Hitler's graphic design.
Hitler's graphic design.
It's all about cutting through the clutter, right?
“We just don’t teach history like we should.”
How many times have we heard THAT one?
But really. How SHOULD we teach history?!
Well, here’s one way (but it’s illegal in twenty some countries and is danged awkward everywhere else)…
*break break*
Morris Magnusson knew something about public education; he had thirty five years of experience in the field. As a teacher, he worked the classroom. As a Principal, he managed the organization. As an appointed state administrator, he led the system. Looking back, it’s easy to see how much I learned from him. His whole life’s experience compounded, day by decade, bit by chunk, until the day he died.
He never quit learning.
His opinion on war, however, remained solid. He hated it. H-a-t-e-d, hated. The man taught me that war is the ultimate failure of diplomacy, transacted in blood. Not just the poetic kind of blood that writers refer to make a dramatic point. The kind of blood that splatters, stinks, and makes people sob. And hate.
Like all the best teachers, Morrie knew the facts of what he spoke — he was an oft-decorated combat veteran. The numbers behind his service told the story — seventy nine and a half combat missions, thousands of machine gun rounds, tons of explosive, and a death toll known only to God. Or the devil depending upon your point of view.
Still, he conducted himself as gently as a pleasant breeze. Especially as an old man. Never in a hurry, always seemingly available, ready to discuss anything that came to mind; Morrie was a real friend.
I’ve got three Morrie Magnusson stories to share. This one is about the time he spoke to my son’s Boy Scout Troop.
***
Maybe it was the “teacher” in him, but Morrie seemed to make time for talking about 'the war.’ Of course, he hated the violence, the pain, the suffering, the loss. He also willingly acknowledged, even seemed to revel in, the positives.
He remembered patting the side of his assigned machine, named “Maj Mac,” as if it were a living thing. A war horse. “I loved that airplane,” he’d say with a glint. As ridiculous as it sounds, I could imagine him lifting a cupped hand of 100 octane to the machine’s maw as a Revolutionary War cavalryman might feed oats to his steed; he’d whisper, “Here you go old girl, another battle awaits us!” then slap his hands clean on the leg of his flight suit, and clamber up the barrel-like fuselage, dropping into the beast’s acrylic domed saddle.
I’d just drawn his WWII mount and thought it’d be interesting to bring him to a Troop meeting as a kind of living Show & Tell. It was a last-minute idea, though — I had only the time to clear the mission with the Troop Leader.
“Sure, John! Sounds great — the boys will love it!” B***n said on the phone. “It’s a full agenda though. We’ll make time. How long you think this will take?”
“Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes. Morrie’s an ex-teacher and has talked a thousand times to classrooms.”
“Got it. Just let the other dads know when you show up, ok? Maybe we’ll put you on first. I’ll be late though; you need to let the rest know right away, ok?”
“Got it. Thanks B***n!”
Cleared-hot, I called Morrie and confirmed. He’d drive himself, too. “I’m planning on bringing the bag. Is that alright?” he asked.
“Sure. The boys have probably never seen anything like that…”
“Good. You know I’ll need a little help.”
“Sure. Maybe one of the boys will want to, too.”
“That’d be fine.”
I arrived at our regular meeting place, a church cafeteria, a bit earlier than usual. Indeed, the other troop leaders needed to know that I’d commandeered some time. I knew the potential impact of my last-minute Audible. The boys were expected to lead the meetings, following an agenda and protocol. It was tough enough for the “Boy Scout Dads” to keep their cool while ‘gently’ nudging these pre and teen kids to follow any plan. Adding a Guest Speaker, no matter how brief, was a recipe for all kinds of off-track diversion! A planned fifteen-twenty minutes could turn into forty five minutes of chaos in a flash.
The reaction of the adult leadership was bold, terse, and direct.
“This is bullshit, John! Did B***n clear this?! We’ve got a camping trip in (x days) and we’ve done NONE of the…”
Two other dads glared. Two more looked up at me quickly, then looked away. What the heck was I thinking?! I’d just hogged up a heaping helping of the most precious resource any of us has — time.
“Yeah, B***n cleared it. And yeah… I should have given better notice…”
Just then #2 looked past my shoulder. “Your guy is here,” turned and walked away.
Indeed. Morrie stood in the cafeteria entryway, smiling, holding a white duffle bag.
“Let’s get this meeting started…” someone stated flatly.
[Insert posting colors, salute, Pledge of Allegiance]
Chagrined, chastened, I didn’t wait for an introduction from #2. The dad’s cloistered at a round table in the back, the boys collected in the bench-tables at the front. I gave Morrie a forty five second intro that included my drawing of Maj Mac.
“We’ve got a short video to play about Morrie.”
Groans from the back table.
The video played for about three minutes.
Morrie stepped forward, set the duffle bag at his side and began a seven minute speech that spanned his Depression-era childhood to combat — whatever the inconvenience of the interruption, it was hard not to be interested as Morrie described shooting up a coal-fired, steam-driven locomotive with eight fifty calibre Browning machine guns. He ended his speech with a quick, one/two sentence wrap up that went something like, “…and then I got married, became a teacher and now I’m here! Any questions?”
Hands shot up.
All of them were about the glamor of war. Boys like that stuff. “How fast could you fly? Did you shoot anyone down? You were a Prisoner of War? Were you ever shot? Did they torture you? Did you kill any Germans? How many medals do you have?”
Morrie knocked the questions out like picking off targets, bang, bang, bang… “Boys, I’ve been told I only have a few more minutes. I’d like to answer all your questions but I brought something to show you. Want to see it?”
“YES!”
Shifting and mumbling at the back table; the dads checked their watches…
That duffle bag was stuffed tight! The zipper strained at the contents — a tug split it open like the egg in the movie Alien…
Morrie reached in and pulled on a flap of thick fabric; the damn thing spilled out onto the floor. Somehow, someway, I ended up with all of it and two of Boy Scouts jumped up to help.
What happened next stunned the room — the only sound that could be heard was the shuffling of feet and a chorus of quiet gasps.
The Troop Leader (who’d shown up by then) mumbled, “Holy sh*t…”
The flag was pulled taught, revealing the iconic image that represented every human vice since the fall of humanity. The few seconds of silence felt like sixty years.
“Yeah.” Morrie stated. “That’s the symbol behind what we were fighting.”
***
*break break*
Having a career in commercial communications, I’ve had to defend the idea that intentional imagery matters. Logos, images, pictures, and phrases all mean something. To this point, Creatives and their corporate clients generate manuals and methods for reproduction, specifying colors, placement, ratios. All well and good but in reality, the details of jealously guarded processes are really just make-work guidelines.
The real power behind logos, images, pictures, and phrases is in the people behind them.
Morrie spoke, “Killing is hard business. War is never good. It hurts everyone. This (we all looked at the flag) was the evil that caused it. We had a duty to stop it. I did my part and I’m proud of that.”
The boys got up, one by one, to have a closer look. Morrie explained how he’d gotten it from the wife of an infantryman who’d pulled it down from a Nazi admin building in Munich sometime in early May, 1945. He showed where the woman repaired the bullet holes. She’d given it to Morrie knowing he, of all people, would find a way to put it to practical use.
“Why’d she repair the holes?” one boy asked.
“Good question! I think she thought she was helping preserve the history.” Morrie replied. A few of the boys had opinions on whether it made sense to repair the flag or leave it in tatters. Talk about a history lesson, right?!
Anyway, by now, the dad-table had stepped forward to have their own look at the flag and in the process, stopped to shake Morrie’s hand, thank him for his presentation.
“Glad to do it. You’re very welcome. You’re doing a fine thing with your Scout Troop. Thank you for the opportunity… “
One of the dads pulled me aside. “That sucked the air out of the room! Do you know who designed it?”
“Hitler.” At least that’s who’s given credit for the iconic red, black and white imagery. I believe it, too. Before he became a contender for destroying the free world, he was an artist, busking his craft in Vienna, Austria. Hitler’s failure to get into proper art school has been used as a cheap shot at his lack of talent. Wrong. History geeks have pretty much accepted the more authentic reason was his inability to depict people.
Ironic, eh?
Like the bold, simple oratory that fueled his path to power, Hitler knew the power of bold, simple graphics. Like the lurid hate, fury, and cowardice that ensued, Hitler inflicted the damage that comes when we ignore the complexities and subtleties of dealing with people.
Postscript. Tomorrow is the Fourth of July. I intend on devoting - at least a few minutes - to thinking about what it means to be an American in the apparent chaos of the 21st Century. I’ll remember Morrie. And also, Rosie the Riveter. The Revolutionary War Minuteman. The Doughboys. The Tuskegee Airmen. The field nurses. The WASP and WAFSs. The artillerymen. The Missileers. The POWs. The officers. The enlisted. The politicians. The businesspeople. The conscientious objectors. The heroes, the cowards, the moms, the dads…
The kids.
And of course, the taxpayers that bring a pulse to the human story of diplomatic failure and things worth dying for.
Frankly, there’s no symbol that represents the sheer power of this whole, complicated epic like my own flag — sobered, grateful, sometimes inconvenienced, often mystified, I remain solidly proud of it.
I hope that other flag will always be a memory.
As one of the scouts in that room that night I unfortunately have to admit that my memory of this event is foggy… I know what you are thinking how could seeing a nazi flag unfurling in a Midwest church basement possibly become a faded memory. That I cannot answer. I assume it was because I was too young to really understand the gravity of what that flag represented and the evil that that flag had presided over. Also, you have to understand, I had known John since I was in elementary school and understood that if anyone was crazy enough to bring a nazi flag to a scout meeting it was him (and by extension anyone who he might bring to talk to us). As I look back at that striking image, looking through the blacked out eye censor bars to see my old friends holding a nazi flag... I’m glad I was there that day to see that. As an adult I can now truly comprehend the lesson of of that night, that behind the “glamor of war” lies the truth “war is never good, it hurts everyone” and history is not something to be shoved in the back of a closet or destroyed. It needs to be preserved and displayed (under the proper conditions of course). So that we may never forget those events and hopefully prevent them from happening again.
Great read !
Good Report !
My grandfather was the first scout master in Wilington Del. Over 100 years ago. It used to be an organization dedicated to leading boys into manhood. Now they won't even acknowledge they are men.
Unfortunately Boy Scouts has taken a turn away from its origin...even changed the name. They have forgotten their own history.