In 1982, when he published his memoir Born Again Radical, Don Benedict (1917–2008) was a minister in the United Church of Christ in Chicago with a thirty-five-year career behind him; William Sloane Coffin Jr. called him “Mr. Urban Ministry” for his dedication to the needs of his inner-city parishioners. In 1943, though, Benedict was a CO in the Danbury Federal Correctional Institution, where several contributors to the present volume (David Dellinger, Robert Lowell, Lowell Naeve) at one point or another did time.
Benedict has become something of a legend in the literature of World War II conscientious objection for his role in a famous softball game. A peerless pitcher, he was a player the sports-loving warden desperately needed for an upcoming championship. Declining lesser offers from the warden, he finally leveraged his athletic prowess to win the release of striking prisoners from solitary confinement—and also won the championship. Benedict is less heroic, in his own eyes especially, in the excerpt that follows. Here his courage and his pacifist convictions fail him, and he decides to give up his protest against the war. He later enlisted in the Army Air Corps and served in the Pacific.
MY pacifism was not a rigid philosophy in the sense of rules, nor was it a hierarchy of options. I simply had a strong feeling against violence all my life. I had always tried to break down the case for force. But when it came to acting I thought I would be ruled by my feeling at the time.
It seemed to me now that to kill in a crisis of self-defense was to strike directly at evil. This was permitted. But no matter how evil their cause, to invoke the name of justice and strike at other people when they might be brought to reason was surely wrong. To use force against misguided persons would be only an indirect blow. And how can one avoid striking through others to get at the center of evil?
Suddenly, a thought struck me, preventing me from going on. Here I was, a deep-rooted pacifist, actually trying to figure out a way to use force justly. Nazism was at the back of my mind. Was there such a thing as a just war? Were the Jews only absorbing aggression? This might be a just war but whom would I have to kill? And if it was a just war, what was my attitude saying? OK, it’s a just war, but I won’t fight—let someone else do it? I had to abandon that line of thinking temporarily, but I realized I would have to give more thought to my own pacifism. What was my stand? What was I going to do?
Coming out of quarantine as a known pacifist serving my second term, I was approached by a man called Chick who had been a United Mine Workers organizer. After being put in jail for failure to register, he had tried to get out by registering as a CO but was refused because he was not religious. He wanted me to help in another demonstration against prison as part of the war system. I agreed, and we recruited sixteen pacifists who would refuse to work for the rest of our terms. One man was to quit work each Wednesday so that the warden would have no way of knowing how widespread the strike was. Chick and I would be the last. We would go together, signalizing the end of the line.
When the day came, we stopped work and were immediately put into solitary confinement. This was my second time, but it was not to be like the first. I had no suspicion that this time it would break me down, that I would face a terrible crisis. At first I was elated. I was glad I had stopped reading Niebuhr’s book and that I had joined the work strike. It was the right thing to do. I might have held back, overindulging in self-examination. I was glad that I hadn’t wavered. I had been true to myself. And for my belief I had now gone all the way to the wall. But by the end of the next day I was wondering how long they would keep me in solitary. Probably just a few days, then back to a lock-in in the cell. I could understand why men in solitary spent their days waiting for the only events in their lives—the rattle of the lock, the swish of the door opening, and the sound of the food tray in the slot.
By the seventh night I no longer felt I was in solitary because of this last work strike. I was there because of my entire past life, and the question that faced me was not whether I could continue in solitary for the term of my sentence but for the rest of my life. There was no way to follow Jesus and mitigate the suffering. There was no way without, in the end, facing crucifixion. I knew this and I had always been prepared for it. I would go out from jail into a system I would resist and I would be sent back. In prison, too, I would continue to follow my convictions, and that meant solitary. There is no way to compromise when one follows the perfect One.
But was I strong enough? Always before I had thought I was, but now I was racked by doubt. From boyhood, I had believed violence was wrong. Now I faced a direct contradiction. The mere demonstration of the power of force in the Detroit streets had stopped the riots. I had to face that fact. Here was the one case that disproved my convictions. Not only could force bring order and peace; it had to be a superior force. This was hard for me to accept. Violence ought not to be stopped by violence. Where would it end? Nevertheless, my belief in pacifism as an absolute was shaken. How could I stay in solitary if I was unsure that what I was doing was right? What if I were wrong? No answer came. All day and through the night I was repeating a litany:
I have refused to fight. Lord, hear me.
I have tried to love everyone. Lord, hear me.
I have tried to be like Jesus, the perfect One, and the more I have tried the more impossible it becomes. Lord, hear me.
Midge Miller, shortstop. Shot down over Germany!
Lou Krueger, first base. Killed at Anzio!
The harder I struggle, the more bitter I become with others who say they are Christians. Lord, hear me.
Ed Breezee, Tecumseh High. Crashed in the Himalayas!
Maybe it makes a difference who wins the war. Lord, hear me.
I have never compromised. Lord, hear me.
I have followed my conscience. Lord, hear me.
I have striven for perfection and I have become only self-righteous. Lord, hear me.
I have given up all sources of income except the bare necessities. Lord, hear me.
When I lose count of the trays will I know day from night? Lord, hear me.
I am entirely removed from the world. Lord, hear me.
I am utterly alone. Lord, hear me.
God, God, are you hearing me? What good can I do here? Does it make a difference? How can I get out? How can I get out of here when I talked the others into striking? Is pacifism the only choice? There is nothing here. There is nothing ahead. How can I go on? There is no ground, no place to step. I don’t have enough faith. Why am I thinking these things? Am I thinking these things trying to make myself guilty for staying in solitary? Selfish for going to prison? Am I thinking these things because I am losing my mind? I don’t know what I believe. Only that I believe in you. You are my faith. And yet how can I go on? Into nothingness? Or have I already made the step?
I fell on the mattress, lying there, tossing from side to side. Gradually, the sense of the terrible silence changed to a feeling of quiet, then of peace. I thought it must be almost morning. I was exhausted and seemed to be falling asleep. I closed my eyes and began to drift, and then the words came, not a voice speaking, only the words, clear, in my mind: You are my beloved. This was the word of God to all people who have faith. For the first time I realized that word was also meant for me. I, myself, was loved by God—loved with all my guilt and imperfections; I felt surrounded and supported by love. And I slept.
I slept for an hour. When I awoke I knew I was going to get out. Not just go back on work detail and get out of solitary; I was going to get out of prison. But by the time the guard came and I asked for the razor I was shattered and shaking again. That hour of calm had left me.
I put on my shirt, and as the door opened I was thinking that when I got to the warden’s office I would write a note to the other pacifists. I felt I owed them an explanation.
It was the morning of the eighth day, and I stood in the doorway, blinking. A draft of fresh air came through, and a shaft of sunlight fell across the floor. The light almost hurt my eyes. I turned to look back into that cold, dim cell and felt for a moment intense sadness. Something fine was being left behind. Also certitude. Also my youth. I knew I would never come back.