|
|
 |
|
 Previous Entries: Trying to be scholarly in dealing historical facts and figures becomes a grind, particularly when so many “goodies” that cross my desk are peripheral to my duties as Academies historian. I miss the opportunity to share inside stories, a bit of barrack humor, an interesting photographic discovery, or even a jocular examination of the characters who framed the history of the school. Journal into Our History is almost with tongue in cheek --- a web page just for the fun of sharing. If you want something profound, move on! I have no schedule for posting stories so you should click back to see how the spirit moves me. If you wish to argue and test your rank, contact me at hartmab@culver.org. -RBDH
|
Robert B.D. Hartman, Academy Historian Jeffrey Kenney, Archival Webmaster |
|
REMEMBERING AL DONNELY (1-21-08) Culver has always been blessed with “characters” that, in some unique capacity, impact on the faculty and student body and bring flavor to the daily life of the community. Proclaiming someone a “character” is best left to the beholder’s imagination since one man’s favorite may be someone else’s dunce. In any small community, the preservation of a friendship demands a fair measure of circumspection. My short list from comes from those who have been here and are now entrenched in our memories. Their bona fides have passed the test. A.J. DONNELLY SERVED CULVER IN A VARIETY OF POSITIONS, BUT HE’S BEST REMEMBERED AS THE COUNSELOR OF “FIGHTING D” AND AS A MASTER INSTRUCTOR IN THE MATHEMATICS DEPARTMENT. HE WAS FAMOUS FOR GIVING NICKNAMES TO HIS STUDENTS. IF YOU REMEMBER YOURS – OR ANY OF YOUR CLASSMATES – PLEASE SEND THEM TO: hartmab@culver.org.
The Life and Times of a Quick-Witted Irish Mathematician by Robert B.D. Hartman Instructor, counselor, or academic dean, the tenure of Al Donnelly endures in the hearts and minds of alumni. While the chicken and the egg argument will continue to rage ad infinitum, there is little doubt that great men provide the substance which makes for great institutions. As Culver Military Academy entered its third decade, many of the first “old guard” who had marked the school with their personalities were in retirement. By the time his twenty-nine-year service as superintendent concluded in 1939, General Leigh R. Gignilhat looked at his second generation of institutional guardians with obvious pride, not realizing that he had provided the Academy with his most important and lasting gift, a faculty of outstanding merit. In the waning years of Gignilliat’s administration, the younger members of this group began to make their presence known. It was a generation which had been bruised by the Great Depression, and a time when steady, if not remunerative, employment was more than welcome. It also was a time when each barrack was supervised by bachelor faculty, a considerable benefit since accommodations and meals were provided as part of the compensation. This was the milieu, then, when Ernest Benson, Burt Curry, A.J. Donnelly, John Edgell, Dick Gimbel, Pat Hodgkin, and Bud Roberts joined the Academy faculty. Roberts and Gimbel were CMA alumni. However, all were products of eastern colleges and universities when they crossed into “Indian country” and took up residence on the north shore of Lake Maxinkuckee. ‘While each was to establish himself as a quality instructor, administrator, or coach, none was to capture the hearts of students more rapidly than the quick-witted Irish mathematician Alfred John Donnelly. That Donnelly’s place at Culver is firmly planted in memory is obvious whenever there is a gathering of alumni. For countless students and faculty covering almost four decades, no one enjoyed more respect—indeed, adoration— than Mister Donnelly, or A.J., Major, Colonel, Dean, or simply Al. Who could not find joy and humor in the personality of someone who confessed that his “secret ambition is to see a man come to Culver whose first name is Eggnog,” or forever trying to convince John Roos that Irish, not Latin, ought to be taught at the Academy. In a short autobiographical sketch for the Alumnus in 1975, Donnelly noted the influence colonels Elliott, Shanks, and McKinney had on his early years. What splendid guides and shapers they were in teaching the mysteries of Academy traditions to the rookie from Wellesley, Massachusetts. They set the example for faculty participation in a variety of cadet-related activities; demanded a quality performance in the class-room; and expected a firm, yet sympathetic, attitude toward each cadet. For A.J. Donnelly, they were examples to emulate, and he was a quick learner. His introduction to Culver came from Colonel William E. Gregory, who he met while at Harvard in 1937. That April, Gregory, the dean of the faculty, offered Donnelly a winter school contract of $1,650 plus room and board. Gregory also provided travel information and requested that Major John Henderson, the dean of admissions, forward a Culver viewbook along with winter and summer school catalogs. For the first two summers of Donnelly's Culver experience, he served on the Summer Naval School faculty, for which he received $200 per session for his services as a math teacher. In 1939, he moved to the Woodcraft Camp, where he spent most of the next seventeen summers as the Director of Instruction. After spending his first year (1937-38) in the winter school academic trenches, Donnelly was placed in charge of the academic guidance of the fifth class. His file, thereafter, begins to reflect growing praise from the administration. Gregory commended him for his teaching expertise and "the handling of the Fifth Class." World War II brought an exodus of the military tactical staff and a dire need of replacements. The administration drafted Donnelly and Ernest "Bugs" Benson to serve under a new sobriquet-counselor. Neither had held military rank, nor did they, as Donnelly noted, possess the "bearing required to be Tactical Officers." Benson moved in with the Artillery in Main Barrack, while Donnelly joined the Infantry's Company D. There was an immediate impact on the enrollment in these units as former Woodcrafters rushed to join Benson's organization or "Fighting D," perhaps because they thought it stood for Donnelly. His basic operational tenet was that "once kids recognize that you are genuinely concerned with trying to help them, they will do their darndest not to let you down." There are very few of Donnelly's boys who were not well-served by his gracious heart and wise counsel, or that ever let him down. Colonel John Sedden Fleet, then dean of the faculty, wrote in his Christmas greeting to Donnelly that "a goodly number of your students will spend more than their share of time on their knees [seeking] answers to brain twisters you have submitted to them for the holidays." He went on to express thanks "from an office-bound administrator for an instructor who has the God-given gift of humor that makes teaching a joy and not a task." The reputation of his holiday math exercises became so well known that Donnelly was requested to submit them to the Advanced school of education at Columbia University. One year his opening paragraph began: "Again it is Christmas, the time for gifts, [and] I have long been an ardent giver. In fact, eighty percent of my last monthly grades were gifts. (The other twenty percent were consolation prizes.) Giving away grades has now become monotonous. For a change, I have decided to give away some of the secrets which Santa confided in me when we were enthusiastic Euclids at the fountain of Geometry." But as the war continued into the spring of 1944, Donnelly found witticisms difficult to come by. In a letter to Acting Superintendent Seddon Fleet, he rejected a contract for the next year and announced his intention to enlist in the U.S. Army. "I feel in my heart that I could not be happy or content to stay behind and continue preparing youngsters for something I myself should be doing. I have no delusions about rank, promotion, or glory in the army. At my age, there is little in store-at best, the promise of being a non-commissioned officer." Fortunately for the Academy and its students, his enlistment was rejected, and Donnelly remained an academic fixture in the winter school and a stalwart in the Woodcraft Camp. Love came into Donnelly's life in 1945 when he met and married Bea Thornburg. Even the courtship and prospect of the vows of holy matrimony elicited typical Donnelly humor. In a special memorandum to his colleagues in the Woodcraft Camp, he reported his intentions by stating that "to talk of archery to a chap and yet not have pierced another's heart with the arrow of romance is to be a three-dimensional bluff. Furthermore, to laud Nature Study and still not have sorrowed under the clipping of crickets, the tufting of titmouses, or the banding of bluebirds about the home is to lack zealous leadership. "To advocate handicraft without having framed family fissogs or mended mother's mixer is far worse than to attempt the design of diapers for dying dinasours unless, perhaps, it was to `urge boxing without having been clipped by the hairdresser, cuffed by the confectioner, and floored by the florist.' I have read. I have comprehended. Now, I leap." The memorandum went on to note that "The leap, the rebound, and the recovery will require Donnelly's absence from 10 a.m. Sunday, August 5 through 6 p.m. Wednesday, August 8. Don't bedevil Benson with questions I haven't been able to answer all summer. Don't bribe him with Swedish coffee. And above all, don't ask him if he misses me, he might be honest." His performance as a teacher and counselor was outstanding. Colonel Shanks, the Math Department chairman, wrote in an evaluation that "Donnelly, more than any other member of the department, uses prepared lesson sheets to supplement the text keeps the youngsters alive with witty remarks and comments. . . and has a technique of his own which he uses to good advantage. In my opinion, Mr. Donnelly is one of our best teachers, and it is regretted that all of his time cannot be used in the classroom." Where he was spending much of his was as the counselor of Company D. In 1952, Gregory wrote that "During the ten years that Col. Donnelly has served as counselor, [the organization] has been in first place in scholarship on six occasions, twice in second place, and twice in third. Athletically, it was the winner seven times; second three." In Donnelly's final year as counselor, his company rewarded him with another athletic second place, the Austin Trophy, and the Young Trophy for Best in ROTC. One of his familiar expressions was "pretend you like it." Somehow, he was able to convey that message so clearly that it became a part of the Donnelly mystique. Whether it was teaching exponents, coefficients, or the use of parentheses, development of the cerebral, physical, or leadership qualities of his men in Fighting D, Donnelly had the formula which placed him in the pantheon of Culver giants. In September of 1953, Donnelly was appointed the academic dean for all third, fourth, and fifth classmen. He joined Bud Roberts and Ernest Benson in guiding the progress of the Corps of Cadets through the maze of course offerings. He also became an advisor to many of the younger faculty and provided balance to the veterans through a quick wit and an ability to bring consensus. An occasional meeting to discuss the status of some academic miscreant always brought wise counsel, particularly against taking harsh or Draconian actions when soothing diplomacy would provide a far better solution. Donnelly managed to convey the idea that patience was the best approach, recalling that many problem cadets had turned out to become successful despite their performance as fourth classmen—or even as members of the graduating class. One of his favorite stories regarded a comment sheet he had written about a particularly weak math student: “Unless this kid marries a girl who can add, subtract, and tell time, he just better plan to be a statue,” adding that “part of this youngster’s problem might be Daddy’s marriage to the chorus girl.” It was this sort of “Donnellyism” that led to oft- repeated stories among the faculty. As if to prove his admonition to be patient and understanding, Donnelly noted that the “kid” had become a successful surgeon. For his students, the first few class days were spent trying to adjust to this leprechaun’s teaching techniques. He addressed no one by their real name, choosing, instead, to re-christen each cadet with a suitable moniker which, for some convoluted reason, amused him, tickled everyone’s funny- bone, and made his classes the stuff of legends. Even for the student in grave academic difficulty, it was hard not to have a new look on life and a chuckle at this very funny man. If ever humor was to serve well as a tool of instruction, Al Donnelly had mastered its use. In September of 1960, at the age of forty-nine, he was named the first recipient of the William Pitt Oakes Chair of Mathematics. Presented by Lady Eunice M. Oakes of Nassau, Bahamas, in memory of her late son—a 1947 Academy graduate—the criteria called for the holder to be a full- time teacher. This marked the first time since 1942 that Donnelly’s efforts had been devoted fully to the classroom. His days as a draftee for difficult jobs had ended; no longer would he be tapped to prepare class schedules and teach guidance classes. After eight years in the academic office, he was to enjoy a more normal home life with Bea and his children, Shaun, Lela, and Susan. He was, at last, ready for a full-time commitment to teaching. And fifteen years after his evaluative report, Shanks had finally gotten his wish. It took little time for Donnelly to prove the wisdom of Shanks’ prescient comment. In September of 1962, General Delmar Spivey, the Academy superintendent, wrote “It has come to my attention that seven of your Honors Algebra 2 cadets scored 800 on the Advanced Mathematics Achievement Test.. . my personal congratulations on your contribution to this record.” Soon the chemistry which existed between Donnelly and Ray Jurgensen, his long-time colleague and chairman of the Math Department, generated an outstanding new geometry text. This collaborative effort was published in the winter of 1963 and became the most widely used geometry text in the United States. Though Donnelly was no longer expected to be at the various athletic events, he remained a loyal fan. He liked young people and embraced the concept of in loco parentis as a requirement of the boarding school. In October of 1963, while watching a company football game, he was blind-sided by a tackle from a contest on an adjacent field. His leg was broken, and he was rushed to the Health Center. There was something of an Irish blessing in this bad break. In a subsequent examination, Academy physician Dr. Milan Baker discovered an aneurysm, and Donnelly was rushed to Indianapolis for heart surgery. He made a speedy recovery and was soon back in the classroom, albeit with limited mobility. During his convalescence, he took up a new teaching tool—the overhead projector. To his surprise, it had applications he had never imagined. His always careful preparation schedule now included color transparencies, overlays, and the usual puzzles, which kept his students alert and learning. His success with this device stimulated others to try new technologies and improve the instructional process. Retirement came in 1975 and, in January of 1984, further recognition with the newly created Master Instructor Emeritus title. In expressing thanks to Jim Henderson, president of the CEF Board of Trustees, Donnelly wrote in his distinctive penmanship, “I came to Culver forty-seven years ago to stay a few years. I fell in love with the place—a love that grew stronger with each passing year.” Culver, too, fell in love with A.J. Donnelly. One cannot escape his impact, or the fact that his presence is felt so deeply by those who knew him. His death, scarcely a month after being honored with emeritus status, brought a physical close to his life. It did not, however, end his place in the hearts of those who had already discovered that proofs were not the sole province of the geometry class. Al Donnelly was a “living proof” of the conundrum that “great men make great institutions.” For those of you willing to test your mathematics prowess, a couple of Al Donnelly's holiday math challenges are reprinted here for old time sake. The answers are printed at the end of the article. Does Santa fear the dentist? "Santa often told me that it wasn't the dentist but rather the dentist's chair which he feared. His words were,`When I grow to be a mighty acorn, I shall visit all dentists who do not tip the dentist chair back at an angle greater than that angle which is 12 degrees more than twice its supplement." Question: What is the angle which the wise dentist will not exceed? What shape of fireplace does Santa prefer? "Like most youngsters, I had always thought the rectangular fireplace would be Santa's favorite. I learned, however, that when Santa was a boy he dropped a perpendicular bisector on his left front foot and as a result must avoid drafts (and conscriptions). He much prefers a fire-place in the shape of a trapezoid with equal diagonals. The equality of the diagonals enables him to sneeze without quenching the fire." Prove that Santa's favorite is known east of the Rockies as an isosceles trapezoid.
(Reprinted from the Summer, 1996 Alumnus magazine) -RBDH MAJOR NORMAN A. IMRIE AND BRUTAL HONESTY (1-15-08) Culver has always been blessed with “characters” that, in some unique capacity, impact on the faculty and student body and bring flavor to the daily life of the community. Proclaiming someone a “character” is best left to the beholder’s imagination since one man’s favorite may be someone else’s dunce. In any small community, the preservation of a friendship demands a fair measure of circumspection. My short list from comes from those who have been here and are now entrenched in our memories. Their bona fides have passed the test.
Major Norman A. Imrie, a member of the English Department and the public speaking instructor, arrived at the Academy in 1926 and quickly established his personally as a man of considerable wit. A natural born raconteur, Imrie, a graduate of Berea College, was soon identified by his colleagues as the perfect man to serve as toastmaster for faculty dinners. In 1931, he was invited to a black tie dinner in Chicago honoring Sinclair Lewis, the novelist. During the course of the black tie dinner, Imrie was approached by the host who confessed that the scheduled toastmaster had taken ill. Would Major Inrie pinch-hit and introduce the famous author?
Blindsided, Emrie demurred, but the exigencies of the situation won out
and he finally agreed. He arose and went to the head table and extended
his menu card to Lewis and asked him to autograph it. “No, no—do it now,” persisted the Major. Lewis agreed. Emrie proceeded to perform in his best Scottish wit and did a masterful job in his introduction. After Lewis had been introduced and made a short talk, he thanked Imrie for such a glowing introduction and then, still a bit huffy, asked why he was in such a hurry to have Lewis autograph. “Well,” explained Major Imrie, “if you must know, it was because I wanted to be able to say truthfully when I introduced you that I had read something you had written.” The story was oft reported on the campus, but Sinclair Lewis’ reaction was never revealed. -RBDH |
|
|
Point of information (1-15-08) The U.S. Coast and Geodetic Survey benchmark plate about 50 feet east of Sally Port noted that the location was precisely 40°13¢19² north, 86°24¢55² west, and 724.8 feet above sea level. The plate was removed during sidewalk construction. Obviously nothing else has changed! -RBDH |
|
|
SNOWBALL FIGHT! (1-09-08) Winter winds are sweeping across northern Indiana and for 114 years cadets have crossed the campus to the Mess Hall, attended classes, headed to the gyms – big and small – and trudged through snow drifts to movies, plays, and assemblies. When snow falls it’s inevitable that someone will throw a snowball and equally inevitable that a response will follow. It’s been a never-ending issue for the commandant and unit counselors. Windows are broken and impromptu ambushes become into full-scale battles. A Vedette cartoonist captured the battle between the commandant’s office and clever cadets. Cartoon below: 1930
As Commandant of Cadets and later as Superintendent, Leigh R. Gignilliat found himself in a never-ending conundrum of harnessing such energy and turning it into an “event.” In 1926, he organized and promoted a famous “Regimental Snowball Fight.” Rather than turn cadets loose on the company streets, he used the military organization of the Academy for a “face-off” between the Infantry (there were as many as eight companies plus the Band) and the Mounted Services – Artillery and Cavalry, all ready and willing to do battle in an organized and controlled manner. Gignilliat’s modus operandi separated the units by, not surprisingly, created a “no mans’ land.” The Great War, (1917-18) was part of everyone’s memory and for Gignilliat it offered a dramatic excuse to keep the units separated. Always searching for ways to promote the Academy, Gignilliat urged Fox Movietone News to film the event. In 1926, the cadets stood in order while film crews climbed to the top of a platform and another set up station on a step-ladder. When Fox was ready, the commandant had the two battalion commanders march the combatants to their designated offensive positions, the Infantry on one side of the “no-mans’ land,” the mounted services on the other.
Let the battle begin.
“No-mans land” was observed, briefly, before flanking movements begin and the Mounted Services saw their numbers falter. A cadet (below) misses the fun – he’s walking penalty tours for some unknown transgression!
Suddenly Culver’s “Cossacks” led by a faculty officer (unidentified, but probably Colonel Robert Rossow) galloped in from the east and charged across “no-mans’” land. Stalwart though they stood in battle, the Infantry knew the mismatch and abandoned the battlefield. Though not intended to bring an end to Regimental snowball battles, the administration found that cadet ingenuity, and the inability to control 750 cadets, brought unacceptable risks. So, . . . now . . .
Cartoon: 1924 “Well, there’s nothing new at Culver!”
|
|
