PR

Fifty Years in the Field

Jack Donoghue

• Publisher: Dundurn Press
• Year: 1993
• ISBN:
  9781459714434
• Topic: Scienze sociali
• Subtopic: Biografie nell'ambito delle scienze sociali

In PR: Fifty Years in the Field, Jack Donoghue brings together the results of a lifetime in public relations — in the military, public, and private sectors. Each chapter focuses on a different public relations problem, so that the collection as a whole reflects the full spectrum of challenges that PR officers face. The book documents the strategies applied to and the lessons learned from public relations exercises involving such divergent events as the Hong Kong Courts Martial, the Manitoba flood of 1950, the Manitoba polio epidemic of 1953, and the National Energy Program. It also describes the PR problems presented by the Alberta nurses' strike of 1977 and the fiasco of Information Canada. Jack Donoghue's memoirs provide a different and instructive view on significant events in Canada's history.

PART ONE

THE MILITARY

CHAPTER 1

HISTORY

A golf course, a boyhood chum, the Great Depression, and a war diverted me from the medical profession and drew me into a lifelong career in public relations, practised today under a number of different titles, including “public affairs.” (These days it seems many affairs are made public.)

Because my mother wanted to be with her sister, her only living relative, I was born in Kingston, Ontario, on 1 February, 1916, the home of my parents before their marriage. Shortly after my arrival, mother returned to my father in Winnipeg with my sister, Doretta, and her new son.

My first grade of elementary education was taken in Kingston when, following a brief summer vacation, my uncle and aunt successfully pleaded with my parents to let me remain with them for my first year of school. Jack and “Minn” Doherty had no children.

The remainder of my elementary education was taken in Winnipeg and St. Mary’s, followed by attendance at St. Paul’s High School and then St. Paul’s College, an affiliate of the University of Manitoba. Both institutions are run by the Jesuit Order.

I began to lean towards the medical profession as a result of a chum, Jim MacLean, the son of the University of Manitoba’s president. Although we didn’t go to the same schools, we did hang around together. Jim was a little older and had two older brothers, one who became a journalist, the other, a doctor. The latter, Alec, did well in medicine and, ultimately, became the senior diagnostician at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, New York. He was also an outstanding swimmer. Jim kept me informed about Alec’s progress and he became something of a hero for me.

But a medical career for me was not to be. The Great Depression got in the way. Neither my family nor I could have generated sufficient funds for such an expensive education, and I wasn’t scholarship material. I never raised the subject of medical school with my family. But with the help of my father, I was able to attend St. Paul’s College and obtain a degree.

Dad was chief clerk in the paymaster’s office of the Canadian Pacific Railway. When I was on the verge of completing high school, he had me make a formal application for employment as a caddy at the golf course of the CPR hotel in Banff, Alberta. I was fortunate to get the job, and for that first summer after high school I lived in staff quarters at the Banff Springs Hotel, working for the golf professional, Tim Thomson, an elderly Scot who had been taught by the legendary Harry Varden. In his prime, Tim was considered one of the greatest exponents of the 5-iron. (I believe in those days it was called a mashie.)

I was appointed caddy master during my second year at Banff Springs, which provided me with an initial experience in management. I made enough money each summer to contribute to my upkeep and education. Dad took care of any shortfall.

When I returned to Winnipeg in the fall after my first summer at Banff Springs, I went to see Jim, who had begun working for British United Press (BUP). I told him about the dignitaries and Hollywood stars I’d seen at the Banff Springs, for some of whom I had caddied. Almost instantly, Jim recruited me as a “stringer” for the next three seasons. I sent him brief news stories and was paid for those that were used. I dispatched articles on such personalities as Hollywood stars Ginger Rogers, Kate Smith, and Bing Crosby; the King of Siam; the postmaster general of the United States, “Big” Jim Farley; and industrialist R.J. Reynolds, who owned the tobacco company that produced Camel cigarettes. It was a great place for stories.

I was jobless when I graduated from St. Paul’s College in the spring of 1939. The CPR requested that I serve as a lifeguard at the hotel’s two swimming pools during the Royal Visit of King George VI and the Queen (presently, the popular Queen “Mum”), scheduled to take place before the hotel would open to the public. I accepted immediately. When I told Jim, he made arrangements for the BUP correspondent covering the visit to call upon me if he needed help. I met him, but he didn’t need my assistance.

One afternoon, dressed in my white T-shirt, slacks, and running shoes, I was standing on the walkway that separated the outdoor pool from the indoor pool. There were no swimmers in either one. The roof of the indoor pool formed part of the large patio facing the spectacular Bow Valley view. A low wall extended across the outside of the ceiling of the indoor pool, about 20 feet above my head.

I heard a commotion and several voices on the patio. I stepped out from the wall to the edge, turned around and looked up. Looking over the wall and directly at me were the King and Queen and Prime Minister Mackenzie King. I froze for several seconds, not knowing whether to salute, bow formally from the waist, or genuflect. The Queen then smiled. I smiled back and quickly walked into the indoor pool area. As it turned out, this was not to be my first brush with royalty.

At season’s end I went to Vancouver to visit Jim and to ask for a job. “Hang your coat over there,” he said, pointing to a hatrack. “There’s a desk and a typewriter. You’re hired.” This indicated a future in journalism and, though I didn’t realize it, the beginning of my career.

The Second World War broke out in the fall, but I didn’t rush to enlist. Having experienced the Depression, I was more afraid of unemployment than the war. Of course, I knew nothing about war. What I did know was that I wanted more journalism experience before considering enlisting. The Vancouver Bureau of BUP provided that experience. The staff was small, enabling me to cover a wide variety of subjects and events, such as politics, sports, business, and science.

The first major story I covered that received continent-wide attention was one I didn’t write. It was titled “Diary of Death.” The bureau received a tip that two trappers had slowly starved to death on Vancouver Island and that they had kept a daily diary. They had moved into their cabin in the spring and, hence, didn’t know the war had started. Game on the island that year was scarce and fishing was poor. They became too weak to walk out of the cabin. The pilot of a seaplane based on Zeballos, on the northwest coast of the island, dropped in to visit them and found the dead bodies and the diary.

The only communication from Vancouver to Zeballos was B.C. radio telephone and prolonged static frustrated the attempt of Vancouver news organizations to complete a call. By a stroke of luck, I got through to the Zeballos operator just as the static ceased; as long as I held the airwaves, no one else could get through.

The operator confirmed the scant details we had and when I enquired about the diary, she said, “Oh, I have it here.”

I asked her to read a few entries, then skip a few, and read again. The diary was written tightly, in simple but dramatic and emotional sentences. I asked her to return to the beginning and start reading it again while I typed what she read. It resulted in the longest B.C. radio telephone call up to that time, about three hours.

As I finished typing each few pages, Alex Janusitis, the bureau manager who had replaced Jim when he left to cover the Aleutian Islands landing (launched for fear of a Japanese attack), tore off the paper in the typewriter. After writing a lead to the story, he put it on the news wire with a copyright. Enthusiastic reaction from United Press, New York, and BUP Montreal was instantaneous. They wanted more.

While I was transcribing, Janusitis arranged for Ron Dodds, a member of staff, to fly to Zeballos, where he convinced the pilot to allow him to board the plane and fly to the cabin to bring back the bodies. Dodds not only got the closing story of the saga, he also obtained interior and exterior photos of the cabin. In newspaper terms, it was a “clean beat.”

The closing sentence of the diary couldn’t have been written better by a skilled professional. It read: “Jim died today.”

After writing it, the young trapper shot himself.

I was also sent to Edmonton to cover Alberta Premier William Aberhart’s last election in 1940. I stayed in a hotel popular with ranchers and farmers to gauge their opinion about the election. As well, I buttonholed store clerks and blue-collar workers to learn about their feelings towards the Social Credit party.

Aberhart’s fiscal policies of “funny money” were laughed at, but he had given them honest government. Under Aberhart, citizens who worked overtime had to be adequately compensated, by law; mobile dental clinics had been established to serve residents of the rural areas; and the public school system had undergone significant improvement.

The Conservatives and Liberals joined forces for the election, with a member of only one of the two parties running against a Socred candidate. Nearly every advance story written predicted a Social Credit defeat. Because of my discussions with ranchers, farmers, blue-collar workers, and clerks, my advance story disagreed. I forecast that Aberhart would be returned to office with the loss of but a few seats. To my satisfaction, that is just what happened.

I was learning something about popular opinion and journalism. I was also learning how reporters worked, how they approached news, and why they did the things they did, knowledge that was fundamental for a PR individual and that would serve me well in the years to come. After the war, when the function of public relations rapidly expanded, journalists were the main segment of the population from which PR people were drawn.

Not long after the election, I was transferred to the Winnipeg Bureau. I took a holiday to visit a classmate in Guelph who had joined the Jesuit Order. I then moved on to Montreal to visit my father’s youngest brother, Joe, and his wife, Floss. They arranged a blind date with a member of the Clancy family, Colleen. We had a marvellous evening touring the city’s nightspots and a year later, in 1941, when Colleen visited a close friend and former schoolmate in Winnipeg, we became engaged. We were married the following year on 6 June 1942 in Montreal, a date that was to become very significant two years later.

By that time, conscription had been passed by Parliament. I had gained the experience I felt I needed and I didn’t want to be dragged kicking and screaming into the army. Colleen and I agreed: I would enlist after the wedding. It was a wonderful 51-day honeymoon!

Before enlisting, I’d never met a PR person or seen a news release. When I was processed at Military District (MD) No. 10’s Recruiting Depot, the army learned all about me, including the fact that I had worked for a wire service. I was told that within a few days I would be sent to the Infantry Basic Training Centre, located on the University of Manitoba campus. In the meantime, I was to report to the MD No. 10 headquarters’ public relations office in Fort Osborne Barracks. There I observed an operation similar to that of a weekly newspaper. News releases about members of the army were being written and sent mostly to the smaller rural newspapers. In the few days that I was there, reporters seeking information came to the office and were provided with it, or appropriate interviews were arranged. It was my first glimpse of PR.

I learned nothing about PR operations overseas until basic training. Two weeks before the two-month course ended, a messenger came to the training area with orders for me to report to the adjutant. On arrival – and after I saluted – the adjutant invited me to sit down. He told me journalists were being sought to serve in army public relations. They would attain the rank of senior non-commissioned officer and be assigned overseas to a fighting unit of the infantry, armoured corps, or artillery. There they would facilitate war correspondents (Warcos) who came to their unit. In the absence of a Warco, the non-commissioned PR officer would write the story of the unit’s actions and, through the PR organization, it would be passed to the media. He asked if I was interested. That should have surprised me but, being a new recruit, I wasn’t yet aware that privates were generally told what they were going to do, not asked.

It didn’t take me long to realize that I’d be retaining and expanding some of the journalism skills I had learned and, thus, would make it less difficult for me to obtain employment when the war ended. I said I was interested and that I had spent a few days in the MD No. 10 headquarters’ PR office before arriving at the training centre. I didn’t know it, but I had just left my journalism career and moved into a lifetime career of public relations that would see me practise in the military, the public and private sectors.

The army proved to be an excellent place to start, even though it didn’t turn out the way the adjutant had described. Few people realized, including myself, that the military had been in the PR business for a long, long time.

American Ivy Lee is often considered to be the founding father of public relations. Historically, however, many army generals were centuries ahead of him – Caesar and Bonaparte, to name just two. Caesar kept a flow of letters moving by messengers from the Gallic war zones to home. Bonaparte was quoted as saying he “feared a hostile press more than two enemy divisions.” It is not inconceivable that both generals asked their returning messengers, “What are the boys saying now?”

In the Great War of 1914–18, Canadian newspapers published accounts provided by British war correspondents. No Canadian Army public relations organization existed.

From 1918 to 1939, the Canadian Army made little use of PR (then called press relations); when they did it ...