1455 Chapters
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16 Crossing the Lines Again

Otto Schrag Indiana University Press ePub

As soon as my mother returned from southern France she began to make the rounds in Belgium for the documents we would need for our trip to America—the American consulate, the Portuguese, the German commission, in hopes of getting a travel permit to let us get into northern France—even as my father was in pursuit of documents in southern France. The American quotas made it virtually impossible for anyone from Germany to immigrate directly to the United States, even with the help of my American grandmother. Instead we got immigration visas to Mexico, obtained by circuitous routes I’ve long forgotten, if I ever knew. Those visas, after struggles with a sequence of US consular bureaucracies—and probably a hefty dose of the pervasive State Department anti-Semitism of that era—were ultimately sufficient to secure US transit visas (changed to visitor’s visas after we got to the United States; by 1947, six years after we arrived, our number finally came up and we were able to formally “immigrate”—by way of Montreal—and start the clock on the naturalization process).

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Chapter 4

Marianne Boruch Indiana University Press ePub

Chapter 4

So I had one day to get ready. You saw how I packed. But I told Frances: I know this guy.

And the guy was Woodrow Joseph Brookston, ex-boyfriend of my high school friend Alexandra—Crazy Alex for short—who was a student at the U of I too, her apartment three blocks from me. Back now, Woody had been in Champaign a couple of days, just released at last and for good, out of Vietnam. Not a soldier, I assured Frances. He was a CO, really. But they made him go anyway, as a medic for two years. From DeKalb I had called other friends near where I lived on Green Street. Woody was crashing on the couch at their place, sort of a refugee from the army and now, from Alex. He answered the phone so I told him about the trip.

A medic in ’Nam? Frances said with interest, even reverence. I could see the movie she started to run in her head: Woody hauling the wounded into trucks and helicopters, holding high the blood bottles; Woody with a big red cross on his arm, the soundtrack full of gunshot and moody cello with an occasional lightning hit of violin; Woody, some tall beefy thoughtful guy, the real hero over there, all the broken, bleeding, stoned-out soldiers grateful and weeping and getting him to write down their last words to mail home to their girlfriends, or maybe even deliver by hand, walking up the little steps to their houses, knocking fatefully on each door. And those guys would trust him absolutely not to put the moves on their girls, even after a properly pious interval of a week or two.

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27 Panama: Another Presidential Death

Perkins, John Berrett-Koehler Publishers ePub

I was stunned by Roldós’s death, but perhaps I should not have been. I was anything but naive. I knew about Arbenz, Mossadegh, Allende —and about many other people whose names never made the newspapers or history books but whose lives were destroyed and sometimes cut short because they stood up to the corporatocracy. Nevertheless, I was shocked. It was just so very blatant.

I had concluded, after our phenomenal success in Saudi Arabia, that such wantonly overt actions were things of the past. I thought the jackals had been relegated to zoos. Now I saw that I was wrong. I had no doubt that Roldós’s death had not been an accident. It had all the markings of a CIA-orchestrated assassination. I understood that it had been executed so blatantly in order to send a message. The new Reagan administration, complete with its fast-draw Hollywood cowboy image, was the ideal vehicle for delivering such a message. The jackals were back, and they wanted Omar Torrijos and everyone else who might consider joining an anti-corporatocracy crusade to know it.

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9. “What Do You Think of the Science of Generalship?”

Ethan S. Rafuse Indiana University Press ePub

The morning after his meeting with Ives, a still pale and thin George B. McClellan made his long-awaited appearance before the Joint Committee on the Conduct of the War. “If I escape alive I will report when I get through,” he advised Lincoln before heading over to the Capitol. After meeting with the committee, McClellan told Ives its members had been surprisingly cordial. Wade, McClellan reported, “said to him that the committee had no desire to embarrass him” and were “exceedingly anxious to sustain him, and to cooperate.” McClellan assured the committee that he appreciated the problems caused by delay and that he had decided an immediate advance was necessary in Kentucky, which he promised would “soon be a field of action.” The interview closed on a satisfactory note, according to McClellan, with Wade thanking him for “his frankness and courtesy.”1

The committee’s journal only noted that its interview with McClellan consisted of “a full and free conference . . . in relation to various matters connected with the conduct of the present war.” A postwar biography of Chandler, however, gives a very different impression of the interview from the one McClellan gave Ives. When McClellan responded to demands for explanations for why he did not attack by stating that he needed more bridges across the Potomac to secure his line of retreat, an exasperated Chandler reportedly responded, “If I understand you correctly, before you strike the rebels you want to be sure of plenty of room so that you can run in case they strike back?” Wade immediately chimed in, “Or in case you get scared.” McClellan then “proceeded at length to explain the art of war and the science of generalship, laying special stress upon the necessity of having lines of retreat, as well as lines of communication and supply.” Wade had no use for this. All the people wanted, he informed the general, was “a short and decisive campaign.” After McClellan left, Wade asked Chandler, “[W]hat do you think of the science of generalship?” “I don’t know much about war,” Chandler replied, “but it seems to me that this is infernal, unmitigated cowardice.”2

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Chapter 9. Police Officer Hamil Scott & County Attorney Jefferson McLean (March 22, 1907)

Richard F. Selcer and Kevin S. Foster University of North Texas Press Denton, Texas ePub



March 22, 1907

“Fools rush in where angels fear to tread.”

After the death of John Nichols, public indignation over the Acre reached new heights. It was a blight on the city and the site of at least two dozen murders over the years. The gamblers seemed the particular objects of the public’s fury. The man who was the instrument of that fury was County Attorney Jefferson McLean. In 1907 he launched a war to shut down every gambling house in the Acre and ultimately the whole city. The word went out: Fort Worth was not big enough for both the gamblers and Jeff McLean.

Jefferson Davis McLean was a man with a name that could have been bestowed upon him by all-American moviemaker Frank Capra in a later era, but he was named that by his parents, William P. and Margaret Batte McLean, when he was born in 1871. They came to Texas after Major McLean’s service in the Confederate army during the Civil War. The former rebel took up law and devoted his life to public service as a legislator, U.S. Congressman, state railroad commissioner, and judge of the Fifth Judicial District. Jeff was born in Mount Pleasant, Texas, and had three brothers and three sisters, one of whom, W. P. McLean, Jr., grew up to become one of the most distinguished trial lawyers of his day. In 1895 the family moved to Fort Worth.1

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