World War I saw these six men parade in campus khaki. Standing, from left, Lt. W. F. G. Thacher, personnel adjutant under the SATC; Col. John Leader, head of the reserve officers' training camp, with son John; and Col. William Bowan, head of the SATC. "Bill" is the bulldog, Leader's "pup." The three front men are unidentified.
Campus Khaki in World War I: officers of another day
Although the experiences of the campus and the community of Eugene in connection with the first World War were in the main dramatic and exciting, there was at least one phase of that experience that was—at least from the perspective of the years—high comedy, with an undercurrent of the tragic. I refer to the fever of spy-hunting with which we were afflicted, and to the suspiciousness which reared its gestapo-like head, and, in a few cases, led to positive persecution.
In recalling these incidents, I wish to make it quite clear that I am depending upon a rather untrustworthy memory of matters about which we never did know the exact facts. The whole experience was bred and communicated in the foggy atmosphere of hysterical humor. The best I can do is to tell the story as it was accepted at the time, and as my memory serves. I shall mention no names except those included in Dr. Sheldon's History of the University of Oregon. In his account, the author recites the case of the constrained resignation of Professor Allan Eaton, for what would now be called "subversive activities;" of Prof. Herman Swartz, of the German department; and of Miss Margaret Uplegger, a librarian, whose sympathies with Germany (at least in the early phases of the war) were unconcealed, and who was supposed to have inspired secret and dangerous meetings of her cabal in the depths of the library stacks.
These were major and overt instances. I have no wish to discuss the justice represented by the action that was taken. I could not if I would. I do not know. These persons were perhaps the "isolationists" of their time. But I do wish to call attention to the sanity and forbearance of the public and official attitude toward comparable cases in the present war. I ask no better evidence of our political and social maturity.
The humorous aspects of this espionage were centered largely in the activities of one man—a faculty member whom I shall call Professor Rufus. I am supplying that pseudonym in self-defense. The man is still alive and vigorous, although he has not been a member of the faculty for many years. As he is not without a sense of humor, I presume that he would laugh heartily now at his antics under war-time pressures. But I'm taking no chances. He might take offense, you know.
Professor Rufus was histrionic by training and by temperament. To "play a part" was to him the very breath of life.
When Col. Leader first organized his student battalion, as I recall it, he commissioned Dean Eric Allen and Dean Walker; and these two appeared in actual military uniforms. Now that was too much for Prof. Rufus. He hied him to Portland with but one purpose; and shortly after presented himself before the startled Colonel fully attired in officer's habiliments.
"Now, Colonel," he announced, "I have the uniform. It's up to you to make me an officer."
And the Colonel! The next day, in the "orders of the day," there appeared the order appointing Professor Rufus "lieutenant, professor of camouflage and director of funeral ceremonies."
But Lieut. Rufus never could muster the intricacies of close order drill. I remember distinctly his last appearance on the drill field. He was serving as right guide in the company. "The formation was "company front." The command, "Company left" or "Left turn" was given. The company angled off obediently to the left. But Rufus, head up, and the very picture of soldierly bearing, continued straight on, oblivious of the command. And he kept right on going— and never came back! That was the end of close order drill for Lieut. Rufus.
But spy-hunting was right down his histrionic alley. The most famous of his exploits had to do with the attempt to apprehend a certain character who had appeared in Eugene, and aroused general suspicion. This eccentric—bewhiskered, unkempt, and speaking in a German accent that Weber and Fields might have envied —called at the doors of houses in Eugene (my own among them) and asked if the woman of the house had any hair combs to sell. At other times he was reported to be seen counting telephone poles!
That was quite enough to arouse the suspicions of the spy-hunters. And especially those of Professor Rufus, who thereupon appointed himself a posse of one to hunt down this sinister character. He instructed all and sundry that he was to be notified at once of the appearance of the alleged spy.
At that time Professor Rufus was living in the house now occupied by Dean Eric Allen. Mrs. Rufus was in the East, and a young faculty member by the name of Roswell Dosch was making his home with Professor Rufus. On one occasion, when the professor was in the bath tub, Roswell saw—or thought he saw—the menacing figure of the German from an upstairs window, and, as instructed, called to the professor. Rufus leaped from the tub, seized a pair of binoculars which he kept handy, and dashed to the window, where he stood, tense, naked, and dripping, as he swept the landscape with his glasses.
It seems that a couple of students had gone to Springfield to transact some business, and one of them (Bob Cosgriff, as I remember) thought he saw the "spy" in a group of rough looking men on the S. P. tracks. Mindful of his obligation, Bob hurried to the nearest telephone, which happened to be in a butcher shop, and phoned the word to Rufus. The professor commandeered an automobile, and—so the story goes—rode on the running board all the way to Springfield, scanning the landscape as he passed.
Arriving at Springfield, he hurried at once to the butcher shop where Cosgriff awaited him. But by this time the butcher had become interested in the proceedings, and asked what was going on. Bob told him, and described the suspected party. The butcher looked blank for a moment, and then, comprehension dawning in his face, burst into laughter.
"Why, that's no spy," he proclaimed. "That's old John So-and-so. He's been on the section gang for years—and they're half way to Creswell by this time."
That, I believe, was the climax of Professor Rufus' spy-hunting adventures.
- By W. F. G. Thacher, February 1943, from Old Oregon.