4. Radio
The Case of David Smith[*]
Abraham Polonsky
Before coming to Hollywood, Abraham Polonsky lived in New York, where he taught English at the College of the City of New York and wrote for the radio. He is now a writer at Paramount, where he has been working on The Paris Story.
. ….
Introductory Note
Sam Moore
Sam Moore has been writing for radio since 1931, and is currently writing The Great Gildersleeve in collaboration with John Whedon. He is president of the Radio Writers' Guild.
The project which eventually became the radio program Reunion U.S.A. resulted from a series of seminars conducted by the Hollywood Writers Mobilization, in 1944, on the general problems of adjustment which would have to be faced by soldiers and civilians alike when the process of demobilization should begin on a mass scale. Discussions led by psychologists, psychiatrists, social workers, army officers and enlisted men, with participation from radio and screen writers and directors, led to the conclusion that these problems were so complex and of such importance as to warrant an attempt to present them, or at least some phases of them, to the civilian population. Radio seemed the logical medium to use in this attempt, because it could reach a mass audience quickly and conveniently, avoiding the necessary production delays (and expense) of a comprehensive film program.
This educational project was the more urgent because of the wide publicity given, late in the war, to the special problems of the psychoneurotic [119] FROM VOL. 1, NO. 2, JANUARY 1946
The general conclusions of the seminars, broadly stated, were that the mere fact of spatial and temporal separation between the two enormous groups of civilians and soldiers would necessarily bring about psychological changes in both, but most soldiers would return to their homes completely normal, though often much more mature than before their army experience, and with a changed point of view toward many questions of individual and social behavior. The writers for these programs were committed to write within this framework.
A prospectus for a radio program presenting this point of view in a series of dramatic stories was drawn up in the spring of 1945 and submitted to the War Department, the O.W.I., the Veterans Administration, and various radio networks. The project was vigorously approved by all the government agencies, and network time was obtained from the American Broadcasting Company.
Reunion U.S.A. represents a technical experiment in radio education in that the documentary form developed by Norman Corwin and others was rejected in favor of the traditional radio dramatic form. Following the presentation of each play there was a twoor three-minute commentary by an expert, usually a psychologist, in which the major point of the story was stated in simple terms. In the eighteen plays presented, all the stories concerned ordinary people, faced with problems which, if not exactly "ordinary," were rapidly becoming statistically probable. I believe that the success of the series, as determined by its audience popularity, proves the correctness of this decision on the question of form.
The program had the benefit of very little publicity, almost no advertising, and also lacked another useful adjunct to the quick building of a large radio audience—a continuing "name" star. In spite of these obstacles, Reunion U.S.A. quickly gathered a listening audience of some ten million people, and was at one time among the five most popular programs on the entire American network.
Among the specific problems treated were the veteran's paramount anxiety about a job, his desire to continue his education, his adjustment to a wife unwilling to give up her employment and return to the drudgery of the kitchen, his changed attitude toward political and social questions, his awareness of the world and America's position in it, and his wish, resulting from that awareness, to participate in community activities as an adult citizen. The plays varied widely in content and treatment: some of them were closely packed with social and philosophical implications; others were relatively superficial in their handling of simpler themes. There was no observable correlation between the complexity of treatment and the size of the listening audience, which steadily increased.
One is tempted to the conclusion that, contrary to the general supposition, there is a large audience which is anxious to hear dramatic programs in which an attempt is made to deal with problems having a real basis in the life of America today. Perhaps the radio audience is not a horde of twelve-year-old mentalities breathlessly awaiting the wolf jokes, the childish love stories of adapted movies, the slow-motion "problem" dramas presented by the soap manufacturers. Reunion U.S.A. had something to say. The program's only asset was the fact of its serious mission to reach millions with information and a small quantity of very tentative advice. But the millions, struggling against the difficulties and dislocations of war, and seeing clearly the approaching dangers of the peace, listened eagerly. The lesson should be clear to writers, network program directors, and advertisers.
The Script
Cast
| WRANGLE | Bill Johnstone |
| MYERS | John Lund |
| LAPHAM | Paul McVey |
| FLECK | Howard Duff |
| MINERVA | Peg La Centra |
| MAN | Paul McVey |
| WOMAN | Lynn Whitney |
| DAVID | Paul Theodore |
| NURSE | Lynn Whitney |
― 122 ― | |
| FATHER | Eddie Walker |
| DOG | Earl Keen |
| HUMBER | Ken Peters |
| VOICE | Howard Duff |
| TANA | Sidney |
(On dead air) Thousands of men are being discharged from the Armed Forces of the United States every month … and they are coming home!
MUSIC:
Intro to main title theme …. Fade for:
ANNOUNCER:
Reunion U.S.A.
MUSIC:
Theme—main title
ANNOUNCER:
‘Reunion U.S.A.’ is a series of half-hour dramas on the theme of the soldier's return from war, presented by the American Broadcasting Company in coöperation with the Hollywood Writers Mobilization.
MUSIC:
Up and fade for:
ANNOUNCER:
Tonight's play stars John Lund. It is written by Abraham Polonsky and directed by Cal Kuhl. The title, ‘The Case of David Smith.’
MUSIC:
Up and segue to theme for story
. ….
MUSIC:Drums and trumpets to an unresolved rhythm and chord, and out
WRANGLE:
Captain Myers? myers: Sir? wrangle: You may be seated.
MYERS:
Thank you, sir. (Narrative voice, introspective: designated by brackets). [So this is Wrangle, Colonel Wrangle, and his two assistants. I admit the situation with my neat obedience. My briefcase rests upon my knees, my shoes are shined, my uniform pressed. Yes, my face and attitude are careful with respect for rank and authority.]
WRANGLE:
Ready, gentlemen?
LAPHAM:
Yes, Colonel Wrangle.
SOUND:
Pencil tapping on desk
LAPHAM:
I'm sure I had lead in this pencil.
FLECK:
Here's a pencil, Lapham.
LAPHAM:
Thanks, Fleck.
SOUND:
Tapping of pencil
LAPHAM:
It can't have just disappeared.
Are these files duplicates, Captain Myers?
MYERS:
Yes, sir.
SOUND:
The little rigmarole of papers, files, and ash trays as the men make ready while Myers continues to speak
MYERS:
[This is Wrangle, a beefy man with restless eyes: Wrangle, who completed his classification of the human race in 1924 and regards all subsequent history as unmitigated gall. To his left is Major Lapham, not a practicing psychiatrist like Wrangle, but a popularizer. You've seen his books advertised in Sunday book supplements, and on the back covers of pulp magazines: ‘The Psychiatry of Everyday Life,’ and then a splash of red letters shrieking: are you insane? (Pause) The futility of making them understand is apparent.]
WRANGLE:
Captain Myers?
MYERS:
Sir?
WRANGLE:
We're sitting as an informal board on the Smith case. Frankly, I have no strong opinions. And I'm sure Majors Lapham and Fleck are in the same boat.
MYERS:
[I smile again to show my eagerness to coöperate. I know Wrangle wants this curious Smith case closed: Let's have no new reasons for new disasters! I smile at Lapham. He examines his mechanical pencil while he thinks of book sales on drug counters and in department stores. Now for Major Fleck, whoever he is. I want him to think I'm intelligent but not forward. We are colleagues but not equals. This smile is familiar among professionals, more subtle than that of the Mona Lisa. (Pause) No. This is a different kind of man. Fleck? Fleck? Who is Fleck? I suddenly remember a few papers in obscure journals, some careful studies, a handful of insights. Fleck. Perhaps Fleck can understand the whole horror of this Smith case. This man may listen, think. I unlock my briefcase
SOUND:
Unlocking briefcase and take out my personal file on Smith, leaving the letter in its gray envelope safe in the leather pocket. Perhaps the letter can be read, if Fleck is anything at all. But later.] I'll be glad to tell you anything you want to know, gentlemen.
WRANGLE:
Thank you, captain. It seems from a first glance that we have an extreme but typical melancholia.
MYERS:
[His restless black eyes dart aimless, typical glances, looking through life for typical patterns. The man is hopeless.] There is evidence to that effect, sir.
What do you think, Lapham?
LAPHAM:
I agree. I agree completely. A very sad case, one of those dreary prices for victory. Very. The three years Lieutenant Smith spent in the Japanese prison camps definitely unhinged him. But definitely.
WRANGLE:
Undoubtedly, but there must be probable genetic patterns. What do you think, Fleck?
MYERS:
[I look at Fleck, who blinks his heavy-lidded eyes most innocently. Does he care to know? Will he try?]
FLECK:
I should like to hear Captain Myers' observations. (Pause) Perhaps there's something we can learn.
MYERS:
[This is a man.] wrangle: You may proceed, Captain Myers.
MYERS:
[I slowly open the file of the strange case of Lt. David Smith, Army of the United States. Whatever hopelessness I carried into the room is still with me. The affair is so complex, the need to understand so grave. Fleck is my man. I shall talk to him, and to him alone. The other two have buried the corpse.] Lieutenant David Smith, admitted October 12–0500. Weight, 152, ten pounds below normal. Pulse, 72; blood pressure, 126. Basal metabolism, minus 3. Walked stiffly, obeyed instructions, apparently unable to speak. Generally apathetic … depressed. I examined him quite carefully. His body bore healed scars from outrageous acts of violence inflicted on him during his three years' captivity. The left hand, for instance, though healed, was completely crushed and useless, the bones having been broken in the wrists and fingers, the nerves atrophied. As I learned later, the Japanese had done this with a light hammer after tying Smith's hand to a wooden block and beating it repeatedly.
LAPHAM:
(Involuntarily) The savages.
MYERS:
Smith appeared to be in the first stages of some enormous psychological shock.
WRANGLE:
Delayed, no doubt. A mass recall.
LAPHAM:
A sudden realization of all he had gone through.
WRANGLE:
It's quite common.
(Pause: painful)
FLECK:
Will you continue, Captain?
MYERS:
Thank you. I had Smith put to bed, sent for his records, and interviewed his wife on the following morning. You have the summary of our remarks there before you.
Mrs. Minerva Smith?
SOUND:
Rustling of papers
MYERS:
Yes, sir. [I remember that interview with Mrs. Minerva Smith most distinctly. It was the first sign of the deeper meaning in her husband's case. She sat in the barred sunlight that came through the Venetian blinds.]
SOUND:
A lawn mower off, by spells
MYERS:
[Someone was mowing the grass outside. She was pretty, placid, pained, a middle-class matron at twenty-two. She wore white washable gloves, carried a black purse that matched her dress, black and appropriate for the sad occasion. Her legs were modestly quiet and uncrossed, her hat just so on her upswept hair. But she felt hurt; let down, I suppose.]
MINERVA:
The way I feel, doctor … (a false half laugh) … or should I call you Captain? It doesn't seem right. I've been waiting so long.
MYERS:
I realize that. Howdid your husband act when he first came home?
MINERVA:
That's just it. He seemed so ready to be happy.
MYERS:
Affectionate? minerva: (primly) Pardon?
MYERS:
I mean just generally.
MINERVA:
Oh, yes. David is an affectionate man. I'm an affectionate woman myself.
MYERS:
[Here she smiled at me, inviting my deep sympathy. I was deeply sympathetic.] When did he first begin to act strangely?
MINERVA:
From the very first, in a way. He wanted to read all the papers and magazines of the last three years. He listened to news broadcasts all the time. I mean, doctor, after all … here we were, reunited, after so long.
You'd think he'd be sick of the whole past. And then, he didn't seem particularly anxious to meet our friends again, people who had worried day and night over his safety for years.
MYERS:
Did he tell you why?
MINERVA:
No, Doctor, although after his visit to his father I finally did arrange a party.
SOUND:
Party noises fading in. Glasses, voices, etc.
MAN:
David, you know the Japs better than we do. Do you think they'll want to pull a Pearl Harbor first chance they get?
MINERVA:
Oh, please … We can't be living in the past the rest of our lives.
Minerva's right. Let's not talk politics. We can leave that to the government. Tell us, David, how did your first ice cream soda taste? Here in town, I mean.
DAVID:
You really want to know?
WOMAN:
(Loudly) Everybody quiet. Quiet!
SOUND:
Party noises down
WOMAN:
David is going to make his first public statement on his first ice cream soda in town.
SOUND:
Laughter, silence
WOMAN:
How did it taste?
DAVID:
Bitter.
SOUND:
Voices up cross-fade to Minerva
MINERVA:
People just stared, Doctor. We felt … I felt … that he hated us.
MYERS:
[Her smooth cheeks shook. The whole thing was so uncomfortable.] Tell me, Mrs. Smith, was there anything in your husband's past, any frustration, any unhealthy attitude towards people or life—anything you remember that might help us?
MINERVA:
No. No. David was quite normal—except, of course, you know he was studying to be an anthropologist. He wanted to go off and live with primitive peoples, stuff like that. I used to think it was so romantic …
MYERS:
Anything else? minerva: Nothing really … perhaps … well, when he was in college he used to belong to an organization—I forget its name, but it was antiwar. He hated war. He comes from a family of Quakers. But it wasn't very serious because, when war came, he volunteered. You know that? He's a volunteer.
MYERS:
Yes, I know. (Pause) Would you like to see your husband now?
MINERVA:
(Pause) Is he the same? myers: I'm afraid so.
MINERVA:
Well … (hesitates) … no, I think not. It's all so unfair. I've waited so long. (Pause) I'm like all the other normal people in the world. I say let the dead past bury its dead.
MYERS:
[She stood there, hesitating, not daring to say what she meant— that she wished he were dead. And I politely showed her out and went to see my patient. Signs, portents, meanings already floated above his martyred head.] No change, nurse?
No, Doctor. I raised him to a sitting position about ten minutes ago and he hasn't moved once.
MYERS:
[Smith faced the wall, resting limply in his bed against the pillows. His eyes were closed. Twenty-six years old, but he looked fifty, his hair gray, his temples hollow, the ache of creeping death upon him.] Smith! Smith, can you hear me? [His eyelids slowly opened and glazed eyes stared ahead. The glance was inward on the unfathomable horror which he alone knew, which he, alone of us all, possessed.] Smith! Smith! [His eyes closed again. That was all.] What do the tests show, Nurse?
NURSE:
Nothing, sir. Absolutely nothing.
MYERS:
[I knew then as I know now that the inner need of this man could be touched only through the mind. I simply had to get to him, to Smith, the human being aware of himself. This body, this dying vegetable in the bed, had no meaning for him any more. We could feed it.]
NURSE:
By tube, sir. He took some nourishment.
MYERS:
[We could wash it, watch it, measure it. But we couldn't release it from some deep vision, some deep abstraction which the mind possessed. This was living death, a renunciation. (Pause) I tried to get to everyone who had known him.]
WRANGLE:
I see the reports here, Captain.
MYERS:
Yes, sir. But, as you can see, no one seemed to mean anything to Smith, not even his father.
WRANGLE:
Stephen Smith?
MYERS:
Yes, sir. [I'm being so careful with these men. Perhaps the violent significance of Smith's case will echo in their ears. Wrangle palps the papers. Lapham draws girls with curly hair. Fleck looks at me. Very well, let us stare at each other, Major Fleck. If you wish to recognize the guilt, you must share it.]
WRANGLE:
The father was Mr. Stephen Smith, a retired farmer from Linville.
MYERS:
Yes, sir. He came to the hospital. You have the gist of our remarks in the report before you. [The gist, yes. The father was an old man, for David had been a late son. The father seemed remote from life, wifeless and now to be childless.] You say he came to visit you, Mr. Smith?
FATHER:
Why, yes, Doctor. It was supposed to be for a week, but David only stayed one night. We didn't seem to have much to say to each other.
MYERS:
Why do you think he came?
Filial duty, I suppose. He was always a good boy. But in the morning he was up and on his way.
MYERS:
Yes?
FATHER:
We hadn't really said anything to each other, Doctor. I don't know what it was he expected of me. I'm old and I'm tired. David was always queer. He wanted to be a missionary in China like his grandfather, but he soon got over that when he grew up. I don't believe in running all over the earth changing things. What does it matter, anyway?
MYERS:
Did he say anything that I should know?
FATHER:
Well, in a way. It was about seven and he was dressed to leave.
SOUND:
Dog barking, off
FATHER:
The dog kept barking outside, remembering him …. Going, David?
DAVID:
Yes.
FATHER:
I thought you were going to stay a few days.
DAVID:
What for? What's the use of it? (Pause) What's the use of you?
SOUND:
Steps going to door. Door opens. Dog barking in, loudly. Door slams
FATHER:
You hear, Doctor. He said that to me. What's the use of me? What did he want?
MYERS:
[And then at last we stood in David's hospital room, the father, the nurse, and myself. David was stretched out flat on the bed, breathing lightly, wasting away.]
FATHER:
Looks bad. Some tropical disease? myers: No. Something mental, I think.
FATHER:
Well, that's it. He used to be a fine young man, and now look at him, older than me. Do you think it was worth while—for him, I mean—all the war and the prison camp, and such?
MYERS:
Was it worth while for you? father: I don't know.
MYERS:
[He stood there, the father. And then he walked over to the bed, gently bent down, and kissed his son's forehead.]
FATHER:
(Clears throat) I keep wondering, Doctor, if we're not entitled to another Flood …
MYERS:
[It got so I used to spend hours in Smith's room, just looking at him, wondering. The thing grew on me until I began to feel that this wasn't a ‘case’; this was myself, my own responsibility. It was a nightmare —to be burdened and overwhelmed with the sense that somehow
SOUND:
Wrangle coughs wrangle: There are mysteries, Captain Myers. You did your best. Is there anything else you want to say?
MYERS:
[Anything else I want to say? Shall I shout it at you? Must the dead spring from their graves with banners and trumpets?] There was, sir, the interview I had with the rescuing officer—
WRANGLE:
John Humber, Lieutenant Senior Grade, United States Naval Reserve?
MYERS:
Yes, sir. [Humber popped in on me. He was brisk and in his middle thirties, an affable advertising man turned warrior.]
HUMBER:
How do you do, Captain? I received your note.
MYERS:
Sorry to bother you.
HUMBER:
Not at all. Not at all. How's Smith?
MYERS:
Would you like to see him? [Humber gave me a quick, suspicious look. Was this a responsibility? Then his blue eyes found golden glints. He smiled.]
HUMBER:
Why not? I brought him back into the world; a kind of second birth, you know …
MYERS:
Yes. This way, please. [Humber looked at me as if I had breached an inviolate law of social decency when he stared at the human skeleton in the bed.]
HUMBER:
(In wonder) But that's the way he looked when I first saw him. You know we rushed the camp, and Smith was lying in the dirt, a bloody bruise on his cheek where some Jap animal had just kicked him. What's wrong?
We don't know. That's why I asked you over. I thought perhaps you might know. It's psychological.
HUMBER:
Poor chap. He had the devil of a time. Three years of it, and the worst, the very worst.
MYERS:
Did you talk to him?
HUMBER:
A little. I found him lying in the dirt in the hot sun. The Japs wouldn't let any of the other prisoners go near him or help. This Smith was a devil. He never gave up for a moment, the other prisoners told me. He knew …
MYERS:
He knew what?
HUMBER:
I don't know how to say it exactly … but … he felt, he knew, that to live on, to endure, to defy them guaranteed the faith and honor of those back at home. He was a man of honor. (Pause) Anyway … There was a little shooting …
SOUND:
A burst of shots, off. A few lone ones
HUMBER:
This way, men. Lively!
SOUND:
Feet on dirt, etc.
HUMBER:
Who's this? voice: Smith, sir. Lieutenant Smith.
HUMBER:
Is he dead? voice: No, sir.
HUMBER:
Smith! Hello there, Smith! You're free! We're here! We've returned!]
SMITH:
(Weakly) Hello.
HUMBER:
Take it easy, old man. (Calls) Stretcher here! smith: I'm all right.
HUMBER:
You'll be all right.
SOUND:
Stretcher bearers, etc.
HUMBER:
Easy there, men. In with him.
SMITH:
Lieutenant? humber: Just take it easy, old man. You'll be eating ice cream sodas in your own town before long. It's over.
SMITH:
Have you got a gun?
HUMBER:
None of that, old man. You'll make it.
SMITH:
I just want to feel a gun again.
SOUND:
Voices up briefly, and out
HUMBER:
Well, I handed him my forty-five. I don't know why. He asked
SOUND:
Two shots. Pause. Three shots. Two shots. A long pause. A final shot myers: He killed him?
HUMBER:
God, yes. Smashed him up and dropped the gun and began to cry. And look at him! This man had guts, Captain. What is it?
MYERS:
I don't know. I don't think we'll have time to find out.
HUMBER:
Dying? myers: Yes.
HUMBER:
Well, it's too bad. (Sighs) After living through three years of prison camp. (Pause) I have to be going.
MYERS:
Thanks a lot.
HUMBER:
Nothing at all.
MYERS:
[He turned back for a last look, shook his short-cropped blond head.]
HUMBER:
Anyway, he got back at them. He got one. You know, this is strictly off the record, Captain. It's not comme il faut.
MYERS:
I know. [In a way, I do. A symbolic act, the punishment of the guilty. Not so much revenge as justice. I wanted Smith to talk, to say a word. What had suddenly overwhelmed him back here in the United States, suddenly found a focus and invited this living death on a hospital bed? (Pause) I look at the advisory board—Wrangle, Lapham, and Fleck. Fleck's eyes are on me.]
FLECK:
Tell me, Captain Myers …
MYERS:
Yes, Major Fleck?
FLECK:
I know we can't actually separate causes, but, essentially, do you think it was the experience of the war or the experience of the peace that shocked him?
MYERS:
[This is crucial. I have the letter in my briefcase. Wrangle's quick eyes scurry like mice. Lapham yawns.] All I know, sir, is what Smith finally said.
WRANGLE:
You mean he spoke?
Finally, Colonel Wrangle. It was after I interviewed Sergeant Tana, the man who in filtrated the enemy territory with Lieutenant Smith. You know their mission was to go in behind the lines to raise and organize guerrilla bands against the Japanese, Smith being a little familiar with the language, an anthropologist of sorts. Tana was a Filipino, educated here, a fine man. He came in to see me the day Smith spoke. [Fleck is watching me closely. I think he begins to understand, because I can see that same film of sickness in his eyes. He begins to see the whole point of the case of David Smith.] The way Tana put it was simple.
TANA:
You understand, Captain, we went in to get these people to fight. But people don't fight for nothing. And Smith, my lieutenant, was an honest man. I don't know what his orders were, his authority to speak, but he told them: You fight to be free. I'm an American. And you'll be free. My government sent me. That's what my lieutenant said to them.
MYERS:
They believed him?
TANA:
Yes, even though for a native to be caught by the Japanese meant not easy death. There are certain tortures I need not describe. Your manhood goes quickly. The nerves have no conscience, no idealistic slogans. They shatter. But all the natives knew the meaning. You see, this was their jungle. I mean the native, as we Americans call them. It was theirs to have, to keep, to be their very own. So my lieutenant said it. He said it again and again and again. Then he was captured. We fought on with some success until the war was over. Then the colony was re-established, all with due order and a little shooting. I have myself a certain sense of guilt; but then, I'm a native myself. Here is the letter from Smith.
MYERS:
What letter?
TANA:
He mailed it to me a month ago. I picked it up at my home in San Francisco. I'm a native. I don't have very great expectations. But then, Smith made the promises, he being the officer, not me. If my lieutenant reaches consciousness, tell him for me, I forgive. Of course, I forgive! I have more faith in history. We cannot be defeated forever. One must have the experience of the disaster in such affairs. Good-bye.
MYERS:
Good-bye. [He was out with a quick step, a brown little man, wiry and tough. That night I spoke to Smith, and Smith answered. It was close to midnight, and the nurse and I sat there looking at our patient. He was pretty much gone, breathing heavily. I took his hand and bent
NURSE:
Doctor, his pulse is faster.
MYERS:
[I took my stethescope and listened.]
SOUND:
The clink of the earpieces. Then the beating of the heart on mike. This will grow faster as it continues under.
MYERS:
David, (excitement grows) listen to me! I spoke to Tana. Tana! You hear? Tana! He says he forgives. Tana! Tana!
SOUND:
The heartbeat is faster, and now the tympani will take up the beat most delicately
NURSE:
(agitated) Doctor!
MYERS:
[Smith's body began to tremble. His breath came faster.]
SOUND:
Smith breathing heavily
MYERS:
[My ears seemed to be at the end of long antennae probing into the tremors of Smith's mind. There were earthquakes of consciousness stirring within that body.] Smith! Tana! He was here. He said he forgives! [It was like someone rising from the dead; as if the tiny almost extinguished light of sensibility had begun to burn again; as if warmth were seeping into the brain. His body twitched, the muscles loose and dissolute with energy. The habits of conscious living had been dormant so long. Sweat broke out on his brow.] David, can you hear me? David. Tana. Listen to me. Tana. He forgives! [And then his eyes opened … a glaze-fixed light. He seemed to struggle to sit up.] Help him, Nurse.
NURSE:
I am. [She raised him slowly, and those eyes stared and stared.]
MYERS:
David, Tana was here. He forgives.
SOUND:
Heart and music, now! The rhythm coming up
MYERS:
[I could sense the long shift, the immense focus of his mind. He seemed to come out of the fog. He fought his way into the daylight world again, and then consciousness fluttered in his eyes. He looked at me … at the room. Realization blazed, darkened with sin and horror, with immense guilt. He shrieked.]
DAVID:
I want … I want …
MYERS:
David!
DAVID:
I want simple justice!
SOUND:
A crescendo of beat continues for a few seconds. Then profound silence —pause
[Then he quite simply died.]
WRANGLE:
(Pause) Most extraordinary. That was all?
MYERS:
Yes, sir.
LAPHAM:
"I want simple justice," he said.
MYERS:
Yes, Major Lapham.
WRANGLE:
Extraordinary. Most extraordinary. A peculiar fixation.
MYERS:
Yes, sir.
WRANGLE:
That was all?
MYERS:
Yes, sir.
WRANGLE:
You have the letter?
MYERS:
(Pause) [I look at Fleck. His eyes are closed. He opens them and slowly nods, with contempt almost. I open the briefcase and take out the letter.] Shall I read it, sir?
WRANGLE:
Yes, of course. Does it throw any light on the case?
MYERS:
This is it, sir. [I unfold the letter.]
SOUND:
Paper
MYERS:
[Fleck wants it. Very well. Let him live with the meaning, too. These others won't understand.] Dear Tana—I believed in the promise I made them, the promise of freedom. Who is going to keep it, and when? Please forgive me. David Smith.
WRANGLE:
That's all?
MYERS:
That's all, Colonel Wrangle.
WRANGLE:
Extraordinary. Well, Captain, you did your best.
MYERS:
Thank you, sir.
WRANGLE:
Gentlemen, what do you say? Can we consider the case closed?
SOUND:
Resolve here the unresolved chord.
. ….
ANNOUNCER:And now, for a comment on tonight's play, we present Franklin Fearing, Professor of Psychology in the University of California, Los Angeles. Doctor Fearing.
Commentary[*]
FEARING:This is not a story of a soldier who became psychoneurotic because of experiences in the war. Let us be clear on this point. It is a story
Director's Notes
Cal Kuhl
Cal Kuhl has been producing and directing commercial radio programs for the past fifteen years.
The four officers, Wrangle, Lapham, Fleck, and Myers, meet to dispose of the Smith case. What they actually say to each other totals less than one-tenth of what we hear, and is made up of short snatches of dialogue spotted throughout the other nine-tenths of the dialogue, action, narration, and introspection. Nevertheless, the unity, conflict, and climax of the play are lost unless throughout the play the listener is constantly aware of these four men facing each other, disposing of the Smith case. In the production, therefore, some auditory means of stamping this picture on the mind of the listener was a special requirement. The employment of any of the obvious mechanical devices such as music, a filter, or an echo chamber, whenever the four were speaking, to make them and the scene immediately identifiable and memorable, would, aside from being unworthy of the script, destroy the realism the play demanded and deserved. Instead, when these four spoke to one another, their positions relative to the microphone were slightly distant as compared with normal, and the lines were slightly projected in delivery, more nearly as if the actors were on the stage of a small theater. To heighten the resulting effect, the reading
Myers, aside from what he says to his colleagues, has three main functions. He unfolds the story, sometimes in straight narration, sometimes in narration leading into and out of a flashback; he is introspective in recall, as when he reports to the listener what he thought and felt at the time when the incident he is describing took place; and he is introspective in the present, as when he describes and analyzes the psychic score of Wrangle, Lapham, Fleck, and himself, sitting informally on the Smith case.
It is evident that if the listener is to be given a reasonable chance of orienting himself to Myers in each of these three functions, a convention must be established with respect to Myers when he is not talking with his colleagues. It is equally evident that this convention must be as unrestricted as possible if the actor is to have a reasonable chance of playing the part. He needs all the latitude possible, short of confusing the listener, to do a good job as Myers. The situation could be described as shifting back and forth between two locations.
In the scenes involving the board (Wrangle, Lapham, Fleck, and Myers) the listener is in the room overhearing the conversation; the other ninetenths of the time the listener is in Myers' mind. In the board scenes the microphone is on the table; the rest of the time, the microphone is in Myers' head between his ears. The problem is how to make this clear to the listener in such a way that there is a minimum loss of realism and a maximum awareness of where we are at a given moment. Here, again, any use of filters, or the like, is ruled out for the same reasons as given above with respect to the board scenes. The convention for Myers was a decidedly closer than normal distance whenever he was interviewing someone —Smith's wife, Smith's father, and the others. Myers' closer than normal position necessitated not only the absence of any projection in delivery of the lines, but markedly less volume and inflection than in normal living-room conversation. Otherwise the delivery was completely informal,
There remains yet one more overall consideration. Once these conventions are established and the play develops, the listener becomes aware of the parallel struggles of Myers: one, the jockeying with his colleagues, the desperation of his unspoken appeal to Fleck; and the other, the realization of the answer to the Smith case in Myers' own mind and the kinetic compulsion within him to wrest the articulation of that answer from the speechless Smith. By the time Myers (and the listener) gets through with the interview with Tana, the conventions are established, the tension is approaching the maximum, and all that remains is the fearsome indictment or question from Smith himself, who until now, in Myers' personal experience, has been only spoken of, but has never spoken. How, with the four auditory conventions already established, and the tension of the drama itself at practically peak level, is the subject of the previous twenty-five minutes of build-up to be introduced? Nor merely be introduced, but made equal to the build-up? Any musical portrayal of the heartbeat and the labored breathing would not only be false, but would present a mechanical difficulty in terms of dynamics. (If the heartbeat music tops Myers as the heartbeat should, the climax that Myers has been building up to ever since the play began is ruined, irrespective of the kind of music.) The breathing, suiting itself to Myers' words, can be synchronized with the normal minute hiatuses of Myers' lines, and the shifting that Myers has to do from analyses and description to exhorting Smith, and back again. In dynamic level it can be on a par with Myers. But the heartbeat must dominate, and in perspective
Reunion, U.S.A.: American Broadcasting Company, Monday, 7:30–8:00 P.M., P.W.T. Written and produced by the Hollywood Writers Mobilization. Writers: Abraham L. Polonsky; Pauline and Leo Townsend; John Whedon; Ranald MacDougall and Sam Moore; Jerome Epstein; Leon Meadow; Milton Merlin; Carlton Moss and Sylvia Richards; Aaron Reuben; Louis Solomon and Harold Buchman; Dwight Hauser; Janet and Philip Stevenson; David Hertz.
Radio's Attraction for Housewives
Ruth Palter
Ruth Palter, formerly a research assistant at the Bureau of Applied Social Research, Columbia University, is at present a graduate student at the University of Chicago, Department of Sociology, engaged in research on intergroup relations.
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What does it mean when urban housewives say about the radio: "I don't know what I'd do without it"; "We'd be lost without it … be sort of miserable"; "If that radio was to go bad tonight I'd pay $200 to get a new one tomorrow morning. I wouldn't stay here a minute longer than I'd have to without it"? What does it mean in terms of human behavior? And more specifically, what does it mean in terms of urban problems of loneliness, boredom, and passivity? Although communication research provides data about the content of the media and the opinions and buying habits of the audience, we still know very little about the general psychological importance of print, radio, and film to their users.
In an attempt to explore this problem, we undertook a reconnaissance study which had as its research goal the discovery of some hypotheses and suggestions useful as guides to more detailed and precise future researches.[*]
It seemed advisable to limit the study to a few women who did a great deal of radio listening, avoiding the problem of representative sampling of all radio listeners. We used four factors as guides to the selection of respondents: women, white, lower middle class, had the radio on three or more hours a day. We selected from the U.S. Census of 1940 an area in south-side Chicago that contains a large number of white American-born families, the fathers being predominantly the breadwinners in skilled and semiskilled work, and the majority having no more than a grammar school
We were interested in investigating two broad areas: the depth of radio attraction, and the possible psychological reasons for the attraction. To get some idea of the emotional hold of the radio we asked questions about missing the radio if it were not available (broken or being repaired), about preferences for other kinds of enjoyment (movies, magazines, etc.), radiolistening habit patterns, and the results of the interruption of these patterns. To get at the reasons for radio attractiveness we asked about listening to the radio with family and friends, awareness or ignorance of radio content (even though the person was "listening"), doing housework with the radio on, and listening to the radio when feeling "blue," happy, upset, etc. All we can do is illustrate each of these areas by quotations, suggest hypotheses based on the data, and indicate where the data are insufficient; the study affords no proofs.
Part I. Radio Attractiveness
"I tell you, the only time it isn't on is when I'm out of the house …"
Past researches leave us with no doubts about the number of hours a day that housewives listen to the radio and the tremendous importance they attach to listening.[1] And yet, even having this knowledge, we are still unable to appreciate the actual degree of radio attractiveness and of dependence on the radio. Although we were using three hours a day as an index to listening, not one of the women interviewed listened less than five hours a day, the mean listening hours a day being slightly more than
"We have one radio—but we move it all around; wherever we are, the radio is!"
"Oh, I always can hear it. I have two in my bedroom, and my husband has one in his bedroom, and we have one in the kitchen and one in here (the dining room) and one in the sitting room. And when I go inside to make the beds I just turn it on in there, and when I go back I switch it on out here."
Reactions to being without the radio while it was being repaired or out of service are another indication of the depth of its attractiveness.[3]
(When it was being repaired) "I went downstairs to my Aunt's to listen to my favorite programs. I used to say, ‘Gosh, I wish I had the radio.’"
A housewife fifty-six years old, with two years of high school education, the wife of a railroad switchman, and president of a women's auxiliary, said:
"My husband gets up at about 10 A.M.—he's a night worker—and from then till the time I go to bed the radio is going …. I want to tell you, honey, if it wasn't for the radio I don't know what I'd do."
When asked if the radio had ever been broken, a rather haggard Irish housewife—her husband, also, a night worker—with two small children remarked:
"Yeah, once it broke. I almost went nuts! It makes the night so much longer, you know. I just sat around and acted dumb. I went over to my
Another forceful statement of dependence on radio:
[Ever without it?] "Only when it has to be repaired. Then we listen at my brother's. This summer we were away in the country but we didn't like it because we missed the radio. And we had lots of entertainment—and still we needed the radio."
Even at the mention of being without the radio something akin to desperation is temporarily felt. Radio attraction can be estimated by determining the ease with which other media or forms of entertainment are substituted for it, and whether these substitutes bring as much or more satisfaction. Every housewife who answered this question indicated that nothing would "really" take the place of the radio.
"I would be ruined! I guess I'd make my piano be my radio. But you know, when you come to think of it, I have to work around, and I couldn't do that."
"I'd go to the picture show every night, that's what I'd do. I'd be so lost I wouldn't know what to do if I didn't have that company every day."
"God! I'd be lost without it. I'd try to get another one first thing. I'd go next door and listen to my neighbor's."
When confronted with the reflection that, after all, some women did manage to survive without radios, including all of their own mothers and grandmothers, these housewives were quite amazed.
[What do you think women did before they had radios?] "Well, to tell you the truth, I don't know. I just can't imagine what they done. I can remember when I was a girl we didn't have radios—but I don't know how they got on. I don't know how they got by in those days." In point of fact, the radio appears so overwhelmingly fascinating that it interferes with work, and must be avoided.
[Do you listen to the radio when you do your housework?] "Not all the time. It slows me up when I want to listen and I should be working."
[Do you work better or not when the radio is on?] "No, that's just it— if you have the radio on, you just put down the mop and start listening.
You never can get your work done; don't you think so? I just drop everything and listen. And I have so much to do with the washin' and cookin' I can't be listening to the radio of a morning." Radio listening is not passively accepted; it is actively sought, and
Women listen to the radio all day; they feel lost without it; they find no adequate substitute for it. It seems clear that the radio is essential to feelings of well-being and contentment. We are faced with the task of explaining why the radio, of all the media, is uniquely and unquestioningly desired. We will discuss some of the possible psychological bases for this intense bond between radio and housewife.
Part II. Psychological Reasons for Attractiveness
[a. Reliever of the monotony of housework.] "It takes the drudge out of it … just helps out."
Women have always had housework to do, and have always had much more to do than they have today. It would seem that the quantity of the work has decreased without affecting the general work habits and attitudes of housewives. Our respondents feel that housework is a day-long burden, relieved only by the presence of the radio. Most of them know that they are using the radio as an antidote to boredom.
"I like to iron and bake while it's on—you don't even mind it—because you think about the stories, or something."
"Oh, the ironing goes much faster. You don't have to put your mind to it—you don't have to think about it if you have the radio on, so it goes faster."
"I don't know what I'd do if I couldn't listen. I can always get more done if the radio's on—it breaks the monotony and I don't even think about what I'm doing. I just keep working till I'm finished, and I hardly know it's done."
However, this is an obvious point. The significance of listening to the radio to forget the housework is that dependence on the radio is so strong that housework is adjusted to listening. Here is a crucial problem for future research. We believe that the important aspect of this question is not whether the radio "takes the drudge" out of housework, but whether the whole routine of the day's work depends on the radio schedule. Two suggestive responses support the latter.
"I get up and do sewing on Saturday, you know. I don't miss any of them stories then, because they don't go on on Saturday."
"When I'm using the washing machine I get up and do it by 8 A.M. because I can't have it going with the radio—so if I get the wash done early I can listen and it doesn't bother me none."
[b. Preserver of family unity.] "If we didn't have it, we wouldn't have a family."
Entertainment is expensive, self-interests and initiative are rare, and excitement and stimulation infrequent. The housewife feels shut in all day, with only the trip to the corner store and an occasional chat with a neighbor to widen the horizon. Having the radio brings her closer to her husband's world and compensates in part for her chores.
"If a woman has the radio it gives her a happier frame of mind. She ain't stuck in the ol' house. When her husband comes home—you feel you got part of the world in your house."
Few of these women belong to clubs. Outside of the radio, there isn't anything "neutral" to talk about to their husbands.
"My husband likes the same things I do. He listens to the football and baseball in the day. But I don't mind that even. And if he misses one [serial] I tell him what happened—or he'll ask me what happened, or what did Walter Winchell say on Sunday—and I'll tell him. Or what happened to so and so. And then he'll say, ‘Oh, for God's sake, we have to wait till next Monday to find out!’ He keeps up with them just the same as I do …. We love to talk about the stories and he likes the same ones I do, so it's nice."
We suggest that the radio serves as a cohesive agent, preserving family harmony in the absence of other common interests and pursuits. Having answered that the radio didn't reduce her worries because she didn't have any since her husband's recent return from armed service, a young woman said:
"God! I'd be lost without it …. I really couldn't sit and talk night after night—you'd get bored stiff …. If you didn't have the radio and you just had to sit all night and twiddle your thumbs and sit and look at each other, you'd go nuts!"
These quotes illustrate one of the important roles the radio has in establishing family unity: it prevents both husband and wife from sitting and wondering what to talk about; it gives them something to do which is easily accessible and never provocative.
"It kind of gives us something to do for part of the evening …. My
The radio gets the members of the family together without their having to depend on their own talents for amusement.
But the radio can also create family friction when one spouse is a more rabid listener than the other. There seems to be evidence that the spouse who wants to listen will not be deterred, despite the antagonism created. One young woman, obviously having had many battles over the radio with her husband, responded immediately when asked if she and her husband ever argued over the radio:
"He don't listen, he reads! I get so mad. He's such a bookworm—he never wants to listen. He just thinks it's a waste of time to listen to them things, and I love them. I want him to listen with me, but he just makes a lot of noise. Then sometimes he makes believe he's listening—you know, he imitates me by the radio, and I could kill him. It ‘gets’ me. [What do you do?] I listen anyway. If he wants to read I shut the door on him."
A woman who uses the radio to relieve the monotony of housework, but less fanatic than most, says this about the radio and her husband:
"Well, to tell you the truth, sometimes I get annoyed at all the chatter —just empty chatter. I say, ‘Why don't you talk to me once in a while. You don't see me all day and then at night you just sit there and listen to the radio.’ It gets me mad. [What do you do?] I just go out and visit, that's all."
How widespread this friction over the radio is cannot be determined from our data. It would seem that the radio is far more important as a unifier of the family than as a disrupter.
Our data on children's listening and their quarrels over the radio is too meager to support any conclusions. This area might yield extremely interesting information about the use of the radio by parents to control children and to prevent fights among them.
[c. Reliever of worries.] "You can't do two things, worry and listen."
Half the women interviewed said definitely that listening to the radio "helped" them because they found they worried less when they listened, or didn't worry at all.
"I think when you just sit down and the house is still you just sit and think—but if you can listen to them programs it's better. I know I'm
Asked when they particularly liked to listen to the radio, not one of the women said she preferred to listen when she felt happy; almost all said they liked to listen when they felt "blue." What "blue" means was never made explicit, yet radio listening seemed to soothe and narcotize. We have only one comparison of the radio with the other media.
"It really relaxes me. If you're listening you don't think about things on your mind. [Is it different when you read?] Well, when you're reading you have your own troubles. You have to concentrate more when you're listening. [I'm not quite sure I understand what you mean. If you can think more when you listen to the radio, then you worry more.] Yeah, I guess that's right! I never thought about it that way. But reading is different. [In what way?] I just think the radio is more relaxing—for me anyway. I don't have to bother with it. I just leave it on and I can work around. I guess that sounds funny …."
And again:
"Sometimes it is soothing. It's good for relaxing and thinking, just to have nice, soft music on."
[d. Reliever of loneliness.] "It's nice to have company. But if you don't, it's nice to have the radio."
This was said by a woman who probably was completely unaware of the fact that she had hit upon one of the most significant reasons for radio's attraction: the failure of friendships. Much has been written in the social sciences about the importance of the break from small communities and the enforced isolation of the modern urban housewife.
" … friends nowadays they just ain't the same. Seems like they look out for theirselves. With me working—they used to come over most every day—but now I don't see ’em at all."
"It's [the radio] something to have with you when you're alone. In this house everyone is for themselves, so you can't make no friends."
It would be important to know just how much of the housewife's day is actually spent alone. Although the radio does, no doubt, help to pass the time when no one is around the house, the respondents insist
"It breaks the stillness of it, being here alone. I mean, it takes the place of people." "When my husband Joe's out at 2 P.M., I depend on the radio for company. I never get lonesome when it's on."
"You feel less lonesome. The house is not alone."
" … oh, I tell you, it's company to me—someone with me all the time in the house. Just like conversation on when I can hear it."
"When my husband and sister go out bowling and I'm alone, I turn it on. The time doesn't drag so much—you have some action and sound with you. The radio takes the place of someone in the house."
The radio is spoken to, cajoled, scolded with apparently little self-consciousness. It has become so much a part of the household that using it as another person—in fact, speaking of it as "company" and as "someone in the house"—is neither strange nor unexpected.
And yet we might be hard pressed to explain such statements as the result solely of urban loneliness. Why is it that the housewife can speak of the radio as a person in the house? Why can she believe she is carrying on a "real" conversation when she talks back to the radio? We are forced to consider "loneliness listening" as merely a part of a more comprehensive reason for listening, that is, as the need for fantasy escape.
The mirrored void.—"Escape" is a word that has become part of the scholastic's equipment—a word that Hollywood capitalized on without explicitly stating its claims, and now takes the liberty to exploit openly— a word, and a policy, that has made the big fan magazines sell millions of copies. It is a word, however, which when used technically still carries much meaning for the psychologist. We usually think of fantasy escape as one way of resolving tensions and conflicts (usually unconscious) resulting from unfulfilled goals or from conflicts between goals. Such mechanisms of defense as denial, projection, repression, reaction formation, isolation, and regression work to prevent the tension or conflict, which may be harmful to the individual, from incapacitating him. It might be helpful to think of radio listening as one of the more obvious methods of dealing with the unmanageable conflicts of modern life.
Let us examine more closely the peculiar nature of radio listening.
"Yeah, then I don't have to talk to no one around. I can just think about places I've been, what happened at the time, and who I was with. The music makes me recall the past."
People around interfere with the dreamlike state achievable when the radio can be listened to in isolation from the household milieu:
"Sometimes it bothers me [to have others around], depending on what was on. [What do you mean?] Well, if it's one of them stories and someone comes in at the wrong time and bothers me I get sore—I like to have it quiet and listen. Then I really like it."
" … you know them things that continues from day to day, it's hard to say what's going on or what's going to happen next time if you don't listen to it. I can't stand no talkin' while I'm listenin'."
[If someone should happen to phone while you're listening what do you usually do?] "I just say, ‘Kid, I'm listening to so-and-so, will you call me back or I'll call you back.’ I hate to have someone come in in the middle of one of the good stories. But if there's music on and someone phones up I just turn it down, I don't turn it off."
[Do you enjoy the radio more when you're alone or with others?] "When I'm alone. Naturally when you're with others they start to talk and they interrupt your listening ways."
If, as Geoffrey Gorer suggested,[5] the radio were simply subliminal noise, then anything that happened to be on would be suitable, as long as
"I'll tell you one thing, it spoils it if they publish their pictures. We got a picture of Ma Perkins as a middle-aged woman, and she's a young girl. You like to picture an older lady, and that goes and spoils it all."
Spoils what? Spoils the seriousness of the stories, spoils the closeness to the characters, spoils the chances for maintaining the fantasy. [6] Just as having people around sharpens the differences between the desired world and the world as it exists for these women, so do any "true" revelations about the players. Reality must be preserved—the reality of the fantasy— inane, turgid, melodramatic.
Radio people are considered to be more attractive as personal friends than the everyday people one is forced to associate with. With little affection, loyalty, and support provided by friends and family, it is small wonder that the Kate Smiths and Pepper Youngs attain such popularity.[7] Radio people are good, kind, helpful, straightforward, understanding, romantic. They are wholly desirable as friends, and to be envied.
"They're all so sweet and I love them [her family], but naturally if I had my choice I'd like to have them like my people on the radio."
" … Some of the ones I like, they have better dispositions than the friends … as a radio group there are some lovely families—like Pepper Young's family. How they get along! Ain't it wonderful? Wouldn't ya like to know them people, though, so nice … [Rather have people on the radio as friends?] Well, I guess the people in the radio have better dispositions. Friends are so unpredictable. You can never tell whether they're for you or not. But radio people are reliable."
"Oh, she's nice—Stella Dallas. [Are your friends as nice, or nicer?] Oh yeah, nice, but she's really nice."
They're nice, exciting, reliable. Perhaps we are dealing here with one of the ways in which American housewives deny dissatisfactions and disappointments
"Well, my husband, he works in the store all day and he comes home and you never know what to expect. He flies off the handle all the time. You can't blame him—he has to put up with the women all day long. But he's always flying off. [Who would you like him to be like?] Well, like Tom Righter. [Why is that?] He's so understanding and tender. Of course he flies off the handle once in a while, but that's understandable. My husband is so unpredictable. You never know what he'll like or not."
With this perspective before us, it is not difficult to imagine the role these radio characters play as dispensers of advice and guidance. We have much valuable information on this subject from the work done by Hertzog[8] and Merton.[9] We need only add that our data support their conclusions that life is made more comfortable, more bearable, more intelligible, through the homespun, well-meant advice of one's favorite radio figure.
Respondents referred frequently to the Pepper Young philosophy of life as being particularly helpful to them—the "let things take care of themselves" philosophy. We see here a reflection of the urban dilemma: there are too many confusions and difficulties to cope with; there is no one who can be trusted to turn to; there is easy and stimulating gratification through the vicarious living-out of the fictitious adventures of radio heroes. The advice that these radio characters give in no way changes the status quo; it tries rather to force harmony into it by recommending acceptance of it.
Unfortunately, we had too few data on listening to the radio with friends and in social gatherings to form any comparative hypotheses. It may be that in this capacity the radio can be a potential source of friend making. Whether or not the desire to listen alone accompanies all programs at all times we cannot determine from our data. One thing seems apparent: the radio often operates to protect and preserve isolation—an isolation that is strongly desired.
Conclusion.—We have tried to indicate some of the reasons why the radio is so attractive to housewives. We have briefly mentioned its importance as a relief from housework boredom, a family unifier, a protector from worry and loneliness, and, finally, a fantasy escape and a defense against dissatisfactions.
It has been said that radio listening is like a habit. If, however, we think of habit in the more technical sense, as meaning the half-conscious repetition of an act in response to a given stimulus, we see that our data do not support such a hypothesis. Listening is definitely conscious, in two ways: it is deliberately sought and consciously desired.
But a question is raised for future research. Our data indicated that there might be a difference between listening to "talk" programs and listening to music. Perhaps listening to music is, in the manner of a habit, an automatic half-conscious response, as well as a response to a desire for subliminal background noise.
Future research will also have to investigate the unexplored area of the personality characteristics of the radio audience as well as of avowed nonlisteners. What kind of people listen to what kind of programs and establish what kind of relationships with the radio characters? Routine personality checklists have proved rather unsatisfactory. Until we are prepared to discuss the personal and general psychological motives for radio listening we shall not be able to understand its importance with respect to other types of human behavior.
A New Kind of Diplomacy
Gene King
Gene (Eugene H.) King is Program Manager of The Voice of America, the radio service of the U.S. Information Agency. His more than 20 years' experience in radio has been with several independent stations, two commercial networks, and the U.S. government's information program in Europe. Mr. King has also lectured at Harvard, New York University, and Columbia School of Journalism; and he has been a member of the faculty of Boston University. The succeeding article was given as a talk by Mr. King last spring at the Institute for Education by Radio-Television, Columbus, Ohio, as part of a general evening session on "Some World-Wide Aspects of Broadcasting."
. ….
For a radio man, my present job on The Voice of America is just short of Heaven. "Short" because there are problems, to be sure. We practically always, for example, have budgetary troubles. The Voice of America, last year, had only a little over sixteen million dollars; when I add that with that we cover the world, what I mean by budgetary troubles is understandable. There are a number of industrial firms which spend twice that a year on advertising. All in all, private business in the United States spends nearly eight billion dollars a year on advertising, and a goodly percentage of it goes into radio and television.
Americans generally believe in advertising, but it took us a long time to appreciate that advertising had a place in our international relations. Assistant Secretary of State George Allen, former United States Ambassador to India, has called U.S. Information Agency activities "a new kind of diplomacy." He has pointed out that, in the past, diplomats dealt only with the officials of other countries. Now we know that widespread public understanding of our foreign policies and objectives is necessary to their success. President Eisenhower has put it this way:
It isn't enough for us [the United States] to have sound policies, dedicated to goals of universal peace, freedom and progress. These policies must be made known to and understood by all peoples throughout the world.
"All peoples throughout the world" is a large order. Making United States policies "known to and understood by" these people is a considerable job. But it can be done. Modern communication techniques have given us the tools with which to do it.
I have, naturally, a slight bias in favor of radio; but honesty compels me to admit that there are areas where radio, today, is not the most effective communication technique. India, for example, has only about one million receiving sets. In a country of 370 million people, this situation reduces the effectiveness of radio. Those million receiving sets are important. We must not ignore them. But to reach the great masses in India, we have to supplement radio.
Radio, however, is our chief technique for penetrating the Curtains. For that reason about three fourths of The Voice of America broadcasts are beamed to the Communist orbit. Budgetwise, we spent about ten of our sixteen million dollars last year on these programs.
Last year, The Voice of America moved its studios from New York to Washington. The move was made under a Congressional directive, and created problems. But, organizationally, the new location is more efficient; and the psychological value of "This is Washington" is important. Our studios are now housed in a building just at the foot of Capitol Hill, in the very shadow of the great, gray Capitol dome.
The move from New York, which got under way in the spring, was completed November 1, 1954, without any interruption of the broadcasting schedule. This required some doing since we have more than 75 separate programs a day. Broadcasts are made in 38 different languages. The new layout has 14 studios; and, with that kind of a schedule, they are occupied almost continuously. It sounds like Babel in old Shinar or, at least, Bedlam; but it isn't. It is a very smooth working operation.
In addition to the studios, there are ten recording rooms with equipment to make 40 discs or tapes simultaneously, ten tape-editing booths, a recording control center, and the master control room. The rest of the nearly 100,000 square feet of space allotted to us is occupied by editorial offices, music and transcription libraries, and other offices required to keep The Voice of America in operation 24 hours a day.
To give a few more technical details, The Voice of America has a network of 78 transmitters, including 30 short-wave stations in the United States which are operated for us by private broadcasting companies. Overseas,
Relay facilities overseas are also leased from the B.B.C. in England and from local broadcasters throughout Western Europe, Africa, the Middle East, and Asia. To combat "jamming," we have, in addition, afloating relay station in the U.S. Coast Guard Cutter "Courier," now stationed in the Mediterranean.
The Voice of America's daily program includes 301/2 hours of direct broadcasts and 64 hours of repeat programs. To counter Soviet jamming, these are recorded at overseas relay bases and repeated on short-, medium-, and long-wave. Jamming is, of course, one of our problems. The Communists spend more on jamming than we do for the entire Voice of America operation.
We give the U.S.S.R. and the Soviet-controlled areas about 761/2 hours daily. Despite all efforts to prevent, The Voice of America does get through. We have conclusive evidence of that. Josef Swiatlo, former head of the Communist secret service in Poland, tells us that The Voice of America is the most effective instrument employed by the free world in combating the spread of communism and in keeping hope alive in the hearts of the peoples behind the Curtains. He reports having attended sessions of the Polish secret police where the topics of discussion were The Voice of America and how to keep the Poles from listening. Nevertheless, according to his report, the broadcasts are heard; and they are effective. We have literally thousands of similar reports. Practically all escapees and defectors, in fact, report having listened. And that goes for the U.S.S.R. as well as Communist China and the satellites.
Generally speaking, the programs consist of news, news analyses and features, political commentaries, press reviews, round-table discussions, documentaries, and special events. The breakdown between news and the other programs is generally fifty-fifty. We have found that The Voice of America audiences, particularly behind the Curtains, are eager for news. They want to know what is happening in the world. They want facts and not propaganda.
Sometimes, of course, news and features can be included in the same broadcast. Recently, for example, we have noted that Communist diplomatic officials throughout the free world are making a concerted effort to
On March 2, we answered the above in a broadcast. We just gave the facts: the number of Americans, about 500,000, who had applied for passports last year and the 378,000 Europeans who came to the United States during the same time. We posed a few questions about the number of Soviet citizens who had stepped from behind the Iron Curtain in the same period. We also asked about the number of visitors to the U.S.S.R., Communist China, and the satellites. Then, we included a few remarks about those who had left the Curtain countries without visas, having fled to freedom at the risk of their lives. This kind of program we would ordinarily term a feature, but it did have a news angle in light of the current Communist campaign.
To give another example, we recently had a lot of fun with an international quiz program. Daily, Monday through Friday, we directed a question at some particular Communist paper or radio station. On Saturdays, The Voice of America obligated itself to repeat the answers received. The program stretched over several weeks. We are still waiting for the first Communist reply. Of course, our questions were a bit ticklish to answer. One, directed to Radio Tirana and three Albanian newspapers, asked why bread in Albania was still rationed after ten years of Communist rule. Czechoslovakia was asked why the store shelves of the country were empty if Czech factories, as reported in the Communist press, were producing so much. The Communist silence is understandable.
Outside the Curtains, there is no difficulty about our audience. The letters that pour into each of the Agency's 210 posts in 79 countries bear witness to The Voice of America's appeal. A 15-year-old lad has written our Cairo post recently that he is poor and adds, "Of course, I do not have a radio." Because of his poverty and his youth, he cannot sit in cafés and listen. But he has found a way to hear The Voice of America. A neighbor in the adjoining apartment has a radio, and by placing his ear to the intervening
I have found that letter particularly moving. Throughout the world, there are many walls between the United States and other peoples—walls (as in this lad's case) of poverty, walls of prejudice, walls of ignorance, walls that we know as the Curtains. But they are not impenetrable, as this letter writer and many thousands of others bear witness.
The Voice of America coöperates, of course, with other Agency media in publicizing United States foreign policies. One major Agency project this past year has been President Eisenhower's proposal for world coöperation in the advancement of the peaceful use of atomic energy, which was first announced in his speech before the General Assembly of the United Nations, December 8, 1953. The President had not finished speaking before The Voice of America was on the air. The story was carried first in English and, later that day and the next, was repeated on all of our foreign-language broadcasts. It was given the most thorough follow-up of any story ever handled by any radio broadcasting service. We devoted program after program to developments; we still are, in fact; and we will continue to do so.
In addition, the Wireless File, a daily 7,000-word news bulletin of the Agency's Press and Publication division was transmitting the full text of the President's speech before he had left the United Nations rostrum. Our overseas posts were supplied with reprints of articles on the subject appearing in United States publications, roundups of editorial comment, special features, news pictures, leaflets, and pamphlets.
And the Motion Picture Division swung into line with full newsreel coverage and a series of special documentary films prepared either in our shop or by private producers. These films are now being shown throughout the world.
As a part of the coöperative effort, the libraries of our 157 information centers overseas and of the binational centers set up special shelves of books on the subject. Lectures were arranged by specialists sent abroad under the Department of State's Educational Exchange Program. Exhibits were opened to the public in a number of the larger cities: Rome, Brussels,
Our Office of Private Coöperation has arranged for United States business firms to include highlights of the President's speech in their overseas correspondence. Other projects are under way by which American private individuals and groups—business, civic, religious, etc.— can coöperate in telling the "Atoms-for-Peace" story abroad.
In one way or another, we estimate over a billion persons this past year heard of the United States's proposal on the peaceful uses of atomic energy. Give us a little more time, and it will be "all peoples throughout the world."
The present U.S. Information Agency is just a little over two years old. It was created as of August 1, 1953, by President Eisenhower and was given independent status and complete responsibility for all United States nonmilitary overseas information programs. These included those previously handled by the Department of State and the Mutual Security Agency.
The new Agency has benefited, of course, by the experience of its predecessors. We are convinced that now we have an organization that can handle the job. In the increased venom of Communist attacks on the program, we see evidence that we are handling it. World-wide, the Communists have recently stepped up their efforts, have been reorganizing their propaganda apparatus and have been pouring in increased funds. They recognize that they have a fight on their hands. The Communists have made propaganda a major weapon in the campaign for the establishment of a Communist world order. In 1953, it has been estimated, they poured over three billion dollars into the fight. This estimate is undoubtedly conservative, and we know that they are spending more now.
We do not propose to try to match them in the volume of their effort, but we think we are superior in determination. President Eisenhower is very insistent that we stick to truth, and we agree with him. But, the fight isn't going to be won overnight. I have heard the figures 40 to 50 years used. It could be so.