went faster and further downhill from there, the show closed, and she returned to Paris.
There are many clips on You Tube.
Came the Drôle de guerre in 1939 and she volunteered for service and went to entertain the Allied troops, being well suited to do so with a repertoire of English and French songs familiar to the lads et les gars. She was paired with the likewise bilingual Maurice Chevalier, who was a mega-star of the day with the ego to match. He regarded her as a cheap nightclub chanteuse and insisted that as he was the star her act precede his as a warm-up. (And, non, before you ask, he would not do a duet with this parvenu.) He got his way and regretted it. In school, town, and church halls with hundreds of bored young men who had been away from home for weeks and months, she was a sin-sation and they would not let her leave the stage, demanding encore after encore, enraging Chevalier waiting in the wings. He threw a fit and stormed off, leaving her with a one-woman show, which incidentally won her fame among Brits and expanded her fame in France beyond Parisians.
Came the Defeat in June 1940, she was approached by a brother of a stage manager: it could be arranged that she would be invited to perform in Lisbon, would she then carry a message encoded in her sheet music? Bien sûr, because ‘I owe France everything.’ The bet was that since Portugal was a friendly neutral, the Germans would permit the trip. That worked and she did it again, and again, and no Gestapo inspector would be inclined or able to read the sheet music. Then a tour of French North Africa was arranged for the same purpose where she fell ill and after an emergency operation she got blood poisoning and was long confined to a hospital bed in Rabat where she lay when Operation Torch was executed. Bitter though she had become about American racism, she nearly danced in the street when she saw the Stars and Stripes on the shoulders patches of the GIs. Soon she was entertaining more troops across North Africa, Free French, Brit and Commonwealth, and Yankee. Four shows a day with a jeep ride over no-roads to the next camp for months, which – given than she was still recovering from repeated surgery when it started – wore her down. These travels were burning in the day time and freezing at night, and often required sleeping on the grounds or in the vehicles. General Charles de Gaulle asked her to accept induction into the French Women’s Auxiliary Army, which she did with enthusiasm. She also embarked on a fundraising campaign for de Gaulle, starting by selling her jewellery and clothes. She would say later in jest but also in truth that she gave France the clothes off her back in return for a uniform. By the way that illness in Morocco ended any prospect of children.
Despite the wartime rhetoric of equality, when she returned State-side she was once more barred from hotels and restaurants in Boston, Miami, and again in New York City. In this latter instance she complained vociferously and was then labeled a communist agitator by no less a figure than Walter Winchell – king of the airways at the time – who, with the respect for facts one associates with Pucker Up on Pox News, later also styled her a fascist. (Local lout-mouths like Alan Jones have long aspired WW’s crown.)
More important in cementing her reputation as a pinko was her insistence on performing only to integrated audiences. She turned down astronomical fees from segregated venues – what could be more Un-American than that? Worse, whenever this happened she made it known through the press that a certain promoter or venue refused to allow an integrated audience. Joe Louis, Jack Robinson, Eleanor Roosevelt, Robert Warren, and other civil rights activists soon flocked to her shows. It was at this time that she discovered a talent for public speaking and she went on the stump for civil rights. That put her on one of J. Edgar Hoover’s many enemies lists which often made it difficult for her to get an American visa, one requiring the direct and personal intervention of the United States Attorney-General Robert Kennedy.
There is a long story about her Rainbow Tribe which I will omit. Suffice it to say she collected orphaned children as she had earlier collected animals for a private zoo. Superficially the intention was good, but the execution was abysmal. There is an appendix devoted to these children.
She never had any sense about money, and that caught up with her in the latter 1950s when a postwar generation of performers competed for opportunities. Protracted and painful was the decline, she had to sell everything to keep the bailiffs at bay, the jewels, the cars, the houses, … the clothes [again]. By the time she was sixty, Baker was destitute and homeless, singing in the Paris equivalent of the St Louis clubs where she had started forty-five years before. Under these pressures the old, volatile temper vented and she became just about impossible to deal with. It was a speedy, downward spiral.
She was saved from herself by Princess Grace of Monaco who paid her debts, bought her a house, and set up a trust fund with a modest income and a principle that Joséphine could not touch. In return Baker performed regularly at Red Cross fundraisers. And there is a remarkable story of a journalist sent on a publicity interview prior to one such event going to Baker’s apartment a day early by mistake, and…. A bent, shrivelled, bald, shrunken old women dressed in a ragged robe, shuffling, drooling, and sniffling, answered the door and wobbled walking to the sofa. Slowly Journalist realised this was Joséphine Baker herself. Yet, the day after when the gala opened she was straight, coiffured, gleaming, vigorous, vital, and glittering, offering a full-throated performance with dancing, jokes, and many encores. The show had to go on and it always did. Despite the chaotic life she led over the years, she honoured every performance contract and delivered on stage. At times critics found the material poor but no one ever said she did not give it the works once in the spotlight. Audience attention was the eau de vie to which she was addicted.
At the last of these galas she did an impromptu singing and dancing duet with Mick Jagger, and over night died of a heart attack. One obituary writer said with some truth that she had danced herself to death.
The concoction she used to straighten her hair since the early 1920s had led to the baldness. Her diet was terrible and, given the milieu, she no doubt drank alcohol to excess and used drugs though the book is silent on these matters.
Loose ends: She marched in every Bastille Day parade wherever she was in France, wearing that auxiliary uniform with her service medals attached. She was on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial on the great day that Dr King spoke, and did many fund rising performances for the NAACP when she was Stateside, and became very close to Coretta Scott King who tried to get her to move back to the country of her birth.
* * *
Seeing on Télévision France 2 a report on the interment of Joséphine Baker’s remains in the Panthéon (in Paris), prompted my interest in finding out more about this legend. So I did what book worms do and went looking for a biography. A title for young adult (= old enough to vote) readers suited me fine. That means it contained sidebars to explain some of the historical context, like the Depression, Folies Bergère, and the like. Many of the other titles on her that I checked were marketed for the salacious tales, sensational gossip, and Pox News value it seemed from my sampling. Compared to that pap, this one appeared sober, sane, and straightforward, no striving for shock value or gutter glamour. The author has a number of other biographies of the same sort.
Peggy Caravantes
Stepping back from the details of those other titles, it seems to me that many of the biographers do not take Baker seriously, despite the lip service to the contrary, but rather present her as a particularly determined party-girl made unique in the time by her colour, her expatriate life in France, and her longevity as a performer. Few of these titles, perhaps fearing that they might scare off readers, hint at the depths, determination, and moral core she must have had to live her own life, let alone perform the services that led to the Panthéon. They just cannot quite get beyond the banana skirt with anything but platitudes in so far as I could judge from the Kindle samples.
An American Saga: Juan Trippe and his Pan Am Empire (1980) by Robert Daley.
Goodreads meta-data is 529 pages rated 4.38 by 106 litizens.
Genre: Biography +
Verdict: Chapeaux!
If ever someone was born to do business it was Juan Trippe (1899-1981) who made Pan American Airways the colossus of the sky it was for two generations. Before coming to that story first a word about the name. The Trippe family emigrated from England to Maryland in 1660 which at the time was a safe haven for Roman Catholics. He was called ‘Juan’ in honour of an aunt by marriage named ‘Juanita’ who came from Venezuela. At gatherings of the clan, she was the presiding matriarch. He was whitebread through and through, and not hispanic, though it is often implied that he was, the more so because of Pan Am’s later domination of Latin American skies when it was the semi-official flag carrier of the United States in foreign air. This misperception was cultivated at times to win favours south of the border.
As a teenager he was sky-struck, as was the likes of Antoine de Saint-Exupéry in France. The lad Trippe went to an exhibition of stunt flying on Long Island (circa 1912) with his father and thereafter never had another interest. Even girls came a distant second to the siren’s song of the air. (His libido is completely absent from this telling though he did marry in 1929 and sired four children.) At Yale University he day-dreamed of flying and when the Great War loomed he was quick to volunteer, lying about his age, and choosing the US Navy because it offered recruits fast entry into its flying service. Some of the things he liked about the Navy that stayed with him included the order, hierarchy, discipline, and the uniforms. Unlike, St-Ex, Trippe was a good pilot and made full use of his training. (Sidebar: As much as St-Ex loved flying and wrote lyrically about it, he was a lousy pilot. See my earlier post about a biography on this writer and soldier.) However, the war ended and so did Trippe’s flying. He was but eighteen at the time and he set about to make a living by flying.
From the myriad of details the author has assembled several characteristics of Trippe emerge. He made mistakes, and he learned from them. He was in a hurry to get to the future, often running before he could walk. He seldom dwelt on mistakes, defeats, or failures, but quickly moved on. He saw opportunities long before others. He was an unflappable negotiator and in the longer run that was his strongest asset; he just did not quit. (In this way he calls to mind Barbara Castle.) He was unfailingly soft spoken and polite, even when being verbally assailed by angry competitors who grew frustrated at his persistence. His touch at hiring subordinates was good, and once in place he delegated a great deal of authority to them.
Zipping through the stratosphere thrilled him, but he was even more enamoured of spreadsheets and ratio of fuel costs to pounds of payload. After 1918, hundreds of other military-trained pilots liked flying and tried to make a living from it by barnstorming tours, stunt flying, circus acts, joy rides, and more, in contrast he went at it as business competing with trains and ships for freight, not fun. When he talked to someone it was about miles per gallon or turn-around time on loading. He carried a notebook which he filled it repeatedly with all he learned.
When he did fly, he spent much of the air time mapping the ground below for features a pilot might need to know from flat pastures, to rock outcrops, to nearest towns. The man had application. This is in contrast to St Ex who once airborne often seemed to pass into a reverie with the skygod and sometimes overshot the destination, had not unlocked a control, failed to make a turn, ran out of fuel against a headwind because he did not notice either the wind or the gauge.
Trippe also spent much time in the New York City public library studying atlases, maps, sea charts, annals of shipping companies, meteorological texts, and more as he – long before anyone else – pictured aircraft flying passengers across the Atlantic and then the Pacific Oceans. Neither Wake nor Canton Islands showed on atlases in 1929 but Trippe found them mentioned in the handwritten logs of merchant sailors from Nineteenth Century sailing ships and US Navy archives, and in due course they became Pan Am way stations across the Pacific. (As first coal and then oil powered ships, replacing sails, these uninhabited islands had been by passed and forgotten.)
Trippe must have had moments of doubt and despair, but these did not make it into this book.
When in 1919 he bid for a US Postal Service contract and won the route from Miami to Havana (which at the time was a portal to all of the South America) he had no airplanes, no staff, no landing fields, no agreement with the Cuban authorities to land. But once he had the contract with nine months lead time, he got everything together. Almost.
He spend a lot of money preparing an airfield in Key West. When he finally went there to see for himself, well, no matter how much construction was done, the continual high water table engulfed the flat landing strip and as the deadline neared the aircraft engine exploded due to poor quality fuel. With days to go, Terpsichore paid him a visit. To hell with landing strips, to hell with wheeled aircraft, he found a battered seaplane (such as he had trained on in the Navy) and hired it to fly it and a twenty-pound bag of mail to Havana, where it landed on the water, needing no permissions. From that moment of invention came Pan Am’s clippers in the next decade.
Very soon he spent all of his time at a desk (often on the telephone) in New York City and seldom flew after age twenty-nine. For years he looked younger than he was, and at times when wooing investors hired an actor as a frontman to win their confidence in maturity.
Trippe was always worked ahead of the competition, and also his own investors as well as the boards of directors, and that often led to conflicts, some of which he lost, and walked away to continue elsewhere. There were other innovators in aviation, of course, but he often led the way with designing aircraft to carry cargo, to carry passengers, to carry cargo and passengers in pressurised cabins with meal service, ever more powerful engines, non-stop flights, with jet passenger planes, and jumbos, and so. Then there was the hierarchy of rank, the naval uniforms, and other amenities to make flying seem easy and normal and, most of all, safe. Putting women in the cabin crew was part of that psychological of safety.
He usually shunned the limelight, unlike many celebrity CEOs. When his companies, planes, or personnel made the news by establishing new firsts in civil aviation, others took the press interviews, not Trippe, who by then was knee-deep in a new project. Journalists who inquired of him were likely to be directed to someone else. The people he wanted to impress were bankers and financiers who would invest in his next dream, and they were not going to swayed by laudatory newspaper stories with clichéd headlines. The people he wanted to talk to were engineers, designers, and technicians. By the same token the entry in Wikipedia is sparse for an individual who had such large footprint.
Yet he understood the allure of celebrity and established and traded on a relationship with the most famous aviator of the day – Charles Lindberg. Lindy was awash with opportunities but what Trippe offered was more flying in ever newer airplanes over unexplored routes and this combination appealed to the adventurer Lindberg who flew airplanes conspicuously marked Pan Am where no one had done so before, boldy going. Such markings were another Trippe innovation. Where Lindy went the newsreels followed. (They came to a parting of the ways later when Lindberg became an apologist for Hitler. That is another sad story in its own right.)
Alarm bells rang at the State Department in Foggy Bottom when in the 1920s a German consortium set up an airline in Columbia. While the business was perfectly legal and operated through a local company in Bogotá, a German controlled airline in the Western Hemisphere touched the Monroe Doctrine nerve. After all, an airline had the potential to be an enemy air force in a future war, and one based close to the Panama Canal was a strategic threat of the first rank. Diplomatic pressure on Columbia was applied and that slowed development but did not stop it. In this context, Trippe was encouraged by the State Department to extend his ambitions southward, and that suited him fine. Pan Am was developing into a semi-official state airline that carried the flag even as France, Germany, and Great Britain were themselves developing state-owned airlines.
That status was compounded later by the Post Office Department, in letting contracts for foreign airmail, ruled that a single carrier was the most efficient and effective means, and not a series of competing airlines using different schedules, sites, standards, and so on. That single preferred carrier was…Pan Am. Yes, when not nailed to his desk in a two-room office in New York City, he was in Washington nearly every week lobbying with his spreadsheets and honeyed-tongue. He more of less wrote the Post Office ruling.
Later his exclusive and exclusionary business practices were challenged by rival airlines in both courts and Congress. He won those arguments on the grounds that he had an ‘achieved, natural monopoly,’ that is, a monopoly achieved by pioneering. Any rival ought not to profit from Pan Am’s investments, say, by using its facilities, data, or routes. The monopoly was not the result of shady financial practices but rather of bold innovation, risk-taking with its own money, and the pioneering efforts of its flyers.
While in each case the conclusion was close run and carefully worded, nonetheless the result was that Pan American Airways was a state airline in all but name. Yet it was not subject to direct control by the government that authorised it, unlike Imperial Airways in Great Britain which flew where and when the His Majesty’s government directed.
To be sure this status had benefits but it also had burdens. In 1940 Pan Am was pressured by the State Department into building more than twenty airports in Central and Latin America to a military standard in case a threat to the Western Hemisphere came from the Bulge of Africa. At the time it seemed possible that Germany would occupy the French colonies of Morocco and Senegal with the cooperation of the collaborationist Vichy regime, and then use the French and Dutch West Indies islands as forward basis to operate against the Panama Canal with the help of the many Germans resident in Columbia. Later Pan Am was again coerced into organising a series of way stations in Africa between Monrovia and Cairo to allow for air cargo en route to the British in Egypt. Much later its Latin American installations were integrated into the US Space program for tracking and weather reports. N. B. In all these cases it was Pan Am, not the State Department, that negotiated with the host governments. Because of that it was sometimes referred as the Air State Department.
Backing up to 1929, still not yet thirty years old, he had commissioned the first purpose-built airliner. conceiving of it as an astral equivalent of a luxury ocean liner. The nautical theme chimed in with the flying boat’s milieu, and it was systematically applied in both design and furnishings. As regular freight and then passenger service was established in the Pacific the new Boeings were called clippers to evoke the sailing ships that had plied that ocean blue.
Note on terminology. Land planes use wheels. Sea planes use pontoons which are filled with fuel. Amphibians have both. Ski planes have…skis. Catapult planes had a brief fashion but later were confined to military use. Flying boats like the clippers use the hull for landing, no pontoons. By the way, making the clippers amphibious was not possible for technical reasons mainly because of the weight, especially on take-off with a full load of fuel, but also on landing. They were beasts. To equip them with struts on the wheels and enough wheels to distribute the weight would add even more weight and degrade the aerodynamic qualities of the craft.
There are many other examples of his approach to management which would not get him an MBA from the McKinsey School. Noteworthy is his delegation of authority, disinterest in micro-management, long term view, premium on safety, patience, resilience, modesty, and more. He did anticipate McKinsey in his insistence that everything, and I mean everything, be documented for future reference. He was willing to gamble but he wanted to learn from mistakes, not repeat them. He valued these qualities in subordinates, too, and funded projects that took years to complete without a demur.
In 1939 there was a management coup d’état on Fifth Avenue in the Chrysler Building where it was now headquartered (before constructing its own building [the lobby of which I once entered]). A decade before Trippe had selected all the directors who were personal friends and some distant relations, but as the need for capital increased the Board of directors included more bankers and lawyers who owed him no loyalty. Though Pan Am was gargantuan as airlines of the time went, it was losing a lot more than money than it was making. It had more 50,000 miles of routes through 47 countries with 125 planes, 145 ground stations worked by 5000 employees around the world. The only gap in its route was between Hong Kong and Léopoldville (Belgian Congo) which was left to Britain’s Imperial Airways and France’s Aéropostale. That made it larger than the US Army Air Force at the time, let alone every other incipient airline. However, only the Latin American mail routes were regular enough to make pesos. In the vast Pacific service was irregular. Worse, crashes there were a few. Over the Atlantic Pan Am had ambition and had invested very heavily in preparation for flights but there was none in the offing. Trippe had made Pan Am and now it in its board of directors unmade him.
That interregnum lasted eight months, during which Trippe was moved sideways and a new CEO installed who liked having his picture taken, but everyone, including the new CEO, soon realised he did not know much about Pan Am and nothing about running an international business or an airline and he quit. With little fanfare Trippe, not yet forty years old, returned to the big office. During the months of exile he had attended meetings and sat silent for the whole time watching (and waiting).
There is a fascinating sidebar about China National Air (CNA) which Trippe had bought years before to provide a base in China when Pan Am finally got across the Pacific. When Japan invaded China in 1937 CNA was caught in the crossfire, and Trippe, wanting no part of this war, pulled everyone out, but some employees would not leave and tried to maintain service of a sort. Trippe thought this madness and fired them, but kept paying their life insurance policies (for their families) and kept them on the list for bonuses. Ergo he could truthfully say that Pan Am had divested itself of CNA, while allowing benefits to accrue to the wildcat airmen. That remainder was motivated by a love and respect for China and the Chinese, and in time found a protector in Madame Chiang. In the perilous years of the war in China, that airline became a lifeline flying over the Hump (look it up). Like Trippe himself, these employees also identified nearly completely with the airline they had built up and could not bear to dismember it. We might conclude that he saw something of himself in these few dedicated individuals. Later they were returned to the fold and credited with seniority for those lost years and back pay for the bonuses that had accrued. This is one of many instances where he demonstrated loyalty to employees quite foreign to the cosmology of McKinsey Management in which the cogs are interchangeable, a fact lightly disguised with a rhetorical lip service about the importance of ‘our people’ whoever they are.
CNA
By the middle of the 1940s it was clear that lobbying Congress and departments of state was a full-time job and Trippe put a woman in charge of Pan Am’s Washington D.C. office who became a Vice President of the company. She was often underestimated by politicians and officials she dealt with and proved invaluable to Trippe is sizing up one situation after another. The journalists of the day ignored her completely with the same unerring judgement so common today. She steered Pan Am through some very rocky patches and Trippe came to rely on her completely when he went to Washington.
By 1947 Trippe saw that the future of passenger aviation was the jet engine and for that to be profitable it had to take customers away from ships and trains. The way to do that was to offer speed. That meant non-stop flights to London, Rome, Paris with a hundred or more paying customers. Those who manufactured engines and built airplanes told him in great detail that it was impossible to do that, and he persisted. He often seemed not to hear these negatives and just pressed on. Finally, he gambled big on jet engines by buying them for airplanes that did not exist, and then convinced Boeing (after Martin, Douglas, and Lockheed declined) to design and build a jetliner round them, the Boeing 707. A knowledgable observer has opined that the 707 broke the tyranny of distance in Australia.
He followed his usual practice of divide and conquer with the airplane and engine manufacturers and drove hard for the development of the first Boeing 707 but soon moved on to the Boeing 747 and the jumbo jet, which still rule the skis in other forms. All of that cost millions and millions but on he drove until one day in 1968 when he quit. Yes, cold turkey. He announced his resignation at a board meeting in the evening, cleared his office the next morning. It was a thunder bolt both in Pan Am and in the business in general. He had typed all the necessary documents himself, so not even his personal, private secretary of twenty years knew until he told her the following morning.
One innovation Trip rejected, despite considerable pressure, was the SST or Concorde as it became. The US Air Force wanted a supersonic transport, and a commercial interest from Pan Am would help to stimulate development, but Trippe did not like anything about it. To reach the speeds it did it could carry only a few passengers and the noise it made would turn airports into uninhabited zones. We saw one of these beasts take to the air while we were trudging, suitcase ladened, across a rental-car parking lot at Heathrow, and it was L O U D! It also spewed black exhaust.
He became emeritus but never uttered another word beyond pleasantries in the office, in board meetings and in conferences, and he eschewed most invitations to speak here and there. In retirement he made it a point to preserve the history of Pan Am with a foundation that created, devised, maintained, and ran a corporate archive which this author mined.
As a national, flag-carrying airline in all but law, Pan American Airways was in the odd position of having no domestic routes to feed into its international flights. While Trippe’s lobbying had long allowed it to monopolise foreign travel, that very success united the domestic airlines against it and they prevailed with Civil Aviation Board in excluding Pan Am from domestic routes. One could fly from Sydney to LAX on Pan Am, as I did, and then from New York City to London on Pan Am, but not from LAX to New York. In time as other carriers muscled into the international market that monopoly disappeared, leaving Pan Am suspended in the ether with no domestic business, despite much lobbying. Ultimately that imbalance was fatal.
That was bad — worse was to come with the oil shock, and soon the empire that at its peak employed 40,000 people with more than a hundred long haul aircraft in the air every day, grudgingly conceded to be the industry leader, crumbled. With five years of his resignation, the Pan Am of old started to disintegrate, selling off assets, discharging employees at the top and bottom, all the while the new management paid executive bonuses of a magnitude Trippe had never done.
One of Pan Am’s many safety precautions was that each member of the crew had to be triple qualified. Think of a football coach’s depth chart. Each crewman had to qualify for three different jobs, for example, the radio operator was also qualified to pilot and navigate. And so on for each one. Ergo there was triple back-up on each crew. Qualification was done through third parties certified by the government. In addition, on long haul flights there were two of everything: two navigators, two co-pilots, two pilots, two radio operators, and two engineers so they could work twelve-hour shifts. Each of these ten would have two other qualifications.
We don’t find out much about Trippe the man in these pages. Was that name a burden as a boy? How did he court the woman who married him, and what kind of home-life did they have, if any. There were children but was he a father to him, taking them to air shows as his father took him? Did he have any interest beyond the company? Collect stamps? Dig in the garden? Did he always keep his libido in check? When he lobbied officials or politicians, did he start from first principles, appeals to patriotism, establish personal relations, belittle rivals, or offer incentives? He had always been secretive and solitary and those qualities increased with advancing age as he became some of a recluse in his corner office.
The book certainly does explain Pan Am’s semi-official status, but with its emphasis on the accomplishments of flight and the technical achievements to make that happen, apart from the management spill, I never did understand where the money that Trippe spent so freely came from, especially in the earlier days. Yes, there were investors, but who were they, especially through the years of the Great Depression? What kind of return did they expect or get?
Pan Am was always parsimonious in management costs. Trippe paid himself well below the industry standards for CEOs and so, too, everyone else employed by Pan Am from Vice-Presidents to cabin attendants. Some of the VPs he recruited were surprised to be taking a pay cut to join Pan Am. Ditto pilots. His unstated principal was that the experience of working at Pan Am was a bonus in itself. Certainly for those in technical fields Pan Am offered opportunities no other airline matched. For crew the allure of international travel was there. For all there was the glory and glamour of Pan Am. It seems a case of an individual who came to belief his own advertising. Still it worked as long as Trippe was there, but when he quit the looking glass broke and very soon pilots, mechanics, caterers, and cabin staff, they all went to strike for industry standard salaries. In response the new executive team dismissed personnel and sold off assets to pay for their own bonuses. Ah, the pure, sweet air of McKinsey management.
The book is based almost entirely on original sources, interspersed with newspaper accounts from the day. There is a detailed appendix explaining the research that went into the book, and it is impressive. Much of it was in interviews with the principals in the 1970s and rich as that lode is, one might worry about memory especially since few of these individuals kept diaries at the time. Nonetheless, the groundwork is assiduous and everything was double and triple checked, including a visit to Wake Island! Chapeux!
* * *
Pan American Airlines was a world unto itself for generations only coming to earth with a thud in the 1980s. Seeing references to it in reading, film, broadcast, and at the air museum at Pearl Harbor, I have wondered about its origin and development. An ember of that vague interest sparked recently when I read about an unintentional round the world flight in 1941 after Pearl Harbor (discussed in another post). I went looking for a corporate history and eventually came to this title. Having now seen in this book the development of flight up to 1941 I appreciate even better what a remarkable feat that 1941 circumnavigation was. That Boeing model had only come into use in late 1939 and had a litany of teething problems.
Though there are many books on Pan Am, few matched my interest. Many concerned famous incidents involving Pan Am machines or personnel. A good few picked over the bones of the final corporate demise. Even more prolific were books about fashions in dress or, ahem, undress. Did Mortimer in the back row mutter ‘Cheap sensationalism’? Yes, there seemed to be a lot of that. In sorting through this material Juan Trippe’s name kept coming up and the tidbits harvested clearly indicated that at least for some long time Pan Am, gargantuan though it was, was a one-man band. How could that be, I wondered? As much publicity as that celebrity CEO of General Electric (GE) Jack Welch got, his influence on the company was never emphasised. GE was a behemoth before Jack and remained that after him. Not so Pan Am. It seemed Pan Am = Trippe and Trippe = Pan Am. He made Pan Am and it did not outlast him nor did he it.
I flew on Pan Am once near its end in 1979 across the wide Pacific crammed into Economy on a flight when smoking was common. The cabin crew had been trained by Houdini and disappeared before one’s eyes. It was the same from New York City to Paris. Overall it was a ghastly experience. The only benefit after the safe arrival was that I now get to say that I once flew on Pan American Airways.
Goodreads meta-data is 64 pages, rated 4.50 by four members of the family.
Genre: History.
Verdict: Once over lightly.
I remain in the market for a corporate history of Pan Am. This essay has whet my appetite and enlightened me on some points, but, well, there must be a lot more to the story.
This is my first first Google Book book and that meant I had to read it the screen, not on the Kindle. Fortunately, at 64 pages that could be done. Moreover, I found skimming it was best. It has the typos I associate with books from CreateSpace, and offered the laborious prose of a trained engineer.
Goodreads metadata is 172 pages, rated 4.27 by 227 litizens.
Verdict: What a trip!
An incredible story that has not (yet) been bastardised and exploited by Hollywood. (I searched IMDb.) Dibs on that.
On 4 December 1941 Pan American flight 606 took off from Treasure Island in San Francisco Bay for Auckland in far New Zealand (and return therefrom) with stops along the way, starting with Honolulu. It had a crew of ten men and fifty passengers. All the members of the crew were experienced long-haul flyers, well versed in Pan Am’s exacting safety protocols.
This was an enormous flying boat – a Boeing 314 – equipped with all the latest mod cons and hi tech of the day. The hull was marked with company logos and a US flag on roof and both side of the nose cone, as well as the civilian registration number NC-18609.
By this time it was Standard Operating Procedure for the pilot commanding to be handed an envelope as he entered the aircraft to prepare for takeoff with the forbidding label: To Be Opened Only in an Emergency. Captain’s eyes only. Captain Robert Ford was required to carry it in the internal right hand breast pocket of his uniform coat at all times per company rules. He had carried such an unopened envelope on many previous flights: Situation normal.
The flight duly arrived in Honolulu and laid over for fuelling, passenger changes, and some relaxation for the crew, staying at the Moana Hotel where we had a reception once. It took off the next day, 6 December and wound its way southwest making stops for fuel, food, relaxation, and water at Canton Island, Suva, and Noumea. So far so normal.
Everyone was aware of the tensions in the Pacific and at each stop there is talk about it in the abstract. Then…. about an hour from Auckland the onboard radio operator began trying to establish radio contact with Auckland and came across a Kiwi radio news bulletin that proclaimed unconfirmed reports of an attack at Pearl Harbor …. Oops! Consternation prevailed as the crew members recalled the Pearl Harbor they had left less than a day ago. They continued in silence for a few minutes while the radio operator sought confirmation, then they received a message from the Pan Am ground station in Noumea: Pearl Harbor Attacked. Implement Plan A. Good luck.
The Captain opened the envelope to read PLAN A (PLAN B was for Pan Am flights in the Atlantic Ocean, mostly to South America, but also one to Africa). Plan A was very detailed. It started with a decision tree. That is, it was divided into parts based on where the aircraft was when the envelope was opened. This close to Auckland and with no apparent trouble there, the obvious thing to do was to get to Auckland by taking anticipatory evasive action and changing their flight path and going to radio silence (both sending and receiving can be traced).
Leaving aside the details, Plan A said to continue West to New York City, like Magellan or Columbus, not to return over the Pacific. How to do this was left to the discretion of the captain. This was an enormous challenge to both man and machine. They had no maps, charts, weather reports or history, radio locator guides, tidal records, descriptions of anchorages for such an aircraft, spare parts, and they would need fuel, food, and mechanical supplies along the way. Nor had any of them ever before been in those parts of the world. West from Auckland the nearest Pan Am base was…[wait for it] at Léopoldville in the Belgian Congo. (Why Pan Am established a base station there remains a mystery.)
Dinner time.
During a week in New Zealand the crewmen laid in supplies from the Pan Am base in Auckland, all the few remaining passengers having disembarked there, using the cash on hand in the local office and pocketing the rest for later. An array of spare parts and two whole engine assemblies were packed into the passenger accommodation. Meanwhile, the navigators went to the public library to look at geography textbooks, maps, and atlases with tracing paper to make copies and the radio operators went to radio stations to seek out information about which radio bands were used in those parts of the world. The library mission was fruitful, the radio investigation was not. From Auckland to New York City on the western route was 20,869 miles at least.
The areas to traverse were vast and may be war zones by then. One possibility was to overfly Australia to Perth and from there to South Africa, however, flying over the Australian continent with no landing gear was daunting. In any case, that last leg from Perth over the southern India Ocean to Durban was beyond the range of the aircraft. Instead they decided to go to Darwin and from there to Ceylon via the Dutch East Indies…. To infer from these pages, most of the decisions were collective after discussion, which was after research.
What’s so hard about this anyway? Just draw a straight one place to another and fly that. Simple. Hmm. How does one allow for the drift of crosswinds, the false readings of the magnetic North Pole, the inconvenient location of mountain peaks, the long stretches where there will be neither fuel nor food nor any place to land the beast. How do you know you are flying a straight line? Indeed.
The subsequent adventures were many. The Boeing was buzzed by fighter aircraft, just missed Japanese bombing in Darwin, shot at by a Japanese warship, had to repair the engines several times (once in flight), borrow money from strangers, fly by dead reckoning, guess at the location of mountain ranges, hit unexpected storm fronts, land in unfamiliar waters (including some that were mined) risking accidents, guesstimate the wind drift, allow for the magnetic North Pole, stay aloft when one engine, pushed beyond the redline – exploded while in mid-air, all the while looking out for Zeroes. In some takeoffs the plane was more than a ton over the prescribed weight, because they stocked up on avgas whenever they could get it. One engine blew doing that.
From Ceylon to Karachi, Bahrain, Khartoum (landing on the Nile River), Léopoldville (on the Congo River), and Natal in Brazil. The distance from Léopoldville to Natal was 3480 miles. The maximum range of the Boeing was 3600 miles. Not much leeway if a storm threw the ship off course, if headwinds slowed the plane, if they mistook landmarks, if the next waterway was clogged, if the navigators miscalculate, if the effect of magnetic North Pole confuses things…. They had by now violated all manner of safety rules to adapt the aircraft to the circumstances, changing the fuel mix, rerouting hydraulic lines to reuse oil, and punching holes here and there so that they could pour fuel into the tanks in flight from jerry cans in the cabin. Needless to say, no one smoked.
Captain Robert Ford
That flight from Léopoldville to Natal took 23 hours and 35 minutes. Due to the recurrent overheating of engines because of substandard fuel, the cowlings on two of them had blown off, increasing the risk of fire. The plane trailed smoke for most of this leg of the journey. The plane was fully serviced and repaired at Natal before takeoff. (In a sad and annoying coda, while in Natal thieves got on board and stole the crew members’ personal affects [watches, rings, extra shoes] and much else from the plane, like a gyroscope.)
The long way.
Early in the morning of 6 January 1942 Pan Am flight 602 radioed La Guardia Tower for permission to land. The call was acknowledged and a stunned silence followed. After that it is anti-climatic.
Over five weeks the total flight time was 209 hours in the air, covering 50,694 kilometres or 31,500 miles. Most of the flight was incognito because the aircraft was regarded as technological prize of value to an enemy, i.e., it had advanced navigation and communication systems which were only being used for the first time on this flight. Those assets together with the engines made it a valuable commodity. Moreover, the ground stations they visited did not report the passage for the same reason, and in any event such civilian news would not have had priority for wartime communication. Ergo the families and friends of the crew had not word of them since leaving Noumea five weeks before.
The Wikipedia entry is slim pickings. It does not even include the flight number or offer a map of the route. This anodyne account is the only book I could find. Yet the documentary material seems plentiful, as all the crewmen kept logs, and Pan Am had plenty of photographs.
‘Anodyne’ I said above. Never once does a member of the crew lose his temper, despair, grow despondent, blame another, slack off, be late for departure, go into hysterics, become so hungover as to be unfit for duty, but each and every one is the very model of modern Pan Am employee stepping out of the advertising poster. What a cheerful, polite bunch – insufferable. Disney’s seven dwarfs were more creditable than these (paper) thin men.
The fifty passengers are invisible in these pages. Only one has a name, a Fiji resident who asked to visit the cockpit when approaching Fiji so that he might see his home from the air. Even later when the plane was detained in Bahrain to take on a passenger for Léopoldville, she is never identified or mentioned thereafter, though there was much grousing about being delayed for her convenience. The implication is that being a woman, she cannot have been worth the bother to these men. For all we know, she might have been carrying an enigma machine or Tojo’s P.I.N. to the Allies.
Despite the enveloping context of the war, the book is also silent on the politics of some of the locales where the plane stopped. New Caledonia (Noumea) was a French colony. Was the colonial government Vichy or Free French in late 1941? Did that distinction effect the reception of the plane on either of its two landings? Unknown. Likewise at Léopoldville, at the time the Congo was a Belgian colony, and Belgium had been occupied by the Germans since in 1940 and by the time the Pan Am plane got there Germany had declared war on the USA. What was the nature and attitude of the Belgian colonial authorities to this aircraft and crew? We’ll never know from these pages.
New Zealand was an ally of Great Britain in the European war, but when the Japanese attacked Malaya that bought the war closer. Did that happen while the Pan Am crew was in Auckland? Did it make things easier or harder for them? This context is absent.
All of which is to say there is a lot more to the story for someone else to dig up and put into words.
Amuse yourself by imagining how Hollywood would mangle this ‘based on a true story.’ Captain Ford would be played by that midget, whatshisname, and he would flap his arms to power the aircraft, which would be attacked by giant condors. There would be much yelling and histrionics and CGI galore of irrelevant crocodiles and such. A Nazty femme fatale would figure in the plot. The passengers would include the director’s current squeeze. Christopher Nolan would add his own touches with a gratuitous big-named star taking his hat off and putting it back on repeatedly. (An old theatrical trick to upstage the action.)
Pan Am seems to have been a world of its own, and I am wondering about reading a history of the company to find out more. Recommendations are welcome.
GoodReads meta-data is 256 pages, rated 3.91 by 2213 litizens.
Genre: Journalism.
Verdict: Bring on the Nobel Prize.
Steinbeck was the subject of a BBC Radio 4 Great Life program in which were made references to this collection, so I acquired it. Compelling, compassionate, generous, critical, angry, confused, proud, moving, irritating, insightful, clinical, banal, and more, the dispatches appeared in New York Herald Tribune when it was the best newspaper in Gotham. I suggest a reader save the front matter for last, including Steinbeck’s own forward, and just savour his sharp insights and prose scalpel as he carves to the bone. He delivered copy daily to a deadline and some of the pieces show that necessity, but others are clearly more deeply etched and more deeply felt.
The subjects are fear, loss, loneliness, pain, humour, endurance, incompetence, and more, including death and crippling injuries. Few punches are pulled save to comply with Army censorship of the time. There is also an arresting and wonderful chapter on Bob Hope entertaining troops. For me that was the high point of the book. I kept thinking George and Lenny might be in one of those hospitals. (You either get the reference or you don’t, Mortimer.)
Hint
The tension in Steinbeck’s report on a British minesweeper patrol nearly cracked the Kindle screen. See for yourself. There are items from England, Algeria, Sicily, Salerno, and more.
Steinbeck was forty-one at the time, trundling around the countryside, clabbering down cargo nets on and off ships, taking cover from strafing attacks, cowering in trenches when the bombs fell, glad for and yet repelled by the rations on the line, wearing the same clothes for weeks at a time, forgetting what hot water felt like…. It may seem strange in this age of Ego over All, sanctified by the media school term Subjective Journalism, but he says nothing about his own experiences in these dispatches. This information comes from subsequent biographers.
I have neither forgotten nor forgiven the disparaging piece in the New York Times the day after Steinbeck was awarded the Nobel Prize in 1962. This is the same organ that on a like occasion in 1950 dismissed William Faulkner as a regional writer. Believe it or not, Ripley. The New York Times opinionators who passed those judgements have long since been come to dust.
By the way, there is that expression ‘Give ‘em the whole nine yards,’ and I now know its origin. It has nothing to do with sports. The nine yards was the length of an ammunition belt for the wing guns of US fighter aircraft, and to expend the whole length of the belt is to ‘give ‘em the whole nine years.’ Pub trivia ready!
GoodReads meta-data is 888 pages rated by 4.38 by 143 litizens
Genre: Biography.
Sample only. No traction for this reader.
My reading did not complete the Kindle sample. I could not get started for some reason. Maybe it was because the Irish names in Gaelic were impenetrable, each with a variant spelling. More importantly, the author drew straight lines from some incident in Ford’s youth to a scene in one of his movies, as if there were no intervening mediations, or anyone else involved. I could never quite grasp the organising principle of the account. A BBC Radio 4 Great Lives episode on Ford was intriguing for suggesting some hidden depths in the man, but they remain hidden from me.
I have stood on John Ford Point, been in Gould’s Trading Post, skirted the west mitten, and so on, and consider ‘The Searchers’ THE greatest western. My credentials are in order.
GoodReads meta-data is 253 pages, rated 3.66 by 93 litizens.
Genre: History.
Verdict: Whitewash.
The book presents the recollections of scores of survivors of the war in an oral history interspersed with contemporary newspaper accounts, and German Abwehr and diplomatic reports. The Swiss speak of Switzerland as a Will-State, that is, it is willed to exist. This they did 1939-1945 as never before or since.
The oral history speakers are school teachers, insurance agents, doormen, clerks, road workers, journalists, train conductors, shop keepers, factory workers, hausfraus, children, and so on. There are no decision-makers and very little from the political perspective, though the army figures prominently.
According to this account the Swiss made all the efforts within their grasp to will Switzerland to survive by turning the country into an armed camp. Inspired by Finland’s resistance to the Soviet Union and chastened by the collapse of Norway, Netherlands, and the others, the Swiss spared no effort.
However much the Swiss did, there is no doubt that the reason it survived was the German quagmire on the Eastern Front. The gigantic scale of the Nazi war in Russia consumed all the mental energy and war material available first in preparation and then in execution. After the defeat of France in June 1940 and when by late September 1940 it was apparent that the Luftwaffe would not establish the aerial dominance needed for a seaborne invasion of England, Hitler turned his attention Eastward, and there it stayed. Because of that preoccupation Switzerland survived, as did Sweden.
That is hindsight, of course, no one knew that at the time, and especially not from September 1939 to June 1940 when the Swiss made considerable efforts to defend the country. Unlike the flatlands of Poland, Netherlands, Denmark, northern France, the Swiss had a major ally in its topography. All those steep mountains with their few narrow passes on the eastern side nearest Germany and its vassal Austria were readily fortified, ergo the initial strategy was frontier defence.
That strategy had to change when the fall of France opened up the possibility of an invasion from the West. At one time Hitler dangled the possibility before Vichy prime minister, Jean Darlan, that France occupy the Geneva region of Switzerland provided it did so with its own arms, not requiring German assistance. How serious this possibility was remains unknown to this correspondent. Nonetheless the threat remained that Germany itself might invade from its bases in France, a threat that flared up in November 1942 when Germany occupied Vichy France after the Allied landings in North Africa.
Be that as it may, the Swiss had to prepare for the worst, and in so doing changed the grand strategy from border defence in the East to a Réduit national in the fastness of the Alps. The Swiss army would withdraw to an area in the mountains where it built more than 2000 fortifications, mined all the passes, roads, and bridges, and could put a maximum of 850,000 men under arms in concrete bunkers cut into mountains, that number represented about a fifth of the population. Food was stockpiled, rations were cut, ammunition was stored in vast cave arsenals, and so on. Munitions factories and hospitals were moved into caverns. Supplies might last a year if husbanded carefully. The prospect of a costly stalemate for a six months or longer would discourage the Germans from trying, was the reasoning.
Much is made of the Swiss tradition of universal male military service which allowed it to mobilise more soldiers faster than any other European state. I saw some of this myself in Zurich once long ago. Nothing is said of the implication of such a Redoubt, namely that most of the country would be yielded to the invader without a fight. Odd that.
After emphasising the fear of and hostility to the Nazis throughout the nation, how would most of its citizens feel about being left to fend for themselves passes in silence. Made me think of tiresome politicking over the so-called Brisbane Line in Australia, which by the way was mostly the figment of the post-war political imagination, but has found its way into history books by repetition.
The oral histories of this book are repetitive and seldom enlightening. One is reminded of that sociologist Harry Lime’s observation in June 1945 there was not a Nazi in Germany, and by October 1945 there never had been any at all.
The author emphasises the German Army (Abwehr) intelligence reports which found that the Swiss would fight and fight well. Yes, this archival material is interesting, but it is at least as interesting for what it tells us about the Abwehr as about Switzerland. Abwehr was always gloomy and always exaggerated the strength of opponents. Its reports on France implied that German would lose a war there. Hitler routinely discounted these Cassandra songs. see Ernest May, Strange Victory (2000), discussed elsewhere on this blog.
We now know that the head of the Abwehr, Wilhem Canaris used these reports to temper German aggression for reasons of his own. A biography of this enigmatic man is discussed elsewhere on this blog for clickers.
The author explicitly sets aside the matter of banking. Likewise but implicitly he ignores the possibility that a letter-neural Switzerland might have suited Germany as did Sweden and Turkey. They became windows on the world and were used for that. The book touches on this in a chapter on espionage, but there was also currency trading, import and export, medicines, precision tools, precious metals, and more that passed through these countries, including many people going both ways. There was a tenuous air service from Zurich to Lisbon, and a ground link to Genoa for sea cargo existed.
In some sort of agreement, which the author does not mention, the Germans controlled several Swiss border train stations like that at Basel. I had hoped to learn more about this, having passed through that station myself, and knowing it was a barrier to German refugees who tried to get into Switzerland like the novelist Thomas Mann.
There is virtually nothing about the indigenous Nazi movement, though there was one. Moreover, these sympathisers and German agents harassed and in some cases kidnapped or murdered German citizens who had fled to Switzerland like Eric Remarque. Not a word on that subject is to be found in these pages.
Because the book is arranged chronologically there is much repetition, say when the author parades German diplomatic reports that complain of Swiss hostility to Nazism. The author takes these reports at face value, but it was routine for German diplomats to make such complaints in case they were later needed to mask some atrocity. Austria was characterised in the same way before the Anschluss; yet on the day it was received with tumultuous rapture.
My point is not a demand for moral purity, but a request for an explicit discussion of the compromises that had to be made with the devil.
There are a lot of typos, many the failure to capitalise the first letter in words, especially ‘polish’ (for the people, not the shine) but also many others like ‘maginot.’
GoodReads meta-data is 384 pages, rated 3.91 by 5604 baseball fans.
Genre: Baseball.
Verdict: Sobering, entertaining, insightful.
Will sets out to demystify major league baseball by revealing its inner WORKings. Mission accomplished.
Where the uninitiated sees luck, talent, and inspiration, Will finds calculation, attitude, and preparation. Some of the latter is physical, to be sure, but much of it is mental. It is all W O R K.
Will selected four individuals as case studies, a manager, a pitcher, a batter, and an infielder. Along the way he salts the mine with anecdotes from other times, places, and players, making a rich dish.
Manager Tony La Russa’s abiding aim in the 1980s to advance the runner seems curiously old fashioned read in 2021 when that simple ambition seems from a lost world. Drag bunts, fielder’s choice grounders behind the runner, run and hit, switch hitting, delayed double steals, disguised cut-off throws, using the infield fly rule, all these now belong in a museum as millionaire hitters below the Mendoza Line swing from the heels as if an opposite field single is beneath the dignity of their signing bonus. There speaks the curmudgeon who will be heard from again below.
At times it seemed to this reader that there is a paralysing overkill in the analysis of the work; examine in minute detail any instance and it becomes unique. Whose on first? Free will or determinism?
Listen to the advice of that general manager, Francesco Giucciardini (1483-1540), who wrote that ‘it is fallacious to judge by example, because unless these be in all respects parallel they are of no use, the least divergence in the circumstances giving rise to the widest divergence in the angle of conclusion,’ History of Italy, p. 110. Just before dismissing Frank Gee as a pen pusher remember he commanded combat armies in the field long before the Dead Ball Era.
Spurious correlations abound: ceteris paribus, this batter swings at a slider outside on Tuesdays, but not Thursdays. Well that is what the data shows. Today is Tuesday, here comes a slider. Like life, baseball comes from a partly written script. There is determinism entwined with free will as vine to fence. That fact seems obvious to everyone but a sociology PhD.
I half expected it to be in the stars, though astrology has not yet been tapped by the baseballmetricians (aka sabermetricians). It will be one day.
The endless war of batters against pitchers is the heart of the book. Each tries to unsettle the other, using a very great deal of intelligence coupled with honed abilities. Who will blink first? To a batter the opposing pitching staff is a creature with ten arms coming him. The more so in the age of pitcher surfing when they come and go five, six, seven times in a game, if not an inning.
Who knew? John Sain (of Spahn and rain fame) bridged history, throwing the last major league pitch to George ‘Babe’ Ruth and the first to Jack Robinson, two of the immortals.
By the way, the eternal pitchers’ manual is the Book of Job: man is born to troubles. Nowhere is that more true than 60 feet and 6 inches from the plate on a ten-inch high mound. Lamentations for the passing of the fifteen-inch mound in the annus horribilis of 1969.
Speaking of wars of words, I enjoyed being reminded of Steve Carlton’s silent trances before going to the mound to show the world how to throw a slider, and his continued silence afterward. In a twenty plus year career he spoke exactly once at a post game press conference. As a result he became a favourite whipping boy of the ladies and gentlemen of the media for failing to give them copy. (Yes, I know SC went off the deep end.)
To the pitcher the batters are many and varied, and just keep coming, left and right-handed, short and tall, inside hitters and reachers in their infinite variety. Not even the strike zone is a constant (though I relish the always-on-top image of the strike zone now part of television broadcasts which may have brought some visibility and stability to this illusive Bermuda rectangle).
Here is a complaint. Buckle up! The chapters on hitting and pitching are very repetitive, right down to the anecdotes. I started to wonder if it had been proof read or if I was dreaming. Neither is a good sign.
Will comprehensively debunks the natural athlete assertion for the disguised racism it is. To take one example, Willie Mays was a close observer of pitchers who never forgot a move, and with experience got so he could anticipate moves both at bat and on base. As a fielder he was likewise a Cartesian who broke down the outfield into its smallest parts and mastered each of them by turns. He made it all look easy because he worked so hard at it. In the same way it was always said that magician with the bat Tony Gwynn was a natural. Really? Then why did he take five-hours of batting practice on playing days? Ten hours on off-days. By these unnatural practices he became a natural.
Here is a test for the baseball fan that will be inscrutable to the benighted. What these numbers represent? (Note the publication date of the book.)
511
.406
56
60
61
1.12
1,406
(I knew them all but the last, sorry Ricky.) No spoiler, figure them out or go home.
In baseball as in life numerical reduction has grown stronger. Like economic rationalism, McKinsey management, and Pokemon, reduction is a fad and will fade after doing a lot of damage in the hands of those who do not understand it, but cargo-cult it. Originally these were good ideas, but they have been destroyed by acolytes who did not know when to quit. Think of customer feedback. Good idea. Current practice has the effect of destroying it. NO! I do not want to give feedback on the experience of purchasing a bag of kitty litter! Communicating with customers is a good idea, but a dozen emails and text messages from Australia Post about a routine delivery is overkill!
Statistics start as tools and soon become masters. Although the pedant must say that baseball has many numbers and few statistics, but most people, including Friend George, call numbers statistics just to confuse the children. A number is, well, just a number, say 6. A statistic is number subjected to some arithmetic manipulation, divided, multiplied, kissed on both cheeks, or something, like the ERA. That is the Earned Run Average, not the Equal Rights Amendment, Mortimer. (Yes, he’s back.) In the list above there were two statistics while the rest were numbers. I could go on about this but won’t in the interest of world peace.
Yet there still remains the fundamental prejudice for the long ball over winning games. The case in point that Will selects is Nebraska’s own Richie Ashburn whose achievements by any metric were remarkable without hitting home runs. In one of his best seasons he hit but one while dominating most games in which he played with fielding, throwing, running, and batting singles. And yet he is unheard of apart from diehard fans like moi. Then there is Bill Mazeroski who played second like no one before or since (even leaving aside 13 October 1960, a fine birthday-eve present for me). ‘Bill who?’ pretty well sums it up. These two were the perfect Tony La Russa players who played for the team and disappeared from memory down the dugout tunnel.
Loved that old chestnut, how do you pitch to a Henry Aaron? Set up your best pitch, throw it, and then run to back-up third. Found touching the encomium to ABG (if you don’t know who ABG was, hang up your spikes).
I return to my curmudgeon complaint above to note that Will agrees that basic baseball skills are sadly lacking in MLB and offers an explanation. Each year’s new crop of players mostly come from college programs. To get a return on the money paid to these recruits the drafting teams force-feed them into the Big Show. No matter how good the college coaching has been over four years with maybe 150 total games, it is paltry in comparison to four years in the minor leagues playing up to 150 games each year, thus 600 in all. Moreover, the college players are only part-time athletes for those years and full-time students (well, that is the legal fiction), whereas the minor leaguers are full-time athletes and so work at baseball three or four times more each week than a college player. Added to that, a multi-millionaire MLB newcomer is reluctant to practice Little League fundamentals, like bunting, throwing to a cut-off, the first base stretch, choking up on the bat, moving on the rubber, and so on. Likewise the management that gave these newcomers millions is reluctant to display their elementary deficiencies in training before the vultures of the media.
The Green Monster, long may it survive.
One of Will’s cherished pet peeves is the fashions in baseball stadiums, which even the 1980s were becoming entertainment centres and not cathedrals of the 108-stitch orb. That trend, and many others he reviles, has multiplied since the publication of the book. In these stadia the game on the field is one of many distractions competing for the patrons’ attention with restaurants, bars, music, museums, fish tanks, mascots (shudder!), clowns, more music, stand-up comedians in lounges, giant TV screens showing other games or even – gasp! – other sports and so and on. There are even padded chairs enclosed by glass! (Good grief!) Baseball is best appreciated on a hard seat exposed to the elements is the gospel according to Will. The dual use stadia of the 1980s he cannot abide, suited for neither baseball nor football, and used for both, and rock concerts!
Concern with public health and sanitation means I can no longer watch MLB games with their exquisite camera work of players spitting. While Will notes in one clanger of a scene this disgusting habit he does not make a sufficiently BIG DEAL of it, so I will. Yes, the constant spitting is tiresome, unnecessary, and, well, talk about cargo-culting. Is there data to show that spitting improves performance, George?
While less repulsive, but equally idiotic, is the war paint players apply to their faces. It is a fetish with no basis in fact but there are those stick-on dark lines under the eyes. Really, how stupid can you be. ‘I lost the ball in the glare from the lights on the dark skin off my high cheekbones, Coach, honest! This in a night game.’
I had hoped that Will might explain why we insist on calling these men at work boyish names, Johnny, Ricky, and so on. What’s wrong with calling a John a John? And by the way, George why is that Babe Didrikson was the last woman to hit a major league fastball?
Until 2016 George Will patiently explained the merits of the Republican Party to the uninitiated, but he gave up that Sisyphean task as impossible by that year, and said so in a loud voice.
P.S. Inspired by this reading I watched a few game highlights on You Tube. Superb camera work to be sure, and some snappy curveballs and some very nice plays, until …with his team behind by one run late in the game, a .215 hitter swung and missed at a third strike as the catcher dropped the ball. The batter turned slowly to the dugout walked away as the catcher retrieved the ball and lunged to tag him, and in so doing dropped it again. No matter the batter kept walking and the umpire then called him out as off the base path, I suppose. From the other world, I can hear Coach Kramer screaming his lungs out! Run!
P.P. S. That led me to the blooper videos where there are rich pickings from this young season alone, including outfielders who do not know how many outs there are, pitchers who do not cover home after a wild pitch (as two runs score), a third baseman with no idea where third base is, cut-off men who do not go out for the throw, but stand their ground waiting for it to come to them, a relief pitcher who threw a wild pitch on an intentional walk. I have to lie down just thinking about those.
![The Long Way Home (2d ed) (2010 [1998]) by Ed Dover](https://theory-practice.sydney.edu.au/wp-content/uploads/2021/08/9780615214726.jpg)
