The death of distinguished historian Eugene D. Genovese on September 26 led me to reflect on both his scholarly accomplishments and his intellectual and political thought. No book inspired me more as a graduate student than Genovese’s Roll, Jordan, Roll (1975), but Genovese’s sharp turn to the right in his later years was troubling indeed.
On September 28, 1918, outside of the French village of Marcoing, British Private Henry Tandley of the 5th Duke of Wellington Regiment came across an escaping wounded German soldier. The encounter took place near the end of the British capture of the village, and thus the military situation, though winding down, was still very much rife with hostilities. The soldier was presumably armed and posed a potential threat to Private Tandley and his fellow infantrymen.
Private Tandley was presented at that moment with a serious ethical question: shoot preemptively in self-defense, not knowing the capability of the German soldier or the extent to which other German soldiers were present, or spare the soldier’s life and let him return to his unit, either to survive or to die in the arms of his own comrades. Private Tandley did not then know that an armistice with Germany would come within a matter of weeks, nor did he know whether the soldier had a wife and children to whom he might return after the war. He knew nothing of this German soldier other than that he was another human being who was injured.
Private Tandley decided to spare the soldier’s life, and the soldier continued on his way, apparently nodding to Tandley in appreciation.
This story is presented in here because, if Tandley’s account is correct, his decision to spare the life of this German soldier changed the course of the 20th century, with vast consequences not only for the law but also for every other aspect of culture and society across much of the world.
As part of my ongoing review of the work of the Wickersham Commission, I am reading the body’s 1931 Report on Penal Institutions, Probation, and Parole. I’m much struck by the Commission’s ringing statement about the purpose of prison:
The function of the penal institutions is protection of society. To this end all efforts must be bent and all administrative methods be adapted. All judgment upon the functioning of our prison system, or any unit within in, must be in terms of protection of society. This raises the question of how penal institutions can best contribute to this objective. There seems but one answer possible — by the reformation of the criminal. Nearly all prisoners, even within the longterm institutions, are ultimately released. . . . Unless these prisoners are so readjusted before release that they are more likely to be law-abiding citizens than before they were arrested and sentenced, then the prison has not served its purpose. If the prison experience not merely fails to improve the character of the inmate but actually contributes to his deterioration; if, as is charged, our prisons turn the less hardened into more hardened criminals, then the prison has not only failed in its duty to protect society but has in turn become a contributor to the increase of crime within the community. Stated positively, it is the function of the prison to find the means so to reshape the interests, attitudes, habits, the total character of the individual so as to release him both competent and willing to find a way of adjusting himself to the community without further law violations. (6-7)
This passage interests me for two reasons. First, viewed from a contemporary perspective, it seems a remarkably limited and arguably very naive view of the prison’s function.