PAGE SIX
UNIVERSITY DAILY KANSAN, LAWRENCE, KANSAS
THURSDAY, MARCH 11, 1943
The Forgotten Heroes Of This War Are The Men Of The Merchant Marine
Praises for the valiant Marine corps men of Guadalcanal still ring. Newspapers banner the exploits of American soldiers in the North African campaign, and of Navy men hammering the Japs in the Pacific. But there is one branch of the service, a civilian branch to be true, that seems to be forgotten, though it is the most essential and most dangerous branch of them all—we refer to the Merchant Marine.
Figures released by the Maritime Union reveal that casualties among these sailors are now past the four per cent mark, far greater than the casualties of any of the uniformed services.
Said one grizzled veteran: "Between hell and an oil tanker, I'd take hell—excepting I wouldn't be hurting Hitler any in hell." A single torpedo from an enemy sub sends huge areas of seawater, suddenly covered with a film of oil, bursting into flames which roast alive crew members within hundreds of yards of the stricken vessel. Other merchant marine assignments are almost as dangerous, and Hitler and the Japs strive desperately to cut the arteries of sea communications.
After each sinking, however, those hardy crew members who survive—and there are many who do not—return once again to the sea, determined that the vital traffic shall not be halted.
Attempts such as that recently made by an Akron paper—and immediately seized upon by the Chicago Tribune and other papers—to detract from the exploits of these men do not need the direct refutations they have received. They merit only contempt.
Men of the merchant marine are slowly gaining the recognition they have so long deserved. More and more, young men who want to serve their country in a most vital, and most dangerous manner, are joining the United States Merchant Marine.-J.D.K.
Partisan Groups in This Country Due Little Praise In War Effort
What can a man believe in?
Today millions of the nation's youth are being called upon to fight for their country; to fight for the preservation of "democracy." But what is this "democracy" they are asked to die for—it takes capital, labor, big business, little business, farmers—all this it takes to make a democracy, but with it, what is there that is worth asking a boy to give up his life to save?
Is it capital? This nation's manhood would scarcely feel like putting forth such effort to save the country's financiers from their own foolhardiness that brought on the world depression in the last decade and contributed to the present war.
Is it labor? Again, the answer can only be no. Those boys who have spent days and nights of hell on the world's battlefronts can have only scorn for those at home whose contribution to the war effort consists of demands for wage increases and a shameful record of voluntary absenteeism from the war plants, while shortages of fighting equipment have placed many an American soldier behind enemy prison gates.
Why more of our patriotic students aren't donating to the blood bank for civilian disasters at Watkins Memorial hospital.
Is it big business? Again, no. Manufacturers who failed to convert to war production because they feared their competitors would take over the civilian markets—manufacturers who resisted government efforts to convert because they feared government control can hardly feel that their pre-war record deserves the recognition of our fighting men.
Is it little business? Designated roughly as business that does less than $50,000 turnover annually, the businesses in this category have little to their credit in the nation's efforts to produce for war. Many have whined and growled about government; many more have proved far too inefficient in management to be of any aid in conversion to war production. Business-as-usual remained the pipe dream of a great many, even past Pearl Harbor. Their record, too, has scarcely emerged from its shadows.
Is it agriculture? Here, again, is a story of demands for higher prices for crops, for subsidies, for incentive payments—incentive payments to produce food needed to win the war! No, it can hardly be incentive payments our boys are fighting for.
No one of these different groups which go together to make up our country is any more to blame than the other. All have been shortsighted and selfish, though each group can point out notable exceptions. But each has a debt to pay to the boys on foreign shores, and they can show that they mean to pay that debt in a worthwhile manner by stopping the eternal bickering among themselves, by showing more initiative, and most of all, by showing that their great concern is winning the war instead of personal gains.
UNIVERSITY DAILY KANSAN
Student Paper of THE UNIVERSITY OF KANSAS Lawrence, Kansas
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Editor-in-chief ... Maurice Barker
Editorial Associates ... Don Keown, Joy Miller,
Matt Heuertz, Jimm Gunn, Florence Brown
EDITORIAL STAFF
NEWS STAFF
Managing Editor ... Virginia Tieman
Sunday Editor ... Joy Miller
Campus editors ... Alan Houghton, Jane
        Miner, Clara Lee Oxley
Sports editor ... J. Donald Keown
News Editor ... Florence Brown
Feature Editor ... Lucille Kadel
Ah-hah!: In spite of all the advance publicity about "Phog" Allen taking the army reservists basketball players to Leavenworth right after the basketball game Saturday night, it is reliably reported that the group left Sunday afternoon instead from in front of Watkins Memorial Hospital.
Ah, 'tis spring: This changeable March weather we've been having lately prompted one fellow to comment that the weather was just about as uncertain as the draft and reserve situation . . . One student commented on the fact that it was spring and was asked indignantly how he knew. "I have a cold," he replied . . . Golfers and sports of all kinds will find it muddy going this weekend. But, then, golfers are a hardy lot. They have been known to slosh around in knee-deep mud before.
Comment on an Early Spring
Poor little robins,
Hopping in the snow,
Freeze their little toes off,
Don't know where to go.
I can tell them where it's hot,
I can tell them and I will.
They can go to—you know where.
Anywhere but on the Hill.
* * * * *
"Being round and smooth, the rolling stone rolled into the mattress factory one day and saw how overgrown everything was, and proceeded to milk the thoughtful stone of his moss, for the thoughtful stone was a moss-back and the rolling stone was wise in the ways of the world.
"I once heard a story," said he, "of two stones, a rolling stone and a non-rolling stone. The rolling stone, true to form, gathered no moss, but the other did, for he was a thoughtful stone and sat in a shady place all day to think. And he thought and he gathered moss and he gathered moss and he thought.
The spice of life: "Ah-hem," hawed the Sage of Mt. Oread and broke a long silence thereby.
"The moral to this story," said the Sage, "is that rolling stones may gather no moss, but they gather some wonderful memories."
"Now, as I said, the rolling stone, unlike the thoughtful stone, gathered no moss. He did not, therefore, enter the mattress business and stuff his mattress with it. He did not grow filthy rich off the moss of the other stones. He did not become the mattress king of the country. Indeed, it is doubtful if he ever slept on a mattress, but he had the rough edges knocked off him and he grew quite round and smooth.
"Hey, Mac, didn't I see you staggering out of some place downtown Saturday night?" I asked the sailor standing beside me in the smoking room.
Editor's Note: The following story is representative of the opinions many campus sailors have of Lawrence. It's something to think about.
looked like an all right guy. I we'd had several work details together. He was studying the ashes on his cigarette, like he was sorta thinking of something.
"Yeah," he sighed, "guess you did alright—fraid so."
Sailors On Leave Where To Go?
Mac, that's what we sailors call anybody we don't know, looked like an all right guy. I'd seen him around before and cold had several work details $ ^{*} $
"Have you been here long?" I asked to keep up the conversation.
"Couple of months—not very long, yet it seems like a helluva long time in some ways," he answered.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, when I first came out here to Kansas, to Lawrence, I thought I might enjoy myself—small home town, college crowd and such like, but—oh, let's cut it," he ended and put out his cigarette.
"Hell, go ahead and gripe. That's an American privilege, and besides it might make you feel better," I urged, as I had a good idea how he felt.
He took the cigarette I offered and stood there a moment.
"Maybe I had the wrong idea, but being from the East, I'd heard that the West was noted for its hospitality. I haven't seen too much of it here in town—the kind I want anyway," he began.
"Yeah—go on."
"You know, you said you saw me drunk. Well you did see me. Yeah, I know that's my fault, but a few things around here would help a lot."
"What do you mean," I wanted to know.
"There's no USO center here now. That Community building sits down there—the only time we're in it is to play basket ball. There's no place to go to meet the right kind of people—girls—in the right way. You can always pick up someone on it."
(continued to page seven)