It is one of the iconic episodes in the history of American war resistance, a sensation when it happened and recounted many times since in memoirs and oral histories: from his solitary cell in the penitentiary at Danbury, Connecticut, the conscientious objector Don Benedict refused the warden’s demands that he pitch in the prison’s softball championship unless all of those similarly confined were released. At the eleventh hour, the warden relented; Benedict “pitched batter after batter out” and won the series; and the prisoners walked free.
The version of these events that follows comes from Howard Schoenfeld’s “The Danbury Story,” first published in shortened form in The Nation in 1947 and then more completely in the CO anthology Prison Etiquette: The Convict’s Compendium to Useful Information (1950). Schoenfeld (1915–2004) served eleven months in Danbury and seven more after that in a Quaker work camp. Born in Pittsburgh and raised in Hot Springs, Arkansas, he spent most of his life, from his twenties onward, in Greenwich Village; after his release he wrote science fiction, fantasy, and mystery stories, scripts for the TV show Atom Squad (1953), and the crime novel Let Them Eat Bullets (1954).
Some of Benedict’s own recollections of his prison time appear later in this book, and are considerably less joyous. On the softball field, athletic and victorious, he seemed every inch the conventional hero; heroism of conscience may be harder to see and harder to celebrate, but the stakes were surely higher, as Benedict and Schoenfeld both understood.
WEEKS PASSED.
One day a guard entered the cell block, walked down the corridor and opened the door to Benedict’s cell. Benedict, like most of the pacifists in our group, was a fine athlete. Outside, his physical prowess was a legend in amateur athletic circles, and, in particular, he excelled as a soft ball pitcher. Big muscled, strong and agile, his speed ball was so swift only one man in the prison could catch him. The prison team, built around his pitching, was tied for first place in its league, and his ability to hold the opposition scoreless had placed it there. The inmates, probably for the first time in the history of prison ball, were solidly behind their team, which originally entered the league expecting to serve as a scrub practise team for the other amateurs in that area.
The Warden, a sports lover, was delighted with the unusual situation, and it did not surprise us to hear the guard offer Benedict his freedom if he would pitch the championship play-off games, which were scheduled for that day. Benedict pointed out he was in no condition to pitch after his long confinement, and wasn’t sure he could make it. The guard explained he would be given time to limber up and mentioned how disappointed the inmates would be if the championship was lost. Benedict thereupon said he would do it. He added, however, only on condition that all the men in solitary, including the inmates not in the pacifist group, were released. The guard said he would speak to the Warden about it, and we heard him trudge down the corridor.
We waited in silence till he came back. The Warden could not agree to Benedict’s terms, but he offered a compromise. He would release all the conscientious objectors for the game, and Benedict permanently. Benedict refused. The guard disappeared, returning shortly thereafter with another offer. The Warden would release everyone for the game, and Benedict permanently. Benedict refused. The guard disappeared.
About a half hour later a Lieutenant of guards entered and told Benedict the men were warming up for the first game. The inmates, he said, were aware of his refusal to pitch, and were resentful towards him and the rest of us. He then said he thought he could prevail on the Warden to release all the conscientious objectors permanently, and the other men in solitary for the game, if Benedict would do it. Benedict refused.
Fully an hour passed before the Captain of guards entered and released us. The prison team had lost the first game of the series, and the Warden, unable to endure further losses, had agreed to Benedict’s terms.
Grinning hugely, we left our cells, and laughing at each other’s pasty complexions, bearded faces, and unkempt hair, hurried out into the prison yard. A wave of applause went through the inmate stands as Benedict rushed down the field and began warming up.
Benedict, in true Frank Merriwell fashion, summoned his strength after the long weeks of demoralized living, and, in a superhuman and prodigious performance, pitched batter after batter out, enabling the prison team to rally and score, and win the series.
Word of the remarkable feat reached the neighboring cities through the sports pages of their newspapers, and later, when Benedict was released, over 20,000 people paid fancy admission prices to see him in action at a benefit game.
Morale broke down completely in the prison after the games, when we were rounded up, including Benedict, and thrown back into solitary. The guard on duty was so disgusted he did not even bother to lock our cells.
The next day at noon the Warden reversed his stand and released us. The midday whistle had blown and the men were already in the mess hall, eating. We straggled across the empty yard, basking in the sun, enjoying our freedom. A spontaneous wave of applause broke out among the men as the first of our group entered the hall. Surging across the hall the wave became a crescendo. Six hundred pairs of hands joined in and the crescendo became pandemonium. Guards ran up and down the aisles; they were ignored. The pandemonium increased when Benedict entered the hall, maintaining itself at an incredible pitch. A volcano of thunderous and deafening applause burst out when Arle Brooks entered, but when the so-called criminals who had been in solitary came in, the convicts literally went wild, beating their metal cups on the tables, and stamping their feet.
We stood in the center of the hall, astounded at the demonstration. It became clear to me that although they were applauding Benedict, Brooks, and all of us who had been in solitary, they were doing something more. A mass catharsis of human misery was taking place before our eyes. Some of the men were weeping, others were laughing like madmen. It was like nothing I had ever seen before, and nothing I ever expect to see again.