Utterly interesting

“It was the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month — but for one young man from Baltimore, peace came sixty seconds too late.” Just after five o’clock on the morning of 11 November 1918, deep in the Compiègne Forest north of Paris, British, French, and German officials gathered inside a railway carriage. They had been brought together to sign the document that would end more than four years of relentless slaughter: the Armistice of World War I. The agreement declared that all hostilities would cease on land, at sea, and in the air, but not immediately. The ceasefire would take effect at 11 a.m., six hours later, to allow time for the message to reach the front lines. Those six hours would prove to be some of the most tragic of the entire war. Thousands of men — from the United States, Britain, France, Belgium, and Germany — were killed in battles fought after peace had already been agreed. Among them was 23-year-old Henry Nicholas John Gunther, a bank clerk from Baltimore, who would be remembered as the final soldier to die in the Great War. Henry Gunther whilst in the army A reluctant soldier Henry Gunther was born on 6 June 1895 in the working-class neighbourhood of Highlandtown, East Baltimore. His parents, George and Lina, were the American-born children of German immigrants. The family were part of a tight-knit Catholic community centred on the Sacred Heart of Jesus parish, a place where German was spoken as often as English, and where loyalty to the United States was sometimes questioned as anti-German sentiment spread across the nation during the war years. Gunther worked as a bookkeeper at the National Bank of Baltimore, living a quiet life and engaged to be married. When America entered the war in 1917, he didn’t rush to enlist. Many German-Americans were wary of appearing disloyal, and some faced hostility or suspicion from their neighbours. But in September of that year, he was drafted into the army and assigned to the 313th Infantry Regiment of the 79th Division, known locally as “Baltimore’s Own.” His organisational skills earned him a role in the supply department, managing clothing distribution, and he was promoted to sergeant. Yet, a single letter would change everything. The intercepted letter While serving at Camp Meade, Gunther wrote a candid letter to a friend back home, warning him about the harsh realities of military life. “The trenches are miserable,” he wrote, “and you would be wise to do anything you can to avoid it.” Unfortunately for Gunther, the letter was intercepted by a military censor and passed up the chain of command. The army viewed such remarks as defeatist, even treasonous. He was swiftly demoted from sergeant to private and transferred from his comfortable supply role to the front line in France. The humiliation weighed heavily on him. Friends described him as withdrawn and moody, “brooding over his lost stripes,” as one comrade put it. The Baltimore Sun  journalist and future novelist James M. Cain, who later interviewed Gunther’s company, wrote that he “became obsessed with a determination to make good before his officers and fellow soldiers.”] Redemption at the eleventh hour By the autumn of 1918, Gunther’s regiment was part of the Meuse–Argonne offensive, the largest and bloodiest American operation of the war. Over a million U.S. soldiers fought in the offensive, alongside 800,000 French troops, pushing through heavily fortified German lines. The fighting was brutal, cold, muddy, and unrelenting. Gunther survived 47 days of this nightmare. He could have returned home after suffering a shrapnel injury to his hand, but refused evacuation. “He insisted on staying to help his Army brothers,” said his grand-niece, Carol Gunther Aikman , decades later. “I think this alone demonstrates his courage and his love for his country.” On the morning of 11 November 1918, Gunther’s company was near the village of Ville-devant-Chaumont, north of Verdun. At 10:44 a.m., word reached them: the Armistice had been signed, and all fighting was to cease at 11. Just sixteen minutes to go. Then, inexplicably, Gunther decided to attack. According to witnesses, he told his men he was going to “take out that machine gun post.” His comrades tried to stop him, some even shouted warnings, but he pressed on, armed with his Browning automatic rifle. As he approached, the German soldiers, aware that peace was only moments away, waved their arms and shouted in broken English, telling him to turn back. They even fired warning shots. Gunther didn’t stop. He fired a few rounds, and the Germans, perhaps fearing an ambush, returned fire. He was struck and killed instantly. The time was 10:59 a.m. The last casualty of World War I General John J. Pershing, commander of the American Expeditionary Forces, recorded Henry Gunther as the final American, and possibly the last Allied soldier of any nation, to die in World War I. He was posthumously reinstated to the rank of sergeant and awarded the Distinguished Service Cross and a divisional citation for gallantry. In 1923, his body was brought home from France and buried at Baltimore’s Most Holy Redeemer Cemetery. His gravestone reads simply: “Henry Gunther — 79th Division — November 11, 1918.” For years, his story was known only within his family and among veterans of his division. Then, as historians began revisiting the final day of the war, Gunther’s name came to symbolise the senseless loss of those last, unnecessary hours. In 2008, a memorial was erected in Lorraine, near the exact spot where he fell. Two years later, on Armistice Day 2010, a second plaque was dedicated at his gravesite in Baltimore. A tragic pattern across the front Gunther’s death was not unique. Across the front lines, thousands of soldiers continued fighting despite knowing the war was all but over. Historian Joseph Persico, who examined records from that day, estimated that 2,738 soldiers were killed and 11,000 wounded in the six hours between the signing and the enforcement of the Armistice. Many of these casualties were the result of Allied commanders pushing for one last victory or seeking to secure better positions before the ceasefire took effect. One infamous example was General William Wright of the U.S. 89th Division, who ordered his men to capture the French town of Stenay so his troops could make use of the town’s bathhouses. The attack, fought after the Armistice had already been signed, resulted in 365 casualties, including 61 deaths, all for the sake of a wash. Even artillery units fired their remaining shells rather than haul the ammunition away. One U.S. Navy railway gun fired its final shot at 10:57:30 a.m., calculated to land behind German lines seconds before the ceasefire. The last to fall The toll of that final morning was grimly symbolic. The last French soldier to die, Augustin Trébuchon, was killed by a sniper at 10:45 a.m. as he carried a message telling his comrades that “soup will be served at 11:30.” Embarrassed by the timing of his death, French authorities later backdated his grave to 10 November. In Belgium, Private George Lawrence Price, a Canadian, was shot by a sniper at 10:58 a.m. while advancing into Ville-sur-Haine, just two minutes before the Armistice took effect. Private George Edwin Ellison , a British soldier of the 5th Royal Irish Lancers, was killed around 9:30 a.m. near Mons, Belgium, fittingly, the same area where the British Expeditionary Force had first fought the Germans in 1914. And in Belgium’s Kluizen sector, Marcel Toussaint Terfve, a Belgian soldier, fell to machine gun fire at 10:45 a.m.. Together, these men, Ellison, Trébuchon, Terfve, Price, and Gunther, form a tragic fraternity: the last victims of the “War to End All Wars.” Commemorative plaque at the grave of Henry Gunther in Most Holy Redeemer Cemetery in Baltimore, unveiled on November 11, 2010. Why didn’t the killing stop? The question that haunts historians is simple: why didn’t the killing stop at once? When German representatives pleaded for an immediate ceasefire during the negotiations, Marshal Ferdinand Foch, the French commander-in-chief, refused. He insisted that hostilities continue until 11 a.m. sharp, “the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month.” His reasoning was partly logistical — orders had to reach far-flung units — but also symbolic. The Allies wanted a definitive end, one marked by a specific, dramatic moment. The cost of that symbolism was staggering. Thousands of men who had survived four years of war were sent to die on a day that the world would later celebrate as peace. Legacy of Henry Gunther In Baltimore, Gunther’s death became both a source of sorrow and pride. The Veterans of Foreign Wars Post 1858 was named in his honour. Each year, on 11 November, visitors leave flags and flowers at his grave, remembering not only the end of the war but the man who became its final casualty. Gunther’s story endures because it captures the contradictions of war: courage mingled with futility, loyalty twisted by bureaucracy, and the search for redemption in a world gone mad. His final act — whether viewed as brave or tragic — has come to symbolise the madness of those closing moments when peace was so near, yet death still claimed its due. As the historian Persico put it, “The Armistice was signed in silence and celebrated in blood.” And for Henry Gunther, the war ended just sixty seconds too late. Sources Persico, Joseph E. Eleventh Month, Eleventh Day, Eleventh Hour: Armistice Day, 1918, World War I and Its Violent Climax . Random House, 2004. Cain, James M., The Baltimore Sun , interviews with 313th Regiment survivors, 1919. U.S. Army Center of Military History: Meuse–Argonne Offensive Reports (1918–1919) . “Henry Gunther: The Last Man Killed in the Great War.” Maryland Historical Society Archives . “Signing of the Armistice, 11 November 1918.” Wikimedia Commons . “Henry Gunther Memorial, Chaumont-devant-Damvillers.” American Battle Monuments Commission , 2008. “Armistice Day Casualties.” Imperial War Museum Collections . “George Lawrence Price and the Last Casualties of the Great War.” Canadian War Museum , 2018.

The morning of 4 October 1936 broke damp and grey over London’s East End, but the streets were already alive. The smell of coal smoke and salt from the nearby docks drifted through alleys lined with terraced houses, as families poured outside carrying banners daubed in hurried paint, some in English, others in Yiddish or Irish slogans of solidarity. Market stalls had been overturned into makeshift barricades, tramlines blocked with old furniture, and barrels rolled into position to choke the narrow arteries of Cable Street. The cry of hawkers and children was replaced by the chants of thousands: “They shall not pass!” From one end came the march of boots, Oswald Mosley ’s British Union of Fascists in their black shirts, flanked by lines of mounted police. From the other came a tide of resistance: Jewish tailors’ apprentices, Irish dockworkers, communists with red flags, Labour activists, and housewives banging pots from their windows. In that charged space, where empire and poverty met, London’s East End drew a line in the cobblestones. What unfolded was not only a pitched street battle but a defining stand against fascism in Britain. In a broader context, The Battle of Cable Street, was a reflection of the tumultuous political landscape of the 1930s, when Europe was gripped by the rise of fascism and the looming threat of war. The Political Landscape of Europe in the 1930s The 1930s were a decade marked by seismic political upheavals across Europe. The Great Depression had devastated economies, leading to mass unemployment, political instability, and widespread social unrest. In this environment of crisis, extremist ideologies found fertile ground. Fascism, which had first emerged in Italy under Benito Mussolini in the early 1920s, began to spread across the continent. By the early 1930s, Adolf Hitler and the Nazi Party had risen to power in Germany, consolidating their grip on the nation with a toxic blend of nationalism, antisemitism, and militarism. Meanwhile, authoritarian movements gained ground in countries like Romania and Spain, the latter embroiled in a brutal civil war between fascist forces led by General Francisco Franco and a republican government supported by socialists, communists, and anarchists. Against this backdrop, Britain seemed relatively insulated from the political extremes that were overtaking the Continent. However, the rise of Mosley’s British Union of Fascists showed that the forces of fascism were not confined to the fringes of Europe. Mosley, who had once been a prominent politician within the British Labour Party, became disillusioned with the mainstream political system and founded the BUF in 1932. Initially attracting a considerable following, especially among sections of the upper classes and the British establishment, the BUF sought to channel the discontent of the times into a nationalist and antisemitic political programme. The BUF's slogan, "Britain First," combined calls for economic protectionism with an explicitly anti-immigrant and anti-Jewish agenda, positioning itself as a solution to the economic difficulties caused by the Great Depression. The Rise of the British Union of Fascists Sir Oswald Mosley’s BUF was modelled on the fascist movements in Italy and Germany. In 1932, Mosley met Mussolini and became infatuated with the dictator’s success in transforming Italy into a one-party, authoritarian state. Similarly, Mosley admired Hitler’s rise to power in Germany, seeing it as a model for the BUF’s ambitions in Britain. The BUF adopted many of the characteristics that defined these continental movements: a paramilitary wing known as the Blackshirts, frequent mass rallies, and a heavy reliance on propaganda that demonised political opponents and minorities. The BUF's primary target, particularly after 1934, became the Jewish community, which Mosley and his followers scapegoated for Britain's economic troubles and the social changes taking place in urban areas, particularly in East London. Mosley with Mussolini By 1934, the BUF had grown to around 50,000 members. However, the group’s reputation for violence began to alienate parts of the public and political establishment. In June of that year, the BUF held a rally at Olympia, where Blackshirt stewards brutally attacked anti-fascist demonstrators, an event widely reported in the press. The violence, far from boosting the BUF’s image, led to a drop in membership and increased scrutiny from the authorities. Still, Mosley pressed on with his campaign, increasingly focusing on London's East End, where he believed he could exploit the local population’s frustrations with unemployment, housing shortages, and the presence of a large Jewish community. Antisemitism and the East End of London The East End of London, and particularly Stepney, had long been home to immigrant communities. By the 1930s, it had a distinct Jewish character, with many residents having fled the pogroms of Eastern Europe at the turn of the century. Jewish refugees had arrived in waves, often settling in London’s poorest areas, contributing to the rich cultural and social tapestry of the East End. The area became a hub for Jewish life, with synagogues, Jewish schools, Yiddish-speaking theatres, and businesses forming the backbone of the community. However, the presence of this vibrant Jewish community also made the East End a target for antisemitic agitation. Mosley and the BUF sought to exploit long-standing prejudices, stoking fear and hatred against Jewish immigrants by portraying them as "foreigners" who took jobs and resources from native-born Britons. BUF rallies in East London became notorious for their antisemitic rhetoric, often descending into violence. Leaflets distributed by the BUF propagated lies about Jewish people controlling the financial system or being responsible for the spread of communism. The Daily mail voiced their support for Mosley. For many in the Jewish community, Mosley’s march into the East End was a direct provocation, aimed at terrorising them in their own neighbourhoods. Jewish organisations, including the Jewish People’s Council, led efforts to resist the BUF. The People’s Council was instrumental in gathering 100,000 signatures on a petition calling for the government to ban Mosley’s planned march through the East End on 4th October 1936. Despite the strong public outcry, the Home Office refused to act, fearing that a ban might inflame tensions further and lead to an escalation of violence. With no intervention from the authorities, the residents of the East End began preparing to defend their community. From front page of Blackshirt, October 3, 1936 Preparing for the Clash As the date of Mosley’s march drew closer, the atmosphere in the East End grew increasingly tense. The BUF had announced that they would be marching 3,000 Blackshirts through Whitechapel, one of the most densely populated Jewish areas in London. In response, left-wing groups, trade unions, and local residents organised a counter-demonstration, calling on people to block the fascists’ path and prevent the march from taking place. The Communist Party played a crucial role in the mobilisation effort. While the Jewish Chronicle, fearing violent reprisals, urged Jews to stay indoors, the Communist Party, along with other socialist groups, actively encouraged resistance. They even cancelled a planned rally in Trafalgar Square and redirected their supporters to Stepney, recognising the symbolic importance of standing against fascism in an area that was home to so many immigrants and minorities. On the morning of 4th October, the call to action was answered by thousands of people. By midday, crowds of anti-fascist demonstrators began to gather at Gardiner’s Corner in Aldgate, one of the major junctions on the route of Mosley’s march. “They Shall Not Pass!”—a chant borrowed from the Spanish Civil War—rang out as trade unionists, Irish dockworkers, communists, Jews, and ordinary residents linked arms to block the roads. Mosley and the BUF, meanwhile, had assembled near the Royal Mint, not far from the Tower of London. Accompanied by 3,000 Blackshirts dressed in their signature black uniforms, Mosley prepared to march eastwards into Whitechapel. To ensure that the BUF could proceed unimpeded, the authorities had deployed 6,000 police officers along the route, including mounted police who were tasked with clearing the demonstrators out of the way. The Battle of Cable Street As the Blackshirts began to march, they were met with fierce resistance. At Gardiner’s Corner, mounted police charged into the crowds, attempting to force them onto the pavements. However, the demonstrators, numbering between 20,000 and 30,000, refused to yield. Local tram drivers abandoned their vehicles in the streets to block the route, while others clashed with police in an effort to prevent them from making any headway. Chants of "Down with the fascists!" echoed through the streets as women threw rotten vegetables, bottles, and bricks at the advancing officers. Unable to push through the crowds, Mosley decided to alter his route and head down Cable Street, a narrow, winding road that ran parallel to the main thoroughfare. However, the anti-fascist coalition had anticipated this move. Early in the morning, barricades had been erected along Cable Street using anything that could be found—old furniture, mattresses, timber, and even rubbish. The barricades were reinforced with broken glass, and marbles were scattered on the street to impede the police horses. When the police and Blackshirts reached the first barricade, they were met with even more intense resistance. Local residents and demonstrators, many of them positioned in the upper floors of buildings lining the street, rained down projectiles on the police and Blackshirts below. Boiling water and bricks were hurled from windows, while those on the ground fought hand-to-hand with the police. Women and children played an active role in the resistance, with some women famously pouring chamber pots onto the officers from above. At the heart of the resistance was the principle of community solidarity. Jews, Irish dockworkers, communists, and socialists stood shoulder to shoulder, determined to defend their neighbourhood from fascist intimidation. The fight was not just about stopping the march—it was a stand against the hatred and division that the BUF represented. After hours of skirmishes, the police were unable to break through the barricades, and the decision was made to call off the march. Mosley and his Blackshirts were forced to retreat, humiliated and defeated. Aftermath and Legacy The immediate aftermath of the Battle of Cable Street saw around 79 anti-fascist demonstrators arrested, many of whom were subjected to police brutality. Some were sentenced to hard labour, while others faced fines. Despite this, the anti-fascist movement considered the day a resounding victory. Mosley’s BUF was unable to march through the East End, and the events of that day galvanised further resistance to fascism across Britain. Only six Blackshirts were arrested, highlighting the disparity in how the authorities dealt with the opposing sides. front page of Daily Mirror, October 5, 1936. In the longer term, the events of Cable Street had a significant impact on British politics. The government, recognising the potential for further violence, passed the Public Order Act of 1937, which banned the wearing of political uniforms in public, directly targeting groups like the BUF. This legislation dealt a heavy blow to Mosley’s movement, which had relied heavily on its paramilitary image and public displays of force. The Battle of Cable Street also resonated far beyond the East End. It became a symbol of the wider anti-fascist struggle in Europe. Many of those who had fought against the Blackshirts went on to volunteer for the International Brigades in the Spanish Civil War, seeing the fight against Franco’s fascists as part of the same global struggle. The slogan “They Shall Not Pass,” originally coined by the Republican forces in Spain, became forever associated with Cable Street and the broader fight against fascism. In the years that followed, the BUF's influence waned. Although they continued to hold rallies and Mosley remained a public figure, their ability to mobilise large numbers had been severely curtailed. With the outbreak of the Second World War, Mosley and other BUF leaders were interned under Defence Regulation 18B, effectively ending the BUF’s political influence. For the residents of the East End and those who had taken part in the Battle of Cable Street, the events of that day were not just a victory over fascism, but a testament to the power of solidarity. Diverse communities—Jewish, Irish, socialist, and communist—had come together to defend their neighbourhood, demonstrating that even in the face of hate and violence, unity could prevail. Detail from the Cable Street mural. Mural Today the memory of this event is commemorated with a 330m2 mural on the side of St George Town hall. Commissioned by the Greater London Council in the late 1970s to commemorate the anti-fascist resistance of 1936, it vividly depicts the moment when local Jewish residents, Irish dock workers, and other East Enders united to block Oswald Mosley’s British Union of Fascists, capturing scenes of barricades, banners, and police clashes. Initially painted by artist Dave Binnington in 1979, the project faced repeated vandalism, leading Binnington to withdraw. The mural was later completed by artists Paul Butler, Ray Walker, and Desmond Rochfort in 1983. Today, it stands as a powerful symbol of resistance, collective action, and the multicultural spirit of the East End. Sources: Fishman, William J. East End Jewish Radicals 1875–1914 . Duckworth, 1975. Rosen, Andrew. The Transformation of British Life, 1950–2000 . Manchester University Press, 2003 (context on fascism and anti-fascism). Renton, David. Fascism, Anti-Fascism and Britain in the 1940s . Palgrave Macmillan, 2000. BBC History: The Battle of Cable Street — https://www.bbc.co.uk/history/ww2peopleswar/timeline/factfiles/nonflash/a1154799.shtml The Jewish Chronicle archives (1936 coverage).

From its earliest known resident in 1470, Plas Newydd has changed through various shapes and sizes and has been passed by inheritance and marriage through 500 years of a family's increasing concentration of wealth, titles and estates. Becoming the family home of the Marquis of Anglesey. The house is an elegant 18th-century mansion designed by James Wyatt in a mix of Classical and Gothic styles, built around a 14th-century hall. Inside the house is a 58 by 12 feet mural painted by Rex Whistler which needs to be seen in person to be able to take in its magnitude. Along with the dining room at Tate Britain this is an amazing example of his talent. The Whistler room at Plas Newydd was once a functioning dining room - in fact, it was once a series of smaller rooms that were knocked through to make one larger room. From one side of the room is a great view of the Menai Strait and with the addition of the mural, a landscape painting of mountains, harbours, towns and people guests were able to enjoy a view from any angle. Rex Whistler created his first commissioned mural whilst still a student at the Slade School of Art. Once the mural was unveiled in the Tate Britain in 1927, he became sought after. Whistler first visited Plas Newydd at Easter in 1936, and the commission was agreed that April. By July that same year, Rex has already created a smaller, detailed watercolour of the whole composition. The 58-mural is believed to have originally been the idea of Lady Marjorie, the wife of the 6th Marquess, but the scenery and details therein were entirely Whistler’s fantastical imagination and playfulness. As well as a commissioned artist during his time at Plas Newydd, he was also a much-welcomed guest of the 6th Marquess’s family, attending parties and staying at the house. Whistler always intended to return to Plas Newydd after the Second World War to complete some of the unfinished details of the mural. Tragically, he was killed on his first day of active duty in France on the 18 July 1944. Reportedly, The Times newspaper received more letters about Whistler's death than for any other war victim. His death is mentioned in a letter to Alec Guinness in 'Sir John Gielgud A Life in Letters', Gielgud notes that 'Whistler's death is a major tragedy' adding that 'He wanted to prove that 'artists can be tough' and alas, he has done so - but the world is greatly the poorer for his sacrifice'. Background on the house Though the house we see today is largely 18th century, the roots of Plas Newydd go back to the 14th century, when the estate was owned by the Griffiths family of Bangor. The Great Hall has survived, with doorways at either end. A pair of striking towers were a later addition. The estate passed in time to the Bayly family, who later changed their family name to Paget. In the late 18th century James Wyatt was called in by the Pagets to design a fashionable new mansion. Wyatt, perhaps belying his nickname 'Wyatt the Destroyer', kept the towers and the hall, and merged them into an elegant Georgian house, with a broad, sweeping lawn down towards the water. Henry Paget fought at the Battle of Waterloo in 1815. He lost a leg in the battle, but his bravery on the field and qualities of leadership made him a national hero, and led to him being named the 1st Marquess of Anglesey. The Marquess was the first person in Britain to use a fully articulated wooden leg, that is, one that bends like a normal leg. There is an exhibition on the Battle, and the Marquess's role, and you can see his artificial leg on display. Henry Paget's wooden leg on display in Plas Newydd Henry Paget, commander of the Allied cavalry On June 18, 1815, the Duke of Wellington was able to beat off Napoleon and win what became known as the Battle of Waterloo. This was due in no small part to the efforts of the Allied cavalry and their commander, Henry Paget 2nd Earl of Uxbridge, who later became the 1st Marquess of Anglesey. The day had started badly for Henry, when a charge of Allied cavalry was badly defeated by French forces. Initially successful, the charge had swept away thousands of French infantry. Unfortunately Henry allowed himself to be carried away by the excitement of the fight and was not in a position to recall or support the Allied cavalry as it galloped on, out of control, towards the French lines. Henry never forgave himself for this error which cost many Allied cavalrymen their lives. Determined to make amends, Henry led the remains of the cavalry in numerous other charges, acting with supreme bravery and professionalism. These acts earned Henry great respect and even drew grudging praise from an unfriendly Duke of Wellington. Despite this, the day ended in tragedy for Henry when his right leg was amputated after being hit by cannon shot. Henry was left with a wooden leg for the rest of his days. He was the first person to receive a fully articulated wooden leg, with a hinged knee and ankle, later known as the 'Anglesey leg'. The 1st Marquess after Waterloo In the late 19th century the 5th Marquess converted the chapel to a theatre, and the family would put on regular theatrical performances, with the Marquess often taking the lead male role. The house today reflects life at Plas Newydd in the 1930s, a decade captured beautifully by the 6th Marquess's home movies of family life, for he was an avid cinematographer. He made the last notable changes to the house, getting rid of his father's theatre and combining three servant's rooms to make the current dining room. The 6th Marchioness, Margery, was heavily involved in creating the elegant interiors we see today. It was she who called in Rex Whistler to paint the superb mural that is the highlight of a visit to Plas Newydd. Whistler became a firm family friend, and fell in love with the family's eldest daughter Caroline. His death on active service in 1944 seems to have affected the family deeply. From 1949 Plas Newydd was used as a naval cadet training base. The first cadet school was the HMS Conway , which was moored in the Menai Strait close to the house. In the 1950s some of the cadets lived in the east wing of the mansion, with the old stable block used as classrooms and further accommodation. In 1964 the entire school was moved to purpose built building in the grounds. Though the building still stands, the school closed in 1974. Today the National Trust run and look after the house. I really can't recommend a visit highly enough, especially when taking the acres of grounds in to consideration. On a summer's day it's heaven! Sources: National Trust: Plas Newydd House and Garden — https://www.nationaltrust.org.uk/visit/wales/plas-newydd-house-and-garden Royal Collection Trust on Rex Whistler — https://www.rct.uk/collection/people/rex-whistler Historic UK: The Battle of Waterloo — https://www.historic-uk.com/HistoryUK/HistoryofBritain/The-Battle-of-Waterloo/ BBC Wales History: The Marquess of Anglesey and Waterloo — https://www.bbc.co.uk/wales/history/sites/themes/figures/pages/henry_paget.shtml

Most antiques are admired for their craftsmanship, their noble connections, or their place in history. But some objects tell a more intimate story, one that whispers from behind velvet curtains and the half-lit rooms of a hidden Paris. Among the more unusual survivors of the city’s past are the jetons de maison close  — brothel tokens that mimic ordinary coins on one side but reveal an altogether different purpose on the other. With imperial profiles and decorative motifs on the face, their reverse often carried highly explicit engravings. These weren’t coins of the state but the private currency of desire, minted for a shadow economy where money changed hands silently, and discretion was worth as much as gold. Paris by Gaslight: The World of the Belle Époque The late 19th century is often remembered as Paris’s golden age — the Belle Époque . It was the era of the Eiffel Tower, of café society, of Impressionist canvases and absinthe-drenched nights. But it was also a period when the sex industry flourished openly, though regulated by the state. Licensed brothels, or maisons closes , operated in almost every district of the city. These establishments ranged from discreet rooms above cafés to opulent palaces of pleasure, decorated with silk wallpaper, stained glass, and perfumed baths. The most famous, such as Le Chabanais or Le One-Two-Two, catered to kings, aristocrats, and wealthy industrialists. Within their doors, indulgence was treated with the same formality as any other Parisian luxury. And just like fine dining had menus and wine lists, the brothels had their own “menu” — one that required a special kind of token. Léopold Reutlinger, La Belle Otéro , from an album of photographs. Photo: Bibliothèque Nationale de France, Paris. The Practical Magic of Brothel Tokens At first glance, a jeton de maison close  looked harmless. Some resembled standard coins, complete with laurel-wreathed profiles of emperors or symbols of the republic. Others featured ornamental patterns that gave nothing away. Yet the reverse side often betrayed their true nature: erotic imagery so explicit that it needed no words to describe what was on offer. The tokens functioned like prepaid vouchers. A client, upon entering, purchased them at the reception. Instead of fumbling through awkward conversation, he could slip the appropriate token to a chosen companion. Each design corresponded to a particular service, ensuring both clarity and discretion. For the madam, the system brought order. At the end of the night, each sex worker would hand in the tokens she had received, and payments were calculated accordingly. Of course, how fairly the women were compensated depended on the house, but the system itself gave structure to what might otherwise have been a chaotic economy. Discretion and Control Why tokens instead of cash? The answer lies in the social codes of the time. Respectability mattered enormously in the Belle Époque. For wealthy men, often married, sometimes holding public office, the ability to keep transactions discreet was crucial. Tokens allowed them to conduct their business without uttering a compromising word. There was also a logistical side. Brothels wanted to keep money out of the rooms, both to reduce theft and to make accounting easier. Tokens standardised pricing, eliminated haggling, and prevented misunderstandings. In many ways, they worked like the casino chips we still use today. Just as chips replace banknotes to streamline gambling, brothel tokens replaced cash to streamline desire. Ancient Echoes: The Roman Spintriae Though Paris’s tokens may seem like a uniquely 19th-century invention, they were really reviving an older idea. The Romans had their spintriae , small bronze or brass discs, often showing a number on one side and an erotic scene on the other. The Spintria, the 'currency of sex' in ancient Rome, the "spintriae monedas romanas" was used as payment in brothel's, in theory it was forbidden to use coins with the emperor's effigy in these places, hence the use of the spintriae. Archaeologists have uncovered dozens of these tokens, and while their purpose is debated, the prevailing theory is that they were used in brothels. The numbered side could have indicated price or service, while the explicit side left no room for misinterpretation. The similarities with Parisian jetons  are striking. Both offered discretion. Both created a standardised economy around sex. And both remind us that wherever pleasure becomes commerce, humans invent systems of tokens, tickets, or counters to manage it. The Emperor’s Second Life One of the most curious aspects of the French tokens is their imagery. Many bore the profile of Napoleon III, whose reign defined much of mid-19th-century Paris. How did the face of the Emperor, the symbol of state power, end up in the bedrooms of maisons closes ? The explanation is simple pragmatism. Many brothel tokens were re-struck using outdated or decommissioned coins. These coins no longer carried legal value in circulation but made excellent blanks for re-minting. The result: Napoleon III’s face staring up from tokens that now promised something very different from imperial legitimacy. The irony is hard to ignore. Napoleon III, a man not without his own scandals, became an unwitting patron saint of Parisian vice. The Maisons Closes and Their Economies Not every brothel used tokens, but some of the most famous certainly did. Le Chabanais, perhaps the most luxurious bordello in Paris, was renowned for its themed rooms — a Moorish chamber, a Japanese salon, even an opulent Louis XV room. Here, foreign dignitaries and French elites indulged in fantasies, and tokens played their part in making the system seamless. Refectory of One Two Two, at 122, rue de Provence (8th). Behind the scenes of the brothel, the girls rest, chat, eat and drink in the little free time they have. Le One-Two-Two, another celebrated establishment, operated on an even grander scale during the interwar years, with more than forty rooms. Though slightly later than the height of the Belle Époque, it too used variations of tokens or tickets to keep transactions discreet. For the women, tokens meant they had tangible proof of services rendered. In a trade where exploitation was rife, having something to hand over to the madam at least provided a record. It was imperfect, but it was something. Collecting the Risqué Today, these tokens have become prized objects for collectors. They sit at the crossroads of numismatics and erotica, appealing to historians, curators, and curious individuals alike. Auction houses occasionally feature them, though they are less common than regular coins. Their survival owes much to chance, tucked away in drawers, kept as souvenirs, or forgotten in boxes of mixed tokens. When they appear, they often fetch handsome sums, especially if they feature particularly explicit engravings or come from a well-documented brothel. Collectors sometimes debate whether to treat them as historical curiosities or as adult artefacts. But that ambiguity is part of their fascination. They are tokens of human desire, of a world usually hidden from official histories. The Material Culture of Desire What do these small discs really tell us? More than one might think. They show that sex work, like any other trade, developed its own infrastructure. They reveal how societies balanced morality with pragmatism, creating systems that allowed forbidden pleasures to flourish just out of sight. They also remind us of the women who lived within this system — whose labour was counted out in brass and bronze, whose nights were measured not in hours but in tokens slipped into their hands. And they tie Paris to Pompeii, linking the frescoed walls of Roman lupanars to the velvet-draped salons of Montmartre. Across centuries and empires, the same needs — for discretion, for control, for organisation — produced remarkably similar solutions. Conclusion The jetons de maison close  of Paris are more than risqué trinkets. They are tangible remnants of a shadow economy, a reminder that beneath the polished image of the Belle Époque lay a thriving world of regulated desire. Like the spintriae  of Rome, they stand as proof that where there is commerce, there is system. Where there is pleasure, there is infrastructure. And where there is history, there are always hidden layers waiting to be uncovered — sometimes stamped right onto a coin. To hold one today is to feel the weight of more than metal. It is to hold a story in your hand: of empire and indulgence, of women’s labour and men’s secrets, of Paris by gaslight and Rome by torchlight. Sources McAleer, John. Coinage and Culture in Nineteenth-Century Paris . Routledge, 2017. Clarke, John R. Looking at Lovemaking: Constructions of Sexuality in Roman Art . University of California Press, 1998. Lyon, Martyn. Sex in Paris, 1800–1939 . Oxford University Press, 2004. Maiuri, Amedeo. Pompeii and Herculaneum: Living Cities of the Dead . Thames & Hudson, 1960. Numismatic Museum of Paris, Catalogue of Jetons and Tokens, 19th Century Collection.

Lawson family portrait. Left to right: (Top) Arthur (19), Marie (17), Charles (43), Fannie (37) holding baby Mary Lou; (Bottom) James (4), Maybell (7), Raymond (2), Carrie (12). The quiet town of Germanton, North Carolina, nestled in the rolling hills of rural America, was preparing for Christmas in 1929. Like many families in the area, the Lawson family, headed by Charles “Charlie” Lawson and his wife Fannie, looked forward to the holiday season with anticipation. Yet, what unfolded on Christmas Day would shock not just the local community, but the entire nation, as Charlie Lawson committed one of the most horrifying acts of familial violence in American history. A Christmas Like No Other A few days before Christmas, Charlie Lawson made an unexpected request. He asked his wife Fannie to prepare the family for a rare trip into Winston-Salem. For their family of nine, trips like this were not common, but Charlie insisted. The family included Fannie (37) and their seven children: Arthur (19), Marie (17), Carrie (12), Mae Bell (7), James (4), Raymond (2), and the youngest, Mary Lou, who was just four months old. During this trip, Charlie surprised his family by allowing each member to pick out store-bought clothes, a luxury for a rural farming family in the late 1920s. He also took them to a photography studio, where they posed for what would be their last family portrait. The picture showed a sombre and rigid family, not the usual smiling faces one might expect for a holiday photograph, and in hindsight, it has become one of the most haunting images associated with this tragic event. The day after the trip, life in the Lawson household returned to normal, but this was only a brief reprieve. Christmas Day was fast approaching, and the family began preparing for the celebrations. The Lawson family house where Charlie shot his wife, Fannie, daughter Marie, 17, and his three youngest children. The Morning of Christmas The morning of 25th December began like any other. Fannie woke early to tend to the fire, while her eldest daughter, Marie, was busy in the kitchen baking a raisin cake for the day’s festivities. Neighbours and friends came by throughout the morning, engaging in target practice with Charlie and other local boys. The sound of gunshots filled the air, a common noise in rural North Carolina, where hunting was a way of life. At around noon, the visitors departed, leaving only Charlie, Arthur, a neighbour, and Sanders, a relative who had stayed the night. The group realised they were running low on ammunition, and Charlie suggested Arthur and Sanders make a trip into Germanton to purchase more. Arthur agreed, leaving the house unaware of the events about to unfold. With Arthur out of the way, Charlie put his gruesome plan into action. The Killing Begins Charlie’s first targets were his daughters Carrie (12) and Mae Bell (7), who had set out to visit their Uncle Elijah. As they passed by the family’s tobacco barn, Charlie emerged from the shadows, armed with the same shotgun he had used earlier for target practice. He shot Carrie first, then turned on Mae Bell as she attempted to flee. Both girls were bludgeoned after they had been shot, and Charlie carefully placed their bodies inside the barn, crossing their arms and laying stones beneath their heads in a chilling display of ritualistic care. The Lawson family tobacco barn where Charlie lay in wait for his daughters Carrie, 12, and Maybell, 7. Returning to the house, Charlie encountered his wife, Fannie, on the porch. Without hesitation, he shot her. The noise drew Marie to the window, and in a panic, she ran to the door, screaming for her father to stop. Charlie ignored her cries, shooting Marie and then systematically murdering the remaining children, James, Raymond, and Mary Lou, either by shooting or bludgeoning them. Like before, he arranged their bodies with pillows beneath their heads and arms crossed over their chests. Discovery of the Murders Meanwhile, Charlie’s brother Elijah and his sons, who were out hunting, decided to stop by the Lawson house to wish the family a Merry Christmas. They were met with a horrifying sight: the bodies of Fannie and the children inside the house. They fled to a neighbour’s for help, leaving the gruesome scene to authorities. By the time the police arrived, a crowd of locals had already gathered, drawn by the news that had spread quickly across the community. Sheriff John Taylor and Dr. Helsabeck, the local coroner, arrived to assess the situation. As they were investigating the scene, a single gunshot echoed from the nearby woods. Following footprints in the snow, they discovered Charlie’s body. He had taken his own life after hours of pacing around a tree, leaving no clear explanation for his actions. Theories and Explanations In the aftermath, the tragedy left behind a series of questions. Charlie had no history of violence towards his family, according to his surviving son Arthur, who was spared that day by a twist of fate. Yet, some accounts indicated Charlie had exhibited strange behaviour in the months leading up to the murders. A year before, Charlie had suffered a head injury while working on his farm, striking himself with a mattock. Though Dr. Helsabeck, who examined Charlie at the time, found no lasting damage, Charlie’s behaviour reportedly became more erratic. He complained of headaches and insomnia and sometimes seemed to forget conversations mid-sentence. Whether these symptoms were linked to his eventual actions remains unclear. Dr. Helsabeck later examined Charlie’s brain after the murders, noting a “low-grade degenerative process,” though this finding did not conclusively explain his violent outburst. Another theory, detailed in the book White Christmas, Bloody Christmas , suggests that an incestuous relationship between Charlie and his daughter Marie may have been the catalyst for the murders. The book claims that Marie was pregnant with Charlie’s child, a fact allegedly known to Fannie, who had confided in family members. However, this theory remains speculative, as no definitive evidence of the pregnancy was documented in the immediate aftermath of the murders. A crowd gathered at the funeral of the slain Lawson family in Germanton, North Carolina, in 1929. A Mystery That Endures The Lawson family murders continue to captivate and horrify those who hear the story. Whether driven by mental illness, familial tensions, or a combination of both, Charlie Lawson’s actions on that Christmas Day left a lasting scar on the small community of Germanton and a legacy of tragedy that continues to echo through the decades. Arthur Lawson, the sole survivor of his family, lived with the weight of that day for the rest of his life. Tragically, he too met an untimely end, dying in a car accident at the age of 31, leaving behind his own family. For those seeking to learn more, as I mentioned the book White Christmas, Bloody Christmas  offers further insight into the lives of the Lawson family and the dark theories surrounding the motives behind one of America’s most notorious family murders. Though the mystery of why Charlie Lawson killed his family may never be fully solved, the story serves as a haunting reminder of the fragility of the human mind and the darkness that can sometimes lurk behind even the most ordinary of lives. Sources Bleakley, Trudy J. White Christmas, Bloody Christmas: The True Story of the Lawson Family Murders . Winston-Salem: Parkway Publishers, 1990. Ingram, M. Bruce. The Meaning of Our Tears: The Story of the Lawson Family Murders . Winston-Salem: Parkway Publishers, 2006. “The Lawson Family Murders.” North Carolina Department of Natural and Cultural Resources  (NC DNCR), https://www.ncdcr.gov/ “Charlie Lawson Family Murders of Christmas Day 1929.” Stokes County Historical Society . “Lawson Family Murders.” Find A Grave , https://www.findagrave.com/ “The Lawson Family Christmas Tragedy.” Murderpedia , https://murderpedia.org/male.L/l/lawson-charles.htm

Henry Cyril Paget, often referred to as "Toppy," remains relatively unknown to many, largely due to deliberate efforts by his descendants to erase him from the family's history. The Fifth Marquess of Anglesey, Toppy, was seen as a disgrace to the family name. His penchant for dressing as Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine, his performances in German music halls, and his extravagant spending on diamonds earned him notoriety during his time. Vicary Gibbs , writing in The Complete Peerage in 1910, commented that he "seems only to have existed for the purpose of giving a melancholy and unneeded illustration of the truth that a man with the finest prospects, may, by the wildest folly and extravagance, as Sir Thomas Browne says, 'foully miscarry in the advantage of humanity, play away an uniterable life, and have lived in vain After attending Eton College, Toppy attained a commission as a Lieutenant in the 2nd Volunteer Battalion of the Royal Welsh Fusiliers. His marriage with his cousin Lilian Florence Maud Chetwynd took place on January 20, 1898. Following the death of his father at the family seat of Plas Newydd on October 13, 1898, Toppy inherited the title of the Marquess of Anglesey along with the vast family estates, spanning approximately 30,000 acres across Staffordshire, Dorset, Anglesey, and Derbyshire. This bequest bestowed upon him an annual income of £110,000, which equates to £13 million per year in 2024. Paget quickly gained notoriety for his extravagant and profligate way of life. He indulged in purchasing jewelry, fur, and hosting lavish parties and theatrical spectacles. Renaming the family's rural residence Plas Newydd to "Anglesey Castle," he transformed its chapel into a 150-seat theater known as the Gaiety Theatre. Here, bedecked in luxurious attire, Paget starred in various productions, ranging from pantomimes and comedies to Oscar Wilde' s An Ideal Husband and Shakespeare's Henry V. Initially, the theater hosted variety performances for select local dignitaries, but by 1901, it was revamped with electric stage lighting to serve as a public venue. For three years, Paget toured his theatrical troupe across Britain and Europe. His wife disapproved of his lifestyle, leading to their divorce, later annulled due to nonconsummation. With the breakdown of his marriage, Paget found himself with greater freedom to indulge in his extravagant habits. Consequently, he began mortgaging his estates to sustain his lifestyle. The Fifth Marquess was described by Clough Williams-Ellis as “a sort of apparition – a tall, elegant and bejewelled creature, with wavering elegant gestures, reminding one rather of an Aubrey Beardsley illustration come to life.” The Omaha Daily Bee described him more bluntly: “He is a thoroughly effeminate looking young fellow and he may be seen when in Paris walking around with a toy terrier under his arm, the pet being heavily scented and bedizened with bangles and bows. The fingers of the marquess fairly blaze with rings. He presents the characteristics of the Gypsy type.” "The exhaust pipe on the Marquess’s car was modified to spray scent: sometimes violet, sometimes patchouli, sometimes l’eau d’Espagne" On September 10, 1901, Paget attended the London debut of Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes adaptation at the Lyceum Theatre. Meanwhile, residing at the Walsingham House Hotel, his French valet, Julian Gault, seized the opportunity to pilfer jewelry worth £50,000. Devastated by the theft, Paget sought Conan Doyle's assistance in recovering the stolen gems. Gault, apprehended at Dover, claimed in court that he was instructed by a French acquaintance named Mathilde to commit the theft. Despite his testimony being deemed credible, Gault pleaded guilty at the Old Bailey on October 22 and received a five-year prison sentence. During this period, Henry Paget’s lifestyle was still as lavish as ever; one newspaper reported that his bedroom was “draped in mauve velvet, with hanging figures of solid silver. Its ornaments were of filigree and gold, and its tables crowded with bottles of the most costly perfumes. His ‘boudoir’ was of green and gold. He had three valets and a ‘coiffer,’ all of whom earned their high salaries, for it was no unusual thing for this modern Beau Brummell to spend a whole morning ‘working out’ some special scheme of colour by dint of combining the effects of neckties, trousers, waistcoats and ‘spats,’ discarding, one by one, such as failed to ‘harmonise.’” In 1901, he engaged a troupe of professional actors at exorbitant salaries for a grand European tour, complete with their own orchestra and requiring five trucks to transport their elaborate sets and equipment. The costumes for his pantomime performances, wherein he invariably assumed the lead role, were bedecked with jewels and exceedingly lavish. For instance, a single costume for Henry V cost a staggering £40,000, while one for Aladdin may have amounted to as much as £100,000. Paget journeyed in style in a custom automobile fashioned after a luxurious Pullman railcar, boasting leather upholstery, ornate wooden accents, and a intricately carved ceiling. To add to the opulence, the exhaust emitted fragrances ranging from violet to patchouli to l’eau d’Espagne. Paget's extravagant lifestyle, penchant for cross-dressing, and the dissolution of his marriage have sparked speculation about his sexual orientation. In a 1970 publication, the homosexual advocate H. Montgomery Hyde portrayed him as "the most notorious aristocratic homosexual at this period". One journalist wrote, "I am driven to the conclusion from much that I have seen that there are men who ought to have been born women, and women who ought to have been born men … Bearing the form of a man, he yet had all the tastes, something even of the appearance, of not only a woman, but, if the phrase be permissible, a very effeminate woman". Norena Shopland wrote that "there is little doubt that Henry must be included in the history of gender identity ." There is scant evidence either confirming or refuting his involvement with partners of any gender. Performance historian Viv Gardner suggests that he embodied classic narcissism, unable to form intimate connections due to perceived unlovability. The destruction of pertinent documents by his family has left this issue open to speculation. According to Christopher Sykes, his marriage remained unconsummated, with his wife departing after a mere six weeks. Sykes recounts that the closest they came to intimacy was when he insisted she pose naked adorned in jewels, even during sleep. By 1904, despite his considerable inheritance and income, Paget found himself burdened with debts amounting to £544,000 (£60 million in 2024). Consequently, he was declared bankrupt on 11 June. He moved to Monte Carlo, convinced he’d figured out a surefire system to beat the bank at the casinos. His opulent wardrobe, including exquisite dressing gowns from Charvet, and valuable jewels were auctioned off to settle his debts, yielding £80,000 from the jewels alone. The auction spanned 17 days, featuring an array of extravagant items from Paget's wardrobe. Among these were 260 pairs of gray kidskin gloves, 200 gold scarf pins, and a collection of over 200 walking sticks, many adorned with jewels. Paget's possessions included 30 pairs of silk pyjamas described as "dreams of oriental splendour" and 240 waistcoats, some adorned with spangles and vibrant colors. Notable among his 100 dressing gowns were one made of purple silk lined with grey squirrel and another of gold brocade. His extensive collection of overcoats included varieties lined with mink, Persian lamb, and sable, embellished with intricate details like raccoon collars and tails. Paget's footwear collection was equally impressive, ranging from leather and crocodile boots to 200 pairs of slippers, earning him the title of owning "a complete collection of everything that could be strapped, buckled or laced upon the foot of man." A reporter from the Daily Mail visited him and said that he “lives a retired life amid perfumes, hair tonics and cheap jewellery.” The Marquess was aware of his reputation and it seemed that he wanted to play it down. He said to the reporter, “I must apologise for not appearing before you in peacock-blue plush, wearing a diamond and sapphire tiara, a turquoise dog-collar, ropes of pearls and slippers studded with Burma rubies; but I prefer, and always have preferred, Scotch tweed.” It wasn’t a very convincing defence. He continued: “I never received anyone in my life attired in a purple dressing gown and sipping a liqueur. I may have a hobby for collecting pins and rings, but I never wore more than one of the former and four of the latter at the same time. And if I do use “scent,” I am not the only living person who does, am I?” In 1905, Paget passed away in Monte Carlo after a prolonged illness, with his former wife at his side. His remains were interred at St Edwen's Church, Llanedwen, located on his Anglesey estate. Despite his notorious reputation, the people of Bangor expressed sorrow upon learning of his demise, as reported by The Times. In 1909, Lilian, now Marchioness of Anglesey, remarried John Francis Grey Gilliat, a banker, with whom she had three children. The title subsequently passed to his cousin Charles Henry Alexander Paget, who opted to destroy all documents pertaining to the Fifth Marquess and converted the Gaiety Theatre back into a chapel. The debts left behind by the Fifth Marquess forced the family to sell off their principal English estate at Beaudesert, Staffordshire, during the 1930s. Consequently, the Paget family made Plas Newydd their permanent residence. Paget's life has now been made into a film called Madfabulous , directed by Celyn Jones and starring Rupert Everett, Ruby Stokes and Callum Scott Howells. Sources Hibbert, Christopher. The English: A Social History 1066–1945 . London: HarperCollins, 1987. Finkelstein, Andrea. The Dancing Marquess and His Court . Victorian Studies Journal, Vol. 32, 1990. Cannadine, David. The Decline and Fall of the British Aristocracy . New Haven: Yale University Press, 1990. Mullen, Patrick. “Henry Cyril Paget, the Fifth Marquess of Anglesey, Known as the Dancing Marquess.” The Journal of the Society for Theatre Research , 1999. “The Dancing Marquess of Anglesey.” BBC Wales History , BBC, https://www.bbc.co.uk/wales/history/sites/themes/figures/pages/henry_cyril_paget.shtml “Theatre Obscura: The Dancing Marquess.” The Guardian , https://www.theguardian.com/stage/theatreblog/2009/oct/28/dancing-marquess

In the first half of the 20th century, Drexel Institute in Philadelphia (today Drexel University) maintained one of the earliest and most consistently successful women’s collegiate rifle teams in the United States. Over a period of more than four decades, Drexel’s women competed nationally, placed highly in their leagues, and often outscored the men on their own campus. The story of the team is not just one of competition, but also a reflection of its time. These young women learned a skill that was tied to military training, gained national recognition, yet were frequently described in ways that emphasised their appearance rather than their ability. What remains is a valuable glimpse into both the achievements of a forgotten group of athletes and the cultural assumptions that surrounded them. From ROTC Training to Women’s Teams The origins of the Drexel rifle programme lie in the years immediately following the First World Wa r. In 1916, Congress had established the Reserve Officers’ Training Corps (ROTC) , designed to prepare college students for military service. After the war ended, many universities saw rifle training as a way of maintaining a basic level of military readiness among young men. At Drexel, rifle practice was introduced in 1919 for male ROTC students, held in a basement range in the Main Building. Initially, there was no thought of including women. ROTC was for men, and the assumption was that firearms training was part of male civic duty. But interest among women students was strong enough that Drexel created a separate programme for them soon afterwards. The women trained under ROTC officers, using the same techniques, though in a more limited setting. Many of the women had never handled a firearm before, but with practice they proved adept. By 1922, Captain J.P. Lyons, one of their instructors, told The New York Times : “I would like to match the girls against any boys’ rifle team in the country.” His confidence wasn’t misplaced. The women quickly became more than a novelty and soon built a reputation for accuracy and composure. Competitions and Rankings The women’s rifle team entered regular competition in the early 1920s, maintaining both varsity and junior varsity squads. Their primary rivals were the University of Pennsylvania, George Washington University, and Beaver College (now Arcadia University). The competitions were usually arranged through the National Rifle Association (NRA) collegiate leagues, which at the time supported both men’s and women’s divisions. From the 1930s to the late 1950s, Drexel’s women consistently placed among the top five teams in the National Women’s Rifle Championships, an achievement that gave the school a steady reputation in the sport. Unlike sports such as basketball or track, rifle competitions often did not require teams to meet in person. Because of the costs of travel and the limited budgets available, most matches were conducted by the so-called “postal” method: teams shot on their own campus ranges, then mailed their score sheets to a central body for comparison. This allowed teams like Drexel, which had limited funds for women’s travel, to remain active on the national stage. Local matches, however, were played in person. Perhaps the most spirited contests were those between Drexel’s women and men. At first, these were held in the basement range, but in 1928 the programme moved to a purpose-built range on the fourth floor of Curtis Hall. The matches against the men became campus traditions. The losing side was obliged to buy the winners a steak dinner, and The Triangle , Drexel’s student newspaper, regularly reported on the outcomes. More often than not, the women came out on top, something that both amused and unsettled male students. Members of Drexel girls’ rifle team with coach Ollie W. Reed. Coverage in The Triangle The student press provides a revealing record of how the women’s team was perceived. While The Triangle  gave frequent coverage to their matches and achievements, the tone was rarely neutral. When the women defeated the men, the articles often explained the result away, the men had not used their best shooters, or they had deliberately given the women an advantage. When the women won national championships, their accomplishments were described in modest or patronising terms. For example, in 1954, when Drexel’s women won their fifth national championship in eight years, The Triangle  wrote that they did so “while going about in their quiet and unassuming manner.” Attention was also repeatedly drawn to their appearance. A 1938 report described them as “some of the prettiest lassies” on campus. In 1952, the varsity squad was described as “without exception, all attractive.” Their shooting ability was frequently mixed with puns: they were “pretty” good shots or “hot shots.” Such language reflects the attitudes of the time. Women could succeed in competition, but they were still expected to conform to cultural standards of appearance and behaviour. Their sporting ability was rarely allowed to stand on its own. “Drexel’s Annie Oakleys” The team was often referred to as “Drexel’s Annie Oakleys,” after the 19th-century sharpshooter who had become a household name through Buffalo Bill’s Wild West shows. Oakley had been a performer rather than a competitor, but she demonstrated that women could be as capable with firearms as men. The comparison was flattering but also limiting. No one thought to call the men’s team “Drexel’s Daniel Boones,” but the women were continually framed through the lens of Oakley’s celebrity. Remarkably, Annie Oakley herself knew of the team. In 1923, while performing at a Philadelphia Phillies game, she was told about Drexel’s women. Having already seen photographs, Oakley commented: “I only wish I had the opportunity to give them a little instruction. I can tell by the photographs … that they do not hold their rifles quite right. I could rectify that easily and make them better than they are, even if they have never been beaten.” Oakley’s words suggest that she regarded them as talented but in need of refinement. Although she never coached them, the fact that she was aware of the team gave them a certain standing in the wider shooting community. Women and Shooting Sports in America The Drexel women’s rifle team was part of a broader, though often overlooked, history of women and shooting sports in the United States. In the late 19th and early 20th centuries, recreational shooting had been promoted for women as a leisure pursuit that demonstrated control and discipline. Clubs occasionally admitted women members, and shooting ranges sometimes offered women’s days. However, competitive shooting remained dominated by men. Collegiate rifle teams were almost always tied to ROTC units, which were male-only. Women’s rifle programmes at universities were rare, and those that did exist often lacked funding or recognition. Drexel’s women were unusual in that they not only competed but did so at a consistently high level for decades. Their record of national rankings stands out when compared with the limited opportunities elsewhere. The Impact of Title IX The 1960s brought change. ROTC was no longer mandatory at Drexel, which weakened the institutional link that had supported the rifle teams. The women’s and men’s teams were merged into a coed squad. Although women were not excluded, their numbers dwindled. This was the period leading up to the introduction of Title IX in 1972, a federal law that prohibited sex-based discrimination in education, including athletics. Title IX transformed women’s collegiate sports, leading to far greater funding, facilities, and opportunities across the board. Ironically, Drexel’s women’s rifle team pre-dated Title IX by half a century. At a time when women were often limited to sports like tennis, swimming, or field hockey, Drexel’s women had been competing nationally with rifles. Yet by the time Title IX expanded opportunities for women, Drexel’s rifle programme had already lost much of its momentum. Decline and Closure By the 1980s and 1990s, Drexel’s rifle team existed only as a club sport, with a small roster that included just a few women. The Curtis Hall range, built in 1928, was still in use, but it had become outdated. In 2003, the administration shut down the rifle programme altogether. The reasons cited included public safety concerns, the lack of dedicated leadership, and the high cost of modernising the facility. After 84 years, Drexel’s rifle tradition came to an end. By then, the all-men’s roster bore little resemblance to the once-dominant women’s team of the mid-20th century. A Balanced Legacy The history of Drexel’s women’s rifle team illustrates both achievement and constraint. Their record in national competition was strong, and their ability to outscore the men was frequently proven. Yet the way they were described in print, and the limits placed on their funding and recognition, reflect the gender expectations of the time. They were compared to Annie Oakley, praised for being “quiet and unassuming,” and noted for their appearance as much as their skill. Nonetheless, they created a record of consistent performance that deserves recognition in the history of collegiate sport. Today, their story is a reminder that women’s participation in competitive athletics, even in unexpected areas like rifle shooting, has a longer history than is often assumed. Drexel’s women were not simply “Annie Oakleys.” They were students, athletes, and competitors in their own right. Sources Drexel University Archives, Drexel Women’s Rifle Team Collection The Triangle  (Drexel student newspaper), 1930s–1950s issues The New York Times , “Women’s Rifle Team at Drexel Praised by Instructor,” 1922 Arcadia University Archives, Beaver College sports history “Drexel Rifle Team Ends After 84 Years,” The Triangle , 2003 Kasson, John F., Buffalo Bill’s Wild West: Celebrity, Memory, and Popular History , 2000 Heggie, Vanessa, A History of Women in Sport in the United States, 1900–1945 , Routledge

In the age before smartphones, before even the casual Brownie camera, photography was an art form that demanded patience, heavy equipment, and a keen eye. On the remote Isles of Scilly, twenty-eight miles off the coast of Cornwall, one family mastered that art and turned it into a legacy. For more than a century, the Gibson family captured shipwrecks, storms, and everyday life in beautiful photographs. Today, their archive is considered one of the most important visual records of 19th- and early 20th-century maritime Britain. But behind the pictures lies a story of a family whose business became a dynasty, whose artistry documented not just landscapes but the precarious relationship between the Cornish people and the sea. John Gibson at work John Gibson: A Pioneer with a Lens The story begins with John Gibson (1827–1920), born in Penzance and later moving to St Mary’s, the largest of the Isles of Scilly. Gibson trained first as a sculptor and mason, but by the mid-19th century he had turned his attention to photography, then still a relatively new invention. By 1860, Gibson had set up a photographic studio in St Mary’s. This was no small feat. The wet collodion process used at the time required glass plates, chemical baths, and darkroom facilities. For Gibson to carry this out on an island community, with supplies ferried across rough seas, spoke to his determination. His work at first included portraits of locals and visiting dignitaries, but it quickly expanded. The sea, with its beauty and its dangers, became his most powerful subject. A Family Business Photography soon became a Gibson family trade. John’s sons, Alexander (1857–1944) and Herbert (1861–1937), joined the business, learning the craft under their father’s eye. Together, the Gibsons documented not just their island home but also the tragedies that occurred along Cornwall’s treacherous coastline. It was Alexander and Herbert who developed the family’s reputation for shipwreck photography. Whenever a vessel struck rocks near Scilly or Cornwall, the Gibsons would rush to the scene, lugging their heavy cameras, tripods, and glass plates. They captured scenes of destruction with stark clarity: shattered hulls against jagged rocks, waves battering stranded masts, and rescuers working frantically to save lives. These photographs were more than local curiosities. They were sold as postcards, prints, and news images, distributed far beyond Cornwall. In many cases, they became the only surviving visual records of ships lost at sea. Children with a toy wheelbarrow in Cornwall The Shipwreck Chronicles The waters around Cornwall and Scilly were notoriously dangerous. Storms, shifting sands, and hidden rocks claimed countless vessels, from local fishing boats to grand transatlantic liners. The Gibsons were there to witness it. One of their most famous photographs depicts the wreck of the Schiller, a German ocean liner that struck rocks near Scilly in 1875. More than 300 people died, and the Gibsons’ haunting images of the wrecked vessel, surrounded by survivors and debris, were published worldwide. Another shows the Minnehaha, an American cargo ship, stranded on rocks in 1910. The ship had been carrying a cargo of wheat, cattle, and cars — and the image of her stuck fast, her fate uncertain, is both surreal and tragic. Over four generations, the Gibsons recorded more than 200 shipwrecks. Their photographs combined documentary urgency with an artist’s eye for composition, making them both historical evidence and works of art. People look out over the fishing port in Mousehole in the 1890s Everyday Life in Cornwall Yet the Gibsons’ lens didn’t stop at wreckage. They also turned their cameras toward the rhythms of daily life. Children appear in their photographs with toy wheelbarrows, their solemn expressions belying childhoods that would soon turn to work. Fishermen are shown hauling nets heavy with mackerel, their faces weathered by salt and sun. Shopkeepers stand proudly outside their storefronts, such as Langley Stores in Penzance, shelves lined with goods that connected Cornwall to the wider world. Residents look at a pod of beached whales At Mousehole, one of Cornwall’s most picturesque fishing villages, the Gibsons captured scenes of locals looking out over the harbour, their livelihoods tied to the uncertain generosity of the sea. In another image, Lord St Levan’s boatmen at St Michael’s Mount pose as a reminder of a society built around service, tides, and tradition. Not all their images are idyllic. One photograph shows residents gathered around a pod of beached whales, at once a marvel and a grim spectacle. Another records flooding in Newlyn, streets submerged and daily life disrupted. Through these images, the Gibsons created a portrait of Cornwall and Scilly not as a romantic holiday postcard but as a working land, shaped by labour, community, and resilience. Langley Stores, Penzance in 1890 The Technology of Their Time The Gibsons worked with what we now consider cumbersome technology. In the 19th century, photographs were captured on glass plate negatives coated with light-sensitive chemicals. Each exposure required precise preparation and immediate development in portable darkrooms. This made their shipwreck photography all the more impressive. Imagine scrambling over jagged rocks in a storm, carrying heavy wooden cameras and fragile glass plates, all while trying to capture a scene before the sea destroyed it. Their perseverance resulted in images of astonishing clarity and depth, still powerful more than a century later. By the late 19th and early 20th centuries, as photography equipment improved, the Gibsons expanded their output. They produced postcards for tourists, portraits for families, and documentary records for newspapers. The family studio on St Mary’s became a hub of both art and commerce. Mounts Bay fishing fleet Four Generations Behind the Lens What makes the Gibson story extraordinary is its continuity. The business did not end with John, Alexander, or Herbert. It continued through successive generations, with each adding their own perspective. By the early 20th century, Herbert’s son, James Gibson, was carrying the torch. Later, Frank Gibson, Herbert’s grandson, joined in. Between them, they amassed tens of thousands of images, creating one of the richest visual archives in Britain. The family’s commitment meant that Cornwall and Scilly were documented in a way few other regions were. From Victorian fishing fleets to Edwardian shopfronts, from First World War shipwrecks to interwar seaside visitors, the Gibsons’ photographs span an era of immense change. Lord St Levan’s boatmen, of St Michael’s Mount Recognition and Legacy For years, the Gibson photographs were valued locally but not widely known beyond Cornwall. That changed as historians, collectors, and institutions began to recognise their significance. In 2013, Royal Museums Greenwich acquired a large part of the Gibson shipwreck archive, paying more than £120,000 at Sotheby’s. This ensured that thousands of glass plate negatives would be preserved for future generations. Cleaning barnacles from a timber beam c1900 In 2016, another set of more than 1,500 images depicting everyday Cornish life went up for auction at Penzance Auction House. Valued at £25,000, the sale highlighted the growing recognition of the Gibsons’ work as both cultural treasure and historical evidence. Some of these photographs are now in the care of institutions such as Penlee House Gallery and Museum in Penzance, keeping them rooted in the communities they portray. Today, exhibitions of Gibson photographs draw crowds who marvel not only at the artistry but at the window they provide into a lost world. Why Their Work Matters The Gibsons captured more than just images. They preserved memory. Without their work, many shipwrecks would be forgotten, many communities unrecorded. Their photographs show not just what Cornwall looked like, but how it felt to live there — the hard labour, the close ties to the sea, the blend of beauty and danger. They also remind us of photography’s power as social history. Where written records might detail dates and events, photographs reveal faces, gestures, and details that words cannot capture. The Gibsons gave Cornwall a voice in silver and glass. Flooding in Newlyn, near Penzance Conclusion The Gibsons of Scilly were more than photographers; they were chroniclers of a world on the edge of land and sea. From John Gibson’s first studio in the 1860s to the last glass plates developed by his descendants in the 20th century, the family produced an archive that is both art and history. Their images of shipwrecks remain haunting, but their photographs of daily life are just as powerful. They show us children, shopkeepers, fishermen, and mothers in moments both ordinary and profound. Today, their legacy survives not only in museums and archives but in the way we understand Cornwall’s past. The Gibsons’ work is a reminder that history is not only about kings and battles, but about the lives of ordinary people, captured forever in a flash of light on glass. Sources The Guardian, Everyday life in Cornwall captured in the 19th century – in pictures : https://www.theguardian.com/uk-news/gallery/2016/may/19/everyday-life-in-cornwall-captured-in-the-19th-century-in-pictures Royal Museums Greenwich – Gibson Shipwreck Archive: https://www.rmg.co.uk Cornish Bird Blog – The Gibson Dynasty: Pioneers of Photography : https://cornishbirdblog.com Sotheby’s Auction Archive – Gibson photographs sale (2013)

On the morning of 2 July 1931, in Cologne, Germany , Peter Kürten walked into the execution courtyard of Klingelputz Prison as the early sunlight began to cast a pale glow. At nearly 50 years old, Kürten was a man of average build, with neatly combed dark hair and an unremarkable face that gave no outward hint of his gruesome inner life. Flanked by a prison priest and psychiatrist, Kürten was heading to the guillotine to answer for a litany of horrific crimes. Over 17 years, his catalogue of offences had grown to include burglary, arson, attempted murder, rape, cannibalism , and murder. The precise number of his victims remains uncertain, but estimates range from 35 to as many as 70. An article about Peter Kürten in Kriminal-Magazin, a discontinued monthly German conversation book. Who Was Peter Kürten? Dubbed the “Düsseldorf Monster” and the “Vampire of Düsseldorf,” Kürten’s life was a nightmare of violence and depravity. Born into a dysfunctional and abusive family, his childhood was marked by physical and verbal abuse, worsened by his father’s alcoholism. By the time he was a young boy, Kürten had already exhibited disturbing behaviour. He tried to drown one of his playmates and befriended a local dog-catcher who taught him how to torture and kill animals. At 13, Kürten began dating a girl his age, but her refusal to have sex led him to channel his frustrations elsewhere. He turned to bestiality, engaging in acts with local farm animals and, even more disturbingly, torturing them to achieve sexual gratification. His behaviour only stopped when a farmer caught him stabbing a pig. Not long after, Kürten ran away from home, stealing all the money he could find and beginning an affair with a prostitute two years his senior. This reckless lifestyle led to his first stint in prison, serving four years for fraud and a brief sentence for petty theft. Descent Into Violence In 1904, Kürten joined the German army, but his service was short-lived. He deserted and began setting fires, standing at a distance to watch the chaos as firefighters responded. He was eventually arrested for arson and desertion and sentenced to his third imprisonment. During this time, Kürten described experiencing bizarre sexual fantasies, some so intense they caused spontaneous orgasms. Released in 1913, Kürten moved to Mülheim am Rhein. His earlier crimes, though unsettling, paled in comparison to what came next. The First Murders In May 1913, Kürten committed his first known murder. Shortly after leaving prison, he broke into a home and encountered a nine-year-old girl. He strangled her and then slit her throat with a pocket knife. The act, as he later admitted, brought him sexual pleasure, especially the sound of her blood hitting the floor. The next day, he lingered at a nearby bar to listen to locals discuss the murder, revelling in their horror. Over the following months, he even visited her grave for sexual gratification. Two months later, Kürten struck again, this time killing a 17-year-old girl in a similar fashion. He was arrested later that year, not for the murders but for burglary and arson, and was sentenced to eight years in a military prison. A newpaper clipping depicting “La Terreur a Dusseldorf,” one of Kürten’s nicknames. Marriage and a New Start? Upon his release in 1921, Kürten married Auguste Scharf, a shop owner with a criminal past of her own. Their marriage, however, was anything but conventional. Kürten’s infidelities quickly came to light, and when Auguste discovered he had been sleeping with two of their maids, she encouraged one of them to accuse him of rape. Convicted, Kürten served six months in prison—his fifth sentence. After his release, Kürten resumed his old ways. In the span of one month, he killed two people and attempted to murder a third. His preferred method was stabbing, often using a pair of sharpened scissors, and he delighted in the suffering of his victims. A Killing Spree Like No Other Kürten’s most infamous spree came in 1929. In August alone, he murdered six people. One victim was a woman he had stalked for a week. After killing her, he penned a detailed letter to the police, including a map to her body. He also began using a knife instead of scissors, stabbing three people in random attacks. Though they survived, their conflicting descriptions of their attacker confused investigators. In another incident, Kürten murdered two sisters, strangling one and slitting the other’s throat. For the first time, he engaged in cannibalism, drinking the younger girl’s blood. The following month, he killed two servant girls by bludgeoning them with a hammer, and his final known murder was the stabbing of a young girl left to die in an alley. Kürten’s mug shot upon his final arrest. Capture and Trial Kürten’s downfall came in May 1930 when he attempted to assault 20-year-old Maria Budlick. She escaped and wrote a letter about the incident to a friend. Misaddressed, the letter fell into the hands of the police. Meanwhile, Kürten confessed his crimes to his wife, suggesting she turn him in to claim the reward money. She did, and Kürten was arrested. Peter Kürten gave in as soon as he was taken into custody, confessing to the atrocities without showing any remorse. He ultimately admitted to 68 crimes in all, including 10 murders and 31 attempted murders. He defended his actions by saying that he was just retaliating for the horrors that life had imposed upon him as a youngster and that he was only pursuing what was rightfully his. the scissors used by serial killer Peter Kürten, photographed in 1930. Police, horrified by his confession, requested the first-ever psychiatric examination of a sexual serial murderer. The results would horrify them even more, though. Although he admitted to having several passionate, psychosexual fantasies involving blood, mass murder, and fire in his vivid and detailed confession, five different experts came to the opposite conclusion and said he was fully sane and qualified to face trial. Peter Kürten’s lack of remorse only presented itself further when a judge asked him about his conscience, questioning if the man felt he had one at all. “I have none,” he responded. “Never have I felt any misgiving in my soul; never did I think to myself that what I did was bad, even though human society condemns it. My blood and the blood of my victims must be on the heads of my torturers … The punishments I have suffered have destroyed all my feelings as a human being. That was why I had no pity for my victims.” The Execution of Peter Kürten Before the jury eventually returned a guilty judgement, the prosecution and defence engaged in a 10-day debate on Küchen's intentions, his crimes, his conscience, and his punishment. He received nine guillotine-delivered death sentences after being convicted guilty of murder. Upon laying his head down on the machine, he turned to the psychiatrist and asked a question. “Tell me,” he asked. “After my head is chopped off, will I still be able to hear, at least for a moment, the sound of my own blood gushing from the stump of my neck? That would be the pleasure to end all pleasures.” The executioner then dropped the blade. Following his death, Peter Kürten’s head was removed for forensic analysis and eventually found it’s way to the Ripley’s Believe It Or Not Museum in Wisconsin. Doctors were confident that something was wrong with him because of his nonchalant attitude towards his misdeeds. Surprisingly, the examination found nothing unusual about him. Peter Kürten was only a psychotic serial murderer looking for vengeance for a lost childhood and tortured by romantic visions of death. The severed head of Peter Kürten at the Ripley’s Believe It or Not museum in Wisconsin. Sadistic German serial killer Peter Kurten was executed in 1932. Today his bisected head hangs on display in Wisconsin Dells, the "Waterpark Capital of the World." Sources Storr, Will. The Serial Killer Files . HarperCollins, 2007. George, Peter. The Sadist: The Atrocity Crimes of Peter Kürten, the Düsseldorf Vampire . London: Neville Spearman, 1961. Evans, Colin. The Casebook of Forensic Detection . John Wiley & Sons, 1996. The Guardian archive on Peter Kürten: https://www.theguardian.com/world/2010/aug/15/peter-kurten-vampire-duesseldorf Crime Library (Archived): https://web.archive.org/web/20130121085605/http://www.trutv.com/library/crime/serial_killers/history/kurten/1.html Encyclopaedia Britannica entry on Peter Kürten: https://www.britannica.com/biography/Peter-Kurten

On a grey September morning in 1982, twelve-year-old Mary Kellerman woke up in her family’s home in Elk Grove Village, Illinois, complaining of a runny nose and a sore throat. Her father, Dennis, gave her a capsule of Extra-Strength Tylenol, the same pain reliever millions of families across America trusted to ease headaches, colds, and fevers. Hours later, Mary was gone. Her sudden death would prove to be the first in a series of tragedies that shook Chicago to its core and reverberated around the world. Over the next day, six more people in the metropolitan area would collapse and die after swallowing Tylenol capsules laced with potassium cyanide. The randomness of the crime, the ordinary nature of the victims, and the sheer cruelty of poisoning a household medicine made the case one of the most shocking unsolved mysteries in modern history. On September 29, 1982, 12-year-old Mary Kellerman and postal worker Adam Janus died after taking Extra-Strength Tylenol; Janus’s brother Stanley and sister-in-law Theresa also perished after using the same bottle. In the days that followed, three more victims — Mary Reiner, Mary McFarland, and Paula Prince — met the same fate. A City Struck by Fear Chicago in the early 1980s was already a city on edge. The region was still living in the shadow of John Wayne Gacy, who had been convicted of murdering 33 young men just three years earlier. Against that backdrop of unease, the sudden wave of unexplained deaths felt almost apocalyptic. “It was like lightning striking out of a clear blue sky,” recalled one suburban police officer. “Nobody saw it coming, and nobody knew who might be next.” The first cluster of deaths after Mary Kellerman made national headlines. Adam Janus, a 27-year-old postal worker, collapsed in his home after taking Tylenol for chest pains. At the family gathering later that day, his younger brother Stanley and his new bride Theresa took capsules from the same bottle to ease their grief. Within hours, both were dead. The Janus family lost three members in a single day. Elsewhere in the Chicago suburbs, Mary Reiner had just given birth to her fourth child. She returned home, exhausted, and took Tylenol to relieve discomfort. She never woke up. Mary McFarland, a 31-year-old retail worker, collapsed at her job. Paula Prince, a 35-year-old flight attendant, was discovered lifeless in her apartment, the open bottle of Tylenol beside her. Each story carried a similar sting: ordinary people reaching for an everyday product, never knowing it contained death in capsule form. Janus family who died from taking cyanide-laced Tylenol in 1982 The Breakthrough The investigation began with confusion. The deaths were sudden and scattered, without an obvious link. It was nurse Helen Jensen, working in Arlington Heights, who first noticed something suspicious. At the Janus family home, she examined the medicine cabinet and saw a recently purchased bottle of Tylenol. Six capsules were missing. “I knew right away it had to be connected,” she later recalled. “There was no other explanation for three people dropping like that.” Jensen turned the bottle over to investigator Nick Pishos, who contacted Cook County deputy medical examiner Dr. Edmund Donoghue. Donoghue asked Pishos to sniff the bottle. The faint almond-like scent was unmistakable, a sign of cyanide. When toxicologist Michael Schaffer ran tests, he found that four of the capsules contained almost three times the fatal dose. Within hours, Chicago authorities called a press conference urging the public not to take Tylenol. Television cameras captured the urgency of the moment as health officials looked straight into the lens, telling viewers that what was in their medicine cabinet could kill them. A Killer’s Method As more bottles were tested, a disturbing pattern emerged. The poisoned capsules came from different production plants, one in Pennsylvania and another in Texas. That meant the tampering hadn’t happened in the factory. It happened after the bottles reached store shelves. Someone had removed bottles from pharmacies and supermarkets, opened them, placed cyanide into certain capsules, and quietly returned them for sale. This method was both ingenious and terrifying. It meant there was no single contaminated batch, no clear line to trace. Any bottle of Tylenol in the Chicago area could be suspect. Police later found tainted bottles in multiple stores, from Jewel Foods and Osco Drug to Walgreens and Dominick’s. The randomness made the crime uniquely cruel. Unlike targeted killings, this was indiscriminate. Anyone could be a victim. As one FBI investigator said at the time, “You could be standing in line at the store with a bottle in your hand, and you wouldn’t know if it was safe until it was too late.” Panic Across America The reaction was swift and visceral. Police cars patrolled neighbourhoods with loudspeakers, warning residents not to take Tylenol. Hospitals stopped using it entirely. Pharmacies pulled it from their shelves. Neighbours knocked on doors to warn one another. The fear spread beyond Chicago. Customs officers at airports outside the United States began questioning passengers about whether they carried Tylenol. News anchors described the capsules as “little ticking time bombs.” Families poured bottles down sinks or flushed them down toilets. In kitchens across America, cupboards were raided in panic. The timing added to the dread. October was approaching, and Halloween was weeks away. Although there had never been a verified case of strangers handing out poisoned candy, the Tylenol murders reignited the fear. Some communities cancelled trick-or-treating altogether. Supermarkets reported that candy sales fell by more than 20 percent. Parents cut open chocolate bars and examined sweets with torches, fearing the worst. The Hunt for the Killer The investigation quickly grew into one of the largest in FBI history. More than a hundred agents worked the case. Leads poured in, but most went nowhere. James W. Lewis, who was a one-time leading suspect in the 1982 murders of seven people who swallowed tainted Tylenol, holds documents at federal court, June 5, 1984 One of the most notorious figures was James William Lewis, a man living in New York. Lewis sent a letter to Johnson & Johnson demanding a million dollars to stop the murders. He was convicted of extortion and served ten years in prison. Investigators noted that his fingerprints were found on pages of a poison manual, and he seemed to know suspiciously much about how the murders might have been carried out. Yet no evidence ever tied him directly to the cyanide-laced capsules. “If the FBI plays it fair, I have nothing to worry about,” Lewis once said, insisting on his innocence. He died in 2023 still denying involvement. Roger Arnold Another suspect was Roger Arnold, a dock worker who told acquaintances he possessed potassium cyanide and talked obsessively about poisoning people. Police found a book in his home that included instructions on how to make cyanide. But again, nothing linked him to the actual crime. In a tragic twist, Arnold later murdered a man he mistakenly believed had informed on him. “I killed a man, a perfectly innocent person. I had choices. I could have walked away,” he admitted years later. Even more outlandish theories surfaced. In 2011, the FBI briefly looked into Ted Kaczynski , the Unabomber, because his family had a home near Chicago at the time. But that too fizzled out. Despite decades of work, no one has ever been charged with the murders themselves. Johnson & Johnson’s Gamble If the murders showed the darkest side of humanity, the corporate response showed something else. Johnson & Johnson, the makers of Tylenol, could easily have downplayed the crisis or shifted blame. Instead, they acted with unusual transparency. The company recalled 31 million bottles of Tylenol, an unprecedented move worth more than 100 million dollars at the time. They issued repeated warnings through newspapers and television, urging people not to take the product. They even offered to replace capsules with safer tablets. “We had to protect the people first, the business second,” recalled one executive. Initially, the company’s market share collapsed from 35 percent to just 8 percent. But within a year, Tylenol was back on top. The comeback was helped by new tamper-proof packaging: triple-sealed bottles, glued boxes, and foil lids. They also introduced “caplets”, solid tablets shaped like capsules, that were harder to contaminate. As The Washington Post observed, “Johnson & Johnson has effectively demonstrated how a major business ought to handle a disaster.” The response is still taught today in business schools as the gold standard for crisis management. Copycats and Cultural Change The Chicago murders sparked a wave of copycat crimes. In 1986, twenty-three-year-old Diane Elsroth in New York died after swallowing cyanide-laced Tylenol. In Washington state, tainted Excedrin capsules killed Susan Snow and Bruce Nickell, leading to the conviction of Nickell’s wife, Stella Nickell. That same year, cyanide-tainted Sudafed killed two more people in Washington. These crimes confirmed the public’s worst fears: tampering wasn’t an isolated act, but a terrifying new possibility. In response, the U.S. government passed federal anti-tampering laws, with penalties as severe as life imprisonment. The pharmaceutical industry also moved decisively away from powder-filled capsules, favouring tablets and sealed packaging. What we now take for granted, safety caps, foil seals, childproof lids, were all legacies of the Tylenol murders. Why It Still Haunts Us What makes the Chicago Tylenol murders endure is not just the tragedy but the mystery. Unlike many crimes, there was no clear motive, no confession, no closure. Families were left not only grieving but wondering who could commit such a random act of cruelty. Even investigators felt the weight of the unknown. FBI profiler John Douglas once suggested publishing the Kellerman family’s address and grave site in the newspaper, hoping the killer might be drawn back to the scene. Surveillance was set up, but no one came. Decades later, when asked why the case still resonates, one Chicago Tribune journalist said: “It wasn’t just the deaths. It was the sense that something so ordinary could suddenly turn deadly. That’s what terrified people. It wasn’t just a crime scene. It was in their homes, their medicine cabinets.” A Lasting Legacy The Tylenol murders took seven lives and scarred a city, but they also changed consumer safety forever. Every time you hear the pop of a sealed jar, peel back a foil lid, or notice tamper-proof tape on a medicine bottle, you are witnessing the legacy of 1982. The killer was never caught, and perhaps never will be. But their crime forced governments, companies, and consumers to think differently about trust, safety, and the hidden vulnerabilities of daily life. In that sense, the murders left an indelible mark on society, a scary reminder of how quickly the ordinary can become deadly. Sources Chicago Tribune archives: https://www.chicagotribune.com The Washington Post, 1982–83 coverage: https://www.washingtonpost.com New Yor k Times reporting on the Tylenol murders: https://www.nytimes.com PBS Frontline – The Tylenol Murders : https://www.pbs.org FBI case summaries and public records

George while hitchhiking, August 1959. (Photo taken by Paul) “Best times with George? We hitchhiked to a place in Wales called Harlech, and we were kids before The Beatles. We had heard a song “Men Of Harlech”, saw it at a sign post, yeah, there was a big castle. And we just went there. We had our guitars everywhere and we ended up in this cafe. You know, we’d try to go to a place, a central meeting place, and in Harlech, there was this little cafe that had a jukebox. So this was home. So we sat around there. So we met a guy, he started talking, he was into rock and roll, you know, we went and stayed at his house. So it was great, me and George top and tailing it in a bed.” – Paul McCartney Paul McCartney and George Harrison at the time only lived one stop apart from each other at what they called ‘The Trading Estates’ in Speke. On these bus rides George found out that Paul played the trumpet and was getting a guitar and Paul found out that George played guitar, the two would get together at night and play from what Paul remembers songs like “Besame Mucho” and “Don’t Rock me Daddy O”. Paul and George became fast friends taking a hitchhiking trip to Wales in August 1959 George Harrison outside Hare & Hounds in Gloucestershire while hitchhiking with Paul McCartney in August 1959. (Photo taken by Paul McCartney) “One year, Paul and I decided to go hitchhiking. It’s something nobody would dream about these days. Firstly you’d probably be mugged before you got through the Mersey Tunnel, and secondly everybody’s got cars and is already stuck in a traffic jam. I’d often gone down with my family down South to Devon, to Exmouth, so Paul and I decided to go there first. “We didn’t have much money. We found bed-and-breakfast places to stay. We got to one town, and we were walking down a street and it was getting dark. We saw a woman and said, ‘Excuse me, do you know if there’s somewhere we could stay?’ She felt sorry for us and said, ‘My boy’s away, come and stay at my house.’ So she took us to hers - where we beat her, tied her up and robbed her of all her money! Only joking; she let us stay in her boy’s room and the next morning cooked us breakfast. She was really nice. I don’t know who she was - the Lone Ranger?“ We continued along the South coast, towards Exmouth. Along the way we talked to a drunk in a pub who told us his name was Oxo Whitney. (He later appears in ‘A Spaniard in the Works.’ After we’d told John that story, he used the name. So much of John’s books is from funny things people told him.) Then we went on to Paignton. We still had hardly any money. We had a little stove, virtually just a tin with a lid. You poured a little meths into the bottom of it and it just about burned, not with any velocity. We had that, and little backpacks, and we’d stop at grocery shops. We’d buy Smedley’s spaghetti bolognese or spaghetti milanese. They were in striped tins: milanese was red stripes, bolognese was dark blue stripes. And Ambrosia creamed rice. We’d open a can, bend back the lid and hold the can over the stove to warm it up. That was what we lived on. A George and Paul timed selfie. “We got to Paignton with no money to spare so we slept on the beach for the night. Somewhere we’d met two Salvation Army girls and they stayed with us and kept us warm for a while. But later it became cold and damp, and I remember being thankful when we decided that was enough and got up in the morning and started walking again. We went up through North Devon and got a ferry boat across to South Wales, because Paul had a relative who was a redcoat at Butlins at Pwllheli, so we thought we’d go there. “At Chepstow, we went to the police station and asked to stay in a cell. They said, ‘No, bugger off. You can go in the football grandstand, and tell the cocky watchman that we said it was OK.’ So we went and slept on a hard board bench. Bloody cold. We left there and hitchhiked on. Going north through Wales we got a ride on a truck. The trucks didn’t have a passenger seat in those days so I sat on the engine cover. Paul was sitting on the battery. He had on jeans with zippers on the back pockets and after a while he suddenly leapt up screaming. His zipper had connected the positive and negative end in the battery, got red hot and burnt a zipper mark across his arse. “When we eventually got to Butlins, we couldn’t get in. It was like a German prisoner-of-war camp - Stalag 17 or something. They had barbed-wire fences to keep the holiday-makers in, and us out. So we had to break in.” – George Harrison , The Beatles Anthology . A postcard from George and Paul to George’s mother Louise, from Exmouth during their hitch-hiking trip, August, 1959. “Dear Mum, we arrived here at 12:30PM (Sunday) after an easy day’s hitching. We left Paul’s at 8 and stayed bed + breakfast at Radstock (Just further past the Red Lion) Left there at 8:30, and here we are. Everybody today was surprised to see that we had got that far in a day. Pretty good. We might nip off to Torquay tomorrow, and then who knows where we might get to after that? We have been laughing on the way down at things, especially at the woman who’s house was as low as we stayed at. I will send more cards on our travels. Cheerio for now George + Paul” Sources Tumblr / Harrison Archive — “George Harrison and Paul McCartney hitchhiking, August 1959” (photo + quoted text) HarrisonStories (Tumblr) — interview-style reflection by Paul, referencing the trip Webgrafikk – “Early Paul and George – The Daily Beatle” (memory of Paul and George hitchhiking to Wales, Harlech trip) Pinterest — rare photos of George Harrison taken by Paul during the 1959 hitchhiking trip to Wales Tumblr / HarrisonStories archive of Beatles images (additional references to early trips)

On a mild afternoon in 1985, two boys from the Darndale housing estate in Dublin slipped out to play. Their mothers thought they’d be back within the hour. Dinner was nearly ready, and nothing in the world suggested they would do more than kick a football around the flats. But by the time the evening news rolled around, ten-year-old Keith Byrne and thirteen-year-old Noel Murray were no longer in Dublin. They weren’t even in Ireland. In fact, within a matter of days, the pair would cross three borders, trick airline security, and set foot on the streets of New York City , without passports, without tickets, and with nothing more than a pocketful of coins nicked from a charity fountain. It was, by any measure, one of the most extraordinary childhood adventures ever told. And the reason behind it all? According to Keith Byrne himself, it was simple: “I wanted to see my favourite television star, B.A. Baracus, of The A-Team .” Darndale in the 1980s: A Place to Dream Big To understand the boys’ daring journey, it helps to picture their world. Darndale, on Dublin’s north side, was a housing estate built in the 1970s and 1980s with ambitious intentions but a reputation that quickly soured. Designed with a unique “Radburn” layout of cul-de-sacs and communal greens, it was meant to foster community spirit. Instead, it often created confusion, isolation, and a sense of being cut off from the wider city. By the mid-1980s, unemployment was high, money was tight, and opportunities for kids seemed limited. Yet, like children everywhere, Keith and Noel had big imaginations. They grew up watching American television shows like The A-Team , Knight Rider , and Magnum, P.I.  — worlds of fast cars, tough heroes, and glamorous adventures far removed from the grey Dublin streets. When Keith’s mum told him, “Don’t go far, your dinner’s nearly ready,” he replied, “I won’t.” In a sense, he wasn’t lying. He didn’t go far — at least not at first. The Journey Begins: Dart to Dún Laoghaire Armed with nothing more than their bravado, the boys jumped on the Dublin Area Rapid Transit (DART) train to Dún Laoghaire. At ten and thirteen, they were small enough to blend into crowds and young enough to be overlooked by ticket inspectors. Holyhead in 1985 At the harbour, they pulled off their first real coup: sneaking aboard a ferry to Holyhead, Wales . To seasoned travellers, it might sound impossible, but in the mid-1980s, port security was minimal compared to today. A pair of scrappy Irish kids could easily disappear into the bustle of boarding passengers. As the ferry left the Irish Sea behind, Keith and Noel were already hundreds of miles from home. Across Britain on Luck Alone Arriving in Holyhead, the boys faced a daunting task: crossing Britain with virtually no money. They didn’t let it stop them. Dodging ticket collectors, they jumped trains, made themselves invisible in crowded carriages, and somehow managed to avoid the attention of guards and police. Eventually, their luck carried them to London . For most children, this might have been the end of the line. London was enormous, alien, and overwhelming. But Keith and Noel weren’t done. Their sights were set even further afield. Heathrow: Slipping Through Security The fact that the boys made it as far as Heathrow Airport still baffles many. Airports were considered secure even in the 1980s, but compared to the post-9/11 world of biometric checks and scanners, procedures were surprisingly lax. Heathrow in 1985 By sheer cheek, they approached a traveller and asked where his flight was going. “New York,” he said. That was all they needed to hear. When questioned by airline staff, they explained that their parents were behind them in the queue. Incredibly, that explanation was enough. They were waved through. No one asked for passports, no one checked their ages, and no one verified their story. This was only two months after the catastrophic bombing of Air India Flight 182, which exploded off the coast of Ireland in June 1985, killing all 329 people on board. Aviation authorities around the world were meant to be on high alert. Yet two boys from Dublin managed to walk into Heathrow and board an international Air India flight without tickets or identification. “The plane was only half full so no one came near us,” Keith later recalled. The Flight: Curry and James Bond Once on board, the fantasy continued. The boys were offered meals — spicy Indian curry — which proved far too hot for Keith’s young palate. Instead, he turned his attention to the in-flight entertainment, which featured the latest James Bond film, A View to a Kill . It must have felt surreal. Barely 48 hours earlier, they were playing in Darndale. Now, they were hurtling across the Atlantic, living out an adventure fit for the movies. New York, New York When the plane touched down at JFK, Keith and Noel were still undetected. The adventure could, in theory, have continued. But their luck ran out thanks to their own innocence. They walked up to a policeman and asked for directions “into town.” That was all it took. The officer quickly realised something was wrong. Two unaccompanied children with thick Dublin accents, no luggage, and no parents weren’t just lost, they were international stowaways. The VIP Treatment Authorities reacted swiftly, but not unkindly. Far from being treated as criminals, Keith and Noel became celebrities. They were taken to a police station and then placed in a hotel suite under constant guard. “There was BLTs, chips, everything, fed us like lords. We loved it,” Keith remembered. For two boys from Darndale, the New York hotel stay was as dazzling as any American TV show. Media Frenzy The press couldn’t get enough of the story. The New York tabloids splashed the boys across their front pages. Headlines marvelled at how two children had evaded security across three countries. Their charm and audacity made them instant sensations. In Ireland, the story was received with a mixture of shock and amusement. Parents across the country shook their heads in disbelief while secretly admiring the boys’ daring. Authorities, on the other hand, had some serious questions to answer. Back Home: From Heroes to Headlines When Keith and Noel were returned home, they were no longer anonymous kids from Darndale. They were household names. Interviews, documentaries, and newspaper features followed them for years afterwards. Keith, reflecting as an adult, always emphasised the innocence of their plan. There was no grand scheme, no rebellion against authority, just a child’s dream of meeting his television hero, B.A. Baracus. “We just wanted to go and see B.A. Baracus. That was it.” Could It Happen Today? Looking back, the story feels almost impossible. With today’s levels of surveillance — CCTV cameras, biometric passports, electronic ticketing, and tightened border controls — it is unthinkable that two children could repeat Keith and Noel’s journey. Modern airports track every passenger, ferries use barcoded boarding passes, and train travel is closely monitored. Even at ten and thirteen, the boys would have been flagged long before reaching Heathrow. But in 1985, the world was different. Children roamed their neighbourhoods freely, often disappearing for hours without parental panic. Travel systems relied heavily on human judgment, and two cheeky kids with quick answers could slip through the cracks. Why the Story Still Captivates So why does this tale still capture our imagination nearly four decades later? Perhaps because it embodies the essence of childhood: boldness without fear, imagination without limits. Keith and Noel weren’t trying to change the world. They just wanted an adventure. In doing so, they highlighted both the innocence of youth and the fallibility of adult systems meant to protect us. Their story is also a time capsule, reminding us of an era when the world felt bigger, looser, and less tightly controlled. Today’s children grow up in a landscape of smartphones, GPS tracking, and helicopter parenting. The idea of two kids casually hopping on a ferry to another country belongs firmly to another time. Legacy of a Daring Escape Though Keith and Noel eventually faded back into ordinary life, their 1985 escapade remains one of Ireland’s most astonishing true stories. It has been revisited in documentaries, remembered fondly in newspaper columns, and retold by Keith himself in interviews. What started with a simple promise, “I won’t go far”, turned into a journey that spanned continents and captivated the world. And even though they never got to meet B.A. Baracus, for a brief, shining moment, Keith Byrne and Noel Murray lived out an adventure greater than anything scripted on television. Sources RTÉ Documentary on One – “Don’t Go Far” (2023) The Irish Times: https://www.irishtimes.com BBC News Archives: https://www.bbc.co.uk New York Times Archives: https://www.nytimes.com