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Scoop
23-04-2025
- Politics
- Scoop
Quiet Mutiny: The U.S. Army Falls Apart
Vietnam is a lesson we should have learnt – but never did – about the immorality, folly and counter-productivity of imperial war. Gaza, Yemen and Ukraine are happening today, in part, because of this cultural amnesia that facilitates repetition. It's time to remember the Quiet Mutiny within the U.S. army – and why it helped end the war by undermining military effectiveness, morale, and political support at home. There were many reasons that the U.S. and its allies were defeated in Vietnam. First and foremost they were beaten by an army that was superior in tactics, morale and political will. The Quiet Mutiny that came close to a full-scale insurrection within the U.S. army in the early 1970s was an important part of the explanation as to why America's vast over-match in resources, firepower and aerial domination was insufficient to the task. 'Our army is approaching collapse' Marine Colonel Robert D. Heinl Jr wrote: 'By every conceivable indicator, our army that now remains in Vietnam is in a state approaching collapse, with individual units avoiding or having refused combat, murdering their officers and non-commissioned officers, drug-ridden, and dispirited where not near mutinous.' Armed Forces Journal 7 June, 1971. A paper prepared by the Gerald R Ford Presidential Library - ' Veterans, Deserters and Draft Evaders ' (1974) – stated, 'Hundreds of thousands of Vietnam-era veterans hold other-than-honorable discharges, many because of their anti-war activities.' Between 1965-73, according to the Ford papers, 495,689 servicemen (and women) on active duty deserted the armed forces! Ponder that. For good reason, the defiance, insubordination and on many occasions soldier-on-officer violence was something that the mainstream media and the Western establishment have tried hard to expunge from our collective memory. 'The officer said 'Keep going!' He kinda got shot' At 12 years old in 1972 I took out a subscription to Newsweek. Amongst the horrors I learnt at that tender age was about the practice of fragging – the deliberate killing of U.S. officers by their own men, often by flicking a grenade – a fragmentation device (hence fragging) – into their tent at night, or simply shooting an officer during a combat mission. There were hundreds of such incidents. G.I.: 'The officer said, 'Keep on going' but they were getting hit pretty bad so it didn't happen. He kinda got shot.' G.I.: 'The grunts don't always do what the Captain says. He always says 'Go there'. He always stays back. We just go and sit down somewhere. We don't want to hit 'Contact'. G.I.: 'We've decided to tell the company commander we won't go into the bush anymore; at least we'll go to jail where it's safe.' U.S. Army – refusing to fight ' Soldiers in Revolt: G.I. Resistance During the Vietnam War ' by David Cortright, professor emeritus at the Keough School of Global Affairs at the University of Notre Dame, himself a Vietnam veteran, documents the hundreds of G.I. antiwar organizations and underground newspapers that challenged the official narratives about the war. Cortright's research indicated that the U.S. Army was close to a full mutiny, not just the 'quasi-mutiny' of the early 1970s. It meant that the US, despite having hundreds of thousands of troops in the country, couldn't confidently put an army into combat. By the war's end the US army was largely hunkered down in their bases. Cortright says U.S. military operations became "effectively crippled" as the crisis manifested itself "in drug abuse, political protest, combat refusals, black militancy, and fraggings.' Cortright cites over 900 fragging incidents between 1969–1971, including over 500 with explosive devices. 'Word of the deaths of officers will bring cheers at troop movies or in bivouacs of certain units,' Colonel Heinl said in his 1971 article. At times entire companies refused to move forward, an offence punishable by death, but never enforced because of the calamitous knock-on effect this would have had both at home and within the army in the field. 'The rebellion is everywhere.' It was heroic journalists like John Pilger who refused to file the reassuring stories editors back in London, New York, Sydney and Auckland wanted. Pilger told uncomfortable truths – there was a rebellion underway. The clean-cut, spit-and-polish boys of the 1960s Green Machine (U.S. army) had morphed into a corps whose 80,000-strong frontline was full of defiant, insubordinate Grunts (infantry) who wore love beads, grew their hair long, smoked pot, and occasionally tossed a hand grenade into an officer's tent. John Pilger's first film ' Vietnam: The Quiet Mutiny ', aired in 1970. 'The war is ending,' Pilger said, 'because the largest, wealthiest and most powerful organisation on earth, the American Army, is being challenged from within – by the most brutalised and certainly the bravest of its members. The war is ending because the Grunt is taking no more bullshit.' That short piece to camera is one of the most incredible moments in documentary history yet it likely won't be seen during the commemorations in the Western world this year. At the time, Granada Television's chairman was apoplectic that it went to air at all and described Pilger as ' a threat to Western civilisation'. So tight is the media control we live under now it is unlikely such a documentary would air at all on a major channel. 'I don't know why I'm shooting these people' a young grunt tells Pilger about having to fight the Vietnamese in their homeland. Another says: 'I have nothing against these people. Why are we killing them?' Shooting the messenger Huge effort goes into attacking truth-tellers like Pilger, Chelsea Manning, Edward Snowden or Julian Assange, but as Phillip Knightley pointed out in his book The First Casualty, Pilger's work was amongst the most important revelations to emerge from Vietnam, a war in which a depressingly large percentage of journalists contented themselves with life in Saigon and chanting the official Pentagon narrative. Thus it ever was. Pilger was like a fragmentation device dropped into the official narrative, blasting away the euphemisms, the evasions, the endless stream of official lies. He called the end of the war long before the White House and the Pentagon finally gave up the charade; his actions helped save lives; their actions condemned hundreds of thousands to unnecessary death, millions more to misery. Race politics, anti-racism, peace activism Race politics was another important factor. African Americans were sent to the front in disproportionately large numbers - about a quarter of all frontline fighters. There was a strong feeling among black conscripts that 'This is not our war'. Black militancy, epitomised in the slogan attributed to Muhammad Ali, 'No Viet Cong ever called me nigger ', resonated with this group. In David Loeb Weiss' No Vietnamese ever called me Nigger we see a woman at an antiwar protest in Harlem, New York. "My boy is over there fighting for his rights," she says, "but he's not getting them." Then we hear the chant: "The enemy is whitey! Not the Viet Cong!" We should recall that at this time the civil rights movement was battling powerful white groups for a place in civil society. The US army had only ended racial segregation in the Korean War and back home in 1968 there were still 16 States that had miscegenation laws banning sexual relations between whites and blacks. Martin Luther King was assassinated this same year. All this fed into the Quiet Mutiny. Truth-telling and the lessons of history Vietnam became a dark arena where the most sordid aspects of American imperialism played out: racism, genocidal violence, strategic incoherence, belief in brute force over sound policy. Sounds similar to Gaza and Yemen, doesn't it? This year the U.S. may celebrate its first trillion-dollar military budget. When will they ever learn? I'll give the last word to John Pilger: 'I've been in the mud of America's war in Vietnam and I know that thousands of young American soldiers are fighting an enemy that isn't called 'Gook' – it's calledl The U.S. Army. And that takes guts.' RIP, John Pilger. You had the guts to tell the truth. Eugene Doyle is a writer based in Wellington. He has written extensively on the Middle East, as well as peace and security issues in the Asia Pacific region. He hosts the public policy platform
Yahoo
03-04-2025
- Business
- Yahoo
Faribault Mill has been a common thread for generations of Minnesotans
The Brief The Faribault Mill is celebrating its 160th anniversary this year. The mill was started in 1865 in the city that bears its name and is one of the oldest manufacturers in the state. At one point, the Faribault Mill made more than half of all the blankets made in America. FARIBAULT, Minn. (FOX 9) - The Faribault Mill is synonymous with the city it calls home. Big picture view On the shores of the Cannon River, on the outskirts of Faribault, there's a company that has been woven into the fabric of Minnesota for more than a century and a half. Some say the Faribault Mill manufactures magic, turning wool into its signature blankets and other accessories meant to stand the test of time. "Wool, as we call it, is nature's original performance fabric. It keeps you warm when you're cold. Most people know that in Minnesota," said the company's president and CEO, Ross Widmoyer. This year, the mill will make 125,000 blankets that will bring craftsmanship and comfort to every corner of the globe. From traditional designs to maps of the state and North Shore, the Faribault Mill is on a mission to show the world that wool can be cool. "We're the longest-standing manufacturer in the state of Minnesota. We've been doing this for 160 years. In fact, we're celebrating our 160th anniversary this year," said Widmoyer. The backstory The mill was founded by German immigrant Carl Klemer in 1865, just a couple of months after the end of the Civil War, as a way for local sheep farmers to sell their wool after shearing their sheep during the shearing season. But in the beginning, it was another animal that made the mill go. "We still in our tour room today have a horse collar and the horse collar was for a horse named Jenny. And Jenny's job at the original mill was to walk around in a circle, day after day after day, to generate the power needed to run the mill," said Widmoyer. The company moved to its current location in 1892, and went from horsepower to hydropower, harnessing the nearby river to fuel its operations. One of its longest-standing clients is the U.S. military, with the mill making blankets for the army and navy during both world wars, which pointed the company towards its future. "After World War II, as the G.I.'s came home, they bought homes and they needed blankets for their homes. And so this company really kind of started on the consumer journey," said Widmoyer. At one point, the Faribault Mill produced more than half of the blankets made in America, but in the 80s and 90s, the U.S. textile industry largely moved overseas to China. In fact, the mill is one of only two left in the country that can take wool from bale to blanket, all in one place. "We can do every single step of the 22-step process it takes to make one of our blankets. We can do every single step here in this building in Faribault, Minnesota," said Widmoyer. Local perspective That process starts with a bale of raw wool, which is dyed and dried, and then run through a couple of machines that comb the fibers and spin them into yarn. The yarn is put on a loom, where it is woven into fabric, which is eventually brushed to make it softer. The fabric is then cut into blankets, which are edged and labeled, before they are packaged and sent to customers, with the entire process taking anywhere from 8 to 12 weeks. "It's a complex process, but it's really interesting. And you can see it from start to finish," said Steevie Brown, director of product making and product development. What they're saying The mill closed in 2009 during the Great Recession, but new owners brought it back to life within a couple of years. It now has 85 employees, and for many of them, working there is a family affair. "So my grandma worked here for 63 years, and then I believe one of her sisters worked here as well. And my brother works here. My nephew works here. My son works here. My cousin works here. So there's a lot of us that either work here currently or have worked here," said Elizabeth Boudreau, the company's supervisor of finished goods. Recently, the mill made headlines when it announced it is permanently cutting the price of some of its iconic blankets by $100 to help fight inflation. "It's not the easiest thing to do, but we think it's the right thing to do," said Widmoyer. But after more than a century and a half as a Minnesota mainstay, employees hope the Faribault Mill continues to spread the warmth. "This is an icon. And we're proud that the company's been around for 160 years. And we feel like we're doing the work to lay the foundation to ensure it's here for another hundred and 60 years," said Widmoyer.
New York Times
18-03-2025
- Entertainment
- New York Times
For Tina Louise, Escape, Finally, From ‘Gilligan's Island'
The green-eyed TV star with the beauty mark on her cheek shows up at a school on the Upper East Side of Manhattan every Wednesday. For an hour, Ms. Tina, as the students and teachers call her, devotes herself to a pair of 7-year-olds who are struggling with reading. They'll go through whatever books the teacher gives her, like 'All Aboard!' or 'How to Catch a Witch.' When her time is up, she'll head home. None of the children will have any idea that Ginger from 'Gilligan's Island' — in real life, the actress Tina Louise — just spent the best 60 minutes of her week with them. Ms. Louise does not like to talk about the television show that made her a household name. She has no desire to revisit the years between 1964 and 1967, when she was marooned with six oddballs and a trunk full of slinky, sequined gowns. Through its run of 98 episodes, 'Gilligan's Island' was a prime-time success and became a Gen X touchstone in reruns. (The question of 'Ginger or Mary Ann?' can still evoke passionate debate among men of a certain age.) As for Ms. Louise, she can barely utter the name of the program, referring to it as 'G.I.' or 'The Series.' It's not that she regrets it, although she and the cast never received residuals. 'I'm very grateful for all the things that have happened to me and the opportunities that I've had,' she said in a recent conversation from her modest one-bedroom apartment in Manhattan. She is the show's last living cast member, and she recently celebrated a birthday she'd prefer not to discuss. ('I'm 29,' she said coyly.) She still has the signature beauty that made her famous, now on display in jeans and a black T-shirt instead of fancy gowns. There were few signs that her apartment was the home of a TV icon. There were three paintings of her from her 'Island' days and a glamorous shot at her wedding to the radio announcer and TV host Les Crane (they divorced in 1971, and he died in 2008). But the shelves were mainly lined with photos of her daughter, the novelist Caprice Crane, and twin grandchildren. She regularly receives fan mail, which she appreciates, and she's often recognized on the street. Still, she refuses to be defined by her Marilyn-Monroe-meets-Lucille-Ball-meets-Jessica-Rabbit role. 'I'd like to be known for other things,' she said. Those other things include a role in the 1958 drama 'God's Little Acre,' for which she won a Golden Globe; a solo album, 'It's Time for Tina,' in which she breathily sang classics like 'I'm in the Mood for Love' and 'Embraceable You'; studying with Lee Strasberg as a member of the Actors Studio; five Broadway plays, including 'Fade Out — Fade In,' with Carol Burnett (which Ms. Louise left to join 'The Series' in 1964). Post-'Gilligan,' she appeared in the original 'The Stepford Wives' in 1975, and later wrote two children's books. She also published a memoir, 'Sunday,' in 1997. (The audiobook version, which she read, came out in 2023.) It is not a gossipy dish on life in Hollywood; she's not interested in that. 'You can write whatever you want about me when I'm dead,' she said. Instead, 'Sunday' covers three very unhappy years a girl named Tina Blacker spent in the Ardsley Heights Country School and Camp for Girls, a boarding school in Ardsley-on-Hudson, N.Y. The place seems Dickensian at best. When Tina is caught talking with a friend late at night, a teacher makes her stand alone in a dark bathroom with spiders crawling on the ceiling. Her closest friends may be the caterpillars she hides in a box beneath her bed. She recounts the time another student stabbed her in the wrist with a pencil, leaving a faint scar she still has. 'We were just little angry girls that were put in this place, and nobody wanted to be there,' she said. Her mother, Sylvia Horn, was 18 when Tina was born; her father, Joseph Blacker, was 10 years older. By the time Tina was 4, her parents had divorced. Unable to care for her, her mother sent her to Ardsley. Sunday, visiting day, was the only bright spot, but her parents didn't always come. Once, they arrived on the same day and a vicious fight ensued. Tina's loneliness was palpable. 'I didn't have hugs,' she said. 'I didn't have loving situations.' She left Ardsley at 9 and moved in with her father and his new wife. She was happy. It was her first real home, and she longed to stay there. But when Tina was 11, her mother, who by that time had married a wealthy doctor — the third of her four husbands — wanted her to live with them in their fancy townhouse on the Upper East Side. 'It was like going from 'A Tree Grows in Brooklyn' to 'Eloise at the Plaza,'' said Ms. Louise, adding that she had no memory of living with her mother before that point. Once she settled in, her mother had her call her father and tell him that it was best that they not get together anymore. Tina didn't see him again until 'God's Little Acre' came out, by which time she was now Tina Louise, a starlet on the verge. She never forgave her father for not fighting for her. 'I was mad at him because he didn't go to court,' she said. She has a better understanding of her mother, whose own mother died when she was 3. 'She didn't have the loving that she needed,' she said. 'She always needed a man to lean on.' Her mother never wanted to talk about what happened to her at Ardsley. For years, Ms. Louise said, she felt as though she was gagged. But her time at Ardsley has also fueled her support for literacy and reading with children. In 1996, after seeing an article about a drop in students' ability to read, Ms. Louise joined Learning Leaders, a nonprofit that trained volunteers to tutor public school students throughout the five boroughs. For the next two decades Ms. Louise diligently worked with students, encouraging them in a mellifluous voice. Some of the teachers were familiar with her pedigree, but the students weren't. Ms. Louise recalled the young boy who raised his hand when the teacher asked if anyone knew who she was. 'She's the lady who talks to us and reads to us,' he said. 'I loved it, being anonymous, just being the person who read to the children,' Ms. Louise said. 'That was very important to me because nobody ever read to me.' After the organization lost its funding a few years ago, Ms. Louise reached out to the principal of the school where she attended seventh and eighth grade to see if there was any way she could help on her own. Ms. Louise goes to the school rain or shine. 'I love being in their presence for an hour. It's better than vitamins,' she said. 'I can't get back what I went through, but outside of being with my family, doing this is my special thing.' Her work with the children also inspired her to write two books: 'When I Grow Up' and 'What Does a Bee Do?' The bee book came after a conversation with some students. 'I asked them, 'Do you know what the bees do?' And everybody said, 'Sting!' And then I said: 'No, no, they don't. It's the wasp that stings. The honeybees don't do that. They feed us. They give us all these vegetables and fruits,'' she said. Unknowingly, Ms. Louise had drawn a link between her old and new lives. On an episode of 'Gilligan's Island,' Ginger, Mary Ann and Mrs. Howell formed a pop group called the Honeybees. Reminded of this, Ms. Louise was silent for a moment, then she giggled. 'That's funny,' she said. 'I forgot about that.'
