On the Right Side of History

Jeff Sharlet, my younger brother, and I both subsequently came to know and respect Professor C. Leonard Lundin at Indiana University (IU) – I as a grad student and Jeff later as a political activist. It was as if we had known two different people – I knew him solely as a scholar of Baltic history, while for Jeff and the activist group in the late ‘60s, he was one of a small number of faculty† who actively supported anti-Vietnam War protest on campus – but all that was still far in the future.

Lundin remembered the first Red Scare. It was the early 1920s, he, a high school kid at the time, was left with the impression of an orgy of extralegality. The Bolshevik Revolution had taken Russia out of World War I, and postwar America was aflame with exaggerated fear of ‘reds’ and anarchists.

The government’s reaction, led by Attorney General Palmer and his right-hand man, young J Edgar Hoover, included illegal search and seizures; warrantless arrests; detentions and wiretaps; and the deportations of hundreds of resident aliens, many of whom were known radicals, as well as other individuals who merely fell under suspicion.

Even the New York State legislature – hardly a frontier institution – expelled its five Socialist members. In other states legislators rushed to enact an array of patently unconstitutional sedition laws as well as so-called ‘red flag’ laws making display of a red flag illegal. In a comic-opera waiver, Minnesota exempted red flags at railroad crossings. No surprise then that a bright and idealistic young Lundin would have been aware of the wholesale transgressions of the Constitution. Upon hearing Norman Thomas speak in Boston, Lundin, a Harvard student, joined the Socialist Party.

A student of early American history, Lundin had the good fortune to serve as research assistant to the doyen of the field, Samuel Eliot Morrison. A post-grad fellowship took him to Germany for a year’s study. Back at Harvard, young Lundin earned an MA before moving on to Princeton where he wrote his PhD under another luminary of the day – Professor Thomas Jefferson Wertenbaker. It was the Depression, and academic jobs were scarce, but, as ‘Sam Morrison’s fair-haired boy’* and with the backing of his Princeton mentor, Lundin landed a position at Indiana University in 1937.

IU was then a sleepy campus in the southern Indiana town of Bloomington. It was deeply conservative country. Most of the students were from small town Indiana. Sports, fraternity parties, and the elections of pretty coeds as ‘queens’ for one or another social occasion were the salient events. Political apathy and cultural parochialism were the norm.

Among Lundin’s pre-war students there was no curiosity about the world at large. After the war in Europe broke out in ’39, one student told him that whenever war news came over the dorm radio, someone would call out, Turn that off, and get some swing music. Frivolity reigned.

The Ku Klux Klan (Klan) had a strong presence in the state. A decade earlier a Klansman had been elected Governor of Indiana. Bloomington was racially a Southern town. A man who grew up there remembered seeing Klansmen in full regalia riding into town on horseback in the late ‘40s. Predictably, the town was segregated, although by custom rather than law after pro-integration legislation in ‘49. Restaurants, bars, barber shops, and even most of the university’s main dining room were off-limits to the small number of Negroes enrolled at the university.

 

The KKK in Anderson IN, 1920s

 

When Lundin joined the History Department there were only 10 professors, all WASPs (neither Jews nor Catholics were welcome). With few exceptions they were as conservative as their environs. Curricular emphasis was on American history, the history of the Midwest, and Indiana history. A few of the staff taught Ancient, English, and European history.

 

History at IU was not a research department; only a few colleagues were scholars, Lundin among them, having published his first book in 1940.  There was a contingent of grad students, but the faculty’s ambitions for them were very modest. Even in the mid-‘50s the bar was still set low by the old guard historians. As one said to the new internationally-oriented chairman, the department should mainly be producing instructors for the likes of East Tennessee State Teachers College.

 

For young Professor Lundin who had arrived at Indiana directly from Boston, life in Bloomington initially involved a bit of culture shock. The Spanish Civil War was then raging. While students at Harvard were up in arms in support of the Spanish Republic against General Franco, who was supported by Nazi Germany and Fascist Italy, few at IU cared or were concerned with events in Europe or even knew where Spain was.

 

Lundin’s first political involvement was with a very small group in support of the beleaguered Spanish Republic. Because he had studied in Europe, he was in demand as a speaker on European politics and occasionally participated on a weekly local radio program on public affairs. After Franco came to power, he carried out a severe policy of retribution against the defeated supporters of the Socialist government. Back in the Midwest, an Indiana statewide Catholic magazine expressed unqualified support for the new fascist regime.

 

A copy of the issue came into Professor Lundin’s hands, and on his next radio broadcast he listed Franco’s draconian acts and rhetorically asked if those actions indeed reflected the Church’s position. The president of the state federation of Catholic women’s clubs promptly wrote the university president, Herman B Wells, complaining that Professor Lundin had slandered the Church and intimating that those responsible were ‘notorious Communists’. President Wells skillfully fended off the attack, ensuring that Lundin survived his first brush with controversy in Middle America.

 

When Japan attacked China in the late ‘30s, the young historian became an officer of a committee to oppose Japanese imperialism. A few years later, following Nazi Germany’s invasion of the Soviet Union, Lundin joined the committee for Russian War Relief, most likely a Communist-front organization; but, even if he had known that, one doubts he would have been deterred. It was all of a piece; he stood up against aggression in Spain, China, and the USSR because it was the right thing to do

 

Returning from WWII a captain, Professor Lundin was back at his teaching post and in fresh controversy not long after. Soon after the end of the war, the Indiana Communist Party (CP) sought a place on the state ballot. Under Indiana law, the party had secured the requisite number of petition signatures, but the political establishment in the capital was stalling and trying to block the move. No surprise in a state with Indiana’s political lineage.

 

The dean of Indiana’s Law School along with a few law professors – politically conservative to a man – and others supported the Indiana CP petition on the principle of free democratic elections. Lundin observed with approval, but then the law school group was vilified, not just in the statewide press, but in the media of other Midwestern states as well.

 

In the resulting furor, the legislature opened an investigation into Communist influence at IU, the state’s flagship institution of higher learning. Furious, Lundin denounced the investigation. President Wells saw it differently and told the legislators, Come ahead, the university has nothing to hide. In the end nothing came of the investigation.

 

A few years later in the early ‘50s, at the height of second great American Red Scare, Leonard Lundin joined others opposing the university’s plan to require all newly hired professors to sign a loyalty oath under state law, which read in part:

 

                    I solemnly swear that I will support the

                    Constitution and the laws of the United

                    States and the Constitution and the laws

                    of the state of Indiana ….**

 

The loyalty oath controversy stirred the statewide American Legion into action. Under pressure from its many posts, the university trustees were induced to hold hearings to detect if any subversive activity was afoot on campus. A wag mocking the Legion suggested that perhaps they should investigate the school’s colors of crimson and cream. In another unintentional light moment, a coed being interviewed by the trustee panel was asked if she was aware of any pro-Communist teaching on campus. She innocently replied, ‘What is Communist teaching’? The trustees were stumped.

 

In ’54, when the US Senate censured Senator Joseph McCarthy of Wisconsin, the point man of the relentless anticommunist campaign, the pall had it cast over the country gradually began to lift. By then the Civil Rights Movement was underway, and the issue of segregation was being challenged in Bloomington. The Negro population at IU, while still small, had grown, but the same segregationist customs Lundin found on arrival in ’37 were still in place.

 

White barbers claimed they didn’t know how to cut Black hair. A Black woman who matriculated at IU in fall ’55 reported that she and friends could enter restaurants and sit down, but they’d either be refused service or simply ignored. The only place in town where she and students of color could eat, party, and dance, was the Black Elks Club.

 

The owner of one of the most popular student hangouts in Bloomington a block east of campus, Nick’s English Hut, where both I and later my brother spent time, made clear his racist feelings, “We’ll close the place before we serve Negroes.”***

 

Peaceful sit-ins by Blacks and Whites took place in the restaurants. Led by the local NAACP chapter and with the strong support of President Wells, and friends of social justice like Leonard Lundin and the student activist leader Tom Barton††, the town had been gradually desegregated by the time I arrived for grad school in the fall of ’60.   

 

By the ‘60s, IU as an academic institution had changed significantly under Wells’ visionary leadership. No longer the insular, inward-looking university Lundin had first joined, IU become a major center of international education. The History and Government departments now fielded diverse course offerings on nearly all the regions of the world while certain faculty members were in the process of acquiring national and even international scholarly reputations.

 

The university’s rich and diverse curriculum drew grad students from all over the country. I arrived at IU from the East Coast in the fall of ’60 drawn by the noted Russian and East European Institute, arguably second only to Columbia’s program. My classmates included graduates of Berkeley, Harvard, the University of Chicago, and other leading institutions.

 

Professor Lundin, who had retooled as a European historian, was part of the university’s new orientation. His course on Baltic history, cross listed between History and the Institute with the Baltic Sea as the organizing concept, was a unique course. With Russia and Poland among the historical Baltic powers, I found the course fascinating, and it was evident why Leonard Lundin had been one of the first professors honored with the university’s distinguished teaching award. Back then I knew him only as a teacher/scholar and was unaware of his longtime activist stands.

 

I finished up at IU in the summer of ’63 and left for a year’s dissertation research in the USSR at Moscow University on the Soviet-American Exchange. By then, brother Jeff was a Vietnamese linguist in military intelligence serving in Vietnam. Finishing his tour of duty in ’64, Jeff decided to complete his education at IU, which is where he too came to encounter Leonard Lundin in his role as a faculty activist.

 

Professor Lundin, Indiana University, 1962

 

During Jeff’s spring term of ’65, President Johnson (LBJ) escalated the war in Vietnam, igniting the first sparks of protest on a number of campuses across the country, IU included. Jeff became involved with a small band of student activists who began to raise the banner of opposition at IU to LBJ’s war policy.

 

Professor Lundin, who from the beginning opposed US involvement in Vietnam, presided over the first outdoor campus antiwar rally in Dunn Meadow. Reflecting back several years later, he said that attempt to have an open discussion of the war policy was constantly interrupted by rowdy pro-war students. In March ‘65 the first antiwar teach-in was held at the University of Michigan with many other schools, including IU, linked in by telephone hook-up. Lundin participated in that first campus teach-in as well.

 

Nixon arrives for IU appearance, 1965

 

That fall, Richard Nixon, an unabashed supporter of LBJ’s Vietnam policy, was invited to speak at IU. Jeff, his new friends and other students from various campus groups mounted a protest demonstration against the former vice president outside the auditorium. Lundin happened to be walking by, spotted the signs and fell in with the marching demonstrators.

 

Jeff and fellow activists organized the IU chapter of Students for a Democratic Society (SDS), the fast-growing national outfit taking the lead in the embryonic antiwar movement. When the group needed a faculty sponsor to become an official campus organization, Professor Lundin stepped forward to fill the role. Being a rather modest person, it’s doubtful that many of the SDS activists were aware of their faculty adviser’s long activist career on the right side of history.

 

Not long after Jeff finished at IU and went on to found Vietnam GI out of Chicago, Leonard Lundin again displayed the courage of his convictions in what may have been his finest moment as a champion of reason and fairness. It was fall ’67, and SDS and the larger umbrella group, the Committee to End the War in Vietnam (CEWV), had grown frustrated with the series of major pro-war speakers brought to campus by the president, Elvis Stahr, a former Secretary of the Army.††† In November, yet another super hawk was due to speak, Secretary of State Rusk.

 

The antiwar coalition decided to escalate its protest tactics. They began with the familiar demonstration outside the speaker’s venue, but this time they then entered the auditorium and carried out a planned heckling campaign against Rusk. The Secretary kept his cool – in the third year of an increasingly unpopular war he was clearly no stranger to protest – but the activists’ behavior was  unpopular with the majority of the audience who had come to hear a major public figure.

 

Secretary of State Rusk at IU

 

Rusk left under police escort, and the next day near universal condemnation from both town and gown rained down upon the protestors. Whether pro or con on the war, the consensus was that calculated rudeness to a visiting speaker had crossed a line. While antiwar protesters had always been a small minority on campus, that had never been more evident than when 14,000 students signed a letter of apology delivered personally by student council members to Secretary Rusk.

 

There was, however, one lone voice that defended the protestors in a not uncritical, but reasoned manner to the effect that the Secretary of State was more than merely a senior officer of the government. He was also a central symbol of the war itself. In an open letter Leonard Lundin conceded that the protestors conduct had been unmannerly, but added the caveat that Rusk had come to campus as a:

 

                    very high official and active director

                    of events, a foremost representative and

                    presumably one of the architects of our

                   war policy, a symbolic figure, a sort of

                   ‘Mr Vietnam War’.

He continued, “It is not easy to be polite to someone who seems determined to make you a corpse, an arsonist, a murderer, or a bully.”

Concluding, Professor Lundin forcefully argued:

                    possibly there are worse things than
                    bad manners toward a public speaker.
                    Possibly one worse thing is a government
                    lying to its people.****

Leonard Lundin certainly did not win all his engagements, but he remained steadfast throughout the years in his intent to bear witness for what was right – a singular man.

*C L Lundin, Indiana University Oral History Interview (1994), 8.

**A W Mommer, “State Loyalty Programs and the Supreme Court,” Indiana Law J, 43:2 (1968), 462, fn 3.

***J C Bell, The Time and Place That Gave Me Life (2007), 211.

****T D Clark, Indiana University, Vol 3 (1977), 598-99.

Links to previous posts:

†     http://jeffsharletandvietnamgi.blogspot.com/2011/06/maverick-mentor.html 

††   http://jeffsharletandvietnamgi.blogspot.com/2011/12/unsung-hero-of-gi-resistance.html

††† http://jeffsharletandvietnamgi.blogspot.com/2012/09/the-generals-march-on-indiana.html and  http://jeffsharletandvietnamgi.blogspot.com/2011/08/elvis-and-new-left-at-indiana.html

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                  

 

 

 

         

 

 

The Generals March on Indiana

Back from Vietnam in ’64, my brother Jeff Sharlet returned to Indiana University (IU) to resume his education. Coincidentally, the same man under whom he had served in the long military chain of command was now president of the university. Elvis Stahr had been appointed Secretary of the Army by President Kennedy (JFK) in ’61. Stahr acquitted himself well during difficult times for JFK – the Bay of Pigs fiasco of spring ’61 and the Berlin Crisis, which culminated in the construction of the Berlin Wall that summer. Stahr held the Pentagon post until his departure for Indiana a year later.
 
His would not be an easy tenure at IU.  As the Vietnam War heated up with President Johnson’s (LBJ) major escalation in early ‘65, a small number of students organized, joining a Students for a Democratic Society (SDS) march on Washington DC in April of ’65, and sponsoring a local march in Bloomington in August. At the same time Robin Hunter, Bernella and David Satterfield, Jim Wallihan, Peter and Lucia Montague, and others worked on establishing an IU SDS chapter that Jeff soon joined.  As if providing grist for the antiwar mill during the next two years, President Stahr, who was well-connected in Washington, invited a series of major pro war speakers to campus.
 
It was quite an impressive roster, beginning with former Vice President Nixon, following with Generals Maxwell Taylor and Lewis Hershey, and concluding with Secretary of State Dean Rusk. Stahr invited no counter-balancing antiwar speakers of similar stature; Herbert Aptheker, theoretician of the American Communist Party, and a few other lesser known leaders of the left were all invited by tiny sectarian groups at the university with little following. IU, a sleepy Midwestern campus, was fundamentally a conservative place, and the pro war notables attracted very large audiences, while Aptheker drew only hundreds and was hung in effigy outside the student union.
 
What drew the Washington luminaries to the middle of the Great Plains? Presumably, Stahr had the contacts and the clout to persuade them to visit the campus as his distinguished guests. He clearly seemed to know some of them professionally since he often personally introduced the speaker in the university’s vast auditorium. For Nixon, accepting an invitation in the fall of ’65 was no doubt an easy decision. Out of office and working as a New York lawyer, he had ambitions to get back in the political game.
 
Indiana, long a Republican state, would be a good place to show himself to the thousands of conservatives who would come out to hear the former VP. Not many would have been aware that in ’54 then-Vice President Nixon had tried to persuade President Eisenhower (Ike) to save the beleaguered French colonialist forces, which were about to be overrun by Ho Chi Minh’s communist army at Dien Bien Phu—given Nixon’s anti-communist portfolio, it was a logical recommendation, but one which Ike wisely rejected.  However, the roughly 200 student activists marching in protest outside the auditorium that day were well aware of Nixon’s stance on Indochina.
 
The generals came marching onto campus the following spring of ‘66. General Taylor, a hero of WWII, came in March; he was so closely involved with Vietnam War policy that his arrival was unmistakably a pro war statement. After visiting Vietnam under JFK, Taylor recommended  the introduction of US combat troops and even the idea of ‘liberating’  Communist North Vietnam,  decisions the President declined to take. Subsequently Taylor served as Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and later as Ambassador to South Vietnam. He was an ardent supporter of the war.

President Stahr introducing General Taylor, ‘66

 
Taylor was followed to the rostrum in early May by a fellow flag officer, General Hershey, an avuncular 73-year-old whose military career went back to the Mexican Border War of 1916. He’d been head of the Selective Service System since ‘41. An Indiana native son, he was certainly a welcome guest at the Hoosier state’s largest university; like most schools, IU liked to bask in the glory of those with local connections who went far.  But for IU student activists as well as draft age male students, a protest was called for.  Hershey had recently told draft boards they could draft college men who were not performing well academically; prior to that, young men were automatically exempt from the draft while in college. 

 

Further, Hershey ordered an aptitude test to be resumed after a long hiatus that very month; performance on the test would determine who remained exempt and who did not.  For activists as well as poorly performing male students blindsided by the directive, the general represented the point of the spear marshaling young men to war in faraway South Vietnam.  A year later the general would issue another regulation aimed directly at college-deferred men, subjecting them to the draft immediately for demonstrating against a military recruiter. 

 

The last in the string of pro-war speakers was Rusk, a major hawk, at the end of October ‘67. Like Nixon, he carried personal baggage from the past that no doubt shaped his unremitting advocacy of the US mission in Vietnam. Rusk had been Assistant Secretary of State for Far Eastern Affairs in the postwar Truman Administration after the fall of China in ‘49. When the Republicans tarred the Democrats with ‘losing China’ to the ‘Reds’, Rusk made certain that his image as a tough-minded Cold Warrior was clearly visible.

 

Tapped by JFK for Secretary of State a decade later, Rusk had been prepared to throw himself with the zeal of a true believer into the young president’s crusade against international communism. However, it was understood by all that JFK would conduct his own foreign policy with Rusk as his diplomatic place holder, a status to which he accommodated himself without complaint. In Washington circles he was soon considered a mediocrity, a perception he subsequently did little to change.

 

After JFK’s assassination, Rusk continued to go with the flow and fly with the hawks on Vietnam. By ’67, other than LBJ himself and Defense Secretary McNamara, Rusk’s appearance before a student audience was guaranteed to serve as a lightning rod for antiwar protest, and IU was no exception. A special ‘reception’ was prepared by an activist group calling itself the “Dean Rusk Welcoming Committee.”

 

Each of the national advocates of the Vietnam War was met by an escalating level of antiwar protest at IU, albeit very small in scale compared to the size of the student body. At the time of Nixon’s arrival on campus, increased American involvement in the conflict in Southeast Asia was barely six months old. The campus protestors’ challenge was not students supporting the war; on the contrary, the war barely registered with the average IU student at the time – the main problem was student apathy.

 

The newly formed SDS chapter and a campus left group, YPSL or the Young People’s Socialist League, managed to mobilize nearly 200 demonstrators to march in protest of Nixon’s fall ’65 appearance. Predictably Nixon praised LBJ’s recent escalation – the start of a bombing campaign against the Communist North and the dispatch of combat troops to South Vietnam.

 

When the generals arrived on campus during the spring of ’66, the student activists were better prepared to mount protests, but as it turned out, a significant part of the campus population was also ready to counter-demonstrate on behalf of the war. Under a newly formed campus umbrella organization, the Committee to End the War in Vietnam (CEWV), a coalition of groups led by Jim Wallihan, Destiny Kinal Handelman, and brother Jeff for SDS; Professor Jim Dinsmoor, who was hoping to run for Congress as a peace candidate; and others, devised a different strategy for General Taylor’s visit in March.

 

Instead of protesting the general’s appearance on campus, a demonstration was organized in support of Indiana’s junior senator, Vance Hartke, who had come out publically against the war. Signs were made, marchers were urged to wear jackets, ties, skirts; and Taylor was greeted by a neatly dressed, orderly group of young people vocally supporting a Washington opponent of the war.

 

In May, General Hershey was met by a traditional demonstration that unexpectedly provoked a raucous counter-protest. Again, CEWV put out word and had no difficulty in bringing some 350 protestors to demonstrate in front of the auditorium. The general had recently changed the regs, advising draft boards they could begin considering student performance, i.e., those with poor grades could be drafted.

 

 

General Hershey and IU students ‘66

 

The demo, which moved on to Dunn Meadow, also included antiwar speakers who found themselves confronted by a crowd of 1500 to 2000 hecklers – including many fraternity boys -- waving American flags, throwing eggs and water balloons, and calling into question the demonstrators’ patriotism. Jeff, speaking as an ex-Vietnam GI, was hit by an egg, but, unfazed, he  issued the shouters a forceful challenge to put their money where their mouths were  since they were so gung ho for the war. Years later a fellow activist, Russell Block, remembered “the courage of the Vietnam vet and the cowardice of the frat rats who were all for the war as long as someone else had to fight it.”

 

 

Protesting General Hershey ‘66

 

By early ’67, it was evident that the only visiting speakers who were going to grace the podium of the campus auditorium with glowing introductions by President Stahr would be supporters of the war. In an exchange of public letters with the IU president, Jeff, by then doing his turn as SDS president along with vice president Bob Tennyson, challenged Stahr on the university’s one-sided speakers’ policy, but to no avail.† Jeff had graduated and moved on to the University of Chicago by the time Rusk was welcomed to campus that fall. As a member of LBJ’s war cabinet, the antiwar students decided his appearance required a different strategy for opposing Vietnam policy.

 

CEWV, SDS, and the campus Progressive Reform Party (PRP), a New Left group led by Guy Loftman victorious in the previous spring’s student body elections, decided that heckling Rusk would be the best way to get the community’s attention, far more so than simply marching in front of the venue with signs, so-called speech on a stick. In an interview in the campus paper the day before, a protest leader made clear their intentions, saying that in view of the magnitude of the war issue, “a breach of good manners seems of rather little consequence.” In effect, he argued, “social nastiness to combat the nastiness of war.”*

The next day some 200 activists donned black armbands, briefly marched around the water fountain in front of the auditorium, then entered the building uneventfully, dispersing themselves among the 3,000+ people in attendance. As the Secretary of State spoke, individual black armbanders in various parts of the room would stand up and yell things like ‘liar’, ‘murderer’ and the like. By that point in the war, Rusk was no doubt accustomed to interruptions, and he continued speaking in spite of the cacophony of shouts. At the end he left by a side door under police escort.**

 

Dean Rusk at IU, a perturbed Elvis Stahr behind him, ‘67

 

The universal embarrassment about the behavior of the protesters was, however, to a degree counteracted by a protest which had occurred the day before Rusk’s arrival. Corporate recruiters from Dow Chemical, manufacturer of deadly napalm, were due at the Business School (B-school) that day, and it was decided by the New Left leaders that the visit should not pass unchallenged. A few weeks earlier the company had attempted to interview job candidates at the University of Wisconsin, a far more actively antiwar campus, where a full-scale melee ensued – complete with tear gas and dozens of demonstrators and police alike sent to the hospital.  Events in Madison made the national news, and the IU security chief laid plans to avoid anything similar on his watch.

 

Secretly, campus security scouted the interview venue, coordinated with local and regional law enforcement, and even reserved a university bus to transport arrestees if necessary. Unaware of the university’s preparations, approximately 40 activists showed up at the B-school to meet the Dow recruiters. Campus cops tried to block their access to the room, but the students pushed their way forward and, led by the newly elected head of SDS, Dan Kaplan, began a sit-in. That triggered phase two of the security plan with city police and deputy sheriffs decked out in riot gear arriving on the scene.

 

The occupiers were ordered to leave peacefully and get on the waiting bus for police processing. Most did so, but four young men refused, and the forces of law and order moved in with swinging riot sticks, putting two of the students, Dwight Worker and George Walker, in the hospital. It was clearly a police over-reaction; as news got around in the papers the next day, the occasion of the Rusk visit, there was outrage at the administration and the cops in some quarters. Thus, for two days in the normally placid heartland, there was uproar over a war thousands of miles away. To some extent the dueling outrages precipitated by the back to back Dow and Rusk visits mitigated each other depending upon one’s politics.

 

However, the cumulative protests were eventually too much for Elvis Stahr, who publically criticized and demonized the campus New Left. A former senior officer in WWII and member of the government, and, above all, a Rhodes Scholar long accustomed to a string of unruffled successes, Stahr couldn’t take the dissonance of university life in the midst of a divisive war and resigned in bitterness at the end of the academic year.

 

*Quoted from the Indiana Daily Student in M A Wynkoop, Dissent in the Heartland: The Sixties at Indiana University (2002), 55.

**http://www.dlib.indiana.edu/omeka/archives/studentlife/items/browse/1?search=Dean+Rusk&submit_search=Search

† http://jeffsharletandvietnamgi.blogspot.com/2011/08/elvis-and-new-left-at-indiana.html