For Openers
Winter
This is it. It is not goodbye. By the time you read this I will be self-employed. Retirement is a euphemistic word, and quite inaccurate under the circumstances. As is semiretirement. I simply do not belong here. I am not in the slightest bit embittered; I am sad for you, not myself. Not because I am anything special or that I have an exalted opinion of my own importance. None of us are important. Let's put it all up front.
I had always imagined that someday, in the last editorial I would write for some magazine—which turns out to be this one—I would tell stories of wonderful events and remarkable people, both in models and full-scale. Light and humorous—one should go like a gentleman whether he be canned or if he quits. But I cannot do that, regardless of one's duty to be a gentleman. It is premature for one thing; I am merely making a change in employment. Being self-employed, I shall get along beautifully with the new "boss."
The second reason is that I am deeply conscious of a duty to you. Don't misunderstand. No one among the "hierarchy" has even hinted that my exit would be welcomed. I doubt that anyone harbors a wish that I vanish, although I cannot be positive about that because there is a phrase flying around "to get the three W's—Worth, Wheeley, and Winter." I leave of my own free will.
I have nothing left to give either the magazine or the AMA. I have given all that I have. That is a damn sight more than I ever had to give to any previous employer.
I detest this kind of writing—that is, the subject matter I must now deal with. Keep in mind that I only skim the surface. I know where all the bodies are buried—more so than anyone else in this organization—but let them rest in peace. Most of you will believe me, some will not. I have many beautiful letters of appreciation and encouragement—and urges to fight on. Why, however, must a mere editor fight?
To you guys who sent me tobacco, glue samples, and pictures of yourselves, I say God bless. To those—not many—who dropped unsigned obscenities into the mail chute in the dead of night, I say that if we flew together we'd have a heck of a good time. It is too bad some of our officials don't perceive that philosophy.
Let's get down to it. Ever since I was associated with AMA—since it was founded in 1937—I have observed every political regime, a long string of presidents. In the beginning, it was simply "What do I get for my buck?" Could the dues possibly have been a buck? That was before the war. Soon it was "deadwood in Washington." Everybody always ran on a platform of getting rid of deadwood. And popularly elected presidents soon assumed that they had some "mess" to clean up. For example, Cliff Weirick, a past president, a popular, fine gentleman with his head screwed on right, even thought so. He came into Headquarters and sat for two weeks fully expecting to set things right. He will tell you he found nothing. There still is no mess, and there is still nothing to find.
Remember, "old" Bill is gone. I am not, or ever was, a hard-core AMA type in administration. Perhaps I was caught between a rock and a hard place. I do know that I did my job, and in over five years of watching from the inside, I have seen many others, all down the line, at Headquarters, give their last drop for the organization. Thanks to the totally ignorant, and the wild inanities of the moment, they shall receive no better reward than what Churchill offered the British people. He offered blood, sweat, and tears. Blood is shed in a figurative way; but the sweat and especially the tears are heartbreakingly plain to see.
If I spoke my piece there would be a national scandal. I won't do that because I know that the Director is a man of conscience and iron discipline—and he would kill this copy before he would risk hurting his worst enemy, and God knows, he has some of those. I will risk his blue pencil by saying that the garbage—surely you read this magazine carefully and therefore have drawn your own impressions—and the constant feuding of the past two years has a bottom line: ambition and hatred. I stop.
If you think Headquarters is a fun place, let me tell you this story of a mere three hours on a recent Monday morning. (I have to assume you guys know that AMA has a motor home, obtained for last year's Trans-Am as a traveling Headquarters; also for this year's Nats.)
Of course, you have heard that "Headquarters is a cesspool of thievery, inefficiency, feather-bedding," and all those other choice adjectives. Believe that, and the guys in the white coats will chase you with a butterfly net. There is an early shift—some people come in at 7:30 a.m., others come in at varying times and leave accordingly at the end of the day. So two of the highest elected officials appeared at 7:00 a.m. to check off everyone arriving. Isn't that comforting—to know we have such conscientious watchdogs looking out for us?
That same morning the watchdogs went further. It so happens that Larry Bolich is custodian of this inanimate vehicle (the motor home), which is a thorn in the side of the ever-suspicious. After all, no one here ever does anything right or honest. We are, apparently, the mafia. So poor old Larry, at home on the first day of his vacation, came under the far-flung net of suspicion. A knock on his door—this 20 miles out of town. Opening the door he is greeted not by a hello, Larry, or can we come in, but rather a hit between the eyes with a blunt FBI-type question, "Where is the motor home?" "At the garage," answered Larry, "with a broken spring." With which, one high-type turned to the other and said something like, "Well, what do you want to do now?" The answer was that since they had come this far they should check the garage. And off they went. We suppose it was too warm for trench coats.
The storm troopers' knock in the night came to mind. Then we thought of Peter Sellers and his famous bumbling inspector—right out of The Pink Panther. That, my friends, was one morning in the life at Headquarters. We would do well to laugh at ourselves. Incidentally, Larry was loading his own van to go on vacation, not the motor home as was apparently suspected.
One more, please. The Director, in a similar fashion, was accused at the last Council Meeting of giving a $9.50 bottle of liquor to a well-known man who put up three visiting AMA officials (who were on AMA business) for three nights. He should be accountable; it was said he should have gotten "permission." Since when is it necessary to get permission to save your membership bucks the toll of three people at costly hotel rates?
I think this is funny—picture the scenes and you have a mere glimmer of life at the top. Now let me say that the very great majority of the Council consists of highly qualified, smart businessmen. Of course, not all are—there is one who accuses the editor of printer's kickbacks. He talks of one printer for all the magazines I ever was on. I dealt in all those years with many printers scattered all over the country. He also told of me trying to bribe him—as one lovely magazine stated twice in print. He wrote 11 memos to the Council in two weeks' time while the Director was in Europe, sealed the last, marked personal—so it was not distributed until after the Director got back—just before the Council Meeting. Its last line stated this man views it as his mission to get the Director out of his post.
Does AMA owe Bill Winter anything? Yes, the right to speak. I am the editor of the magazine which is misused by several elected officials to pander half-truths, innuendos, and harmful oversimplified statements. It is my right to say that the name of the game is get the Director—this, however, by only a few. I can say why, but we'd all end up in the courts. I am advised by the finest Washington attorneys that I could have a libel suit against one magazine, and several individuals. But when people go to court, everyone loses. If I was awarded anything, I would give it to the free flight fund. Friendships of a lifetime ought not to be wrecked in this malaise. I don't want that. So it is simply time to go.
That makes me the first of the three W's to "crack." Hurrah. I also happen to be 68. Is that a factor? I don't truthfully know. Let the jury inspect the picture at the end of this column—it is most recent.
I have advised the Council that I resign because of the dishonest morality (as I see it) of a few elected officials. Don't fret for me. Do fret for your Academy. Tell all your elected officials, as good as most of them truly are, that the Council should get with it, and put an end to this garbage. Tell them you want it stopped. We are model builders, and we want to build and fly. Not waste time, money, and resources on wild-goose chases by a mere few people whose motives lurk in shadows.
I told you nothing, really. There is much to tell. I won't lay that on you—and, quite correctly, it may be assumed that the Director wouldn't let me. He's a firm believer in turning the other cheek. Holding things together is his mission. I must remember that.
To switch subjects. Someday when you are driving home from a really pleasant flying session, when the plane flew like a dream, and after all that friendly chitchat with your buddies, ask yourself this question: Am I happy? My friends, that is what it is all about.
I intend to stay happy.
Transcribed from original scans by AI. Minor OCR errors may remain.
