Copyright
2003 William D. Snyder
All
Rights Reserved
In
preparation for my interview with Commander Gatti, I carefully re-read his
book, and studied the geography of the three British East African
colonies. During this period I became
the local public library’s best customer.
Rose
Korsgren, the sweet voice from Hallicrafters, called again with interview
information. “It’s scheduled for September 2rd in Derby Line, Vermont,” she said. “Another person will also be interviewed the same day; his name is Bob Leo, his ham call is W6PBV, and he lives in San Mateo, California.” She then suggested Bob and I meet in the hotel in Derby
Line and go out to Gatti’s home/office together. Somehow I got the impression
from her that Bob and I were the only finalists; however, the ad in QST
specified six finalists with only one to make the trip.
I hopped
Northwest Airlines to Chicago and American into New York City. It was my second air trip into the Big Apple; I’d flown there once while in the army.
In those postwar days, the aircraft used on most airlines was the 21 passenger Douglas DC-3, an airplane that had thousands of clones serving the army, navy and marines for military purposes.
I arrived on an American Airline’s DC-3 at the Newark airport. From there I took the limousine service to the Manhattan Airline Terminal. When the limo arrived at the terminal building
on 42nd Street, I picked up my suitcase at the baggage counter,
walked out to the big city street, jumped in a taxi and said to the driver,
“The Commodore Hotel.” I tried to act like a native because I’d stayed in that
hotel once during my army career.
The
cabby looked at me with a funny smile and said, “Hey, buddy, if you look across
the street you can see the Commodore Hotel.
If I was youse, I’d walk.”
With a
sheepish grin, I climbed out of the taxi and jaywalked across the street to the
hotel. I stayed overnight in the New
York in order to visit my college married friends, Mason and Frances Arvold. We partied like crazy along with Mason’s
sister, Mary Arvold, and a few of their theatrical friends. A great evening.
The
following morning I walked across the street to the Airline Terminal and took American Airlines to Boston. As we flew along the coastal waters, memories of my days in the Army Engineer Amphibian
Command at Camp Edwards, Massachusetts returned. I recalled my New York/Boston flight in 1942 to join the Amphibs. In those days the curtains on the DC-3’s windows were drawn whenever the plane took off or landed. Only in level flight at cruising altitude were they allowed open. It was a
security measure to keep enemy spies from learning about the cities the airline
served.
From
“Beantown” Boston I took the evening train to Derby Line, a quaint little
Vermont village right on the border with Canada. In fact, some of the town is in Canada and some in the United States.
Bob and
I met in the Derby Line hotel and sat down to breakfast together. He seemed to know more about the expedition plans than I did, so we compared lives. Bob was 26 years old; I was about to turn 31. He held a Bachelor of Science degree in Electrical Engineering from the prestigious California Institute of Technology (CalTech); I held a BS in Arts and Science from North Dakota Agricultural College (known by the University of North Dakota students as the “Cow and Pig Institute”). Bob had served as an officer in the Navy for five years; I was a veteran of nearly five years of active duty in the U.S. Army as a commissioned officer, plus four years in the Naval Reserve as a
Radioman 3rd class. We both held Class “A” Amateur Radio licenses, and Second Telegraph and First Phone commercial tickets.
F.E.
Handy, an official of the American Radio Relay League (ARRL), the ham radio
operators association was one of the so-called contest judges as to which finalist would go on the trip. I’m sure Handy was impressed by both of us having the 35 word-per-minute International
Morse Code Proficiency certificate issued by the ARRL. Thirty-five was the highest speed
endorsement issued by the League.
Bob had been
employed by the Civil Aeronautics Administration at their overseas receiving
station at Pigeon Point, California, a site with about 400 acres overlooking
the Pacific Ocean.
His ham
call was W6PBV, and he had six V beams, a rhombic antenna mounted on 90 foot
poles, a kilowatt transmitter, and separate ham shack. “It’s a nifty place, and I really didn’t
want to leave the great DX location,” said Bob over eggs and bacon, “but I’ve
been transferred to the transmitting station KSF, that’s not the Mackay Radio
KFS, the CW station all you overseas Yanks used to copy for news from America
during the war. The job there is really boring. It’s a fine place for retired
Navy chiefs to spend their time dusting transmitters, making coffee and reading
the daily papers. That’s why I applied for this job.
Get a little
adventure for a change.”
Bob and
I got along famously from the start. The published rules of the so-called contest called for six finalists to be interviewed and one selected. “Have you heard anything about the other finalists?” I asked Bob.
“On the way here I toured the Hallicrafters’ plant in Chicago,” Bob said, “Someone there mentioned something about only three, but that’s all I know. Maybe it’s just between you and me.”
“I’d
hate to be the only ham radio operator on the expedition,” I said, “I’ve been
reading about malaria and sleeping sickness and all those juicy tropical
African diseases.”
“Me,
too,” agreed Bob. “Two are one better than one.”
We
laughed. “Let’s get him to take us both,” I said. “I think we can do it.”
“Fine
with me,” said Bob and we shook hands.
From the
hotel we took a taxi to the Gatti home. I was intrigued by the address: it was listed on the expedition stationary as “Commander Gatti’s residence: Glenbrook House.” The cab driver
didn’t have too much to say about Gatti, other than the fact that he knew where
he lived.
On the
short taxi ride, Bob said to me, “Did you notice on Gatti’s Expedition
stationary that his phone number is 353 in Rock Island, Quebec?”
“No,
can’t say I did,” I said.
A lady
met Bob and me at the door. “Are you
Mrs. Gatti?” I asked. In North Dakota we ask questions like that.
“No, I’m
the maid,” the lady answered and escorted us to Gatti’s second floor office
where he was waiting for us. Gatti was all
smiles, and he offered a firm and pleasant handshake. When we were seated in comfortable chairs lined up in front of
his big desk, Gatti opened the interview.
“Gentlemen,”
he said, “Welcome to Canada. You are
now in the part of the house that is in Quebec. The rest of the house is in Vermont. The international line runs right through here.”
The
revelation fascinated me, and this thought occurred to me: “what a great place
to dodge process servers.” I’m not sure if Gatti interpreted my smile or not.
I
expected to see a lot of African artwork in his windowed on three sides office;
there was some, but not much. Gatti
seemed well organized; a man’s desk will sometimes give his habits away.
The
interview began with a few questions taken from our application letters.
I
studied Gatti’s face and his smile. I
recalled my grandfather’s advice on people with heavy-duty smile action. “Never trust a man with more than one smile
per sentence,” Gramps had said, “Shakespeare put it this way: ‘One may smile,
and smile, and be a villain.’”
Gatti
then turned to our resumes. “Snyder,”
he said happily, “you certainly have a fine photo with your application. Is that your camera?”
I smiled
back at Gatti: “I’m glad you like my picture. As you can see from my resume, I make industrial motion pictures for
various clients, and yes, the camera is mine.” My “heroic” picture strategy was
working.
Gatti
then told us about the plans for the expedition: little things like departure
and return dates, and big things like there were two corporations involved in
the junket: the Gatti-Hallicrafters African Expedition (Vermont), Inc., and the
Gatti-Hallicrafters African Expedition (Illinois), Inc.
That
fact seemed strange to me, but lawyers have a way of complicating things. Apparently it was liability that concerned
everyone, so the principals put together two companies to act as an invisible
shield from lawsuits.
Gatti
was a man of substantial build, strong physical features, and I guessed his age at about 50.
He
possessed a receding hairline, a square military jaw, deep-set piercing eyes,
and a rather large but strangely crooked nose. He spoke with a moderately
strong Italian accent that was melodious in tone.
Gatti
volunteered information about his military title of “Commander”; it came from
his service in the Italian cavalry during World War I. After that war Gatti did some African
exploring and then immigrated to the United States in the 1920s. It was in the USA that Gatti discovered the
“business” of African “exploration.”
I was
quite impressed as he told us that the Gatti-Hallicrafters junket was to be his
eleventh African exploration and his biggest and most “scientific” expedition.
In
glowing terms, Gatti told of taking “machine gun” cameras to photograph
wildlife in action. I had no idea of
what he meant by the term, but he had apparently latched onto some war surplus
aircraft gun cameras that he planned to use for unknown shooting.
The QST
advertisement had stated he planned on a helicopter, so I asked him about
it. “I’m sorry to say we’ve had to
eliminate the helicopter,” Gatti said, “it won’t fly high enough to reach the
top of Kilimanjaro, the highest mountain in Africa.” I wasn’t sure the altitude
fact was true, but I assumed it was.
Gatti
then changed the subject to the ham station. It was being installed by
Hallicrafters in a house trailer donated by the Schult Trailer Company. Gatti then dropped other bits of information
to whet our appetites for adventure. First, we were to scale the highest mountain in Africa, Mount
Kilimanjaro in Tanganyika. He broke into a a broad toothy smile as he said,
“We’ll broadcast the first radio transmissions from the top of Africa”! Then, with a still broader smile, he added
“with wonderful Hallicrafters equipment! Hams all over the world will cue up to
talk to us from up there!”
Bob and
I nodded our agreement. Gatti was at his best using superlatives.
“Then,”
Gatti puffed a bit more, “We’ll conquer the ‘Mountains of the Moon’, the
mysterious Ruwenzori range in Uganda. It’ll be a great place for what you hams call ‘working DX’. It will be the first ham radio transmissions
from there, too!” Gatti had a way of getting us to fantasize about the fun we
were going to have. It was great!
“Commander
Gatti,” I said cautiously because Gatti didn’t seem to be anyone to try first
names with, “I think you should take both Bob and me. From what you’ve told us,
there’s bound to be too much work for one ham radio person.” Bob agreed by
nodding. “We can keep the station on the air more hours, do a better job,” I
said.
“Contractually,
Mr. Snyder, we only have to keep the station on the air six hours a day, and
that is all we are going to do. Petrol
is very, very expensive in Africa and our generators use a lot of it,” Gatti
said. “But maybe we can use your
talents as a cameraman in addition to the ham radio business.”
I was
beginning to feel I had it made, so I asked him about the photographers that
were being recruited through the magazine True. True was a man’s magazine,
patterned something like “Esquire” with he-man adventure stories the main
editorial thrust.
“The
contest for photographers in True magazine was a wonderful success,” said Gatti
with another big grin. “We drew 20,000
applications for the two jobs!”
The
number of entries impressed me, but I wondered if there were that many
photogrphers in the country who could go to Africa for six months.
“The
photographers will be busy,” said Gatti, “True magazine and the Toronto Sunday
newspaper supplement want photo stories, and we have already a contract for a
series of seven advertisements featuring Canadian Club Whiskey. And then there will be advertising pictures
for Goodyear, Remington, Evinrude, Underwood, and a dozen other companies. They want black and white and color
photographs of their products in action in Africa.
We will
be testing their equipment under the toughest conditions.”
I was
beginning to see that his African Expedition was basically to discover money,
and the so-called “scientific” aspects of the trip were only for advertising
purposes.
The more
Gatti explained the plans, the more I suspected his motives. But, for me, it
was a good chance to get to Africa and see the world, so I put my suspicions on
hold; I wanted to go with him.
In the
middle of the interview we were interrupted by a film maker from the Pathe
Newsreel company. They were making a
movie short subject called “The 5,000 Mile Handshake.” It dealt with the
U.S.-Canadian border, the longest border without fences in the world. Because
Gatti’s house is in both countries, the producer wanted to shoot film of him
and his office. Gatti quickly agreed
and the producer made an appointment to shoot the next day in the very office
we were sitting in.
Gatti
made references to his wife, an author of some literary stature. “Mrs. Gatti
has a contract for a number of fiction stories for the Toronto Star Sunday
supplement, so she’ll be writing while we are on African soil,” he said. “I’m sorry, but she is under the weather, or
otherwise I’d have you meet her.”
The last
thing he brought up was a contract for our services. The salary wasn’t much, but with all expenses paid, full
insurance coverage, salary wasn’t the big deal. I wanted the experience and the adventure of the trip. After all I was single with no tax
exemptions.
He handed
each of us a contract to look over. It
was with the Vermont corporation, and it contained a good many paragraphs
limiting us to what we could do after the expedition returned home.
“Now, to
save us some time,” Gatti said as he applied the pressure, “why don’t you both
sign two copies of the agreement, and then we’ll only have to let you know that
you have been selected before we go.”
The
contract spelled out all kinds of things, for example: we would not be
permitted to write articles or books (or take any pictures for myself) about
the expedition for a specified number of years. All literary and photographic rights were to belong to the
Gatti-Hallicrafter’s Expedition corporation, which, for all practical purposes
was Commander Gatti.
I
thought about it for just a few seconds and signed the papers. Bob did likewise. It looked like we were both going to make the trip, but Gatti seemed to be hedging in his talk. So,
as I handed the papers back to him, I said with a smile, “This is predicated on
both of us going with you, Commander. I don’t think I want to tackle it alone.”
Gatti
didn’t say anything, he handed each of us a large 16 page brochure (10.5 x 14
inches) outlining the forthcoming expedition in glowing terms. I skimmed through a few pages of it and then
folded it in half so it would fit in my brief case. The sepia and white printing looked interesting.
“Here’s
another brochure,” Gatti said, “It tells of my tenth African expedition to the
Belgian Congo.” He reached across the desk and handed us each a booklet printed
in black and white with a brilliant yellow overprint. At first glance, it was quite impressive. “Jungle Yachts in the
Belgian Congo,” screamed the printed title.
It was
lunch time, so Gatti called a cab to take us back to the hotel. After our
goodbyes and handshakes we left for the hotel where we had lunch and discussed
the fact that we were both going to hold out for both of us going on the
expedition.
I took
an afternoon train to Montreal, Quebec and spent most of the trip reading the
two brochures Gatti had given us. On the front page of one it said “...
to the ‘Mountains of the Moon.’” Then in smaller type it said in bold capitals:
“SCIENTIFIC RESEARCH AND COLLECTION -- FIELD EXPERIMENTS IN SHORT WAVE RADIO COMMUNICATIONS IN CENTRAL AND EAST AFRICA.”
To me it sounded like fun with a capital F.
On page
two was a picture of Gatti with his “topi” pith helmet set at a jaunty angle. He was looking very determined and stern. After seeing Gatti close up, I figured the photo was one from quite
a few years prior. The headline on the page screamed; “COMMANDER of the expedition is ATTILIO GATTI.” I smiled at that one; it sounded like a military expedition to capture some far away objective, rather than a scientific expedition to test a benign hobby like ham radio.
Here are
some quotes from page 2: Gatti “organized and directed ten scientific
expeditions and spent fourteen years on African soil... Member or Fellow of several American and
European scientific societies... discovered a new race of Okapi... captured
alive the first Congo Bongo.... discovered Africa’s most ancient iron foundry.... and great deposits of Stone Age implements...”
I was
impressed with his credentials; of course, I wondered what scientific societies
had appointed him to the “Fellow” status. If I had such honor I think I would brag about it in a brochure to promote such an expedition.
On page
three there was a portrait photo of Ellen Gatti with her “topi” pith helmet
square on her head and her eyes staring off into the distance. The caption on Mrs. Gatti’s photo read: “Ellen Gatti, who will share with her husband the responsibilities of the
expedition.” The top 2/3rds of page three was devoted to a photo of three
shelves of books captioned “Some of the books written by Attilio and Ellen
Gatti.” My first thought: it was an impressive library; my second thought: many
of the books had two or more copies scattered through the shelves. I recognized some of the books that I had read, but there were a lot more that I didn’t. Again, I was impressed.
On the
other pages of the brochure were pictures and stories about Bill Halligan, the
president of Hallicrafters, and pictures of the Gattis posing with various
natives: the pygmies, the giant Watusi, and other tribes. The center fold was devoted to a map of
Africa and the projected area of “exploration.” Then, the most intriguing bit
was the listing of all the equipment that Gatti was going to have available for
“scientific” exploration.
There
were three things outlined in the brochure, other than the photo and radio
gear, that got my attention: the “humming bird” 2 place Bell helicopter, the
“floating island” for camera blind use, and the “diving eye” for underwater
picture taking. Gatti actually had a picture of all three things in the
folder. The “diving eye” had the Gatti-Hallicrafters logo painted on it, and it depicted a black person wearing the uniform of an African police boy cleaning the glass window through which
the cameras could be aimed.
The
radio section of the brochure was full of actual pictures taken of people
wearing “topi” helmets working on generators, transmitters, etc. An artists drawing of a bunch of grass shacks with four metal towers fitted with 3 element beams filled almost half a
page. All in all the brochure was first class and I was more excited than ever to join the group in Africa.
The
train was approaching Montreal when I turned my attention to the Jungle Yacht brochure. It was two-color resume of the previous Gatti African expedition. It was published by the International Harvester Organization of Chicago, and on the inside cover, it told of a Harvester employee, Clyde N. King, and his big accomplishment in 1927. King was the first man to drive a four-wheel
motor vehicle the 3,800 miles across the continent of Africa near the equator. And he did it in just 19 days.
Next to
the paragraphs about King’s trip, was an introduction to the main article
written by Gatti.
It
contained a bit about Mrs. Gatti: “Ten years ago Commander Gatti made his first
visit to New York, where he met Miss Ellen Waddill. He spoke Italian, French, Arabic, and a variety of African dialects, but no English. A natural-born linguist, he set out to explore the unknown territory of the English language—to him, another jungle. In a few years he had not only learned another strange tongue but had become a master of English prose writing.” The piece then went on to list all the articles Gatti had written in recent American periodicals.
I didn’t
get to read the rest of the 24 pages because we arrived in the Montreal. I had a number of hours to kill until my night train to New York left the depot, so I spent the time dining and
bar-hopping. My high school French didn’t work too well in the big Canadian city, but it was fun trying.
The
train to New York had U.S. Customs agents aboard, so I was cleared before I
climbed into my lower berth for a night’s sleep. The next morning, I arrived in the big city, took the limo to the
airport, and hopped a plane for home.
On the
DC-3 from New York to Chicago I finished studying the Belgian Congo
booklet. I was really impressed with
the photos of pygmies, animals and the “Jungle Yachts.” The “yachts” were
a truck-trailer combination that
appeared to be a fifth-wheel combination; however, the camera angles were not
clear about the towing arrangement. The
trailers, nevertheless, were striking in style. Gatti had a flair for the unique; I was proud of him.
From our
homes, Bob and I met on the ham radio bands each day at noon my time. We were both competent Morse Code operators,
so we made contact daily on 14.326 Mhz. CW. “Did you hear yet?” was the usual first sentence. The tension began to mount.
It
wasn’t long after arriving back in Fargo that I received a letter from
Gatti. It was dated September 3rd,
the same day we had signed the contracts, and it contained more provisions to
be added to the agreement.
The
first paragraph called for “two to four weeks working at the Engineering
Department of The Hallicrafters Company in Chicago in order to familiarize
yourself with the expeditions electronic equipment in any manner suggested by
The Hallicrafters Company, which will pay your adequate salary and the costs of
your trip from the place of residence indicated in the contract to Chicago, and
then on to New York.” Two to four weeks time sounded dumb to me for I had
plenty of hands-on experience with Hallicrafters’ BC-610 transmitters during
the war, and the current HT-4 transmitter was a clone of the army model.
The last
paragraph of the letter read as follows: “Finally, were the expedition to have
two Amateur Radio Operators instead of one as now planned, you undertake to do
your very best to learn efficiently to type my correspondence from long hand
and from recordings, to practice as much as necessary during the 35 days of the
New York Mombasa trip, and to devote to this task part of your time in Africa.”
That
last paragraph tickled me; I was a lousy typist. “Gatti doesn’t know what he is getting with me,” I said to my
mother when I showed her the letter. And I then recalled that Gatti had mentioned he was going to do some
photos advertising Underwood portable typewriters. I learned touch-typing on a telegraph “mill” keyboard. A “mill” prints only capital letters and the
numerals are in a different sequence than on the regular typewriter used in
offices of the period. I somewhat
reluctantly signed the additional agreement and mailed a copy to Gatti.
I
received another letter from Gatti dated September 19th. The salutation said “Dear Mr.
Snyder:”
and it was coded by a secretary with the initials of “df.” After that, all communications from Gatti were addressed as
“Dear Snyder:”, a more military manner. In his letter Gatti said he was waiting for Bill Halligan to make up his
mind about employing two hams on the trip.
On the
23rd of September I received a Western Union telegram from Gatti:
I was in, but there was no mention of Bob being included.
A few
days later I received the official September 23rd letter from the
Vermont corporation that I had been selected as the “winner of the QST contest
in conformity with the opinions of Mr. Handy of ARRL and of Mr. Halligan of
Hallicrafters.” The rest of the letter dealt with sailing dates, etc. One
paragraph tickled me, it read, “I will write you later on about other details
such as passport, Colonial Clothes, etc. Meanwhile please remember to take with
you your ‘colorful outfit.’” By that Gatti meant colorful clothes for the Canadian
Club Whiskey ads he had pre-sold.
We were
to be models in them.
A
postscript to Gatti’s letter had this information: “There will be also another
operator (name undecided, as yet).” The two operator staff was in place, and I
was hoping it would be Bob.
The
official letter was signed by the corporation’s treasurer and you guessed his
name: Attalio Gatti, who else!
Meanwhile
Bob and I were in almost daily contact on the 20 meter band. Bob was using a
high-powered transmitter that had 250TH Eimac tubes in a push-pull
final. The kilowatt rig was driven by a
100TH tube as a RF driver, and when used on phone it had a pair of
811 tubes as a push-pull Class B modulator.
I was
using my 150 watt home-built transmitter with a Millen VFO for frequency
control, a Hammarlund HQ-129 receiver, and a Zepp antenna 66 feet long and
about fifty feet in the air.
At that
time the 20 meter band had two CW sub-bands, one starting at 14.000 Mhz and one
at the higher end ending at 14.400. The phone band, limited to use by advanced
licensees only, was in the middle between the two CW bands. Bob and I chose the
high end as the QRM was the least in that area.
It was a
long wait until Bob heard he had been chosen to go with me. His letter of
acceptance in the mail box was dated October 14th. On our ham radio
schedule Bob pounded out the following Morse Code: “It says in the letter that
he is going to write me later with details about a passport and Colonial
Clothes. What does he mean by Colonial Clothes?”
I
answered Bob’s question with: “Colonial Clothes must be those short pants with
knee-high socks and shoulder straps on a bush jacket. Look at the picture in
the Jungle Yacht book he gave us at Derby Line.”
“That’s
what I thought,” said Bob, “I wonder if we have to wear his monogram? He had
one on every picture.”
With the
two of us picked as the operator team, there was celebrating in San Mateo,
California and Fargo, North Dakota. When I told my Fargo ham cronies, Jim
Wayman, Ken Christensen and Bill Ogden about the word from Bob, we split a jug
of Cabin Still Whiskey at Wayman’s apartment.
Rose
Korsgren, the nice voice at Hallicrafters called me with the same information
about Bob, and also that we would be leaving on a ship from New York in late
November.
I hung up
the telephone and shouted, “Africa, here I come.”
My
mother, hearing my yell, and always solicitous of my welfare said, “I’ll bet
you’re going on a trip!”
“Yup,
Ma, I’m going to Africa!”