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The New Zealand Journalist and His Jeeves Called Watson

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At Christmas 1933, the place to be in London was the palatial mansion owned by American romantic novelist Baroness von Hutton zum Stolzenburg in highly fashionable Clifton Court off St John’s Wood Road, a couple of straight drives away from Lord’s Cricket Ground. Except ‘Betsey’ wasn’t at home – she was “wintering” in Rome. Her vast abode was being rented by a free-spending New Zealander, Stanley East, and it was “open house” for a stream of parties eagerly patronised by, among many others, fellow Australian journalists and South African footballers. The South Africans quickly wore out their welcome, however, and after “bursting out into their war cry, some kind of Boer song” in the early hours of one Yuletide morning, an incensed East, his eyes bulging, bellowed at them, “I will not have German songs sung in my house. Out of the house, all of you, before I throw you out with my bare hands.” The interlopers duly obliged, unaided, but Australian cricket writers Arthur Mailey and Gilbert Mant stayed on to enjoy a few more quieter ales.
Stanley East was born at Addington in Christchurch on April 4, 1886, the son of the Church of St Mary the Virgin resident curate Herbert East, a one-time compositor with the Lyttelton Times. Stan East started as a journalist with the Lyttelton Times in 1909 and went on to work for the Christchurch Star until 1917, when he moved to the Evening Post in Wellington. He was also an advertising agent in the capital before packing up his trusty portable typewriter and decamping for Sydney in the early 1920s. Stan soon established a wide reputation for his love of throwing parties, as a prominent member of Sydney’s hell-raising Bohemian set in Bondi. To pay for this high life he worked for Daily Telegraph and was later chief sub-editor of The Sun on comparatively meagre wages. Yet, having discovered in 1915 P.G. Wodehouse’s immortal creation Jeeves, and his “gentleman’s person gentleman” relationship with Bertram Wilberforce “Bertie” Wooster, East had begun to harbour a surreal dream - of having his own, real life, English butler.
In July 1933 East and his second wife Milba May won £25,000 in the Queensland Exhibition No 2 Monster Casket, and Stan’s Jeeves dream suddenly became a reality. Stan had a flutter on a few faltering Sydney nags, bought beers for all his mates, handed over some of the cash to needy young lift operators, messengers and printers, and then set off with Milba and their 13-year-old daughter, Raukura Margery De Villiers East, for London. Once there, he immediately hired a valet called Watson (and Watson’s wife as a cook and chief bottle washer). In his October 1965 Nation obituary for Stan, Mant recalled his first encounter with Watson as a “baffling experience”. Watson, dressed in chauffeur’s uniform, arrived at Mant’s West Kensington flat at the wheel of a magnificent Bentley. After driving Mant and his wife to St John’s Wood, he quickly opened the back doors of the limousine and, without saying a word, sprinted to the back of the house. “In some bewilderment,” wrote Mant, “we walked to the front door and rang the bell”. It was opened almost immediately by Watson, by now dressed in immaculate striped trousers and a frock coat. “‘Please come inside, sir,’ he murmured respectfully. ‘The master is expecting you.’ The master, also playing his part to perfection, ushered me into his library (another fulfilled ambition) and flung open the door of a cupboard containing every conceivable type of alcoholic beverage.”
    Having his own Jeeves wasn’t the only aspiration East achieved. He went to the races at Longchamps and travelled to the Riviera, Monte Carlo and the Alps. His big spend lasted a little more than six months, however, and Stan eventually had to find work with the Australian wire news service operating from The Times building. By August 1934 the Easts were back in Australia – having held on to a sufficient amount of their winnings to fulfil another of Stan’s stated goals - to buy a poultry farm. The Easts settled at Wiseman’s Ferry, Milba’s old home town, 45 miles north of Sydney in the Hornsby Shire. The loyal Watson and his wife came with them and moved in when the Easts in March 1935 settled in a restored old stone house (renaming it “Rawhiti”, Māori for East) beside the Hawkesbury River. But Watson didn’t last long. He was “out of his element there,” wrote Mant, and soon returned to England. Stan East, meanwhile, kept his hand in with his typewriter, writing articles about his European travels and the cost of prime Canterbury lamb in Britain for newspapers across Australia, including The Sun. Naturally, he was also president of the Wiseman’s Ferry Cricket Club.
    By 1939 Stan was back in Sydney, as manager of radio station 2UE, and boldly predicting in The Sun that there would be no World War Two. He volunteered when war did break out, and in 1943 a role was found for him in a Federal Department of Information set up by Arthur Calwell, the minister in John Curtin's Labor Government. East retired in 1947 and became librarian and official historian for the Canberra Club, as well as helping produce a short-lived Canberra-published political and literary fortnightly called the Australian Observer. Mant said East “turned into a benign old gentleman, though subject to sudden outbursts of histrionics when he would cry out passionately, ‘Thank God, sir, there are such men in England today’. It was the punch-line from a play which East, in his younger days as an actor with Pollard’s Opera Company in New Zealand, using the stage name Owen Hardy (‘I was always owin’, and crackin’ hardy about it’), had been fond of reciting throughout his colourful life in Australia.
    The great humourist Lennie Lower, still considered by many to be the comic genius of Australian journalism,  is alleged to have based his 1929 novel Here's Luck on Stan East, “distorting the real into the truly comic” by disguising East as Jack Gudgeon (who with his feckless son Stanley goes on a wild rampage through Sydney's racecourses, gambling dens, pubs and cafes and hosts never-ending parties in their increasingly derelict home). Lower’s editor said the book “remains pre-eminently Australia's funniest book, as ageless as Pickwick or Tom Sawyer, a work of  'weird genius'… written by a ‘Chaplin of words’’’. Stan East died in Canberra on September 10, 1965, aged 79.

GULLIVER’S TYPEWRITER

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In his 2017 paper “The Life, Death and Rebirth of Typewriters”, Richard Polt says the 1714 patent of English engineer Henry Mill reads as if it is describing a typewriter, but “We do not know what Mill’s invention looked like or what, exactly, it did.” From that same early 18th Century period, although presumably on a somewhat larger scale, is a contraption that is now also being labelled a “typewriter”. This is the “Lagado machine” for writing books in politics, poetry, philosophy, law, mathematics and theology. It is outlined by Anglo-Irish satirist Jonathan Swift (1667-1745) in Gulliver’s Travels(1726). And thanks to the marvellous inventive ingenuity of French caricaturist Jean-Jacques Grandville (real name Jean Ignace Isidore Gérard, 1803-47) for the 1838 French translation of Gulliver’sTravels, we know what it looked like. Or, to be more precise, what Grandville was able to construe from Swift’s creative and detailed writings.
J.J.Grandville
Dean Swift
        With regard to the “Lagago typewriter”, Swift is believed to have been heavily satirising the Royal Society as well as caricaturing the far-sighted work of Leibniz and Llull. Gottfried Wilhelm von Leibniz (1646-1716), a German polymath and philosopher, was one of the most prolific inventors in the field of mechanical calculators. While working on adding automatic multiplication and division to Pascal's calculator, he was the first to describe a pinwheel calculator, in 1685, and invented the Leibniz wheel, used in the arithmometer, the first mass-produced mechanical calculator. He also refined the binary number system, which is the foundation of virtually all digital computers. Leibniz was influenced by Ramon Llull (1232-c1315), a philosopher, logician, Franciscan tertiary and Majorcan writer considered a pioneer of computation theory.
Gulliver's Travels comprises four books – each recounting voyages by Lemuel Gulliver to fictional exotic lands. Part III is titled “A Voyage to Laputa, Balnibarbi, Luggnagg, Glubbdubdrib and Japan” from 1706-10. In chapter five, Gulliver describes a visit to “the Grand Academy of Lagado in Balnibarbi” and records seeing great resources and manpower employed on researching completely preposterous schemes. Among these is a “permutational [the process of altering the order of a given set of objects in a group] machine” for improving “speculative knowledge”. The device consists of a frame holding blocks. Swift wrote:
14    WE crossed a Walk to the other part of the Academy, where, as I have already said, the Projector in speculative Learning resided.
15    THE first Professor I saw was in a very large Room, with forty Pupils about him. After Salutation, observing me to look earnestly upon a Frame, which took up the greatest part of both the Length and Breadth of the Room, he said perhaps I might wonder to see him employed in a Project for improving speculative Knowledge by practical and mechanical Operations. But the World would soon be sensible of its Usefulness, and he flattered himself that a more noble exalted Thought never sprung in any other Man's Head. Every one knew how laborious the usual Method is of attaining to Arts and Sciences; whereas by his Contrivance, the most ignorant Person at a reasonable Charge, and with a little bodily Labour, may write both in Philosophy, Poetry, Politicks, Law, Mathematicks and Theology, without the least Assistance from Genius or Study. He then led me to the Frame, about the sides whereof all his Pupils stood in Ranks. It was twenty Foot Square, placed in the middle of the Room. The Superficies was composed of several bits of Wood, about the bigness of a Dye, but some larger than others. They were all linked together by slender Wires. These bits of Wood were covered on every Square with Paper pasted on them, and on these Papers were written all the Words of their Language in their several Moods, Tenses, and Declensions, but without any Order. The Professor then desired me to observe, for he was going to set his Engine at Work. The Pupils at his Command took each of them hold of an Iron Handle, whereof there were fourty fixed round the Edges of the Frame, and giving them a sudden turn, the whole Disposition of the Words was entirely changed. He then commanded six and thirty of the Lads to read the several Lines softly as they appeared upon the Frame; and where they found three or four Words together that might make part of a Sentence, they dictated to the four remaining Boys who were Scribes. This Work was repeated three or four times, and at every turn the Engine was so contrived, that the Words shifted into new places, or the square bits of Wood moved upside down.
16    SIX Hours a-day the young Students were employed in this Labour, and the Professor shewed me several Volumes in large Folio already collected, of broken Sentences, which he intended to piece together, and out of those rich Materials to give the World a compleat Body of all Arts and Sciences; which however might be still improved, and much expedited, if the Publick would raise a Fund for making and employing five hundred such Frames in Lagado, and oblige the Managers to contribute in common their several Collections.
17    HE assured me, that this Invention had employed all his Thoughts from his Youth, that he had employed the whole Vocabulary into his Frame, and made the strictest Computation of the general Proportion there is in the Book between the Numbers of Particles, Nouns, and Verbs, and other Parts of Speech.
18    I made my humblest Acknowledgement to this illustrious Person for his great Communicativeness, and promised if ever I had the good Fortune to return to my Native Country, that I would do him Justice, as the sole Inventer of this wonderful Machine; the Form and Contrivance of which I desired leave to delineate upon Paper as in the Figure here annexed. I told him, although it were the Custom of our Learned in Europe to steal Inventions from each other, who had thereby at least this advantage, that it became a Controversy which was the right Owner, yet I would take such Caution, that he should have the Honour entire without a Rival.

Backspacing to 2016

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With this blog passing two and three-quarter million page views tonight, six weeks shy of its sixth anniversary, I thought it opportune to backspace over 2016. My “output” last year was a mere 145 posts (630,000 page views), down by 100 from the previous year, which in turn was half what it was in 2014. So I guess it’s fair to say ozTypewriter is gradually winding back, and my gorgeously cool granddaughter Ely might have something to do with that.
Still, there was plenty to write about in 2016, as there will be in 2017.
I didn’t bother posting on Bob Dylan when he received the Nobel Prize in Literature in October (I was too busy organising a grand garage sale at the time). Not surprisingly, all the Dylan books went from my library at that sale, and there was a sudden surge in interest in my blog posts on Dylan’s typewriters. One, titled “How Many Typewriters Will it Take Till He Knows?” reached a staggering 8593 page views, making it by far the most popular among my 2258 posts, almost 2000 ahead of “Reattaching the Drawband to the Mainspring on a Portable Typewriter: The Layman's Rudimentary Way”. Sometimes the level of renewed interest in a particular post is unfathomable, such as in the past few days with “Køhl's Kryptograf Writing Ball”.
Another singer-songwriter who, in my book at least, would have been a contender for the prize earned by Dylan was Leonard Cohen, who died in November. Cohen’s passing also drew a lot of page views to various posts about his typewriter use, most notably “So Long, Marianne”, posted after Marianne Ihlen died in Norway in July. David Bowie, who died in Manhattan exactly 12 months ago, aroused some typewriter interest because his Olivetti Valentine portable sold at auction for more than $75,000 late in the year. Similar interest may now attend my October post on Clare Hollingworth, the British journalist who scooped the world with news of the outbreak of World War II - she died aged 105 in Hong Kong yesterday.
Internationally, in strictly typewriter terms, the high points of 2016 were the presenting of a QWERTY Award to Herman Price in West Virginia in October and the publication of a new book from Peter Weil and Paul Robert,Typewriter: A Celebration of the Ultimate Writing Machine, in November. Newark’s Peter Weil is himself a previous winner of the QWERTY Award (in 2013), following on from Richard Polt from Cincinnati the preceding year and being followed by Mike Brown of Philadelphia and myself in 2014 and Gab Burbano from Little Falls, New Jersey, in 2015.
It was great to see in the Texas Monthly in July that Larry McMurtry, who turned 80 the previous month, is still using his (topless) Hermes 3000s - in fact, since praising the Hermes 3000 when winning a Golden Globe in 2006, McMurtry has increased the number of this model he keeps around the country from seven to more than two dozen. Nonetheless, he's still be to be photographed using one. “Well, my fingers aren’t as nimble as they once were,” McMurtry told the Monthlyso I have trouble changing my typewriter ribbon. And there are days my vision gets so blurry that I can’t always see what I’ve typed. There are other days when my energy lags.” In this heat wave, I know exactly how he feels!
Along the way in 2016, ozTypewriter corrected some serious misconceptions about Ernest Hemingway’s supposed Corona 3 in Cuba and Alger Hiss’s Woodstock, located Lewis Carroll’s Hammond and revealed much about the Australian lass subjected to Raymond Chandler's lurid typed love letters. It also presented a detailed history of 20th Century typewriter collecting. The movie typewriting performance of the year came from Bryan Cranston as Dalton Trumbo, followed at the length of a country mile by Alex Jennings as Alan Bennett. I also liked seeing the post-war Soviet-era typewriters being used in Klaus Härö’s excellent Estonian sleeper The Fencer.
This image, taken of a see-through typewriter in a cell at San Quentin in August, left me with mixed feelings. The machine sits on the bed of a condemned inmate on death row. It's made the way it is so that nothing can be concealed inside it.
Little was concealed during the Rio de Janiero Olympic Games, which kept me glued to the TV set for a few weeks mid-year. During this time ozTypewriter page views skyrocketed (for reasons unrelated to typewriters). I managed to extract the heat from that situation, my first real taste of the Internet's incredible capacity to distort the truth. The consolation was watching Fiji humbly win its first Games gold medal, succeeding the United States as Olympic rugby union champion. And that led me to the rediscovery of a childhood hero, Joe Levula, and one of the best sports photos I've ever seen, taken in Brisbane in 1952.
Meanwhile, a former colleague, writing from the sailing in Rio, asked me to compare the equipment I had needed to cover the Olympics in bygone years with the mind-boggling tangle of bits and pieces that went with his laptop in 2016 (see images above).

There were seven typewriter presentations in
Canberra, each giving me yet another chance to dust off a few prized machines and talk about them. On his trip to England, Richard Polt had far greater success finding interesting typewriters in museums, and I was deeply envious. Frankly, our own National Museum is an utter embarrassment, and the best I could see there were Mary Gilmore's L.C. Smith, now associated with a new $10 banknote, and an IBM paper tape reader.  
David Lawrence was able to locate much more interesting machines on Trade Me in New Zealand, and one image he alerted me to was right up Georg Sommeregger's alley - a "Down Under" Empire Aristocrat. Yep, that's the way it was presented in its listing. It seems Flying Fish typewriters are also in favour in New Zealand.
 
For me, however, the typewriter highlight of 2016 was definitely the advent of weekly gatherings in Sydney involving Richard Amery, Phil Card, Warren Ingrey, Terry Cooksley and Phil Chapman of Charlie Foxtrot. These culminated in a Big Typewriter Bash last month, also attended by typewriter technicians Michael Klein from Melbourne and Jim Franklin from Canberra. The Chapmans depart Australia next week to set up a British branch of Charlie Foxtrot, but the Sydney gatherings are bound to roll on unabated in 2017.
The Big Bash was held back until Richard Amery returned home from a typewriting cruise to New Zealand aboard the Emerald Princess. The ocean liner was back in the news last week when a Sydney woman’s six years on dialysis, waiting for a kidney transplant, ended with her being winched off the ship into a helicopter in Bass Strait. She was choppered to Bairnsdale, Victoria, flown by fixed wing plane to Sydney's Bankstown Airport and driven by ambulance to Westmead Hospital. This remarkable story made me wonder if the same effort would have been made if Richard had run short of ribbons for his Olivetti Lettera 22.
My own kidney yarn didn't concern an emerald but an alleged sapphire. It involved strenuous work from Phil Card, Warren Ingrey and Terry Cooksley in helping me find the escapement wheel “jewel” in Smith-Corona Galaxies IIs. This was all for the sake of an article in ETCetera, and meant completely stripping down two portables. The truth was duly exposed, but the SCMs got their revenge when I later fell on them and broke three ribs. The pain was so intense for a long while that I actually feared I’d pierced a kidney, and would need my own transplant. It took two months for the ribs to fully repair themselves, but by Christmas we were all having a hearty laugh about it.
Miss Dactylo 1960: Simone Simion, Paris
I wasn't chuckling so much when AdSense, the outfit that pays me a princely 76 cents a day for placing adverts on my blog, wrote saying it had received a complaint about a June 2015 post showing nude women sitting on typewriters (it was actually about the use of Paul Robert's Sexy Legs erotica images in an ABC TV series called Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries). AdSense showed no sense in wanting the post removed, and in this case I flatly refused. Then a helpful reader sent me an image to add to my post on a collection of British cheesecake photos ("Titillation with Typewriters", Boxing Day 2015). So to cheese AdSense off properly, I'm adding it here:
The typewriter-related story which amused me most in 2016 concerned a luminary among the twittering classes, one Marcin Wichary, who in October tweeted furiously on a “serendipitous and magical event”. While looking for a Dali museum, he’d stumbled upon industrialist Pere Padrosa’s well-known El Museu de la Tècnica de l'Empordà in Vigo, in the north-west of Spain. I take up Wichary’s tweets as he walked towards it: I see this sign pointing the other way, saying ‘Museu de la Tècnica’, with a cute gear icon. I don’t have internet because of another earlier snafu (bad SIM card), but I had the foresight to save offline Google Maps. But Google Maps returns nothing for the museum, so I don’t know where it is exactly. I follow the sign’s directions the old-fashioned way.”  I don’t know about anyone else, but for me the idea that Wichary had to resort to “the old-fashioned way” to find a typewriter museum was just dripping in irony.
And so on to 2017 ...

The Typewriter as a Double Entendre: Smitten by Tubby's New Yöst

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Tubby's Typewriter is a short silent film from 1916 directed by Frank Wilson, the second in the series of comic The Adventures of Tubby produced by Cecil M. Hepworth. Sadly the original print was burned by Hepworth in 1924, and the final scene is missing here. But one can easily imagine what happens when Mrs Tubby turns up at The Ship restaurant.
Australian actress Violet Hopson plays Tubby's jealous wife
Johnny Butt plays Tubby, smitten by a New Yöst typewriterHis young wife is played by Violet Hopson (1887-1973), born in Port Augusta, South Australia as Elma Kate Victoria "Kitty" Karkeek. A major star of the silent era, Violet started out as a child actress with the Pollard Opera Company in Australia and New Zealand in 1898 before going to Britain with her older sister, Ora Zoe Harris Karkeek, in 1900. Violet later became a pioneer in the British film industry when she set up her own production company.
Washington Post, 1920
My New Yöst

The Barbie Cipher Typewriter

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My grand-daughter Ely and I found some respite from the crippling heat wave yesterday by going to the Australian War Memorial. I was delighted to see another typewriter had been added to the exhibitions - the Hermes Baby bought by Brigadier Alfred Thomas Jakins "Ding" Bell (1913-2010) in Palestine in 1940 and used by him on Crete during World War II. 
Of course, I immediately thought of Georg Sommeregger and his passion for Hermes Babys, as I enviously envisaged Georg feeling no need for an escape such as ours, given the much cooler climate of Switzerland. Little did I know it at the time, but the machine in front of Ding Bell's Baby would lead me back to Georg's typewriters.ch site for an entirely different reason.
While I tried, in vain, to get a decent photo of Ding Bell's Baby, I paid little attention to the Enigma Ultra machine in the foreground. Much later in the day, long after the sun had gone down - and taken with it much of the discomfort we'd had to endure - a truly weird connection emerged. It dawned on me that Ely, at the tender age of just 16 months, owned both typewriters AND a cipher machine
This became apparent from a Google alert to an article by Sophie Chou and published yesterday on Public Radio International's The World site, headed, "Barbie typewriter toys had a secret ability to encrypt messages". Chou wrote, "In 1998, Slovenian toy company Mehano designed a line of children’s electronic typewriter toys with the ability to write secret messages. Eventually, the company licensed the typewriter to another company that had something altogether different in mind for the toys. Slathered in pink, it was soon headed to market to appeal 'to girls' ... [from Mattel as a Barbie typewriter] ... But there’s a catch - the secret messaging feature was completely pinkwashed - never revealed as a capability of the new Barbie typewriter."
"The four encryption modes - each featuring a simple alphabet substitution cipher (or 1-to-1 encoding) - were left out of Mattel's instruction manuals and advertisements."
My earlier non-electronic model and its patent, below.
What was revealed, on this very blog more than four years ago, is that the story goes much deeper than Mehano and the Barbie typewriter. What became the Barbie was first produced in 1988 by Mehano Društvo s Ograničenom Odgovornošću, Izola, and designed by Marko Piasni, Giudo Pezzolato, Andrej Pisani, Joze Brezec, Franc Branko Cerkrenik and Andrej Mahnic. Later a close business relationship between Mehano and the Elite Industrial Group in Shenzhen, China, developed. This resulted in, among other things, Elite producing an “adult” form of the Barbie as the Olympia Traveller C (later seen as the Royal Scrittore II).
When I posted on this link between the Barbie and China, it was none other than Georg Sommeregger who commented about his own pages on the Barbie, which can be seen here and here. Some of Georg's images have been used in a detailed look at the cipher capacity of the Mehanotoy typewriters, written by Paul Reuvers and Marc Simons of the Crypto Museum in The Netherlands and titled "Mehano Typewriter: Toy typewriter with built-in encryption". See in particular "Barbie Typewriter: Alphabet substitution cipher".
In June last year, Reuvers and Simons wrote, "It is little known that all electronic variants have a hidden built-in cryptographic capability that allows secret writing ... Whilst the earlier models were all made at the Mehano factory in Slovenia, the latest one [E-118] is assembled in China.
Georg Sommeregger's image of the E-115
"The original version [E-115] ... was capable of encoding and decoding secret messages, using one of four built-in cipher modes. These modes were activated by entering a special key sequence on the keyboard, and was explained only in the original documentation. When the E-115 was adopted by Mattel as an addition to the Barbie product line, it was aimed mainly at girls with a minimum age of five years. For this reason the product was given a pink-and-purple case and the Barbie logo and images were printed on the body. As it was probably thought that secret writing would not appeal to girls, the coding-decoding facilities were omitted from the manual. Nevertheless, these facilities can still be accessed if you know how to activate them." (Encryption is not available on the earlier mechanical typewriters.)

The True History of the British Oliver Typewriter Manufacturing Company (1927-1960)

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An Italian-made Oliver portable sold by the BOTMC

Of all the British typewriter manufacturers,
the British Oliver Typewriter Manufacturing Company
of Croydon, London, has remained the
most mysterious. Until now...

Minnesota-born George Augustus Mower,
who seized upon the misfortunes of the
Oliver Typewriter Company in Woodstock, Illinois,
in June 1927 to buy the company and move it,
lock, stock and U-shaped typebar, to England.

After making 1.25 million machines, the end of the line for American-manufactured Oliver typewriters was announced simultaneously in Woodstock, Illinois, and London, England, on June 1, 1927. The Woodstock announcement said all the property of the Oliver Typewriter Company would be sold the next day, either at auction or by private sale. The Times of London, meanwhile, reported arrangements had already been made for the acquisition of the plant and the transfer of manufacturing to England. The buyer was American-born English businessman George Augustus Mower. The price, it later emerged, was £45,000. A week after the June 1 announcements, the last US-based president of Oliver, millionaire Edward Herndon Smith (1859-1943), celebrated having the company off his hands by marrying church worker Vera Lash Merrill (1894-) in Chicago. Meanwhile, the widow of Smith’s immediate predecessor, Ricord Gradwell (1869-1926), was left fighting over Gradwell’s $200,000 estate with Washington actress Elizabeth Irving.
John Whitworth, at the wheel, with an earlier Oliver president, Lawrence Williams.
Long-standing plant manager and company vice-president John Walter Whitworth (1853-1934) was left to clean up the mess at Woodstock (rather than, as has often been claimed, the young accountant Chester Irvin Nelson). Whitworth was born in St Petersburg, Russia, where his father, Walter Whitworth, a mechanical engineer and capitalist, introduced the manufacture of cotton cloth into Russia, building the first cotton mill there. John Whitworth was raised in Lancashire, England, arrived in the US aged 19 and became the capable manager at Woodstock in 1898. Whitworth announced the finalisation of the British deal in mid-October 1927.
Mower had bought 1500 special machines, tools, jigs and dies, which United Tools & Instruments Ltd later valued at £57,389 16 shillings alone, more than £12,000 above the price Mower had paid for the machinery, along with world manufacturing and marketing rights, goodwill, trademarks, patents and patent rights (800 drawings in all) and the freehold Woodstock factory (which it sold to Alemite Die Casting in 1928). Mower was only too well aware that the Oliver had 1400 moving parts, which had to be made exact to within 1000th of an inch. But Mower didn’t take everything. Liquidators advertised in Indianapolis, St Louis, Cincinnati and Detroit on July 24 for an auction of unwanted (by Mower) machines, tools, parts and assorted other bits and pieces, to be held in Woodstock three days later. Sterling brothers Dave and Harry Manfield took six trucks and seven assistants to pick up machinery and other equipment.
The British Oliver Typewriter Manufacturing Company was registered as a public company and incorporated on May 5, 1928. It had authorised capital of £130,000 from 260,000 fully paid 10 shilling shares. Within days of the incorporation, the value of shares rose to £14 3 shillings, and by the time of a statutory meeting on July 27, the value had settled at £12 9 shillings. Left with £85,000 after Mower had been paid back for his purchase of the Woodstock plant, the new company planned to expand its factory at the Victory Works, 80 Gloucester Road, Croydon, Surrey.
The BOTMC factory as it looks today
The BOTMC’s managing directors were American-born George Augustus Mower, of the Sturtevant Engineering Company, his countryman Major Walter Henry Ward, of Rockwood Co Ltd, and Englishmen Greville Richard Thursfield, of Igranic Electric, and Thursfield’s in-law Lieutenant-Colonel Adrian Francis Hugh Sibbald Simpson CMG, Royal Engineers, of Wireless Pictures. The registered office was further down Queen Victoria Street, at No 147, where Mower had headquartered some of his other companies. William Herbert Peak, of the Marconiphone Co, joined the board in 1930.
George Mower was born on January 31, 1860, in Stillwater, a city in Washington County, Minnesota, directly across the St. Croix River from the state of Wisconsin. He graduated from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology and travelled to England in 1883 as a representative of the Crosby Valve and B.F. Sturtevant companies, both of Boston. He remained to establish the Sturtevant Engineering Company in 1885 and later the Crosby Valve and Engineering Company. Mower acquired a controlling interest in the Bifurcated and Tubular Rivet Company and in 1898 was appointed agent for the Cutler Hammer Company of Milwaukee. He took control of Iris cars in 1909 and established the Igranic Electric Company in 1913. Mower retained the chairmanship of these companies until his death in Kensington, London, on November 26, 1941.
Mower’s typewriter company got off to a positive start. By the end of July 1928 3000 new machines were already "in an advanced state of manufacture" (Simpson). And in early February 1929 the BOTMC announced it had secured an agreement with the British Government to supply His Majesty’s (George V's) Stationery Office with British-made Olivers. The share price rose to £13 9 shillings. In October the first accounts showed a mere £1040 profit after a trading loss of £8697 from the development period to the end of June 1928 had been transferred to a development account. The BOTMC had also gained control of the United Tools and Instruments Co. The biggest problem encountered by the BOTMC was in finding and training staff in what Mower described as “practically a new industry in this country” – only one in four workers employed had been retained.
For this reason, the BOTMC’s initial venture into the portable typewriter market relied entirely on European-made machines, starting with relabelled German Fortunas in 1931 and moving on to Italian SIM and finally Swiss Patria models. The BOTMC abandoned the traditional standard Oliver design in 1933 (it returned to it during World War Two to meet Government orders when supplies from Europe were impossible to obtain) and started assembling relabelled Halda-Nordens from Sweden in 1935. The BOTMC returned to Haldas after the war, while also licensing European companies, such as Siemag in Germany, to make Oliver labelled machines.
Difficult trading conditions during The Depression lowered the BOTMC's annual profit to £365 in 1934-35 but it rose to £3396 and £3557 in the following financial two years. By 1937 a maiden dividend of 5 per cent was possible. The BOTMC held its ground in 1938 and its profit rapidly lifted in 1939, to £8053, allowing it to double its dividend.
Teddy Goddard, BOTMC's second chairman
Following the death of Mower, Edwin Alfred “Teddy” Goddard (1878–1954) took over as chairman of the BOTMC board. By this time the outbreak of World War II had also impacted significantly on Oliver’s trade and a lack of skilled labour was a telling factor. Goddard stressed the important role typewriters played in the war effort, yet said the Manpower Board did not recognise the need to keep the typewriter industry fully manned.
Just before Christmas 1942, Goddard signalled that the BOTMC was “tooled up” to make its own portable typewriter, but he did not expect the portable to go into production until after the war. Perhaps he was being a little too optimistic about when the war would end. Some £20,000 had been put aside to upgrade machine tools. In the event, however, £15,000 had to be borrowed for new plant and machinery by the end of the war, and in September 1948 the BOTMC sought to raise £39,000 and restore its capital to £130,000 by creating 780,000 ordinary 2 shilling shares. After a large order was placed for standard Olivers for US Air Force bases in Britain and Continental Europe in 1951, this share issue did not go ahead until October 1952, and by the time Goddard died in December 1954 the company was in dire straits. Rex Percy Cooper succeeded Goddard as chairman in February 1955 and three months later Goddard’s son John Howard Goddard (1919-1968) joined the board.  
In June 1956 the BOTMC decided diversification was the way to go and issued 1.7 million 2 shilling shares to acquire two allied engineering businesses as well as catering equipment manufacturer Gardiner and Gulland as a subsidiary. The ploy failed, and a profit of £6620 in 1955-56 turned into a massive £29,858 loss in 1956-57, providing for £38,177 in “obsolescence in stocks”. In December 1957 further expansion, and a name change (to Oliver Industries Ltd in April 1958), were seen as the way out of trouble. The rights to the Jardines’ Byron typewriter had been acquired, but Oliver was seeing itself as a more general industrial holding company, with interests in industrial banking, equipment hiring and TV rentals. For a short while the changes worked, and Oliver’s acquisitions resulted in a profit recovery to £28,109 by the end of 1958. In July 1959 Oliver ceased production of typewriters and before the end of the 1959-60 financial year it had suffered a net loss of £85,646. The receivers were called in. Thus ended 64 years of Oliver history.
The Woodstock plant in its heyday
A range of factors had contributed to the demise of the original Oliver Typewriter Company. Troubled times appeared on the horizon in March 1917 when, addressing the impact of World War I, the OTC drastically and suddenly lowered the price of its latest model from $100 to $49, stopped hiring salesmen, closed its branch offices and discontinued its agencies to rely entirely on mail order sales – declaring this to be a “revolution in the typewriter business”. 
The mail order "revolution"
Things were hardly improved by the death in August 1922, at the age of 60, of the company’s major investor, Cincinnati-born Delavan Smith. The OTC decided against switching to a conventional standard design. In February 1924 the general offices in Chicago were closed and staff moved to Woodstock. The McHenry County tax rate was hiked from 50 to 65 per cent when it was found Illinois was unable to meet an obligation to pay $4.125 million in soldier bonds, because county treasurers hadn’t handed over back taxes. Oliver had to cough up $7766 as its contribution. This followed the lose to fire of a staff accommodation house on Clay Street, Woodstock, and the sale of its car parts foundry to the Motor Valve Co of Chicago. The end was clearly in sight when in March 1925 Oliver entered into talks with Corona about a possible sale of the Woodstock concern to Groton, New York. Although in 1926 Oliver officials continued to put on a brave face concerning the size of the company’s staff and its ongoing production and sales, the downward spiral in its fortunes had obviously become irreversible. Borrowing and efforts to trade out of existing debt were out of the question and liquidation the only possible course of action.
The original OTC was incorporated in Springfield, Illinois, on December 28, 1895, with Lawrence Williams, later the long-standing company president, one of the incorporators, along with Douglas Smith and attorney Samuel Adams Lynde (1855-1940). Three weeks earlier it had been announced that a deal had been struck to move manufacturing from Epworth, Iowa, to Kenosha, Wisconsin. But on January 9, 1896, it was revealed by the Woodstock Public Improvement Association that “Woodstock got it”. The association donated its existing factory on condition that Oliver stayed in Woodstock for at least five years. The company took possession of the former Wheeler and Tappan pumping machine plant on January 14 and after a refit, operations started two months later. Orders were being taken by E.S. Sprague mid-May and machines were shipped by August. The major backers were Chicago capitalists John Villiers “Dutch” Farwell (1825-1908) and newspaper publisher Herman Henry Kohlsaat (1853-1924).
"Dutch" Farwell
One of the partners in a Farwell family legal firm, Chicagoan Charles Chase Whitacre, established the first British branch of the Oliver Typewriter Company, at 75 Queen Victoria Street, London’s “Typewriter Row”, in 1897. Whitacre died suddenly, aged 46, while holidaying with his family in Pointe-au-Pic, Canada, in September 1905. The building at 75 Queen Victoria Street housed a large range of agencies for American companies, many under the control of a John Sugden. Next door were the headquarters of the Richardson typewriter empire. The Oliver agency remained at No 75 after Whitacre’s death, and was also the base for the agencies for Hammond, National and Royal typewriters.
The Oliver Typewriter (Sales) Co Ltd remained in existence at 75 Queen Victoria Street after the establishment of the British Oliver Typewriter Manufacturing Company, with exclusive selling rights throughout Britain and Ireland. Upon establishment of the BOTMC, the Sales organisation placed an immediate order for 20,000 machines, with a profit of £2 a machine going to the BOTMC. Ironically, some of these machines were to be sold back in the good ol’ US of A!

Addendum: The Mowers and the Oliver Typewriter

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Charles Hudson Mower (1866-1930),
George Augustus Mower's younger brother,
who was a director of the Oliver Typewriter Company
from 1905 and manager of the French branch of the OTC.
A typewriter historian's work is never done. After I posted yesterday on the "True History of the British Oliver Typewriter Manufacturing Company" (something which had hitherto proved entirely elusive), this morning I checked back through early editions of Typewriter Topics to ensure I hadn't missed anything.
Lo and behold, in the May 1907 Topics was a small item which revealed that the connection between the Mower family of Minnesota and Massachusetts and the British arm of the Oliver Typewriter Company went back far longer than I had previously realised.
Yesterday's post outlined how George Augustus Mower, best known for establishing the Sturtevant Engineering Company in England in 1885, had gone to Woodstock, Illinois, in June 1927 and bought for £45,000 the collapsed Oliver Typewriter Company, lock, stock and U-shaped typebar, for shipping back to England. Once all the tools, dies and special machinery had arrived in Britain, Mower founded the British Oliver Typewriter Manufacturing Company in Croydon, London, in May 1928.
What I didn't know when writing this was that George Mower's ties with the Oliver typewriter dated back to 1897, when Chicagoan Charles Chase Whitacre set up the first British branch of the Oliver Typewriter Company at 75 Queen Victoria Street, London’s “Typewriter Row”. Whitacre's British Oliver agency was in fact operated as part of Mower's Sturtevant Engineering Company and was housed cheek by jowl with it in the same building. In each case the registered headquarters were further down Queen Victoria Street, at No 147.
While chief engineer of Sturtevant in London, George Mower's younger brother, Charles Hudson Mower, was a director of the (still US-based) Oliver Typewriter Company and went on to be the manager of Oliver's outlets in Continental Europe. And it was the Mowers who in the first quarter of the 20th Century controlled the European agencies for not just the Oliver, but also the Hammond, National and Royal typewriters.
For me, the first clue to these deeper ties between the Mowers and Oliver came in a snippet in Gustave Hemes' European column in Typewriter Topics, mentioning that as an Oliver director Charles Mower had responded to a toast to the company's directors at an Oliver dinner in London in September 1905.  
Charles Mower, like his brother George a highly qualified engineer, was born in Boston on February 16, 1866, and died in Vevey, Switzerland, aged 66, on October 26, 1930. For health reasons he had retired to Vevey, a town in the canton Vaud, on the north shore of Lake Geneva, near Lausanne. Charles left George a substantial £27,789 and 18 shillings in his will, and some of that may have gone to pay for George's massive investment in the BOTMC.
Like George, Charles had received his technical training at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology in Boston and followed his brother to England to work for Sturtevant, arriving in 1886. He became a director and chief engineer of the company. He spent several years in Germany and Russia, introducing and installing modern heating, ventilating and labour-saving workshop equipment on the firm's behalf.  Charles Mower indeed travelled extensively around the world, and in 1896 was back in the US, based at Montecito in Santa Barbara County, California.
Sturtevant were primarily electrical engineers and contractors, of which George Mower was manager and another BOTMC board member, Greville Thursfield, was one of three principle directors. Sturtevant made fans, blowers and exhausters for all purposes, water spray air filters, dry air filters, dust separators, portable and stationary forges, vacuum cleaners, steam engines and turbines, propeller fans, cupola blowers, exhaust steam pipe heads, coal samplers, rock-ore breakers and crushers, grinding and screening machinery, air separators and complete fertiliser equipment. They were specialists in heating, ventilating, drying, timber seasoning, dust collecting, vacuuming, forced and induced draught, cold air douche, smoke, steam and fume removal, mining and fertilising plants.
Given his vast experience in working with such a wide range of machinery, it is little wonder George Mower was able to be so selective, so quickly, when he sorted through the Oliver typewriter plant in Woodstock, Illinois, in 1927, picking out what he wanted shipped to England and leaving the rest behind to be auctioned off in late July. What's more, when George Mower honed in on Oliver in Woodstock, it was far from a purely speculative move. He was obviously far more familiar with this typewriter than most capitalists and investors, and had been for more than 30 years!

RIP Mary Tyler Moore (1936-2017)

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Mary Tyler Moore died yesterday in Greenwich, Connecticut, at the age of 80. The actress was born in Brooklyn Heights on December 29, 1936. She was best known for her roles in the television sitcoms The Mary Tyler Moore Show (1970–1977), in which she starred as Mary Richards, a news producer in Minneapolis, and The Dick Van Dyke Show (1961–1966), in which she played Laura Petrie, a Westchester homemaker. Her notable film work included 1967's Thoroughly Modern Millie and 1980's Ordinary People, for which she was nominated for an Academy Award for Best Actress. Moore was diagnosed with Type I diabetes when she was 33. In 2011, she had surgery to remove a meningioma, a benign brain tumor. In 2014 friends reported that she had heart and kidney problems and was nearly blind.

Cactoblastis Day

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Mural at the Cactoblastis Mexican Kitchen, Neutral Bay, Sydney 
T
HE day before yesterday, ABC TV had the good sense of timing to screen an episode of Murder, She Wrote called “Southern Double-Cross”, season 12, episode 20, set at “Kookaburra Downs” on the Darling Downs of Queensland but filmed in California. Jessica Fletcher (Angela Lansbury, cousin of the mother of Australian Prime Minister Malcolm Turnbull) was lured away from typing “Arnold raced out the door” on her Royal KKM at Cabot Cove, Maine, by the promise of an inherited McGill Valley in Australia. Sydney-born Nick Tate, the only actor in the show with a recognisable Australian accent, played the town mayor and publican Tom Jarvis. At one pivotal point, Jarvis asks, “You must be wondering what kind of a savage world we live in Down Under, eh Mrs Fletcher?” Later that same evening, Channel 81 showed “Captains Outrageous”, episode 13 of season eight of M*A*S*H, in which the pompous Major Charles Emerson Winchester III (David Ogden Stiers) tells a corrupt Australian Military Police officer, named Muldoon (John Orchard) in honour of then New Zealand Prime Minister Bob “Piggy” Muldoon, that “even the Aborigines were more civilised than you”. Radar O’Reilly is no longer at his Underwood to keep Chuck in check, and Winchester would be hung, drawn and quartered for uttering such politically incorrect words today.  The Murder, She Wrote episode was written by Mark A. Burley, producer of Orange is the New Black, and filmed in 1996; the M*A*S*H episode written by African-American Thad Mumford (A Different World) and made in 1979. The remarks in their scripts say something about those times. But not much has necessarily improved in the intervening period. 
Y
esterday was Australia Day. By rights it should be called Cactoblastis Day, but more on that latter. Instead, moves to refer to it as Invasion Day gained more support, though there is still much ground to be recovered to reach the reconciliation point achieved by the Indigenous Protest on January 26 in the Bicentennial year of 1988 (88 on SBS TV last night). January 26, 1988, was the day, incidentally, that I became an Australian citizen, at dawn at Cottesloe, overlooking the Indian Ocean. I remain a citizen of my native New Zealand, where the national day (February 6) marks a treaty signed between Māori and representatives of the British Crown, recognising Māori ownership of their lands, forests and other properties. No such treaty was ever offered, sought or signed in Australia, though Native Title was enforced by a High Court decision in 1992. Yesterday some of my closest friends chose not to celebrate Australia Day, but instead to attend an event in Canberra marking India’s Republic Day, the anniversary of the Constitution of India coming into effect in 1950. It was their way of making a silent protest against a British monarch of German descent being the Head of State of Australia. As much justification as there may be in referring to January 26 as Australia’s Invasion Day, sadly the truth is that these efforts are now driven much more by the seemingly unstoppable rise of meaningless political correctness – or the appearance thereof - than by any genuine concern for, and tangible advance toward, indigenous rights. Using the day to push for an Australian republic, however, is an altogether different matter, though one which still appears to have as much chance of success as the other.
A property at Chinchilla on the Darling Downs of Queensland that was abandoned in 1928 after being infested with prickly pear.
J

anuary 26 is the anniversary of the 1788 arrival of the First Fleet of British ships at Port Jackson, New South Wales, and the raising of the flag of Great Britain at Sydney Cove by Governor Arthur Phillip. It is also the date of the arrival of the first species of one of the most invasive weeds ever imported into Australia. Phillip stopped off in Rio de Janiero in order to bring to what was then called New Holland seeds and plants which the British believed would be more suitable to their tastes, or more useful, than any Australian flora. Phillip landed with wheat and corn from England, and coffee, cocoa, cotton, bananas, oranges, tamarind, ipecacuanha and jalap from Brazil. To the great detriment of this country, he also brought with him cochineal-infested prickly pear plants. The female cochineal bug holds in its abdomen a dark red fluid that produces a rich carmine pigment: the fabric dye that was back then used for English soldiers' red coats. Later species of the noxious weed prickly pear caused widespread land destruction and by the turn of the century it was increasing at a rate of 400,000 hectares a year, to the point at which, in the 1920s, there were more than 24 million hectares of Australia covered with the cactus. In 1925 the Cactoblastis moth was imported from South America and by 1933 most of the infested land was cleared of the prickly pear pest. On the Darling Downs in Queensland there is the Boonargo Cactoblastis Hall, built by local farmers in 1936 and dedicated to the insect which ate its way through the crisis and saved rural Australia. As I said, January 26 should probably be celebrated throughout the land as Cactoblastis Day. That way, every prickly Australian mightbe happy. 

Works in Progress

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A "working" cover design
Just before Christmas I mentioned, in passing, that I had started work on a new typewriter book. I was delighted, though somewhat taken aback, by the number of encouraging comments and the very positive support I received from that one brief announcement. By that stage I had already written more than 27,000 words and the book, a history of typewriters in Australasia, just needed a little extra research and writing and some tidying up. It has, for the time being, 18 chapters and almost 120 pages, excluding illustrations, which will probably take it up to about 160 pages.
In the meantime, however, I have embarked on two more book projects (that makes three typewriter books in all for 2017). Again, almost all the research and writing has been done for the two extra works, but they have yet to be cobbled together in a publishable form. I have been toying with the idea of a book about the madmen of typewriters for some years now, and my three months of intensive research in 2015 into the truth about the life and times of James Bartlett Hammond - subsequently ignored in a book with a chapter on Hammond - clinched it for me. If anyone can think of someone other than Yost, Crandall and Hammond who deserves inclusion, let me know. 
The next step is going to be a much greater challenge - coming up with the funding to get the three books published. As with my previous two soft cover books, the print run will be small and the cover price low. I have looked at various ways of publishing, such as Lulu (with which I am not entirely impressed), but feel the best way remains meeting the cost myself of having them printed and bound in Canberra. This method has worked reasonably well in the past. My first book sold out quite quickly, so I recovered almost all the costs. But any suggestions about alternative means of raising the funds to meet printing costs and publishing will be much appreciated.

Allāhu akbar! Ice cream cart at the ready for jihadi attack in the Battle of Broken Hill

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V
ivian Leigh StevensCorona 3 portable typewriter felt red hot from the belting it got in the literary office of The Barrier Miner in Broken Hill, in far western New South Wales, on New Year’s Day in 1915. The little folding Coronadidn’t get a chance to cool down for many days afterwards, as the then 22-year-old Stevens continued to write words which would reach not just the Miner’s’ presses, but newspapers across the world, eliciting screaming headlines nationwide: “Outlawry. Train Attacked by Turks”, “Broken Hill Outrage”, “The Mahommedan Murderers” and “The Barrier Battle”. By mid-February Stevens’ sensational stories had reached the United States, and had appeared in newspapers from Oakland to Ohio. But in Europe it was feared news of the terrorist attack at Broken Hill would inspire other radicalised Middle Easterners to take up arms and kill innocents abroad.
        Stevens, born at Hyde Park in Adelaide on May 29, 1892, would go on to serve in Europe himself, and signed up again in 1940. But it was his hugely detailed coverage of the “Battle of Broken Hill” in January 1915 which should have won him everlasting fame as a journalist. Instead, when he went on to become deputy editor of The Advertiserin Adelaide, and when he died there nine days short of his 77th birthday, his news-gathering achievements for the Miner had long been forgotten. What became of his well-worn Corona 3, bought by Stevens from Frank Botting South at Stott & Hoare in the Brookman’s Buildings, Grenfell Street, Adelaide, in 1914, we may never know.
Most of us are by now aware that the only enemy soldiers to step foot in Australia in wartime were four Japanese officers who landed at York Sound in the Kimberley region of Western Australia on January 19, 1944, to find out whether the Allies were building large bases there. But as we didn’t know about it at the time, it was not one of the only two occasions upon which Australian troops were mobilised to fight on their own soil. The Great Emu War in the Campion district of Western Australia in late 1932 was one of those two, but it wasn’t in wartime (more about it in a later post). The only time Australian soldiers were actually mobilised for action in wartime in this country was for the three-hour-long Battle of Broken Hill, the gunfight at Silver City. And the enemy? Two suicidal Afghan Muslims armed with Snider-Enfield and Martini-Henry rifles, a revolver, 30 rounds of ammunition, a homemade Turkish flag and bandoliers, and an ice cream cart. On the side of the cart: “Lakovsky’s Delicious ITALIAN ICE CREAM. A Food fit for Children and Invalids”. Its turbaned owner and his mate, two self-declared soldiers of Allah, had opened fire on a trainload of New Year’s Day picnickers. Stevens wrote that the defence force sent out after them was not intent on capturing the pair, but was “desperate in its determination to leave no work for the hangman”.
In truth, it wasn’t much of a mobilisation at that. The 53-strong militia and army unit which went hunting for the two Afghans was comprised mostly of members of the local rifle club and soldiers from the 82nd Infantry Battalion, and they were armed by senior cadet rifles from the Barrier Boys’ Brigade. In charge was Wilcannia-born Lieutenant Richard Nicholaus John Resch (1881-1960), a member of the family which made a certain brand of well-known beer. One uncle was Emile Resch, founder of Resch's Brewery, another was Edmund Resch, who more or less told a younger Richard when he signed up to serve in the Boer War that he was a traitor to his own [Germanic] people. Edmund was honorary consul for the Netherlands in NSW for many years. Ironically, as a direct result of the Battle of Broken Hill, the town’s German Club, which Emile Resch had founded, was burned down by resentful locals. Richard Resch took the hint and in 1916 changed his surname to his wife’s maiden name, Fletcher.
Richard Resch served in South Africa with the 1st Australian Horse and took part in the Relief of Kimberly and various campaigns in the Orange Free State in 1900, including operations at Paardeberg, Dreifontein, Poplar Grove, and Zand River. Later the unit moved into the Transvaal, seeing action at Zilikats Nek, Belfast and Middleburg. Resch moved to Broken Hill in 1908 to manage the brewery and in 1914 took over the business. He was commissioned a lieutenant with the senior cadets in 1911 and appointed area officer for Broken Hill, as well as adjutant for the 82nd Infantry.
"Broken Hill riflemen returning to town after wiping the Turk out."
At the outbreak of the Battle of Broken Hill, Resch was contacted by police at the local Army base. Together, the soldiers and 10 policemen went in search of the disaffected neighbours, former cameleers Badsha Mahomed Gül, 39, an Afridi ice-cream vendor, and Mullah Abdullah, 60, a Pathan who acted as an Islamic mullah and halal butcher. Opening fire indiscriminately on a picnic train, these two had killed two passengers, William Shaw, the foreman of the sanitation department, and 17-year-old Alma Priscilla Cowie.
Priscilla, killed in the desert
Six others - Mary Kavanagh, George Stokes, Thomas Campbell, Lucy Shaw, Alma Crocker and Rose Crabb - were wounded. Gül and Abdullah escaped towards the North Broken Hill cameleers camp, “Ghantown”, where they lived. On the way they murdered Alfred Millard, who'd been motorcycling beside the train, and when confronted near the Cable Hotel, the pair wounded a police constable called Robert Mills. Gül and Abdullah took shelter among a white quartz outcrop known as Cable Hill and a 90-minute gun battle ensued. James Craig, who was chopping wood in his backyard 600 yards away, was hit by a stray bullet and killed. Finally Resch’s army killed Abdullah with a shot through the temple and Gül was found with 16 bullet wounds but still breathing – he died shortly after in hospital. The two left notes explaining their grievances were connected to the hostilities between the Ottoman and British empires and they were responding to a call of holy war against “the mortal enemies of Islam”, issued by the Ottoman Sultan Mehmed V, caliph of all Muslims, on November 11, 1914. The bodies of Gül and Abdullah were disposed of by police in what remains a secret location.

The Unpalatable Truth About Trump, Turnbull and Phonegate

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Above, Trump as Snoopy; below, Turnbull as a child with a Mercedes.
I admit to feeling touched the other day when this comment from an anonymous American was posted on my blog: "Speaking as an American, I want to personally apologize for the recent behavior of our _sshole President. I didn't vote for him, but I probably didn't do enough to stop him either. Frankly, few of us believed there were enough idiots among us to elect him. Anyway. He was rude to YOUR President [actually, Malcolm Turnbull is our Prime Minister, we're not yet a republic, unfortunately] and I apologize sincerely. We'll do away with him as soon as possible, I am certain."
However, for all that, I must 'fess up, as much as it hurts, and concede that in this particular instance, Donald Trump is right.
The massive storm in a tiny teacup over Trump’s phone call with Turnbull (in the modern tradition of "journalism", I'll call it "Phonegate") is more likely than not to turn in Turnbull's favour. The truth is, it is letting Australia "off the hook", as it were. It is turning an Australian disgrace into an American one. Instead of being outraged by Trump's remarks, Turnbull is probably laughing all the way to his electorate. Australians are for once feeling sympathetic toward Turnbull, specifically over Phonegate, and are pouring their scorn on to Trump and the US. It should be the other way around. 
Turnbull, and Australia in general, will probably emerge from Phonegate smelling of roses, even at the time when Turnbull’s distinct lack of leadership has had him very much on the nose in this country, and for some considerable time now. The refugee deal that has filled Trump with disdain is Australia’s deed done dirty– it’s Australia’s responsibility, not America’s, to sort it out. For once in his life, Trump is actually in the right.

At the end of his Op-Ed piece “United States to Australia: Get Lost” in The New York Times on Thursday, columnist Roger Cohen summed it up: “For Australia, Trump’s insults should be an incentive to do the right thing. The refugee deal now looks near worthless. Shut down the foul Manus and Nauru operations. Bring these people, who have suffered and been bounced around enough, to Australia. Close this chapter that recalls the darkest moments of Australian history. Cut loose from Trump’s doomsday prejudice …”
Those are the words Australians are electing not to read or hear, and Phonegate is only allowing them to divert their attention from the truth. This is Australia’s problem and Phonegate is letting this country turn it into America’s embarrassment. It’s Australia’s disgrace and Trump’s cheap shots at Turnbull must not be seen to change that fact.

Claude Sitton's Olivetti Lettera 22: Covering the Civil Rights Movement

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"During his six years covering the South, he wore out four portable Olivetti typewriters." - The Washington Post, March 10, 2015.
Claude Sitton's Olivetti Lettera 22 portable typewriter was on display in FBI exhibition called "G-Men and Journalistsat Newseum on Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington DC a few years ago. Underneath it were the words, "1960s 'Laptop': This well-traveled Olivetti portable typewriter accompanied New York Times reporter Claude Sitton as he chronicled the civil rights era." Now (starting as of yesterday), The New York Times is featuring Sitton's photographs in a series based on a book titled Unseen: Unpublished Black History From the New York Times Archives, to be published by Black Dog & Leventhal in the northern fall.
The newspaper says, "the renowned New York Times correspondent shot photos and took meticulous notes, exposing the racial violence with his pen [sic] and with his lens. Mr Sitton is best known for his words. But the typewritten letters that he sent, along with his film, to John Dugan, a Times photo editor, reveal that he was also determined to capture history with his camera. He carried a Leica, according to one of his sons, and wrote about light and shadows and underexposed frames. He lamented the gloom inside a crowded black church and the time constraints he faced as he scrambled to report the news and illustrate it at the same time. 
Notes addressed to Dugan accompanied film Sitton sent from his tour through Greenwood, Mississippi, and other Southern cities.
"There is power in Sitton’s plain-spoken letters and in the black-and-white images he captured on Tri-X film in March of 1963. Shown together here for the first time - as part of a weekly series running throughout the month [of February] - they offer a first-hand glimpse of life on the front lines of the civil rights movement." 
Atlanta-born Claude Fox Sitton (1925-2015) was a Pulitzer Prize-winning newspaper reporter and editor. He worked for The New York Times from 1957 to 1968, distinguishing himself by his coverage of the civil rights movement from 1958-64. He went on to become national news director of the Times in 1964 and then in 1968 editor of The News & Observer in Raleigh, North Carolina. Sitton started out with wire services, working for International News Service and United Press. He joined the United States Information Agency in 1955 as an information officer and press attaché at the American Embassy in Ghana. Sitton joined The New York Times as a copy editor in 1957. Nine months later, he was named Southern correspondent.
In the Pulitzer Prize-winning history of civil rights journalism, The Race Beat, authors Gene Roberts and Hank Klibanoff describe Sitton as the standard bearer for civil rights journalism. "Sitton's byline would be atop the stories that landed on the desks of three presidents," they wrote. "His phone number would be carried protectively in the wallets of the civil rights workers who saw him, and the power of his byline, as their best hope for survival."

The Lady with the Brightwriter Typewriter

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I've used this image before, three years ago, with others - of Twiggy, Pearl Bailey and Duke Ellington* - from the 1969 Henry Wolf series advertising the Olivetti "Brightwriter", the Studio 45 semi-portable typewriter. It was only yesterday, however, that I came to realise New York high society columnist Suzy Knickerbocker was in real life El Paso-born Aileen Mehle (1918-2016). She was approaching 51 when this Wolf photo was taken. Mehle was actually born Aileen Elder, but throughout most of her life used the surname of her first husband, Cincinnati-born Roger William Mehle (1915-1996), later a US Navy rear admiral. They married in June 1939, when she was 21, and were divorced in 1946. My awareness of her true identity came through finding the Wolf typewriter image in a lengthy feature on Mehle by Bob Colacello in the latest edition of Vanity Fair, "How Suzy Ruled Society Gossip for Five Decades".
Aileen Mehle working at her Park Avenue home
with assistant, Cathy MacLean, in New York in 1966.
Starting at the Miami Daily News and finishing at Women’s Wear Daily in 2005, Mehle was active in journalism for more than 50 years. At the height of her career, her daily column ran in some 90 newspapers across the US and Canada and reached an estimated 30 million readers, according to a 1973 profile in Vogue. Life magazine said she was “easily the brightest and most widely read society columnist in the country”.
As a Texas teenager
Mehle attended Austin High School and while still a teenager moved with her family to California. She went to Long Beach Junior College and Santa Barbara State College (now the University of California, Santa Barbara). At the Hearst-owned New York Mirror, Mehle adopted the pseudonym Suzy from the daughter of her second husband, Mark Kenneth Frank Jr.
In 1963 Hearst closed the Mirror and installed Mehle at the Journal-American, where she added Knickerbocker to her byline. Three years later, the Journal-American was combined with the New York Herald Tribune and the World-Telegram & Sun to form the World Journal Tribune, which lasted until May 1967. At that point the only Big Apple newspapers left were the three still publishing today: The New York Times, the Daily News and the New York Post. Aileen landed at the News, then the largest in circulation of the three, where she would remain for the next 17 years, until 1985. Mehle then jumped from the News to the New York Post. In 1991, at age 73, she made the final move of her career, to Fairchild Publications, and in 2005 gave up her column for good. Mehle died, aged 98, last November 11. 
*Twiggy is Lesley Lawson (née Hornby).

Peggy Hull, Pioneer War Correspondent

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American war correspondent Peggy Hull (Henrietta Eleanor Goodnough-Hull-Kinley-Deuell, 1889-1967) at her Corona 3 portable typewriter for a Newspaper Enterprise Association publicity shot taken in New York in 1925.
There is a crater on Venus named for Peggy Hull. It seems only fitting. As a pioneering female journalist, Hull was simply out of this world. In 1918 she became the US War Department's first accredited female war correspondent and she went on to become the first woman to serve on four battlefronts. The 5ft-tall brown-eyed girl reporter from Kansas described her facial appearance in passport applications as featuring a "retroussé" (turned up) nose. In almost 58 years of first-rate reporting, sending stories from Siberia to Shanghai and many flashpoints in between, Peggy Hull proved that she possessed one of the most brilliant noses for news of any newspaperperson, of either sex, in the entire 20th Century.
Peggy Hull was aware from the very start of her amazing career as a war correspondent, in 1916, that she was smashing through the glass ceiling for female journalists. "Yes," she wrote in the El Paso Herald in late August 1916, "it's a regular Richard Harding Davis assignment. But with the Russian girls of '16 fighting in the army alongside their brothers and fathers and with women voters braving the Ghetto of Chicago, a girl these days has as much right to attempt the daring as has a man." At that time she was planning to fly into Mexico to confront Revolution leader and head of state José Venustiano Carranza Garza. (Davis, who had died four months earlier, aged 51, was an American journalist and writer known for being the first American war correspondent to cover the Spanish-American War, the Second Boer War and the First World War.)
At the time, it was newsworthy that Hull wore a wristwatch. "The element of time is so essential in our work," she told a fellow reporter in Texas, "that difference of a few minutes might mean a 'beat' [scoop] ... Pockets are de trop [unneeded] these days, you know." The El Paso reporter added that Hull believed in suffrage but was not a suffragette. Flowers and pink ribbons "and things" still had their appeal to her, Hull told him.
Peggy was born Henrietta Eleanor Goodnough on a farm near Bennington, Kansas, on December 30, 1889, and grew up in Marysville. She had nothing to do with her father, Edwy Goodnough of Salina (1862-1947), from an early age, and was raised by her mother Minnie Eliza Finn (1866-1929) and Minnie's second husband, Henry William Hoerath (1868-1941). The Hoeraths were married in Marysville in 1896, when Peggy was six.
Minnie Hoerath in 1922
In 1906 Peggy began her newspaper career 75 miles south of Marysville, as a 16-year-old typesetter for the Junction City Sentinel, having been turned down by editor Arthur Downey Colby as superfluous to needs as a reporter. However, after only two weeks at the case, Colby moved her to the editorial department. She had shown Colby her worth when a fire broke out in town and no one else was available to cover the story. In late 1909 Peggy moved to the Denver Republican, where she quickly established a wide reputation for her feature writing and in particular her human interest stories from the juvenile court of social reformer Judge Benjamin Barr Lindsey (1869-1943). It was while in Denver that Peggy met social and political reporter, the recently-widowed Indian-born lush George Charles Hull (1878-1953), a former soldier almost 12 years her senior. Peggy moved further back east to become society editor for the Salina Union in 1910, and on October 27 that year she married Hull in Christ Cathedral, Salina. The Hulls returned to Denver, then moved to Hawaii, where George worked as a reporter for the Honolulu Star and city editor of the Evening Bulletin and Peggy was a feature writer and women's page editor for the Pacific Commercial Advertiser and a reporter for the Bulletin. Four years into the marriage, on the day in 1914 when her tipsy husband tried to climb a flagpole naked, Peggy left him. They were divorced in 1916, by which time Peggy had moved to the Cleveland Plain Dealer, where she wrote advertising copy. In her subsequent passport applications, Peggy said George Hull's whereabouts were unknown to her, and she believed he was dead (possibly wishful thinking). But she kept his surname for her byline throughout the rest of her illustrious career. George Hull was very much still alive - indeed, he outlived all of Peggy's three husbands - and had gone to California, where from 1918-32 he became a noted film scriptwriter. 
In March 1916, the Ohio National Guard was mobilised and sent to El Paso, Texas, to join General John Pershing's expedition in Mexico to capture Francisco "Pancho" Villa. Peggy Hull requested permission to travel with the Guard, but was turned down. She moved to Texas, where she worked first for the El Paso Herald, then the El Paso Morning Times. She was allowed to accompany the troops on a gruelling two-week training march from El Paso to Las Cruces, New Mexico. Villa was not captured, but the expedition helped prepare American troops for entry into World War I. 
With the United States entering into World War I in April 1917, Peggy Hullpaid her own way to France with a promise from the El Paso Times to use her articles. She came down with an attack of appendicitis, but gained assistance from the Paris office of The Chicago Daily Tribune and reached Valdahon in the fast east of France. There she shared barracks with women working for the YMCA canteen and wrote articles for US consumption. In late December she was in Chicago, "booted and spurred" according to the Tribune, giving Christmas shoppers an "eyeful". Hull's mother Minnie had taken ill, and Peggy had returned to care for her. (Minnie recovered to travel to Japan, China and Hong Kong while visiting her daughter in 1922, but died in 1929)
Peggy remained restless, however, and in August 1918 set her journalistic sights on the American military expedition to Siberia to guard the Trans-Siberian Railroad, which was delivering supplies to the White Army. With the help of General Peyton C. March, chief of staff of the army, whom she knew from both her El Paso and Valdahon days, Peggy was accredited to cover the expedition. This time, she gained much more substantial backing for her venture, from editor-in-chief Samuel Thomas Hughes (1866-1948) of the Cleveland-based Newspaper Enterprise Association:
Hull boarded a Russian steamer and landed in Vladivostok in November to begin a nine-month, 1000-mile inspection tour of the Siberian Railroad. She reported on the suffering of the masses of refugees trying to escape both the Red and White armies. As well, she was also able to provide American readers with graphic details of the execution of the Russian Imperial Romanov family (Tsar Nicholas II, his wife Tsarina Alexandra and their five children Olga, Tatiana, Maria, Anastasia, and Alexei), an event which had occurred in Yekaterinburg on July 17, 1918. Hull left Siberia in July 1919 and returned to the US.
In late December 1919 she received an offer of work in Shanghai from the short-lived Gazette's Trinidadian-born editor C.H. Lee.
On a stopover in Singapore, Hull met sea captain, Isle of Man-born John Taylor Kinley (left, 1888-), who would became her second husband. They married in Hong Kong on February 22, 1922, separated in 1925 and, after a campaign by Hull to change the law with regard to her citizen status, were divorced in Shanghai in 1932. In the meantime, in November 1930, Hull was supported by the managing editor of the New York Daily NewsHarvey Vail Deuell (right, 1890-1939), who was to become her third husband, when she applied to regain her American citizenship, lost under the Expatriation Act of 1907 when she'd become a British subject by marrying Kinley. At midnight on January 28, 1932, while Hull was back in Shanghai securing her divorce, Japanese aircraft bombed the Chinese city in the first major carrier action in East Asia. Peggy Hull was in exactly the right spot at the right time to report it, and had a story in the Chicago Tribune the very next day!
Hull and Deuell wed in 1933, but this third marriage was also to be brief. Deuell, a $64,000-a-year leading executive in the US newspaper industry, died from a heart attack while driving his car past the Teaneck Country Club in New Jersey, on his way to work, on October 29, 1939. Deuell was just 48. World War II had been declared less than seven weeks earlier and Hull had become a founding member of the Overseas Press Club. After Japan attacked Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941, Peggy Hullonce again looked to gain accreditation as a war correspondent. In November 1943, through the North American Newspaper Alliance and the Cleveland Plain Dealer, Hull, going on 54, received permission from Lieutenant General Robert C. Richardson Jr, a commander general in the Central Pacific, to cover the war in his area. She reported from Hawaii, Guam, Tarawa in Kiripati and Saipan in the Northern Marianas until August 1945 and was awarded a Navy CommendationA GI wrote her in 1944, "You will never realise what those yarns of yours ... did to this gang ... You made them know they weren't forgotten." In 1953 Hull retired to Carmel Valley, California, where she died of breast cancer, aged 77, on June 19, 1967.

To Dora, on Valentine's Day

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DORA
Written by Sydney typewriter technician
Warren Ingrey

I had a typewriter to repair
which I bought the other day
An Olivetti Dora
From down Barcelona way

Now this little typewriter
Well, it was quite a wreck
With years of gathered dust and grime
She was showing much neglect

I stripped down all the outer plates
Platen feed rollers as well
And placed her in my wash-out tray
And scrubbed like bloody hell

And then I hung her out to dry
And left her in the sun
She looked just a new one
When the drying was all done

I put her back together
And made her look her best
And Dora, she was well behaved
She passed the typing test

Free Air Typewriter*

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*All one has to do is post a video of air typing online and a free air typewriter will be on its way. See image of typewriter above. No shipping cost involved (the package is small and light). Failing that, air typewriters will be made available for sale on eBay.

K
angaroosinvented air guitar more than five million years ago, in the Pliocene epoch. It’s so passé for them now they play air guitar in their sleep. For humans, kangaroo-aping air guitar competitions started in Sweden in the 1980s, leading to world championships with the ideology that “wars would end and all the bad things would go away if everyone just played air guitar”. The same applies to air typewriter.

A
ir typewriterwas introduced sometime between March 25 and May 22, 1963, at the Paramount Studios at 5555 Melrose Avenue, Hollywood, when Jerry Lewis was playing the part of Norman Phiffier in the movie Who’s Minding the Store?

Without a single thought for Jerry Lewis or air guitar, Richard Amery, Terry Cooksley and I left our typewriters behind yesterday and adjourned to The Mawson Club for a lunch break. The typewriter talk fest went on unabated, of course, and the next thing I realised Richard and I were demonstrating typing stories with our air typewriters. Terry captured it with an iPhone.

A Curious Time

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It’s 20 years today since I arrived in Canberra. That’s by far the longest I’ve ever spent in one place. I left Greymouth when I was 19 and for the next 30 years roamed about the place: Auckland for a few years, Nelson, Sydney for a memorable spell, London, Cork, Dublin until it got too hot, Madrid, Bridgetown, Fremantle for two longish spells, Brisbane (my favourite city), Hervey Bay, Townsville. I can’t say coming to Canberra was by chance, but it wasn’t by design either. Just one of those things. Like a life sentence, but without the opportunity for escape (or parole).
Canberra’s not such a bad place. When I started at The Canberra Times in 1997 it was one of the better newspapers I’d worked on. In the next 15 years it turned into one of the worst: it was a big boy’s toy that little boys started to play with. Inevitably, they broke it. But I made a few good friends there.
Canberra has some great institutions: The War Memorial, the National Library, the National Gallery, Portrait Gallery, Old Parliament House. And yet comfortably the worst National Museum of any country anywhere. Te Papa puts it to shame.
When I came to Canberra, my rugby playing soon ground to a halt. I found no trace of the true spirit of the game here. I started collecting cats and typewriters, helped look out for two wonderful young sons, wrote columns and sports and music history and met some truly interesting women. There’s certainly been some fun times. Typewriter collecting opened up a beautiful new world I'd never dreamt existed, full of fantastic people, many of whom I've actually got to know in person.
I celebrated my 50th alone, my 60th in good company and hope, if I can survive just one more year, to spend my 70th with the most gorgeous grand-daughter imaginable. Seeing Ely Messenger grow up is something for which it’s definitely worth hanging about. But in the past eight years, I’ve lost a brother, a sister-in-law, two brothers-in-law and countless good friends, and have developed a deep sense of my own mortality. This is no country for old men like me.

The Press as Public Enemy No 1? Tell that to the Ghost of Ernie Pyle

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I have no idea what Ian Farmer is up to these days. He would be 18 or 19 by now. But at age 12, in November 2010, he could have taught a future President of the United States more about the real value of the Fourth Estate, as a force devoted to the public's right to know the truth, and to freedom of expression, than Donald Trump will ever know. Without the Press, Trump might not be speaking a language that passes for English today.
Trump was born almost 14 months to the day after war correspondent Ernie Pyle died on Iejima in Okinawa. But he cannot be forgiven for not grasping what Pyle and war correspondents like him did in the service of the free world. Ian Farmer was a Denver School of the Arts student when his one-boy performance of Pyle won the US Marine Corps History Award. Farmer's interest began when he saw Saving Private Ryan in 2008, and he started seeking out other movies and books about the war. Then he came across a 1945 copy of Here Is Your War, a collection of Pyle’s articles about the Allied campaign in North Africa, Italy, Sicily and France. Farmer was especially taken with “The Death of Captain Waskow”. Farmer created a solo performance centred on that essay and did so well at the Colorado History Day competition he was chosen to compete in the national contest in Bethesda, Maryland. There, judges from the Marine Corps Heritage Foundation found his presentation so moving they awarded Farmer the Marine Corps History prize. He received the award in a ceremony in Arlington, Virginia.
Above, members of the 77th Infantry Division erect a memorial to Pyle at Okinawa on the spot where Pyle was killed by machine gun fire in April 1945. Below, Pyle, at his makeshift desk in Europe. With the Press ever consider Trump a "buddy"?
Australian Alan Wood , considered one of the gutsiest war correspondents ever, types his despatch on September 18, 1944, at Arnhem in Holland. Wood was parachuted in behind enemy lines with the 1st British Airborne Division. He's lying in a ditch astride the Utrechtseweg near Oosterbeek. Trump would have been elsewhere, looking for the latrines.
TIME correspondent Bill Walton at his typewriter during the D-Day landings on June 6, 1944Walton parachuted into Normandy with the 82nd Airborne Division.
A correspondent covers the Desert War in North Africa in 1942.
Above, Marguerite Higgins of the New York Herald Tribune and the News Chronicle on the Korean front lines, July 1950. Below, Higgins writing her copy in slightly safer surrounds. Probably still too close to the action, however, for the like of Trump.
Correspondents report from the front lines in the Korean War, 1950.
 War correspondents on the Korean Press train.
When the all-out Allied air bombardment of Cherbourg opened on D-Day, Lee Carson Reeves of the International News Service flew over the beleaguered port with the bombers. She was the first Allied war correspondent to enter Paris after its liberation. Attached to the 4th Army, she rode in on a Jeep, and reported on the Parisian Hepcats and civilians who had resisted occupation. She later joined the 1st Army with fellow war correspondent Iris Carpenter and crossed the Seigfried Line at Aachen. Carpenter and Carson reported on the Battle of the Bulge and witnessed the first GIs meeting Russian troops. On April 15, 1945, assigned to the task force which liberated the Castle, Carson entered Colditz and took the only photo of the "cock" glider, built by inmates and hidden in an attic. A week later Carson was present at the liberation of the Erla work camp at Leipzig, where she was horrified at the suffering of the inmates. Instead of sitting down calmly and writing about it, Trump would have been busy changing his undies.
In the music room of Goebbels' house, Allied war correspondents write their stories.
Russ Monro was the Canadian Press's lead war correspondent in Europe in World War II. He covered a Canadian raid in Spitsbergen, the 1942 raid on Dieppe, the Allied landings in Sicily, the Italian campaign, D-Day and the campaign in North-western Europe. His memoirs of the campaigns, published as From Gauntlet to Overlord, won the Governor General's Award for English-language non-fiction in 1945. Trump would no doubt have labelled it "fake news". Monro later covered the Korean War.
CBS News journalist Quentin Reynolds spews out the copy on Anzac Day 1944. Reynolds was associate editor at Collier's Weekly from 1933-45 and published 25 books, including The Wounded Don't Cry. But after World War II he was accused of being "yellow" and an "absentee war correspondent" by right-wing Hearst columnist Westbrook Pegler. Reynolds won $175,001 in damages. But in 1953 he was found guilty of publishing fake news. At least back then the liars got found out.
Helen Hiett Waller was the "most bombed US woman" - and that might go for men too. She was a war correspondent for NBC. She covered the attack on Gibraltar, the collapse of France and was under fire in Holland. She also covered the war in Italy, Germany and Austria, as well as the Ethiopian and Spanish wars, being the first outsider to broadcast from the latterIn 1937 she lived in a girls' labour camp in Germany, studying Nazi indoctrination methods. She published No Matter Where in 1944.
Above, Floyd Gibbons, who lost an eye in World War I, types his story at the Denver Post, and below in a hotel room in Washington DC. Covering the Battle of Belleau Wood in France, Gibbons was hit by German gunfire while attempting to rescue an American soldier. He was given France's greatest honour, the Croix de Guerre with Palm, for his valour on the field of battle.
A Vietnam War correspondent carries his Olympia De Luxe Traveller portable in Saigon on April 29, 1975, as Communist troops circle the city.

Six Years Before the Mast

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February 27 marked six years of this blog. It's a significant date. It's also the birthday of writers (in descending order below) Irwin Shaw (1913), James T. Farrell (1904), Peter De Vries (1910), John Steinbeck (1902) and Lawrence Durrell (1912).
More importantly, perhaps, it is also the anniversary of the day in 1812 when the poet George Byron addressed the Frame Breaking Act and spoke out in the House of Lords in defence of the violence of Luddites against industrialism in his home country of Nottinghamshire. Considering myself to be a modern-day upholder of the Luddite spirit, and having smashed in one or two frames (of computer printers), I like to think I've maintained the rage. Byron, of course, duly had a Nottingham-made typewriter named in his honour, and Richard Polt has one:
So I invited these six lovely young ladies to come around and help me celebrate the blog's six years, during which time it has accumulated 2.824 million page views to 2288 posts and 8676 comments. 
Below, this young chap reenacted my own introduction to typewriters, in 1957.
The blog was launched soon after my appearance at the "I Am Typewriter (The Triumph of Continued Usefulness) Festival" in Melbourne and the publication of my first typewriter book, The Magnificent Five.
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