The Coffee House Philosopher

Depending on a person’s preferred news source, one might conclude that the other person is one of the well-informed and “right minded” persons. But if he favors the opposite party, he might easily think that he’s dealing with a deranged mental defective, totally devoid of any observable signs of intelligence.

Political discussions with such a “deranged person” might easily turn into something of a “hard hat activity.” These circumstances tend to produce an American republic that is both an argumentative and a messy way to run a government – which often tends to generate more heat than light. As a consequence, an old friend of mine who recently died of complications from wounds received in Vietnam used to say, “It’s unAmerican not to gripe or argue.”

However in our not-too-distant past – perhaps 10 to 30 years ago – there was an individual who was widely regarded as one who could be trusted to give a citizen an even-handed account of the news. In his later years, this news person began to have some conservative detractors. But during his prime, both political parties had thoughts of drafting him for political office.

The man’s name was Walter Cronkite, and for almost two decades, he was the anchor man for national CBS televised news, which became the highest rated evening news program in the nation. Probably his most famous national news episode occurred when he interrupted the usual network programming, and announced the assassination of President Kennedy. He was dressed in less than his usual immaculate attire, and what was most unusual, he had considerable difficulty controlling his emotions.

Cronkite’s customary method of delivering the news was very easy to follow and understand. He practiced his pace of delivery until his carefully articulated words were delivered at the rate of around 124 words per minute. In comparison, the average conversation between friends takes place at 165 w/p/ms, and some speaking may reach as high as 200 w/p/ms (for example when salesmen blitz through the fine print in TV ads).

As to his background, Walter Leland Cronkite was born on November 4, 1916, in St. Joseph, Missouri, and by the age of seven was selling the “Liberty” magazine in a nearby neighborhood of Kansas City. The publication sold for five cents, and Cronkite made a penny on each one sold – plus received one green coupon for every five sales. For every five green coupons he earned, he would also receive a brown one. And with enough brown coupons accumulated, he could then redeem them for the grand prize – a real live pony. (However in Cronkite’s autobiography, “A Reporter’s Life, Walter Cronkite,” it states that he never got the pony. The book is a primary source for the following series of articles).

The Cronkites had to be careful with their money, but his mother wasn’t at all thrilled to have him slogging throughout the neighborhood with his “Liberty” sack slung over his shoulder, hawking magazines. She was even more concerned two years later when he retired from local magazine sales at the ripe old age of nine, and began riding city street cars to cover a larger market area selling Kansas City Star newspapers. His total net after a full day of selling newspapers amounted to about ten cents.

Cronkite’s early penchant for self-reliance stood him in good stead when he later was a war correspondent during World War II. He covered major allied military actions throughout north Africa and Europe (and later in Vietnam.) WWII correspondents generally received little or no basic military training, and had no official insignia to show their specialty or rank, either on their uniforms or headgear. Cronkite was to experience several confusing incidents, during which he became separated from his helmet.

In a glider landing with the U.S. 101st Airborne in Operation Market Garden, Cronkite’s helmet flew off in the “controlled crash” of the glider he was in. Several of the other occupants inside the “tube and canvas” glider also got separated from their headgear. Unable to find his own helmet, Cronkite simply picked up someone else’s separated helmet that was marked with a large white stripe on its backside. Unbeknownst to Cronkite, the different helmet marking indicated that the wearer was a lieutenant in the headquarter/assault unit, and the mistake caused more than a little consternation before it was corrected.

Much later while riding a jeep during a firefight in Belgium, he and other passengers were forced to jump out of the jeep and take cover. Again his helmet flew off from the sudden stop, and bounced over into an area which had large signs designating it as a mine field. On each sign, the warning of mines was given in three different languages. Afterward things calmed down, and Cronkite started to proceed again in the jeep without his helmet, as no one in his group would risk getting himself blown up to retrieve the headgear.

At the same time, none other than General George Patton happened by the scene while riding in an entourage of vehicles. The lead vehicle in Patton’s column had its siren blaring and red lights flashing. The entire group came to a stop, and a colonel jumped out of the lead vehicle and rushed up to Cronkite. With his face stuck just a foot from Cronkite’s, Patton’s officer loudly demanded to know Cronkite’s name, rank, serial number, AND the current location of his missing helmet. (The movie, “Patton,” accurately articulates the general’s opinion concerning the mandatory wearing of helmets at all times in a battlefield).

Answering the last item first, Cronkite said “there,” and pointed to the offending helmet in the middle of the mine field. He further explained that he was not a soldier, instead he was a war correspondent.

The colonel returned to Patton’s staff car, where he was seen gesturing towards the helmet, and explaining the situation in a manner that seemed to say “What else could the man do?” The good general was heard to utter one of his most often used expletives, and then his group drove off without further comment.

(Alva Review Courier readers may remember Tom Vincent, who used to have an insurance agency in Alva. During WWII, Tom was a member of General George Patton’s staff. Somewhat ironically, I several times heard Tom say that according to Patton, “The most important thing to learn in life is how to fail gracefully.”)

To be continued.