Menagerie

by Bradford Morrow

  “Let me put it this way, Doc,” I declared. “You have many splendid achievements behind you and an even greater career ahead of you. Reward the right people, outwit your antagonists through negative reinforcement, and before long you’ll be running the psych department at Harvard. Ah, but that happy outcome depends on your feathered friends keeping mum about their subjective selves.”

  “You have enemies, Doc,” my cousin Aaron reminded the boss, “and I don’t mean the Nazis—I mean the cognitive psychologists. I’ll wager Jean Piaget would be tickled to learn that pigeons worry about phenomenology. I think he’d love to enter into a postwar correspondence with B. F. Skinner’s exxxperimental subjects.”

  “You’re indulging in exxxtortion!” protested Skinner. “Conscious and deliberate exxxtortion!”

  “Didn’t you read your own book?” I asked. “We have no free will in the matter. We’re acting this way because similarly unscrupulous behavior on our parts was rewarded in the past.”

  “Please think it over—or whatever you do that the rest of the world calls thinking,” suggested Thomas.

  “I’ll think it over,” said Skinner, sighing as he sank back into the chair.

  “Happy birthday, Doc,” I said.

  So the great psychologist thought it over, and he came to the right conclusion. He would acquiesce to our blackmail, secure his future at Harvard, and perhaps, en passant, destroy the armored heart of the Kriegsmarine.

  After consulting with the engineering department at the University of Minnesota, Skinner concluded that our proposal should turn on the Navy’s latest scheme for an air-to-surface missile: an unmanned, unpowered, wing-steered plywood glider called the MK-7. In January of 1942 only three prototype MK-7s exxxisted, but the weapon would go into mass production the instant some genius devised a radio-activated or radar-dependent guidance system and installed it in the spacious forward chamber. Owing to this outsized nose cone, the creators of the MK-7 had nicknamed it the Pelican, in homage to the limerick by ornithologist Dixxxon Lanier Merritt.

  A wonderful bird is the pelican,

  His bill will hold more than his belly can,

  He can take in his beak,

  Enough food for a week,

  But I’m damned if I see how the hell he can.

  Skinner proposed to attach a camera obscura lens to the tip of the nose cone, secure an eight-inch translucent disc along the focal plane, and tether a trained pigeon vertically behind the viewscreen, its harness wired to translate its head and neck movements into course corrections. He called this hypothetical rig an “organicon,” short for “organic control,” and it promised to make MK-7s the most accurate missiles in the world, each exxxplosive-laden glider pursuing a precise flight path as the pilot tapped his beak against a live projected image of a battleship, submarine pen, munitions factory, or other such stimulus.

  As a first step in selling the military on Project Organicon, Skinner requested—and received—an audience with the Navy’s Civilian Scientist Liaison Committee in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Little brother Sasha and I went along, secured in a wire-mesh carrier beneath a passenger seat in the DC-3. The trip was not unpleasant. The stewardess, who thought we were adorable, gave us some crushed almonds and a thimble of Chianti. Then Skinner pulled a blanket over our carrier, and Sasha and I went to sleep.

  The meeting transpired in a cramped and drafty office on Brattle Street, Commander Roger Quillin presiding, flanked by two MIT professors named John Philipoff and Fred Wapple. While the humans smoked their Pall Malls and Chesterfields, Sasha and I roamed the room, consuming crumbs from a recently spilled boxxx of Cracker Jacks. I exxxperienced a fleeting impulse to poop on the brass base of the floor lamp but managed to subdue the urge.

  Not surprisingly, the notion of piloting missiles via sacrificial live animals occasioned within the committee an epidemic of rolled eyes and skeptical frowns. Undaunted, Skinner unfurled a poster of the German chancellor on the carpet. He told the committee that through “carefully calculated schedules of reinforcement” he’d conditioned Sasha and me “to perform dentistry on dictators.” I admired his chutzpah—for in fact we’d received no such training: The boss had simply briefed us an hour before the DC-3 took off.

  Sasha and I played our parts with aplomb, systematically exxxtracting Hitler’s visible teeth with our beaks. As a coup de grâce, we removed the eyes. Quillin, Philipoff, and Wapple grunted approvingly, prompting Skinner to claim that in less than a month he could condition a squad of pigeons to peck repeatedly at cutout silhouettes of Gneisenau, Scharnhorst, and Tirpitz. Place such a specialized bird in a Pelican nose cone, outfit the organism with a head-and-neck rig designed to convert its gyrations into directional-control signals, convey the glider via transport plane to within range of a German battleship, present the avian pilot with a camera obscura image of the stimulus, and—voilà!—the bomb would fly straight to its target, exxxploding on impact.

  By now the committee was electrified, especially Professor Philipoff, who noted that, since the proposed servomechanism employed only “the visible segment of the spectrum,” it would be “resistant to jamming,” as opposed to a system dependent on radio signals or radar waves. Quillin straightaway offered Skinner a $25,000 grant to inaugurate Project Organicon, then got on the phone and arranged for 3M to place its research facilities at our disposal. Before the meeting ended, the commander promised to ship an MK-7 aircraft to Skinner post-haste, along with two additional nose cones—though he added a severe caveat: Pigeon-steered missiles would enter America’s arsenal if and only if the prototype passed muster with Admiral Scott Plantinga, head of the Navy’s Office of Special Devices.

  Back in Minneapolis, my siblings, cousins, and I endured several weeks of intense tedium while Skinner and a quartet of 3M engineering prodigies set about adapting the glider to the brave new world of Columbidae navigation. The whiz kids soon realized that a Pelican nose cone could accommodate three separate bird cockpits, each equipped with its own lens and viewscreen. If one pilot lost track of the stimulus, his copilots would keep the glider on course. Brilliant.

  A month into the project, Skinner and his colleagues started worrying that the proposed head-and-neck rig would prove unreliable under combat conditions. Because the noise and vibrations from flak might cause a pilot to jerk about and disable the gyroscopes—a possibility my lab mates and I couldn’t discount—the whiz kids decided to incorporate the viewscreen itself into the pneumatic-steering mechanism. They installed a valve on each translucent disc at twelve o’clock, three o’clock, sixxx o’clock, and nine o’clock. If the missile drifted laterally from the target, the pilots’ corresponding pecks would trigger the appropriate valve, east or west, delivering corrective jets of air to the wing flaps via rubber tubes and causing the glider to bank. If the missile drifted medially, then the north or south valve would come into play, moving the ailerons to make the Pelican climb or dive.

  After two additional months of fiddling, futzing, tinkering, and tweaking, Skinner felt ready to let Admiral Plantinga render a verdict on Project Organicon. Determined to give the most dramatic demonstration possible, the psychologist and his team outfitted the hull of a nose cone with a ball-bearing collar bolted to the interior of a horizontal, open-ended wooden barrel, then connected the steering tubes to a manifold forged to simulate the effects of aileron movements. Every time the avian pilots adjusted their pecking behavior in response to target displacement, the outside observer would behold the suspended capsule bank, climb, or dive. To understand exxxactly how an attack on a German battleship might play out, Plantinga and his staff needed merely imagine that the nose cone was attached to a Pelican glider and its lethal payload.

  Satisfied that his bearing-and-barrel contraption would spellbind the Navy brass, Skinner crated it up and sent it COD to the Office of Special Devices. On the evening before our scheduled departure, the psychologist gathered together his three best birds and led us to his 3M office for a briefing. He served
us cannabis seeds and addressed us in a somber tone.

  “Whatever happens tomorrow, you will make no mental contact with any Navy personnel,” he declared.

  “You can count on us, Doc,” I replied. “I’ll pretend my skull’s as empty as one of your damn ping-pong balls.”

  “Zero telepathy,” Skinner persisted.

  “None whatsoever,” Sasha promised.

  Skinner said, “Plantinga and his staff will arrive at tomorrow’s meeting with a cognitive understanding—”

  “Hey, the boss said ‘cognitive,’” I noted in a sardonic tone.

  “What’s this ‘cognitive’?” Thomas asked Sasha with mock bewilderment.

  “An illusory domain invented by softheaded nonbehaviorists,” Sasha exxxplained, pooping on the stand of a hat rack.

  “Shut up,” Skinner responded. “Plantinga and his staff will arrive with a cognitive understanding that the Pelican is steered by birds. But once they see the capsule hone in on the Tirpitz cutout, they’ll forget what’s going on in the cockpits.”

  “There’s a couple of mites in my auriculars,” Thomas told Sasha, who set about ridding his cousin’s ear feathers of the parasites, peck, peck, peck, peck, peck.

  “Sounds like you’re planning to keep us out of sight till the last possible minute,” Sasha hypothesized, facing Skinner.

  “Exxxactly,” said the boss. “By the time they decide to see what’s happening behind the scenes, they’ll be totally sold on organicon navigation. They won’t care if they find hamsters under the hood—or rabbits or bumblebees or rubber bands or yo-yos.”

  “Most ingenious, Doc,” I observed.

  “You’re one bright cookie,” Thomas proclaimed.

  “Somebody’s been reinforcing your more intelligent traits,” suggested Sasha.

  “You birds drive me crazy,” seethed Skinner.

  On the morning of December 16, 1942, the psychologist, Sasha, Thomas, and I flew from Minneapolis Airport to Washington National along with a backup team comprising Hannah, Elvira, and Aaron. The journey proved entirely wretched. No almonds, no Chianti, and, because our carrier lay adjacent to the cacophonous starboard engine, sleep proved impossible, even after Skinner draped a blanket over the carrier.

  The instant our DC-3 skated to a halt on the icy runway, Skinner frantically collected his luggage—suitcase, carrier, valise holding the Tirpitz cutout—and hailed a taxxxi. He told the driver to get him across town as quickly as possible. Against the odds, we arrived at 1401 Pennsylvania Avenue a full hour ahead of schedule. The Pelican nose cone lay in the far corner of the conference room, afloat inside the open-ended barrel. After hiding the backup team in a broom closet, Skinner set the capsule on the polished oak table and secured Sasha, Thomas, and me in our respective cockpits. He closed all three hatches. Lifting one leg, I puffed up my feathers and took a nap.

  Within the hour I awoke. Although the nose cone muffled their voices, I could hear the Navy brass greeting Professor Skinner, who proceeded to exxxplain the basics of the system: operantly conditioned avian pilots, redundant pecking screens, pneumatic course-correction valves. To pass the time, Sasha, Thomas, and I chatted telepathically.

  “Nervous?” asked Thomas.

  “I feel like I’m walking on eggs,” Sasha replied.

  Alas, the tension was getting to me as well. I sensed feathers loosening around my throat and along my left wing.

  “I hear the Army Air Corps plans to attach incendiary bombs to thousands of bats and release them over Japanese cities,” said Sasha. “The bats will roost in the eaves and attics. Built-in timers will ignite the bombs, causing firestorms.”

  “Clever idea, but I wish the poor mammals could consciously volunteer,” I said. “Otherwise it’s murder.”

  “Agreed,” said Thomas.

  “I believe that bat-human rapport, like bat-pigeon rapport, will always be a distant dream,” said Sasha.

  “Have you ever wondered what it’s like to be a bat?” asked Thomas.

  “I’ve tried, but I can’t wrap my mind around echolocation,” Sasha replied.

  “Professor Skinner, I suggest we get on with the show,” said some Navy big shot—probably the admiral.

  “For purposes of this demonstration, you should imagine that a Douglas C-47 Skytrain is towing our Pelican glider to within striking distance of Tirpitz,” said Skinner. “Admiral, perhaps you’d like to play the transport plane’s pilot.”

  “With pleasure,” said Plantinga. “Commander Culkin, you’ll be my navigator. Maintain present course!”

  “Maintain present course,” echoed Culkin.

  “Lieutenant Kresky, you’re the bombardier,” said Plantinga.

  “Aye aye, sir,” said Kresky.

  “Bad news, guys,” said Sasha. “The tension’s getting to my gizzard. I think I’m about to poop.”

  “Oh, please,” said Thomas.

  “I’m not in great shape either,” I confessed. “I’ve lost some hackles and a few secondary remiges.”

  “Same here,” said Thomas.

  “Visual contact!” cried Plantinga.

  Suddenly the cutout of Tirpitz appeared on my viewscreen, her four pairs of 38-cm guns protruding from their turrets like arms exxxtended in Sieg heils.

  “You see that?” I asked my fellow pilots.

  “Target acquired!” yelled Sasha, who’d apparently mastered his intestinal distress.

  “Lieutenant Kresky, drop glider on the naught!” ordered Plantinga.

  “Aye aye, sir,” said Kresky.

  Plantinga shouted, “Ten … nine … eight … seven … sixxx … five … four …!”

  “The early bird gets the Kraut!” I told my colleagues, resting my beak against the viewscreen.

  “We’re with you, Reuben!” Sasha and Thomas replied in unison.

  “Three … two … one … release!”

  “Missile flying!” screamed Kresky.

  “Bomb under organic control!” cried Skinner.

  Transcending our anxxxiety, Sasha, Thomas, and I thrust our beaks back and forth, pecking till hell wouldn’t have it again, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap. After twenty seconds somebody tried making our task more difficult, jerking the battleship cutout first to the left, then to the right, then up, then down. I cleaved to my target, hammering with the steely determination of Poe’s raven, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap. The valves whistled madly, releasing measured bursts of pressurized air, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap. I could feel the nose cone banking, diving, and climbing as we faithfully tracked Tirpitz.

  “Amazing!” cried Culkin.

  “This is better than radar!” shouted Kresky.

  Plantinga yelled, “Lieutenant Bissonette, move target closer!”

  “Aye aye, sir!”

  Bissonette did as instructed, simulating the Pelican’s progress toward Tirpitz. Our mission became ridiculously easy, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap. Even a starling could hit a Schlachtschiffe at this range, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.

  Now somebody got the bright idea of covering my camera obscura lens with his palm, making my viewscreen go black.

  “Fellas, I gotta drop out!” I informed my colleagues, lifting my beak from the strike zone. “I lost the target!”

  “Lost mine too!” moaned Thomas.

  “Sasha, it’s up to you,” I exhorted my little brother. “I’m on the job!” shouted Sasha.

  “Professor Skinner, I salute you,” said Culkin. “Two servomechanisms knocked out, but the missile remains on course.”

  The mischief maker abruptly restored my Tirpitz projection.

  “Stimulus reacquired!” I yelled, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.

  “Stimulus reacquired!” echoed Thomas.

  “Now let’s have a look at these hotshot pilots of yours,” said Plantinga.

  “Not yet,” pleaded Skinner. “The missile hasn’t detonated. I haven’t said, ‘Ka-boom.’”

  Ignoring the psychologist’s protest, Plantinga opened the hatch of my cockpit. Ambient light floode
d my viewscreen, washing out the projected image, and I found myself pecking at a maddeningly vague battleship, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.

  “A pretty raggedy-ass bird you got there, Professor,” said Plantinga. “I’ll bet he’s shed a dozen hackles.”

  “Ka-boom!” shouted Skinner.

  “This one’s even mangier,” said Culkin, evidently commenting on Thomas’s condition.

  “Ka-boom! Ka-boom!”

  “This last one’s in the worst shape of all,” said Kresky. “He’s pooped all over the place.”

  And then it happened, the most undesirable development imaginable. Our presumed patrons stopped taking us seriously. Merriment gathered in the decorated breasts of Admiral Plantinga, Commander Culkin, Lieutenant Kresky, and Lieutenant Bissonette, and they all burst out laughing.

  “P-p-p-pigeons!” cackled Culkin with unrestrained glee.

  “P-p-p-pigeons!” echoed Kresky.

  “Of course they’re pigeons!” countered Skinner. “That’s what you paid for!”

  “A scruffy bunch of p-p-p-pooping p-p-p-pigeons!” snickered Bissonette.

  “They delivered the bomb to the target!” wailed Skinner. “They sank Tirpitz!”

  “They crapped in their cockpits!” cried Culkin, guffawing.

  “Radar guidance might not work, but it doesn’t get the runs!” said Plantinga, howling hysterically.

  And from that moment on, it was clear to all of us—to Sasha and Thomas and me and even to the great psychologist—that Project Organicon was history.

  Speaking from my perspective as an old, tired, postwar pigeon, I would predict that behaviorism does not have a bright future. To be sure, cannily forged stimulus-response bonds and sagacious schedules of reinforcement, positive and negative, will always boast great utility—ask any guide-dog trainer, porpoise handler, lion tamer, dressage artist, or elementary schoolteacher giving out gold stars—and yet I suspect that psychology will become a real science only by keying itself to biochemistry and neurology. OK, I suppose the field could go in the opposite direction, scorning materialism and embracing teleology, but Aristotle already tried that and scientifically it got him nowhere.