The Whistle That Didn't

W-day dawned wet, cold and foggy last week. Toward noon, Chicago Tribune staffers and WGN engineers gathered expectantly in Room 833 of the Tribune Tower. Outside the window they could see a shiny brass whistle, four feet high, ten inches in diameter, which until recently had graced the West Coast steamship Yale. Now Yaleman Bertie McCormick ('03) had acquired it for a new and loftier mission: to warn Chicagoland of an atomic-bomb raid. Before leaving for an Arizona vacation, the colonel had left orders for a test toot.

Just before the test, somebody warned a Trib man not to stand too close to the window ; it might shatter under the mighty blast. Precisely at noon, a Tower official pulled the lanyard. The whistle momentarily disappeared in a cloud of steam, which coursed upward for five stories. But the sound that came forth was a musical, calliope-like peep, barely audible amid the winds swirling around the Tower. Down on the streets, hardly a Chicagoan turned his head. Reported the undaunted Tribune next day : "A thunderous bellow was emitted from [the whistle's] metal throat."

Completely satisfied, WGN announced that the next blast of the whistle will mean the actual approach of atomic raiders -- and Trib staffers will scuttle to the Trib's atomic-bomb shelters.

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