Shit, his uncle’s emergency money, of course. He said he could use it at any time and now was definitely that time. He ran down the stairs to the basement and stood trying to remember which can his uncle showed him and where he put it. After a half an hour he found the can, right where his uncle put it. The two hundred dollars in it should be enough to take him wherever he needed to go to find Dr. B. F. Skinner.
B.F. Skinner , Ph.D.
Dr. Skinner had just finished his lecture as the Chair of the Psychology Department at Indian University. He liked to lecture from time to time, especially to the best students in his care. It was almost a year since he came to Bloomington, and it was starting to wear on him. He missed Harvard terribly and its proximity to the Appalachians. He needed some kind of change in elevation, large trees that turned gorgeous colors in the fall, and that fresh Green color in the spring. Bloomington was not blooming at this time of year and the colors on the trees had faded fast. It was time for another grey winter with not much to look forward to.
So, he has started to write a book about the future unofficially named Walden Two. The book was a kind of play on Thoreau's Walden Pond. While Thoreau expounded on the virtues of self-reliance, he theorized that the real virtue of self-reliance lay in a community where the free will of the individual is weak when compared to how environmental conditions shape behavior. He was very leery about writing in today’s academic climate about such things no matter how much he believed in them. His observations and remarks could easily be taken for communist leanings that he did not possess to any degree, certainly not Stalin’s version that he had just begun to study.
Also, he was becoming aware of just how dangerous this new war was. He had heard of tales of rockets and jet fighters, and, of course, the atomic bomb. He hoped no one would ever place an atomic bomb in a V2-like rocket. Such a device would lead to total annihilation of the human race if his theories were correct, and if that did occur, he fervently wished to be wrong.
Skinner’s fertile mind had taken him far a field in his career. He was still working with his favorite test subjects and had used some of the principles of his work with them for his work with children. It all started in 1944 with his daughter. He noticed that his wife was spending too much time caring for the baby’s physical needs. He wanted to see if he could make her life easier as well as make a safer crib for his daughter.
So, he invented what resembled a hospital incubator. He was working at the University of Minnesota at the time. He put in a heater and other additions to a crib. These experimental features allowed his daughter to sleep in total comfort without the need of layers and layers of blankets. The trouble started when a writer for the Ladies Home Journal did an article on the crib and titled it “Baby in a Box.” During the interview, the photographer noticed that the baby had woken up and was looking at the assembled group. He took her picture. She had just woken up and was using the glass to get her balance. The photo made it look like she was trying to get out.[xcvii]
Well, the crap hit the fan even though he and his wife explained that the special crib was just for sleeping. The fact that he had invented a “lever box” for rats and pigeons to test their behavior just made the situation worse.
The lever box was used to see if an animals’ behavior would alter by giving them rewards for doing the behavior you wanted to them to do. He didn’t go into the punishment side of behaviorism, as some of his colleagues had. He was all about rewards. When a test subject did the optimal behavior or even took a step in the right direction, it was rewarded with a piece of grain, some seeds, etc. He had used his theories to teach pigeons to play ping pong and…his mind wandered briefly to another use. But, he quickly turned away from thinking about what he considered a short-sighted failure of imagination by the people in charge. He never thought about that project for long, even though it lasted for a good year.
Time to move on. He was used to being misunderstood by people who…well, thought differently than he. Not better or worse, just different.
Young Crenshaw’s Mission
James Crenshaw got his new tires for his motor bike, kissed his mom good bye, punched his father in the mouth, and took off in a cloud of flying gravel that chipped his father’s paint on his car for good measure. It had been hard to smack his old man because he looked exactly like his uncle. But, when the man had slapped his mother once again, Jim snapped. He was going anyway and it just seemed like a fitting exit. He learned later that he had knocked his father out cold. He had mixed emotions about that.
He calmed down and slowed his motorbike down as well. It would not be good to be stopped, and have to explain his bleeding knuckles, and the $496 in his pocket. Not to mention, the file marked Top Secret stashed in his rucksack tied to the bike’s seat.
He loved being a free man. Man… that had a nice ring to it. Now, he had to find a willing woman to really make him a man. He was on a mission to find Dr. B. F. Skinner and to present him the contents of the top secret file he carried. He had no doubt that Skinner would remember that year of his life when he was devoted to his “pet” project with pigeons. The more he Jim thought about it, the more he became convinced that his uncle was on the right track and this Skinner guy would be the only one who would understand what his uncle was proposing. He began to laugh as he of imagined a bunch of Generals in full regalia being presented with Skinner’s idea. No wonder it was rejected when it got presented to a bunch of ego-driven, know-it alls, who were more concerned with appearances, than in winning the war.
Jim had experienced the phenomenon a few times as a Reserve Officers Training Corps member. Everyone his age was joining the ROTC during the last war and he was no exception. What he noticed was that the military mind seemed to be consumed with putting on a good show and not so concerned with actually doing a good job. Initiative and the ability to get things done were way down on the list of attributes to be admired. First and foremost you had to look the part to succeed.
“The Good Show,” he thought, was the reason we had gotten our asses kicked, both in the beginning of the last war and this war as well. Guys who were promoted beyond their abilities, had to fail before the real warriors their chance. Immediately, the name U.S. Grant came to mind as a perfect example.
All that mattered was the ability to a brief a plan well. You were promote if you were one of those guys who could put lipstick on a pig. Winning ideas could be overlooked and disastrous ideas could be advanced.
Skinner’s idea was dismissed. In reality it was brilliant, workable, and cost effective. But, it was not presented well to a group of puppets who thought alike. They were the kind of men who didn’t have the imagination to see what a great idea it was. He bet, as his uncle had, that someone in the Soviet Union had gotten his hands on this project and developed it and was using it to win a war.
But, what did a sixteen, year old kid know? His mission was to find and present the folder to Dr. Skinner to remind him of what he had done. Jim wanted to jog Skinner’s memory and to have him imagine that the Soviets had used his well thought out, but very unconventional, idea to shoot our bombers out of the sky. Crenshaw knew that no one in power would listen to him. Jim was not even sure that his uncle could have pulled this off.
From reading up on this Skinner guy, Jim found that he seemed to have a following. Maybe, just maybe Skinner could get in contact with his former colleagues at the Pentagon and convince them to, at least explore, the possibility of what he and his uncle theorized. The two men were proposing that Dr. Skinner’s invention was possibly guiding missiles.
He was sixteen and on his way to convince a Ph.D in Psychology, that he held an incredible secret that might be the key to winning World War Three. What could go wrong?
Draft Dodger
The Sheriff took his time getting out of the car. He was a big man who moved slowly most of the time, but as some found out, he could move quite quickly when needed. He had been following this kid on a German made motorcycle for a few miles
. The kid was not doing anything wrong, but Will Donegal didn’t get paid to not stop strangers who came into his county. Besides, he wanted to get a closer look at this motorcycle.
He closed the police cruiser’s door and slowly walked over to the kid who had gotten off his motorcycle. The kid looked very young and was waiting patiently for the Sheriff to explain what he had done wrong. There was no aggressive body language or nervous mannerisms in the kid, which of course, made the Sheriff even more curious.
“What’s your name son?”
“James Crenshaw, Sir.”
“’How old are you son?”
“Sixteen, Sir.”
“Sixteen huh…You sure look big for your age. Are you a draft dodger son, and what are you doing with a great big motorcycle like that so far from Washington D.C.? That’s a far piece from Brown County, Indiana. Did you know you were in Brown County, Indian son?”
“Why, no Sir. I was just on my way to Bloomington and really didn’t know what county I was in.”
This went on like this for a good five minutes with the Sheriff returning to the “draft dodger” theme before the Sheriff really got to the point.
“What is a young man like you doing driving such a fine motorcycle and if you are only 16, where are your parents?”
“Back in Washington, Sir”
“Son, we are just going to have to take you in and see what this is all about. If you are truly 16… a youngster of your tender age should not be so far from home on such a fine motorcycle. It just doesn’t add up. We have to get to the bottom of this with a phone call to your parents. Now don’t do anything foolish but you just hop back on your bike and follow me to the station. We’re going to call your parents and find out what this is all about…come on now…get on and let’s go.”
“Yes, Sir.”
The Sheriff finally made it to his cruiser and drove past Jim and waved him to follow him. Jim did as he was told and they were soon at the Sheriff’s station. They didn’t lock Jim up but did look through his belongings and found the file marked “Top Secret”. Jim’s heart sank. How was he going to explain this away?
The Sheriff and his deputy had never seen a real Top Secret file and they didn’t become overly concerned. In truth, the pair did not comprehend what exactly it was they had found.
The deputy looked at the contents and started to laugh. Then he showed it to the Sheriff, who also started to chuckle. Having no idea what the contents were really all about, they just put the file back and made the phone call to the number Jim has given.
Jim’s father answered and the conversation was short and sweet. According to the Sheriff, Jim’s father had kicked Jim out. It was good riddance and yes, the motorcycle belonged to him.
Jim’s father’s final words concerning his son were…
“Tell that son of a bitch never to come home again.”
The Sheriff hung up. He thought about his own father and how the same thing had happened to him at age 15.
He sat down across from Jim.
“Son, is there anything you want to tell me?”
Jim was taken aback and uttered “No, Sir.”
Son, I had a father a lot like yours. I was kicked out at the age of 15. I know just what you’re going through. You have to make some very big choices from here on out.”
He paused for emphasis.
“And I’m going to let you make them. Now get on that fancy motorcycle of yours and get on about your business.”
“Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir…can I ask one question please?”
“Yes, of course you can son.”
“What part of town does the faculty of the University of Indiana live?”
“Why in the best part of town of course.” Was the reply.
Jim thanked everyone, walked out the door and got on his motorbike, riding off to find Dr. B.F. Skinner’s house in Bloomington, IN.
Back in the sheriff’s office, the Sheriff and his deputy were having a good laugh at what they had read in the supposed “Top Secret’ file. Neither believed it was a real file, not after reading part of its contents. This running joke would go on for years amongst the Sheriff departments throughout Indiana. It was Sheriff Donegal’s favorite story and he told it to all. No one else got the significant of the file either. The subject matter was so ridiculous as to be total fiction.
Confront and Convince
Skinner was late for his next class. The grad student who was to run the class and experiments fell ill. He decided at the last minute to teach it himself. He usually had a quite standard routine for his days and teaching this class took him out of his way. He was going a different route than he usually took between buildings due to the change in his schedule. He noticed a nice young man being escorted by two security guards, making their way towards the front entrance to the quad.
The young man suddenly appeared to recognize him and started to shout his name. This made Dr. Skinner quicken his pace. He wanted nothing to do with and young man who was under custody by campus security. He was almost out of ear shot when he heard something he hadn’t heard in years. The boy was shouting it at the top of his lungs.
“PROJECT PIGEON!” over and over again. He stopped in his tracks and called to the security detail to wait. The boy wanted to blurt out all sorts of things he was told was top secret information the last time the doctor had spoken to his military liaison. He convinced the guards to let him interview the boy in private in the security office.
When they were along the boy produced a copy of his Top Secret report on Project Pigeon. He was very upset to say the least and asked many questions until he was convinced that the boy just wanted to deliver the file to him and to listen to what his uncle speculated.
The boy’s name was Jim Crenshaw and his uncle was the one who had the file. The uncle worked for the Pentagon and had top secret clearance. It still unnerved Skinner that a copy of his files would fall into the hands of a sixteen year old boy.
The tale the boy told was one of utmost admiration for his newly departed uncle who’s dying message was “Skinner”. When the boy looked through his uncle’s things he found the file and put two and two together to get five, it seemed to Skinner at first. He then left his home and family and drove over a thousand miles on a motorcycle to deliver his uncles dying message and the files.
The boy was named Jim Crenshaw and Skinner could not just turn the boy away after all he had done to fulfil his uncle’s dying wish so he convinced the security men to release Jim into his custody. He then brought him home completely forgetting his class and the following faculty meeting later that afternoon.
Skinner Spotted
Jim was wandering around the University of Indiana’s campus asking questions about where he might find Dr. B.F. Skinner. None of the students he asked took him seriously. After all they were 18 or older and knew a 16 year old when they saw one. He was a high school kid at best and not worthy of a college student’s time.
Jim later recounted that “The students’ attitude was beyond frustrating to me. The last straw was when a big football player gave me a shove. I instinctively let fly with a punch that just glance off the big goon. His buddies were holding me down when the campus security came along and started marching me off campus.
Then, I saw a fellow who had to be Skinner about 100 feet away. The guy looked like I imagined from the grainy magazine article my uncle had clipped. I took a chance and shouted “Dr. Skinner!” The man actually quickened his pace, and that threw me into a panic. Just as Skinner was about to get out of earshot I shouted the title of the top secret report, “Project Pigeon!” at the top of my lungs. My outbreak startled the security guards. They were literally dragging me away when Dr. B.F. Skinner appeared out of nowhere and convinced the guards to let him talk to me.”
“I explained about my uncle, what I knew of his project, and his dying words written on the chalkboard. I went over how I was looking through his papers and totally dismissed “Project Pigeon” on first glance,
and then how I put two and two together and came up with Skinner and his guidance system.
Skinner seemed unimpressed to say the least. He had taken a beating at the hands of the military when they had basically laughed in his face and showed him the door. His wife was listening to us at dinner and asked some very good questions. I think he was about to show me the door, as well, when she shot him a zinger. “Don’t you believe in your own research and conclusions about this Project Pigeon? Did you waste almost a year and a half on a fool’s errand?”
That stopped him in his tracks. He looked at her, got up from his chair walked over to her. Next, he picked her up and kissed her full on the lips for a long time. She was quite embarrassed, as was I. Then, he shouted, “Thank you my dear for putting it so elegantly and being so direct!”
He motioned me to the living room. We discussed how he was going to approach this dilemma and convince the Pentagon that they were more than wrong in rejecting his proposal. In addition, he had to convince them that the Soviets had gotten hold of his idea and were possibly using it to guide their missiles.
Skinner then asked me to go back and look over my uncle’s papers and see if there was anything that mentioned unusual material in the wreckage of any recovered bombers, etc. Something must have spurred my uncle’s memory about Project Pigeon. Possibly, it was dead pigeons or parts of pigeons or some such clue that got him thinking.
He said he was going to start contacting his old sources, once again, to try and get his foot in the door. The key, he kept repeating over and over again, was what had gotten my uncle to think of his project? What had awakened his memory of an obscure and rejected guidance system?
We both had our assignments. I went to bed, had a great sleep and an even better breakfast. I was on my way back to my uncle’s house by 7 o’clock in the morning. Skinner was on the phone calling in some favors as I was leaving. It was up to me to find the smoking gun. I had no idea if it was in my uncle’s house or if it was in his now re-occupied office. If what we were looking for was in his office, the game was probably over.
World War Three 1946 Series Boxed Set: Stalin Strikes First Page 95
