by BILL MAULDIN

1

IT is a great disappointment to us bubbling young sprouts who grew up in the Franklin D. Roosevelt era when we pick up a history book and find that our enthusiasm for all sorts of star-gazing and crusading is not a new thing, that we are not blazing fresh trails for mankind to follow to its glorious destiny. Like immigration. We think of the fancy inscription on the base of the Statue of Liberty: —

Fired by these words, we turn shudderingly to our newspapers and read about the death rattle of the Stratton bill, which would have let 400,000 huddled characters into the country. The bubbling young sprouts feel an urge to punch Congressmen in the nose, and this particular sprout draws all kinds of pictures designed to arouse the hospitable instincts of his fellow citizens. In fact, I feel so strongly about it that once I forgot to uphold my reputation for hating Army officers; I brought my secret admiration for George C. Marshall into the open by doing a picture of him lighting Liberty’s dead torch, when one of his first acts as Secretary of State was to recommend the entry of DP’s into America.

But us champeens of the teeming shores aren’t doing a new thing. The immigration battle has been going on in this country ever since the flag had thirteen stars. Every generation for 170 years has produced two schools of thought about immigration. One has been convinced that the country has reached its saturation point, that more material for the human melting pot that produces Americans will result only in lowering the standard of living, reducing wages, and producing a crop of “furrin ideas.” The other group believes — rightly, I think — that when a country reaches the stage where it can’t expand its population, add new blood, and realize fresh potentialities, it might as well fold its flag because it has reached the summit and can only go downhill until it expires.

The people who belong to the current antiimmigration faction love to refer sardonically to the opposition as bleeding hearts and do-gooders and pipe-dreamers, and on most of us I guess they can make the rap stick. But they can’t hang it on George C. Marshall or any of the other gents of his caliber who have certainly proved themselves immune to charges of not looking out for their country’s best interests. History pretty well bears out the fact that the anti-immigration people have been the pipe-dreamers, and the other side has produced the realists.

I feel strongly enough about this to do what I cuss others for doing — propagandize. Since I happen to be a citizen of this country, I would like to think of it as a living and growing thing, not as a satisfied hog interested only in wallowing in its accumulated slop and waiting for old age or the butcher’s knife. I feel like doing all the propaganda I can on subjects pertaining to progressives versus mossbacks in America because picture-drawing is a reasonably lucrative trade when you’re lucky enough to be syndicated, and I can already feel signs of becoming contented with my lot. I may be voting straight conservative in a few years.

I want to get all this idealistic stuff down on paper now, because after I build a house and raise a family I will be too busy supporting it and voting to protect it to be realistic about my politics. I will probably oppose immigration because a lot of excellent cartoonists live in Europe, and if one of them should sneak through Ellis Island he would not only produce work that would make me and a lot of others look sick, but also he would sell it for reasonable sums and we would have to hump it twice as hard as we do to buy a new Buick every year.

2

WHEN the battle between the British and the people of Palestine started hitting the front pages regularly in 1946, another war started on the inside pages of the same newspapers. A number of different Jewish factions and organizations naturally took an intense interest in the Palestine light. Each of them had a different idea about what was right and what was wrong in Palestine, and each spent a great deal of money buying full-page newspaper ads to support its special views. The Battle of the Ads started out in a gentlemanly way, but in no time at all it had developed into a fracas fully as explosive in words, if not in deeds, as the argument, between the Irgun and the British Army.

So many vituperative attacks were made upon “opposition” Jewish leaders and Jewish organizations that unless you remembered, while reading the ads, that they were written and paid for by other Jewish factions, you would have sworn you were looking at a page from the anti-Semitic publications of the late Julius Streicher. Jews were calling other Jews warmongers, dirty liars, and bums in general. I couldn’t blame any Jewish organization for feeling strongly and bitterly about some phase of the Palestine problem, nor for disagreeing with other members of that faith on the subject, but in view of the widespread anti-Semitism that already exists in America, I thought they could have done better than to wash their linen in public where their enemies, could snicker at them.

Because I like to read a lot of papers, I haven’t had much trouble spotting several around the East Coast that never lose a chance to display a subtle but persistent anti-Jewish bias. Every one of these papers carried its share of the ads, and it seemed terribly ironic to me that their editors, who had always feared the public indignation and shock that would result from carrying on open warfare against the Jewish faith, suddenly had the opportunity to call Jews dirty names right in their papers, and to make Jewish money out of the job at that.

I did a cartoon on the subject because I had learned a lesson that most people learn sooner or later if they dabble around in the field of bigotry with the idea of trying to correct some of it: victims of bigotry can sometimes display a wide streak of it themselves, toward their own comrades, and toward other victims of persecution.

I didn’t exactly expect the cartoon to make anybody think twice; the factions that were so angry they were cutting their own collective throats in paid advertisements could hardly be influenced by a piddling two-column cartoon. But I hoped my picture would make one or two of the ad-writers wince as they were making me wince for them.

The lesson I learned about prejudice among victims of prejudice was thoroughly pounded into me by the Catholic Church shortly after I did the picture about the Zionist scrap. A rather substantial portion of the Church fell on my bean with a resounding smack after I drew some pictures about Generalissimo Francisco Franco, the boss-man of Spain. Try as I will, I somehow can’t see rhyme or reason in his system — which is gaining in popularity around the world — of imprisoning, deluding, and horsewhipping citizens to protect them from communism. It smacks somewhat of paternalism, and very rugged paternalism at that. The kind that tells a man what he shall read, whom he shall talk to, and what he shall hear, allows him no say-so in his own affairs, takes away most of his money to pay an army to push him around, and kicks his teeth in if he talks back. Communism may be a pretly awful thing, but it would have to work hard to be any worse than the systems set up to fight it.

I spent five years in an army that was mustered to fight Franco’s kind. I would hate to think that I was taken for a sucker during those five years, and wore my uniform on the wrong side.

It has sickened me somewhat to see the little man still prominent in the world, and it has sickened me even more to hear his setup called the last stronghold between Western Christianity and the Great Bed Menace. Although I don’t work hard at it, I belong to the Christian faith, and I feel insulted at the idea of being defentled by a bloodyhanded punk who used to lick the boots of Adolf Hitler. If Christianity ever has to depend upon Franco and his friends for protection, then it will be a good time for the Church to wonder how it has failed its people so badly that there aren’t enough decent ones around to support it. Christianity can’t be defended by force and brutality any more than communism can be defeated by it. A lot of us kidded ourselves that fascism could be whipped that way, but all we succeeded in doing was knocking off a lot of soldiers who were on the payrolls of the governments that espoused fascism. Sure we weakened it, but it is far from dead.

With all these notions running around in my head and all this high dudgeon in my innards, I did some pictures about Franco, including one of a man about to be shot by a tough-looking firing squad, back of which was a sign saying, “Viva Franco! Defender of the Faith and Protector of the Church! ” Under the cartoon was Webster’s definition of Christianity: “The precepts and doctrines taught by Christ.” I didn’t realize how strongly certain segments of the Catholic Church felt on the subject, bul I found out very quickly. I received a pile of letters that smoked with anger. When I came across one that called me nothing worse than a red s.o.b., I felt positively happy, because the one preceding it was unprintable.

Then I did a drawing that really upset some folks, and the irony is that nothing was further from my mind than religious issues when I drew the thing. A number of ladies and gentlemen, who had become communists when it was more or less safe and fashionable, had recently pulled out of the party and written fascinating exposes of it. One man, who had grown up in Russia and joined the party early in that country, started the stampede by jumping ship whde working for the Soviet Purchasing Commission in Washington, and a book published under his name became a best-seller. He was pretty well sponsored by Willie Hearst, who bought a lot of his stuff and who collects reformed communists by the dozen for his stable. In no time at all the magazines were full of True Confessions by ex-comrades. It became not only fashionable, but also a doggone profitable business, to pull out of the dank rooms full of thick spectacles and eczema, and pop out into the bright, clean air of Free Enterprise, Unlimited.

In the caption of the cartoon, I used the unfortunate word “convert.” Now, Webster’s Unabridged has a lot of definitions for the word “convert,” and its religious connotation does not appear until after a number of other meanings. You can convert your politics, or convert from coal to oil, or own a convertible car, or do lots of other kinds of converting without necessarily joining the Church. I hope the above doesn’t sound flippant, but I wish to make it quite clear that I meant something besides religion when I drew a picture of two communists discussing the merits of converting.

My misfortune in the choice of words was made doubly sad by the fact that, although the cartoon had been drawn wrecks before, it appeared simultaneously with the first of a series of magazine articles by Clare Boothe Luce, explaining her reasons for joining the Catholic Church. Obviously, Mrs. Luce had not been a Commie. But a fancy sum was paid for the articles (it was later announced that Mrs. Luce gave the money to a charity project), they were in a national magazine, and they were about converting (religious connotation). Also, the former managing editor of the communist Daily Worker had just converted (religious connotation again) with a loud bang, and was writing a series of exposes for publication. I was already suspect, I guess, because I had questioned Franco’s value to the cause of Christianity in a couple of cartoons. So a lot of people put their own meaning into this one.

Several Catholic dignitaries made angry mutters about the picture, and the Brooklyn Tablet, which has stanchly supported Father Coughlin’s Christian Front, and which suspects everybody but the toughest conservative of being a communist, ran a front-page editorial about the cartoon, with a headline stating that the New York Herald Tribune (a steady Republican paper) was going pink because it had printed the drawing. Several organs of the Knights of Columbus reprinted the Tablet editorial, and added a few choice words of their own.

It’s the first time in my life I have been so roundly cussed in print, and I reacted as do most people who make a career of poking at other people and who suddenly find that they have to put up with a little of what they dish out; I didn’t take it so well. I was so hopping mad that I thought of suing some of the more violently insulting sheets. I was talked out of this notion by several people who, I now suspect, were grinning up their sleeves, and I recovered after sulking behind my drawing board for a few days.

The thing that made me wild-eyed was the fact that several of the Church dignitaries and publications that called me an anti-Catholic bigot had made most unholy reputations for themselves by dealing in such truck as anti-Semitism and general venom directed against everything left of Generalissimo Franco.

It didn’t matter that I had done dozens of cartoons about the Ku Klux Klan, which bitterly fights Catholicism, or that I had plumped for the entry into America of more than a million displaced persons, 65 per cent of whom were Catholic. I had criticized Franco, and I had done a drawing that appeared to make fun of some of the Church’s recent and prized converts. I was a blankety-blank bigot and that was that.

After running afoul of the hard-boiled section of the Church, I figured that for a while it would be wise to give Saint Patrick’s Cathedral a wide berth when my travels took me to the vicinity of Fifth Avenue and 50th Street in New York City. I also decided to stay clear of my Catholic stepmother and my Catholic friends for fear they would become contaminated and automatically excommunicated by my presence. My eyes nearly dropped out shortly afterward when I received a copy of a Catholic Youth publication. It ran a long story about the cartoons I was doing and said some flattering things about me. I had been under the impression that when the Church is down on you it means business, and as far as the faithful are concerned you are a pariah.

Now I pass Saint Pat’s with my coat lapel turned down and my head held high, and I am at peace with the world of religion. Even if a few old mossbacks in there don’t like me, I can get along with the kids.

3

IN the middle of 1947 I received a telegram signed by former Supreme Court Justice Owen J. Roberts, which had been sent to a number of people around the country. It read:—

“AM DEEPLY CONCERNED ABOUT POSSIBILITY OF CONGRESS NOT TAKING PROMPT ACTION ON UNIVERSAL MILITARY TRAINING FOLLOWING PUBLICATION OF COMPTON REPORT WHICH ADVANCES COMPELLING REASONS FOR IMMEDIATE ADOPTION. MEASURE CAN PASS THIS SESSION IF LEADING CITIZENS SPEARHEAD PUBLIC SUPPORT. WILL YOU JOIN ME IN FORMING CITIZENS EMERGENCY COMMITTEE FOR UNIVERSAL MILITARY TRAINING TO FURTHER THIS VITALLY NEEDED LEGISLATION?”

Flattered that I should receive a communiqué from such a distinguished gentleman, and doubly flattered that a person of my tender age and questionable politics should be referred to as a leading citizen, I said yes by return wire.

My reason for saying yes to Justice Roberts was simply that I am no longer sure that the UN can be depended upon to keep the peace. I don’t belong in the ranks of those who say a war between Russia and the West is inevitable, but I certainly believe it is a growing possibility. I would much rather see the UN have the only army, navy, and air force in the world, plus control of the atomic bomb and other superweapons. But evidently such ideas will be vigorously opposed by all the big peace-loving nations as a threat to their idea of peace. A stuffy UN investigator might poke around and turn up a poison-gas or machine-gun factory, thereby violating somebody’s precious peace-loving sovereignty. So long as UN is kept ineffectual by its members, so long as the world respects only force, I want my country to be strong enough to take care of itself.

I have heard people say we should be strong so that if there is another war we can win it, then show the world the right way to live afterward. This is old stuff, and it is poppycock. Our behavior hardly qualifies us as world leaders. Ours is one of the most conservative governments in the world today, and one of the most bumbling. We have more provincialism and bigotry and superstition and prejudice per square mile than almost any other nation. We like to think of ourselves as a young, progressive country, but, while we do have energy, we have become smug and self-satisfied.

We do have one thing — a fairly free opportunity to say what we think. Despite the Dies Committee, Harry Truman’s “loyalty tests,” and the fact that people do lose jobs for having the “wrong” politics, it is still possible to join political movements and express opinions without too much fear of going to jail. I think this is one thing that gives this country the right to survive. The people in it like to think for themselves and to be individuals, and anybody is going to have a hard time talking them out of it.

I don’t want to see Russia win if there is another war, because that country has proved it is capable only of replacing one kind of tyranny with another. I want my bumbling side to win, because where there is a chance for free speech and honest thinking there is always hope that somebody will figure out a way to make order out of the chaos which would result from that war. I hope it doesn’t ever come to that, but so long as the UN is hamstrung by the selfish interests of its members, I feel pretty grim about the future.

If we must become well armed and powerful again, we should agitate against the professional militarists, the imperialists, the bigots, and the little Führers in our midst; it would be a terrible thing if the strength we built up fell into their hands. And we have even more reason to raise hell about our policy of buddying up with the world’s worst characters — many of whom were recently our enemies — and lending support to oppressive regimes such as those in Greece and China. I think our way of life can bear inspection if it needs the world’s fascists for allies.

One of my pet cartoon subjects in recent months has been military versus civilian control of atomic energy. So long as we have that damn bomb, I think it is one of the most important controversies in the world. If the pro-military side wins, my pessimism about the future is going to turn into real despair. I’ve done a lot of drawings about it because I think most military people are destructive by training and by necessity and would take this force and use it to wreck everything. They would unquestionably succeed in making the United States lord and master of the globe. This would cause a lot of people to go to the trouble of bringing about a revolution to unseat us, because we would behave exactly like every other lord and master of the earth. I would rather see the thing in the hands of civilians with milder ambitions.

Sometimes I really wonder why anybody thought to ask me to come out in favor of universal military training. I don’t trust the Army, I don’t like the Army, and I even poke fun at its recruiting program. Perhaps, under all the pompous and highsounding words I have mouthed about why we should have an army, I want it around so I can draw more pictures about it.