The Ultimate Resolution

by Dave Sullivan

  "Yes, it’s well written," said Ellington, again.

  Something about his tone bothered England. It’s as though he is about to say more and doesn’t, he thought.

  "How do you think the Company will like it?" he asked.

  "Well, that’s just it, Bob. You and I know the Company won’t like it at all."

  England was getting what he perceived to be mixed messages from Ellington. Was he on England’s side or not? Would Ellington back him on his report? If he would, there was a chance for success with Cherokee and the industry would follow, England was sure.

  England tried another approach. "If you and I call a meeting, if Research & Development is behind my report, I’m sure we can convince the Company to act. It’s very important."

  "Bob . . . Bob," Ellington’s tone and expression like that of an adult talking to a child, "your report certainly purports to be good safety engineering, but good safety engineering is simply not always good business."

  Ellington pulled a cigarette from a red and white package, lit it with a lighter from his desk and held the pack out to England, his eyebrows raised. England shook his head, but pulled out his own cigarettes and nervously lit one. He did not like the direction this discussion was starting to take.

  Ellington continued. "We manufacture and sell agricultural equipment for profit, Bob. Cherokee Tractor & Implement Company is not the babysitter of the American farmer. What you are proposing would cost money . . . a lot of money."

  "I know, but . . ."

  "Bob, all that means less profit. Any suggestions which would inevitably reduce Cherokee’s profit or ability to compete in tractor sales would not look good to management or reflect favorably on the section responsible."

  "I was hoping to have your support instead of just sending the report through channels as you suggested, before." England nervously fingered the copy of the report he had brought with him.

  "No."

  "Well," persisted England, "what will you say when you are asked about the report?"

  "I won’t be."

  "What?"

  "I won’t be asked about your report because I’m not going to send it through channels or anywhere else."

  "But . . ."

  "Look, Bob, I understand where you’re coming from, but this could be professional suicide for both of us. The Company is going to fight requirements for rollbars. They’re going to fight any requirements of retrofitting previously manufactured tractors."

  "But . . ."

  "No ‘Buts’, Bob. I’ve made my decision. This report will not be supported by me or my section. Not Research & Development. And what’s more, I will not submit your report to upper management."

  "But, Dick, you said . . ."

  "No, Bob, and that’s final! This discussion is over." He stood as a signal to England to leave. He punched a button on his telephone and Mavis appeared at the door almost instantly.

  England rose from his chair, gathered up his papers and left.

  Dick Ellington lit another cigarette and blew smoke into the air of his office which was already blue with tobacco smoke. He liked Bob England and thought him to be a good engineer and a good company man. In this instance, however, Bob was wrong. Good safety engineering was not always good business. Cherokee Tractor & Implement Company made and sold agricultural equipment for profit. It was not the babysitter of the American farmer. England's proposals would cost money. The cost would make Cherokee's tractors less competitive in the market.

  All that would mean less profit, Ellington thought and crushed out his cigarette. Any suggestion inevitably reducing Cherokee's bottom line would not look good to management or reflect favorably on the department responsible.

  "Not my section, Ellington muttered aloud. "Not Research & Development …and not on my watch!"

  He slipped the report and the manila envelope into his wastebasket.

  When England got home that evening, Mary was waiting to hear what happened. He told her.

  "Bob, you knew this might happen," said Mary, resting an arm on his shoulder.

  England sat on the couch in the living room of his home. He was still upset by that morning’s meeting with Ellington. "Before you went there, when you were writing your report, you were afraid of this."

  "But I thought Dick might change, that he might support me. At least, I hoped he would."

  Mary lit a cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke in the air. "Dick Ellington is a company man all the way," she said. "Not that you aren’t too, but your being for the company is out of loyalty. Dick’s is out of self-preservation. Sometimes he can be an asshole."

  "Mary!"

  "Well, you know what I mean." She grinned and even blushed a little at her use of language she ordinarily didn’t use and of which she didn’t approve.

  "I know," said England, "but that knowledge doesn’t help much."

  "So what are you going to do, Don Quixote? The windmill is still there. Are you giving up or are you still tilting at it?"

  "I’ve been thinking about nothing else since this morning. Ellington’s decision changes nothing. The rollover problem is still very real. Farmers are still getting killed or severely injured and disabled. Unless something is done, that will continue."

  "And that’s not good," agreed Mary.

  "It’s not acceptable." England rose from the couch and walked to the fireplace. Leaning against the oak mantel, gesturing with his hands like he was making a speech, which he was, he continued.

  "It is not acceptable to me because it is simply bad engineering. I am an agricultural engineer. The design of agricultural equipment is my business. It is my profession. Safety design is an important part of that business. The tractors being manufactured today are not safe. They tip over backwards. . . ."

  Mary England sat on the couch listening attentively. She provided a good audience, thought England as he continued his oration in the safety of their living room.

  "That they tip over backwards under certain loads has been known for many years. The industry has known this for just as many years. The companies choose to ignore this simple established fact. Because of it, the farmers need rollover protection and they need better instructions and warnings."

  "Very good!" Mary was applauding. "So what will we do, sir?"

  England stood by the fireplace, feeling the adrenaline as a result of his speech making. He knew what had to be done, but he was somewhat reluctant to voice it, even here in the sanctity of his own living room with only his wife present. But finally he spoke.

  "’We’ is right, Mary. If I do what needs to be done, it might affect you, too, especially if it affects my job."

  "And what, me darlin,'" she said in her best Irish brogue imitation, "would that be?" Mary was being funny because she thought the situation called for it and needed it. She was probably right, he thought. In any event he was grateful to her for it because he found his strength and resolve returning. He had begun to give up after the meeting with Ellington.

  "I’ll have to go over Ellington’s head."

  "What and not follow channels?"

  "That’s right. I’ll bring my message directly to the head of the company, Henry Lawton. But I have to wait for the right time. If I did it now, I'm sure I'd lose my job. Things are happening in the industry. Maybe it will be next year, maybe the next, but some day the time will be right."."

  Mary came to his side, then put her arms around him. "Go get ‘em, Bob. I love you. You know, you’re pretty neat when you’re mad."

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  Up in the woods north of the unincorporated village of Cornucopia, Wisconsin on Lake Superior, Jake Kingsley carried his Winchester 30-30 carbine in the crook of his arm as he followed the tracks of what he hoped was a pretty big White-tail buck. Last night's snowfall had carpeted the area in white. The snow stopped in the late morning. This buck had gone through after the snow. His grandfather Reynolds was up ahead on a stand. Jake hoped to se
e the buck or drive it to his grandfather.

  It was the opening Saturday of Wisconsin gun deer season. Jake's fifteenth birthday was Monday and Thanksgiving on Thursday. A eight or ten-point buck, or any deer at all, would be a nice birthday present and Venison for dinner back at the cottage in Bay Harbor would be great.

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  For Robert England, the opportunity for action was very slow in coming. He had expected some reaction to his report, but nothing happened. He told himself again that his time would come eventually. In the meantime as a member of ASAE, the American Society of Agricultural Engineers, he worked on a committee concerned with tractor rollover accidents and helped develop standards for operator protection systems. He didn't make a lot of noise at work about his actions for fear of how they would be received by the company. He determined to wait and watch what happened across the industry and in congress and the state legislatures. There was no point in doing something if it would never get past Cherokee management and ruin his chances of being effective if and when the right time came.

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  ***

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  In the summer of 1966, up on Lake Superior, an old wooden sloop beat into a fresh breeze along the southwest shore of Oak Island. Jake Kingsley pulled the jib sheet to trim, watching the telltales of yellow yarn his grandfather had tied on the forestay to gauge the trim of the foresail. He adjusted the line until both pieces of yarn were trailing back horizontally on either side of the sail which meant the sail was properly trimmed for maximum driving power. The sloop heeled over a little, but the lower rail was well clear of the water. The sloop was old, but it was a stiff boat with hard chines that kept it more upright than many of the newer sailing boats.

  Jake cleated the jib sheet. He turned and settled into his seat in the cockpit, studying his grandfather’s face as he steered the boat. The old man’s face looked like worn leather from so many hours on the water and in the sun. His eyes were clear and bright. As blue as the sky above or the cold, clear waters of Lake Superior, his eyes had the look of one who was seeing beyond what ordinary men see. It was like he was looking beyond the world to what its meaning was. Jake loved this old man, Jake Reynolds, after whom he had been named. It was Grampa Jake who had taught him to sail.

  Jake’s grandfather sat with the tiller in his right hand looking out beyond the bow of the sloop, studying the shoreline of Oak Island ahead and looking beyond to Raspberry Island and across to the mainland of the Bayfield Peninsula.

  "I love it here," said Jake, sharing with his grandfather the view of the green wooded islands, blue water and cobalt cloudless sky. "I wish I could stay forever."

  Yes, Jake, it is a paradise, that’s for sure. But you can’t just stay here . . . forever."

  "Why not, Grampa? You’re here all the time."

  "Sure, Jake, but I’m retired."

  "I know that, but I mean there are lots of people who live here and they’re not all retired. I could work here. Like I worked for Hanson’s boatyard this summer."

  "Jake," he said, "how old are you now?"

  "Sixteen." Jake glanced at the jib. The yellow yarn on the other side of the sail was blowing straight up. He reached for the jib sheet to uncleat it and ease the sheet to trim the sail.

  "Never mind, Jake. I’ll steer to trim." The old man moved the tiller, bringing the boat to windward until the yarn leveled out to the horizontal again.

  "So you’ll be a senior and graduate next spring, right?"

  "Right."

  "What have you thought about a career?"

  "I told you. I want to live here. So I guess I have to find a career that I can do here."

  "Like what?"

  "I thought about being a Department of Natural Resources Officer or a Park Ranger and work here in the Apostle Islands National Lakeshore."

  "Well," the old man thought a moment gazing ahead past Jake, past the bow and probably past everything a normal person would see, thought Jake, "I’m not sure about the DNR, but the National Park Service people get moved around a lot, I think. You might want to be here, but you might end up at Yellowstone, or Gettysburg, or even Lincoln’s birthplace."

  "Oh."

  "Yeah," said the old man.

  "Well, I could work in the gas station or at Hanson’s in Raspberry Bay."

  "Why do I think your mother and father would not be satisfied with that?"

  He had to bring them into it. But he was right, thought Jake. Mom and Dad wanted him to go to college for sure.

  "So, Grampa, what do I do if I want to be here all the time, like you?"

  "I’m afraid you can’t, Jake. We all have to spend our time as adults working to make a living. Your time for retirement will come. But, I strongly advise you not to rush it. Pick a career that you can believe in, one that gives you satisfaction at doing it right and accomplishing something. It’s kind of like maintaining this old boat. You work on it to keep it up and it rewards you with the joy and satisfaction of sailing like this on a day like this."

  Jake stared across the channel to the mainland. They were approaching Raspberry Bay, where the town of Bay Harbor was built on the hillside overlooking the bay, where Hanson’s boatyard and marina was, and where Jake wanted to spend his life. Well, if Grampa is right, and Jake had to concede that he probably was, then Jake needed a career where he made enough money so he could get to the Apostles as much as possible. That meant a profession. He had thought about engineering, architecture, medicine or law. He would give them more thought as he began his senior year in high school in the fall.

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  It was not until early in 1968 that Robert England saw the chance to speak out. It was Mavis, Dick Ellington’s secretary, who told him about the meeting. Congress was conducting hearings about tractor rollover problems and possible protection devices. The President had just sent a bill to congress for an occupational health and safety act to protect workers from unsafe conditions and injuries in the workplace. It would be followed by federal agency regulations that would identify specific hazards and set rules and impose requirements. Eventually, they would get around to ROPS for farm tractors. Industry leaders and industry champions like the National Chamber of Commerce were gearing up to oppose the proposed legislation. Cherokee's upper management was having a meeting. The meeting was going to be held to discuss Cherokee’s position and what its representatives would say at the hearings. Dick Ellington was going to be at that meeting. England told Mavis to tell her boss that he, England, wanted to be at that meeting.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Phillip Marquard was Cherokee's youngest and newest vice president. He was thirty years old. He had climbed the corporate ladder several rungs at a time. In his quest for power and advancement, he had stepped on a few toes and made a few enemies on the way up. He had passed by several good company men less willing to do whatever it took to move up in the organization.

  Now a Vice-President of the company and the head of sales, Marquard sat at his desk contemplating a problem that faced the industry generally and Cherokee Tractor & Implement Company specifically. The Cherokee T-350 was a durable and popular model. It competed well for tractor sales in the industry. The T-350 was Cherokee's best-selling product. Marquard didn't want anything to happen to T-350 sales. Cherokee's share of the market because of the 350 was the backbone of the company's sales division. It was the one thing on which Marquard had based his success and ascent within the corporation. But a change in the industry was threatening the 350.

  Government agencies were clamoring for safety features to protect the farmer from himself. As spring was coming to St. Louis in 1968, Congress was considering legislation requiring rollover protection on tractors like the 350. The addition of such equipment would raise the price of the tractor and affect its competitive edge. Although presumably other companies would be similarly affected, some would fi
nd the adaptation easier or cheaper for their particular models. Some companies already had roll bars that were offered on some models. Should the legislative requirements be adopted, those companies were already in production. At least temporarily they would definitely gain a competitive edge.

  But Congress wasn't satisfied with imposing requirements on future models only. Some legislators were calling for the roll over protection systems they called "ROPS" on all future sales and recalls of used tractors for retrofitting.

  That was the problem, thought Marquard. Since tractors varied greatly in design and intended use, each model would have to be tested and evaluated for possible recall requirements. The design and weight distribution of some types of tractors was such that the roll over tendency was not sufficient to impose retroactive requirements. Some were used for special functions such as citrus harvesting where the low overhanging tree branches did not allow clearance for the roll bar.

  Although definitely opposed to any ROPS requirement, Cherokee could survive the change, but the longer it was delayed, the longer the current profit margin for Cherokee would continue. Delay, alone, was big money. And, the testing for any retrofit requirements was different. Cherokee used its own test information in marketing and advertising to demonstrate the T-350's quality and safe design. The company used the same test results as affirmative evidence in lawsuits claiming defects in its product. Government testing could reveal what only a few select members of Cherokee upper management knew. The test results published by the company were altered and incomplete.