I was a Military-Industrial Complex

For 12 years, an actress, a stage designer, a costume designer, a publisher and myself, a free-lance writer, made up the A. T. Hadley Tank Company, one of the major companies building tanks in the United States. We were listed in the American Ordnance Association's roster of tank-production facilities--quite a feat for a seven-by-eleven-foot office, five flights up, on West 53rd Street in New York. As company president, I was invited to lecture on tank production and design at the Detroit Tank Arsenal and the Air War College, but we never agreed on a date. Known proudly as Hadley Tank around the Pentagon, we received an award for industrial efficiency from former Defense Secretary Robert McNamara, though we never manufactured a single item. Key personnel held "Secret" clearances in order to bid better on future tanks.

Believe me, all this happened by accident--happened because the five of us, all self-employed, were having a hard time getting credit cards. Yet the consequences were as far-reaching as the Wright brothers' decision to see if their invention would fly--or Henry Ford's resolve to crank up the Lizzie.

Hadley Tank's beginnings were, in the finest tradition of American industry, modest. There was only me; and no name. I was working for Newsweek in the early Fifties, and a salesman from General Motors suggested I visit his tank plant. Ever mindful of Christmas bonuses produced by scoops, particularly scoops that helped sell advertising, I said, "Sure." But getting into the tank plant proved more difficult than the salesman realized. Newsmen were suspect even back then. So someone in G.M. arranged for me to become a member of the American Ordnance Association.

I signed the association's little pledge card. Put in Newsweek where the card called for company affiliation. Enclosed a dollar. Put the dollar on my Newsweek expense account. And settled back to await the scoop that never came.

Every year the card from the American Ordnance Association, known as the A.O.A., arrived. Every year in hopes of some as-yet-unrealized scoop, I paid my dollar, listing my affiliation as Newsweek or, later, the New York Herald Tribune. Then, in 1960, in one of those periodic changes of management that swept the old Herald Trib like meningitis through a boy-scout camp, I left.

Being unemployed is a great American experience I can do without. My bank, which previously had let me overdraw with just a polite letter, now sent demands by telegraph and made threatening phone calls. (At least my bank called; no one else did.) Credit-card companies asked me to turn in my cards while they reviewed my situation. Stores appeared reluctant to take even my cash. The U. S. Government began devoting countless man-hours to my income-tax returns. Hotels, airlines, restaurants always lacked space. Dogs growled as I passed. Ma Bell saw fit to change my phone number three times in one month.

While I was struggling to recoup my fortunes by producing the great American novel on a new electric typewriter that produced only Es, no matter what character was struck, the annual card from the A.O.A. arrived. Grateful for any outside contact, I signed it as usual and sent in my dollar. For company affiliation, I wrote, "None."

Two weeks later, the card came back with a mimeographed note attached asking that I please fill it out correctly, and the word None circled in red pencil. I erased the red circle and returned the card. Back it came again, this time with an unsigned typewritten note saying that for membership to be retained, company affiliation must be shown. Honest Arthur Hadley again put in "None." Again the card came back, this time with an initialed note that said, in effect, shape up and affiliate or get out.

Already numb from countless blows to my ego since joining, perforce, the self-employed, I found this just too much. I typed in A. T. Hadley Tank Company, signed my name as president and returned the card. I'd finally done the correct thing. Back came a two-page letter from a General C. C. Utz in Detroit, remarking that the American Ordnance Association had long missed the presence in its ranks of an organization of such credit and renown as the A. T. Hadley Tank Company. With commendable American hustle, the general suggested I might like to fork up the $1000 for corporate membership, "so that selected top management might be able to enjoy the benefits of the association." He also wanted to know the primary interests of Hadley Tank.

My first reaction was fear. All I needed at that vulnerable moment of my life was an investigation into a bogus company. But I felt as long as I told no lies and took no money, I'd be Ok. I thanked the general for his letter, told him we'd wait awhile on the $1000 and said our primary interest was light tanks. I reasoned that five flights up in a reconditioned brownstone with only 77 square feet of floor space--and that pretty well filled by typewriter table, desk and filing cabinet--a heavy tank was beyond our capabilities. Besides, the three-man elevator in the building was often out of order. We were a light-tank organization, and the lighter the better.

The next letter I got was from the Pentagon. Someone in Detroit had been speaking well of Hadley Tank. My contributions to national defense and my technical and managerial skills had caused me to be placed on the Light Tank Committee of the Department of Defense and the American Ordnance Association. So honored, the Hadley Tank Company began receiving invitations to important conferences: a lecture on Exponential Feedback in Beta Series Servo-Systems in Dallas. A seminar on Flux Analysis in Trimetal Annealing in Memphis.

Then, in the spring of 1962, the A.O.A. published its roster of distinguished defense companies. There! Under Tanks! After Ford and Caterpillar Tractor, to be sure, but ahead of General Motors and Chrysler, was the A. T. Hadley Tank Company. Oh, the pleasure of being of service to one's country in those early Kennedy years. A going concern just a year, and already in the majors. I bought a small toy tank and placed it on my desk--had to carry it up the five flights of steps, since the elevator was out of order.

That very afternoon, Hadley Tank received its first phone call, long distance from Chicago. A salesman from Cross Instruments wanted to know if I'd considered automating my plant. I hadn't. I was still having enough trouble with the E on my typewriter.

The historic explosion of Hadley Tank from one-man shop to industrial giant of four occurred Thanksgiving a year later. I was having dinner in Amagansett, Long Island, with three friends, all of whom were in the theater. Although all were successful, they complained that none of them could get credit cards or bank loans because they were self-employed and because of their profession.

"If only I did something regular," said Will Steven Armstrong, the stage designer.

"Belonged to a corporation," lamented Patricia Zipprodt, the costume designer.

The proverbial light went on inside my head. "I am a corporation," I said. "I make tanks."

Lacking my experience in the world of corporate practices, the three others did not immediately leap on board. But after assurance that at Hadley Tank we always told the truth and did nothing that we could be ashamed of before Congress--a policy I recommend to other defense contractors--three vice-presidencies were created. Our hostess, Lovelady Powell, an actress, signed on as V.P. communications; Pat Zipprodt became V.P. design; and Will Steven Armstrong, V.P. production. A tight ship.

Company president Hadley passed a busy month answering calls and filling out forms from American Express, Diners Club, Macy's, Lord & Taylor, Bonwit Teller, the Chase Manhattan Bank and others, guaranteeing the financial worth and stability of his vice-presidents and, incidentally, of himself. Showing the camaraderie that continued to mark Hadley Tank's progress, the vice-presidents generously took me to dinner on their new credit cards. V.P. design produced a sign for the company's door. And V.P. production made me a model tank to (continued on page 246)Militry Industrial Complex(continued from page 162) replace the toy on my desk--a model of futuristic design, boasting 20 guns.

Some time later--for reasons I'm not entirely able to recall--the last member of our fine production team, Thomas Guinzburg, came on board after an evening of intense negotiations at the Bucket of Bacchus in Positano, Italy. (Small but mobile, that was Hadley Tank.) Since Guinzburg was a publisher, he became, naturally, V.P. bookkeeping. Later he played a vital part when Hadley Tank received its security clearance to handle "Secret" documents.

The A. T. Hadley Tank Company rocked along quietly for a few months doing those things I imagine all American companies do: collecting credit cards, fending off salesmen, keeping its nose clean. As chief executive, I several times gave thought to our financial position. I initiated guarded inquiries through a lawyer friend and was pleased to learn that Hadley Tank enjoyed an excellent credit rating.

"I guess you always pay your bills on time," the lawyer said.

I saw no reason to tell him we had no bills.

Slowly, in spite of its president's best efforts, Hadley Tank became more and more involved with the defense of America. Another letter came from the Pentagon, this one requesting the names of my executives entitled to receive secret information. Following agreed company policy to never lie, I wrote back that none of us was cleared for secret information. It worried me a bit to have to state this, since it made old Hadley Tank appear a firm run by a bunch of drunks or Commies. But looking on the bright side, I reasoned that with such questionable management, our tank company had at least heard the last from the Pentagon. No longer would I be harassed to bid on defense contracts.

I was wrong. I'd underestimated the desire of the Department of Defense to throw away money. Back came a letter of apology that Ordnance had allowed our clearance to lapse. Also an incredibly complex form to fill out so that employees of the A. T. Hadley Tank Company could, after proper investigation, receive secrets.

I called each one of my vice-presidents in turn to see which would most like to be investigated by the FBI, but instead of enthusiastically jumping at this opportunity to prove themselves clean, right-living Americans, all I got from each and every one of them was the old hoo-ha--and even some unkind suggestions that I get investigated myself. This was impossible, I pointed out, because there was a long section on the security form that had to be filled out by the applicant's employer. While I could fill it out on them, I couldn't fill it out on myself. They stuck it to me. So I filled out the form on myself and sent it in.

The Government moves slowly, and what with getting a book published and a play optioned, I thought no more about my security clearance to receive secret information. Then one day my office door opened and a man entered, panting. The elevator was out of order again. He flashed a laminated card at me and gasped, "FBI."

I graciously made him at home on the tank-company couch. He pulled out a notebook and a Xeroxed copy of several pages of my security form.

"I'm checking out a party called Arthur T. Hadley," he said. "You know him?"

"Yes."

"Well?"

"Very well." I mean, this was no time for psychological quibbles about how well any one of us knows ourself. But I didn't want to mislead the agent, either. "I am Arthur T. Hadley."

"You're who?"

"A. T. Hadley. You've come to the right place."

This brought a long pause, while he consulted his notebook. "I don't think so."

The game's up, I thought. An alert FBI man will note the difference between a tank factory and this cubicle on the top floor of a reconditioned whorehouse. But the agent's mind was on other things. Or maybe he hadn't been given the big picture.

"I'm meant to be interviewing the people who know Hadley--not Hadley."

"Oh."

"I could get in trouble for this," he said sadly.

"I won't say anything." Never fink on yourself to the FBI is a basic Hadley rule.

He looked at my security form again, then turned on me hostilely. "You wrote this stuff about yourself."

"That's right. I'm the president of the company. Nobody else could write it."

"You're the president of Hadley Tank?"

"Yes."

"Then why did you fill out this part?"

"It says at the top of the form: 'Leave no part unanswered.' "

He studied the front of the form. "Yeah, it does say that."

"If I'd left that part blank, they'd just have mailed it back to me."

"But look how you filled it out." He read from the form: " 'I consider the applicant qualified by reasons of loyalty, courage, energy, virtue and intellect for any job up to and including president of this company.' "

"I should call myself unqualified?"

"You didn't have to be so damn complimentary."

The agent, a trained and trustworthy man, was obviously perturbed by the problem of how to interview me about myself without talking to me. I suggested a compromise. Since our vice-president of bookkeeping, Mr. Guinzburg, was also president of his own company, the agent could interview him and merely note that a company president had confirmed the reports about Mr. Hadley. Or not confirmed, I added generously.

"That would save a lot of paperwork," said the agent.

Several months later, I received a registered letter from a place I cannot mention because of security. I had been granted a "Secret" clearance. With the letter came a large, heavy book on how to handle classified information. The A. T. Hadley Tank Company was in pretty deep.

And it got worse. A long-distance phone call came in from Detroit. A vice-president of Ford was on the line. We chatted a little executive chatter. He was impressed by what he'd heard of Hadley Tank around Detroit. I told him Ford's rep was Ok. in New York also. Then he came to the point. It was my turn to chair the Light Tank Committee that year and give the keynote speech at the Detroit Tank Arsenal "Salute Tanks" dinner.

After a pause to resettle my lunch, stomachwise, I inquired the date of the dinner. Unfortunately, I would be in Europe on that date. He said the dinner and the two-day symposium preceding it would be on future tank-design problems. Undoubtedly, my V.P. design, Mr. Pat Zipprodt, could fill in for me. This seemed no time to explain the sex of my vice-president to someone in Detroit, never a stronghold of women's lib, so I mumbled something about how busy my V.P. was and the highly classified and technical nature of his work.

"What do you do at Hadley Tank?" the Ford V.P. asked.

"Like you out at Ford. Anything the Government is stupid enough to pay us to do."

While he was having a forced yuk over that, I managed to terminate the conversation.

V.P. design was a bit hostile over my turning down her opportunity to keynote the Salute Tanks dinner without asking her. "Shit, Hadley, I want to get up and tell those self-satisfied men what I think of their stupidity and this Vietnam war."

The idea of her passionate, red-headed intensity throwing it to the startled tycoons of Detroit was highly appealing. But a company president must take a broad-brush view.

"And what about our credit cards?" I asked.

"We're lucky to have you for our president," she generously replied.

Then one day someone knocked at Hadley Tank's front door--indeed, at its only door. There stood a lieutenant with a pistol on his hip.

"The A. T. Hadley Tank Company?" he asked.

"Part of it," I answered, keeping to the truth as always, "You look a bit harassed, Lieutenant."

"I've been stuck in your elevator for over two hours."

"Better take the stairs next time."

"I couldn't. I had to bring you all this." He pointed to a large suitcase beside my door. "Your security officer has to sign for it."

I grasped the significance of his pistol. "I don't think we ordered whatever that is, Lieutenant. Don't need it at all."

"Specifications on the new tank for bidding, sir." He looked into my office as if he didn't quite believe what he saw. But then, how could he know the history of one of America's great companies? His eye fell on Armstrong's 20-gun tank on my desk. "Jesus, are you building one like that?"

"It's under consideration." I got rid of that snoop as quickly as possible. And he didn't even leave me his suitcase. Just put piles and piles of paper marked Confidential on my desk.

I grabbed for the phone. "Armstrong, get your ass up here quick. The tank company has an emergency. And for God's sake, wear a jacket and necktie." I sat looking at the piles of classified paper on my desk. On top was a cover sheet telling where copies of the plans were going: Ford Motor Company, Chrysler Corporation, General Motors, Litton Industries, the A. T. Hadley Tank Company, Boeing Company, Bendix. The Government was more fucked up than I'd realized.

I'll say one thing for the old tank company and my V.P. production. We got those plans wrapped up according to the security manual and back to the Detroit Tank Arsenal by registered mail faster, I'm sure, than any other company on the list. Ours were on the way back by late that afternoon. And we used our own money to get rid of the damn things.

Then came Hadley Tank's finest hour. I received a personal letter from a three-star general in McNamara's office, referring to the A. T. Hadley Tank Company as "one of the strongest undergirdings of American Democracy." The letter informed me that "The Secretary of Defense has personally singled out the A. T. Hadley Tank Company as one of the very few prime defense contractors who have never had a shortfall. This is, indeed, an enviable record and he has asked me to convey to you and your fellow executives and employees his personal regards." I was invited to Washington at my convenience to personally receive Hadley Tank's award for "industrial efficiency."

Such beautiful, computerized logic. Since Hadley Tank had never made anything, our record was spotless. Never been late. Never overcharged the Government. Never had to renegotiate a contract. Secretary of Defense McNamara, showing the genius for statistics that had him convinced we were winning the Vietnam war, had now found his ideal tank company. I expected to see him on the evening news, pointing to a photograph of a destroyed village and saying, "This was all done with a Hadley tank."

Fortunately, Pentagon follow-up is very poor. Merely by not answering the letter, I was able to avoid receiving our award-- and so kept Hadley Tank alive.

By now I'd been able to observe a distinct pattern to our company's herculean efforts to avoid building tanks. The pressure on Hadley Tank to take money always grew most intense one or two months after speeches by McNamara or President Johnson about how well things were going in Vietnam. Therefore, on reading in September of 1965 that McNamara had told President Johnson he could see light at the end of the tunnel, "No-Shortfall Hadley," as I was proudly known to a select few, got ready to dodge his next tank contract.

But the Pentagon curved me off balance. It telephoned. Some general whose name I didn't get invited me to Fort Knox to inspect the prototype of a new series of tanks before bidding. The prospect of going to Fort Knox, Kentucky, intrigued me. I had been a private there during the late unpleasantness against our allies the Germans; and to return a VIP, president of my own company, would fulfill an all-American dream-- or perhaps, in my case, a nightmare.

Also, the program was sponsored by Army Field Force Board Number 11. Since the A. T. Hadley Tank Company had made the big time, I had received an annual Christmas card from this board. The card, the same each year, showed a color photograph of a tank in the snow, firing its big gun. The picture was contained within a holly wreath. Beneath were the words "Season's Greetings from Army Field Force Board Number 11--Creating Bigger Booms and Better Weapons for a Happier Tomorrow." I confess I had been curious about the noble band of brothers who had produced this card.

Like all good chief executives, I consulted my board. It would be unfair to say my vice-presidents were enthusiastic about my going to Fort Knox. But since I was paying my own way, they raised no insurmountable objections. And their parting advice was sound: "For God's sake, Hadley, don't do anything to get us in trouble." Lockheed and Litton should have been listening.

The night before descending on Fort Knox found me, like any good company president, doing my homework: that is, out in Louisville drinking with the boys from Ford, General Motors and other way stations who were also down to bid, and bullshitting with the lieutenant colonels the Army had assigned to us as escorts. I admit to a few bad moments that night. Sharp-eyed vice-presidents from other corporations, worried about the gravy going to Hadley Tank, kept trying to pin me down on just what we did. But since none of them had received an award from McNamara for industrial efficiency, No-Shortfall Hadley stayed way ahead of them.

Also, from the lieutenant colonels around, I was able to learn that all was not well with the Army tank program. Take certain of the mediums: Any time you got those clinkers up to speed, the tracks slapped the hull in such a peculiar fashion that it started to hum. And that hum, or "hull harmonic," as we professionals call it, tore the engine loose. The officers around me were relieved that Hadley Tank had nothing to do with that. I was also sorry to hear that there appeared to be a goof in light tanks. Immediately on pulling the trigger in the newest, the gunner had to leap from the turret before the fumes from the gun asphyxiated him. At Hadley Tank Company, we never designed them that bad.

The next morning, standing in the red mud of Fort Knox, sweating in my gray flannels like the other captains of industry around me, I admit I was scared. The magnitude of my deception overwhelmed me. There was just no way I could make any part of the steel monster before me. Yet having come this far, how could I admit the truth now, without losing the precious confidence of Secretary McNamara, the Pentagon, Detroit, the American Ordnance Association and perhaps even the credit-card companies? I might go to jail for a security violation. And there was no way to hide. Pinned above my jacket breast pocket was a plastic name plate saying: A. T. Hadley, President, Hadley Tank Company.

But if I threw out my chest here in the mud, slapped the tank hull, told my first corporate lie and said, "Hadley Tank can build her," the results could be equally disastrous. Some snoopy colonel or civil servant favoring another defense contractor (though, with their track record, how could anyone prefer them over us?) might decide to investigate my plant. While I've met plenty of colonels and civil servants who wouldn't see anything strange in building 40-ton tanks in a small cubicle five flights up on West 53rd Street--as long as the elevator worked--you can't count on getting one of those every time.

Looking for a way out, I swung myself professionally up onto the tank deck, joking with the military-types-being-nice-to-industry about where you stowed the bourbon. Up close, the tank still looked pretty solid--built to take a direct hit from the strongest antitank weapon known to man and just go "Clang." The situation, though, looked hopeless: Where could my company, talented as it was, fit in? I mean, give us a few bolts of cloth, some two-by-fours, papier-mâché, a sewing machine, glue and a bit of paint and we could whip up a tank that certainly would be light, would look fierce and could be taken apart and put together between acts. But that wasn't the problem here. Or not in the specs, as we industry types say.

I climbed into the tank driver's compartment with some hope that I'd see a seat cushion we could sew or a headrest we could needlepoint to make the crew feel more at home and give Hadley Tank something to bid on. But everything in there was made of futuristic plastics and stamped Fireproof. I knew there was no use looking in the engine compartment for something we could build, and as for the gun and its aiming computer-- forget it.

Then, way in the back, through a little slot on the inside of the turret chamber, I saw it. My heart leaped like that of some Victorian poet smelling the first daffodil before breakfast. Fixed to a bare spot on the inside of the hull was a small black sign with white lettering that said: Do not fire gun with turret in this position. Undeniably a vital part of the tank. And I was totally confident the A. T. Hadley Tank Company could manufacture and install that sign.

Unfortunately, the tank was crawling with gray-flannel suits all loudly proclaiming their competence and eagerness to get a piece of the action, so I was unable to swing the turret around and place the gun in the position forbidden by the sign to check out the consequences. However, a little thought, plus some late-night research at the officers'-club bar, confirmed the essentialness of the sign to national defense. If some joker pulled the trigger while the gun was in that position, it blew off the driver's head. Obviously, that could have serious consequences for morale.

Detailed examination of the sign confirmed my first impression: Hadley Tank could bid on this subcomponent. V.P. design Zipprodt was a fine artist; the lettering would not challenge her. Love-lady Powell was already starting in the antique business--she'd find cutting the little strips of metal for the signs with a pair of shears child's play. Hell, we could even subcontract that part and she could just trim one end. As for fixing the sign to the tank in the correct place, level and right side up, that was a glue job. Here, Armstrong was the key man, with his experience in stage construction. And while he measured and smeared, Guinzburg, who works out regularly and is in top physical shape, could hold.

All our vast pool of talents would be utilized, with several able to fill in for one another in the event of illness or overwork. Also important, the president's time was left free for such vital jobs as coordination, maintaining morale, answering letters, receiving awards, finishing his book and avoiding the next Government contract.

"How does it look to you, sir?"

I jumped. Deep in thought, I had let a general sneak up behind me in the turret. "All right," I replied noncommittally.

"Nothing here your plant can't handle, sir?" Two "sirs" from a general in less than 30 seconds: further proof of deep trouble in the Army tank program. When things are going their way, everyone is "Hey, you" to generals, except members of the Senate Armed Services Committee.

"Nothing is a pretty big word, General. But after inspection of this prototype and the engineering drawings, it appears entirely within my company's capability to construct certain component subsections at what I think you will find to be amazingly low cost." I had that speech ready.

"With your experience in production, sir, do you see any problems?"

"At the Hadley Tank Company, General, I tell the staff: 'Problems are all in the mind.' " (As further proof of the incredible successes of Hadley Tank's nonexistent products, I subsequently got a letter from this officer informing me how well components made by Hadley Tank were performing in Vietnam. Was the computer at it again, or was the general looking for a job when he retired?)

Truthfully, I did see one small problem; but no need to go into it right there. How would traffic get past the tanks while they sat on West 53rd Street, waiting for the glue to dry? There was the Museum of Modern Art to the east, the CBS building across the street and the New York Hilton just west. Lots of traffic. And the glue probably would take two days to harden. (Of course, Guinzburg wouldn't have to hold the sign in place all that time; we could probably tape it after the first few hours.) But if West 53rd Street had to be closed to all traffic but tanks getting their little signs fixed, police problems could be forecast by alert management. And those problems would lead to a considerable cost overrun. Perhaps even to our first shortfall.

So, in the end, I sent the Department of Defense a letter appreciative of our opportunity to bid. I expressed confidence in Hadley Tank's ability to perform vital parts of the subcontract but regretted that pressures on plant and personnel made our ability to complete this work on schedule doubtful. Clean again.

Perhaps too clean. I must face the fact that I probably lack qualities of toughness and the willingness to gamble that have made millionaires out of other defense contractors. I later received a phone call from a contractor who had best remain nameless.

"Is this President Hadley?"

"Yes."

"Say, Art, congratulations! Saw in the association newsletter about you-all getting that award."

"Thanks."

"You know, we hold the basic contract on the M-89 Gun and Turret System. Guess we beat you out on that one, ha-ha."

"We didn't bid on that one."

"You didn't!"

"No. Our design section saw several basic problems we doubted could be overcome at our facilities within acceptable cost parameters."

"I wish we had your stuff. Listen, we're in big trouble with that contract. Have you any plant space available for heavy hydraulic press and couple? Name your price. We'll have to soak the Pentagon for a big cost overrun on this one."

"How big?"

There was a long pause at the other end of the line. "Hell, Art, we're all in this together; about a thousand percent."

"That's big. Listen, I'd like to help you. We in industry have got to stick together or they'll stick it to us. Right?"

"Right."

"But I'd be lying to you if I said yes. Every foot of floor space I've got"--I checked the floor carefully as I said this-- "is occupied."

I did have some couch space. But that was occasionally filled by a winsome girl, and I saw no reason to stop her visits for some greasy new tank parts.

"Nothing you could take off?"

Thinking about the girl, I failed for an instant to understand his question. "No, we're gearing up for the Y-203."

"The what?"

"It's pretty secret. It's the one that uses the laser and the minicomputer."

"Oh, sure, sure. We almost landed that one ourselves."

What liars they all are in industry.

•

With the end of U. S. involvement in Vietnam, activity at Hadley Tank, I'm glad to report, fell off. Looking back over the 12 years of its existence, I believe the A. T. Hadley Tank Company compiled a record of which both our staff and the nation can be proud. We stayed small. We sold no shoddy product. We never misled the public. Our motto, "No tank like a Hadley tank," shows the lengths to which we carried truth. All our employees were happy. We never stuck the taxpayers for a single buck. Can other major defense contractors say more? Can they say half as much?

"An alert FBI man will note the difference between a tank factory and a reconditioned whorehouse."