If someone had predicted to me that during my sophomore year at Harvard I would be arrested on suspicion of premeditated murder, I would have called him a lunatic. But the lunatic would have been right.
I was reminded of those days again recently when an old classmate sent me a copy of a blown-up photograph that he said is now displayed on the wall of the atrium at the JFK presidential library in Cambridge, Massachusetts.
That’s me in the middle, holding the McMillan Cup after we won the national intercollegiate sailing championship in June of 1938. As you look at it, Joe Kennedy, Jr., is standing to my left and Jack Kennedy to my right.
Jack and I were sophomores; Joe was a senior. Some strange things happened to Jack and me that year. If they hadn’t turned out the way they did, history might look a lot different today. I’ve waited sixty-five years to tell the story. The reason will become evident by the end of this account.
***
The future president preferred his own reading choices to what we were assigned in the first English course we took together, which started the following Monday. I had decided to major in English and Jack in government and history. He was taking two history courses, along with government, English, and fine arts, while I registered for two English classes, Music 1, economics, and a history course.
The English class opened with the 17th century poets, and the first book we were assigned was John Milton’s Paradise Lost. We both hated it.
“I don’t think I can survive this course,” said Jack in his clipped Boston accent when we were walking back across the old Yard between the John Harvard statue and Massachusetts Hall one day.
We passed two Radcliffe girls lying on their stomachs in the grass, reading under one of the oak trees. Jack turned to look down at them before adding, “If Paradise Lost is considered one of the greatest works of English literature, I’ll take your Hardy Boys.”
It came out Hoddy Boys.
We quickly fell into the regular routine of course work, studying, and morning and afternoon sports practices. More than eighty men went out for the soccer team, and I knew it would be a serious challenge to make the starting eleven as a sophomore.
It was October 7, 1937 around two weeks after classes began, when the incident took place that led to my meeting Maggie Halloran, one of the waitresses in the Winthrop House dining hall.
A few days earlier, someone had pulled off a prank that attracted the notice of all four hundred men living at Winthrop. The practical joker had launched a big balloon filled with helium inside the enormous dining hall, and it was still hovering under the ceiling about forty feet above our heads.
It wasn’t a regular balloon. The thing was about four feet long and somehow shaped into the form of a dirigible airship. Like an airship, it had a small wooden gondola dangling under it. The word Hindenburg had been stenciled in red paint along the length of the balloon.
***
In May of that year, the real German dirigible Hindenburg had caught fire and exploded while trying to land at Lakehurst, New Jersey. No one was sure if it was an accident or sabotage. Thirty-six people died in the fire, and film footage of the raging inferno made all the newsreels.
Now we had this replica of it flying over our heads, and the dining hall manager was scratching his head to figure out how it could be removed from under the ceiling. The second morning after its arrival, I awoke to find Bill Coleman grinning at me like a fox. Bill, Jack, and I, along with Torb MacDonald, were roommates. Bill was blonde and rugged looking, with a prominent nose; we called him Beak.
“I’ve got the solution,” he said.
“The solution to what?” I muttered.
“Bringing down the Hindenburg.”
In his right hand he was holding what looked like an ebony-handled dueling pistol from The Count of Monte Cristo.
“This is the same model air gun William Powell used to shoot out the Christmas tree bulbs in The Thin Man. I ordered one as soon as I saw the movie, but I’ve never gotten around to using it.”
I sat up, and he handed it to me. It only fired BBs but looked lethal.
In response to Bill’s tapping on the wall, Jack came in with Torb, both in their bathrobes. When Bill told them his idea, Jack loved it. Grinning, he took the pistol, practiced aiming it, and said, “I’m in.”
Torb thought it over and said he’d have to pass. Naturally cautious, he didn’t want to do anything that would affect his status on the football team. Since it was Bill’s idea, Jack and I agreed he would shoot first. Jack won a coin toss with me for the second spot if Beak missed.
Twenty minutes later, the three of us entered the dining hall. Bill had concealed the air pistol inside his waistband under his sweater. At least two hundred men were having breakfast as we went to our regular table and sat down. One of the waitresses came over to pour coffee and orange juice.
Looking up at the ceiling, I saw that the Hindenburg was positioned at a point that gave us an unimpeded chance for a clear shot. Still, it was at least forty feet away from our table.
Jack said, “Let me introduce the festivities.”
Standing up, he tapped his knife against our tin water pitcher enough times so that the room slowly quieted down. When there was almost complete silence, Jack called out, “Gentlemen, do not be alarmed at what is about to happen. We who are about to fire, salute you.”
With that, he sat down, and Beak stood up.
He removed the pistol from under his sweater, aimed it skyward with both hands, and fired.
There was a pinging noise, and the BB hit the ceiling near the balloon with a thin snap.
A collective sigh filled the hall, whereupon Jack said, “My turn.”
Still sitting, he took the pistol and rested the barrel on my shoulder to steady it before aiming and firing. We heard a sharp crack as it hit the wooden gondola, making it swing back and forth beneath the balloon.
A cry of disappointment rose from the men in the hall, and I heard a nearby female voice call out, “I thought you knew how to aim your bullets, Lacey!”
The cry had come from the striking young Irish waitress who often served at our table. Jack always made a point of flirting with her, and it was obvious she enjoyed it. Her nickname for him was Lacey, for lace curtain Irish. He called her Shanty.
Grinning, Jack handed the pistol to me.
“Okay, Buffalo Bill,” he said, giving me a pat on the shoulder. “This could be embarrassing if you miss.”
In the distance, I could see the dining hall manager striding across the hall, threading his way between the tables, an apoplectic glower on his face. It struck me that this was something that could get me into trouble, but when I glanced back at the Irish girl, she gave me a wink and a thumbs up.
I slowly raised the pistol and fully extended my arm toward the balloon, trying to keep my hand steady as the Hindenburg filled the gun sights. I closed my eyes and pulled the trigger.
A loud pop split the silence, and the Hindenburg began rapidly descending to the accompanying sound of rushing air. Cheering burst out as it landed on one of the serving stations and scattered the waitresses standing alongside.
Putting the air pistol down on the table, I stood up and gave them all a bow, garnering even more enthusiastic applause.
By then, the dining hall manager had reached us. He was furious.
“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded, staring down at the pistol as if it were a bazooka. “Have you lost your mind?”
Jack stepped between us to block his view and began patting me on the back as Bill moved in behind him to retrieve the pistol and slip it back under his sweater.
“Give me your gun,” the manager demanded. But when he looked down, it was no longer there.
“I don’t have a gun,” I said. “I’m sorry, but I’m late for class.”
I was almost to the doors when the Irish waitress intercepted me. Like the other waitresses, she wore a black dress, black cotton stockings, and a black headband to keep her hair out of the food.
She took my hand and held it. Looking up at me, she laughed and said, “That was wizard. My name’s Maggie Halloran.”
The words came out with an Irish lilt.
“I’m Jimmy Rousmaniere,” I said.
She was about my age, maybe a year or two older, with blue-violet eyes and a cherubic face sprinkled with freckles. Her headband couldn’t contain the abundance of auburn hair that framed her face. Over her shoulder, I saw the manager glaring at her. The girl turned and saw him.
“No rest for the wicked,” she said.
As Maggie began walking back toward the serving station where the carcass of the Hindenburg had met its end, Jack stepped over to me and grinned.
“Shanty’s very good, Jimmy. Mark my words.”
Heading out into the courtyard, I hoped there wouldn’t be any serious repercussions for the prank.
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