The Man Who Kept the Army Talking: Charles McKinley Saltzman

Charles McKinley Saltzman was born in Panora, Iowa, in 1871—skinny, serious, and wired like a man who already heard radio static no one else could pick up. He graduated from West Point just in time to catch the Spanish–American War, where the Army still fought like it was 1864. Saltzman rode with the 1st Cavalry, and earned two Silver Stars for keeping his head while everything around him smoked and rattled. Officers said he had “the calm of a telegraph pole in a lightning storm.”

While other men were polishing sabers, Saltzman was climbing poles in the Philippines, stringing wire across mountains and jungles, keeping messages alive in places where nothing stayed alive for long. A Manila paper said he “could coax a signal through a brick wall and across a typhoon.” He took the compliment and kept working.

In 1912, he was in London, sitting among diplomats and radio wizards at the International Radiotelegraph Convention. The world was trying to agree on how to talk through the air without stepping on each other’s transmissions, and Saltzman showed up like the one man in the room who actually understood how the equipment worked. One observer said he “handled radio law the way a pianist handles a keyboard—precise, patient, and deadly.”

Des Moines High School Music Train 1927

On May 5, 1927, over 250 high school musicians climbed aboard a special train in Des Moines, their instruments packed tight and their nerves running high. They were headed for Iowa City on a rare out-of-town adventure that promised music, competition, and the excitement only a long train ride with friends can bring.

The group was a lively mix—the North High band and orchestra, the East High boys’ glee club, and the Valley Junction Orchestra, among others—all gathered together for the big trip. For many of them, it was their first time traveling with a full musical ensemble, and the train cars buzzed with rehearsed melodies, last-minute tuning, and the hope that their performance might just be the one people remembered.

Picture: Des Moines Tribune. May 6, 1927.

Christmas Celebration at Southside Community Center 1927

A Christmas party at the Southside Community Center in Des Moines brought together a small team of “elves” who helped Santa hand out presents and candy to neighborhood children. The helpers—Mary Forte, Victoria Vito, Mary Pasinelli, Marjorie Cardamon, and Mary Rand—lined up beside Santa, played by Olphonus Bisignaro, as families came through the center for the holiday event.

The moment was captured in the Des Moines Tribune on December 27, 1927.

Willis “Bill” Glassgow Iowa Fottball Standout

Iowa Stadium in the late 1920s wasn’t a cozy field. It was a cold, bruising arena built for impact, and fans packed the place to watch Willis “Bill” Glassgow deliver it. He treated every carry like a personal accusation. When he lowered his shoulder, it wasn’t grace or style. It was force, and people in the stands felt the shock of it.

He arrived in Iowa City in 1927 looking like a kid who had taken a wrong turn. He came from Shenandoah with no bulk and no shine, but he carried something in his eyes that earned him a place. He survived practice the same way a man survives a riot: by staying on his feet and refusing to back up. Teammates said he worked like someone trying to break out of a locked room. He didn’t juke or dance. He pushed forward because that was the only direction he trusted.

By 1928, the Big Ten knew Iowa had something dangerous. Glassgow made third-team All-American not because he tricked defenses but because he rushed through them. Football then was closer to open-air combat. Helmets were thin leather, pads barely existed, and every snap felt like someone’s bad idea of a street fight. Coaches tried traps and shifting fronts to catch him, but he hammered through whatever they drew up.

Samaritan Mission in Des Moines Iowa

Bread & soup line at Samaritan Mission in Des Moines

The line outside the Samaritan Mission on East 5th Street often began forming before the sun was up. Men, women, and children waited quietly for a bowl of soup and a piece of bread. Major Leroy Howver, who ran the mission at 308 E. 5th, promised they would keep feeding people all winter if that’s what it took. And by the look of the crowds, it was going to take a lot.

That first day told the entire story. Some people were so hungry they didn’t take time to carry their soup home—they ate it right there in the mission. Others brought whatever they could find to hold enough food to share with their families: big kettles, dented buckets, even old lard pails. One elderly woman arrived with two tiny tin cups. She filled them, and sat down, too tired and hungry to wait. A young child in ragged clothes carried a kettle almost as big as himself.

The Samaritan Mission was undenominational and survived entirely on donations. In a winter when so many had nothing, the mission gave out more than soup. It offered a place where people could stand together, warm up, and remember they weren’t forgotten. On good days, the mission had food, clothes, and coal it could send home with needy families.

Picture and storyline from the Des Moines Register. December 21, 1924.

Mrs. Gus Freiderichs Maysville Iowa Turkey Farmer

Mrs. Gus Freiderichs and some of her turkeys

Mrs. Gus Freiderichs didn’t set out to build the largest turkey farm in Iowa. She just had an idea, one of those quiet, stubborn ideas that settles in your chest and refuses to leave. Her friends and neighbors near Maysville tried to talk her out of it. “Turkeys are impossible to raise,” they said. “They die if you look at them wrong.” But she didn’t budge. She bought a book called Hints for Amateur Poultry Raisers, propped it open on the kitchen table, and started anyway.

The early days were rough. The first twelve eggs gave her one bird—one tiny, lonely turkey. The rest hatched and died as if trying to tell her: “Turkey raising doesn’t pay. We told you so.”Anyone else might’ve quit, but she tried again. The second batch—twelve demanding little birds—felt like the universe giving her a reluctant nod.

 

From there, it snowballed. She added more birds until by November 1930 her farm was home to nearly six hundred turkeys. She built four sheds, fenced in a long run, that protected her flock from thieves, coyotes, and every other creature that thought a turkey looked like lunch. By spring, she planned to top a thousand birds.

Italian Boxer Primo Carnera in the Tri-Cities

Primo Carnera (left), Al Singer (right)

Primo Carnera hit the Tri-Cities like a runaway circus elephant that suddenly decided to walk upright and take questions. People had whispered about him for months—the giant from Italy. He was built like a locomotive—six-foot-eight, two-eighty-five, wearing size-23 shoes that looked less like footwear and more like state-issued pontoons.

The papers printed a photo of Carnera looming over Al Singer, the Bronx firecracker who usually strutted into a ring like he owned the joint. Next to Carnera, he looked like some doomed newsboy drafted into mythology by mistake. Singer was coiled and ready. Carnera looked like he was debating whether to punch, or simply let gravity do the job.

He wasn’t here to fight. Just an exhibition match on July 10, 1930, at the Palmer School’s open-air arena. A chance for the locals to gawk at something their brains refused to classify as normal. Crowds swarmed him. They wanted to touch the hands, measure the shoulders, stare at the monstrous shoes and swear they weren’t hallucinating.

For a few days that summer, the Tri-Cities felt wired with electricity—like the whole place had been plugged into some great brutal engine. Carnera wandered through town, enormous and unhurried, and people followed him just to make sure the giant was real and not something conjured out of heat, rumor, and American hunger for spectacle.