What's Wrong With this Picture?

I came upon this little essay from the past but thought it might be amusing still.

I surfed the channels of my television set, and chanced upon “sesame Street”, that long-time favorite of children everywhere. I watched for a few minutes, but something intruded upon my meditations. Something was wrong. These characters badly needed psychiatric profiling.
What, you exclaim. How dare you assail these wholesome little characters? How un-American can you be?
But think for a moment. How about the Count? He counts everything. He can’t stop. He is an obsessive-compulsive counter. It dominates his every moment. Paxl might help him, but there is no one on the program to prescribe it.
Let us take a closer look at each of the puppets. Cookie Monster eats every cookie he can get his hands on. He never gets enough. Clearly he is addicted to cookies. Grouch hides from the world and is so irritable and mean-spirited that no one will have anything to do with him. He is an agoraphobic with violent tendencies, perhaps schizophrenic as well. Maybe prozac would help, but maybe not. Poor little big bird is amply endowed physically but he is quite retarded and there is really nothing that can be done with him.
I come now to a character that defies description, namely snuffaluffagus! What is he? He is harmless enough, being sweet-tempered and friendly. He seems to be a leftover byproduct of some gene-altering experiment.
I hesitate to bring up Bert and Ernie, lest I be judged to be homophobic. But the evidence is quite clear. They live together, sharing the same bed, and Bert dominates Ernie and makes him do the housework. I will leave it to the reader to draw his or her own conclusion. Jerry Falwell might have a few words to say on the subject. He certainly had an opinion on the poor little purple teletubby with the purse.
Are we going to let this disgraceful display continue? Are we going to let these retards, psychos, freaks and homos continue to pollute the minds and hearts of our innocent little children, not to mention the adults who watch with them? Let us join with Jerry Falwell and save the children all over the world by putting this show off the channel and closing it down forever.

Now it can be told, continued

Back at the base, things went on pretty much as before, except that now and then we were given leave to go to Washington, D.C. and go we did. I remember the many monuments, museums, parks and especially the cherry trees in blossom. I wandered down the aisles of trees, enjoying the aroma of the blossoms, and felt that I was in another world. The air was warm and balmy, and except for the swarms of pigeons flying around and threatening to bombard us all was peaceful and serene. Of course we could only get a few hours of leave and had to be back promptly but we appreciated every moment of freedom.
Until the actual moment when the atom bomb was dropped, no one at Arlington Hall knew of its existence. Nicknamed “Little Boy”, even Harry Truman was kept in the dark until he assumed the office of president. On August 6, l945, the bomb was dropped, the world changed forever, and the war was over. By the end of August I was in Dallas, Texas and another adventure loomed before me. But that is another story.
Prologue
Thousands of women helped to win World War II through their cryptologic efforts. Few will know the significance of their contribution or of the lives they helped save. Although women have long been a part of cryptologic history, even before the Second World War, the presence of servicewomen in cryptology allowed others to follow. Their dedication and abilities proved, to more than one doubting male commander, that women could more than adequately do this exacting, detailed, and important work. They left behind a strong legacy, allowing thousands of women to follow in their footsteps. These women played vital roles throughout the Cold War era and will continue to bring their talents, skills, and abilities to cryptology, one of the nation's most secret sciences.

From Jennifer Wilcox, in
Sharing the Burden, 1998

Google: Sharing the Burden: Women in cryptology during World War 11.

Now it can be told continued

I got down to Arlington Hall in July of 1944 and had served there for almost ten months, never having gotten off the base. Then, on April 12, l945, our president, Franklin D. Roosevelt, suffered a brain hemorrhage and died a short time later. His body was shipped by train to Washington, D.C. and our unit was allowed to go to the Capitol to see the funeral parade.
I will never forget that day. It was a fairly warm day, but a slow and steady drizzle fell, and the funeral procession moved slowly past the spectators, most of whom were in tears. Eleanor Roosevelt rode in an open vehicle with no veil, her face composed and sad. She looked to neither left nor right, and sat alone in quiet dignity.
I remember the crushing sadness of the spectators. There is nothing so solemn as a funeral procession, with its muffled drums and slow cadence. There was no music, and the muted footsteps of the marchers was the only sound heard as the slow procession passed by. For once I recognized the unfolding of an historic event. An era had passed by, and such a one as our dead president would never come again.
We returned to the base, chastened and sobered by the events of the day. We knew of course that the vice-president, a modest and little –known fellow named Harry Truman, had been sworn in. What we didn’t know was that he would prove to be a fearless and far-seeing leader, destined by fate to make one of the most difficult decisions ever to fall to the lot of a president. He decided to drop the atom bomb and forever changed the world.

Now it can be told (continued)

From the point of view of the men, this was an ideal assignment. From the vantage point of our guarded and secure position, they could follow the progress of the war, safe from combat on the beaches of Iwo Jima and the hedges of Normandy and Germany. Everything was provided for us, from food, shelter and clothing, to recreation and stimulation. There was a theater, mess hall, recreation room, base exchange – we never felt the need to go off base. Periodically we were called to assembly and told how important we were to the war effort. As I said, this was an ideal assignment.
The barracks were partitioned off into cubicles, each cubicle containing two beds and facilities for hanging our uniforms and personal items. At the foot of the bed was a foot locker, with certain specified items packed just so according to regulations. These were opened during inspection, and if we were found to be derelict in our presentation, we were given a demerit and made to do some extra duty around the base. One time my bed wasn’t made tight enough and I was given the task of washing the windows of the library. It was the only demerit I remember getting and I can’t remember actually doing it.
The assignment of cubicle mates was of vital importance. We had no choice in the matter, and I was lucky enough to have one with whom I was fairly compatible. She was a brash, sophisticated woman from Brooklyn, and at about 32 or 33 seemed quite old to me. Sensing my naïve approach to life, she attempted to indoctrinate me into the basics of living in which she felt I was deficient. She had a tattoo on her thigh, and dyed her hair jet black. She made no claim to high moral standards, but since there was little opportunity for hanky-panky, her influence was fairly benign. We had no privacy whatever, and if someone wanted to set up a liaison with someone of the opposite sex, they would have been immediately discovered and routed out. The men were vastly outnumbered by the women, anyway. There wouldn’t have been enough of them to go around.

Now it can be told, continued

Arlington Hall was a secret base. No one was allowed out and only certified people could come in. After we were assigned our quarters, in one of the three or four barracks lined up on the road, we quickly settled into the routine of the base. I was disappointed that our little quartet was separated and sent to different barracks, but we saw each other in training and there were plenty of opportunities to socialize in the theatre, library or recreational hall. We started our training almost immediately, and I remember developing a certain fondness for the big IBM machines, each with a placard attached which admonished us to THINK. With the exception of the sorter, the guiding force of each machine was a wiring board. A large, heavy frame with various wires plugged into holes in a grid, the wiring board could be altered to conform to whatever direction the operator wished it to follow.
To my surprise, I actually learned to wire the board. I had expected to be somewhat retarded since I had done so poorly in the mechanics aptitude test, but I think I only trained for a couple of weeks before I got my own unit and went to work.
It was none too soon. The training was done in the daytime, and I had been assigned to a barracks where everyone worked from midnight to eight in the morning. The “graveyard” shift. It didn’t lend itself to any kind of restful sleep. But as soon as I started to work, I fit right in.
In some convoluted twist of judgment from the powers that be, we worked rotating shifts. We never got used to any one sleeping pattern, and wandered through the days half asleep and out of sync. The machines were kept going twenty-four hours and were only shut down when the punch cards jammed up and the reproducer or collator had to be dismantled and the damaged cards removed.

The work was hard, but if one had the unit running smoothly and the cards didn’t jam up, it was possible to keep one eye on the machines and still manage to read or study. I took a couple of classes in my off-duty hours and sometimes studied while I worked. The reproducer was the problem machine, and if the cards jammed there was nothing to be done but to dismantle the thing, drag up the wiring board, and delve into the greasy depths for the mangled cards. My unit was set up with a sorter, reproducer, collator and printer. They ran independently of each other, but if one stopped and no more cards could be processed, the whole unit was held up. It was troublesome but we were all in the same boat together. Since the weather was muggy and warm, the cards often stuck together, warped or refused to move smoothly through the machine. We joked that we were fighting the battle of the IBM cards.

Now it can be told continued

I don’t think I slept at all. Morning finally came, and we at last found out where we were. The sign in the station said “Washington D.C.” and to our delight, we realized that we were to debark. Stumbling down the little steps to the platform, we were a bedraggled and grimy sight. Being herded onto a covered troop truck, along with our duffel bags and once again a sergeant, didn’t help a bit. Even Prima Donna had slipped from her usual standards and had managed to put on fresh lipstick, but her immaculate hair-do was lacking its usual array. But she didn’t seem to care, probably too tired to rally. Sad Sack had of course come completely apart and I wasn’t much better. We slumped down on the wooden benches arrayed at the sides of the truck, and rattled off, once again.
We didn’t go very far. In probably a quarter of an hour, the truck turned off the main thoroughfare and headed down a narrower street, past an imposing brick building with a sign in front that said “Arlington Hall.” I felt a jolt of hope, thinking that perhaps we were going to be stationed here, in some sort of college or training institution. Of all the possibilities open to us, this would have been my choice. I hadn’t enjoyed teaching school for the two years I had been in practice but this wouldn’t be bad! I could get used to this.
No, we didn’t stop there either. Down we went, the street getting narrower and dustier, down into a forest of pines at the bottom of a shallow hill. And there, in front of a high security fence, guarded by a soldier in full regalia, the truck stopped and our rumpled and exhausted group scrambled out. My thoughts were not of the most logical – all I could think of was prison. We were going to be incarcerated. What in God’s name had we done?
The sergeant presented our papers, and we were waved into the inner sanctum of an army base, spread out before our amazed eyes, neat and tidy.

From our vantage point, it looked like a model of an army base, with barracks arrayed on each side of the street, and with a church and library down at the end. The buildings were of wood, unpainted, but looking quite new. There were little lawns of green grass out in the front, and numbers of soldiers going to and fro from the various buildings, all in summer fatigues and all seemingly in a hurry.
The sergeant ushered us into a small building off to one side of the street and we were once more lined up in a row. A stern looking Captain sat behind a desk and wasted no time on us. “You are in the 2nd Signal Service Battalion,” he began. “It is a unit of the Signals Intelligence Service, and you are in the United States Army codebreaking devision. It is so secret that outside the office of the Chief Signal Officer, it does not exist.”
We listened open-mouthed while he instructed us to raise our right hands and swear ourselves to eternal secrecy. The penalty for discussing the work outside of approved channels could be death, as it was considered an act of treason during a time of war. The watchword was “don’t talk.” We were informed that no one was to know of our work. Anyone caught discussing it would be treated as a spy and shot.
I kept my oath. Down through the years I often remembered my service in that self-contained base, and felt proud that out of all of the privates who went through basic training only four of us were deemed worthy of this assignment. I wished I could have bragged a little to my family and especially reassured my mother that I had kept the faith and remained a virtuous woman. But as time went on, I almost forgot my experience. I consigned it to the remote and distant past. Until now. Now I will tell all.

Now it can be told, continued

My gloomy reverie was broken by the sound of a jeep rattling to a stop in front of us. A tanned sergeant in fatigues was at the wheel. She barked just one command, “Get in!” and we scrambled over the side bars and settled into the seats. Another sergeant appeared from somewhere and handed her a large envelope, containing our orders, which we still had not seen. To tell the truth, we never did see them. They remained a mystery until I found my secret war story on Google, and decided now was the time to tell all.
But not quite yet. All in good time.
The jeep rattled along, stirring up dust and making a good bit of noise. Sad Sack, in the front seat, was buffeted about by the wind we were riding into, and began to come undone. First her hat fell off, luckily caught by the private just behind her. Her bright red hair, always hard to contain, simply fell out of its bun and dangled down to her collar. Her tie came out of her shirt and dangled down her chest. Only a few minutes out of the compound and she was already out of uniform!
Prima Donna, on the other hand, was the picture of perfection. Not a hair was out of place. Her makeup was perfectly applied and she rode with a scented handkerchief to her face, to screen out any unpleasant odors or dust. How she did it I will never know.
As for me, I began to enjoy the ride. We were getting dusty, to be sure, and my allergies were going full blast, but we were clearly going toward some town somewhere, and I hoped we would have the pleasure of an overnight trip on a train. I hadn’t yet learned that riding a train during wartime was an ordeal, rather than an adventure. I began to cheer up. I ventured a smile toward my seat partner, and realized with a start, that we were all redheads! Was that it? Had we been picked because we all shared the same hair color? I had been suspicious of Prlma Donna, thinking that her hair color was too good to be true, but perhaps I had been unkind. But what did it mean? There weren’t that many redheaded women in basic training. Could it be just a coincidence that we were all squeezed together into this jeep bouncing along to some unknown place? Or were we really victims of a cruel fate?
Oh well, time would tell. Maybe more than we wanted to know. But as they say in novels, the die was cast! No turning back now, we were on our way.
It wasn’t long before we reached the train station, and were hustled onto a clanking old passenger train, what was known in those days as a “milk train.” It stopped at all whistle-stop stations and waited there, belching black smoke and cinders, and then with a whistle, chugged forward once again. We did not get sleepers. We were squeezed into hard, crowded seats where we sat all through the long night, now and then dozing where we sat. Most of the other passengers were civilians, who cast suspicious glances our way, obviously thinking the worst. We were escorted by another sergeant, as before, and got bologna sandwiches for dinner. Stale and dry, they were hardly gourmet fare. But if you are hungry, just about anything tastes good. Or so they say.

Time passed and as I said, we found ourselves being given a battery of tests to see which category best fitted our talents. I am sure I got the lowest possible score in the mechanical and carpentry series. Some of my fellow recruits actually found a niche in the motor pool and some went into clerical and cooking positions. But I still had not been placed and went on and on doing my best while not knowing what I was doing. Actually, I rather enjoyed the interlude. Since there were very few of us left in the barracks, we no longer stood inspection, nor did we do barrack duty. I like to take tests and moved right along, enjoying myself. Every day a list was posted on the bulletin board and we all rushed to see if our names and destinations were displayed. Finally my name appeared, along with Sad Sack, the Prima Donna and one other soldier from another barracks. Our category – signal corps. Our destination – not listed. There were four of us and we still didn’t know where we were going or what we were going to do when we got there.
We were the last out of the barracks. With great trepidation we stuffed our things into our bags, put on our dress uniforms, tied our ties and waited outside the barracks for our transportation. Sad Sack Cupcake was her usual calm, cheerful self, rosy face all smiles. Prima Donna was aloof as always. Our fellow traveler from the other barracks was a friendly little extravert, and introduced herself readily. I no longer remember her name, but she seemed ready for anything.
I tried to hide my apprehension under a calm exterior. Laughing on the outside, cringing on the inside. That was me. I don’t know what I expected, but my Mother’s warning still rang in my ears. We were going to be humiliated and used for the amusement and gratification of the soldiers at some unnamed base. Signal Corps, indeed! I knew nothing about radios, Morse code, secret messages, how could they possibly use us in the Signal Corps. I knew from my brother’s experience how hard Morse Code was to master - God forbid that I was going to be trained in that!
I scanned the faces of my fellow travelers, but they gave no clue as to their innermost thoughts. But I cheered myself up by thinking that we hardly fit the stereotype of a prostitute or mistress. Poor lumpy Sad Sack was already rumpled and disheveled. Prima Donna would never stand for such a fate. I, at a scrawny 105 pounds could hardly be considered alluring. No, perish the thought, that was not to be our fate. But where in the world were we going, then?

Now it can be told, continued

We pulled K.P. duty as part of our training, and the one time I got called, I luckily was assigned to set up the tables and put out the dishes for the noon meal. The food was hearty and good, although I got tired of grits and bacon. We were down South, remember, and we got a good many meals of ham and baked beans, as well as hominy and corn bread. I can’t say I ever went hungry because we were fed very well. The cooks were women and did a commendable job of feeding large numbers of recruits.

Remembering basic training, I am reminded of the refrain from a prayer: “As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be.” It never changes, from one generation to another. Suffice it to say, if you have experienced it, you know what it was like. If you haven’t, you don’t need to know. It was what one made of it, like all experiences in life. I rather enjoyed it, myself.
I need to dwell a while on memories of two of my barracks mates, however, because they are important to my story. One was unique in that she could never get anything right. Invariably upbeat and happy-go-lucky, her shoes were never tied correctly, she couldn’t get her tie straight, and accepted her many demerits with cheerful good grace. A chubby, even lumpy figure, she was always disheveled and her bed and area never met inspection. We of course nicknamed her “sad-sack” and tried our best to help her out however we could. She got more demerits than anyone else and we were worried that she might be washed out of basic training.
Another recruit in my barracks was perfection itself. She invariably passed inspection with flying colors. She didn’t get a nickname, and was hardly visible at all, being always aloof. I thought of her as a prima donna, and naturally envied her because she was so attractive, and because she was always held up as an example to poor Sad-Sack.
I myself was neither very good nor very bad. I fitted in and made friends with some of the privates around me, and managed to pass most of the physical tests. Time flew by and before we knew it we were being given a battery of tests to determine which niche we best fitted in. I had almost forgotten my mother’s dire prediction about sex slaves, and looked forward to learning of my fate. I still had no inkling of the turn my life would take and of the story I am still withholding from my readers. In due time you will hear of my participation in one of the greatest secrets of all history!