bluuebunny/crossref_metadata_2025 huggingface dataset:
Machine against Machine
Authors: Copeland Jack
Published: November 2020

As explained in the preceding chapter, Tutte invented a way of finding the settings of the Tunny’s chi-wheels, but the rub was that his method seemed impractical. It involved calculations which, if done by hand, would consume a vast amount of time—probably as much as several hundred years for a single, long message, Newman once estimated. The necessary calculations were straightforward enough, consisting basically of comparing two streams made up of dots and crosses, and counting the number of times that each had a dot, or cross, in the same position. Today, of course, we turn such work over to electronic computers. When Tutte shyly explained his method to Newman, Newman suggested using high-speed electronic counters to mechanise the process. It was a brilliant idea. Within a surprisingly short time, Newman’s factory of monstrous electronic computers, dedicated to breaking Tunny, was affording a glimpse of the future. Electronic counters had been developed in Cambridge before the war. Used for counting emissions of subatomic particles, these had been designed by C. E. Wynn-Williams, then like Newman a Cambridge don. Newman knew of Wynn-Williams’ work, and in a moment of inspiration he saw that the same idea could be applied to the Tunny problem. Tutte invented his method in November 1942 and the following month Newman was given the job of developing the necessary machinery. Newman worked out the cryptanalytical requirements for the planned machine and called in Wynn-Williams to design the electronic counters. Wynn-Williams was by then involved in wartime research at the Telecommunications Research Establishment (TRE) in Malvern. Newman and TRE approached an expert on teleprinter equipment, F. O. Morrell, head of the telegraph and teleprinter group of the Post Office Research Station at Dollis Hill in North London, to engineer the other parts of the machine. Construction of Newman’s machine started in January 1943 and a prototype began operating in June of that year, in the newly formed Newmanry. The Newmanry consisted initially of Newman himself, Michie, two engineers, and 16 ‘Wrens’—members of the Women’s Royal Naval Service. The section was housed in a two-roomed hut, Hut 11, originally the first Bombe room.
Of Men and Machines
Authors: Randell Brian
Published: November 2020

The first inkling I had of the work done at Bletchley Park during the Second World War on electronic codebreaking machines resulted from my efforts to find out what Alan Turing had done during the war. I had been assembling a set of original documents and papers for reproduction in a book on the origins of digital computers, when a colleague questioned the fact that Turing did not figure in the book. At this stage I knew only of Turing’s pre-war work on what we now term ‘Turing machines’, which was purely theoretical, and of his post-war work at the National Physical Laboratory, which did not lead to a working computer in the pre-1950 period on which I was concentrating (see Chapter 9). I responded to the implied challenge and gradually tracked down various brief published allusions to wartime work by Turing and others at Bletchley Park (in particular an article by Jack Good), which were then assembled into a draft article. This draft persuaded various people, especially Donald Michie and Jack Good—both of whom worked with Turing at Bletchley Park—to provide additional, although very guarded, information. I decided to try to get the British wartime work on electronic computers declassified. I wrote directly to the Prime Minister at the time, Mr Edward Heath. The reply I received, signed by the Prime Minister himself, although it politely refused my request, nevertheless constituted for several years what I think was the only unclassified official document admitting that there had been a wartime electronic computer project in Britain. The result of this investigation was my ‘On Alan Turing and the Origins of Digital Computers’, which I presented at Michie’s annual machine intelligence workshop at Edinburgh in October 1972. The proceedings of the workshop were due to be published by the University of Edinburgh Press, and after I had given my presentation I overheard two people connected with the University Press voicing concern over whether they dare include it in the book. The conversation ended with them agreeing that it would be all right to go ahead since, if there were any repercussions, it would be the head of the University Press, namely Prince Philip, the Duke of Edinburgh, who would be held responsible.
The Colossus Rebuild
Authors: Sale Tony
Published: November 2020

In 1991, some colleagues and I started the campaign to save Bletchley Park from demolition by property developers. At this time I was working at the Science Museum in London restoring some early British computers. I believed it would be possible to rebuild Colossus, but nobody else believed me. In 1993, I gathered together all the information available. This amounted to no more than eight 1945 wartime photographs of Colossus (some of which are printed in this book), plus brief descriptions by Flowers, Coombs, and Chandler, and—crucially—circuit diagrams which some engineers had kept, quite illegally, as engineers always do! I spent nine months poring over the wartime photographs, using a sophisticated modern CAD system on my PC to recreate machine drawings of the racks. I found that, fortunately, sufficient wartime valves were still available, as were various pieces of Post Office equipment used in the original construction. In July 1994, His Royal Highness the Duke of Kent opened the Bletchley Park Museum and inaugurated the Colossus rebuild project. At that time I had not managed to obtain any sponsorship for the project, so my wife Margaret and I decided to put our own money into it, to get it started. We both felt that if the effort was not made immediately there would be nobody still alive to help us with memories of Colossus. Over the next few years various private sponsors came to our aid and some current and retired Post Office and radio engineers formed the team that helped me in the rebuild. In 1995, the American National Security Agency was forced by application of the Freedom of Information Act to release about 5000 Second World War documents into the US National Archive. A list of these documents was put onto the Internet. When I read it I was amazed to see titles like ‘The Cryptographic Attack on FISH’. I obtained copies of these documents and found that they were invaluable reports written by American servicemen seconded to Bletchley Park when America entered the war. I was also fortunate enough to be given access to the then still classified General Report on Tunny (parts of which are published for the first time in this book).
Max Newman—Mathematician, Codebreaker, and Computer Pioneer
Authors: Newman William
Published: November 2020

Like many British children in my age g­roup I can pinpoint my first memory of my father to the particular day when he and I were reunited after being separated since my infancy. It happened in October 1943, at Poole Docks on the south coast of England. My mother Lyn, my older brother Edward, and I had spent three years as evacuees to the United States, and after a lengthy and hazardous journey by ship and flying boat had arrived back, exhausted. I remember a crowd of people on the dockside, from which a thin, bald, agitated man emerged and strode up to us saying, ‘Oh, there you are!’ This was my father, Max Newman. While I retain a clear image of that meeting, I was to discover almost nothing of what my father was doing at the time until many years later. I was placed in the same position as others in codebreakers’ families. During the war I knew of Bletchley only as the place where my father went to work. After the war ended I came to know it more as a railway station where we changed trains in order to travel between Cambridge and the North. Then a silver tankard appeared in our house, resplendent with the inscription: ‘To MHAN from the Newmanry, 1943–45’. After much pestering from me to know what this was about, my mother took me aside and whispered conspiratorially in my ear, ‘Codes . . . but you must never tell anyone!’ My father, although one of the most discreet of men, must have trusted my mother enough to tell her this much, and she must have trusted me. By the time the first account of Colossus and the Newmanry was published my father was nearing his eighties, and the habit of keeping quiet about these events was as ingrained in him as eating, sleeping, and solving crossword puzzles. Furthermore the authorities would allow him to mention only certain aspects of the Colossus work. He was obviously pleased to be free at last to talk about his war work, but he did so hesitantly, choosing his words carefully and sometimes describing things only by oblique reference.
Codebreaking and Colossus
Authors: Michie Donald
Published: November 2020

In late 1941, following my 18th birthday, a normal next phase would have been two further terms at boarding school, with an option for scholarship holders to proceed to a shortened University degree course before joining up. But over that Christmas my teenage imagination was fired by a tale from my father concerning a mysterious establishment at Bedford. He had it on the authority of the then War Minister, Sir James Grigg, that as preparation for doing something unspecified but romantic behind enemy lines there were opportunities to sign up for a Japanese course starting in a couple of months’ time. I duly journeyed to Bedford and presented myself at the address given. My request to enrol elicited from the Intelligence Corps officer at Bedford a somewhat puzzled reply: ‘Who told you that we have a Japanese course now? That particular exercise is planned for the autumn.’ Noting my confusion he added: ‘But we have courses on codebreaking. There’s a new intake just starting. Would that interest you instead? I’ll have someone find you a billet nearby. Be back here at 9 a.m. Monday.’ In the Second World War one did not mess about. Returning to the London suburbs just long enough to pack a suitcase, I was back and signed in to the School of Codes and Ciphers, Official Secrets Act and all, on the Monday morning. With the rest of the new class I was soon held in thrall by our instructor, a certain Captain Cheadle, and by the black arts of codes and ciphers. With nothing to occupy my evenings, I arranged to have my own key to the building and classroom. My habit became to return after hours to the texts and exercises. The resulting accelerated learning curve made my selection inevitable when a Colonel Pritchard arrived from Bletchley. He was on a mission to recruit for the new section that was being formed by Ralph Tester to follow up John Tiltman’s and William Tutte’s successive coups—the hope was that breaking and reading Tunny traffic could be placed on a regular basis.
Major Tester’s Section
Authors: Roberts Jerry
Published: November 2020

Tunny messages passed primarily between army headquarters in Germany and the various army groups. A great deal of traffic passed between headquarters and Army Group B, where the main fighting on the Western front was concentrated. On the Eastern front, messages between headquarters and Army Groups North, Central, and South dominated the traffic. Many messages were signed by top field marshals like von Rundstedt, Model, Rommel, and Keitel. Occasionally there were messages signed by Hitler himself. Tunny provided information about the Germans’ actions and planning from the spring of 1942 onwards—from the time of Hitler’s decision to focus on the Russian front through to the final breakthrough of the Allied armies in 1945. The strategic value of the information was immense. One long message alone gave the whole disposition of the units within the army groups on the Eastern front, and, within each army, of the divisions, panzer-divisions, and all the other specialised units. Our problem was how to convey the gist of this information to the Russians without letting them know how we had derived it. In June 1944 Hitler assembled the main body of his troops in the Pas de Calais, well north of the Allied landing beaches in Normandy, believing that the main Allied attack would come in the Calais region. If, instead, Hitler had committed these troops straight after the Normandy landings and thrown the Allied forces back into the sea, the consequences would have been incalculable. That he did not plan to do so was known through the decryption of Tunny. This is only one example of the many crucial contributions that Tunny made to the eventual Allied victory. Bletchley Park was a medium-sized country house set in pleasant grounds; although it was a strange mixture of architectural styles, I found it came to be a likeable building. It housed some of the top army brass, including Brigadier Tiltman, the most senior army person there and himself a top cryptographer. I arrived at BP in late 1941 as a civilian and was interviewed by Tiltman. He wore his full uniform, complete with red tabs—it was an intimidating encounter.
The Ultimate Reform: The Common Schools
Authors: Nasaw David
Published: November 2020

The myths of America, though tested by the Panic of ‘37, by the political and workplace agitation of the working people, by the addition of layer after layer of urban poor, were not abandoned. Those who had succeeded and those who aspired to material success continued to argue that in the New World the absence of aristocratic barriers to profit-making and property-holding, combined with abundant land out West and expanding cities and towns in the Northeast, created a social situation in which opportunity was available to all. The stories of “self-made men” who through hard work and inner discipline pushed their way to success were publicized everywhere and, in times of business prosperity, with added emphasis. The success of the prosperous was the sign that virtue was rewarded in this best of all social worlds. That this was not yet the land of milk and honey, that there were poor people in the New World, did not invalidate the myths. If the promise of the New World had not yet been realized for everyone, that only demonstrated that not everyone had the character necessary to convert opportunity to material success. Poverty could be remedied by simply providing the poor with those character traits which they lacked. Among the foremost believers and most effective proselytizers of the myths of America were those men and women who led the campaign for an expanded and extended public school network in the decades preceding the Civil War. These school reformers chose as their institutional model not the Lancasterian or infant schools, which—as charity institutions—had repelled those for whom they had been designed, but the New England “district” or common schools, which were as republican and American as the charity schools were aristocratic and Old World. These district schools were open to all the children of the community. They were supported by district taxes, state funds, and by “rates”—tuition—paid by parents. Those who could not afford their rates could apply for rate exemptions. The common schools were primary schools. They taught the rudiments to all who needed such instruction. Achievement, not age, was the criterion for entrance. The youngest pupils might be seven or eight; the oldest could be in their early twenties.
One Depression Cured, Another Prevented: Planning for War and. Postwar
Authors: Nasaw David
Published: November 2020

The depression burst upon the nation in the summer of 1929 and did not subside for a decade. Unemployment was computed officially at 8.7 percent in 1930, 15.9 percent in 1931, and 23.6 percent in 1932. It did not dip below 20 percent until 1936, and it would not go below 5 percent until 1942. As the figures demonstrate, the appearance of FDR in the White House, whatever it did for the nation’s “spirit,” did not solve the problem of unemployment. FDR’s first attempt at a cure for the country’s economic ills was the same as Hoover’s—balancing the budget—and similarly unsuccessful. Balancing the budget by reducing spending was the exact opposite of what J. M. Keynes, the English economist, had prescribed for the depressed economy. Keynes argued that in a depression public spending had to be increased, not decreased, to put people back to work. The nature of their jobs was not as important as the salaries they earned. It was their paychecks that would start the economy going again as they used them to buy goods and services, pumping money into the depressed economy. As Keynes himself put it: . . . If the Treasury were to fill old bottles with banknotes, bury them at suitable depths in disused coal-mines which are then filled up to the surface with town rubbish, and leave it to private enterprise on well-tried principles of laissez-faire to dig the notes up again . . . there need be no more unemployment and, with the help of the repercussions, the real income of the community, and its capital wealth also, would probably become a good deal greater than it actually is. . . . What Keynesian logic could not accomplish, the German and Japanese threat to the “free world” and its “free economy” could. “In the Second World War the equivalent of the . . . buried bottles full of money were the tanks, the bombers, and the aircraft carriers.” They did the job, as Keynes had predicted. In the course of the war, the nation spent itself out of the depression.
As Brown Saw the Problem
Authors: Wilkinson J. Harvie
Published: November 2020

There is always a nostalgia for simple times past, times when the knight on a white horse rode forth to save the beautiful princess from the bad guys. Never mind that the princess had no defensible right to her riches, that the bad guys had more than sufficient cause for redress of their grievances, or that the knight was more interested in the protection of privilege than of virtue. So it was that when the South rode forth to save segregation it understood itself to be defending the memory of the ante-bellum South—not the ugliness of slavery but all the beauty that had long been gone with the wind. But Brown v. Board of Education attacked one simplistic view with another. Surely segregated schools were wrong; no number of Old South choruses could change that. But, on the other side, ghetto riots, school-busing controversies, and charges of reverse discrimination had not yet appeared to cloud the nation’s vision. For the most part, Brown was a time of innocence, when men of new dreams attacked the old dreams that had held back the nation’s rendezvous with racial justice. Simplicity of analysis is the father of moral reform. Unfortunately, it can also sire deep trouble. Some of Brown’s assumptions about race seem naive today, quite sadly so. In this naiveté, the Court was not alone; it merely reflected the thinking on race else- where in the land. But the naive assumptions on which Brown was based were, in time, to bring Americans not only hope and progress in their race relations but also shock, disappointment, and eventually renewed despair. The Supreme Court first sanctioned “separate but equal” in public transportation. Its demise, on the other hand, came in public education. The setting was important. For Brown’s faith in the power of education was touching in its simplicity: . . . Today, education is perhaps the most important function of state and local governments. Compulsory school attendance laws and the great expenditures for education both demonstrate our recognition of the importance of education to our democratic society. . . .
The Decision
Authors: Wilkinson J. Harvie
Published: November 2020

Thrust and parry, charge and counter-charge, a duel of minds and morals dominated the long year before Bakke. Yet no decisive advantage was ever won. Perhaps there has never been a case before the Supreme Court with opposing arguments of more equal legitimacy. The Court’s own task in Bakke was to avoid a conclusive outcome. It must not, in this most divisive of cases, hoist the arms of a victorious contestant. Meg Greenfield of the Washington Post prayed the Supreme Court “will find a way to blur the edges of the controversy and reaffirm the important values raised by both sides. You say that is fudging the issue? Fine. It ought to be fudged.” The Court did just that. If Brown was a great moral blow, Bakke was a brokered judgment. The Supreme Court offered “a Solomonic compromise,” in which “the nine justices spoke in many voices, a chorus of competing viewpoints adding up to a wellmodulated counterpoint.” The Court struck down the Davis program with its “specified number of [minority] seats” but upheld the use of race or ethnicity as “a ‘plus’ in a particular applicant’s file” so long as “it does not insulate the individual from comparison with all other candidates for the available seats.” QUOTAS: NO / RACE: YES capsuled the cover of Time magazine. Because Bakke’s exclusion was to all appearances the result of Davis’s unlawful program, the Court ordered his admission. “Mr. Bakke won, but so did the general principle of affirmative action,” wrote Anthony Lewis. “That was the comforting paradox communicated to the world.” The Court in Bakke tried to keep faith with Brown. To the university, Brown stood for minority educational opportunity, “but implementation of the commitment expressed in Brown has taken years and is even today not complete.” To others, Brown stood for the ideal of color blindness: “It must be the exclusion on racial grounds which offends the Constitution, and not the particular skin color of the person excluded.” Bakke stood for both, perhaps, or for neither. It attempted, at least, to bridge the unbridgeable: the disparate legacies of Brown.
Literature, College
Authors: Urkowitz Steven
Published: November 2020

I always thought that students do best when they’re responding to the best possible material. I used to try “socially relevant” literature, and they got all messed up in confusions of social identity and in defining what was relevant for them. I figured they could read Euripides and Shakespeare because those writers took up universal experiences— life and death, the relationships between parents and children, love, and the war between the sexes.the sexes. That comment still didn’t explain to me how he could gain the sympathy of people so unlike him and bring them to reading and understanding such difficult works as Greek and Elizabethan tragedies. I asked him to attempt to explain this apparent miracle. I think I could relate to people to whom school seemed a foreign place because I had had so much difficulty there myself. As a student I was always late, and confused. I barely made a C average in high school and college, and later I flunked out of graduate school. My father was a mailman who loved to read ancient history—the classic Greeks and Egyptians. I grew up liking science. I was going to beat the Russians to the moon. I spent a year in engineering school and got a summer job in a radio-manufacturing plant. The people there showed me you didn’t have to put on professional airs to be a good person. Then I spent two years studying physics before finishing a degree in literature. I taught science and math in junior high school and eventually finished course work in English for a doctorate. But when I came to writing a dissertation on the texts of Shakespeare’s King Lear, I found I had a block on writing. At first I’d sit down at my typewriter alone at 9 A.M., and at 9:20 I’d be sweating, too nervous to go on any further. My wife quit a job, went back to school so she had more hours to be at home with me. After a month or so, I could write for two hours. Then later I could write through a twelve-hour day.
Social Studies, High School
Authors: Vukovich Stanyan
Published: November 2020

I began teaching at McClymonds High School in Oakland, California, in 1968. McClymonds is the only regular high school in west Oakland, historically one of the poorest areas in all of Oakland. Immigrants from eastern and southern Europe and China lived in the area before blacks moved in during World War II. During my fifteen years there I’ve taught about ten whites, ten Asians, and ten Latinos. The rest have all been blacks, and I’m white. We’ve never had any racial disturbances at Mack. Even during the worst days of the late sixties and early seventies, the students were peaceful. The school’s ethnic homogeneity and relative small size, 750 to 1,000 students, have kept things relatively placid. According to district records, about 70 percent of the students’ families are on some sort of welfare. In 1979 one of the English teachers at McClymonds came back in the fall with high praise for the Bay Area Writing Project. She never described what went on, but would always coo and say that BAWP was “marvelous.” That year I attended a workshop conducted by Mary K. Healy, one of the associate directors of BAWP for the California Council for the Social Studies. Her presentation was indeed marvelous, and I signed up for the BAWP summer session at Berkeley that year. I’ve been a BAWPer ever since. Later the entire social science department at Mack participated. I regard this as a sign of the department’s recognition of the need to teach more writing. Our school administration vigorously supports our efforts to introduce more writing into our courses. When I began teaching at Mack I had high hopes that all my students would become scholars entering four-year institutions so that they could become leaders in the struggle for black liberation. Then I found that some of my students didn't know where the Pacific Ocean was in relation to Oakland. One boy in a college prep class in U.S. history answered a question on the causes of the Civil War by writing, “Slavery it bad. I don't like it. It cause the war.” This was his answer on an hour-long test.
Genes and the Evolutionary Synthesis
Authors: Eldredge Niles
Published: November 2020

My intention in this and the following chapter is simply to clarify what a few of the better known architects of the synthesis actually had to say about how the entire spectrum of genes through phyla really fits together. I have chosen books rather than a potpourri of articles from the (possibly) more “technical” scientific literature, for precisely this reason: it is in the books that we find the coherent, integrated statements. And each of the four books singled out for particularly close analysis—Genetics and the Origin of Species (Dobzhansky 1937a); Genetics and the Origin of Species second edition (Dobzhansky 1941); Systematics and the Origin of Species (Mayr 1942); and Tempo and Mode in Evolution (Simpson 1944)—is a truly coherent, though not necessarily smoothly linear, argument. In each, some parts seem more vital to the flow of argument than others, but it is clear to the reader from the outset that each is a complete book and not a disjointed melange of unrelated ideas. Then, too, the contents of each author’s papers are to a great extent reflected in the respective books. It is apparent, for example, that Dobzhansky was publishing a variety of papers in the 1930s (many were in his “Genetics of Natural Populations” series republished in a single volume in 1981 by Lewontin et al.) which he liberally drew upon for illustrative material in Genetics and the Origin of Species. The other sorts of papers Dobzhansky was publishing seem to be byproducts of his thinking and research for the various editions of his book. Examples are his papers on species definitions (1935) and isolating mechanisms (1937b) and his theory of the origin of isolating mechanisms by reinforcement (1940). The choice of the four particular books for special treatment in this volume needs further comment. I have omitted such nonconformist works as Robson and Richards (1936), Willis (1940), and Goldschmidt (1940) precisely because they have been almost universally considered as falling outside the limits of the synthesis. The main historical effect of such books (especially Goldschmidt’s) seems to have been as irritants.
Finance and Function: Voluntary Support and Diversity in American Private Higher Education
Authors: Geiger Roger L.
Published: November 2020

A revolution has taken place in the past generation in American assumptions about higher education: It has virtually become a universally accepted responsibility of government to make it possible for all qualified students to attend college. This shift in opinion has been translated quite tangibly into the bricks and mortar of greatly expanded state and municipal university systems, as well as an extensive network of local community colleges. As a result, the 50% of student enrollments that the public sector claimed in 1950 has grown to nearly 78% in 1985. By the somewhat artificial measure of “market share,” the private sector would seem to have lost more than half of its clientele. In the more meaningful measure of actual students, however, private colleges and universities have more than doubled their enrollments during this period. In fact, during the latter part of the 1970s the private sector added more students than did its much larger public counterpart. The private sector clearly still plays a vital role in our system of higher education. But just what might that be? This simple question admits of no simple answer. More than 1500 private colleges and universities cater to students of widely differing ages, aspirations, and abilities. They offer some 300 bachelor’s degrees, not to mention additional programs on the graduate-professional level. From another angle, one might note that public higher education is a responsibility of the states. Thus, there are actually fifty public sectors in this country, each of which (save that of Wyoming) is complemented by an array of private institutions. Not all of these state private sectors are terribly different from those of neighboring states; but regional contrasts are nevertheless stark between, for example, states where private higher education has evolved alongside large and prestigious state universities and those eastern states where private schools have long been predominant. The functions of private higher education in the United States are obviously complex.
Health Effects of Inorganic Fibers
Authors: Skinner H. Catherine W. , Ross Malcolm , Frondel Clifford
Published: November 2020

It has become fashionable to start discussions of disease related to fibrous inorganic materials by referring to Pliny the Younger (A.D. 61-114), who commented in a letter on the sickness of slaves who worked with asbestos. His observation was forgotten, as evidenced by the fact that during the Middle Ages, Paracelsus (1493–1541) as well as Agricola (1494–1556) wrote extensively on “miner’s disease” without mentioning asbestos. Later, Zenker (1867) coined the word pneumo(no)coniosis to describe the diseases endemic to coal and iron miners. Differential diagnosis of the pulmonary disorders, tuberculosis, silicosis, pneumonia, and other lung disease was attempted thereafter, although the varieties were often confused even by experienced physicians. The industry that provided asbestos to modern society started at about this same time (in the 1870s). The first indication of pulmonary disorder in an asbestos worker came in an autopsy report of fibrosis by Dr. Montague- Murray at Charing Cross Hospital, London, in 1899–1900 (Peters and Peters, 1980). By 1902 asbestos was included in the list of dusts considered injurious by the Lady Inspector of Factories, Adelaide Anderson (Oliver, 1902). Auribault (1906) appears to have been the first to note high mortality in workers in an asbestos mill and weaving establishment, but he attributed their illness to calcium carbonate dust rather than asbestos. Scarpa (1908) believed the pulmonary disease of 30 asbestos workers was caused by tuberculosis, and Fahr (1914), who published the case of a female asbestos worker who died of “pleuro-pneumonia . . . with a large number of crystals in pulmonary tissue of a peculiar nature,” was clearly somewhat mystified at the presence of nonbiological materials. It was Cooke (1924, 1927, 1929) who first defined asbestos as a specific etiologic agent in pulmonary fibrosis. He described extensive fibrosis with thickened pleura and adhesions to the chest wall and pericardium in asbestos workers and noted the presence of abundant mineral matter (“curious bodies”), but also tubercular lesions. The term asbestosis was used in the 1927 publication. Pancoast and Pendergrass (1925) argued that the fibrosis seen in asbestos workers was a result of ad-mixed silica and an expression of “asbestosilicosis,” signifying uncertain etiology of the observed symptoms, a view that survivied into the 1930s (Lynch and Smith, 1935).
The Medical School Clinical Faculty
Authors: Rothstein William G.
Published: November 2020

Large-scale federal funding of research in the 1950s and 1960s enabled medical schools to hire many full-time clinical faculty members who differed from their part-time colleagues in their orientation toward research and patient care. When research funding leveled off in the late 1960s, medical schools turned to patient-care revenues from Medicare and Medicaid to pay faculty salaries. Faculty earnings from research and clinical activities have led to inbalances in the attention given to patient care, teaching, and research. Until well past mid-century, most clinical faculty members were part-time teachers with extensive private practices. In 1951, part-time faculty members comprised 32 percent of the non-M.D. faculty and 80 percent of the M.D. faculty, and they provided 40 percent of the total faculty time spent on all activities. The use of part-time faculty members in the clinical fields was considered advantageous because they retained their clinical skills and were paid lower salaries. When the federal government began large-scale funding of research in medical schools, full-time clinical faculty positions became more feasible because the government compensated faculty members for their research time. Some faculty members carried out federally funded research during the summer months to supplement their academic-year salaries. Many others carried out funded research during the academic year, with the medical schools receiving compensation on a prorated basis for the time lost from teaching and other academic obligations. Medical schools were also reimbursed by all grants for research overhead expenses. By 1970, 49 percent of all medical school faculty members received partial or full support for their research activities. Because research detracted from the private practices of clinical faculty members, few of them would have made the necessary financial sacrifices to undertake research and live on normal academic salaries. Medical schools and the NIH therefore used several devices to create nominal faculty salaries for purposes of grant funding that were much higher than the actual faculty salaries paid by medical schools. One method was for the medical school to pay only a part, such as one-third, of a faculty member’s salary, while the total salary was used in grant applications.
Undergraduate Medical Education
Authors: Rothstein William G.
Published: November 2020

Undergraduate medical education has changed markedly in the decades after mid-century. The basic medical sciences have been de-emphasized; clinical training in the specialties has replaced that in general medicine; and both types of training have been compressed to permit much of the fourth year to be used for electives. The patients used for teaching in the major teaching hospitals have become less typical of those found in community practice. Innovations in medical education have been successful only when they have been compatible with other interests of the faculty. As medicine and medical schools have changed, major differences of opinion have developed over the goals of undergraduate medical education. Practicing physicians have continued to believe that the fundamentals of clinical medicine should be emphasized. A survey in the 1970s of 903 physicians found that over 97 percent of them believed that each of the following was “a proper goal of medical school training:” “knowing enough medical facts;” “being skillful in medical diagnosis;” “making good treatment plans;” “understanding the doctor-patient relationship;” “understanding the extent to which emotional factors can affect physical illness;” “being able to keep up with new developments in medicine;” and being able to use and evaluate sources of medical information. Only 52 percent felt that “being able to carry out research” was a proper goal of medical school training. Medical students have also believed that undergraduate medical education should emphasize clinical training. Bloom asked students at one medical school in the early 1960s whether they would prefer to “work at some interesting research problem that does not involve any contact with patients,” or to “work directly with patients, even though tasks are relatively routine.” About 25 percent of the students in all four classes chose research, while 58 percent of the freshmen and 70 percent of the juniors and seniors chose patient care. The same study also asked students their criteria for ranking classmates “as medical students.” Clinical skills were the predominant criteria used by students, with “ability to carry out research” ranking far down on the list. Faculty members, on the other hand, have emphasized the basic and preliminary nature of undergraduate medical education.
Analysis and Technology in Metal Forming
Authors: Kobayashi Shiro , Oh Soo-Ik , Altan Taylan
Published: November 2020

The design, control, and optimization of forming processes require (1) analytical knowledge regarding metal flow, stresses, and heat transfer, as well as (2) technological information related to lubrication, heating and cooling techniques, material handling, die design and manufacture, and forming equipment. The purpose of using analysis in metal forming is to investigate the mechanics of plastic deformation processes, with the following major objectives. • Establishing the kinematic relationships (shape, velocities, strain-rates, and strains) between the undeformed part (billet, blank, or preform) and the deformed part (product); i.e., predicting metal flow during the forming operation. This objective includes the prediction of temperatures and heat transfer, since these variables greatly influence local metal-flow conditions. • Establishing the limits of formability or producibility; i.e., determining whether it is possible to perform the forming operation without causing any surface or internal defects (cracks or folds) in the deforming material. • Predicting the stresses, the forces, and the energy necessary to carry out the forming operation. This information is necessary for tool design and for selecting the appropriate equipment, with adequate force and energy capabilities, to perform the forming operation. Thus, the mechanics of deformation provides the means for determining how the metal flows, how the desired geometry can be obtained by plastic deformation, and what the expected mechanical properties of the produced part are. For understanding the variables of a metal-forming process, it is best to consider the process as a system, as illustrated in Fig. 2.1 in Chap. 2. The interaction of most significant variables in metal forming are shown, in a simplified manner, in Fig. 3.1. It is seen that for a given billet or blank material and part geometry, the speed of deformation influences strain-rate and flow stress. Deformation speed, part geometry, and die temperature influence the temperature distribution in the formed part. Finally, flow stress, friction, and part geometry determine metal flow, forming load, and forming energy. In steady-state flow (kinematically), the velocity field remains unchanged, as is the case in the extrusion process; in nonsteadystate flow, the velocity field changes continuously with time, as is the case in upset forging.
Methods of Analysis
Authors: Kobayashi Shiro , Oh Soo-Ik , Altan Taylan
Published: November 2020

In Chap. 4 we described fundamentals for the analysis of metal-forming processes and derived some useful principles.
Three-Dimensional Problems
Authors: Kobayashi Shiro , Oh Soo-Ik , Altan Taylan
Published: November 2020

A majority of the finished products made by metal forming are geometrically complex and the metal flow involved is of a three-dimensional nature. Thus, any analysis technique will become more useful in industrial applications if it is capable of solving three-dimensional metal-flow problems. Nagpal and Altan introduced dual-stream functions for describing metal flow in three dimensions. This work showed that the proper selection of a flow function makes the incompressibility requirement automatically satisfied and provides general kinematically admissible velocity fields. Yang and Lee utilized the conformal transformation of a unit circle onto a cross-section in the analysis of curved die extrusion. They derived the stream-line equation from which a kinematically admissible velocity field was determined. The upper-bound method was then applied to determine the extrusion pressure for a rigid-perfectly plastic material. An important aspect of three-dimensional plastic deformation is the analysis of spread in metal-forming operations, such as spread in rolling or in flat tool forging, and spread in compression of noncircular disks. Solutions to such problems have been obtained by the use of Hill’s general method and the upper-bound method. The extension of the finite-element method to solve three-dimensional problems is natural and not new, particularly in the area of elasticity. However, the simulation of three-dimensional forming operations by the finite-element method is relatively recent. Park and Kobayashi described the formulation for the three-dimensional rigid-plastic finite-element method and the implementation of the boundary conditions. They applied this technique to the analysis of block compression between two parallel flat platens. For certain forming problems, such as those involving lateral spread, the use of a simplified three-dimensional element is efficient and some examples can be found for analysis of spread in rolling and flat tool forging. The matrices for evaluation of elemental stiffness equations are defined for a three-dimensional brick element in Chap. 6 and some of them are recapitulated in this section. A three-dimensional brick element used for the analysis is an eight-node hexahedral isoparametric element.
The Takeoff Period: 1946–1970
Authors: Brint Steven , Karabel Jerome
Published: November 2020

At the end of World War II, a sense of expectancy pervaded America’s colleges and universities. Enrollments had dropped during the war years, and many institutions looked forward to the return of millions of veterans. These veterans were themselves eager to get ahead in civilian life after the hardships of war, and the nation was eager to reward them for the sacrifices that they had made. Already in 1944, as the war was coming to a close, the prestigious Education Policies Commission of the National Education Association and the American Association for School Administrators came out with a report entitled Education for All American Youth. Though focused more on secondary than higher education, the report sounded some themes that were to shape thinking about education for veterans as well. Perhaps the most powerful of these themes was the belief that the war had called on all of the American people to make sacrifices and that efforts must be made to see that no segment of the population would be excluded from the rewards of American society. For higher education, in particular, this meant that new measures would be required to realize the traditional American dream of equality of opportunity. Alongside the idealistic impulse to extend to veterans unprecedented educational opportunities, there was also the fear that the nation’s economy would be unable to provide work for the millions of returning soldiers. The massive unemployment of the Great Depression had, after all, been relieved only by the boost that war production had given the economy. The end of the war therefore threatened—or so it was widely believed at the time—to send the economy back into a terrible slump. With so many soldiers returning home, the possibility of such a downturn frightened policy elites and the public alike, for it was almost certain to revive the bitter social and political conflicts of the 1930s. Together with more idealistic factors, this concern with the effects of the returning veterans on domestic stability led to one of the major higher education acts in American history: the G.I. Bill of 1944.
Band Models
Authors: Goody R. M. , Yung Y. L.
Published: November 2020

Radiative heating calculations in the atmosphere involve four distinguishable scales of frequency. First, there is the comparatively slow variation with frequency of the Planck function and its derivative with respect to temperature. About one-half of the radiation from a black body at terrestrial temperatures lies in a wave number range of 500 cm-1. The second scale is that of the unresolved contour of a band. For atmospheric molecules other than water vapor, the Planck function is effectively constant over a single band; water vapor bands must be divided into sections of the order of 50 cm-1 wide before this is so. For a rotating molecule, the next relevant scale of frequency is that of the spacing between rotation lines, approximately 1-5 cm-1. Finally, there is the monochromatic scale on which the absorption coefficient may be treated as a constant, and for which Lambert’s absorption law is obeyed: of the order of one-fifth of a line width ≃ 2 x 10-2 cm-1 for a gas at atmospheric pressure, down to 2 x 10-4cm-1 for a Doppler line in the middle atmosphere. This step takes us to a division of the frequency scale that, when taken together with other features of the calculation, presents a formidable computation task. Calculations can, of course, be made and are made at this limiting spectral resolution (line-by-line calculations) but, despite the fact that they are technically feasible with modern computers, such calculations are rare and are usually performed to provide a few reference cases. The great majority of investigations make use of averages over many lines, embracing spectral ranges that are small compared to a band contour (narrow-band models), or over complete bands (wide-band models), or over the entire thermal spectrum (emissivity models.) There are a number of reasons for working with spectral averages. Practical considerations are that important classes of laboratory measurements, and most atmospheric observations (e.g., satellite radiometry) are made with some spectral averaging, often comparable to that of narrow-band models.