HIGHER EDUCATION AND ANTI-VIETNAM WAR DEMONSTRATIONS COMPARING OCCURRENCES AND ADMINISTRATIVE RESPONSES

by WILLIAM LEE COLTRANE, B.A., M.A. A DISSERTATION IN HIGHER EDUCATION Submitted to the Graduate Faculty of Texas Tech University in Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree of

DOCTOR OF EDUCATION

Approved

May, 1992 iinl '3 iqqz A/o,//

Copyright 1992, William Lee Coltrane ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The phrase "no man is an island" surely applies to one undertaking an investigative study such as this.

I am, therefore, deeply indebted to certain people, and groups of people, who provided their support, advice, encouragement, and critique toward this work's completion.

First among these is Dr. Leonard Ainsworth who always had the time in his very busy schedule to answer my questions and to lead me through this sometimes seemingly

Sisyphean task. I must further give a hearty thank you to professors William Sparkman and Alwyn Barr for their many comments pertaining to style and to possible directions for additional research; and also, of course, to Drs. Robert Ewalt and Judith Henry for their judicious counsel relating to administrative questions. Moreover, this work could never have been completed without a vast amount of assistance from the personnel at Texas

Tech University's inter-library loan department, the

Texas Tech University Southwest Collection, Rice

University's Woodsen Research Center, and Southern

Methodist University's Degolyer Library Archives. Finally,

I must say thank you to the friends who stood beside me for being patient and understanding, when I sometimes was not.

ii TABLE OF CONTENTS

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 11

ABSTRACT IV

I. INTRODUCTION 1

II. 1960-1964: ROOTS 19

III. 1965 GENESIS 33

IV. 1966 PERSERVERANCE 51

V. 1967 AGGRESSION * 58

VI. 1968 ESCALATION 72 VII 1969 MORATORIUM 9 3

VIII. 1970 DEATH 109 IX. 1971-1975: PEACE 131 X. SOUTHERN METHODIST UNIVERSITY 154 XI. RICE UNIVERSITY 172

XII. TEXAS TECH UNIVERSITY 200 XIII. SUMMARY AND CONCLUSION 224

LIST OF REFERENCES 253

APPENDICES 265

111 ABSTRACT

. . 1 Nearly half of American colleges and universities experienced at least one war-related protest during the Vietnam War period. And even though numerous works have been written on the subject of campus unrest, most have involved the incidents at only one school. A study needed to be produced for readers to compare student antiwar activities and administrative responses at several institutions. This work accounts for a few of the more publicized demonstrations as well as some of the lesser known events. It additionally introduces the occurrences at three previously unpublicized schools--Southern

Methodist University, Rice University, and Texas Tech

University. 1 The Vietnam War had little effect on college students during the early 1960s. But after President Lyndon

Johnson began increasing the number of American troops in Southeast Asia, many students and faculty became more concerned. In 1965, teach-ins, not confrontation, provided impetus for the movement, and in 1966, most students seemed confused about their role in ending the war, so only a few sporadic protests occurred.

During 1967 and 1968, however, antiwar students shifted to a more resistant stance, primarily directing their

iv anger against ROTC programs, and Dow Chemical Company and military recruiters being on campus. Then, in 1959, large numbers of students participated in a national

Vietnam War Moratorium. But campus antiwar activity reached its zenith in 1970 after the Ohio National Guard killed four Kent State University Students.

America's participation in the Vietnam War created a strained atmosphere on many campuses, forcing university officials to respond to adverse situations. Some of their decisions adequately prevented violent confrontation; others proved disastrous. Accordingly, this dissertation first regards several cases in which antiwar students and administrators clashed; it differentiates between some administrative responses to the demonstrations; and it suggests some guidelines that administrators might consider for attaining peaceable settlements, primarily through better communication.

V CHAPTER I

INTRODUCTION

War I abhor. And yet how sweet The sound along the marching street Of drum and fifei And I forget Wet eyes of widows, and forget Broken old mothers, and the whole Dark butchery without a soul. (Larned, 1908:121)

Throughout history, people have confronted the problem of how to live together harmoniously. Some have chosen aggression as the means for combating incompatibility while others, abhorring the idea of physical conflict, preferred instead to vent their energies toward supporting more peaceful solutions. These latter individuals, commonly referred to as pacifists, come from all walks of life; they represent all careers and all socio-economic positions, and they are multitudinous.

Throughout the twentieth century, higher education students have been a part of the American peace movement, but their role during the Vietnam War reached new heights in participation and in violence.

Much has been written on the subject of campus unrest, but most of these works single out occurrences at the most selective and newsworthy institutions.

Antiwar movements at some of the lesser known schools have been ignored, and few authors have made an effort to acknowledge the activities at more than one institution

(Astin et al., 1975). A study needed to be produced ^ that would allow readers to compare antiwar movements | and administrative responses at various colleges and universities throughout the nation. There is, after v" all, more than a slight variation between different university climates and administrative procedures.

As Franklin L. Ford, history professor and Dean of Arts and Sciences at Harvard University in 1969 said:

All human institutions have '-^ their flaws and vulnerabilities, but they are not all the same.... It does not help anyone's under­ standing of a given case to assume that ... after Berkeley and Col­ umbia, it is clear just what Yale or Chicago or the University of Minnesota is in for. (The Rice Thresher, 1969, February 6)

This study accounts for some of the more important antiwar demonstrations that affected American colleges, students, and administrators between 1960 and 1972.

Although it is necessary to provide the reader with a brief sketch of some peace activity prior to the anti-Vietnam War student demonstrations, especially those cultivating incidents that occurred early in the

1960s, the pith of this work concerns those most turbulent years, 1965 to 1970. During that period, nearly 50% of four-year colleges and universities experienced at least one war-related protest (Astin et al., 1975), as dissent and disruption swept across the nation's campuses in response to America's involvement in Southeast

Asia and higher education's support of that war through defense-related research. Reserve Officers Training

Corps (ROTC), and industrial and military recruiting on the campuses.

Although American antimilitary activism has existed since the Revolutionary War period, no organized student group came forth prior to 1900 (Altbach and Peterson,

1972). John William Burgess, who founded Columbia

University's political science department in 1880, is often thought to be the father of American political science; he might also be regarded as the father of organized peace movements in American higher education

(Windmiller, 1968). Burgess, a Union soldier during the Civil War, found the slaughter and devastation of combat appalling. One night, in 1863, while standing guard amidst the screaming and crying of wounded and dying soldiers, he vowed that "if a kind of Providence would deliver me alive from the perils of the existing war, I would devote my life to teaching men how to live by reason and compromise instead of by bloodshed and destruction" (Burgess, 1934:29). He later established at Columbia a school of pacifist thought (Windmiller,

1968), that set the stage for forthcoming peace organizations in the twentieth century.

Several antiwar groups developed during the 1900-1930 period. These organizations conducted national rallies, brought speakers to the colleges, circulated peace-oriented periodicals, and recognized the campus as an important facet of the national antiwar movement. Prior to World

War I, Cosmopolitan Clubs, the Intercollegiate Peace

Association (IPA), and the Intercollegiate Socialist

Society (ISS) appeared on campuses. The Cosmopolitan

Clubs, which began at Wisconsin in 1903 and Cornell in 1904, included students from all nationalities.

These groups addressed the problem of war, preached a "pacific-minded internationalism," and worked toward promoting global friendship and understanding between university students. In 1907, eight universities represented the association, and by 1911, two thousand individual members from sixty countries represented the organization. The clubs also improved relations between students of diverse races and, during the

1930s, aided Black students in becoming involved with campus movements. (Naysmith, 1910; DeBenedetti, 1980;

Altbach, 1974). In 1905, President Noah Byers of Goshen College, a private liberal arts college in Indiana, hosted a convention of college students and professors dedicated to peace; this group became the IPA. That year eight colleges, all controlled by religious denominations fundamentally opposed to war, represented the IPA.

The following year, 1906-07, another twenty-eight institutions, none having religious ties, became members of the association, and in 1908, eleven others joined its ranks. Most of these forty-seven colleges were located in the Midwest, but the IPA established student associations such as history and political science clubs on any campus that would promote peace (Falk, 1908).

The most important student organization during this period, the ISS, involved itself with abolishing military training programs from campuses, and its effort seemed quite successful in rousing student support. A poll conducted among middle-class college students in 1915 regarding ROTC and militarism on college campuses showed tnat 79% of the students surveyed opposed these programs

(Peterson, 1972; Altbach, 1974). By 1917, ISS had some two thousand members, and although the organizations's early significance cannot be denied, it later developed into the Students for a Democratic Society (SDS), the largest and most militant student organization of the Vietnam era.

The Young People's Socialist League (YPSL) appeared in 1914 proposing to challenge World War I, but beyond promoting a few strikes against compulsory military programs and making some strong antiwar statements, the YPSL actually provided very little protestation.

It and many other Socialist and Communist sponsored organizations concentrated more on promoting political ideology than in turning their full attention to peace

(Altbach, 1974).

Dejected by America's apparent war preparations after 1914, pacifist groups began to expand across the country (Cantor, 1968). These groups did face opposition, and although many students had been castigated for their roles in the peace movement, the more important issues involved faculty dismissals. For example, in April,

1917, the University of Pennsylvania terminated political economist Simon N. Patten reportedly because of his age, but Patten believed that the university dismissed him because of his pacifism. On March 31, 1917, he had presided at a pacifist meeting; he then allowed his name to be printed as a speaker for an upcoming meeting forbidden by the police. Afterwards, university officials served Patten his termination notice because. 7 the notice read, he had "attained the age of 65 years."

Patten argued, however, that his original contract with the university declared that he "is confirmed in the said professorship without limitation of time" (New

York Times, 1917, April 7, 13:6).

Then, in August, 1917, Dr. Alan Whitney of Syracuse

University stood before the New York Grand Jury for stating that he objected to the government's war effort.

Two months later, Columbia University trustees ousted

English and comparative literature professor Henry

Wadsworth Longfellow Dana and psychologist James Cattell for encouraging a spirit of disloyalty to the United

States. Cattell wrote several congressmen, urging them to vote against sending drafted soldiers to Europe.

The university released Dana because of his activities with the Peoples' Council--an organization dedicated to weakening action of the United States' government in the war against Germany (New York Times, 1917,

October 2).

The following month. University of Virginia journalism professor Leon Whipple made a speech in which he claimed to be a pacifist. The very next day, university President

Edwin Alderman received a telegram from Virginia Democratic

Senator Carter Glass demanding that Whipple be discharged

(Bruce, 1922). The Board of Trustees terminated Whipple 8 after Alderman issued a formal statement repudiating

"the reported utterances of Professor Whipple as unpatriotic and calculated to give aid and comfort to the enemies of the Republic in a grave moment of national peril" (Bruce, 1922:365).

Universities throughout the country accepted faculty resignations and disciplined or suspended others, but as America began to slide out of isolation, and to take an immediate interest in the occurrences on the European

Continent, many pacifists very reluctantly began to shift their views about the war. They remained, however, at odds with the war advocates. Bourne (1919) concluded that most intellectuals unsympathetic to war could not understand why the American professorate would flood this country with the refuse of pro-war ideology. They reminded their warmongering colleagues of the outrage that had swept through American college campuses after the manifesto written by ninety-three German professors defending what their country was doing. The manifesto proposed that Germany had not entered into the war desiring to conquer foreign territory, she was only defending herself against a hostile coalition (Bourne, 1919).

Nevertheless, catnpus antimilitary activity quickly faded after American troops joined the fighting forces in Europe, and the pacifist groups that had been organized between 1900 and 1919 all but vanished. Student pacifist factions, however, did not completely disappear. After

World War I, many students believed that another war would soon occur, and during the 1920s antiwar movements again began to grow, with students directing their protests primarily against ROTC and compulsory participation in the programs (Altbach, 1974).

The first national student peace organization formed after World War I, the Fellowship of Youth for Peace

(FYP), appeared in 1922. It represented pacifist ideologies among Protestant Christian students and, keeping with the trend of the times, devoted its energy against campus military training programs. But groups other than the FYP also developed during that decade.

For instance, college pacifists from throughout the nation met at Indianapolis in 1924. All persons attending gave their solemn word never to be a part of war or engage in any occupation supporting war aims. Several additional antiwar groups had already begun to develop, including the Intercollegiate Liberal League (ILL) and the National Student Conference for the Limitation of

Armaments (NSCLA). These two organizations joined forces in 1921, forming the National Student Forum (NSF), which of all the new groups, most concerned itself directly with antiwar ideology. By 1923, NSF chapters existed 10 at more than three hundred colleges and universities.

In 1922 the NSF began publishing New Student, its own antimilitarist journal. The journal, devoted to the

issues and views of the pacifists, denounced war as

being a part of America's scientific spirit in which

no moral purpose could exist; it fervently attacked

ROTC programs and arms expenditures and was devoutly

pro-peace. But because its political bent interested

only a small portion of the total student population,

the journal began to lose strength, and its publication

ceased in 1929 (Altbach, 1974; La Farge, 1929; Peter­

son, 1972).

During the 1920s, many professors once again voiced

antimilitarist opinions and ran into difficulties from

patriotic groups such as the American Legion. These

organizations spoke out against educators who showed

disloyalty during the war or who expressed pacifist

beliefs after the war's end. Pacifism then increasingly

became synonymous with treason among some, and those

professors who could not supress their political views

were punished through disparagement and dismissal from

the universities. But more than just these organizations

nipped at the heels of peace-oriented academicians.

The American Association of University Professors (AAUP),

for example, which had been formed to protect college 11 professors and their rights of free expression, gave its support to the repression of academic freedom in war related matters and urged the dismissal of those professors whose dogma advocated draft resistance or evasion (Beale, 1936).

Similar to the 1920s, student antiwar campaigns during the 1930s focused heavily on campus military programs. Disputes often arose at some of the larger state universities that required student participation in these programs. By the mid-1930s the peace issue became a major question on campuses and, because many students tended to support pacifism and held antiwar sentiments, some Americans believed that if another war occurred, they would not be able to rely upon their youthful citizens to help the country (Altbach, 1974).

Chicago hosted the decade's first major antiwar conference in December, 1932. That Student Congress

Against VJar attracted six hundred students from fifty-three colleges across the nation (Altbach, 1974). Next year,

1933, the International Collegiate Conference met in

San Francisco. Students representing several institutions including Stanford, St. Mary's College, San Francisco

State Teachers College, and San Mateo Junior College adopted a resolution pledging absolute refusal to be conscripted into any war or military service. And in 12

1934, some 25,000 students joined in the first national antiwar student strike, organized by the National Student

League (Pacifism, 1933).

In light of such activity, the Literary Digest

(January 26, 1935:6, 37) conducted a College Peace Poll measuring the extent of antiwar sentiment among students.

Of the 65,000 students questioned, 67.4% believed that the United States should remain neutral if another war began and 83.1% indicated that they would not fight if the United States invaded another country; but

81.8% said they would fight if another country invaded the United States. Even though the majority of college students leaned toward pacifism, the height of campus antiwar activity during the Thirties came after 1935.

The rise occurred partly because of maturing European

Right Wing Governments, but another event also bolstered peace movements at American colleges--The Oxford Pledge.

The pledge originated when members of the Oxford University

Student Union voted unanimously that they would under no circumstances go to war for the King and the country.

It did not take long for some of the more pacifistic

American universities to embrace the Oxford idea by adapting the pledge so that students vowed never to participate in any of America's wars. In 1935, nearly

150,000 students, focusing on the Oxford Pledge, staged 13 another national strike. And in 1936 more than 500,000 students participated in a most successful strike organized by the United Student Peace Committee (USPC) and sponsored by the American Student Union (ASU). No violence occurred during the strikes which constituted only limited disturbances involving students walking out of their classes for about an hour (Pacifism, 1933; Altbach,

1974) .

As World War II approached, however, a pro-war student movement emerged on the campus scene challenging pacifist groups. These new groups believed that the international peace situation was rapidly deteriorating and that America must once again prepare for an overseas confrontation. When Adolph Hitler began making extraordinary demands in Europe, pro-war activism increased. By 1939 the influence of peace organizations began to dissolve, and after Japan attacked Pearl Harbor, only a few still supported the antiwar movement. As

America once again assumed an active role in world conflict, the vast majority of Americans rallied together, and when the United States officially entered 'World

War II, most peace movements collapsed under the weight of national unity (Altbach, 1974)

The 1930s heightened the antiwar movement among

American college students. It was a period in which 14 many students at first showed concern for the war issue, but toward the decade's end, organized pacifism began to wane, and as America prepared for battle, the college student population also began to mobilize. In the early

1940s, approximately 440,000 students enrolled in army and navy training programs, and by 1942, pro-war ideology practically dominated American campuses (Altbach, 1974;

Peterson, 1972).

By the end of World War II, most student peace organizations had disappeared. Those most influential during the early 1940s provided little or no activity outside of a few larger universities, a trend that continued throughout that decade and into the next.

During the first half of the 1950s, then, there was almost no antiwar activity on campuses. Although many students disliked the Korean War, it provoked few protests in its early stages (Crawford, 1965).

However, this sentiment did not outlast the war.

The Soviet Uniion had broken its Yalta agreements and began piecemeal to consume Eastern Europe, and many

Americans believed that possible Russian expansion presented a very real danger. As a result, two new groups evolved in the late 1950s--the National Committee for a Sane Nuclear Policy (SANE) and the Student Peace

Union (SPU). The former, founded in 1958 by A. J. Muste, 15

Norman Cousins, and Norman Thomas, focused mainly on ending nuclear testing. The SPU, founded in 1959 at the University of Chicago by Kenneth and Ele Caskins, opposed the militarism of both Russia and America and proved to be an important force on college campuses between 1959 and 1963. By the end of 1961, SPU had twelve chapters totaling over 3,500 student members; at that time it was the largest antiwar group in America,

But when the Soviet Union and the United States signed the Test-Ban Treaty in August, 1963, both SANE and the

SPU found themselves without a central issue and began to decline (McGill, 1973; Teodori, 1969; Crawford, 1965).

Between World War II and the 1960s, then, student peace movements were almost non-existant. Likewise, \ the Vietnam Conflict scarcely created concern among college students during its infancy. Although some few isolated events did occur, politically-oriented student uprisings, spurred by Southern civil rights activism, really began at Berkeley University in 1964.

Afterwards, the antiwar movement grew m strength and coherence, and from peaceful assemblies to death. But in 1965, during the movement's early stages, students wanted more dialogue than confrontation, and teach-ins provided the key focal point for expressing antiwar sentiments. Then, during 1966, students seemed confused 16 about the direction of their activities, and only minor, sporadic protests took place. However, by 1967, college students' activity shifted to resistance, and on several occasions campus protesters directed their anger at government and military recruiters being on campus.

The major protest issues between 1965 and 1968 pitted students against Dow Chemical Company, the leading manufacturer of napalm, an incendiary jelly used by

American forces in Vietnam. When Dow's representatives attempted to recruit employees from universities they met stiff resistance from many students opposing the company's pro-war activity. Antiwar enthusiasm accelerated during the fall of 1969 when large numbers of students participated in a national moratorium honoring those killed in Vietnam; and the protest movement reached its zenith in 1970 when President Richard Nixon ordered f

United States troops into Cambodia, and the Ohio National

Guard killed four Kent State University students. Shortly after the Kent State tragedy, antiwar demonstrations subsided, and between 1971 and 1975, student antimilitary activity, concomitant with the Vietnam War, came to a close.

Almost all of this nation's student peace movements collapsed once America became involved in a war, but during the 1960s, the Southeast Asian conflict did 17 not promote a national patriotism induced by earlier wars. In fact, sending young men to Vietnam, together with some higher education institutions' support for

the war, invigorated student protest instead of leading

to its demise, as had occurred with previous movements.

Consequently, America's involvement in Vietnam created

strained situations on some campuses, especially during

the latter half of the 1960s, forcing university

administrators to take action against the disruptive

atmosphere suffered by their institution. Some of their

decisions adequately prevented violent confrontation;

others proved disastrous.

The tragic results of those inadequate university management practices during campus crises provides the

impetus for this discourse. Accordingly, it first

considers some situations where students protesting

the Vietnam War and university administrators clashed;

it introduces the occurrences at three previously

unpublicized schools--Texas Tech University, Southern

Methodist University (SMU), and Rice University; it differentiates between methods that some administrators employed in responding to the demonstrations; and it provides guidelines that administrators might consider for reaching peaceful and agreeable settlements with student demonstrators. 18

This investigation primarily involves the relation­ ship between student action and administrative reaction, but additional research might be appropriate in such areas as the sociology of student antiwar attitudes, and the correlation of administrative psychology with types of response. Additionally, one must consider that on some campuses, students representing minority issues and university related problems shared the podium with antiwar protesters. In such cases, evidence pertaining only to the war issue was used. Furthermore, more detail has been provided for the accounts of Columbia

University and Kent State University because of their importance to the student antiwar movement. Finally, in evaluating the Texas Tech, Rice, and SMU chapters, the reader should realize that much of the evidence taken from oral interviews represents viewpoints reflected upon some twenty years after the fact. Although other documented sources generally substantiate the interviewee's conclusions, some of their personal opinions may have changed. CHAPTER II

1960-1964: ROOTS

The anti-Vietnam War student protest movement beganl slowly in the 1960s. At that time, other issues, such as civil rights and free speech on campus, dominated student concerns. Some small demonstrations against the war occurred in 1963 when South Vietnam's Madame

Ngo Dinh Nhu toured the United States seeking support for her government in a conflict that many American students knew little about. Still, a major antiwar ideology had not developed. That changed soon after

Lyndon Johnson became President. During his campaign,

Johnson prophesied peace, but after his election, he advanced America's role in the Southeast Asian War and helped to promote a wave of student antiwar demonstrations that rocked this country's campuses for several years.

Following the end of World War II, nearly all efforts to organize national student antiwar groups proved unsuccessful. A very large number of returning veterans entered American colleges and universities after the war. They cared more about pursuing their academic goals and laying a solid foundation for their futures than becoming involved in political movements.

Consequently, for nearly twenty years student movements

19 20 lost their popularity at most campuses. This calm period, sometimes referred to as the "silent generation," reflected the Cold War (President's Commission, 1970). But by the early 1960s, American colleges and universities once again became a nucleus of protest.

At first, students awoke from their apathy in answer to issues other than antiwar developments. The most important of these. Southern Black students fighting to overcome racial barriers, drew many sympathetic White students into the demonstrations. Atmospheric nuclear testing provided a second issue for concerned students.

During that period SANE, SPU, and TOCSIN, a peace group at Harvard, represented the primary peace advocates.

A third issue shaking student activism from its slumber was the House Un-American Activities Committee (HUAC), whose Communist-hunting activities under the direction of Senator Joseph McCarthy aroused in many intellectuals and academicians resentment, resistance, and a renewed concern for free speech. When HUAC arrived in the San

Francisco area to conduct investigations in 1960, hordes of students from San Francisco State College and the

University of California at Berkeley angrily confronted its representatives. Although many of those students went to jail, the demonstration created an atmosphere of political awareness, especially at Berkeley, that 21 set the stage for campus unrest throughout the decade

(Unger, 1974; Astin et al., 1970).

During the 1964 United States' presidential campaign,

Berkeley's Dean of Students Katherine Towle announced that the Bancroft Strip, a traditional center for Berkeley political activity, could no longer be used as such.

This directive prohibited students from using university facilities "to support or advocate off-campus political or social action" (Reidhaar, 1985:349). Students from both the right and the left reacted passionately. They believed that the ban represented a denial of their basic political rights and elected to resist it. On

Saturday, September 30, more than five hundred students formed the Free Speech Movement (FSM) and appointed

Mario Savio, who had supported the civil rights struggle in Mississippi, as the group's leader. Even though

Towle later agreed that the steps at Sproul Hall could be used for expressing political views and opinions, students deliberately violated this privilege, and throughout the fall semester the conflict intensified, with neither side backing down. Then, on December 2, some one thousand students, supporting the FSM position, gathered in Sproul Hall. At 3:45 a.m. the following day, six hundred policemen cleared the building. Within a week the Berkeley administration voted to grant FSM's 22 demands--"for the first time students had confronted university and civilian authorities on a plainly political question.... jjandj the students had won" (Powers, 1973:33,

34) .

Student movements did exist then at the dawn of the Sixties, but Vietnam had not yet become a principal issue. At that time, American campus communities had very little knowledge about Southeast Asia and showed almost no concern for antiwar activity (Halstead, 1978).

However, as media reports, especially television coverage, more frequently reached the public, the scope of related enmity rapidly expanded, and student antiwar demonstrations against America's involvement in Vietnam became the most important crusade in higher education during that decade (Wood, 1974). Although the questions of Civil

Rights and free speech provided a solid base for student dissent, "without the Vietnam War, the student movement would not have reached the proportions it eventually did" (Wood, 1974: 11). —-^

War has always had its opponents, but the United

States had never been involved in a conflict so unpopular as the Vietnam War. Why? Wood (1974) argued that the war unveiled America's imperialistic face. More generally, however, concerned students and other antiwar activists opposed what they believed to be the wrong war, in the 23 wrong place, at the wrong time (Zaroulis and Sullivan, ,

1984). Keniston's (1970) research indicated that the majority of students did not object to being drafted, nor did they fear being killed in Vietnam. They contended that war was evil, and they attacked the Southeast Asian conflict for being "a civil war ... a losing war ... a self-defeating war ... a dangerous war ... an undeclared war ... an immoral war" (Powers, 1973:73). Therefore, H all the policies and procedures connected with it--ROTC training, the draft, military research on campuses, campus recruiting by the defense industry, the armed services and other war-related government agencies-- symbolized those same beliefs. As the war escalated, students became less tolerant of it and more united in their disaffection. The growing opposition led to greater campus unrest and, in 1964-65, more than 20% of the nation's four-year institutions reported having had at least one demonstration against the Vietnam War

(President's Commission, 1970).

During the early part of 1963, student antiwar groups were small, isolated, and ineffective. Most of the admonition came from small pacifist student groups such as the diminishing SPU, the Young Socialist Alliance

(YSA), and the newly originated Students for a Democratic

Society (SDS) (Zaroulis and Sullivan, 1984). Although 24

SDS, as a formal organization, had been founded in 1962 ^ < at the University of Michigan by graduate student Al

Haber and university alumnus Tom Hayden, its origins are traced back to the old ISS founded in 1905. In

1921, ISS changed its name to the League for Industrial

Society (LID). Norman Thomas became executive director

of LID and John Dewey its vice president. In the 1930s,

LID formed a student wing, the Student League for

Industrial Democracy (SLID). Shortly thereafter, SLID

merged with the National Student League (NSL) to form

the American Student Union (ASU), one of the first large

and militant student groups adamantly opposed to ROTC

training on the campuses. By 1939, ASU had some twelve

thousand members. Then, as the civil rights movement

began to grow, and as the Left began to awaken, LID

decided to reorganize a student branch--that group became

the SDS (Ellsworth and Burns, 1970; Adelson, 1972).

During 1963-1964, SDS maintained its ties with

SLID primarily for financial reasons. But tensions

had already developed between the two groups after the

1962 SDS convention held in Port Huron, Michigan. At

that convention, SDS did three things tnat SLID, a member

of the old peace movement concerned primarily with nuclear

disarmament, could not tolerate: 25

It identified a clause in the old SLID constitution aimed at excluding Communists, it seated as an observer a member of the Progressive Youth Organization Committee, which was associated with the Communist Party, and it adopted the Port Huron Statement.... which.... expressed a critical attitude toward the White House.... {Jandj captured some of the revulsion of the newly radical­ izing youth.... It said: 'The American political system.... frustrates democracy by con­ fusing the individual citizen,... and consolidating the irrespon­ sible power of military and business interests. (Halstead, 1978: 25-26)

This not only dissolved SDS's affiliation with

SLID, neither did it suit the contemporary structure of political ideals among many Americans--"Any voice raised in favor of 'peace' or 'disarmament' was viewed as a voice of Communist enemies of the United States"

(Zaroulis and Sullivan, 1984:11). Accordingly, "It was common to hear f^the demonstrators called, Communists or victims of Communist exploitation" (Horowitz, 1970:

41)

Even though many students considered America's participation in the Southeast Asian political struggle unwarranted, that did not necessarily make them Communists.

Many of the antiwar supporters represented a new, emerging^ culture among the youth of America--one which dressed 26 differently, lived another lifestyle, and stressed "the need for humanity, equality, and the sacredness for life" (President's Comxiiission, 1970:4). Generally studying the social sciences and humanities, they gained more exposure to humane ideas. They saw America engulfed in an endless race for wealth, and the Vietnam War as a technological Goliath descending upon a small, harmless nation. But more than that, these students believed that the war drained resources which could better be used as a panacea for America's social and racial maladies .

(President's Commission, 1970; Unger, 1974).

Not only did many people associate peace-oriented students with Communism, most assumed that protesters of all kinds came predominantly from the lower social strata (President's Commission, 1970). They assumed incorrectly. The majority of students opposing the

Vietnam War came from educated, affluent white families, they attended the larger and more prestigious colleges and universities, and they made good grades (Flacks,

1967). Smith (1971) also argues that 80% of the militant students came from professional and managerial families and that students from blue collar, clerical, and engineering backgrounds had very little to do with the antiwar effort. 27

The first major campus demonstrations associated with Vietnam occurred in the fall of 1963. Madame Ngo

Dinh Nhu, the wife of South Vietnam's Chief of Secret

Police and sister-in-law to South Vietnam's President,

Ngo Dinh Diem, toured the United States to defend the

South Vietnamese Government's position and to promote

America's support for the war effort. On October 14 she lectured in Cambridge--at Radcliff she was well received; at Harvard she was booed by about one hundred demonstrators, mostly SDSers. As Madame Nhu continued to tour and to speak at college campuses that autumn,

SDS organized more protests. Students demonstrated against her presence at Columbia, V'^isconsin, Michigan,

North Carolina, and scores of other colleges and universities (Halstead, 1978; Zaroulis and Sullivan,

1984) .

Madame Nhu's visit inspired protest activities, but student antiwar demonstrations were minimal that year. Most of the nation focused its attention on the

Barry Goldwater and Lyndon Johnson presidential campaign--the hawk and the self-proclaimed dove, respectively. Johnson promoted himself as being the peace candidate. His "campaign statements were carefully designed to leave the... impression that he would not 28 escalate the United States' intervention in Vietnam"

(Halstead, 1978: 28). But Johnson, it seems, misled the American public as to his actual intentions. Even though he pledged during his campaign not to widen the war, just two days after taking office, the President announced that he fully intended to provide military -J support for the South Vietnamese Government. Robert Caro (1990) suggested that Johnson flatly lied, not only about Vietnam, but also about American foreign policy in the Dominican Republic, as well as about personal matters.

When Johnson took office after President John F. 1

Kennedy's assassination in 1963, America had 16,000 troops in Vietnam; by July, 1964, that number had increased to 175,000, and in August to 216,000. Nevertheless, the war issue remained at the outskirts of most students' concerns. Their apathy did not last much longer. On

August 2, a Vietnamese torpedo boat attacked American destroyers in the Gulf of Tonkin, just off the North

Vietnamese coast. Three days later Johnson initiated and Congress approved the Tonkin Gulf Resolution, giving the president power to take any measures for protecting

American forces in Southeast Asia. During the next few years, this resolution became a major source for authorizing massive troop escalations, and created angry 29 feelings among the peace elements that had supported

Johnson's campaign. Consequently, the leaders of those groups, and especially of SDS, began promoting antiwar ideas at higher education institutions throughout the

United States (Halstead, 1978; Zaroulis and Sullivan, 1984; Caro, 1990).

Tactics for confronting the Vietnam War had emerged at Berkeley some four years before Johnson became president. In October, 1959, one Berkeley student,

Frederick Moore, staged a one-man demonstration against compulsory ROTC training. Moore prepared a two-page document for the university explaining his protest.

A portion of that document stated: I refuse to take ROTC. I filed an exemption form ask­ ing to be excused from the mili­ tary training requirements. I gave as my reason: I am a con­ scientious objector.... I object to killing and any action aiding war or purpose of war due to my religious and conscientious be­ liefs. It was rejected. I talked to students and some instructors about my problem with ROTC. Although some were sympathetic, they agreed nothing could be done. I went to the Dean of Students Office and ex­ plained my reasons for not want­ ing to take ROTC. They showed me a list stating the exemptions. My case did not fall under any of the exemptions (exemptions were: physical disability, pre­ vious military training or ser- 30

vice, or foreign citizenship). I was advised to take ROTC if I wanted to attend the Uni­ versity of California. I left the office wondering why the University did not respect conscience. Many times I was advised to give up my beliefs, take military training and 'get it over with.' I could not bring myself to agree with them. He (the Dean of Students) made it quite clear that I either sign up and take ROTC or withdraw from the University. Through fasting for seven days I hope to help bring about action which will result in a provision making ROTC voluntary or exempting students who cannot participate in military training due to their religious and con­ scientious beliefs. This fast is undertaken to show my earnestness concerning this problem. I seek to get the Regents to agree with me not by force or coercion but by appeal­ ing to their better judgment and understanding.... (Teodori, 1969: 120) Some four years later, Moore's protest finally showed positive results--in June, 1962, the university regents voted to make ROTC voluntary (Heirich and Kaplan, 1965).

But, as demonstrated in the following chapter, this did not end of the ROTC question at Berkeley.

Although few students devoted attention to antiwar activities in the early Sixties, during the spring of

1964, as Johnson began to increase America's war effort, the student peace movement began to grow. On May 2, 31

1964, Russell Stetler, a Haverford College student,

Levi Laub of the Progressive Labor Party (PL), and Peter

Camejo of the Young Socialist Alliance (YSA) organized a nationwide demonstration protesting the war's development. Afterwards, Laub and other PL associates fortTied a new peace group, the May Second Movement (M2M).

The organization opposed imperialism, particularly the

Vietnam War, and its leaders attempted to make M2M the student antiwar movement. Laub and M2M launched a campaign collecting signatures on a pledge of refusal to fight in Southeast Asia. In some nine months they amassed about 1,000 signatures, mostly from students. But other than that, M2M had no feasible function, and it slowly dissolved as most of its younger members moved into the SDS (Halstead, 1978; Zaroulis and Sullivan, 1984).

During the 1964 May Second Movement, more than

20,000 United States' troops were in Vietnam. This nearly doubled the number that had been there during

Madame Nhu's visit just a few months before. The war's continual growth provided a common bonding for those who disapproved and a comiaon ground on which radicals could plant the seeds of protest.

The early 1960s antiwar movement began slowly because

American people still felt some apprehension about

Communist expansion. The war issue came more into focus 32 during the 1964 Presidential campaign, and Lyndon Johnson may have done as much to promote the antiwar movement as any organization, at least in the beginning stages.

In 1965, when Johnson sent thousands of American troops to Southeast Asia and began bombing North Vietnam, he lit the fuse for an antiwar movement that eventually proved disastrous for many campuses, and especially for four Kent State University students. j CHAPTER III

1965: GENESIS

Early 1965, similar to 1964, saw only a few faint signs of antiwar protest. Small demonstrations took place infrequently on campuses across the country.

But, even though 1965 began with little antiwar activity, that year set the tempo for occurrences both in Southeast

Asia and at home. The United States Government fully committed America to Vietnam, and student activists against that war pledged themselves to force its end.

United States commitment meant a rapid escalation of the war effort; this in itself made Vietnam a very bitter issue which bonded the antiwar activists and strengthened their position.

While the Johnson Administration increased America's war involvement, so did the student activists redouble their efforts to force its end, and campus protest movements became less sporadic (Zaroulis and Sullivan,

1984; President's Commission, 1978). In the spring of 1965, the first organized teach-in took place at the University of Michigan so that students might learn more about Vietnam. Later that year, students organized a few rallies against campus ROTC programs, government

33 34 affiliated recruiters, and Dow Chemical Company, the major producer of napalm.

Shortly after the 1964 presidential elections, the United States proposed to increase its activity in Vietnam. On November 18, the Wall Street Journal indicated that "the decision on whether or when to

'escalate' warfare in Southeast Asia hasn't yet been made. But Government activity ... suggests the decision point is close at hand." Less than three months later, on February 7, 1965, President Lyndon Johnson announced a major escalation in the Vietnam War and that increased military personnel would be supplied by the draft.

This was a bold statement for the peace candidate who said throughout his campaign that "we are not about to send American boys nine or ten thousand miles away from home to do what Asian boys ought to be doing for themselves" (Zaroulis and Sullivan, 1984:36). The next day, although 25,000 advisors had already been sent to Vietnam, the first U.S. fighting forces, the 9th

Marine Expeditionary Brigade, arrived at Da Nang.

Overnight, student organized demonstrations appeared all across the country (Halstead, 1978).

Four hundred faculty members from twenty higher education institutions signed an open letter to the 35

President. It said, in part, that

fear of escalation of this un declared war ... mounts with each sudden report of renewed violence.... It was only 10 years ago that the Vietnamese defeated a French army of nearly half a million men.... Would it not be both prudent and just to take the initiative towards peace in Vietnam? (New York Times, 1965, March 1, 17:5)

Between February 27 and March 1, some 135-150 Ober lin ' students participated in a fast to protest the war's escalation (New York Times, 1965, March 2). At the University of Kansas, one student slashed his wrist and smeared the blood on a school bulletin board in an individual protest (New York Times, 1965, March 19, 15:5). Many other protests occurred at this early stage but most were small and, compared with later developments, somewhat obscure. The first major antiwar activity occurred at the University of Michigan. On March 11, twenty-four faculty members met to discuss what they might do in response to the Vietnam situation. Dr. William Gamson of the sociology department suggested that the faculty hold a one day strike. Instead of teaching their regular classes, he proposed that they conduct special classes in order to teach about the Vietnam War. Some faculty members balked at taking such action against the 36 university, but the group finally concluded that if they could get enough signatures from other faculty, pledging their participation, then the strike would be called (Halstead, 1978).

The university's administration and the state government quickly learned about the planned strike and began a counter-move. Republican Governor George

Romney, stating that the plan to suspend classes constituted "about the worst type of example professors could give to students" (New York Times, 1965, March

17, 8:1), urged that the university take immediate corrective action. Accordingly, Michigan President

Harlan Hatcher adamantly spoke out against the strike, and the Faculty Senate proposed reprisals against any participants (Halstead, 1978; Peckham, 1967).

The outraged faculty members announced that they would take their case before the next Board of Regents meeting scheduled for Friday, March 19 (New York Times,

1965, March 8). However, in view of the overall situation, some of the professors suggested that they reconsider the strike. Dr. Marshall Sahlins of the anthropology department then recommended that the group continue tneir regular classes and, instead of the strike, hold an all-night session of rallies, speeches, and seminars.

The group adopted Sahlins' proposal and the discussion. 37 scheduled for March 24-25, began at 8:00 p.m. (Halstead,

1978).

The response was overwhelming with more than 3,000 students attending the meeting. But the teach-in encountered protest as picketers and bomb threats disrupted the session. One anonymous source telephoned about

9:00 p.m., informing university officials that a bomb had been placed in Angell Hall where the meeting was in progress. Police evacuated the building, but they found no bomb and the discussions resumed. Two hours later another bomb threat occurred. Once again police cleared the building. Afterwards, the teach-in, which had begun with speeches by professors Robert Browne and John Donahue of the University of Michigan, and

Arthur Waskow from the Institute of Policy Studies in

Washington, D.C., continued unhampered (New York Times,

1965, March 25).

Although Michigan's teach-in contained the elements of protest, it was, in fact, geared toward an educational experience because it consisted of more dialogue than actual protest (Boulding, 1966). Nevertheless, the popularity of such a successful enterprise quickly spread to other campuses during the next few weeks. The early teach-ins continued more as debates rather than as vehicles for antiwar protest, but by the time the teach-in wave 38 reached the University of California at Berkeley in

May, the event there had become little more than a mass demonstration. War supporters had been almost completely eliminated from the podium, and antimilitarist attitudes prevailed at an assembly where "rational debate and critical analysis were replaced by impassioned rhetoric and intense political feeling" (President's Commission,

1970:31) .

During the course of the teach-ins, thousands of 1 students learned more about the Vietnam War. The antiwar movement gained momentum and, on April 17, in Washington,

D.C., SDS sponsored a demonstration attended by more than 20,000 people, mostly students. Although the rally represented a minority of Americans, it showed government officials that people would challenge the war issue.

But on May 4, less than two weeks after the Washington demonstration. President Johnson, utilizing the Tonkin

Gulf Resolution, requested $700,000,000 from Congress to increase America's activity in Vietnam (Zaroulis and Sullivan, 1984; Halstead, 1978). _\

The day after Johnson's request, two hundred Columbia

University students rallied against the Naval Reserve

Officers Training Corps (NROTC) annual awards ceremony.

The demonstration took place in Low Library's rotunda.

It had originally been planned as an outside event. 39 but rain forced the participants to seek shelter in the library where the protesters linked arms, forming a human barricade in order to keep the NROTC Brigade from entering the building. When university police could not maintain order, head of campus security Captain

Adam Denisco called the New York City Police to quiet the demonstration. The police successfully dispersed the crowd with no major problems. Afterwards, seven students received letters of censure, but, all in all, the protest succeeded--university officials decided to cancel the 1965 NROTC ceremony. This demonstration also affected future NROTC programs at Columbia. In

1966, the Navy requested canceling the annual NROTC review; in 1967, the university administration canceled the ceremony because of inadequate preparations against possible violence; and in 1968 Columbia permanently abandoned the event (Cox Commission, 1968; New York

Times, 1965, May 8).

Meanwhile, the federal government had begun its attempt at countering the teach-ins. The State Department sent a team composed of Vietnam veterans to visit campuses in order to present Johnson's position on the war.

The team first appeared at the University of Iowa on

March 4. The Iowa meeting ended with the veterans being admonished for taking an interest only in the government's 40 position and for not listening to public concerns.

They experienced similar reactions at Drake, Indiana,

Illinois, and Wisconsin where the audiences hammered them with hostile questions (New York Times, 1965, May

5, May 7). After its one week attempt to defend the war effort, the team returned to Washington, where it remained.

The State Department's team failed, the war escalated, and the teach-ins continued. The greatest teach-in occurred on May 21-22 at Berkeley, where for thirty-six hours as many as thirty thousand individuals gathered to hear speakers representing both the State Department and the war's opponents. However, the major pro-war spokesmen, professors Robert Scalapino and Eugene Burdick from Berkeley University, withdrew from the event, leaving the field open almost entirely to noted baby specialist.

Dr. Benjamin Spock, Alaska's Democratic Senator Ernest

Gruening, Novelist Norman Mailer, and other antiwar proponents (Zaroulis and Sullivan, 1984). Several Berkeley faculty and students angrily resented the affair as being non-academic in nature, but some others, such as psychology professor David Krech said the demonstration illustrated "the finest hour of this great university"

(New York Times, 1965, May 23, 26:1). 41

Although Berkeley represented the last major teach-in that spring, antiwar occurrences at other campuses also gained national recognition. Similar incidents, however, met with dissimilar responses from different university administrators. For example, one month after the Berkeley teach-in, Rutgers University history professor Eugene

Genovese publicly announced during an April 23 teach-in that "I do not fear nor regret the impending Vietcong victory" (New York Times, 1965, June 23, 9:3). New

Jersey Governor Richard Hughes voiced immediate opposition to the "prejudices and opinions" that Genovese expressed, but further added that the professor did have the right to academic freedom (New York Times, 1965, June 23).

Chairman of the Rutgers University Board of Governors

Charles Brower, even though he too disagreed with

Genovese's political stance, said he did not believe that the professor's statement violated any of the institution's rules and regulations and that "the issue here is one of civil liberties, not academic freedom.

I don't see how academic freedom can enter into it since what he was saying was not in the classroom" (New York

Times, 1965, August 4, 14:6). Brower stood by his word; on July 1, Rutgers gave Genovese tenure and promoted him from assistant to associate professor (New York

Times, 1965, July 30). 42

On September 30 another teach-in took place at

Rutgers. Drew University political science instructor

James Mellen indicated that he too desired a Vietcong victory. The Drew administration handled this incident quite differently from Rutgers. Drew's trustees decided not to renew Mellen's contract. (New York Times, 1965,

November 1). The board stated that Mellen had spoken irresponsibly, and that his remarks belied everything the Methodist-affiliated university stood for (New York

Times, 1965, November 16).

After the American Association of University

Professors suggested that the board's decision might be in error, the latter indicated that the instructor's dismissal had actually been based on a previous agreement made by Drew's president, dean of the college, and Mellen's department chairman because Mellen had failed to make sufficient progress toward completing his Ph.D. Mellen responded that "I am shocked and dismayed at the reasons given for my dismissal. These considerations have never been raised with me or with my colleagues, by my department chairman, the college dean, the president, or the faculty committee on promotion and tenure"; he further added that "on the contrary, there is a precedent to keep instructors up to 4 or 5 years while completing their doctorate" (New York Times, 1965, November 16, 16:8). 43

That same New York Times article indicated that Drew

Trustees dismissed Mellen, noting the previously attained agreement as their reason for doing so.

While these controversies flared, in October the first major ground fighting by American forces began in Vietnam, and December's draft quota was set at 40,200

(Halstead, 1978). On October 15-16, some ten thousand

Berkeley students held another demonstration. It began at the campus, but soon filtered out to the

Oakland Army Base, where a violent confrontation erupted when members of the Hell's Angels Motorcycle

Club attacked the demonstrators. Afterwards, Berkeley

Chancellor Roger Heynes sought to initiate tougher controls on antiwar demonstrations originating at his campus. On October 19, Heynes and Berkeley Mayor Wallace

Johnson agreed that in order for students to hold an assembly on the campus, they would first be required to obtain a permit from the city (New York Times, 1965,

October 20). Their agreement occurred concomitant with the California State Legislature's demand that state intervention would be required if Berkeley continued to act as an incubator for demonstrations against American interests in Southeast Asia. The University Board of

Regents informally supported the Heynes-Johnson decision

(New York Times, 1965, October 24). 44

In the meantime, student antiwar activity continued at Rutgers. During an October 14 teach-in, university senior Allan Marian engaged in a heated discussion with

Mrs. Walter Lantrey, the mother of a Coast Guard Lieutenant serving in Vietnam. When Marian announced that Mrs.

Lantrey's son was a "drip," she slapped him. He then punched her in the face, and Rutgers police escorted

Marian out of the assembly (New York Times, 1965,

October 16). One week later, a university board placed

Marian on probation, suspended him from any extracurricular activities, and proclaimed that he must remain on good behavior for the rest of the school year (New York Times,

1965, October 21).

The pressures of war escalation, the draft, and war itself did not constitute the only concerns among students with an antiwar bent. The University of

Pennsylvania secretly conducted chemical and biological warfare (CBW) research for the government. When the public learned of this, a dispute arose concerning the university's moral right to undertake such research.

This dispute lasted for nearly two years.

In 1925, the Geneva Protocol outlawed poison gas for Vi^arfare use. The United States, however, did not sign the Protocol, gas warfare had been dormant since world War I, and most Americans probably seldom thought 45 about it. That changed on November 1, 1965, when Deputy

Secretary of Defense Cyrus Vance publicly announced that United States troops had been making limited use of arsenic and cyanide compounds in South Vietnam.

After Vance's statement, gas warfare again became a moral question, especially on university campuses conducting such pursuits (Goldstein, 1989).

By 1964 the Department of Defense had provided

American universities with over four hundred million dollars for war research. The University of Pennsylvania received its first CBW contract in 1952--a secret contract with the Air Force for conducting future feasibility studies in CBW weaponry. It had the code name "Big

Ben," and made the University of Pennsylvania a major center for that type of research. In 1954 the university established the Institute for Cooperative Research (ICR) to house "Big Ben" and to attract similar projects.

Between 1954-1965 ICR undertook many studies, and during those years research had the support of trustees, administrators, faculty, and staff, all who believed that such studies should be conducted at the university.

In the summer of 1965, however, some Pennsylvania students and faculty found a reason to challenge this assumption

(Goldstein, 1989). 46

Peter Maisel, an active member of the Young Socialist

Alliance (YSA), worked for the campus bookstore. During the course of his delivering books on the campus he stumbled across the ICR building. The building's locks and barred windows aroused the student's curiosity and he decided to investigate the types of books ordered by those offices. Maisel found that for the past half year, ninety works about rice crop diseases and Vietnamese politics had been delivered. Concluding that the building represented a study center for biological warfare, he took his suspicions to any faculty and students who would listen. The Pennsylvania based Committee to End the War in Vietnam (CEWV) and many others did listen.

The CEWV and Jules Benjamin, a graduate student working for the Foreign Policy Research Institute, verified

Maisel's story. Benjamin and CEWV members drafted a letter to President Gaylord Harnwell requesting that the institution terminate its existing contracts and that the ICR be shut down (Goldstein, 1989). In. response, Harnwell denied the university's involvement with CBW research (New York Times, 1965, August 12).

A faculty group headed by Gabriel Kolko, the

University Committee on Problems of War and Peace, also expressed its dissatisfaction with the ICR research,

"not because it is classified but because it is CBW 47 research, commissioned for use in an unjust war"

(Goldstein, 1989:52). And radical students directed their anger at the administration through picketing, literature distribution, and demonstrations. These students also had the support of sympathetic faculty.

In fact, "the Physics Department formally disassociated itself from President Harnwell, who was a member of that department, and from his scientist allies in the

Chemistry Department, ICR, and Engineering Schools"

(Goldstein, 1989:52).

Harnwell responded to the antagonists by penning a resolution designed to gain faculty support while maintaining ICR activities. Harnwell's resolution stated The University poses no limitation on the freedom to the faculty in the choice of fields of inquiry or the media of public dissemination of the results obtained. It is the obligation of a faculty member to make freely available to his colleagues and to the public the significant results he has achieved in his course of his inquiries. (The faculty) will assume full responsibility in the public dissemination of their results through appropri­ ate media to insure their max­ imum utility and to minimize the propagation of error. (Goldstein, 1989:53)

Harnwell's supporters praised the president's resolution;

Kolko and his supporters damned it. In a retaliatory 48 effort, the latter group attempted to ratify a counter-resolution that would condemn both classified research and the development of CBW weaponry at

Pennsylvania. They lost, and the university adopted

Harnwell's resolution (Goldstein, 1989).

The following year, Harnwell's opponents developed and pushed through the Faculty Senate new criteria for research based on the principle that scholars could undertake whatever projects they desired, but the results had to be published in open academic literature. Their model should have eliminated research contracts that required a clearance, and that would have terminated most ICR research. The Faculty Senate, however, did not control administrative decisions, and Harnwell chose to eschew its counsel "in order to protect 'old friends' to whom he was 'personally committed' since Big Ben days" (Goldstein, 1989:54). Nevertheless, the anti-ICR faction did not relinquish its stand on moral and academic values by giving in to Harnwell. Their tenacity paid off, and in 1967, the Pennsylvania University Board of Trustees voted to terminate Pentagon generated CBW contracts (Goldstein, 1989).

Less than a month after Cyrus Vance's disclosure, another public announcement sent antiwar supporters reeling. In November, 1965, Look magazine published 49 an article taken from an interview with former Illinois

Democratic Governor Adlai Stevenson. Stevenson revealed that the North Vietnamese had wanted to talk peace terms since 1964, but that Secretary of Defense Robert Macnamara would not even consider the negotiations (Zaroulis and

Sullivan, 1984). Campus antiwar leaders then grew even more skeptical about America's involvement in the Southeast

Asian Vi?ar, and many began planning new demonstrations for the upcoming year.

Teach-ins at Michigan and Berkeley actually began the Vietnam antiwar movement on campuses. Other teach-ins at Rutgers then brought up the question of academic freedom concerning political ideology, and administrative responses to antiwar opinion took different routes.

Although Rutgers and Drew administrators disagreed with

Genovese and Mellen, respectively, Rutgers' officials accepted the fact that faculty members have the right to say what they want to say, and Drew's leaders repressed free speech. This issue would be revived several times over the next few years. Even though teach-ins played a very significant role in the antiwar movement, only two major demonstrations occurred in 1965, at Columbia and the University of Pennsylvania. Neither felt the lasn of violence, and both ultimately resulted in victories for the protesters. Nevertheless, during the following 50 year, 1966, almost no demonstrations took place, except for a few fasts, as the students seemed uncertain of their role m the movement. CHAPTER IV

1966: PERSEVERANCE

The Vietnam fighting closed in 1965 with a thirty- n hour Christmas truce, but 1966 brought the war's largest ' ground operation to date, in the Mekong Delta, as well as the continued bombing of North Vietnam. Many Americans anxiously feared that these prolonged bombings would eventually bring China into the war. Moreover, during ' the first three months of 1966, the number of American

soldiers killed in Vietnam equaled one-half that of the previous five years. Those opposing the war, of course, found this unacceptable, and many shared a common conviction that intensifying the war threatened America's basic interests and values. Despite this common bonding, however, and even with the many demonstrations that had been planned in 1965, the antiwar movement in 1966

was relatively quiet and consisted of diverse actions only scantily reported, if at all (Halstead, 1978; U Zaroulis and Sullivan, 1984; DeBenedetti, 1990). The Vietnam Day Committee that Barbara Gullahorn,

Bob Fitch, and Jerry Rubin formed shortly after the 1965 Berkeley teach-in began pressing for a national

campus movement against the war. On January 31, thirty

Stanford professors, protesting the resumed bombing

51 52 raids in North Vietnam, refused to hold their classes

(New York Times, 1965, February 1); on February 9, some nine thousand Berkeley students walked out of their classrooms (Halstead, 1978). Similar incidents occurred at campuses throughout the United States.

Boycotting lectures represented one form of student protest, but fasting signified a more widespread technique during the early part of 1966. Twenty-five Washington

University students fasted for forty-eight hours (New

York Times, 1966, January 16) and others soon followed suit. For example, about 140 faculty and students from

Swarthmore, Haverford, and Bryn Mawr Colleges consumed only water for two weeks (New York Times, 1966, February

6) to "provide an extended period of time during which intensive discussion can go on ... I for thej planning of action suitable to bring the war to an end ..." (New

York Times, 1966, February 8, 17:1). Many other hunger strikes occurred, but most college officials, although not endorsing the fasts, regarded them pri­ marily as matters of personal conscience and, instead of taking disciplinary action, simply notified students' parents of their activities (New York Times, 1966,

February 8).

Few other incidents occurred while campuses generally "( remained calm during the first half of 1966. That June, ^ 53 however. President Johnson gave the movement a boost by ordering bombing raids around the heavily inhabited

Haiphong-Hanoi area (Zaroulis and Sullivan, 1984).

In response, the Case Western Reserve University Teach-In

Committee headed up by Benjamin Spock and Western Reserve sociologist Sidney Peck called for a conference during the final week in July. Discussions centered on the possibility of forming a national antiwar mobilization movement for the spring of 1967, but the group could agree on little more than the necessity of holding yet another conference. On September 10-11, Western Reserve

University hosted a second conference chaired by the

long time pacifist and peace organizer Reverend A. J.

Muste. This time the conference members appointed a

National Administrative Committee headed by Muste.

The Committee planned for four days of campus antiwar activity, November 5-8, during the upcoming elections

(Halstead, 1978).

By the time the November mobilization evolved, however, student pessimism toward successful antiwar activities had become a serious matter. For the most part, they believed that the demonstrations up to that point had not provided any major impact and that the war would continue for years. Consequently, many of

the less radical students began to filter out of the 54 movement (Halstead, 1978). Their negative attitude most likely grew from the war's extended media coverage providing considerable information about Vietnam as well as positive attitudes in the United States about the war (New York Times, 1966, August 23). Despite waning optimism, several SDS chapters coordinated their fall antiwar demonstrations along with the committee.

They protested mainly against recruiters and members of the Johnson administration speaking at the campuses.

In May, 1966, University of Wisconsin SDS members and the Ad Hoc Committee on the University and the Draft led a protest against the university's providing selective service boards with information about students' grades.

The demonstrators, occupying a corridor outside the university's draft center located in the Administration

Building, demanded that the procedure be canceled (Long,

1970) .

Wisconsin University President Fred Harrington informed demonstrators that if the school failed to provide that information, some eligible students might be denied their deferments. Accordingly, Harrington said that he would not comply with the protesters' demand.

Chancellor Robben Fleming took a different approach.

He agreed to raise the draft issue at the next scheduled faculty meeting. His first problem, though, was to 55 clear those students from the building. At that time, however, Wisconsin did not have any restrictions against peaceful protests, and Fleming told the students they could continue so long as no obstruction occurred.

In a further conciliatory gesture, he congratulated them for their good behavior and stated that they had shown that "the right to protest, which is essential in a democratic society, can be handled in a responsible manner by the University of Wisconsin" (Long, 1970:249).

Chancellor Fleming then promised the students that he would not wait until the next regularly scheduled faculty meeting to discuss the issue, but that he would call a special meeting for May 23. Some one thousand faculty members attended that meeting. After lengthy discussions and arguments, the faculty decided that

V'Jisconsin University should send the information to each individual student who could then, if he so desired, pass it on to his local draft board. After the meeting,

Fleming told the students of the results and that the sit-in should end. The demonstrators, however, believing txhat better results should have been achieved, staged another sit-in outside the administrative offices in

Bascom Hall. The following day, Fleming firmly told them to end their demonstration or face disciplinary 56 measures. The students, after a short meeting, voted to end the protest (Long, 1970).

Fleming handled the Wisconsin incident tactfully, and no problems arose. But when Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff General Earle Wheeler spoke at Pembroke College on November 15, a dozen students charged the auditorium stage. Police and student ushers barricading the stage exchanged punches with a few of the onrushing students while other policemen escorted Wheeler out a side door (New York Times, 1966, November 16).

On that same day, more than two hundred Columbia University students protested a Central Intelligence Agency (CIA) recruiter's presence on campus. The demonstrators, mostly SDS members, marched into Dodge Hall to confront the representative, but he had already left the campus. The next day, some 150 students presented

President Grayson Kirk with a letter demanding that Columbia ban CIA recruiters from the university. The following week, another five hundred students invaded

Kirk's office and forced him into an open debate. Kirk defended the university's position on recruiting:

In making the facilities of the University available,... the University does not under­ take to make any value judgment about any of the organizations concerned.... Whenever the Uni­ versity institutionally undertakes 57

to espouse this or that position, in a partisan situation, it jeop­ ardizes the long-run autonomy which is the heart and soul of all Univer­ sity life. (Cox Commission, 1968:65)

This encounter presented only a modest achievement for the antiwar movement (Avorn et al., 1969; Cox Commission, 1968); it also represented the last major campus protest for 1966.

Even though 1966 produced very little antiwar activity, the movement's efforts that year had not been completely in vain. University of Wisconsin protesters caused the administration to alter its selective service information procedure while Fleming prudently confronted the demonstration. Although most protesters appeared pessimistic and uncertain of their role in ending the Southeast Asian conflict, many realized that the movement possibly could have some effect on higher education's business with the war effort. The following year, students began aggressively to strike out against university involvement with the war. Protesters and administrators should perhaps have taken a lesson from Wisconsin, but they did not, and in 1967, situations intensified. CHAPTER V

1967: AGGRESSION

Nineteen sixty-seven began with what many antiwar supporters considered to be another Washington blunder.

America had halted its bombing of North Vietnam for

TET, the Vietnamese New Year. During this lull in the fighting. North Vietnam's government announced possible peace negotiations if the bombing would be permanently suspended. The United States, however, completely ignored any possibility of peace and resumed the air attacks on February 14. This outraged the war's opponents, but fuel had already been added to their fire when the Ladies Home Journal (January, 1967:57, 106, 107) published a Martha Gellhorn article giving the American public a first-hand description of the horrors of napalm:

I have witnessed modern war in nine countries, but I have never seen a war like the one in South Vietnam.... In the childrens' ward of the Qui Nhon provincial hospital I saw for the first time what napalm does. A child of seven,... lay in the cot by the door. Napalm had burned his face and back and one hand. The burned skin looked like swollen, raw meat; the fingers of his hand were stretched out, burned rigid.... All week the little boy cried with pain, but now he was better. He had stopped crying. He was only twisting

58 59

his body,... trying to dodge his incomprehensible torture.... I had heard and read that napalm melts the flesh, and I thought that's nonsense, because I can put a roast in the oven and the fat will melt but the meat stays there.... The chemical reaction of this napalm does melt the flesh, and the flesh runs right down their faces onto their chests and it sits there and it grows there.... These children can't turn their heads, they were so thick with flesh.... And when gangrene sets in, they cut off their hands or fingers or their feet; the only thing they cannot cut off is their head ....

When Dow Chemical Company, the major manufacturer of napalm, sent its representatives to the University of Wisconsin on February 21, a volatile demonstration took place. The event began peacefully with a sit-in outside the Dow recruiter's office. But the climate changed after university police arrested three students for picketing inside the Commerce and Chemistry Buildings, Students claimed that no notice had been given to them indicating that picket signs constituted an obstruction. Fleming agreed, and lifted the ban on signs within buildings. Nevertheless, campus police did not release the three arrested students; the protesters found this deplorable (Long, 1970).

The following day, twenty-five students blockaded the Dow representative's office and created a disturbance 60 in the Engineering Placement Office. The Placement Director called campus police who arrested eleven of those students, plus six more outside for blocking police cars. When SDS members heard about the seventeen new arrestees, they immediately formed a huge sit-in. About four hundred students gathered in Bascom Hall, just outside the Dean of Student Affairs' office. Fleming and Dean Joseph Kauffman were inside the office. The demonstrators decided to keep both administrators there until the disorderly conduct charges had been dropped. Fleming promised the protesters that he would call a mass meeting that evening to discuss the situation. The students then left the building. Fleming announced later that evening that he had posted a $1,470 bond for the arrested students (Long, 1970; New York Times, 1967, February 23). The next day, a special faculty group voted to re-examine the university's policy for allowing all recruiters on campus. Their decision suggested that the protesters had been successful, but "perhaps it would be fair to say that they |protesters! had also been defeated by the Chancellor, whose flexibility and generous gestures had prevented escalation of the conflict" (Long, 1970:252).

One week after the sit-in, Wisconsin University officials voted to ban SDS from the campus until the 61 next fall, when it would be eligible to again register for university membership. The suspension came as a result of the Dow demonstration (New York Times, 1967,

March 4). This was the first time that a university administration had taken steps to oust the organization from a campus (Adelson, 1972).

When the CIA sent its recruiter to Wisconsin on

April 11, administrators and student leaders working together planned a peaceful protest. Once the recruiters arrived, about five hundred students stood outside the law school, where the interviews took place. This time, no one was arrested. In fact, the demonstration was so peaceful that the militant students defined it as an administration managed protest (Long, 1970; New York

Times, 1967, April 12).

The 1967 spring semester ended on a light note, with no further belligerent activity occurring between antiwar groups and universities. But in August the

United States sent another fifty thousand troops to

Vietnam (New York Times, 1967, August 4), and when students returned for the fall semester, the first week indicated what would be in store. In September, Wisconsin University announced that Dow representatives would return to campus on October 17. If this alone was not enough to upset the protesters, the administration used very poor judgment 62 in scheduling the interviews. Two students had just been jailed for their involvement with the previous spring's Dow protest; moreover, the week scheduled for interviewing had been specified Vietnam Week by major antiwar groups throughout the United States. On October

11, Dean Kauffman announced that any student attempting to interfere with the interviews or the university's operation would be subject to severe disciplinary action.

The protesters believed that Kauffman's statement sounded intimidating and threatening. This dissolved any friendly ties between the administration and the protest leaders

(Long, 1970).

William Sewell, who had replaced Fleming as Chancellor in June, expected trouble. He and Wisconsin's Security

Director Ralph Hanson met with Madison's mayor and police chief. They determined that if it became necessary for the university to call in city police, anyone impeding university functions would be arrested. They further decided that only Kauffman or Sewell had authority to make the call (Long, 1970).

The first day's interviews, held in the Commerce

Building, took place without any major occurrences.

Some two hundred students simply picketed the building's entrance. The next day, however, about one hundred students entered the building and blocked the Dow 63 representative's office door while another large student group picketed outside. The crowd appeared hostile to Hanson who suggested that Sewell and Kauffman call in reinforcements. They did so, and uniformed police, wearing riot gear and waving their nightsticks, suddenly appeared at the demonstration. When protest leaders saw the police they asked to meet with university officials. Evan Stark told Sewell that he could disperse the demonstrators if the Chancellor would sign a statement canceling the Dow interviews. Sewell rejected Stark's proposal. As soon as the students left the meeting,

Sewell, Kauffman, Hanson, and the police chief agreed that some students would be arrested (Long, 1970).

Hanson then led about thirty city policemen to the Commerce Building. He told the students that they would be arrested if they did not leave the building.

When the protesters did not disperse, the police charged in. The demonstrators fought back and pushed the riot squad out the door. The police entered again, this time freely swinging their clubs. The building cleared in just a few minutes, but several thousand students had gathered outside (Long, 1970). The horrified crowd piqued when they saw the beaten and bloodied students leaving the building. The police then fired tear gas--"the first time it had been used on a college campus" (Zaroulis 64 and Sullivan, 1984:106). Students responded by throwing rocks and bricks, but after the county sheriff's department sent reinforcements, the angry crowd filtered away (Long,

1970; Zaroulis and Sullivan, 1984; New York Times, 1967,

October 19).

It did not take long for student leaders to react.

That evening they held a mass rally where more than five thousand attenders voted to strike against the university (Long, 1970). On October 19, about half of the Letters and Science students and many others from assorted divisions boycotted classes. Some eight hours after the violence, Sewell announced that "'in order to guard the safety of our campus' further interviews by the Dow Company were being suspended" (New York Times

(1967) October 19, 8:1).

Shortly after the Dow incident, CIA and Air Force recruiters canceled their November appointments; the

Navy and the Marines did not, and their recruiters did come to the campus. The administration employed two hundred sheriff's deputies to maintain peace; these interviews took place with no problems, but law enforcement personnel alone cost the university $15,000 (Long, 1970).

When Dow, Navy, and Marine recruiters again returned to Wisconsin in the spring, 1968, the university instructed them to send enough personnel to handle their business 65 in one day and carefully selected the date for the interviews. No serious problems occurred, but that could have been, in part, because the old radical leaders had graduated or dropped out of school and new leaders had not yet appeared, leaving the antiwar group in a weakened state (Long, 1970).

Less than two weeks after the Wisconsin demon­ strations, problems emerged at Indiana University. Administrators there expected trouble since Dow recruiters had created the same reaction at so many other campuses. Professor J. Douglass Snider of the Business Placement Bureau made the first decision toward handling a possible demonstration. He telephoned Indiana University's Safety Director William Spannuth explaining that some Dow representatives would be on their campus October 30-31. The two met on October 24 to discuss arrangements for dealing with any problems that might occur. During that meeting, they developed a six-phase general plan: (1) Two pairs of university and plainclothes officers would patrol the Business Building. (2) The Dean of Students would immediately be notified if a demonstration began. (3) Spannuth, who had been deputized by the Sheriff, would provide the administration with additional support through his power of arrest. 66

(4) If the demonstration became large and violent, the University would alert Bloomington Police and Indiana State Police. (They further concluded that Spannuth would be in charge of all officers coming to the campus).

(5) They made arrangements with the campus bus service to transport arrested students to jail.

(6) They decided that students could assemble inside the Business Building, but any demonstrators entering Room 131, where the interviewers conducted their business, would be arrested (The Faculty Committee, 1970).

The remainder of the administration had no knowledge that this meeting took place. Spannuth found no reason for informing the President's Office, and neither Dean of Students Robert Schaffer nor Dean of Student Activities Herbert Smith believed that a demonstration would occur. As classes began on October 30, any signs that a demonstration might take place had not appeared. But when Dow set up shop at 10:30 a.m., students began gathering in the Business Building's hallways. At 2:00 p.m., demonstration leaders Russell Block and Mark Ritcher asked to meet with a Dow representative to discuss the napalm issue. Frank Bianchi, a graduate student working in the business office, refused their request. He told them that they had not previously asked for an interview, they had not submitted fifty copies of 67 a their resumes, their hair was too long, their shoes were not shined, and that no unscheduled students could enter Room 131. Block then told a group of students waiting in the upstairs hallway what had happened and to assemble outside Room 131 (The Faculty Committee, 1970) .

As the students congregated, one officer patrolling the building notified the University Safety Division who called Bloomington Chief of Police James East. Professor Snider called Dean Schaffer who sent Dean Smith to check on the situation. Dean Smith found the demonstrators orderly and unobstructive. He told student leaders Don Kaplan and Robin Hunter that they could continue their demonstration so long as they did not create a fire hazard. He further added that anyone entering Room 131 would be arrested. Smith did not abide by his own statement, however, and problems soon arose. At about 2:30 p.m., one of the demonstrators, Karen Nichols, entered Room 131 and sat down. Bianchi told her to leave, but Smith said that she should be left alone. After a short while, Nichols returned to the hallway where she informed the others that they could enter Room 131 if they wanted to. The protest leaders suggested that such action would result in tneir arrest. But the students, believing that they could 68 now enter without incident, voted to go into Room 131 to talk with the Dow people (The Faculty Commit­ tee, 1970).

University Security called James East requesting assistance. Meanwhile, Captain Dillon from the Security Division identified himself and told the students to stay out of the room or face arrest. He then tried to hold the door shut as several dissenters began forcing their way in. Several demonstrators surged into the room after breaking Dillon's grip. Once inside, they sat around the walls in an orderly fashion, but fully intended to remain there until the interviewers agreed to talk with them (The Faculty Committee, 1970).

Bloomington police and sheriff's deputies had already arrived on the campus. Brandishing nightsticks, they gathered at the Business Building. Dillon then told the protesters that they were all under arrest; one Bloomington policeman added that "you can walk out the easy way, or we'll take you out the hard way" (The Faculty Committee, 1970:239). Twenty-two students stood up and walked to the waiting buses; fifteen remained in the room. The officers, freely using their bludgeons, began forcibly removing these stragglers. After the room had been cleared, at least two students required medical attention. (The Faculty Committee, 1970). 69 A club-swinging clash also occurred between students and city police on October 19 at Brooklyn College where students protested the presence of two Navy recruiting Officers. The trouble began when college leaders refused to grant permission for protesters to set up an antiwar propaganda table next to the recruiters. Antiwar students, agitated by the administration's denial, then began openly protesting against the recruiters. Jeff Gordon, a student leader, refused to produce his identification card for Dean Archie MacGregor who suspended him on the spot. Gordon, however, refused to leave, and when the College called in police, other demonstrating students formed a protective circle around him to prevent his being arrested. When police seized some eighteen of the students, a number of fistfights quickly erupted and then subsided. After a short lull, the police again moved in. This time tney attacked more aggressively, arrested Gordon, and forcibly dragged him to a patrol car. Hundreds of students surrounded the car. Forty club swinging policemen rushed the crowd, leaving dozens of bleeding students in their wake. After the police car holding Gordon left the campus, the violence ended. Nearly one thousand students and two hundred policemen had been involved. (New York Times, 1967 October 20). 70

Brooklyn College Acting President Francis Kilcoyne had been at a meeting with the Board of Higher Education when the event took place. Roberta Baker, head of the

Career and Job Placement Center, acting with no official authority, had called the police because she anticipated trouble. College officials hoped that the arrested students would not be jailed, but police had already persuaded campus safety officer David Shorefkin to sign complaints. The next day, only 20% of Brooklyn College students attended class, and Kilcoyne proved to be sympathetic with their strike. He did not favor the college's action. He said that police should not be used to settle a campus matter, and that he would drop all charges made against the students. He also conceded that outside police would never again be called to resolve a problem that the college should be able to handle

(New York Times, 1967, October 20, October 21).

The antiwar demonstrations across America's campuses during 1967 had both unfavorable and favorable ends for the protesters. On the one hand, many students had been injured, arrested, or suspended from universities

On the other hand, war-affiliated recruiting agencies canceled scheduled interviews and Dow's representatives had been, at least temporarily, banned from several campuses. The New York Times (1968, January 21) indicated 71 that in just two months, October and November, 1967, fifty anti-Vietnam War demonstrations took place on campuses: twenty-seven against Dow; eight against military recruiters; six each against the CIA and defense contracts; and three against ROTC. During the 1967 protests, opponents of United States involvement in Vietnam aggressively attacked the war effort, and as the student antiwar movement escalated even more considerably in

1968, America began to take notice. , —1 CHAPTER VI

1968: ESCALATION

According to research conducted by the National Student Association, colleges and universities reported that between January and June, 1968, they experienced twenty-six major demonstrations against America's involvement in the Vietnam War--fourteen against Dow Chemical Company, two each against military recruiting and Reserve Officer Training Programs, and one against the CIA. That study included only first time incidents at four-year campuses (New York Times, 1968, August 27). In yet another study conducted at Harvard University, 94% of 529 students polled indicated their disapproval of the Vietnam War, 33% would refuse to fight in Southeast Asia, and 79% would not enter the military services at all (New York Times, 1968, January 15).

By January, 1968, some 150 antiwar groups had been established nationwide; Students for a Democratic Society (SDS) and the Student Peace Union (SPU) represented the major student supported groups (Horowitz, 1970). Although students participated in antiwar campaigns beyond the campus scene. Carter (1968) sug­ gested that they primarily aimed their discontent at the university's involvement with classified military

72 73 research, government agency recruiting, and war-related industrial recruiting. ^

The principal campus confrontation for 1968 occurred at Columbia University where Naval Reserve Officer Training

Corps (NROTC) programs, and CIA, Marine Corps, and Dow recruiting triggered "the most militant and violent fight ever waged against an American University" (Adelson,

1972:7) These events set the pace for student antiwar action and administrative reaction at many other campuses, i

Student disenchantment with the Vietnam War had first appeared at Columbia in 1965 with students protesting against the NROTC award ceremony. The war issue then intensified in March, 1967 when the campus newspaper,

Columbia Daily Specter, published an article verifying the school's association with the Institute for Defense

Analysis (IDA), an independent organization established in 1955 to conduct research for the Department of Defense;

Columbia had joined the organization in 1959. Other members of the twelve university consortium were Chicago,

Princeton, Michigan, California, Illinois, Pennsylvania

State, Tulane, Stanford, California Institute of

Technology, Case Institute of Technology, and Massachusetts

Institute of Technology. Columbia's President Grayson

Kirk and Trustee William Burden both served on the IDA

Board (Avorn et al., 1969). 74 After the Specter's report, Columbia attempted to hide its complicity in the war. Although Dean of

Graduate Faculties Ralph Halford denied any connection between the university and IDA, several faculty members did in fact conduct secret research for the Institute

(Kunen, 1970). When students and faculty opposed to the war effort learned of this through another Spector article published on March 23, 1968, they voiced their indignation. Kirk, however, replied that "these things are not in the purview of faculty or students...."

(Greenman, 1968:6), and government professor and Vice

Provost for Academic Affairs Herbert Deane further stated that "Columbia University is definitely not a democratic institution" (Grant, 1969:35). The revelation about secret research, concomitant with the university's answer

to faculty and student displeasure with IDA activity, led to the major 1968 Columbia demonstration.

In February, 1968, the protesters had temporarily turned their attention from IDA to recruiting by Dow

Chemical Company. The SDS originally planned only to picket against the Dow representatives. Nearly one hundred demonstrators, however, left the picket line and marched to Dodge Hall where Dow conducted its interviews, held a sit-in, and prevented the interviews from taking place (Avorn et al., 1968). Although the 75 sit-in clearly violated Columbia's rule concerning inside demonstrations, university leaders took no disciplinary action against the students (Cox Commission, 1968).

But on March 27, after Columbia's foremost SDS leader Mark Rudd led one hundred students to occupy

Low Library, again protesting Columbia's involvement with the IDA, the university placed six demonstrators, including Rudd, on disciplinary probation. When dozens of participating students demanded that they be given the same punishment, Columbia officials refused their request because, even though the students admitted their guilt, they had not been recognized in the crowd (Avorn et al., 1968) . —j Throughout that spring semester, three issues triggered the major uprising occurring in April: (1) the university's construction of a gymnasium in Harlem's Morningside Park, a racial issue that, although important, does not directly relate to this study; (2) Columbia's affiliation with the IDA; and (3) the disciplinary action taken against the six protest leaders (Cox Commission,

1968) . The first activity occurred on April 14. Sixteen

students representing the Students Afro-American Society

(SAS) occupied the admissions office, demanding that

Columbia recruit more black students. The university 76 acquired a court injunction and, two days later, the protest ended without incident. Then, about 3:30 p.m. on April 17, the Students for a Restructured University

(SRU) took over Philosophy Hall and the Rotunda in Low

Library demanding that, among other internal institutional issues, the university sever its relationship with the military. Two hours after students occupied the buildings.

Director of Buildings and Grounds William Whitehead told them that their action was illegal and that if they did not vacate the buildings, Columbia would be forced take appropriate action. Three hours later, university officials obtained another injunction, but this time the students refused to leave. Around

10:30 p.m., administrators and campus police, without any prior warning, entered Philosophy Hall to serve the injunction. When the students saw them, they confronted the police and hand-to-hand combat broke out. At one point, several policemen simultaneously beat one of the demonstrators with their clubs. In response, students began throwing bottles and chairs and spraying fire extinguishers. Under this barrage, the administrators and guards evacuated. Afterwards, the demonstrators voted to leave the building, but SDS leaders demanded amnesty for those students placed on 77 probation the previous month. Kirk refused to grant this request (Astin, 1969; Avorn et al., 1968).

The next day, Friday, April 18, Columbia's trustees held a special meeting to discuss the activity occurring at their university. Trustees Chairman William Peterson, issued the following public statement:

The trustees [Jnave^ ex­ pressed approval of the course which has been followed by the University administration.... The trustees have advised the President that they wholeheart­ edly supported the administration position that there shall be no amnesty accorded to those who have engaged in this illegal con­ duct. Moreover, they not only support the President's stand, but affirmatively direct that he shall maintain the ultimate disci­ plinary power over the conduct of students of the University as re­ quired by the Charter and Statutes of the University. (Avorn et al., 1968:143)

The campus community hostilely received Peterson's statement (Avorn et al., 1968). Many demonstrators thought that the university should not deny amnesty because only a select few demonstrators had received disciplinary action. Most radical leaders, however, believed that Kirk would not grant it; they were right.

Vice-President and Provost David Truman proclaimed that there can be absolutely no altering on [J:he amnesty"] 78 point. This thing is far big­ ger than Columbia, and we do not intend to betray our sister institutions. Amnesty would mean forgetting this incident ever happened. Amnesty would mean that any group that wishes to take over this University is free to do so at any time." (Avorn et al., 1968:167)

On Tuesday, April 22, students began protesting against the three aforementioned issues. The IDA question epitomized the Vietnam War controversy, represented the SDS's primary issue, and became the focus of campus dissent (Cox Commission, 1968). At noon, some five hundred students began gathering at the Sundial in the center of Columbia University. Mark Rudd spoke against the institution's war affiliation and disciplinary procedures, but the crowd, more interested in occupying Low Library than listening to speeches, headed toward the building. V^hen the demonstrators arrived at Low, they found its doors locked. They then milled about, unsure of what to do. Rudd, who had stopped his speach in order to join the crowd, suggested that they needed a hostage. At that proposal, three hundred students went to Hamilton Hall where they captured and detained Acting Dean of Columbia College Henry Coleman. No physical violence occurred and the dean freely talked on the telephone to Truman, whose office, along with Kirk's, 79 was in Low. At 6:00 p.m., various groups representing the Black community, e.g., the Congress for Racial

Equality, began taking over Hamilton. As the Black forces grew in number, they firmly hinted that the White students find another building (Cox Commission, 1968).

After their withdrawal from Hamilton, some 250

White students again headed for Low. This time they gained entry after smashing a window. Once inside the building, they broke into Kirk's office, searched his files for evidence of Columbia's military affiliation, and photographed some papers. Not long after the students commandeered Kirk's office. Captain Adam DeNisco of

Columbia's security department called the New York City police. Shortly thereafter a squad of policemen arrived on campus. The students in Low quickly heard of their arrival and most of them exited the building. When the police reached Kirk's office only a few students remained in the library, but the officers did nothing about evicting them or barricading other students from entering (Cox Commission, 1968). The Cox Commission

(1968) further concluded that because of this "do-nothing" attitude most of the students who had left the building, as well as many others, climbed back into Kirk's office through a window after the police departed. The demonstrators' numbers then grew to over one thousand. 80 and during the remainder of that week they took over Avery and Fayerweather Halls and the Math Building (Cox Commission, 1968; Avorn et al., 1969).

On Friday, April 25, Kirk made arrangements with New York City officials for massive police action. Professor of public law and government Alan Westin, aware that Kirk had requested police intervention, tried to convince Rudd that the demonstrators' cause had already proven victorious. He assured the student leader that an Ad Hoc Faculty Group (AHFG), chaired by Westin, had discussed the issues and would propose that university officials end all ties with IDA. Westin further guaranteed Rudd that any disciplinary measures taken would be moderate. But the professor's words lacked credibility. At Columbia, only the president or the trustees could truly promise the students anything (Avorn et al., 1969). Associate Dean of Columbia College Alexander Piatt said that "Westin promised Mark far more at that time than he could deliver, far more than President Kirk or Dr. Truman would be willing to deliver..." (Avorn et al.,

1969:113). Thursday evening, Coleman and Truman told the demonstrators that if they did not voluntarily leave the buildings the police would clear them out. The

AHFG members had already concluded that "until this 81 crisis is settled, we will stand before the occupied building to prevent forcible entry by police or others" n (Cox Commission, 1968:122). Once those faculty members learned that Columbia officials had actually called the police, they posted themselves before the buildings.

At 2:30 a.m., twenty-five policemen tried to push their way through the AHFG phalanx at Low Library; the faculty pushed back and a scuffle broke out. French instructor -J^

Richard Greeman suffered severe cuts on his head from a policeman's club and later required several stitches.

Other faculty members lifted Greeman off the ground and took him inside the building. Professors Westin

and Alexander Dallin and Dean of Graduate Faculties

George Fraenkel urged the administration to reconsider

its decision for using police. Less than an hour later,

Truman, speaking to a large group of faculty and students

gathered outside the library, said that the Faculty

Committee "has persuaded the university administration

to postpone a request for police action on the campus

while the faculty and the Administration continue their

efforts to affect a peaceful solution to the situation"

(Cox Commission, 1968:123).

The faculty then assumed a more vital role in trying

to work out a peaceful solution, especially since

negotiations had collapsed between the administration 82 and the demonstrators. But the occurrences of that following weekend dimmed any hopes for a peaceful solution.

On Saturday, thirty faculty members and a large number of other people positioned themselves around Low, refusing anyone to enter or leave the building without first showing an identification card. They collected the cards of those leaving so that they could not return.

The faculty set up their checkpoint only at Low, where the students still held Kirk's office. Demonstrators moved freely to and from the other four occupied buildings

(New York Times, 1968, April 27, 18:1).

By late Sunday afternoon, reports circulated that

the students in Low suffered from diarrhea and had little

food. Upon hearing this news, some 250 antiprotest

students surrounded the library to prevent any supplies

from reaching the demonstrators. Fists swung freely

as sympathizers tried to break through the cordon.

During the brawl, other protest supporters, not engaged

in battle, threw sandwiches to demonstrators on the

second floor ledge outside Kirk's office. After several minutes, faculty members separated the fighters. Although

thirty policemen stood within one hundred feet of the melee, they made no attempt to interfere. One policeman

explained that "we don't go in unless there is a

cross-complaint,... This is an administrative thing" 83

(New York Times, 1968, April 30, 36:2, 5).

Meanwhile, university officials discussed steps to end the disorder. Considering the violence that had occurred. Kirk decided once again to call upon the police. Columbia administrators and police officials agreed upon a plan that entailed the following:

(1) Students would be ordered to leave by a University official using a bullhorn and would be giv­ en the opportunity to leave unmol­ ested. (2) The buildings would be cleared early in the morning when the few­ est people would be on campus and much of Harlem would be sleeping.

(3) The police would use overwhelm­ ing force so that students who re­ mained in the buildings, outnum­ bered at least four to one, would find no point in resisting arrest.

(4) Although the police suggested that it might be desirable to clear the campus before emptying the build­ ings, the Administration stated that it did not want the campus cleared. The police gave assurance they would not bring police vans on to the cam­ pus to remove those arrested. The vans were to be parked along the perimeter of the campus. (5) The Administration made it plain that It wished no unnecessary arrests. (6) The Administration expressed con­ cern about plainclothesmen. Police officials assured University officials that It was Police Department policy, whenever possible, to use only uniform­ ed men for the actual clearing of a 84 building, but that some nonuniformed men would be present both to assist in handling the arrest procedure and for investigative purposes....

(7) The Police Department assumed full responsibility for providing medical assistance to anyone injured, since he would be a person then under arrest.

(8) Th2 University officials repeatedly stressed the importance of avoiding violence. The Police Department ex­ pressed the belief that the build­ ings could be cleared without sub­ stantial incidence of injury. (Cox Commission, 1968:162-63)

Responding to the university's request, one thousand handpicked policemen infiltrated the campus Tuesday morning and began ordering students out of the buildings.

Three serious miscalculations in the plan, however, disrupted any chance for a tranquil confrontation.

First, considerably more students occupied the buildings than had been estimated. Second, the idea that this operation could take place on a quiet and relatively deserted campus proved to be a gross misconception.

At that point, the media constantly covered the campus scene, and covertly assembling one thousand policemen could not be done. Third, the administration and the police incorrectly surmised that the latter would not meet any opposition other than from students in the buildings (Cox Commission, 1968). 85

The police did clear Hamilton Hall without incident, but at Low Library, Avery Hall, Fayerweather Hall, and the Math Building they met resistance. Violence erupted when police employed force to remove faculty and students from blocking the buildings' entrances and then to remove those students who refused to leave after being place under arrest (Cox Commission, 1968). In clearing the buildings, policemen kicked, punched, clubbed, and dragged students along concrete steps. Two officers each held the arm of one female student and, after spinning her around, flung her into a tree. Close by, two more officers threw a student to the ground; a plainclothesman then began stomping him. Another policeman, using his handcuffs as brass knuckles, struck Robert Thomas, Jr., a New

York Times reporter, in the face and on the head. One group of plainclothesmen so thoroughly and savagely beat one demonstrator that he had to be rescued by other police officers (New York Times, 1968, May 1; Grant,

1969) . The physical injuries and malestrom might have been lessened had the administration and police been more aware of the actual situation as it related to their plan. The number of demonstrators more than equaled the one thousand policemen, which lessened their resistance to arrest. This error also required the police to use 86 additional plainclothesmen. Furthermore, with so many students involved, the police could not easily remove those arrested through side exits. Consequently, and contrary to plan, they had to bring their police vans onto the campus. Then, without consulting university officials, the police themselves decided to clear the campus. The students retaliated, and this is when the greatest violence occurred (Cox Commission, 1968).

During the raid, police arrested 720 persons and injured some 150 (New York Times (1968), May 1, 34:1). Hospital reports indicated that the students had been treated for heavy bruises, scalp lacerations, sprains, and severe fright (Cox Commission, 1968).

After the violence, protesters turned their demands toward Kirk's resignation. Executive Vice-President of the Student Council J. Michael Nichols pleaded with

Columbia's alumni to send the university telegrams asking for Kirk's dismissal, as well as any trustees who had been involved with requesting the police action (New

York Times, 1968, May 1, 34:1). Kirk immediately responded that "I am not going to resign under fire, because that would be a victory for those who are out to destroy the University" (New York Times, 1968, May 6, 52:3).

The Columbia campus then remained calm for about a month. But on May 21-22, another bloody battle took 87 place between students and police. On May 16, Kirk had instructed Dean Piatt to send a registered letter to those students who he perceived as being the five most prominent SDS leaders at Columbia—Mark Rudd, Nick Freudenberg, Morris Grossner, Ed Hyman, and Ted Gold. The letter read:

You are charged with par­ ticipating in the recent de­ monstration starting on April 23, 1968 and are requested to come in to see me on Tuesday afternoon. May 21, no later than 5:00 p.m.... I should in­ form you that if you fail to come in to see me by the above date, you shall be suspended from the University. (Cox Com­ mission, 1968:175)

Piatt walked into Hamilton Hall at 5:00 p.m. on Tuesday to find the summoned students' parents and lawyers and 350 sympathetic students. They all engaged in a heated discussion about the suspensions. At the same time. Kirk, Truman, and Coleman, convinced that a sit-in was in effect at Hamilton Hall, decided to call the police again (Cox Commission, 1968).

This time, students constructed barricades at the campus entrances. The police swiftly tore down the barriers and surged onto the grounds. Students once again threw bricks and bottles at the police; the police­ men once again clubbed the students. By 5:30 a.m.. 88 May 22, the students dispersed. After the May 22 attack, Columbia remained quiet for a while, yet student resentment and anger did not die quickly (Kunen, 1970).

No major problems arose during the summer, but as the fall semester approached, changes began to occur at Columbia. On August 23, Kirk announced his retirement. His temporary replacement, former Dean for the School of International Affairs Andrew Cordier communicated with students, so unlike his predecessor. Upon his appointment, Cordier said that "the central administra­ tion ... r^houldj reserve a specific time every month or week to receive any student without prior appointment for discussion of matters of concern to the student" (New York Times, 1968, August 24, 1:1).

On September 9, Cordier distributed a new set of rules for protests and rallies which terminated the ban on indoor demonstrations. That same day, Columbia requested the judiciary to drop criminal trespass charges against four hundred students involved in the April demonstration. The board of trustees hoped that Cordier's action would ease tension on the campus. But SDS leader Lewis Cole said that Columbia "still maintains over seven hundred federally sponsored research projects,... Until all this is stopped, the struggle against Columbia 89 University, of necessity, must continue" (New York Times, 1968, September 10, 1:5).

The SDS planned several rallies and demonstrations for the fall, but they were small because most of the moderate students had left the organization and, that summer, Columbia had severed its official ties with the IDA (New York Times, 1968, September 15, 83:1; Adelson,

1970). By the fall semester's close, for the most part, university business once again continued as usual (New

York Times, 1968, November 25, 45:1).

Even though Columbia experienced the most important demonstration of 1968, with several universities watching the action and reaction there, other campuses also felt the bite of protest. For example, on May 6, several hundred New York University students demonstrated against the school's administration for not canceling Dow interviews. At a campus rally. President of the

Undergraduate Student Government Bendon Sexton said that "they don't care that a sin is being committed here,... They just care if we bother them. And that's what we're going to do--bother them until they realize they can't brush us off" (New York Times, 1968,

March 7, 58:5) . After the rally, the demonstrators marched to an abandoned building housing the Dow interviews where 90 they found a police cordon surrounding the structure.

Instead of disrupting the interview, they stormed into the university's administrative offices and demanded a moratorium on war-affiliated campus recruiting. New

York University Chancellor Allen Cartter told them that

Che issue of whether the campus was a proper place for job recruiting had definitely become an open question.

He did not disrupt their demonstration (New York Times,

1968, March 7, 58:5) .

One hundred Notre Dame students also protested

Dow and CIA recruiting by spending the night of November

18 in the Administration Building. No problems occurred as the students abided by a university regulation permiting a demonstration so long as it was registered with the

Dean of Students. Dean James Riehle said, "I think a demonstration like this is much more effective than taking over a building and keeping everyone out. Thinking people will at least pause and consider the issues they are raising" (New York Times, 1968, November 20, 16:1).

But things were not as quiet elsewhere. State troopers broke up a demonstration against Olin Mathieson

Corporation, suspected of having a business interest in the war, at Connecticut University and arrested twelve students. The protest started peacefully, but after an hour of picketing, the demonstrators began throwing 91 rocks and obstructing students who wanted to interview.

When fistfights broke out between the two groups, c%mpus police and one hundred state police converged on the demonstrators, striking them and dragging them away

(New York Times, 1968, November 27, 31:1).

Two weeks later, December 11, state police again arrested sixty-seven University of Connecticut students protesting government recruiting on campus. While one hundred troopers surrounded the interview building, the sixty-seven demonstrators walked up to the police and formed a line. The first student approached the police saying, "arrest me." Lieutenant Colonel Leslie

Williams told her that she had done nothing wrong.

At that, the student bumped against Williams just hard enough to be arrested for violating the peace. One by one the other sixty-six followed suit (New York Times,

1968, December 11). One of the students said, "we don't want to get our heads cracked ... but we've got to get arrested to illustrate our opposition to letting the military-industrial monster on to our campus" (New

York Times, 1968, December 11, 34:4).

Police intervention in student demonstrations ' increased dramatically during 1968. Some officials, however, did not give themselves an adequate opportunity for first dealing with the situations internally. Instead 92 of communicating with student leaders, they mostly preferred to let outside law enforcement personnel handle the situation. This often led to violence and future disruption. 1

In 1968, universities became a bellwether for the ^ antiwar movement. Students became more militant than in previous years and, as more young people grasped the antiwar attitude set forth at Columbia, they became a leading factor in the struggle to end the Vietnam

War. During 1968, many students may not have realized the import of their movement, but that year symbolized the turning point from escalation to disengagement; the year that the Southeast Asia War began to be lost on the home front (Zaroulis and Sullivan, 1984; Powers,

1984). Although student demonstrations intensified greatly in 1968, the following year, 1969, brought a mass demonstration to A^iierican campuses--the Vietnam

War Moratorium. -^ CHAPTER VII

1969: MORATORIUM

The spring semester of 1969 began a new season for various campus recruiters and new encounters for the antiwar protesters. Student dissenters had heavily pursued Dow Chemical Company in 1967, but they largely ignored the company in 1968 (New York Times, 1968,

December 1). Accordingly, company officials believed that students had turned their anger away from Dow, and for the most part they were right. Major ' demonstrations during 1969 primarily involved military research on campus and ROTC programs, although other action did occur against Dow, CIA, and armed forces recruiting. But an October 15 antiwar moratorium provided a large number of American higher education participants. Some campus officials favored the moratorium while others fought against it, nevertheless, its results proved significant. —^ Many university administrators began their spring semester developing defenses against demonstrations. For example, on February 17, Notre Dame University President Theodore Hesburgh stated in an eight-page open letter to the faculty members and students that "any one or any group that substitutes force for rational

93 94 persuasion, be it violent or nonviolent, will be given 15 minutes of meditation to cease and desist" (New York Time£, 1969, February 18, 1:7). Hesburgh's letter further stipulated that if protesters did not bring themselves under control after the fifteen-minute time period, they would be forced to give up their campus identification cards and then face immediate suspension. If their disruptive action continued for another five minutes, they would be expelled and subjected to civil law enforcement authorities (New York Times, 1969, February 18).

Hesburgh's announcement gained nationwide publicity through the newspapers. Hundreds of responses poured in praising the Notre Dame President. Even though he received positive national support, Hesburgh drew fire from many Notre Dame students for refusing to confer with university organizations before issuing his edict. Moreover, Notre Dame philosophy professor Mario Corradi believed that "Hesburgh's letter clearly demonstrates his abysmal ignorance of and lack of connection with the university community." Corradi further predicted that "Hesburgh's statement of policy can only create the anarchy, mob tyranny, and imposition on this community from without that he was supposedly trying to prevent" (Connelly and Dooley, 1972:244-45). Corradi's prediction 95 proved incorrect, and Notre Dame did not experience antiwar activity in 1969, but elsewhere, fights, strikes, police clubbings, and student arrests continued.

On March 11, eighty Stonybrook State University students took over the graduate school office after first being denied access to a building where Dow representatives conducted interviews. Maintaining that faculty research information should be made public, they searched through the office files, photocoping research related documents. President John Toll informed the students of an existing policy against copying faculty research information. The students believed that they had a right to know what type of research the university supported and continued duplicating the records. When Toll tried physically to intervene, a series of shoving matches broke out between him and the students. The situation quickly calmed after Toll and student leaders agreed that the students would disperse and university officials would temporarily suspend on-campus war affiliated recruiting (New York Times, 1969, March 11).

The next day, however, three hundred students occupied the Administration Building. They vowed to remain there until university officials agreed to terminate all war-related recruiting and research. At midnight, 96 Stonybrook's Executive Vice-President T. Alexander Pond closed the building and gave the protesters a choice of leaving or facing criminal trespass charges. Most of the students filtered out during the early morning hours, but when the remaining students did not leave. Toll called the police. They arrested twenty-one demonstrators without any force or violence (New York Times, 1969, March 14).

The following month, Fordham University militants forced the suspension of armed service recruiting at that campus. On April 14, one hundred SDS led demonstrators stormed into Chemistry Hall. Students interviewing there had already formed a protective circle around the recruiters. Fistfights broke out, but protesters successfully pushed the recruiters out of the building. The violence continued until Vice-President for Student Personnel Martin Meade told everyone to clear the building, after he had canceled the interviews (New York Times, 1969, April 15). Navy recruiter Lieutenant Commander Daniel Walsh viewed the incident without concern. He said "there's an element of resentment on every campus today. Usually it's in the form of a counter-table,... It's only when they prevent other students from seeing us that there is trouble" (New York Times, 1969, April 15, 34:6). 97

Four days prior to the Fordham incident, SDS led some three hundred Harvard students protesting the campus

ROTC program in occupying the school's Administration

Building. Once inside, the protesters ejected nine deans, roughed-up several administrators who refused to leave their offices, and secured the building's doors with bicycle chains. Dean of Arts and Sciences Franklin

Ford gave the students fifteen minutes to evacuate or become subject to criminal trespass charges. One hundred students walked out after Ford's announcement, but over two hundred remained. Demonstration leaders then stated their position: We are holding University Hall to force the Harvard corporation to yield to our demands. We in­ tend to stay until we win. These demands are non-negotiable, and for very good reasons. For in­ stance, we consider the R.O.T.C. as a life-and-death issue for the people of the world whose lands are occupied by U.S. troops; whose social revolutions are fought vi­ ciously by the U.S. military. (New York Times, 1969, April 10, 1:3)

Such aggressive action had never before occurred

at Harvard during the Vietnam War protests. President Nathan Pusey called the police in order to deal with the problem. Cambridge Police Chief Robert Tonis planned to form a cordon around University Hall using local police from Cambridge and Boston. The more highly trained 98 state police could then clear the building. Any students voluntarily leaving the building would be allowed through the cordon unmolested. On April 11, over four hundred

state and local police charged into a large group of

students gathered at the Administration Building's

entrance. They vigorously kicked, punched, and beat

the students, leaving pools of blood on the sidewalk

outside University Hall. After police cleared the doorway,

they then swarmed into the building and dragged

demonstrators out by their hair; several students emerged

with bloody heads. Forty-eight injuries required medical

attention, including fractured wrists, knees, legs,

skulls, and two serious concussions. The officers arrested

197 students, but most of them posted a twenty dollar

bail and returned to campus. Pusey had watched the

entire scene through binoculars from the second story

of his home. (New York Times, 1969, April 11; Eichel

et al., 1970) . Later that afternoon, fifteen hundred politically

moderate students, protesting the university's decision

for police action, voted for a three-day campus strike.

They further demanded that police never be brought to

the campus again; that the arrested students be granted

amnesty; and that Pusey resign. Earlier that morning,

five hundred Law School students also voted for Pusey's 99 dismissal (New York Times, 1969, April 11). Most of the faculty did not agree that Pusey should resign. They did, however, acknowledge that students and faculty had little confidence in the president. One unidentified faculty member stated:

Even if you feel no love for him, you might not think that this is the time to bail out. Even if he had the im­ pulse to resign, I don't think the corporation would let him.... The corporation would argue that his resignation would be an S.D.S. victory. (New York Times, 1969, April 15, 31:1)

Pusey did make the decision to call in the police. He said that "it was quite clear that the issue was a direct assault upon the authority of the university and upon rational process and accepted procedures" (New York Times, 1969, April 12, 1:2). Dean Ford later indicated that the university did not anticipate the amount of force that the police would use and had, therefore, decided to drop the charges (New York Times, 1969, April 12). On April 13, the Harvard corporation, composed of Pusey: Harvard Treasurer George Bennett; and five fellows: attorneys Francis Burr, Hugh Calkins, Richmond Kane, and William Marbury, and Mobil Oil Company Chairman of the Board Albert Nickerson, reported that any more 100 violence could result in the 333-year-old university being closed. This proclamation came after SDS announced that it intended to seize another building (New York Times, 1969, April 14). Neither threat occurred. Then, on April 18, five thousand students voted to terminate the strike after the corporation agreed that it would, as soon as legally possible, cancel Harvard's ROTC contracts with the Pentagon (New York Times, 1969, April 19). The Air Force and Navy accepted Harvard's request to end their programs in June, 1971; the Army terminated its contract in June, 1970 (Eichel et al., 1970) .

Meanwhile, Stanford University students conducted a protest against the research conducted at Stanford Research Institute (SRI). Actually, in October, 1968, SDS questioned Stanford's participation in war-related research, particularly chemical-biological warfare and counter-insurgency research (Astin, 1969). The local SDS chapter demanded that "the university community immediately halt all military and economic projects and operations concerned with Southeast Asia" (Rice Thresher, 1969, December 5). Acting President Robert Glaser responded by saying that the relationship between Stanford and SRI "is one of concern to many members of the faculty and student body,... Pand that itj 101 is a legitimate issue to examine--not one to sweep under the rug and say it doesn't exist" (Rice Thresher, 1969,

December 5). Glaser then formed a special committee consisting of five faculty members, five students, and two administrators to study the relationship between

Stanford and SRI. The new incoming president, Kenneth

Pitzer, also supported the study (Rice Thresher, 1959, December 5).

Just prior to the fall semester's close, SDS called for a rally to support their demands. Only two hundred students attended that demonstration. Afterwards, the campus remained quiet until March, 1969, when the Stanford SRI Coalition--students, faculty, and other people from the university's community opposed to war-related research--distributed a statement protesting the SRI. It said, in part: A University committee is presently studying the rela­ tionship between Stanford and the Stanford Research Insti­ tute. We are disturbed to dis­ cover that in the course of the committee's deliberations, SRI has renewed its major counter- insurgency project in Southeast Asia. In addition, two chemical- biological warfare contracts are pending (Astin, 1969:0-169)

The Stanford trustees requested that SRI officials impose a moratorium on their CBW contracts, but this 102 did not satisfy the protesters. On April 9, four hundred students occupied the Applied Electronics Laboratory

(AEL), which was responsible for $2,000,000 worth of secret research for the Department of Defense (New York

Times, 1969, April 11). The sit-in prevented AEL from conducting any of its classified research, and hundreds of other students and faculty supported the demonstration.

Even though President Pitzer believed that "we spend too much on the military, on means to kill people, and not enough on constructive things to help people" (Astin 1969:0-171), he still had responsibility for the university's business. The next day, Pitzer told the demonstrators to clear the building or face criminal trespass charges; they remained, but caused no trouble, agreeing not to be destructive and to leave classified materials alone (New York Times, 1969, April 11).

On April 14, Glaser's investigative committee released

the results of its study. Nine of the twelve members

recommended that Stanford sell SRI (Astin, 1969), urging that much of this research should not be carried on either at the university or at a uni­ versity-affiliated research institute. All components of such morally objectionable re­ search should be phased out as soon as possible; no new research projects should be supported that 103 are clearly morally objectionable (New York Times, 1969, April 15, 31:4)

The other three members suggested that Stanford not sell SRI so that it could control the institute's future research activity (Astin, 1969).

The next day, fearing that federal troops might be called in if the protest continued, the students voted to leave AEL. But they also decided to resume the protest if Stanford did not immediately close SRI (Astin, 1969). Twelve days later, SRI operations still continued. On May 1, three hundred of the student antiwar faction forced their way into Encina Hall, the university's major administration building. Thirty members of the Young Americans for Freedom (YAF), a conservative group, attempted to barricade the entrance. Fistfights broke out, but the demonstrators easily overpowered the outnumbered YAF and smashed through the building's glass doors. This time Pitzer instructed Provost Richard Lyman to contact the Santa Clara County sheriff's department. By 7:30 p.m., more than 125 deputies had arrived; it was the first time in the school's history that outside law enforcement had been brought to the campus. When the police approached Encina Hall, only one hundred students remained in the building. They 104 all left as ordered; none were arrested (New York Times, 1969, May 2).

Even though university officials and the police successfully cleared Encina Hall, SRI opposition did not disappear. On May 12, protesters called for students to boycott their classes. Attendance dropped by 60% in the humanities and social science classes, and by 30% in the sciences (Astin, 1969). The following day, Stanford's board of trustees decided to sever university ties with SRI (New York Times, 1969, May 14).

After Stanford's demonstration, major antiwar activity took place at a national level throughout the summer. The Vietnam War Moratorium Committee formed by Sam Brown I and David Hawk, and the National Mobilization Committee headed up by David Dellinger, spent that time planning a countrywide moratorium scheduled for October 15 to protest America's involvement with the war. Meanwhile, college and university presidents from throughout the nation urged President Nixon to help bring peace to their campuses by taking American soldiers out of Vietnam (New York Times, 1969, September 18). On September 17, Defense Secretary Melvin Laird reported that the United States would withdraw 35,000 troops (New York Times, 1969, September 18). Many antiwar leaders and campus administrators, however, did not 105 believe that Laird's announcement would stifle student dissent. President of the National Student Association Charles Palmer indicated that students would continue protesting until a cease-fire occurred. Rutgers President Mason Gross said, "they fstudents"! are concerned about the deep seated questions of the country's involvement in the war and more specifically the University's involvement in it" (New York Times, 1969, September 20, 13:3). —< Major demonstrations did lessen during the fall as most campus student leaders concentrated on the upcoming moratorium. And by mid-September, students from some five hundred campuses had formally agreed to participate in the event. No set rules existed on a national scale; local moratorium demonstrations--vigils, rallies, or memorial services--would be governed by each particular campus (New York Times, 1969, September 16), and different campuses produced different reactions.

For example, the Columbia University Senate--facuity, students, and administrators--adopted a resolution officially stating that Columbia opposed the war and recommending immediate troop withdrawal. The senate further concluded that any university member would be able to participate in the October 15 moratorium without fear of punishment. President Cordier, directing the 106 meeting, said that "I share the abhorrence of all of you to this war. The conflict has become more than shameful. It is a war that cannot be won. I see no way out of it in any traditional sense as honorable"

(New York Times, 1969, September 27, 1:8).

Princeton's board of trustees, on the other hand, rejected a similar resolution proposing that the university commit to an anti-Vietnam War stand. They instead passed their own resolution stating:

while individual members have the unquestionable right to ex­ press their views on the subject, for the board to commit the Uni­ versity to an institutional posi­ tion on so complex and controver­ sial a national question would be contrary to the principles of aca­ demic freedom.... (New York Times, 1969, October 27, 5:4)

President Robert Goshen said that even though he personally opposed America's involvement in Southeast Asia, Princeton would not officially observe the moratorium because he did not believe in that particular type of protest (New York Times, 1969, September 25).

On October 15, students from hundreds of higher education schools participated in the Vietnam moratorium. Most Berkeley and San Francisco State students, however, stayed home because of heavy rain, and only four hundred students attended the rally at City College of New York. 107 But two thousand Monmouth College students gathered at the campus athletic field to read the names of all New Jersey soldiers who had died in the war. The universities of Oklahoma, Arkansas, Colorado, and Virginia also had large turnouts, with hundreds of students from each campus participating. Perhaps the most extensive results occurred at Pennsylvania State University and Harvard, where students boycotted classes by 50% and nearly 100%, respectively (New York Times, 1969,

October 16). J

During the 1969 spring semester, some university officials faced more militant student demonstrations than had occurred in previous years. Although several administrators responded to the protesters' demands, and often positively did so, the students often would not be satisfied. That is, even after many officials submitted to the original demands, demonstrators sought further exactions. This often led to students becoming violent and disruptive after those new terms were rejected. When this occurred, administrators usually called in the police, but in such instances, perhaps that was a warranted decision.

Protesters received positive action on most of ' their demands during the first part of 1969, but many paid the high price of blood. By the fall semester. 108 however, student demonstrators generally turned from militancy to a more peaceful means. The moratorium,

because of its tranquil nature, inspired more students

to become actively involved with the antiwar movement.

But even with all its support, the moratorium still

fell short of the student antiwar participation that

would erupt in 1970, the year that produced what must

be one of the most tragic incidents in the history of

American higher education--the Kent State University

homicides. CHAPTER VIII

1970: DEATH

The 1969 moratorium produced a flurry of student antiwar involvement, but the year 1970 emerged with radical leaders looking for something to pull the movement closer together. President Nixon had somewhat numbed ' the antiwar issue by reporting on December 15, 1969, that another fifty thousand American troops would be leaving Vietnam, bringing the total reduction to 115,000 men in less than one year's time (New York Times, 1969, December 16). Nixon's announcement represented one reason why students began to turn away from the antiwar movement. Some others believed that the protest issue lacked dynamism as radical groups, such as SDS, became fragmented. The groups' strong leaders had graduated, been removed from school, or jailed. Powerful new leaders had not appeared, and frustrated students not fitting into the radical category withdrew from the battle (New York Times, 1970, March 9). _j

Despite these setbacks, the protest era did not quite come to an end, and 1970, a year that at first showed little potential for campus violence (New York Times, 1970, March 9), became the most devastating period of the anti-Vietnam War protest. Students being killed 109 110 on campus shocked the nation and provided the bonding impetus that radical leaders had been seeking. Gergen (1971) suggested that during the 1970 spring semester, nearly 60% of the student population joined the dissenters' ranks. Moreover, about half of the campuses experienced some sort of uprising (Astin et al., 1975).

Berkeley students held a massive demonstration on April 7 to question why their campus still had a ROTC program. Organizers decided that the format would depend upon how many students attended--if one hundred showed up, they would only listen to speakers, but if at least three hundred turned out, they would march to Callaghan Hall, which housed the NROTC. Initially, seven hundred people gathered to hear the speakers, Tom Stanford and Marcia Fuentes, who had conducted a successful rally against ROTC at the University of Puerto Rico in March, 1970. Before Stanford and Fuentes finished speaking, however, the crowd grew to more than three thousand. Afterwards, a student mass swarmed to Callaghan Hall. University administrators then called the police. It took them four hours to clear students away from the building, but in the process they injured only thirteen demonstrators (Adelson, 1972). After this incident, the coals of protest began to glow brightly. They once again burst into flames Ill on April 30 when Nixon announced that American troops would be moving into Cambodia, describing the action as "a necessary extension of the Vietnam War" (New York Times, 1970, May 1, 1:8). Most students had already accepted Nixon's proposed withdrawal and Cambodia stunned them. It represented a complete reversal of the government's promise and a broadening of the war (New York Times, 1970, July 16).

Within a day or two, strikes and protests erupted at hundreds of campuses. One thousand Rutgers' students voiced approval of an immediate and indefinite strike. Princeton students firebombed the ROTC Armory, causing $15,000 in damage. Police arrested twenty Southern Illinois University students after they threw molotov cocktails from dormitory windows (New York Times, 1970, May 3). Ohio State University officials called the police and the National Guard to quell a disturbance. That demonstration began peacefully, but tempers flared after students surrounded the police and the guardsmen. The latter two groups hurled tear gas into the crowd and then fired shotguns at the students, wounding thirteen and injuring seventy-three others. When asked about the use of gas and guns, Ohio State University President Novice Fawcett said that he could not judge the Guard's action. Guard Commander George Graf said that he took 112 his orders from the police. And State Police Commander Clifford Reich indicated that he would "take whatever action is necessary" to contain the demonstrations (New York Times, 1970, May 1, 1:3).

According to Adelson (1972:48), "There was no precedent in the frenzied history of student activism in America for the nationwide strike that followed the invasion of Cambodia." Many campuses suffered serious disturbances, but none, perhaps, so serious as at Kent State University, where Ohio National Guardsmen fired their weapons into a crowd, killing four students and wounding nine others.

Major anti-Vietnam War activity began at Kent State during the 1969 spring semester when SDS launched a small campaign against ROTC and the Liquid Crystal Institute, a research facility partly sponsored by the Department of Defense (Hensley, 1981). On April 8 of that year, campus police confronted fifty students attempting to post a list of demands on the Administration Building's door. A scuffle ensued and police arrested six students. University officials later suspended four other students and revoked the SDS's campus charter (Unger, 1974; Hensley, 1981).

Kent State then remained relatively quiet until Nixon announced his plans to invade Cambodia. At noon. 113 Friday, May 1, a group of history graduate students--World Historians Opposed to Racism and Exploitation (WHORE)--held a peaceful antiwar rally at the Commons, a grassy area in the center of the campus. Some five hundred persons attended. Nearby, a sign reading "why is the ROTC building still standing?" had been nailed to a tree. At the meeting's close, students voted to hold another rally the following Monday to discuss the university's position toward Cambodia and the abolition of ROTC (President's Commission, 1970).

That same Friday night, the university's communication system began to break down. In the midst of the brewing trouble. President Andrew White decided to visit his family in Iowa instead of remaining at Kent State. He was absent when disturbances began that evening in downtown Kent where a large group of boisterous students broke store windows and stopped traffic to ask drivers their opinion about Cambodia. A little after 1:00 a.m., Kent law enforcement officers, using tear gas, forced the students back onto the campus. The Kent police then expected campus officers to take over, but University Police Chief Donald Schwartzmiller had assigned his men to guard campus buildings. When no one showed up, the city police returned to town, leaving the students to drift away on their own (President's Commission, 114 1970; Banks, 1989). After Friday night's activities. Mayor Leroy Satrom proclaimed a state of civil emergency and posted an 8:30 p.m. to 6:00 a.m. city curfew; campus administrators decided for a 1:00 a.m. campus curfew (Banks, 1989).

Saturday morning, university leaders began taking steps to prevent any major problems. Kent State and civil heads held several meetings. During the first meeting at 8:30 a.m., university officials decided to obtain a "John Doe" injunction, enjoining anyone from "breaking any windows, defacing any buildings with paint, starting any fires on campus, and damaging and destroying any property...." (President's Commission, 1970:245).

The injunction, however, did not ban campus rallies. Vice President for Student Affairs Robert Matson and Student Body President Frank Frisina prepared and distributed a Student Information Sheet informing students about the injunction. They explained that the injunction "does not prevent peaceful assembly-demonstrations, dissent, or movement about the campus" (Banks, 1989:73). The sheet also mentioned the city curfew, but did not mention the campus curfew (Banks, 1989).

Meanwhile, a second meeting at 1:00 p.m. involved Matson and Lieutenant Charles Barnette of the Ohio National Guard. Major General Sylvester Del Corso, the Ohio 115 Adjutant General, had ordered Barnette to assess the situation. Barnette informed Matson that if the National Guard became involved, "it would assume complete control of the entire area" (President's Commission, 1970:245). Although Del Corso actually intended that the Guard assist, not replace police action, university officials received only Barnette's statement, which molded their perceptions about what would occur should the Guard be brought onto the campus (Hensley, 1981).

Mayor Satrom hosted the final meeting at 5:00 p.m. Several times during the day Barnette had informed Satrom that if he intended to call in the National Guard he must do so before 5:00 p.m. Because of Barnette's earlier allegation, however, the mayor and university administrators would have preferred using sheriff's deputies or the highway patrol. But when word reached the meeting that protesters planned to destroy the ROTC building, the local recruiting office, and the post office, Satrom finally asked for National Guard assistance. Kent State officials, including Director of Safety and Public Service Chester Williams hoped that Satrom's request would involve only the city, not the school. Nevertheless, Barnette had already made it clear that the Guard would make no distinction between Kent and 116 the campus (President's Commission, 1970; Banks, 1989; Hensley, 1981).

Shortly after 7:30 p.m., some fifteen hundred students assembled on the Commons. Many of them recognized the ROTC building as an emblem of Kent State University's war support. When shouts arose about burning the two story wooden structure, they gathered around the building, breaking its windows with rocks; some demonstrators began throwing lighted flares inside. One young man using a gasoline dipped rag then set the building afire. The blaze attracted another several hundred students (New York Times, 1970, May 3; President's Commis­ sion, 1970).

A city fire truck arrived at the scene about 9:00 p.m. The mob threw rocks at the firemen, grabbed the hose, and chopped it to pieces with knives, icepicks, and a machete. As the building burned more furiously, ammunition exploded inside. This brought the campus police, whose headquarters lay only six hundred feet from the ROTC building. When asked why the police delayed so long, Williams and Schwartzmiller explained that they had not previously responded because they feared that the crowd might fatally injure their men (President's Commission, 1970). 117 In the meantime, Satrom called General Del Corso, who, along with General Robert Canterbury, met with the mayor at 9:30 p.m. After being briefed, the generals ordered one Guard detachment downtown and another to protect the firemen returning to Kent State. But too much time had elapsed and the building could not be saved; the total damages equaled about $86,000. Neither Satrom, Del Corso, Canterbury, nor anyone else had asked the university administration's permission before dispatching troops to the campus, nor had Guard leaders informed them of their decision to do so. Although the administration knew that this possibility existed, during meetings with student leaders, no one ever mentioned that the National Guard might become involved. Con­ sequently, their appearance on campus totally surprised the students (President's Commission, 1970; Banks, 1989).

Besides the guardsmen, campus police, sheriff's deputies, and highway patrolmen had also assembled at the burning ROTC building. They fired tear gas into the crowd, driving demonstrators away from the area. But by that time, those students responsible for breaking the windows and burning the building had melted into the crowd and could not be distinguished from the innocent bystanders who resented being gassed and ordered about at bayonet point. Over the next two days, antagonism 118 between students and law enforcement authorities grew to tragic proportions (President's Commission, 1970; Hensley, 1981).

Ohio Governor James Rhodes described the disturbance as being "probably the most vicious form of campus-oriented violence yet perpetuated by dissident groups and their allies in the state of Ohio" (President's Commission, 1970:253). He further stated that "we are going to employ every force of law that we have under our authority.... We are going to eradicate the problem,... We are not going to treat the symptoms" ^President's Commission, 1970:253-54). In describing the dissenters, Rhodes said that they appeared "worse than the brown shirts and the Communist element,... they are the worst type of people that we harbor in America. And I want to say this--they are not going to take over the campus...." (President's Commission, 1970:254). After Rhodes departed, university officials seemed confused about the legal state of their campus—could rallies be held? Who really controlled Kent State: the Administration? ThvB National Guard? Discussions between university and Guard leaders gave administrators the impression that absolutely no rallies would be permitted and that complete legal authority for the campus belonged to the Guard (Banks, 1989). 119 President White returned Sunday morning. After his arrival, sixty faculty members asked for a full faculty meeting to discuss plans for rectifying the adverse situation. White refused their request, indicating that he would need the Guard's permission to call such an assembly. At that point, the Guard truly governed Kent Stats University (President's Commission, 1970). Matson and Frisina then distributed another twelve thousand leaflets explaining that the Guard legally controlled the campus and had authority to make arrests; that the campus had a 1:00 a.m. curfew; and that all rallies and demonstrations had been banned. The document's only accurate statement pertained to the curfew (Banks, 1989; Hensley, 1981). At 8:00 p.m., Sunday, May 3, several hundred students assembled at the Commons. Forty-five minutes later, their numbers grew so large that the campus police and highway patrol asked Colonel Harold Finley to move the curfew from 1:00 a.m. to 9:00 p.m. Finley agreed, and at 9:00 p.m., authorities read the Ohio Riot Act, giving the crowd five minutes to disperse or be arrested. Most of them remained. When police and guardsmen began firing tear gas, the students split into two groups. One group headed toward President White's house; the 120 other gathered a- Kent State's main entrance (President's Commission, 1970; Hensley, 1981).

The second group demanded a meeting with Satrom and White. Satrom did come to the campus, but by the time he arrived, the crowd had been dispersed. White, on the other hand, made no effort to communicate with his students. He agreed with Matson and Vice-President for Administration Ronald Roskens who suggested that since guardsmen controlled the campus, he should not waste his time negotiating in the streets (President's Commission, 1970; Hensley, 1981). At 11:00 p.m., authorities once again read the Riot Act and once again the students refused to leave. The demonstrators then became more hostile, shouting obscenities and throwing rocks. This time, after another tear gas attack, the Guard charged at the students with fixed bayonets. Guardsmen bayoneted at least two students, police arrested fifty-one others, and the predicament at Kent State worsened. Resentment and antagonism between students and guardsmen increased, their patience for each other decreased, and university officials completely lost any control of the situation (New York Times, 1970, May 4; President's Commission, 1970; Hensley, 1981).

Monday morning, students who previously had been uninvolved with the antiwar issue joined the scheduled 121 noon rally. The demonstration that originally had been planned to focus on the Cambodian invasion now assumed a new target, the National Guard, which represented the military, unwarranted authority, tear gas, and bayonets (Hensley, 1981). Canterbury, White, Matson, Williams, Satrom, Kent Police Chief Roy Thompson, and Guard Legal Officer Major William Shimp met at 10:00 a.m. to assess the situation. They agreed that the planned rally would not take place (President's Commission, 1970).

After the meeting, Canterbury returned to Guard headquarters, located in the Administration Building, and reported that the scheduled rally would not be permitted. At 11:30 a.m., students began gathering on the Commons; about that same time, Canterbury and one hundred guardsmen also reached the Commons. The students then started ringing the victory bell. Within fifteen minutes their group grew to two thousand, and another three thousand spectators gathered on a nearby hillside. Canterbury ordered the students to leave, but those who heard him did not obey. Lieutenant Colonel Charles Fassinger then ordered the troops to lock and load their weapons (President's Commission, 1970). The students, not aware that the Guard had live ammunition, never considered that they might be fired upon. Canterbury, however, had already decided to use 122 any necessary means to achieve his goal '.Hensley, 1981). He first ordered grenadiers to begin launching tear gas. Several students threw the canisters back, and a gentle breeze pushed the gas away from most of the crowd. A platoon of guardsmen with loaded weapons and fixed bayonets then moved toward the angry students. The demonstrators bombarded the advancing troops with stones and chunks of pavement as they retreated from the Commons to a nearby athletic practice field. After they had been at the field for about ten minutes, 7 Canterbury ordered his men back to the Commons. Several groups of protesters followed them as they withdrew. i" Suddenly and without warning the guardsmen turned, formed /-^ a skirmish line, and in thirteen seconds fired sixty-one rounds. In that short period of time, they wounded nine students and killed four--Allison Krause, 19; William Schroeder, 19; Jeffrey Miller, 20; and Sandra Scheuer, 20. Schroeder had been shot in the back while running i away (New York Times, 1970, May 5, 1:2). -A- ~\ Unger (1974) and the President's Commission (1970) agreed that the Kent Stats University deaths were without excuse and should never have occurred. But it is neither within the scope of this work nor this study's purpose to assess guilt or innocence to the occurrences at Kent State. Hensley (1981) provides a very good account 123 of the incident's judicial process for those who are interested. Nevertheless, the reader should be acquainted with the different perspectives. The following, therefore, is a brief account of why the Guard opened fire, and why the Guard officers assumed that they had authority over the campus.

General Canterbury believed that "the reason the people fired is because they were being assaulted with rocks and concrete,... you cannot deny a man the right to use a weapon if he feels his life was threatened" (New York Times, 1970, May 6, 1:3). General Del Corso argued that sniper fire had forced the Guard to shoot. However, New York Times reporter John Keynes, who was at the scene, reported that no gunfire occurred before the Guards' volley (New York Times, 1970, May 5); subsequent investigations by National Guard officials, the FBI, and the highway patrol produced no evidence of sniper activity (New York Times, 1970, May 6; President's Commission, 1970). Several accounts from both students and guardsmen suggested that at least one of the Guard officers gave an order to fire by raising his own pistol above his head, lowering it, and then firing point blank into the ground (New York Times, 1970, August 22). Guardsmen testified to FBI investigators "that they fired after they heard others fire or because 124 after the shooting began, they assumed an order to fire ... had been given" (New York Times, 1970, October 31, 1:3). Canterbury and Fassinger stated that no one ever gave such an order. But for whatever reason, twenty-eight guardsmen admitted that they fired their weapons: twenty-five fired fifty-five shots from rifles; two fired five .45 caliber pistol rounds; and one fired a single shotgun blast (President's Commission, 1970).

Del Corso and Canterbury both admitted that they never asked the university's permission for authorizing troops onto the campus. Canterbury defended their position by indicating "that because the r^OTCj building was located on state property, the guard needed no specific invitation to enter the campus" (President's Commission, 1970). When asked about his authority for dispersing the crowd, Canterbury said that "the assemblies were not to be permitted because of the previous two days' rioting and to permit an assembly at this point would have been dangerous. This was my assessment, as well as the assessment of (^President Whit^ ...." (President's Commission, 1970). President White stated that the National Guard had been in charge of the campus and that the military had made the decision to prohibit rallies (New York Times, 1970, August 21). He further indicated that 125 Governor Rhodes ordered the Guard onto the campus, without his permission (New York Times, 1970, May 6). In the fall of 1969, Rhodes had made it clear that "he would send state troopers or national guardsmen to quell campus disturbances, whether or not the University administrators asked for them" (The Rice Thresher, 1969, October 9). By the first week in May, 1970, Rhodes had called the Ohio National Guard to state-supported campuses forty times since 1968 (Hensley, 1981).

After its investigation, the President's Commission (1970) concluded that the violent and criminal action of some students--those who burned the ROTC building and who attacked the guardsmen--definitely shared in the responsibility. But the commission also assailed the National Guard for allowing its troops to have loaded weapons. On October 16, 1970, however, an Ohio grand jury exonerated the guardsmen, saying they could not be "subject to criminal prosecution" because they "fired their weapons in the honest and sincere belief ... that they would suffer serious bodily injury had they not done so" (New York Times, 1970, October 17, 1:1). The jury concluded that the "major responsibility ... rests clearly with those persons who are charged with the administration of the University" for fostering an "attitude of laxity, overindulgence, and permissiveness 126 with its students and faculty until it can no longer regulate the activities of either" (New York Times, 1970, October 17, 1:1).

The Kent State tragedy caused widespread and sometimes explosive responses at other institutions. Chairman of the Carnegie Commission on Higher Education Clark Kerr said that "no episode or series of episodes had a higher impact in all of our history than the events of ... April and May" (New York Times, 1970, October 3, 35:2). On May 4, New York University President James Hester drafted a letter to Nixon, urging him to terminate America's involvement in Southeast Asia; thirty-seven college and university presidents signed it. The letter read, in part: "We implore you to consider the incalculable dangers of an unprecedented alienation of America's youth and to take immediate action ... to end the war quickly" (New York Times, 1970, May 5, 1:6). Fifty-seven percent of American campuses experienced some form of organized dissent following the Kent State tragedy (New York Times, 1970,, October 3). Students at 350 schools went on strike while hundreds of other institutions discontinued classes. At some campuses, major peaceful demonstrations took place; at others, students started fires and bombed ROTC facilities (Unger, 127 1974). Many of these demonstrations involved first- time protesters, students who had remained silent prior to thv^ Kent State killings. Moreover, for the first time at most campuses, administrators gave their support to the demonstrations (New York Times, 1970, May 6).

Not certain that any student could be safe. White immediately closed Kent State University and announced that it would remain closed until mid-June (New York Times, 1970, May 9). Elsewhere, at least 120 schools shut down during the week. Boston University officials closed their campus for the remainder of the term. The entire Georgia University System--twenty-3even colleges--closed down for two days (New York Times, 1970, May 8); the University of California system closed down for five days; and Pennsylvania closed its state universities indefinitely (DeBenedetti, 1990). Other schools suspending classes for varying durations included the Universities of Miami, Oregon, Washington, and Montana. Princeton held a memorial service in the University Chapel for the slain Kent State students, and demonstrators at City College New York burned ROTC equipment (New York Times, 1970, May 6). The Stanford University Faculty Senate voted to eliminate academic credit for ROTC. Antioch College administrators canceled a $300,000 military research contract. The list goes on and on: The 128 University of Alabama, Fordham, Marietta College, Southern Illinois University, the University of Virginia, and Valparaiso College in Indiana all experienced campus arson; bombs exploded at Colorado College, the University of San Francisco, Ohio University, and the University of Nevada, Reno (New York Times (1970), May 7, 1:7). And after more than forty fires erupted at Wisconsin University, President Fred Harrington announced his retirement (New York Times, 1970, May 9).

Despite many aggressive demonstrations, some administrators acted in favor of the students. Monmouth College students cheered President William Van Note's criticism of Nixon's Cambodia action. Note said, "I am sympathetic with the students ... and urge them to do everything possible to end the war,..." (New York Times, 1970, May 7, 1:7). Hunter College President Jacqueline Wexler canceled all classes for a week. President of New York State College at Plattsburgh George Angell gave the students his office to use as a center for planning strike coordinated activities. When 150 Brooklyn College students seized President John Kneller's office, he responded by canceling all classes "to signify the university community's solidarity in opposition to American involvement in Cambodia and the insensitive disregard for human life evidenced by the incidents 129 at Kent State University" (New York Times, 1970, May 7, 1:7).

Between April 30 and May 4, some twenty new student strikes began each day. For four days after the killings, the daily strikes increased fivefold, primarily at schools in the East and Mid-Atlantic states, followed by those in the Middle West, the West, and the South. The Urban Research Corporation (URC) concluded that after May 4, the strikes and protests resulted more from Kent State University than from Cambodia's invasion. URC President John Naisbett further indicated that "in spite of Cambodia, without thvs Kent State deaths, there would have been no national student strike" (New York Times, 1970, June 24). Brandeis University's Student Strike Center reported on May 10 that 448 campuses had not reopened, or remained affected by strikes (President's Commission, 1970). Although many institutions resumed business on May 11, students at 150 colleges and universities reported that they would continue their strikes indefinitely (New York Times, 1970, May 12).

Tragic as it may have been, Kent State did seem to provide a sedative for the nationwide campus turmoil. The incident left many students drained, afraid, and with more patience for change. Afterwards, campus violence occurred at fewer than 5% of the nation's schools 130 (DeBenedetti, 1990). "But," said Berkeley Vice Chancellor Robert Connick, "if something like Cambodia happens again, I imagine that we might be in for another great wave of protest" (New York Times (1970), December 20, 1:3). This did not occur. Instead, America's involvement in Vietnam began to diminish between 1970 and 1973. American air strikes still frequently occurred, but news about the war slowly left the front pages. During the spring of 1971, antiwar sentiment vigorously grew among the American people. Even the United States Senate began to turn against the war, and by the end of that year, fewer than 140,000 American troops remained in Vietnam (DeBenedetti, 1990; Zaroulis and Sullivan, 1984). A few minor demonstrations occurred in 1972 at such universities as Maryland, Wisconsin, and Columbia, but in 1973, student protests ground to a halt when the United States and North Vietnam negotiated a cease-fire agreement. CHAPTER IX 1971-1975: PEACE

Campus antiwar activity began slowly in 1971. When President Nixon announced troop withdrawals at the end of 1970, he again somewhat defused the antiwar movement, and groups like the Connecticut Campus Coalition—a group of students organized to fight violence and destruction on campuses--sought to restore order to higher education institutions (New York Times, 1971, January 22). Despite such attempts to end campus dissension, however, the federal administration made a decision in February, 1971, that temporarily thwarted the effort. Nixon ordered South Vietnamese troops into Laos in order to sever the Ho Chi Minh Trail, a major personnel and supply route for the North Vietnamese and the Viet Cong. Heavy American bombing raids supported the South Vietnamese soldiers. Dissident action for that spring had not formed prior to the President's decision, but after the bombing raids began, antiwar leaders believed that Nixon would stop at nothing to win the Vietnam War. The movement surged, and on February 6, the National Peace Action Coalition announced that more demonstrations would be forthcoming (New York Times, 1971, February 4). Coalition 131 132 coordinators Jerry Gordon of the the Cleveland Area Peace Action Council, James Lafferty of the Detroit Committee to end the War Now, and Don Gurewitz of the Student Mobilization Committee agreed to accept supporters from any political arena; but they eschewed SDS and stressed orderly protests (DeBenedetti, 1990).

Unlike Cambodia, however, the Laos invasion produced only sporadic campus protests across the country. For example, three hundred students marched through the Stanford campus breaking windows and causing some $13,500 in damages. The next day, February 8, another two hundred Stanford students locked several administrators and trustees inside the Business School. University officials then called city police who dispersed the protesters after a two-hour confrontation (New York Times, 1971, February 9). That same day a group of Fairfield University students, in Fairfield, Connecticut, peacefully seized the Campus Center for an operations base to be used for rekindling student antiwar sentiment. A spokesman from the Jesuit school indicated that the students had no violent intentions and that the occupation presented no immediate concern for the university's administration (New York Times, 1971, February 9). A group of Columbia faculty--the Faculty Peace Action Committee—called a rally on February 12; one 133 hundred students attended. Afterwards, sixty protesters headed for the Southeast Asian Institute to interrupt a seminar on "Politics and Revolution in Vietnam, Cambodia, and Laos" being conducted by Dr. John Donnell, a visiting professor from Temple University. When a secretary at the Institute warned Donnell of the demonstrators' approach, he barricaded the door with a desk. Evidently, Donnell's obstruction kept them at bay because they could not locate the seminar room. Frustrated by this failure, they caused extensive damage in three offices and then left the building (New York Times, 1971, February 20). As these demonstrations took place, efforts to reawaken the antiwar movement arose through another series of teach-ins at several universities including Princeton, Pennsylvania, Notre Dame, Alabama, Nebraska, Oklahoma, Kansas State, Duke, North Carolina State, the University of North Carolina, Harvard, and Yale. Harvard professor James Thompson indicated that because so many students had entered college since the first teach-ins in 1965, returning to this early antiwar tactic would arouse new interest in the issue. Harvard and Yale scheduled the first two teach-ins for February 22 (New York Times, 1971, February 20). 134 Nineteen sixty-eight Presidential candidate and former Minnesota Democratic Senator Eugene McCarthy spoke at Harvard. He said that "in terms of procedures we are about where we were in 1965, except the substance of the war is different. It is in a more dangerous phase and it is much more difficult to justify on moral grounds or constitutional or political grounds,..." (New York Times, 1971, February 23, 8:1). McCarthy's speech opened the teach-in series that its coordinators hoped would initiate nationwide support for a spring antiwar movement. Other speakers, Massachuesetts Institute of Technology professor Norman Chomsky; Harvard professors Stanley Hoffman and James Thompson; New York Times associate editor Tom Wicker; Michigan Republican Representative Donald Riegle, Jr.; former staff director of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee Walter Pincus; and Cynthia Frederick of the Concerned Asian Scholars supported McCarthy's statement. They urged the several thousand attending students to avoid violent tactics and, instead, turn their efforts toward petitioning and political pressure. Professor Martin Peretz, one of the group's originators, suggested that the teach-ins should serve a twofold purpose: "First, it is clear there is an overwhelming sentiment against the war, but many people know so little about it.... Second, 135 we want to make it impossible for the Democratic Party to fudge the war issue in the jlipcoming] Presidential campaign" (New York Times, 1971, February 23, 8:1). Meanwhile, at Yale, former Attorney General Ramsey Clark, joined by other speakers such as former Secretary of Defense for International Security Affairs Paul Warnke, California Representative Paul McCloskey and New York Representative Bella Abzug, and Vietnam moratorium coordinator David Hawk, spoke to more than three thousand people. The speakers criticized bombing raids of North Vietnam, proposed an immediate troop withdrawal, and urged that the federal administration set a firm date for ending America's involvement in Southeast Asia (New York Times, 1971, February 23). Democratic Presidential aspirant Edmund Muskie speaking before four thousand students and faculty at the University of Pennsylvania on February 23 also argued that all American troops should be withdrawn from Vietnam by the year's end (New York Times, 1971, February 24). Elsewhere, in Bedsford, Massachusetts, Tufts University students set fire to the Fletcher School of Law and Diplomacy. Firemen contained the blaze, but smoke and water damage, which university officials estimated at $75,000, also spread to the library. The Fletcher School, which prepared its students for career 136 positions in the armed forces, foreign service, and international commerce and industry, had been targeted by SDS for its alleged involvement with the CIA. Dean Edmund Gullion, an official at Saigon's United States Embassy in 1954 when Ngo Dinh Diem achieved power and an enthusiastic supporter of Nixon's Southeast Asia platform, believed that the demonstrators directed their attack toward him because "some students feel I stand for an active policy in Vietnam" (New York Times, 1971, March 22, 17:1).

Then, on April 7, Nixon announced that another 100,000 Americans would be leaving Vietnam by December 1, 1971, bringing the total number of withdrawals to 365,000—more than 66% of the 540,000 troops who had been in Southeast Asia when he became president (New York Times, 1971, April 8). But by the time the Laos invasion ended on March 25, the Peoples' Coalition for Peace and Justice had already called for a massive rally in Washington, D.C. (Zaroulis and Sullivan, 1984). College students, however, generally lacked enthusiasm for the Washington rally. Even though they still opposed the war, their passion for collective protest had diminished because they felt as though no one listened to their pleas for peace. At Princeton, for example, little antiwar activity arose that spring, and attempts 137 to mobilize opinion against ROTC and on-campus military research received scant support. Harvard professor George Wald called a rally to promote the Washington march; merely three people showed up. Only thirty-nine University of Illinois students signed up for a chartered bus to Washington, and at Columbia, no one even tried to organize travel to the rally (New York Times, 1971, April 22).

Although many students now lacked the fervor once manifested on most campuses, turmoil still showed its face from time to time. Maryland Governor Marvin Mandel ordered nine hundred National Guardsmen to the University of Maryland where two thousand students stampeded through the campus disrupting classes and smashing windows. One tossed a tear gas cannister into the control room of a cyclotron valued at $8,000,000. But when they attempted to seize the Administration Building, guardsmen turned them away (New York Times, 1971, May 8).

Despite such isolated events, zeal for collective protest movements had largely abated. Most students who previously had cried out in rage against the Cambodia invasion and Kent State killings began to concentrate on their studies instead of the war. Many of the demonstrators most likely felt estranged from an administration that closed its ears to their pleas for 138 peace, and others, tired and disillusioned, just no longer cared. Another major reason for the students' declining antiwar enthusiasm, according to Washington rally coordinator Jerry Gordon, could be attributed to the reduction in draft calls and the draft lottery, which made the war issue less personal (New York Times, 1971, April 22). Even at those schools where earlier antiwar protests had stormed, simpler rallies, speeches, and petitions replaced the violence.

By the fall semester, even though fighting continued in Vietnam, many students believed the conflict finally was coming to a close. Most of the fighting no longer involved United States ground-combat soldiers, and American casualties showed their lowest numbers since the 1965 escalation (Halstead, 1978). The air war continued, however, and on December 26, 1971, United States jet bombers, with the most concentrated air attacks since 1968, flew more than 100,000 sorties against North Vietnam in less than one week. By February, 1972, American bombing in Vietnam, Cambodia, and Laos reached new heights

(Halstead, 1978). Nixon announced on January 13, 1972, that he would withdraw another seventy thousand troops during the following three months. Then, on April 15, fighter-bombers and B-52S again invaded North Vietnam. American campuses 139 had remained relatively quiet until Nixon decided to formally resume the air strikes, but his announcement caused students to begin stirring once more (Zaroulis and Sullivan, 1984) .

Two days after the renewed Hanoi/Haiphang bombings. President of the National Student Association Margerey Tabankin called for a nationwide campus strike. She asked that "every campus shut down on Friday (April 21) and devote its collective energy and skills to organizing sustained, intensive antiwar actions this spring" (New York Times, 1972, April 18, 20:3).

Students reacted swiftly and severely to the bombings, with protests erupting throughout the country. Several hundred University of Maryland students broke windows in the ROTC building. About two hundred Holy Cross students picketed Navy and Marine recruiters. Picket lines also formed at the Universities of Maine and Florida, and over seven thousand University of Illinois students attended a protest rally (New York Times, 1972, April 19). Three thousand University of Wisconsin demonstrators marched around the campus, jeering and throwing rocks and bottles at hundreds of policemen. Between seven thousand and eight thousand Columbia students demanded that the administration shut down the university to protest the war. Although President William McGill 140 sympathized with the students, he said that the university would not close (New York Times, 1972, April 18).

The atmosphere had become so intense that the presidents at Columbia, Yale, Harvard, Princeton, Dartmouth, Brown, and Cornell held a conference to decide what they might do about the strike situation. They all agreed with McGill who said, "I'm extremely sensitive toward the rights of students who have paid for an education and want to get it." He further added that if a student on moral grounds feels that he or she cannot attend class on Friday, I don't think the student should be penalized. I am asking demonstrators not to limit the rights of the faculty and oth­ er students to enter their classes, the buildings, the library. (New York Times, 1972, April 19. 1:5)

McGill did more than just ask the demonstrators not to obstruct others, he took out a court order preventing them from doing so, which intensified the protesting students' fury. Accordingly, on Wednesday night, April 19, one thousand demonstrators voted unanimously to employ militant and coercive tactics. At 11:30 p.m., after breaking windows in the School of International Affairs, the students took off for McGill's house where university guards armed with clubs turned them away. In the meantime, university officials 141 had called city police, but they remained just off the campus grounds (New York Times, 1972, April 20).

The next day, students picketed outside a University Senate meeting in Uris Hall. Shortly thereafter, a police bus, five police vans, and a host of squad cars pulled onto campus. Fifty policemen approached the picket line and opened it up. By this time, word about the police had spread throughout the campus and scores of demonstrators stormed into the Senate meeting. McGill then quickly walked out of Uris Hall to his office where he drafted an announcement cancelling classes at Columbia (New York Times, 1972, April 21).

The national strike had been scheduled for one day only, and most schools resumed classes the following Monday, April 24. One thousand Columbia students, however, voted to continue their strike indefinitely. Demonstrators then blocked the Mathematics Building, Hamilton Hall, Havermeyer Hall, Pupin Hall, Kent Hall, Schermerhorn Hall, and the School of International Affairs (New York Times, 1972, April 25). University administrators again called police to clear the buildings. The first confrontation occurred at Hamilton Hall, but when police began pushing students away from the door, demonstrators retaliated with rocks, eggs, and bottles. The police then charged into the crowd, bloodying several students 142 and injuring at least fourteen. At that point, McGill told a police captain to get his men off the campus (New York Times, 1972, April 27).

Even though demonstrators still occupied and obstructed five buildings, McGill allowed them to stay without recalling the police (New York Times, 1972, April 26). He said, "I don't apologize for having brought the police on the campus,... I sought by every reasonable means to bring these militant blockades to an end, but I was backed into a corner. I hope I never have to do this again" (New York Times, 1972, April 27, 45:1).

On April 27, a group of Columbia students calling themselves the Majority Coalition began reopening the buildings on their own. Many of these students opposed the war, but they wanted to attend their classes. When the Coalition first told McGill of their intentions, however, he warned them against starting a battle. Before nightfall. Coalition students opened two of the five buildings without violence. They first cleared Mathematics Hall. At 11:00 a.m., fifteen students climbed into the building through a window and began shouting. Thinking their number much larger than fifteen, the demonstrators left the building. Five hours later the coalition found an opportunity for reopening Pupin Hall. One student noticed that the demonstrators periodically 143 opened a door to let people in and out. Coalition members gathered outside the door and rushed through it when a demonstrator's friend entered the building. The opposing groups scuffled briefly, but most of the demonstrators left. Afterwards, faculty members patrolled inside Pupin Hall to keep it open (New York Times, 1972, April 28).

Friday, McGill sent a letter explaining the university's position on the students' antiwar demands to those who occupied the other three buildings. He informed them that Columbia gave no support to five faculty members doing part-time research for the government, and that he would agree to an inquiry concerning their suggestion that Columbia "is somehow helping wage war against the Vietnamese people" (New York Times, 1972, April 29, 1:2). In turn, the Majority Coalition sent McGill a letter indicating that their legal rights had been violated and that "if action is not taken within 24 hours to restore the normal and proper order of the university we shall initiate legal action against the Columbia University administration" (New York Times, 1972, April 28, 1:7). In response, and while maintaining his pledge not to call in outside law enforcement, McGill ordered campus police to remove the intruders Kent Hall and Hamilton 144 Hall. On April 29, using clubs and a small bulldozer, the guards broke through a furniture barricade at Kent. They arrested two students, Harold Callaghan and Denis Goldner, but the others escaped through windows (New York Times, 1972, April 3). The same security force cleared Hamilton Hall two days later. At 5:15 a.m., after tearing through another furniture and file cabinet barricade, they routed the demonstrators. That evening, only Lewisohn Hall remained occupied. Blacks and Latin Americans held that building, and their demands centered on university, not war-related, issues (New York Times, 1972, May 2).

Meanwhile, on April 26, one hundred Cornell University students, demanding an end to ROTC and military research at the Cornell Aeronautical Laboratory, seized Carpenter Hall Library. Cornell President Dale Corson said, "the occupation of the building denies its use to students and others who have a right to use it. At the same time, it is uppermost in my mind that we refrain from the use of force, if at all possible" (New York Times, 1972, April 28, 17:6). Corson did not call the police, but did obtain a court order against the protesters, who then peacefully walked from the building (New York Times, 1972, May 2). 145 Other national strike demonstrations proved to be peaceful. For example, nine thousand Berkeley students boycotted their classes. And 250 Princeton students took over the Dean of Admissions office, refusing to give it up until they received a copy of the university's Army ROTC contract. Princeton officials complied, and the students left to read the contract at a peaceful antiwar rally (New York Times, 1972, April 21). Sixty Iowa State University demonstrators carrying wooden crosses and sheep entrails interrupted an ROTC drill, but the class continued despite the disruption (New York Times, 1972, April 20). More than a score of University of Massachusetts at Amherst students seized the ROTC Building and obstructed entrances to the Administration Building. University officials called campus police who dispersed the students without incident. President Robert Wood later announced that he would accede to the protesters' demands by immediately suspending all military recruiting at each of the university's three locations in Amherst, Boston, and Worcester (New York Times, 1972, April 21).

All campuses did not remain so calm. A serious clash took place on April 19 when fifty state troopers moved onto the University of Maryland campus after demonstrators smashed windows, started several small 146 fires around the grounds, and tried to burn down the ROTC Building (New York Times, 1972, April 20). Maryland Governor Marvin Mandell declared a state of emergency at the university and ordered eight hundred National Guard troops to the campus. They arrested 140 students following an antiwar parade in which two thousand participated. Afterwards, the Maryland campus returned to order (New York Times, 1972, April 21).

During the strikes Nixon continued to withdraw

American troops, but on May 8 he ordered increased bombing in North Vietnam and the mining of all North Vietnamese ports. Outraged students began another series of coast-to-coast demonstrations, disruptions, and sit-ins. Many of these began at the colleges, and even though most spilled over to city streets where desperate confrontations erupted between students and police, much violence also occurred on the campuses. Riot equipped police, called in to break up a sit-in by one hundred demonstrators, arrested eight Stanford University students after a brief engagement. Ten thousand University of Wisconsin students broke windows throughout the campus and firebombed the Naval ROTC Building. In Gainesville, Florida, three thousand protesters, primarily students from the University of Florida, battled with police who used tear gas, clubs, and dogs. University of Maryland 147 demonstrators tossed a molotov cocktail into the ROTC Building (New York Times, 1972, May 10). Police chased one thousand UCLA students around the campus after they used four small vehicles to block exits from the Administration Building, trapping several trustees and administrators inside. The police arrested fifty-two students and injured six others (New York Times, 1972, May 12). One drastic incident happened on May 9 when state police wounded two University of New Mexico students with buckshot (New York Times, 1972, May 10); two days later the state police again fired into another thirteen students (New York Times, 1972, May 12). Then, on November 7, 1972, the American public once more elected Nixon to the presidency. Although he had promised peace, in December he again announced renewed full-scale bombing in North Vietnam. This time, however, only a few small token acts of protest arose among the American college student population. The peace advocates had begun to diminish, and regardless of sundry protests, demonstrations, and sit-ins throughout the year, both peaceful and violent, 1972 ended on a quiet note (Unger, 1974). On January 1, 1973, the United States halted all bombing in Vietnam (New York Times, 1973, January 1). Three weeks later, on January 23, Nixon announced that 148 Henry Kissinger and North Vietnam's chief negotiator Le Due Tho had come to a cease-fire agreement "to end the war and bring peace with honor in Vietnam and Southeast Asia" (New York Times, 1973, January 24, 1:8). Nixon further added that the agreements included the release of all American prisoners of war and the final withdrawal within sixty days of the 23,700 troops remaining in South Vietnam (New York Times, 1973, January 24). The cease-fire accord, officially titled the "Agreement on Ending the War and Restoring Peace in Vietnam" oecame effective with its formal signing on January 27 (New York Times, 1973, January 28, 1:8). On February 10, the 11th Combat Aviation Group, America's last fighting unit in South Vietnam, ended its tour (New York Times, 1973, February 11), and on March 29, 1973, the last American troops left South Vietnam (New York Times, 1973, March 30). Meanwhile, the war continued, sans America's direct involvement, although the United States did continue to provide South Vietnam with weapons and supplies. But on March 30, 1975, when Saigon fell to the North Vietnamese, joyful reactions arose throughout America. Perhaps Boston University political science professor Howard Zinn best recounts the general feelings on most campuses: 149 I was in what I call 'the last teach-in of the war.' it was in the last days of April '75—a teach-in at Brandeis to try to get the U.S. and the ((Gerald)) Ford Administration to stop sending arms to Saigon. It was a huge meeting--four or five speakers in­ cluding Norm Chomsky and me. In the midst of the meeting a fellow broke into the hall and came down the aisle waving this little piece of paper—he worked for the Brandeis student newspaper--and he said, 'It just came over the teletype that the Saigon government has surrendered. The war is over.' And everybody stood up and cheered. (Zaroulis and Sullivan, 1984)

American student political activism blossomed during the Vietnam War. Later occurrences, however, seemed tranquil by comparison. Following the Kent State tragedy, many students gradually became more conservative in the ensuing years. America's 1983 military victory in Grenada provided one major cause for the shift, but even though President Reagan supporters far outnumbered protesters during that conflict, activism did not completely die. In 1985, student demonstrators again rose up against universities, urging them to divest their holdings with all companies doing business in South Africa. Several administrators countered by denying diplomas to the activists, but this time students had public support. By the end of 1985, Columbia University committed to total divestment and, at the close of the 150 1986 fall semester, 120 colleges and universities followed suit (Altbach and Cohen, 1990).

By the end of 1988, national activist organizations had virtually disappeared from the campuses and student political movements became practically non-existent (Altbach and Cohen, 1990). However, during the Persian Gulf War, ai: Texas Tech University for example, small groups of demonstrators and anti-demonstrators gathered outside the University Center. The former displayed peace symbols, played guitars, and asked for an end to the war. The latter, assembled just a few yards away, sang to the tune of the Beach Boys' "Barbara Ann," "Bomb, Bomb, Bomb--Bomb, Bomb Iran."

Even though student attitudes toward war appear less volatile today than during the Vietnam era, one might wonder if this would remain constant, say, should the draft be reinstated to supply forces for another unpopular foreign conflict. If another "Vietnam" emerges, and this nation again becomes locked into a war having no intrinsic justification, one could suspect that many college and university students would once again seek to terminate the wrong. If this should occur, administrators must be more informed and better prepared than many of their 1960s colleagues. 151 Vietnam was an agonizing war, both overseas and at home. Numerous Americans believed that the United States should not have become involved, and when President Johnson began sending more young American men to die in Southeast Asia, many people could not justify that decision. As a result, various groups and individuals assigned themselves the task of ending America's role in the conflict as quickly as possible. Unlike protest movements during World War I, World War II, and post-Vietnam conflicts, a national patriotic bonding did not really materialize, and an antiwar ideology developed that grew to unprecedented proportions, especially on college and university campuses.

The higher education movement began peacefully, with university communities being more interested in providing an understanding about Vietnam than with engineering demands and demonstrations against the war. But as the conflict progressed, and as news coverage brought Americans closer to the occurrences in Vietnam, some students became increasingly concerned about the war and the role that many universities played in supporting it through ROTC programs, defense-related research, and recruiting on campuses by pro-war agencies. Instead of remaining docile, those opposing United States policy in Southeast Asia turned their efforts against 152 the federal government and the university, producing some eight years of confrontation on American campuses that often forced higher education officials to choose between compromise and antagonism.

Leaders opting for the former faced few problems in dealing with adverse situations, except when protesters would not accept the terms. Cases such as these, as occurred at Stanford in 1969 and at in Columbia in 1971, forced the administration to change its tactics in order to preserve the university's foundation. Protesters would not honor their end of the bargain, and the administrators involved with those demonstrations should not necessarily be blamed for the untoward outcomes. On the other hand, administrators who seemingly had no intention of giving ground most often created predicaments, and often violent situations, that they could possibly have avoided through sagacious communication when the students were willing to listen.

It is, however, difficult to say that this would have happened "if" or that would have happened "if." Nevertheless, there seems to be a trend in the relationship between student disorder and adminstrative reactions to that disorder which yielded more favorable or less favorable results. Accordingly, this work's concluding chapter offers some perspectives that higher education 153 administrators might consider in responding to student concerns for global or internal issues. CHAPTER X

SOUTHERN METHODIST UNIVERSITY

Southern Methodist University (SMU), founded ^ in 1911 as a college and a theology school in Dallas, Texas, has traditionally "had very a profound sense of loyalty shared by both faculty and students," according to political scientist R. Richard Rubottom, Jr. (Hillerbrand and Salacuse, 1986). Consequently, except for relatively few incidents, especially prior to the 1969-70 school year, SMU escaped the unrest and interruptions felt by numerous college campuses throughout the country. Most of the trouble prior to that time concerned racial questions about admitting Black people to the university. Antiwar demonstrations did not erupt v until the October 1969 moratorium, and no major confrontation occurred until May, 1972.

Before the antiwar movement entered SMU, President Willis Tate had already set guidelines for student demonstrations. And even though the campus had remained free of serious problems, he admitted that "SMU is not totally without potentially disruptive influence and voices" (Tate, 1969). Tate further maintained that because the university's purpose regarding every student was to provide an environment conducive to education, 154 155 SMU will not permit any person or group to deny any student his right to learn. No person or group will be allowed to disrupt the Uni­ versity's normal functioning or resort to violence or de­ struction. If disruption of normal functioning is engaged in by any person or group, they will be subject to severe disci­ plinary action, first from with­ in the University, and if this does not return the campus to normalcy, from without. (Tate, 1969)

So even before the antiwar demonstrations began. President Tate, keenly aware that other universities had suffered intense provocation, made the students and faculty aware that he would not tolerate academic obstruction. When the 1969-70 year began, Tate was optimistic that SMU would suffer little disruptive dissent because, he said, "we have always tried to create an open campus where dissent is heard" (Dallas Times Herald, 1969, September 14). Another possible reason for Tate's optimism was that SDS appeared to have very little following on campus. The Board of Trustees (1969) reported that only some eight people composed the university's SDS chapter which seemed to be lacking student support. Although other schools underwent a series of militant uprisings against government recruiters, war-related industry, and ROTC programs, SMU's antiwar movement 156 did not begin until the October 15, 1969, moratorium. -^ But that event, sponsored by the campus YMCA, received^ support from up to six hundred students (Dallas Morning News, 1969, October 15). However, not all university elements favored the project. On Tuesday, October 14, ^ three SMU conservative groups, the Young Republicans, Young Americans for Freedom, and Free Campus Coalition spoke out against the moratorium, urging support for Nixon's policy in Vietnam. They indicated that students would always look for opportunities to cut classes, and that any professor observing the YMCA's request would exhibit "a lack of professional integrity by neglecting to fulfill their obligations to students" (Dallas Morning News, 1969, October 15, 1D:3). University officials first suggested that the teaching staff should at least be available to hold classes for those students desiring to attend. Then, on Wednesday morning, Vice-President and Provost Neill McFarland firmly stated that faculty members would definitely be in their classrooms at the scheduled times (Dallas Morning News,

1969, October 15). McFarland's decree, however, did not hamper Wednesday's activities. SMU Chaplain Reverend Claude Evans conducted an 8:00 a.m. worship service in Perkins Chapel. He criticized the Nixon administration and 157 regretfully confessed that he had for three years accepted the war. Afterwards, six hundred people packed into the Student Center to hear an eight-hour speaking session. Some students dropped in periodically; others skipped classes to attend the entire program in which speakers lamented about what they considered to be an illicit and unjust war. SMU English professor Marshall Terry called the war a "mixture of tragedy and farce that equals absurdity," and Rabbi Levi Olan said the conflict represented "the most unreal thing that has ever happened in American history." Olan further declared that the moratorium "should be devoted not to telling the administration the techniques of getting out but to confessing to the nation we have acted immorally" (Dallas Morning News, 1969, October 16, 1D:4). That evening, members of the campus YMCA served four hundred students a rice and tea supper, concluding SMU's October moratorium.

One month later, concerned Dallas citizens and ^ SMU students scheduled a second moratorium. Opening day, Thursday, November 13, produced only a mild response throughout the city, but black armbands and peace symbols abounded at the university. Many students also sported red, white, and blue bands showing that they supported the war effort. The principal campus speaker. Reverend Bill McElvaney, began the November moratorium warning 158 students to beware of being prejudicial against ideas differing from their own and to avoid stereotyping their adversaries, especially policemen and soldiers. More than one hundred students then watched films concerning the war and participated in various workshops. The day's program ended on the steps of Dallas Hall, SMU's oldest building, with students overlooking a mock graveyard of two hundred white crosses. Members of the Freshman Forum read names of the 2,200 Texans killed in Vietnam (Dallas Morning News, 1969, November 14).

The demonstration slowed on Friday. Some students again read the list of Texas' war casualties, while others handed out antiwar literature and petitioned signatures to end the war. The November moratorium ended Saturday at 7:00 p.m. with a "dedication to peace" ceremony in McFarland Auditorium (Dallas Morning News, 1969, November 14, 15). Despite some opposition to the moratorium, university officials allowed the participants to speak freely, and the demonstration remained peaceful (Board of Trustees, 1970a). Afterwards, SMU returned to its normal activities until the Kent State deaths occurred the following spring. The May 4, 1970, Kent State killings angered, sorrowed, and concerned many SMU students who believed that they somehow needed to express their feelings. 159

In order to avoid any sort of disruption, students asked ^ university officials to grant them first a meeting at Dallas Hall, and then a memorial service at Perkins Chapel to commemorate the four dead students (Board of Trustees, 1970a). President Tate expressed to them v- his own concern about the Kent State deaths and consented to the requests (Dallas Morning News, 1970, May 7). Next day, with the Ainerican flag at half-mast, some three hundred students assembled in front of Dallas Hall. Prior to the scheduled program, several demonstrators, carrying four black cardboard coffins covered with the flag of the United States, moved slowly through the crowd and placed the caskets in front of the building. The students arose, solemnly and silently meditated for some five minutes, and then sat down to concentrate on the speakers. The first, Dallas Legal Services Project Director Ed Polk told them, "in the last 4 or 5 days I have decided that there is no national morality ... with the federal government spending money to send troops to kill our brothers at Kent...." (Dallas Morning News, 1970, May 6, 1D:1). Former SDS National Secretary Gregg Calvert next stepped to the microphone and demanded that Americans recognize the need for legitimate anger. Other speakers, including SMU economics professor Paul Hayne, talked about their anxieties and 160 said that better communication channels must be established between students and the "silent majority" (Dallas Morning News, 1970, May 6), those 60% of American people who disagreed with the war but who also disagreed with the protest movement (DeBenedetti, 1990).

Wednesday afternoon, more than five hundred students gathered in Perkins Chapel for the memorial service. Before the service began. President Tate addressed the group, telling them that individuals should respond to the Kent State violence in their own way, but he also appealed for reason against anger and love against hate (Board of Trustees, 1970a). Tate further expressed his own grief at what prevailed on campuses throughout the country: "We grieve not only for those who suffer under the tragedy of war, but also for those universities where anger and death have driven out trust and understanding" (Dallas Morning News, 1972, May 7, 1D:4). He then announced the option of attending Thursday's classes, stating that students choosing to abstain would not be penalized (Board of Trustees, 1970a). Those participating in the service then sang hymns, read scriptures, and prayed (Dallas Morning News, 1970,

May 7). Later that afternoon, a group of antiwar students met with Dean of Students Joe Howell to discuss the 161 next day's activities. The students clearly indicated that no one would be forced not to attend class and that they had already selected forty-five student marshals ^ to ensure that SMU suffered no disruption, destruction, or violence. One of the students told Howell: "Our protest is not against this University. We love this University. We will not harm this University. This is our University, but we are here and we are concerned and this is why our concern will be expressed here" (Board of Trustees, 1970a).

Early Thursday morning, a group calling itself Students Striking for Peace placed reports around campus about the Kent State victims and announcing a requested boycott of all classes. Strike supporters posted at every university entrance stopped people, urging their participation. The protesters had been given strict orders from the student leaders, however, not to prevent anyone from entering the campus. Further promoting their cause, they placed a casket on display with a sign reading "STRIKE: Death Is Forever" (Dallas Times Herald, 1970, May 7). Later that morning, SMU officials expressed their concern about possible violence and what action might be taken if the student marshals could not control disturbances. Activist spokesman Tim Kelleher told 162 the administrators that "we've got to keep ourselves together and demonstrate something to the country.... And that means no violence" (Dallas Times Herald, 1970, May 7, 29A:1).

At 2:00 p.m., some six hundred students gathered in the main quadrangle. Earlier that morning, demonstrators had raised a second white flag, bearing a green peace symbol, beneath the American flag. A dispute arose between activists and non-activists regarding the peace flag's position. Fearing a disruption. Dean Howell ordered the strikers to remove it. Tiey did so, but at 2:30 p.m., several students attempted to again raise the peace flag. Howell and Kelleher dissuaded them while another student leader shouted over the loudspeaker, "I'm not going to let a fight over a piece of cloth abort the meaning of this demonstration,... Flags don't mean a thing—dead students do" (Dallas Morning News, 1970, May 8, 6A:1). Thereupon, the activist students hoisted their flag on another pole across the quadrangle. Afterwards, students quietly listened to spontaneous speeches and musical presentations throughout the afternoon (Dallas Morning News, 1970, May 8)

At 8:00 p-m., 250 antiwar students assembled in Dallas Hall. Splitting into several groups, they discussed how best to exhibit their concern about Kent State and 163

Southeast Asia. They decided to support a drive, seeking between $10,000 and $25,000 for the American Friends

Service Committee, a Quaker group devoted to aiding victims of the war in Vietnam (Dallas Morning News, 1970, May 8). The students raised nearly $200 during the meeting. Many then hurried back to their dormitories to collect more, and others made plans to contact and inform churches and local high schools of their project (Dallas Morning News, 1970, May 9). No demonstrations, official or unofficial, occurred Friday as students returned to the classroom. President Tate acclaimed the protest's peaceful nature at SMU and voiced abhorrence to the nation's turbulence: This is the time of great remorse and sorrow. Every thinking person is pained and troubled. Those of us who treasure reason are appalled and heartbroken to see hate and violence rule the actions of men.... Each of us is a child of God, made in his image. Each of us must cope with shock, in­ dignation and sorrow. Each of us must respond to our highest loyalties. For some it is a call to pray; for some, a call to silence and meditation; to some, a call for judgment and "Commitment. We hope for ajj^, it will be a call to think. PForJ to succumb to blind an­ ger brings inhuman sufferings. 164 and, as we have seen, even death (SMU '70 (1970), May 11:4)

SMU trustees also praised the manner in which their students handled the affair. Board chairman Eugene McElvaney presented the following resolution on May 8, 1970, at the Board of Trustees' semi-annual meeting The Board of Trustees at Southern Methodist Univers­ ity wishes to express the sense of remorse and grief which it feels as a result of recent events throughout this nation. Both individ­ ually and collectively we share President Tate's con­ cern for those who suffer under the tragedy of war, and for those universities where anger and death have driven out trust and under­ standing. We all appreciate the manner in which the stu­ dents and faculty of this University have chosen to ex­ press their deep distress over the crisis which faces mankind. The peaceful approach which they have taken in expressing their individual commitments reflects honor upon them and upon the University of which we are all a part.

We, the trustees of Southern Methodist University, wish to reaffirm our dedication to a University where differing points of view can be defended without recourse to disruption, destruction, or violence. (Board of Trustees, 1970a) 165 Even though the May 1970 protest remained peaceful at SMU, Student Association President Lon Williams said that Kent State and Cambodia's invasion provided SMU antiwar leaders with more followers than ever before. Consequently, Williams predicted that peaceful demonstrations at the university would end after the summer vacation (Dallas Morning News, 1970, May 11). He was right.

Trouble began in October, 1971, when Tate announced w^ that Jerry Rubin, an activist during the Free Speech Movement who had also been convicted of crossing state lines to encourage rioting, would not be permitted to speak at SMU. The campus YMCA, Student Mobilization Committee, and Young Democrats had scheduled Rubin to present an antiwar rally on Friday, April 29. The sponsors K purposely slated his appearance in conjunction with Attorney General John Mitchell's dedication ceremony for the Underwood Law Library (The Daily Campus, 1971, April 28). Nevertheless, SMU Student Mobilization Committee Chairman Gilbert Story argued that Tate's verdict smacks of blatant political censorship fandj was mo­ tivated by nothing more than a desire to avoid the discomfort and embarrassment that may ac­ company the expression of a political viewpoint in opposi- 166 tion to the attorney general ajid^ the Nixon administration . . . iJ-t) was nothing more than an attempt ... to avoid embarrass­ ment through the technique of censorship. (Dallas Morning News, 1971, April 28, 1D:4)

Mobilization Committee attorney James Simons sought a restraining order from U.S. District Judge William Taylor to prevent Tate from barring Rubin. Tate then filed a cross-action suit in Taylor's court for a restraining order preventing Rubin and his supporters from "interfering directly or indirectly by act, word or deed with [jlitchell' s]] program" (Dallas Morning News, 1971, April 29, 1D:6). Taylor questioned his jurisdiction to rule on a constitutional violation of free speech on a private school's campus; he denied the requests. Simons argued that when private schools "open their property to the public for educational purposes, they are considered state schools. We merely submit the First Amendment is alive and well and should be applied to public universities in this country" (Dallas Morning News, 1971, April 29, 1D:6). Tate thereafter gave permission for Rubin to speak after 6:00 p.m. Rubin, however, had already canceled his visit, and John Froines, who previously had been on trial for teaching the use of an incendiary device. 167 replaced him. At 6:00 p.m. Friday evening, Froines and Rutgers University law professor Arthur Kinoy addressed five hundred people at the SMU quadrangle. Froines declared that politicians would not end the war and that the concerned people must do it themselves. He also declared that "Although President Nixon is cutting American manpower in Vietnam, he is replacing men with chemical warfare that is wiping out the next generation of Vietnamese through birth defects" (Dallas Morning

News, 1971, May 1, 5A:3). Tate detested the extremism that had been plaguing campuses across the nation, and he was not at all interested in any militant speakers appearing at SMU. Mitchell agreed that simultaneous speeches would have been confusing, but the Attorney General also indicated that even radicals are allowed freedom of speech and have the right to peacefully assemble and demonstrate (Dallas Morning News, 1971, May 1). It is difficult to determine, however, if this represented his true belief or if it was a statement that he wanted the press to print. Tate, on the other hand, did believe that militants had no business on any campus. He said. They call themselves revolu tionaries, but they are in fact the most brutal and irrational type of anarchist.... and the sight of campuses across the 168 nation being handed over to this sort of criminal ... has aroused demands that leaders of the academic community eith­ er stop it or stand aside for those who will. (The Dallas Morning News, 1969, July 26)

Perhaps Tate was right. After Froines visited the campus, students and security officers clashed in the most dramatic antiwar demonstration ever staged at SMU (Dallas Morning News, 1972, May 14).

From the fall 1969 through the spring 1971, SMU students had assembled and demonstrated on the campus without confrontation. But that changed late Tuesday w- afternoon. May 9, 1972, when twenty-two students--"the SMU-22"--locked themselves inside Perkins Administration Building, protesting Nixon's re-escalating the war. At that time, Tate informed the demonstrators that because "SMU is an open University committed to free exchange of opinions and to the expression of convictions based on conscience," they could freely protest and boycott classes (Dallas Morning News, 1972, May 10. 1A:5). Meanwhile, Chairman of the University Assembly Thomas Arp met with campus security, university officials, and two other faculty members--sociology professor Paul Smith and psychology professor Jack Strange. Arp, Smith, Strange, and Vice-President for Student Affairs James 169 Wroten went to the Administration Building where pro­ testers allowed the faculty members to enter. Once inside, the three professors talked with students for more than an hour about their reasons for remaining in the building (Arp, 1972). The protesters said that ^ they had occupied Perkins to show the depth of their commitment against the war and that they would not leave until the administration met two demands: first, that SMU as an institution publicly denounce the war; and second, that the university form a committee to investigate SMU's involvement with the war effort (Dallas Times Herald, 1972, May 10; Dallas Morning News, 1972, May 12) .

Student delegates and administrators met throughout Tuesday night discussing the demands and possible disciplinary actions, but no decisions could be reached and the students refused to vacate the building. Wroten told them that by not leaving, they violated university regulations against disruptive activities. The administration then called upon campus security officers to remove the demonstrators (Arp, 1972; Dallas Morning

News, 1972, May 11). As the security force moved toward Perkins about 3:30 a.m. Wednesday, students outside the building, supporting the protesters, sang "America the Beautiful" 170 and chanted "pig, pig, pig." Although Dallas police did not become involved, a police helicopter hovered overhead. The demonstrators vowed not to force a physical confrontation, and inside the building, officers used restraint. Outside, however, the officers kicked at least one student and dropped others on the building's steps (Dallas Times Herald, 1972, May 10).

No one really interfered with the eviction, but Wednesday afternoon some four hundred students gathered for a rally supporting the "SMU-22's" cause. Several of the evicted students accused SMU officials of purposely avoiding cooperation. Tate, who initially declined to attend the rally, spoke for about fifteen minutes. He reaffirmed that students had the right to demonstrate, but that the previous night's activities disrupted the university, and that could not be tolerated. While uniformed security guards patrolled the area, some students collected signatures for antiwar petitions and others handed out postcards, preaddressed to President Nixon in Washington, D.C, so that protesters could write down their complaints about the war (Dallas Morning

News, 1972, May 11). On May 16, the university's Level II Judiciary, V composed of three students, one faculty, and one administrator to hear cases in which suspension was 171 a possible sentence, handed down sentences to "the SMU-22" and five others who stood in front of the Perkins Building, blocking the door as security officers approached. The judgment placed those students in danger of being suspended if, for the remainder of their stay at SMU, they violated any of the institution's protest and demonstration regulations or the "response to official notice" regulation (Dallas Morning News, 1972, May 18).

While campus protests in other parts of the country often became violent, SMU for the most part remained peaceful. The administration and the students both worked against serious confrontation, and during the only major demonstration university officials took control of the situation. They found no reason for bringing in outside law enforcement and SMU's security force successfully cleared the Perkins Building. Although the university's religious climate may generally have contributed to the peaceful situation, only one student, Mark Bryant, left the building because he could not personally justify his actions. The more probable reason was because, according to the Dallas Times Herald (1972, May 10), students had already been informed that any violent activity on their part would result in a loss of financial aid and an end to their education at SMU. CHAPTER XI

RICE UNIVERSITY

Rice University in Houston, Texas, was constructed ^ in 1912. In 1917, Rice applied for and received a unit ^ of Army ROTC; all students, men and women, were required to join the Corps. Shortly thereafter. Rice students participated in their first protest against the ROTC program. The petition was not because of ROTC's role in the war, however, but because of its rigor and harsh discipline. The students won this first battle as university officials eased up on the program's demands. After World War II, both the institution and its students changed. The latter group included many war veterans, more mature and motivated to learn than prior students, and Rice devoted itself to a research-oriented faculty. Academics became so rigorous, and competition so great, however, that students sometimes committed suicide (Meiners, 1982; Boles, 1987).

VJhen the Southeast Asian conflict broke out, and students at other institutions began to develop attitudes against United States activities in Vietnam, Rice students did not immediately become involved. Despite the war's escalation in 1965, only a few political, but not war-related, editorials appeared in the the student 172 173 newspaper. The Rice Thresher. Even while antiwar demonstrations flourished on campuses throughout 1968, the movement did not appear at Rice until 1969 when ^ some students participated in the war moratorium. Between 'v^ 1969-70, however, protests expanded at the university to include demonstrations against ROTC, recruiting on campus, an administrative decision not allowing Abbie Hoffman to speak at Rice, and the Cambodian invasion.

The first recorded anti-Vietnam War activity at Rice began on September 5, 1968, when President Nixon gave a presidential campaign speech at the Miller Amphitheater. Approximately two hundred Young Republican students gathered at Rice Memorial Student Center in Nixon's support. Another group of about that same number, wearing black arm bands and carrying signs sporting such slogans as "Millions for Defense--Not One Cent for Rat Control" (alluding to the nation's poverty problem), moved out from Lovett Hall toward the amphitheater where several thousand people had already congregated. The demonstrators, shouting antiwar slogans, marched around the crowd, but Nixon's supporters' thunderous ovation and cheering at his appearance drowned out the protesters' chanting and they dispersed (The Rice Thresher, 1968, October 10). Otherwise, antiwar activity at Rice remained fairly calm throughout 1968. 174 Then, on January 13, 1969, United States Army Major John A. Dean, head of the Counter-Insurgency Division at Coronado Amphibious Naval Training Base, lectured 150 Rice students and faculty about psychological warfare in Vietnam. During his speech, SDS and antiwar students staged an unscheduled street theater demonstration which brought a mixed response from the audience (The Rice Thresher, 1969, January 16). Undaunted, Dean continued his presentation, maintaining that America prolonged her efforts in Vietnam for two major reasons: (1) the concept of a balance of power and (2) because United States leaders had known since the Korean War that Southeast Asia would produce a "continuous line of eventual involvement in a problem," and that America's involvement there would be "in the best military and economic interests of the United States" (The Rice Thresher, 1969, January 16:6). Rice SDS students frequently interrupted Dean, questioning his integrity and credibility. One student, Adrian Abel, suggested that Dean had completely avoided the war's most crucial issue—immorality. Several others agreed, accusing Dean of being an elitist and a hypocrite, and pronouncing him guilty of genocide (The Rice Thresher, 1969, January 16). The following month, attacks began against ROTC's presence on campus. One group of students condemned 175 the military for its role in Southeast Asia. They accused ^- the United States of targeting Third World nations for expansion purposes and for using the military machine to maintain America's hegemony. They charged that ROTC ^' at Rice, or any other campus, provided trained leadership for the new "Colonial Army," and that this played a major role in America's jingoism (The Rice Thresher, 1969, February 13).

Believing that the university's function should be to provide for individual education, not to serve the military-industrial complex, another anti-ROTC group consisting of forty-three faculty and students demanded that Rice University completely terminate its ROTC program by removing it from the campus and canceling any academic credit for the courses. The group's members strongly believed that ROTC polarized a university's educational design. They drafted and signed a letter published by The Rice Thresher on February 13, 1969:

All 'military science' and 'naval science' courses yield either two or three hours of academic credit at Rice, except the two freshman-level courses, which carry one. Any perusal of a ROTC 'textbook' should be enough to prove that these courses have negligible academic value. A ROTC instructor can be ordered what to teach and what not to—by the Defense Department, but not by Rice University. The con- 176 tent of courses is controlled by the Defense Department. The DOD, not the University, appoints the instructors That such a program--20 semester courses, two buildings and a space in a third, and two 'departments' legitimized by the catalogue ... be allowed connection with Rice University of any kind is sadly eloquent testimony to how little the Board of Trustees and administration of this University adhere to their professed educational principles.

An open debate and discussion session about the war took place on Wednesday, February 19, 1969, at 7:30 p.m. in the Fondren Lecture Lounge. The forum had two major speakers. Biology professor Stephen Kara Kashian explained how harmless research, primarily biological warfare research, could either be converted to war uses or legitimized. History professor Allen Matusow spoke of how ROTC violated the standards of intellectual content and freedom and suggested that ROTC must be eliminated from the university system in order to insure its purification (The Rice Thresher,

1969, February 20). In the following weeks, radical students continued their efforts to establish a solid antiwar movement. On Friday, March 21, Columbia University's controversial SDS leader Mark Rudd appeared at Rice. He freely expressed his views about the war and campus demonstrations. 177

Acting President Frank Vandiver indicated that Rudd's presence dictated Rice's position as a free marketplace for ideas. The next month, however, when the university's SDS chapter planned to host a three-day regional SDS meeting on campus, April 18, 19, and 20, Vandiver denied the group's request to sponsor the proposed convention (The Rice Thresher, 1969, April 17). He said that After careful considera­ tion I have decided not to grant permission to the Students for a Democratic Society to hold a re­ gional meeting on the Rice campus. The projected SDS gathering would violate not only established Uni­ versity policy of many years' stand­ ing but would also injure Rice's honorable tradition to seek truth and enlightenment in an atmosphere free from coercion and threats of violence. As long ago as 1964, former President K. S. Pitzer succintly enunciated Rice policy when he said, 'The University does not have to al- ' low its educational effectiveness to be weakened by outside speakers whose primary purpose is to indoctrinate or proselyte, rather than engage in ra­ tional debate'.... In [requesting] the use of Rice campus facilities, the SDS is attempting to exploit the national and international reputation of the University. This simply cannot be permitted. Rice is not ready to lend the cloak of respectability to groups dedicated to the destruction of prin­ ciples that are the very fiber upon which this and other institutions were built.... 178 Rice gladly makes its facilities available to recognized non-academic campus organizations (including the Rice Chapter of SDS) JDut cannot extend these facilities to external adjuncts of these organizations. To do so would compro­ mise the University's posture of impar­ tiality and jeopardize the cherished principles of academic freedom. To dis­ regard this long standing Rice policy for the sake of a regional SOS meeting would be an insult to the majority of the University's students and faculty. (Vandiver, 1969)

Vandiver based his decision on Pitzer's policy which had been initiated to deal with racial problems. Although no trouble resulted from Vandiver's rejecting the April SDS program, continued referral to Pitzer's canon later caused a principal confrontation in 1970 when university officials refused Abbie Hoffman speaking rights on the campus.

The first anti-Vietnam War demonstration at Rice took place September 23, 1969. At 3:15 p.m., 150 students gathered in the Memorial Student Center. No one knew who actually called the meeting, but someone had placed signs and spread the word around campus that "Uncle Sham's Astromilitia" would hold maneuvers on the Rice Stadium parking lot. Wnen the student militia arrived at the stadium they found the ROTC drilling there. Obeying rules against disrupting regular campus activities, the militia conducted its exercise around the cadets. 179 Soon, Dean of Students Fred Wierum appeared and sug­ gested that the protesters return to campus. Just as they left, an airplane flew overhead dropping leaflets that read, "This is an astroprotest, if this were napalm, you would be dead" (The Rice Thresher, 1969, September 25).

Shortly thereafter, in October, 1969, associate professor of English Alan Grob organized the Rice moratorium (Grob, 1991). On October 14, at midnight, several students and faculty gathered for a vigil to read the names of those killed in Vietnam. The formal affair began next day at 7:30 a.m. with faculty advisor to the Student Senate Paul Pfieffer speaking about the "rededication to peace" and Allen Matusow lecturing on "the militant and foreign policy." The participants then joined in a folksinging session from noon until 1:00 p.m. Afterwards, Dr. Sclafani lectured on "the ethics of resistance," Dr. Grob on "the effects of the war on domestic policy," and Dr. Davidson on "the effects of continued arms competition." At 3:30 p.m. the group assembled outside Lovett Hall and marched to the Miller Amphitheater (Vietnam War Moratorium, 1969), where some three thousand people listened to speakers that included Dean of the Texas Southern University Law School Kenneth Tolbatt, Texas Democratic Congressman Bob Eckhardt, 180 and Texas Democratic State Senator Barbara Jordan who "electrified the crowd, saying 'bring the boys home'" (Grob, 1991).

Surprisingly, such a large number attended the event since class boycotts and demonstrations on or near Texas' campuses drew small notice and little attention. Except for Texas Tech University and the University of Texas, where some eight hundred students and about five thousand students, respectively, supported the ceremony. Moratorium Day hardly touched Texas higher education institutions (The Austin American, 1969, October 17) .

Following the moratorium. Rice University's Student Action Committee sponsored a fast for the week October 21-25 (The Rice Thresher, 1969, October 17). Then, on November 10, 1969, demonstrators held a sit-in outside the placement office to protest CIA recruiting on campus. That morning, a small group of students discussed what action to take. They decided, since they had insufficient numbers to create any real disturbance, to hold their protest after lunch, hoping that more people would join them. Word of the sit-in spread around campus and at 12:30 p.m. some forty protesters entered the Rice Memorial Center. They sat down in the hall outside the placement office. Fifteen minutes later Dean Wierum appeared 181 and asked the students to leave, but they reacted negatively to his request. The dean then told all non-Rice people to immediately leave the campus. When no one responded to this order, Wierum demanded that they produce identification cards. A few did show their cards, but Bill Katzenberg, one of the student leaders, emphasized that the group would remain there until the CIA representatives left. Wierum then told v the group, "You people are disrupting the normal opera­ tions of this University" (The Rice Thresher, 1969, November 13:1) and commanded that the building be cleared by 1:10 p.m., warning that any remaining students would face severe disciplinary punishment. The protesters acknowledged their disruptive action but again refused to leave until after the recruiters did so. During these discussions, several students scheduled for interviews attempted to enter the placement office but could not get through the blockade. The demonstrators asked one older individual claiming alumni status to produce identification proving that he did not represent the CIA before letting him pass (The Rice Thresher,

1969, November 13). At 1:30 p.m., Wierum told the protesters that the CIA recruiters had departed and that they should immediately do the same, but the students lingered. 182 When Wierum attempted to seize a non-Rice student for questioning, Karolyn Kendrick and two unidentified protesters blocked the dean's passage, allowing the demonstrator to escape (The Rice Thresher, 1969, November 13). Wierum placed Kendrick on disciplinary probation because of her activity at the CIA incident. Although Kendrick made several appeals, Wierum refused to acknowledge her requests, and she remained on probation from November 24, 1969 until June 1, 1970 (The Rice Thresher, 1970, March 5).

The 1969 fall semester ended quietly, and the first demonstration for the spring semester proved unsuccessful. The SDS planned a February 3, 1970, rally against an ROTC orientation held in the Physics Amphitheater. At 1:30 p.m., eighty students gathered at the William Marsh Rice statue; only twenty to twenty-five of them represented the protesters. Former University of Houston student Doug Bernhardt, banned from that campus for his participation in an Army recruiting incident, began the rally with an anti-ROTC speech. He then announced that they should all disrupt the ROTC program scheduled for 2:00 p.m., and led the group of protesters and spectators to the amphitheater (The Rice Thresher, 1970, February 5). 183 Dean Wierum and Rice Security Director Harold Rhodes met them at the door. Rhodes told them not to disrupt a normally scheduled university function and cautioned them against entering the building. Bill Katzenberg indicated that they would enter despite Rhode's warning. At this point, Wierum interjected that the Rice students could participate in the program, but that Bernhardt would have to "run along, since there [was! no place in the program for non-students of Rice University (The Rice Thresher, 1970, February 5:1).

Most of the group filed in quietly and sat down. Bernhardt, who had remained outside, managed to sneak in through a side entrance as Major Phil Norman explained Rice's two year ROTC program. Bernhardt's presence caused a minor flurry of activity, but no one removed him from the building. During the program's question-and-answer sequence, several antiwar students attempted to turn the session toward such topics as ROTC's war function and American imperialism, but Norman simply ignored these questions and the event continued without incident (The Rice Thresher, 1970,

February 5). During the next two months, antiwar related activity at Rice reached its zenith. On Thursday, March 26, a caller threatened to blow up the ROTC facilities. 184 The following Wednesday, an attempt to burn the building ^ failed (Wierum, 1970). More problems erupted in April when the Board of Trustees and Vandiver strictly adhered to Pitzer's 1964 policy and blocked an Abbie Hoffman speaking engagement at Rice.

On March 30, 1970, Stephen Fox, following university policy, requested to use Autry Gymnasium, April 12, for speeches by Hoffman, who had been arrested and tried with Jerry Rubin for inciting riots, and by their attorney, Leonard Weinglass; a forum, and a rock concert would follow the speeches. The event, co-sponsored by the Rice SCB and Space-City, Houston's underground newspaper, would be free of charge and would require a Rice University identification card for admittance (Fox, 1970). Fox sent his request to Rice Public Relations Director Lee Estes who forwarded copies to Vandiver and Wierum, noting that the proposal failed to mention a faculty sponsor. Wierum rejected the request on April 1. The following day. Rice Student Association President Bob Parks and SCB Chairman Jerlyn Mardis met with the Dean to discuss why he would not allow the event. He told them that no possible cultural or educational benefits could come from such an affair and that he specifically objected to Space-City's involvement (Chronology, 1970). 185 Later that afternoon. Fox submitted a revised request naming SCB as the sole sponsor. It again called for outside speakers and a rock concert, but stipulated that SCB would select a faculty moderator for the question-and-answer session. It further stated that SCB would be totally responsible for security, parking, insurance, and clean-up. Wierum also refused the second proposal on grounds that it only moderately differed from the first. He did suggest, however, that a request might be approved if: it involved no rock concert; a full professor assumed the moderator's role; there were no charges or contributions requested; the event involved no outside sponsors or participants; and responsibility for expenses lay solely with SCB (Wierum, 1970; Student Center Board, 1970). The controversy began to heat up on campus at 3:30 a.m., Sunday, when someone burned the Dean of Students' offices, obliterating irreplaceable records and destroying property valued at $50,000 (Wierum, 1970). Dean Wierum, speaking on April 6 over KTRU radio station, said that Students and faculty alike at this University, as at other Universities across this nation, have been searching for what is relevant in our educational pro­ cess. I would suggest that we all, now, examine carefully our cBT^ciences on the question of relevance in education. I 186 would further suggest that, when the process of rational discourse and inquiry give way to techniques of intimidation and coercion, the spectre of terrorism and violence soon follows.... I would suggest that, today, in our education at Rice University,... we must urgent­ ly devote our abilities to return to this campus the atmosphere of mutual trust, respect and understand­ ing, and the process of rational dis­ course and inquiry. We must exorcise from us these patterns of intimida­ tion and coercion which lead to such senseless acts of terrorism and vio­ lence as occurred yesterday on this campus. (Wierum, 1970)

Vandiver echoed Wierum's words, but further stated that "any cases of arson and violence which threaten the Rice community will be treated as criminal acts and, under the law's procedures, will be handled by the civil police" (Houston Chronicle, 1970, April 6, 1:1). Bob Parks, on behalf of the student association, pledged a $1,000 reward for information leading to the arrest and conviction of those responsible for the fire. He said, "I can only assume it was an act of terror. The university's response cannot be one of fear, though, nor one of repression" (Houston Chronicle, 1970, April 6, 1:1). And Mike Smith of The Rice Thresher staff stated in an editorial that Saturday night far more than the Dean of Students Office was lost. By a senseless act of vio­ lence, the sanctity of the Rice 187 community has been violated. Regardless of the severity of our problems, in the past, stu­ dents, faculty, and administra­ tion have always been able to function together with at least a modicum of rationality and cer­ tainly free from the taint of violence if further and ir­ reparable harm to Rice is to be prevented.... The officers of administration must individually determine what steps they must take to restore trust—but it is imperative that trust be re­ stored.... This University must move now to restructure itself, lest it lose its opportunity to the ravages of violence or repression. (The Rice Thresher, 1970, April 9:2)

On Monday afternoon, SCB representative Jerlyn Mardis submitted to Wierum a third request for Hoffman's appearance. Wierum indicated that this request complied with his criteria, but that in light of the fire, for security reasons, he could not at that time grant his approval. Later that night, SCB voted to withdraw its •/' invitation to Hoffman and Weinglass. Mardis said they v made their decision because of phone calls from right-wing groups threatening to destroy the campus if Hoffman appeared (Houston Chronicle, 1970, April 8). The following day, April 7, Vandiver told a group of twelve hundred faculty and students that he could not and would not permit Hoffman and Weinglass onto the Rice campus (The Rice Thresher, 1970, April 9). 188 Afterward, the Rice University Student Association Senate released a statement fully supporting SCB's decision to withdraw its request on account of the external threats. The Senate further stated that Wierum and Estes also forced the withdrawal by making "considerable attempts to censor the event through continued delay tactics and unprecedented, unusual restrictions on the presentation" and that "we will not tolerate irresponsible actions on the part of the Administration which would impair the right of legitimate student organizations to sponsor speakers on campus" (Rice Student Associa­ tion, 1970). On April 8, the Senate drafted and submitted to Wierum yet another request for Hoffman and Weinglass to appear in Autry Court on April 12, 1970. Not only did this request satisfy Wierum's criteria, it further established a security plan involving over one hundred student volunteers, coordinated between Rhodes and Tom McGarity, a Rice junior (The Rice Thresher, 1970, April 9).

This time Wierum (1970) granted his approval and strongly recommended that Vandiver do the same. Vandiver replied on April 9 that ...under the specific regulations and conditions you have outlined to the Student Senate,... I accept your 189 recommendation and the Senate's re­ quest.... Because this decision re­ flects a position which I i^^said^f I would not take, I am compelled by a sense of honor to submit to the Board my resignation as Acting President. (Vandiver, 1970a)

After learning of Vandiver's decision, the Rice Board of Trustees, through its Chairman H. Malcolm Lovett, released a statement overruling Wierum's and Vandiver's approval. The Board also refused to accept Vandiver's resignation and he continued acting as president (Vandiver, 1970b). Although the trustees' statement indicated that they terminated Hoffman's appearance for security reasons, Grob (1991) suggested that they most likely put a stop to it because of Hoffman's views on the war, his reputation as a radical, and the kind of people who tended to gather around him. Pfieffer (1991) added that Rice's leaders really panicked on the idea of Hoffman coming to their university.

Thursday night the Student Association Senate held a closed-door meeting. After a three-hour discussion, it released a statement reestablishing its stand to sponsor Hoffman and Weinglass. The declaration called for the trustees "to defend the integrity of Rice University, to reaffirm our cherished traditions, and to contemplate the grave implications which their decision 190 implies" (Chronology, 1970). Next morning, however, at 4:00 a.m., the Senate, contradicting its earlier decision by a ten to one vote, passed the following resolution:

We hereby withdraw our invi­ tation to Messrs. Hoffman and Weinglass to appear and speak on the Rice campus on April 12.... the real issue has been defined. The Board of Trustees by imposing its decision against the judg­ ment of other segments of this university has acted to destroy this university.... (Rice Student Association Senate, 1970)

Student Association President Parks said that the trustees "had laid the groundwork for the destruction of the university by overruling President Vandiver and Dean Wierum,... and interfering in a matter which had been previously left to the discretion of students, faculty, and administration" (Chronology, 1970). Wierum, on the other hand, declared that "the student senate is to be commended on its wise and responsible--though difficult—decision to withdraw the Hoffman-Weinglass invitation. Certainly it is in the best interest of ths University" (Wierum, 1970b). Seven hours after the Senate released its decision. Rice's faculty gathered in Fondren Library to discuss the situation. Three separate bomb threats, which proved to be false, cleared out the library before the faculty 191 could complete their meeting. Despite the interruption, discussions continued outside and the faculty ultimately passed a resolution asking the board to reconsider its decision. The trustees did not respond to the request. In fact, they absolutely refused to meet with the faculty representatives, chemistry professor Zevi Salsburg and physics professor G. King Walters (Chronology, 1970). Shortly after noon Saturday a group of students assembled at the Rice Memorial Center to consider what action they could take to evince their disapprobation toward the trustees for "interfering in a matter which had been previously left to the discretion of students, faculty and administration" (Chronology, 1970). Deciding upon a limited demonstration, a handful of SDS and allied students entered the Allen Center for Business Activities at 2:00 p.m. (Matusow, 1991; Grob; 1991). At 6:00 p.m., Lovett announced that the board had voted to close the campus for thirty-seven hours. This decision totally eliminated any possibility of Hoffman legally appearing at Rice that weekend, and the students in Allen Center agreed to remain in the building overnight (Chron­ ology, 1970). Sunday remained mostly calm. The students inside Allen center cleaned up the halls, and administrators, after showing identification to student security guards. 192 freely entered and left the building throughout the day (Chronology, 1970). That evening the situation changed. Between 6:30 p.m. and 8:30 p.m. someone broke a glass door to the accounting office on the second floor. Shortly thereafter Lovett entered Allen Center, saw the damage, and angrily left the building (Grob, 1991). Wierum appeared about three hours later. He told the protesters to leave the building within thirty minutes or face suspension (The Rice Thresher, 1970, April 16).

Meanwhile, Hoffman had been speaking to several hundred people just off the University of Houston campus. When news about the Allen Center students reached this group.. Hoffman encouraged his listeners to go to Rice and join those inside the building. Some two hundred outsiders, mostly from the University of Houston, walked onto the Rice campus carrying clubs and chains. They intended forcibly to enter Allen Center and take it over themselves, but when they arrived, the intruders found a cordon of 150 faculty, administrators, and student security members surrounding the building (Matusow,

1991) . Trouble began when a security guard opened the Allen Center door to let out some students who chose not to disobey Wierum's deadline. As the students emerged. 193 several encroachers attempted to push their way in. The Rice demonstrators did not want this to happen and held the door shut while the others tried to break it down. Outside, fistfights erupted. Pfieffer was thrown down and kicked around when he attempted to help one Rice student from being knocked about. But Grob (1991), Matusow (1991), and Pfieffer (1991) all agreed that unlike most other universities, the melee never got out of hand at Rice. McGarity had prepared for such an incident. Besides his regular security unit, he had a reserve force of football players and other large athletes who collected clubs and chains from the disrupters before trouble could really begin (Pfieffer, 1991). This does not suggest that the physical presence of one group can necessarily prevent another group from becoming violent--Columbia students proved that in 1968. However, it does indicate that Rice students had prepared for the possibility of violence, and that in this instance their preparedness did prevail. The Rice demonstrators believed that they should be acting with the outsiders, not against them, but to have allowed them inside Allen Center would certainly have involved greater violence and probably severe property destruction. Therefore, the Rice students voluntarily left the building about midnight to join the people 194 outside (The Rice Thresher. 1970, April 16; Pfieffer, 1991). The two groups mingled for about one-half hour before Wierum told them to break up and return to their homes and colleges. By 1:00 a.m. most of the crowd dispersed (The Rice Thresher, 1970, April 16).

Although several squad cars had gathered down the street, the police never interfered. Nor did the campus police become involved. "We tried to keep campus police/--^ out of this," said Pfieffer (1991), "their job was to protect the campus, not sit on students." If the police ^ had come on campus, Matusow (1991) believed that they would have bloodied some heads, which would have had the polarizing effect on indifferent students that had occurred elsewhere.

But all the attempts to keep Hoffman out had been in vain. Monday morning he walked onto the Rice campus, making an unscheduled and unannounced speech against the war to some twenty-five to fifty students. Hoffman spoke for about twenty-minutes and then left the campus (Matusow, 1991; Grob, 1991). The Abbie Hoffman affair ended peacefully with the university taking no action against the protesters (Grob, 1991). Although things could have become disastrous if the off-campus element had entered Allen Center, that did not happen. Rice students and faculty, through careful planning and 195 coordination, especially between McGarity and Rhodes, handled a potentially adverse situation without city police, campus security, or administrative interference, and university business returned to normal until Nixon ordered the Cambodian invasion.

On April 30, 1970, Sidney J. Drouilhet charged two Rice students. Glen Van Slyke and Willian Holland, and a former Rice student. Bill Case, with showing disrespect and abuse to the American flag. Just before 1:00 a.m.. Case, Holland, Van Slyke, and some other students sat in the Baker College Commons discussing the Cambodian situation. Drouilhet joined the group's discussion at 1:15 a.m. After a few moments, the three defendants began talking about desecrating an American flag that Case had draped around him. Holland took the flag from Case, threw it on the floor and stomped on it. A few moments later Van Slyke picked it up and blew his nose on it several times. He then "announced his intention to 'beat off or 'urinate' on the flag, (^hej unbuttoned and unzipped his pants, put the flag around him, and made motions highly suggestive that he was rubbing his genitals on the flag" (Drouilhet, 1970). Several students began urging the three participants on while others reminded them that their actions were illegal. Van Slyke repeated his performance 196 and passed the flag back to Case who removed his clothes, wrapped the flag around his nude body, and rolled around on the floor. He then stood up, gathered his clothes, and ran off naked. Holland next picked up the flag, spit on it, and handed it back to Van Slyke who burned a hole through it with his cigarette. At this point Drouilhet went to his room and called the Houston police and campus security (Drouilhet, 1970; Beeker, 1970; Sharp, 1970).

On May 2, 1970, at 12:30 p.m., the Baker College Court, one of the residential college courts responsible for its own judicial system, held a hearing to review charges against Van Slyke and Holland for conduct detrimental to the College. Case, as a non-student, could not be tried by the Court. Both Holland and Van Slyke pleaded not guilty. After testimony and deliberation, the Court ruled that due to insufficient evidence it could not warrant a trial, that it did not qualify to try cases involving civil felony charges, and therefore dismissed the charges. Drouilhet then took his complaint to the public court (Dean of Students, 1970) which, on June 30, 1971, gave Van Slyke an eight- year probated sentence and Case a two-year probated sentence for flag desecration. Holland, who testified that he had been protesting the Cambodian invasion, 197 also received a two-year probated sentence for insulting the flag (Houston Chronicle. 1971, June 30). Once the case went to the public courts. Rice discontinued its involvement with the issue (Pfieffer, 1991).

The invasion of Cambodia and the deaths of four Kent State University students raised some serious questions at Rice, but outside the flag desecration, no real problems arose because classes had already ended and students were in the middle of final examinations (Matusow, 1991). The Student Senate did request that professors holding exams on May 6, 7, and 8 reschedule so that students could participate in a campus strike, but the faculty rejected this motion. During the spring commencement ceremonies, however, one of the student leaders, Jeff Cox, gave an antiwar speech. Many of the audience booed him when he spoke about the "murdered students" ac Kent State (Grob, 1991).

After the Hoffman dispute and the flag incident, antiwar activity at Rice diminished, but it did not completely vanish. In November, 1970, several students, led by Lew Hancock, established the Rica Draft Information Center to inform people of their rights, responsibilities, and options with the draft. For twenty-five cents one could purchase from the Center an official list of 198 disqualifying medical defects (The Rice Thresher, 1970, November 12) .

Then, on April 13, 14, and 15, 1971, Rice held a teach-in concerning Indo-China. The three day event involved films, panel discussions, and special lectures. It ended with the participants voting to support The Peoples' Peace Treaty (Appendix A), a document originating from discussions between representatives from the United States National Student Association and North and South Vietnam student associations (The Rice Thresher, 1971, March 18).

The antiwar movement never really exploded at Rice, especially as compared with events at other private, more selective universities such as Stanford and Pennsylvania- Even though students and faculty showed concern with some of the war issues, larger rallies and mass support failed to materialize. Most likely this was because the small Rice SDS chapter received almost no encouragement from the students (Grob, 1991), who generally had much loyalty for the university (Matusow, 1991). One must also consider, however, that Rice did not have a very large student body from which to amass great numbers of protesters. Although the administration fought against student desires to have an off-campus speaker come to Rice, creating an internal conflict 199 when off-campus radicals, spurred by that same speaker, tried to initiate violence at Rice, the students chose to shut down their own demonstration rather than engage in activity which might have damaged the university and their own status. In other words. Rice students would fight to defend what they believed to be their constitutional rights, but they were devoted to their university, and fought against the possibility of outside influences destroying what was theirs. This appears to have been a rare situation during the Vietnam War demonstrations among American university students. CHAPTER XII TEXAS TECH UNIVERSITY

Texas Technological College began its existence ^ in 1923. Lubbock, Texas, was chosen for the site from a list of thirty-seven towns because it had an adequate number of churches and showed strength in industries that the college would foster--agriculture, stock raising, and manufacturing. The Lubbock community, located in the vast West Texas plains, was and has always been rather conservative in nature. For example, in the 1930s, a band of local preachers demanded that Tech release several professors for teaching "atheism and infidelity" (Rushing, 1975). In the 1950s, Tech students still were thought to represent a frontier society, but when the 1960s evolved, a newer breed of student, interested in the new ideas then permeating university campuses, joined this old, established element. Tech, however, still drew students primarily because of its conservative character, and its student population remained mostly homogeneous (Rushing, 1975).

Texas Tech University's antiwar movement never approached those experienced by many other universities. Although some Tech students supported the Vietnam War moratorium, demonstrated against ROTC, and mourned the 200 201 Kent State students, one could not really associate violence with the university. in fact, what violence, or threats of violence, occurred came not from the demonstrators, but from counter-demonstrators. Most of the university's administrators at that time, including President Grover Murray, Executive Vice-President Glenn Barnett, and Vice-President for Academic Affairs S. M. Kennedy agreed that the radical element lacked influence at Tech (Barnett, 1991). But political scientist William Oden (1991) suggested that the administration had no idea or appreciation of what the Tech students thought because the administrators generally were very conservative types and many had been educated in military practices. The 1969-1970 Student Body President Jay Thompson (1991), who had considerable contact with the administrators, agreed. He further indicated that Kennedy, a Lieutenant Colonel in the Army Reserve, was more conservative than most of the administration and was very much opposed to the antiwar position. Tech officials certainly knew about the problems at other campuses and did fear that the same things might occur at their institution. The Board of Trustees even attempted to pressure Murray into putting bars on his office windows and around the windows of the 202 Administration Building's first floor. He refused to do this, indicating that bars would not stop anyone from throwing a bomb or molotov cocktail through the window but might agitate some of the more zealous demonstrators (Murray, 1991).

Because of adverse campus situations throughout ly the nation, Tech officials established a plan, called "Murray's Ten Commandments" by the students, for dealing with possible demonstrations (Barnett, 1991). On February 13, 1968, a meeting took place in Murray's office for discussing some possible means of handling any disturbances that might arise. Those present included Murray; Chairman of the Board of Directors Roy Furr; Lubbock Police Chief J. T. Alley; Dr. B. M. Jones, who had been involved with quieting a protest at the University of Colorado; FBI Agent Ben Harrison; and several members of Murray's administrative staff. Murray and Furr both confirmed that in the event of a disturbance, they wanted firm, positive action taken against demonstrators. As the conference began, Murray asked the following questions: What do we do if we have a-- 1. Peaceful demonstration without disturbances of t^sicj inter­ ruptions of the College? 2. Demonstrations with disruption of the College operation? 3. If a peaceful demonstration gets out of hand and turns into one that disrupts 203 the Colleges [^sic^ operation? 4. Should we ask the help of some student organizations for assistance? (Summary, 1968) After Murray finished. Dr. Jones addressed the question of how to maintain peaceful demonstrations. He indicated that when SDS and its supporters demonstrated against recruiters at the University of Colorado, several administrators attending the rally kept other students from bothering the protesters and took photographs in order to identify possible troublemakers. Jones further suggested to Furr that although the board might be

impatient with his opinions, "it was far better to let ^ the College machinery take its due course ... rather than move in with force ... since the usual charge of 'Police Brutality' would be loud and long should force have to be used" (Summary, 1968). The group then agreed that the Dean of Student Life staff would determine if a demonstration exceeded peaceful bounds; that the president should be advised and kept informed of any such situation; that Chief of Security Bill Daniels should also be notified, and that he should dispatch plainclothes officers to the scene; that in case of the president's absence, the chain of command first would go to Barnett and then to Kennedy; and that only the president or his designated 204 executive could call in the city police. They further discussed SDS and other political groups, with Murray and Furr expressing their opposition to any such organizations being officially recognized at Tech (Summary, 1968). The SDS, however, did have a chapter on campus. Murray (1991) believed that the number of SDS members never exceeded seven or eight, but history professor and Tech's SDS faculty sponsor Benjamin Newcomb (1991) indicated that this number was probably three times that great. Nevertheless, since only a very small percentage of Tech students supported SDS, this most likely helped in preventing serious problems (Murray, 1991) . Two weeks later, on October 25, Assistant Dean of Students William Duvall submitted a proposal for responding to student demonstrations on the Tech campus to Dean of Students Lewis Jones and Vice-President for Student Affairs Owen Caskey. After some minor alterations to Duvall's proposal, university officials adopted its guidelines for responding to student dissent. The proposal suggested that Tech administrators first establish communications between those involved with the disturbance and Lewis Jones in order to keep him informed of the circumstances. The next step called for delegating decision-making responsibilities among the staff in 205 order to prevent costly mistakes, such as unnecessarily calling in city police. After setting up communications and delegating responsibility, officials would warn demonstrators to disperse or face disciplinary action. The proposal further defined three levels of campus demonstrations: Level I represented a peaceful and non-disruptive demonstration; Level II demonstrations would begin peacefully and then progress to the disruptive stage; Level III demonstrations would require assistance from outside law enforcement personnel (Proposal, 1969). Antiwar activities did not reach Level III at Texas Tech. Several small rallies and speeches took place around the Student Union Building, one of the designated assembly areas. These gatherings allowed people to say what they had to say without university interference. If students tried to hold a rally in an unauthorized area, however, security personnel asked them to move; each time this occurred, the students did so without question (Daniels, 1991). These type of assemblies constituted Level I activity at Tech. The first major demonstration, a rally for the October 1969 moratorium, could be categorized somewhere between Level I and Level II. Then in May, 1970, protests against ROTC and the Kent State deaths reached Level II, but did not approach Level III. Even though Tech is not located in a large 206 metropolitan area, the students knew what was happening at other campuses (Barnett, 1991). After the National Mobilization Committee and the National Vietnam War Moratorium Committee announced their plans for the October 15 moratorium, concerned Tech students, led by Susan Preston, formed a Campus Moratorium Committee.

Between September 29 and October 3, 1969, at least six committee members contacted Owen Caskey about a Tech Moratorium Day. Caskey indicated that since none of these individuals actually provided a program outline, he could not make a decision until meeting with the person responsible for planning the activities. Preston then met with Caskey, Dean Jones, and Dean Duvall at 2:30 p.m., Tuesday, October 7. She presented the committee's proposed activities which included scheduled speakers, panel discussions, a candlelight parade, planting crosses on the campus, and a rally at Memorial Circle

(Caskey, 1969). The next night Preston called Caskey inquiring about the administration's decision. At that time Caskey told her that all the moratorium plans had been accepted except for the erecting of four hundred crosses on Memorial Circle (The University Daily, 1970, October 9, 10). However, when he later released an official announcement 207 regarding the program, more than the crosses had been vetoed, or at least restricted. Tech's administration finally approved the following on October 9:

1. The use of the Union Green (Forum Area) during the day and evening activities and the use of the loudspeaker equipment . . . if sponsored by a recognized student group.

2. The use of the Tech Union Ballroom for the day and evening activities ... if sponsored by a recognized student organization. 3. The presence of a few (two or three) individuals in Memorial Circle for the vigil during the day will be satisfactory so long as there is no disruption of normal University activities; however, no meetings or organized programs are to be conducted in Memorial Circle. All planned pro­ grams should be conducted on the Union Green or in the Union Ball­ room.

4. The placing of crosses on the campus, either in Memorial Circle or in other areas, is not approved. 5. The candlelight march from the Union to the Circle at the close of the evening program should occur as late as possible in order to avoid congestion with traffic and night classes; preferably after 10 p.m. (Caskey, 1969; The University Daily, 1969, October 10) Members of the Channing Club, a campus group associated with the Unitarian-Universalist Church, including Susan 208 Preston, Arthur Yarish, and John Hughes, sponsored the event and acted as the Campus Moratorium Committee. The group's leaders felt that Tech administrators had severely hampered their plans. In an emergency meeting called to determine what they should do, economics professor and member of the American Civil Liberties Union Ted Taylor suggested that the committee continue with its original program unless the university completely banned the activity (The University Daily, 1969, October 9). The committee accepted Taylor's advice.

On Moratorium Day, October 15, 1969, between 10:00 a.m. and 4:30 p.m., a variety of students and faculty members gathered in the Union Ballroom to express their personal opinions about the war. The main topics con­ cerned United States policy in Southeast Asia and the war's continuation. History professor Jac Collins stated that the North Vietnamese "never intended to negotiate ... and if we wait for them to offer peace which appeals to us we will wait forever"; William Oden said that "the primary purpose of American involvement in Vietnam was to demonstrate to the Communists that wars of national liberation are not feasible"; and former Baptist minister Leon Blevins discussed the war's immorality ^-TH. nniversitv Daily, 1969, October 16). 209 Two days before the moratorium, Preston had asked Murray to join her and Jay Thompson in their opening speeches for the faculty symposium (Preston, 1969). Murray refused Preston's request; he wanted nothing to do with the event. In a letter written to a Mrs. Mary Helen Smith, October 17, 1969, Murray stated that he personally did not approve of the moratorium. He further indicated that the university had not lent its support and that "the vast majority of the responsible students on this campus are not interested in the moratorium, and will not take any part in it. We are proud of these people." However, Newcomb (1991) believed that many students may not have supported the moratorium because they "wanted to keep their noses clean," and just preferred to stay out of it. Oden (1991) further argued that although some probably agreed with Murray's position, a lot of people at Tech opposed the war.

Barnett (1991) believed that the prevalent campus attitude suggested "let those Aggies get at them Qthe demonstrators^ and they'll put them in their place." Even before October 15, as word about the moratorium / spread, a large number of students from the Aggie group--predominantly agriculture students and farmers representing the more conservative types--approached Kennedy and told him that if he "would like for them 210 to mop up the ground with the protesters when they came, that they would be happy to throw them off the campus and keep the place clean" (Kennedy, 1991). Even though ^ Kennedy opposed the antiwar movement, he reminded the group about the right for people to peaceably assemble and to petition their government for redress of grievances. He also informed them that violence on either side represented disrespect for the personal rights of others and that they would be causing considerable trouble with a non-peaceful protest against the protesters

(Kennedy, 1991). The moratorium's evening activities began at 7:30 p.m. Despite Kennedy's warning, about one hundred western ^ clad students opposing the moratorium disrupted the service by chanting "love it or leave it" and "give 'em heck Uncle Sam" (Lubbock Avalanche Journal, 1969, October 16). Some members of that group began hurling v eggs at the antiwar speakers. After one egg nearly struck Jay Thompson in the face, several demonstrators approached Bill Daniels, who admitted knowing which student threw the egg, and asked him what he would do about it. "I'm not going to do anything," he replied. "If ya'll know who he is, go down to the County Attorney's office and file your complaint" (Daniels, 1991). Daniel's attitude seemed to blend in with the counter-demonstrators, 211 and at least one faculty member believed that Daniel's theory on student disruption was "to kick their asses, that will straighten them out" (Oden, 1991). This incident seemed to spark the counter- demonstrators. When the services adjourned and the protesters, many carrying white crosses, headed for Memorial Circle, the opposition, carrying American flags and singing "America" and "Battle Hymn of the Republic," elbowed their way into the crowd. The antiwar group, undaunted by the jostling, continued toward their goal. A few moments later, between five hundred and eight hundred people congregated at the circle to hear several speakers including Lutheran campus minister Art Preisinger, Church of God in Christ pastor W. D. Haynes, and other local ministers Gene Sorley, Tito Sammut, William Easter, Don Higgins, Don Coleman, Jimmy Lieders, Thomas McGovern, and Homer Henderson (The University Daily, 1969, October 16).

As the program opened, anti-demonstrators began reciting the pledge of allegiance, and the entire crowd stood, joining in the pledge. The speakers then continued while chants, patriotic songs, and catcalls constantly interrupted the vigil. Jay Thompson made an unscheduled appearance, asking for peace both in Vietnam and at the rally (The University Daily, 1969, October 16). J 111 At that point, anti-demonstrators heaved more eggs, A^ bottles, and firecrackers into the crowd (Daniels, 1969). Thompson then walked off the stage to speak with those students who had been involved with the throwing. He told them, "look, you have your opinion and they have theirs, they are not hurting anyone by talking. If you don't like what they say, just leave" (Thompson, 1991). After Thompson spoke with the counter-demonstrators they quieted down, and the activities continued without further incident. Following the moratorium, antiwar student leaders, in an open letter to Murray published in The University Daily, October 22, 1969, formally protested against the treatment they received from the Tech administration and campus police on and before October 15. They argued that The war in Vietnam is truly being 'brought home' when the administration of a school, like the government of the U.S., tries to control people and oppress their 'inalienable rights.' The Vietnam Moratorium of October was both legal and nonviolent, ac­ cording to the laws of the federal government, the state government and Texas Tech University. More important, it was a living testimony of the very principles America was founded upon: politically, as a free country, and religiously, as a Christian country. 213 It was also an example ... of what a real University is about. That is, open-minded questioning, searching and hopefully discovering, not of old rhetoric, but of new and more suitable truths As loyal Americans and servants of the state educational system, the Tech administration should feel even more obligated to take a stand. Since their actions seem to support the counterdemonstrators, their illegal procedures, and their illogical thinking, why not come out publicly and say so. Then we can face each other honestly and with some dignity....

The protesters accused Tech officials of purposely treating them unequally and unjustly because, while the demonstrators were prohibited from using Memorial Circle, the Tech ROTC used it every Thursday. Murray believed that the administration's action disrupted a potentially bad situation (Murray, 1991), but Oden (1991) argued that Tech could not let ROTC use Memorial Circle and then deny it to the demonstrators without the administration appearing to take a pro-war attitude.

The protest leaders believed that university officials eschewed their cause. However, Murray (1991) stated that he kept an open door policy and those students could have seen him at any time, so long as they did not disrupt the university's business activities. Thompson (1991) recalled that Murray did open his door to 214 "responsible" students, but that he did not really care to talk with the antiwar supporters.

Moratorium leaders also complained that Tech security did not provide promised police protection. Although several campus police officers attended the moratorium (The University Daily, 1969, October 22), they spent more time taking pictures in order to identify radical students and leaders (Daniels, 1991) than exercising control over the counter-demonstrators. Daniels (1969) affirmed that they did promise the protesters protection, but the administration told them not to interfere unless the situation seemed to be getting out of control (Murray, 1991) .

Tech officials really wished to avoid flagrant violence. Realizing that such a possibility existed, however, they brought city and state police onto the campus, but kept them in the armory as a reserve unit (Kennedy, 1991; Barnett, 1991; Daniels, 1991). Murray (1991) did not want these law enforcement agencies involved because he believed that "once a university interjected outside police help into a nonviolent situation, it tended to annoy and aggravate the people" (Murray, 1991). Daniels (1969) agreed that bringing uniformed officers into the Tech moratorium could have caused unjustified trouble. Rather than take a chance then, Murray (1991) 215 suggested that Tech leaders try to keep the situation as low key as possible, to let the things run their course and just die a natural death (Murray, 1991). Even though moratorium leaders chastised campus police, they again asked Tech security officers to attend a second moratorium scheduled for Friday, November 14, 1969. On Friday, students shuffled back and forth between their classes and the Tech Union, where university officials allowed the activities. The moratorium moved very slowly, and anti-moratorium groups attracted more support than the demonstrators (The University Daily, 1969, November 14). The event began at 10:30 a.m., with fewer than forty persons attending. Dr. David Rodnick from the Department of Sociology and Anthropology opened the session, speaking on "assumptions that got us into the war." Other guest speakers. Reverend Don Coleman and Reverend Daniel Higgins spoke on "the prophetic minority" and "violence in America," respectively. During a faculty panel discussion, professors Jac Collins and Peder Christiansen broke into a debate. Collins argued that one could not justify the Southeast Asian War, and Christiansen emphasized the war's necessity for stopping Communism before it spread (The University Daily, 1969, November 14). 216 During the activities, two counter-moratorip.u-m -^ '/ organizations, the Silent Majority and the Young Americans for Freedom (YAF), set up tables in the Union. The ^ former sought signatures for a letter addressed to President Nixon, encouraging his policy. By the day's »^ end, the group had collected nearly three thousand signatures. The YAF asked students to sign a similar petition which they sent to the Hanoi delegation at the Paris Peace Conference (The University Daily, 19 59, November 14, 15). After the November moratorium, campus antiwar activities ceased for several months. But the Vietnam War issue reemerged after Nixon ordered the Cambodian invasion followed by the Ohio National Guards' action. When Tech students learned about Cambodia, several hundred gathered at the University Center and, carrying burning candles, peacefully marched to the university fountain. Tech administrators watched this event, but did not interfere with the marchers (Barnett, 1991). The events at Kent State brought a different type of reaction, but Tech again managed to evade the violence suffered by many other campuses. The main demonstrations occurred on May 6, 7 and 8, 1970. On May 5, Kelly McGinnis and several other students, discussing the events at Kent State, felt a need to express their concern about 217 the killings. McGinnis called President Murray and asked his permission to hold a rally in Memorial Circle in order to commemorate the four students' deaths. McGinnis, believing that Murray had affirmed his request, then phoned aerospace studies professor and United States Air Force Colonel Haynes Baumgardner for information about the proper procedure for lowering the United States Flag to half-staff. At that time, Baumgardner (1970) explained to McGinnis that the Kent State killings represented a national rather than a local incident, and that authority to lower the flag must, therefore, come from a presidential proclamation. He further commented that since this particular occasion in no way represented "service to our country," the flag must remain at full-staff.

At 8:00 a.m. the next day, Baumgardner informed Barnett and Daniels about his previous night's conversation. Shortly thereafter, Caskey announced that Murray had not granted permission for the students to use Memorial Circle, but if a group assembled peacefully there, the university would take no action (Baumgardner, 1970). At 11:00 a.m., McGinnis visited with Deans Jones and Duvall. McGinnis informed them that he could not guarantee control of the students, but that he would try to do so (Jones, 1970). 218 At 12:30 p.m.. May 6, nearly one hundred students sat around the circle's flagpole listening to McGinnis speak. During this time, one unidentified student broke the flagpole's hoisting chain, making the flag come down. A few moments later, another student climbed half way up the pole and attached a forty-eight star flag. That flag remained at half-mast until Daniels, Barnett, and Jones arrived at the circle. Barnett asked Daniels if the official flag could be put up again, and kept up. Daniels said that it could. He then asked the fire department to bring out a ladder truck and replace the fifty star flag at full-staff (Barnett, 1991; Jones, 1970). By this time, Jim Boyer and David Beauchamp had replaced McGinnis as the chief spokesmen. At their urging, some thirty-five students went to Murray's office to request that the flag be lowered (Jones, 1970). When they entered his office, Murray's assistant, Jean Baker, said to the president, "there are a bunch of smelly people out here, what should we do with them" (Murray, 1991)? Murray stepped out of his office and addressed the crowd. He told them that they now were interrupting the university's business and that he would not hear them or talk to them unless they immediately 219 returned to the circle (Murray, 1991). This contradicted his alleged "open door policy."

They left and the president met them at the flagpole. When they told him what they wanted, Murray (1991) said, "I don't have the authority ... only the President of the United States has authority to order us to lower the flag." This seemed to be a personal decision aimed against the protesters. It does not take a presidential decree for a campus to lower its flag halfway, "it is just a gesture of symbolic recognition"; Tech placed its flag at half-mast when students or faculty died (Oden, 1991), and other schools, including SMU, flew their flags at that position honoring the Kent State deaths. But, as Newcomb (1991) pointed out, Murray did control the campus and, as such, had the choice of lowering or not lowering the flag. He simply chose

not to. The students then asked Murray if Tech would toll its bells four times each hour, for twenty-four hours, as a gesture of mourning (Lubbock Avalanche Journal, 1970, May 7). Murray also refused this request, indicating that it would be too disruptive. He did, however, agree to ring the bells for ten minutes at noon the following day (Murray, 1991). Murray then returned to his office and the group disbanded. 220 On Thursday, the demonstrators began to assemble at noon. McGinnis first spoke about love, Kent State, and the administration. Afterwards, Boyer encouraged the group to pour black dye into the Tech Fountain and then to occupy the ROTC Headquarters (Jones, 1970) located in the Social Science Building's basement. About 150 students entered the building and sat around the hallway outside the ROTC offices. When Barnett told Murray about the situation, the president said, "let's get them out of there" (Murray, 1991).

Caskey and Daniels ordered the students to disperse. They refused. Daniels asked for names and student identification cards. Again they refused. Daniels then asked the Lubbock police to send out two patrol wagons. When the wagons arrived and his men prepared to arrest and load the demonstrators, they voted to leave the Social Science Building and move to the Administration Building (Daniels, 1991; Kennedy, 1991). As the students moved in and about the foyer, Daniels ordered them to leave the Administration Building because, he said, they were violating state laws. Caskey told them that those refusing to leave would be placed on temporary suspension (Lubbock Avalanche Journal, 1970, May 8). The group then began to dissolve, but not before announcing a 7:00 p.m. Friday meeting (Jones, 1970). 221 By 8:30 p.m. Friday, two hundred students had gathered at the Tech Union. After hearing several speeches and viewing a presidential press conference on television, the group formed a line in front of the building. The demonstrators then lit candles, paraded across campus, and concluded their march at the fountain, where they planted several white crosses in the lawn. Some other students delivered a casket to the demonstrators, who hovered around it for about thirty minutes before finally breaking up at 11:30 p.m. (Jones, 1970).

So long as Texas Tech students conducted their ^^ speeches and rallies in the appropriate areas and did not block entrances to buildings or classrooms, they did not face punishment (Daniels, 1991). Just as the protesters had the right to dissent, those students in the classrooms had the right to be able to pursue their academic purpose without interference. But things never got out of hand at Tech. There was neither police-related violence nor pitched battles between the activists and the anti-activists (Kennedy, 1991; Barnett, 1991). One significant reason for this may have been that Tech, like Rice and SMU, had virtually no SOS members on campus (Murray, 1991; Newcomb, 1991); another could be that the students were just not that interested in trying to change things. The majority 222 of people around Tech's campus during the Vietnam War era, primarily conservative types, differed from those in California or New York, and they simply did not become involved with trying to alter world situations (Barnett, 1991; Thompson, 1991). Even Tech's underground newspaper The Catalyst spoke out against violence and indicated that the students' aversion to destruction was a blessing, as well as a curse.

The administration, however, should not be given a large amount credit for keeping situations under control. Even though it did manage to keep outside law enforcement agencies off the campus, it made little if any attempt at positive communication with the antiwar supporters and seemed very uninterested in their concerns. Moreover, Murray had decided that the more conservative students would be treated one way and that student dissenters would be treated another way. As such, the president's ideology for dealing with campus demonstrations closely resembled that employed by the Grayson Kirk administration at Columbia--the university did not represent a democracy.

If Tech had been located on the West coast or the East coast, and the same methods had been applied, could the administration still have avoided bloody heads and destruction? Murray (1991) indicated that Tech should be "ranked among the top five or ten [universities! 223 nationwide for avoiding problems with activism," but how can one compare Tech's repressive tactics to the democratic principles applied by Wisconsin's Chancellor Fleming? Tech's administrative response to the antiwar movement could have been disastrous if the student body contained a larger activist group. It seems, however, that Lubbock and Tech tended to draw the more conservative types, and that, not adequate administration, most likely prevented more severe circumstances. CHAPTER XIII

SUMMARY AND CONCLUSION

Summary During the Vietnam War era, confrontations frequently "rocked higher educational institutions and disturbed those responsible for their governance" (Williams, 1970). While students exercised their right to protest both the Vietnam conflict and the universities' involvement with that war, whether through defense-related research, recruiting practices, or ROTC programs, administrators faced various decisions concerning the disruptions. They simply could not say "stop it" and expect, or at least receive, positive results. Their principal objective, therefore, lay in keeping demonstrations from becoming violent and destructive. Unfortunately, not all administrators succeeded. Those that did most generally handled the situation without aid from outside law enforcement agencies, and even though they may have found themselves giving-in to the protesters' demands, in the long run their decisions proved effective. But this was not true in all cases. Sometimes demonstrators would not accept an adminstration's acquiescing to the original requests, and they incresased their activities and demands. Administrators then had little choice 224 225 but to seek outside intervention since it then seemed apparent that the protesters appeared more interested in creating havoc than in addressing specific issues.

The Cox Commission (1968) reported that most campus disturbances during the Vietnam period primarily involved socially conscious and politically sensitive students. Many of the larger disturbances also included moderate students with no particular political bent who became concerned with a specific issue. Each campus demonstration included the more militant students (at least one) who, if the opportunity arose, would employ unlawful methods for attaining their goals or for turning students against the university's administration (President's Commission, 1970). Instances surveyed in this work indicate that where protesters resorted to violence or property damage in their attempt to gain demands, they succeeded about half the time. The vast majority of those occurrences, however, whether successful or not, resulted in students being injured and arrested. Therefore, the price paid by some moderate demonstrators in resorting to violence or destruction may have less than adequately compensated

their desired results. But American students are American citizens and they do have the right to free political expression, to march, and to picket, so long as they obey the law 226 and do not incite a riot. Despite a question about the Constitution stopping at an institution's gate (Reidhaar, 1985), a university should recognize and allow peaceable and ordely protest (President's Commission, 1970). A contrast does exist, however, between peaceful student dissent and unlawful disruption, and it is the line separating these types of student actions that can regulate a university's reaction.

Since the behavior of anti-Vietnam War activists often disrupted campuses and violated university rules, corrective measures became necessary (Carter, 1968). A university's disciplinary practice, however, sometimes produced additional and more turbulent confrontations. This is what many of the more radical instigators wanted, especially if the university appeared to be in the wrong. Most protest leaders' goals included gaining allies from students previously uncommitted to the cause. The leaders believed that they could best accomplish winning sympathetic support by provoking a violent or unjust reaction from the administration (President's

Commission, 1970). When a university experienced protest, whether peaceful or non-peaceful, and the administration invoked disciplinary action against the demonstrators, student participants then sometimes demanded amnesty. University 227 officials should rarely, if ever, grant this demand when student-induced violence occurs if they hope to remain in control. Johnston (1968) points out that certain acts, such as property destruction and personal injury, are criminal and are punishable by law. Universities cannot allow student demonstrators freely to conduct criminal activity with no fear of being reprimanded. Demonstrations should be maintained within specific guidelines, and institutions choosing to bargain with their disciplinary procedures curtail internal control (President's Commission, 1970). The President's Commission (1970:142) further suggested that granting amnesty is unacceptable because it can encourage students to "conclude that they can engage in disruptive activity without fear of arrest or university disciplinary

proceedings. " When disciplinary action is imposed for lesser, or non-violent student activity, however, administrators may sometimes be justified in considering amnesty in order possibly to avoid greater pitfalls. But during the 1960s, administrators could not always afford to acquiesce to student demands. When they did, the Defense Department sometimes cut research funding and disgruntled alumni would often terminate their donations. In some cases, the government diverted appropriations from the universities to community colleges. 228 where fewer protests occurred (Gergen, 1971; President's commission, 1970). Thus, many universities involved with anti-Vietnam War protests faced dual obstacles: "On one side the students (JawJ the university as a tool of the immoral and militant Establishment. On the other, the Establishment ["punishedj the university for acting as an incubator for anarchists" (Gergen, 1971:69).

University officials could most favorably avoid serious problems by allowing non-violent protests to continue uncontested. But even that did not always insure peaceful ends for the decision-makers. The President's Commission (1970) stated that some administrators allowing sit-ins to continue found their colleagues and students denouncing them for failing to respond to the situation or for not punishing the demonstrators afterwards. On the other hand, prolonged or repeated interference escalated otherwise peaceful protests by increasing frustration and militancy within the antiwar groups (Horowitz, 1970).

Whenever peaceful dissent evolved into disruptive tactics, numerous universities terminated the problem sans outside law enforcement agencies. Ideally, a university's internal security force should have provided the best resource for dealing with campus problems. 229 But when a simple disruption, such as a sit-in, turned into violence, especially destructive violence, neither campus police nor university officials could adequately control the situation. Administrators then felt justified in calling city or state police onto the campus (President's Commission, 1970). Nevertheless, in almost every instance when this occurred, demonstrators suffered from police brutality and university officials faced a new level of violence. And even though police intervention proved to be an important factor for increasing adversity, the greatest amount of violence occurred because of a lack of communication between the demonstrators and university officials.

Conclusion Most demonstrations simply represent a pattern of opinion and expressions. Campus unrest, in general, is not a problem and requires no solution. All American citizens, including students, have a right to engage in non-violent protest. Violent protest, on the other hand, is a very real problem. It can convert moderates into radicals and enhances the probability of additional violence. Universities, therefore, must seek solutions to end such dangerous, and often brutal, tactics (President's Commission, 1970). Following the 1964 230 Berkeley upheavals, scores of universities found themselves vulnerable to both peaceful and non-peaceful protests, and university officials facing the upsurge of student dissent asked: "How can disruptive protests be avoided and how can they best be dealt with if they occur?" (Carter, 1968:205).

During the Vietnam War, many higher education administrators "were nearly driven to despair by the disruptions and disorders that frequently threatened both the tranquillity of their campuses and the traditional organization of collegiate authority" (Millington, 1979:168). Protests often led to disciplinary procedures focusing on administrative reactions, and some universities found themselves unprepared for adequately dealing with abrupt changes in the student-institutional relationship. They had no established rules or plans and administrators, acting indecisively and ineffectively, often initiated further problems (Millington, 1979). But most universities were not prepared for dealing with dissent and disruption, they were more geared toward the concept of good will. In order better to understand student disposition and their impressions about national and international matters, university officials must familiarize themselves with current issues (President's Commission, 1970) and become more knowledgeable of the American higher education 231 system's vulnerability to campus problems. They should know that private universities are the most susceptible to protest and that demonstrations seem to occur about twice as often at private than public institutions (Bayer and Astin, 1969; Astin et al., 1975). One reason for this may be because private institutions greatly outnumber the others. Nevertheless, despite the numerical difference, during the 1968-69 academic year, more than 70% of private universities experienced protest (34% violent) compared with 43% of public universities (fewer than 20% violent). Moreover, dissent and violence at private and/or public universities occurred three to four times more often than at church-affiliated institutions where protests more usually concerned mandatory chapel attendance or other such religious controls applied by the college (Bayer and Astin, 1969; Astin et al., 1975).

Besides type, two other institutional characteristics are related to the probability of disruptive activities--a university's size and its selectivity. Larger universities have a greater chance for dissent, and the more students they have, the greater likelihood of violence because of the larger number of available participants. Linowitz (1970) and Bayer and Astin (1969) concluded that very few institutions having less than one thousand students 232 had any violence or disruption during the Vietnam War; 29% of those enrolling between one thousand and five thousand, like Rice, experienced some sort of violent revolt, as did 36% of the colleges and universities having more than five thousand students, such as Texas Tech and SMU. A university's selectivity--the percentage of students selected from a number of applicants--also seems to be important for predicting the possibility of campus unrest. During the Vietnam War, according to Bayer and Astin (1969), only 18% of the least selective universities (Texas Tech) had protests, but as selectivity increased (SMU), disruption rose proportionately, with nearly 90% of highly selective institutions (Rice) experiencing demonstrations. This study revealed that 60% of the violence took place at the most selective and the very selective institutions. Astin et al. (1975) agreed that the more selective institutions had the most violence. They further suggested that this probably occurred first because highly selective universities attract more intellectual students who are aware of and concerned about political problems; and secondly because the students, stressed and frustrated by the extremely competitive environment, employed activist behavior as a release. 233 Based upon prior reports, comments by some of those from the Texas schools, and the case institutions involved with this study (Appendix B) , some conclusions can be drawn concerning administrative responses to student anti-Vietnam War demonstrations. According to Linowitz (1970) and Peterson (1970), the most frequent protest issue (38%) concerned United States military policy in Vietnam. Nearly 25% represented interference against armed services recruiters, and 20% against recruiters from other agencies, such as Dow Chemical Company and the CIA. Protests against ROTC programs and and military research on campus comprised the remaining issues. However, this work found that the majority of problems (40%) arose because of campus recruiting policies, that ROTC programs and military-affiliated research created 33% of the disturbances, and that United States policy in Southeast Asia was directly responsible for only 15% of the demonstrations. In other words, this study indicates that university affiliation with the war effort caused about 75% of the demonstrations, and these represented situations that the administrators should have been able to, at least for the most part, control. But even though officials could often decide whether or not a university would involve itself with 234 defense-related contracts, the revenues generated by such made this a very difficult issue not to defend.

By 1968, most protest leaders classified "the university not as a center of teaching and scholarship, but rather as an institution guilty of 'complicity' with a 'system' charged with being immoral, unresponsive, and repressive" (President's Commission, 1970). Despite their endeavors, however, there was not really much that students could do to end the war, and the more they discovered their efforts' ineffectiveness, the more frustrated they became. Increased frustration among antiwar activists led to increased campus violence, drawing conservatives more strongly together and producing an effect opposite to what the radicals desired (Halleck, 1968; The Catalyst, 1970). For example, in 1968-69 violence occurred at 6% of all American higher education institutions; that number increased by only 3% during the peak years, 1969-70, and then declined at the end of 1972 to fewer than 2% (Astin et al., 1975). Nevertheless, student demonstrations, whether violent or non-violent, forced trustees to seek tougher presidents (New York Times, 1969, May 18). But they needed more than toughness. Stringfellow Barr urged university leaders to open their ears. He stated that 235 Those administrators have fared best who have courteously discussed 'non- negotiable' demands as if those who made them were both sane and mature Such administrators have by their behavior suggested how much more exciting a college or university can be than a fortress or a guerrilla camp.... (New York Times, 1969, May 11,50:37

Before making a decision, an administrator needed to understand first the causes and state of activism on the campus and secondly he or she needed a plan for solving such problems. Administrators not following such procedures often found themselves drifting from one crisis to another (Ellsworth and Barns, 1970). This study shows that administrators seemed unprepared to deal with demonstrations about 60% of the time, and when they did not appear to be prepared, the problem escalated in some 70% of those instances with either additional students joining in the protest or non-violent situations becoming violent. This was especially true at Wisconsin (after Fleming), Brooklyn College, Harvard, Columbia, and Kent State, but not at any of the three

Texas schools. Colleges and universities need open, honest, and innovative leadership from all segments of their community An element of trust and respect must be present, but students often tend to view trustees as incompetent 236 because of their remoteness from the campus, and presidents and other administrators as self-serving and unresponsive (Linowitz, 1970). Brandeis University professor Henry Aiken said, "the various groups in a university are alienated because they don't know what the others are doing " (New York Times, 1969, January 28, 43:1). Students, faculty, administrators, and trustees must work together in supporting their institution's efforts at responding effectively to disorder (President's Commission, 1970). The American Council on Education suggested that "... by involving students and faculty effectively in the governance of the university, it can be demonstrated that there are better ways of getting views considered and decisions made than by disruptions" (New York Times, 1969, April 18, 30:4). During the Vietnam War demonstrations, many higher education presidents indicated that their institutions suffered serious damage from a lack of communication and campus unity. Administrators, especially presidents, have an urgent responsibility in ensuring open channels of communication and in being candid concerning their decisions and actions. Gergen (1971), Linowitz, (1970), and Astin et al. (1975) suggested that campus leaders willing to establish effective communications with protesters mostly avoided violent confrontations during 237 the Vietnam War demonstrations. On the other hand, at least 60% of those school officials making no effort to communicate experienced some sort of violence. This study further indicates that students knew up front what type of disciplinary action to expect after communications had been established, which eliminated any surprise action by the university.

Concomitant with seeking support from their confreres, administrators must turn their attention to campus management during a crisis. They have the responsibility of preparing for the situation and of responding to it firmly, but justly. If they act with arrogance and disrespect toward the protesters, indicating that their word alone is the law, they may intensify the situation (President's Commission, 1970; Ellsworth and Barns, 1970). This study suggests that 50% of institutions not applying democratic principles during the Vietnam War, such as Harvard and Columbia, had additional students join the demonstration. Moreover, police brutality occurred in only 10% of the situations when democracy was considered, compared with about 50% when it was not. The Rice and SMU administrations applied democratic principles and both, as with the majority of campuses imposing similar tactics, avoided violent situations. Texas Tech's antiwar students remained peaceful also. 238 but again, this most likely could be attributed to the university's generally conservative climate.

Unfortunately, many universities either failed to properly define their administrators' responsibilities or restricted their authority to take major action against campus dissent. Consequently, administrators sometimes felt powerless, helpless, and confused in a critical situation. Claremont University Center's President Louis Benezet portrayed the typical attitude toward such university leaders during the Vietnam War: The president has been too lax; he has been too firm and unyieldiiig; he has not listened to his faculty; he has not indulged his faculty or his students; he has acted too fast; he has waited too long to act; he has called in the police; he hasn't called in the police. Whatever it is he should have done, he didn't do it; whatever he shouldn't have done, he foolishly did. (New York Times, 1969, June 8, IV, 11:1) In any case, university leaders should not tolerate disruption of the educational experience. But in dealing with demonstrators, administrators must discern between rightful dissent and disruption (Keene, 1970), and if the situation calls for punitive action, the university should strictly adhere to its disciplinary procedure. Peaceful protest and disorder are thinly separated, and university officials must be prepared to react once 239 the line is crossed (President's Commission, 1970). Zumwinkle (1970) concluded that in order properly to respond, each college and university needs clear and concise rules and regulations concerning the parameters of permissible conduct to guide its decision makers. Students should know the rules, limits, and punishments to be imposed in advance of any action. The President's Commission (1970) further announced that an absence of clearly stated regulations, or administrators unexpectedly imposing sanctions, may readily affect confusion, turmoil, and further problems.

Chairman of the Carnegie Commission on Dissent and Disruption Clark Kerr proposed that "few campuses are equipped to deal with situations involving mass disruptive violence; thus in such situations most campuses need help from outside law enforcement personnel" (New York Times, 1971, March 14, 48:1). Robert Maynard Hutchins, however, argued that "the police on no account should be called in,... They cannot be trusted, and an invitation to them to enter in the name of 'law and order' is evidence that the university has given up trying...." (New York Times, 1969, May 11, 50:3). inasmuch as it is sometimes necessary to use the

police, administrators should do so only after exhausting

their policies for dealing effectively with the 240 demonstration. A university needs first to employ its own security force, but whenever criminal acts occur, officials must not hesitate in calling other law enforcement groups. They should consider, however, that police presence on campus, and especially 'police brutality,' may not produce favorable results and will, in most instances, feed the hostility (Linowitz, 1970; Long, 1970). This research indicates that during the Southeast Asian conflict, administrators more often than not progressed through a series of internal responses before calling on outside law enforcement agencies. When they employed that method, campus security did attempt to control the situation about half the time, opposed to only some 20% of the time when administrators chose to bypass internal direction. Furthermore, administrators responding personally to a situation, as occurred at Texas Tech, Rice, and SMU, eliminated outside intervention nearly three times as often. Since students received injuries on about 65% of the occasions studied where universities employed police, it seems evident that administrators could avoid escalating tense situations by refraining from premature panic driven decisions. Linowitz (1970) further suggested that inaction, on the other hand, can produce damages, increased disruption, and disrespect for the administration. 241 Before university administrators initiate disciplinary action, however, they should understand that certain considerations may be required in order to avoid legal repercussion. For example, one safeguard now extended to all students, at both public and private schools, is the right to counsel. It is imperative that university officials inform students facing severe disciplinary charges of this right. By doing so, administrators can ease the load of both student and university, but more importantly, they may avoid unnecessary and costly litigation (Richmond, 1989).

Therefore, when administrators are confronted with a student demonstration on their campus, they must remember that the university judicial process has changed during the last quarter century. Twenty-five years ago university officials could control students with very little worry about legal constraints. The rationalizations of j^ loco parentis and/or privileged attendance provided universities with the grounds to dismiss students for unbecoming conduct without any sort of hearing (Reidhaar, 1985). And this particular student/university relation was "expected by parents, acquiesced to by students, and accepted by colleges" (Richmond, 1989:291).

But these rationalizations essentially disappeared

from American campuses in the wake of a newly emerging 242 student independence. Even as late as 1959, the United States Court of Appeals for the Second Circuit determined that the Constitution generally never entered into campus disciplinary matters because federal courts lacked jurisdiction of due process in that environment (Steier, 1959). This concept ended in 1961, when the Fifth Circuit Court of Appeals ruled that students were entitled to a hearing prior to expulsion (Dixon, 1961), thus establishing the basis for students rights to due process concerning disciplinary action in higher education (Richmond, 1989).

Six years later, after Central Missouri State College suspended students for their involvement in campus demonstrations, a university's due process requirements were more specifically defined: colleges must provide students with (1) a written statement of the charges levied against each student; (2) a hearing before those having the power to expel; (3) an opportunity for the students to inspect any written evidence produced against them; (4) the opportunity to present evidence on their behalf; (5) the right to have counsel; (6) the right to question adverse witnesses; (7) a determination based solely on the hearing's evidence; and (8) a written statement of the hearing and its findings (Estaban, 1967; Richmond, 1989). 243 By 1972, the United States Supreme Court had "implicitly rejected the old in loco parentis concepts and the idea that education is a privilege," and established "that students are free to organize and demonstrate on campus for virtually any purpose" (Reidhaar, 1985:350, 351; Healy, 1972). Since that time, federal courts have required that all tax supported universities provide students with a notice and hearing before expelling them for alleged misconduct. Private institutions, on the other hand, generally define due process rights in the university handbooks or codes of conduct, and may become subject to suit for breach of contract if a student's rights, as stated in such documents, are denied (Swem, 1987). They are not generally bound to constitutional guarantees of due process as are state institutions. One exception, however, may be that "when a private college obtains substantial resources from the government, its actions amount to state actions" (Richmond, 1989:306). Although the courts have rejected most cases involving "state action" based on vagueness of the definition, in recent years "courts have enforced students' rights by requiring private universities to abide by fair and reasonable disciplinary procedures" by not allowing them to violate their own rules (Richmond, 1989:308) . 244 Consequently, in instances where students are damaging university property or obstructing others from enjoying their rights as American citizens, the demonstrators might first be reminded that they are violating university rules, as well as the personal freedom of others, and that their failing to disperse may result in severe disciplinary action. If disruptive tactics continue, students holding scholarships, fellowships, and assistantships could be informed that they are jeopardizing those privileges, and that continued participation may result in a hearing to determine whether their action would constitute revocation of those privileges. If this results in no positive action, any remaining demonstrators might be temporarily suspended, pending a formal hearing. Protesters not engaging in damaging or obstructive activities most likely would not be creating a major disturbance and should therefore be allowed to express their concerns unhindered. During the Vietnam War, administrators realized that problems concerning demonstrations could have a considerable effect on the campus (Seligman, 1969). Since that time, methods for dealing with student dissent have been revised at many universities. For example, Berkeley sought to improve its written regulations concerning protests in order to facilitate student 245 discipline. Cornell University, on the other hand,

altered its campus code, creating a separate disciplinary procedure for students participating in mass demonstrations (Meyer, 1985). These options are less drastic and much more realistic than that proposed by Engel and Widmer (1971:351) who suggested that

Something similar to the English Riot Act of 1714 could be con­ sidered.... The Riot Act provided that if 12 or more persons unlawfully, riotously, and tumultuously assembled to the disturbance of the peace and were commanded to disperse; that if such a group did not disperse within one hour ... they would be guilty of a felony punishable by life imprisonment.... This is not to say that a penalty of such severity should be provided; however, it is submitted that a 2 year prison sentence would not be unduly harsh. It is quite appropriate to assume that universities must apply disciplinary practices in order to preserve the educational mission. But since a correlation seems to exist between a university's disciplinary procedure and the frequency and intensity of protest activity, administrators must, whenever it is possible, choose between democratic principles and a garrison or repressive campus (Horowitz, 1970; Seligman, 1969). Universities most likely will find little relief from student demonstrations and potentially disruptive movements in the future. In order to avoid a crisis, 246 administrators must determine when and to what extent they will take control of the situation (Zumwinkle, 1971; Grauman, 1966). The President's Commission (1970), Halleck, (1968), and Seligman (1969) suggested that administrators can best accomplish this by familiarizing themselves with student issues, understanding the differences between dissent and disorder, and learning more about the relationship between various stages of activism and discipline. They must remain in control of the situation at all times. Even if they finally resort to calling on city or state police, the administrators cannot allow police to regulate the university, rather, they should firmly establish and maintain that they have a responsibility for the students' well-being and, as such, that they will act as the

decision-makers. An administrators job of dealing with dissent and disruption is difficult, and administrative responses to protests differ because univeristy environments are not consistent. Some, like Berkeley or Columbia, seem to attract more militant students than others, like Texas Tech. The primary goa^-,l1 fo^r^r-r eacne^p^rh., however, should ^ -in order to protect both the students be to eschew violence in oraer tu ys. ^ .V. r^.c. Rut student demonstrations have been, and the campus. But stuucii^- a n^rt of university life, are, and will continue a^cs a part oi 247 Confrontation, then, is inevitable. Administrators might therefore consider Mile's (1969) six stages or William's (1970) eight stages of institutional breakdown concerning student protest movements. For simplicity, and because he based his structure on Mile's, William's model will be discussed.

During the initial stage, according to Williams, protesters concerned about some specific issue present a set of demands to the university. Stage two calls for an institutional response to those demands. Administrators generally find it impossible to meet the brief deadline; when they cannot, demonstration leaders organize a stage three sit-in, usually in a major campus building. At this point, public awareness about the demonstrators' activity begins to grow. Following the sit-in, a new set of more stringent demands, including amnesty for the participants, may emerge. If administrators refuse to respond to these new demands, the fifth provocation stage unfurls in which protesters aim for police intervention. At this level the confrontation becomes critical. It feeds the sixth

stage which gains suppor^4-t fo^^Tr -i-hthee aemdemonstratoro s from otherwise apathetic students4-^. wi+-Withh larglargeer numbers r>r-n+-esters can call sympathetic to their cause, i-uathe proteste

for a campus strike, urgin^r.r.g student<5-i-udentss and faculty not 248 to attend classes. This action sets the eighth stage—the actual closing of the university. Most of the cases studied seemed generally to follow William's paradigm.

This study also reveals that a university's administration lost hope for peaceful resolvement as well as internal control of the situation if they allowed demonstrators to exceed stage four. This never occurred at Rice, Texas Tech, or SMU, but Wisconsin (after Fleming), Columbia, Connecticut, Harvard, and Kent State can be cited as some examples from this study that progressed to at least stage five. Furthermore, in most cases during the Vietnam V/ar when universities employed outside intervention, such as at Columbia, Indiana, Wisconsin, and Kent State, the results proved disastrous. Essentially then, those administrators failing to contain a protest movement within the confines of university control should expect the more serious problems. Miles (1979) suggested that even though most organizations can contain demonstrators in small numbers, administrators must not lose sight of the issues because any number of protesters, if they are astute, can thoroughly upset a university. In order to better cope with such situations and problems, some higher education institutions should alter their approach for containing student dissent. 249 These changes will come only through additional education and research. Accordingly, administrators should become familiar with the more successful administrative tactics employed by Wisconsin (under Fleming), Rutgers, Notre Dame, Pennsylvania, Stanford, Stoneybrook, Rice, and SMU. On the other hand they must thoroughly examine, and work to avoid the administrative actions at Indiana, Wisconsin (after Fleming), Columbia, Harvard, Berkeley, Texas Tech, and Kent State. Of course, they must also realize that the situations differed at each of these schools and that a similar incident may or may not receive the same results at another institution. The cases mentioned here, however, should provide sufficient guidelines for consideration.

Although it is difficult to ascertain which administrative decisions proved best during the anti-Vietnam War movement, it is not difficult to recognize from this study which types created the most violent confrontations--unnecessary force by university officials; unauthorized personnel assuming control of a situation; needlessly calling in outside law enforcement; and probably, most importantly, lack of communication.

When demonstrations are not disruptive or violent, a university's initial responses should employ internal 250 forces, and if disciplinary action is required, due process procedures must be followed. If criminal acts, such as arson and bombing evolve, however, administrators should not hesitate in having the perpetrators arrested and imprisoned. The President's Commission (1970) suggested that underreacting to such conduct can encourage more violence if students think the university will do nothing.

The first step to successfully resolving conflict is understanding. The university president could appoint a delegation, headed by a high administrative official, to act as an envoy between the campus and the president's office, keeping him or her informed of issues, rumors, and activities (President's Commission, 1970). If the president, or his appointed leader, is factually uninformed, he or she cannot adequately respond and the students may gain an early victory, thus increasing their momentum. This study reveals that when a university representative did contact the protesters, additional students joined the demonstration in fewer than 15% of the cases, and violence occurred in only some 30%. On the other hand, if a university chose not to appoint a delegation or representative, the demonstrators increased their numbers better than 50% of the time and expressed violence 70% of the time. All three Texas schools' 251 administrations had representatives to speak with the demonstrators, and the only real violence occurred at Rice University, but not because of acts by the Rice students.

The second step might represent the administration establishing a thorough and clear-cut communications network within itself. The President's Commission (1970:136) suggested that administrators should then begin negotiations by "calling attention to the applicability of internal disciplinary and external criminal sanctions, and by stating when these will become effective." Although the current research suggests that this procedure had little affect on the gravity of a situation, it does indicate that administrators progressing through a systematic series of responses helped to prevent premature and often unnecessary outside intervention. Another crisis situation can eventuate if the university fails to acknowledge a demonstration. When this occurs, protesters believe that the institution has become "deauthorized" and feel confident in escalating their demands (Keene, 1970). Kenniston (1970:64) suggested that responsive administrators ... can often prevent destructive conflicts by prompt and reasonable responses 252 to student complaints ... or, even better, by anticipating these grievances before they become focused into demands; second, that slow and non-punitive response to actual con­ frontations and disruptions, including efforts to respond to student grievances and to avoid police intervention, often serves to deescalate student protest ... and third, that external control or limitations on the capacity of a college to define its own solution to its own internal tensions almost always aggravates these tensions.

According to occurrences studied in this research, in correlation with some conclusions of the President's Commission (1970), administrators who are informed, responsive, communicative, flexible, and patient, can more easily dissolve factors that lead to major campus disorders. Perhaps State University of New York at Binghamton's President Bruce Dearing said it best when he told the President's Commission (1970:137): A faculty and administration and student body which can to­ gether swallow pride and irritation, can listen for the message behind the shrillness of some demands, and can undertake to redress genuine grievances, to under­ take overdue reforms, to justify defensible policies and abandon indefensible ones--can effectively deny a significant constituency to the committed revolutionaries for whom a peaceful solution of a campus problem comes as a defeat. REFERENCES

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Seligman, Richard Penn. (1969). Student and Administrator Perceptions of Campus Discipline. Unpublished dissertation. Los Angeles: UCLA. Sharp, Eddie. (1970). Statement to the Rice University security department. May 1. Woodsen Research Center, Rice University. Smith, Glen. (1969). Aspects of student activism on college campuses. College and University 44:410-4.3. y( Smith, Robert B. (1971). The Vietnam war and student militancy. Social Science Quarterly 52:133-156. SMU '70. (1970). May 11. Degolyer Library Archives, Southern Methodist University. Sobel, Lester A. (1971). News Dictionary: 1970. New York: Facts on File. Steier v. New York State Education Commission. (1959). 271 F. 2d. 13. Stormer, David. (1990). Security doesn't need to be risky business. American School and University 62:46. Student Center Board. (1970). The final decision by the Student Center Board on ths Hoffman situation, April 7. Woodsen Research Center, Rice University. 262 Summary of Meeting in President Murray's Office at 2:15 p.m. (1968). February 13. Southwest Collection, Texas Tech University.

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Zumwinkle, Robert G. (1971). An administrator's view, in Law and Discipline on Campus, Grace W. Holmes (ed). Ann Arbor: The Institute of Continuing Legal Education, 13-19. APPENDIX A THE PEOPLE'S TREATY OF PEACE

Be it known that the A.merican and Vietnamese people are not enemies. The war is carried out in the names of the people of the United States and South Vietnam without our consent. It destroys the land and people of South Vietnam. It drains America of its resources, its youth and its honor.

We hereby agree to end the war on the following terms so that both peoples can live under the joy of independence and can devote themselves to building a society based on human equality and respect for the earth.

1. The Americans agree to immediate and total withdrawal from Vietnam and publicly to set the date by which all American forces will be removed. The Vietnamese pledge that as soon as the United States government sets a date for total withdrawal:

2. They will enter discussions to secure the release of all A.merican prisoners including pilots captured while bombing North Vietnam.

3. There will be an immediate cease-fire between

265 266 U.S. forces and those led by the Provisional Revolutionary Government of South Vietnam.

4. They will enter discussions of procedures to guarantee the safety of all withdrawing troops.

5. The Americans pledge to end the imposition of Thieu-Ky-Khiem on the people of South Vietnam in order to insure their right to self-determination and so that all political prisoners can be released.

6. The Vietnamese pledge to form a provisional coalition government to organize democratic elections. All parties agree to respect the results of elections in which all South Vietnamese can participate freely without the presence of any foreign troops.

7. The South Vietnamese pledge to enter a discussion of procedures to guarantee the safety and political freedom of those South Vietnamese who have collaborated with the United States or with the U.S. supported regime.

8. The Americans and Vietnamese agree to respect the independence, peace and neutrality of Laos and Cambodia in accord with the 1954 and 1962 Geneva Conventions and not interfere in the internal affairs of these two countries. 267 9. Upon these points of agreement we pledge to end the war and resolve all other questions in the spirit of self-determination and mutual respect for the independence and political freedom of the people of Vietnam and the United States.

By ratifying the agreement, we pledge to take whatever actions are appropriate to implement the terms of this joint treaty and to insure its acceptance by the government of the United States.

Signed:

United States National Student Association South Vietna.m National Union of Students North Vietnam National Union of Students South Vietnam Liberation Student Union APPENDIX B MAJOR UNIVERSITIES USED AS CASE STUDIES

1965 1968 University of Michigan Columbia Columbia New York Berkeley Notre Dame Rutgers Connecticut Drew Rice University of Pennsylvania 1969 1966 Notre Dame Wisconsin Stonybrook Columbia Fordham Harvard 1967 Stanford

Wisconsin Rice

Indiana SMU Brooklyn College Texas Tech

268 269 1970 Berkeley

Southern Illinois University Ohio State Kent State Rice SMU Texas Tech

1971-1975 Stanford Fairfield Columbia Harvard Yale Tufts Maryland Cornell

SMU Rice