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THE MITCHELL COURT-MARTIAL
BY FREDERIC J. HASKIN

You might expect the place to be dignified and impressive. It is not. From your perusal of the newspaper columns and your experience with news reels, you might expect to see cheering throngs, flags, bunting, mounted policemen, perhaps a band or two; and all that goes with a gala and highly important occasion, but you would not see that. You might expect to find all Washington gaping at news bulletins and breathlessly awaiting information as to how Col. Mitchell's case is coming on, but you would not find that.
When the Mitchell trial opened Washington really was excited. Some said that the Capital had been looking for years for something—excluding base ball—to get excited over and finally had found it. But Washington gets used to such things quickly, and interest waned, or rather the trial took its place beside many other interests. And when it did the Mitchell court-martial, although it is still much discussed, became more or less commonplace viewed as a show or spectacle.

Of course, it yet attracts many. The courtroom is crowded. Interested persons attend daily. There are in Washington many women whose domestic duties do not call upon them for much time, and who become inveterate attendants of hearings and trials and investigations. Many of them attend the Mitchell trial daily.
The "Courthouse."
The place is at First and B streets, at the foot of Capitol Hill, and in the shadow of the dome that marks the pinnacle of America's Olympus. But B street is a side street. It has the quiet of a secluded residence street. It is lined with trees that in the Summer form a green archway, but which in their November nakedness cast shadowy streaks on the street and the old building which is the courthouse.
This building, known as the Emery Building, is rather shabby. Its red bricks are a little dingy in the shadows cast by trees, and the keystone over the doorway, which bears the legend "U.S. Census," is worn and weather-beaten. It was built more than a quarter of a century ago, and named in honor of a candidate for the mayoralty of Washington in the days when the Capital's citizens could vote. That was a long time ago. It was made the headquarters of the Census Bureau and served for many years in that capacity.
Inside the dinginess increased. The floor is worn and the splinters jab at people's shoes. The walls look as if they were lined with cardboard. One feels, in fact, that this edifice has long since given up all evidence of life and that the trial within it might be some sort of spectral gathering.
On the walls are signs directing the interested to the courtroom. They point down the corridors of the first floor and then lead up the stairs. There one comes to the courtroom and its environs. The room for witnesses, the pressroom and the room for the judges are designated by signs. Then there is the courtroom itself.
Like an Old Schoolroom
It is something like a grade schoolroom of many years ago. There are posts in it. The windows are long.
It is stuffy one moment, and then, should some one open one of the long, drawn-out windows, the place assumes the temperature of a refrigerator. And to make the commonplaceness of the surroundings more complete there was the other morning, a family washing flapping on a clothesline just outside the window back of Maj. Gen. R.L. Howze, president of the court. The seats of the mighty are often set in simplicity.
Around a curved table in one end of the room sits the judges, four major generals, five brigadiers and a colonel. At one end of this table sits counsel for the defense and at the other end sits counsel for the prosecution. And between them sits the man they are battling over, gazing straight at the president of the court and its law member and right across the stenographer's table which bears the records of his amazing trial. Next to him sits Mrs. Mitchell, smiling, confident and a little defiant.
Col. Mitchell is right in the center of the fight, with the battle raging all about him. His counsel, Representative Reid of Illinois, hurls sharp invective over his head at the opposition, and the prosecution roars back over his head at Reid, and at times Col. Billy stretches, yawns and gazes out of the window at the flapping clothesline. Perhaps he is thinking of his laundry, or perhaps he is thinking of France, or of the forest and its game trails. He is quite a hunter. The Germans found him that when he led the allies' greatest air squadron.
Then back of these principals sit the newspaper men, three tables of them. These tables stretch the width of the room, just as the tables in old grade schoolrooms used to do. And back of them sit the spectators, usually about 200 of them, some sleepy, some wide-eyed with expectancy, some grave, some wondering what it is all about. Then there are the guards, who range all the way from privates to lieutenants. Indeed, within that old room is represented every rank in the Army from private to major general.
Many Men of Many Medals
The judges present an impressive array of medals, campaign stripes, division and officers' insignia, leather puttees and square jaws. They make pencil notes, whisper to each other, and drum with their fingers on the curved table, which is loaded with documents.
Maj. Gen. Howze sits back in his chair and twirls his thumbs. His brows are arched and his lips are pursed upward, and he looks hard-boiled. He has little to do. He leans forward every now and then and drones the decision of the law member to make it official and then sinks back to his restful position.
The law member, Col. Blanton Winship, reminds one of Marshal Foch. He is gray-haired and ruddy of complexion. His eyes are kindly and twinkle with humor, although his face wears a serious expression. His fairness in dealing with the defense has won him admiration from every one. His opinions are deliberately stated in a steady, gentle voice. He looks, for all the world, like somebody's father who is a little perturbed.
Maj. Gen. MacArthur looks like Admiral Beatty. He is jaunty and keen-eyed. Brig. Gen. Irwin looks like Gen. Pershing. Brig. Gen. Booth looks like your grandfather. When court is over he fumbles in his pocket and extracts an immense cigar. The first whiff brings a comfortable sigh.
Brig. Gen. Poore gives one the impression that he would enjoy a good golf game. Maj. Gen. McCoy appears a little sour. He might be looking at a man who had not shaved for inspection. But he isn't sour—he's Irish.
Maj. Gen. Graves looks like he might be your pastor. Brig. Gen. Winans seems a little sad, but it's a bluff.
All Old War Dogs.
All of them are veteran war dogs. They have fought the Indians and the Spaniards, and in the Phillippines, on the Mexican border, in France, wherever the American flag has been carried in war, and they want to know about this young colonel who has talked back.
Representative Reid is tall, rather sallow, and has piercing black eyes. He has not a very pleasant voice. It is sharp and his argument is sharp. He shoots his shafts and they cut. There are contempt and sarcasm in his discourse, which is biting and withering.
Judge Advocate Moreland is heavy and rotund. His voice is gutteral and his argument blunt. Lately he has been aided by Maj. A. J. Gullion and by Maj. F. W. Wilby, assistant to Maj. Gen. Drum, chief of the Army general staff.[[end of article]]
[[beginning of article]]
MEN AND AFFAIRS
BY ROBERT T. SMALL
[[?]]
A distinguished Army officer on duty in New York called up a classmate of the old West Point days at the War Department in Washington. After transacting some official business, the Army officer in New York thought to chide his buddy in the Capital.
"I hear," he said, "you are having a court-martial over there."
"Yes, we are." came the innocent reply.
"Well, who is being tried—Mitchell or the War and Navy Departments?"
"That's hard to tell," replied the Washington voice: "one day it looks like one thing and the next day it looks like the other. But you can bet your boots and spurs on one thing—Billy Mitchell is having the time of his life."
All of which is perfectly true. There is just one danger for Col. Mitchell. It is the danger of the trial being dragged out too long. Unquestionably the flying colonesl faced his judges with the active and absolute sympathy of nine-tenths of the people of the country. But it is difficult to hold the interest of the American people. Their interest is in one place today and gone tomorrow. There are so many things going on to claim their attention. A terrifying train wreck is dismissed in a day. A tidal wave or a holocaust makes the front page often in but a single edition. To hold the public interest for a month or more is virtually impossible.
Because of widespread travel the writer recently was able to record the great public interest in Col. Mitchell. A trip two weeks after the trial opened disclosed a decided slackening in that interest.
As the colonel is trying his case before the bar of public opinion he and his counsel should get it over with at the earliest possible moment. Otherwise his audience may walk out on him.
[[end of article]]
[[beginning of article]]
Mitchell Receives Lemon to Be Given To Army Counsel
[[? Star - 11/30/25]]
Col. William Mitchell received in court today a large box bearing the label of the Chamber of Commerce of Phoenix, Ariz.
An accompanying letter said the content of the box—a giant lemon— was intended for the prosecution counsel.
Col. Mitchell remarked he would use the lemon himself, as he believed the lemon juice, if mixed properly, would help cure a cold which now is causing him some annoyance.
[[end of article]]
[[image]]
Maj. Gen. Robert L. Howze, president of the court

Transcription Notes:
There is a hand-written note in Men and Affairs by Robert T Small that I can't quite read -paper name and date of publication, I think.