(4 of 9)
Nothing Sacred. As most readers sense, nothing short 'of a direct hit by an atomic bomb could make the Times go to hell overnight: its momentum as a publishing enterprise and its staff of trusted old professionals could carry it on for a long time no matter whom death took from the publisher's office. But Sulzberger is credited, even by his old pros, with being a big force in keeping the Times cruising at standard speed. He regards the Times as a "public trust" and works unceasingly to keep it that way. His wife, who began working at the Times during the wartime manpower shortage and now puts in three or four days a week in her office in the promotion department, also understands the paper's problems.
Out of Sulzberger's small (20 by 15 ft.) office (he uses the imposing publisher's office only for conferences) flows a constant stream of blue paper memos, suggestions, questions and advice to all departments. Most of those to the editorial department are necessarily after the fact; usually he does not see news stories and editorials until they are printed. To help keep track of things, he makes frequent notes in the notebook he always carries. Once, at a private dinner, he heard a friend talk about a new film-color process, jotted down a note. When a story on the process duly appeared in the Times, the friend was shocked, argued that it had been a breach of confidence to print it. Replied Sulzberger: there is no closed season on news and ideas. The day-to-day job of handling the news he leaves to the men who know it best—the newsmen.
"This Stinks!" The boss of the Times's vast local, national and foreign news-gathering and news-editing machine is Managing Editor Edwin Leland James, 59. Jaunty "Jimmy" James was a star reporter himself during World War I and in postwar Paris. A 35-year veteran of the Times, Virginia-born James still carries a cane and affects what Alexander Woollcott once admiringly called a manner of "extreme truculence, tinged with contempt." Occasionally, in a break from Times tradition, he bursts from his private office off the southwest corner of the city room, waving his cigar and copy and shouting, "This stinks," or something stronger.
James leaves to his assistants what he considers the routine news jobs. His chief deputy is Turner Catledge, 49, assistant managing editor, onetime reporter for the Baltimore Sun, national correspondent of the Times, and editor (1942) of the Chicago Sun. The man responsible for putting the Times to bed is Night Managing Editor Raymond McCaw, 62, a Timesman. for 27 years.
Three for One. The Times city room is one of the world's biggest: 40 yards wide and a full city block long. The no city-staff reporters are usually summoned to the city desk by a public-address system. From his desk at the south end of the city room, Turner Catledge occasionally uses a pair of binoculars to see which reporters are in at the north end. In this sea of faces (some 300 altogether, including copyreaders, assistant editors, re-writemen, etc.), many a young reporter's talent often tends to drown.
Thanks partly to its reluctance to fire anybody, the Times is way overstaffed. At best, a reporter can count on one solid story a day. The Times concedes that