- by David Robinson-Cooke

Reprinted from THEME Jan-Feb-Mar 2003

Some of you might be aware that I used to play in the New York Staff Band of The Salvation Army. Although I have many memories from that time, I would like to share just one with you here.

 Sometime in 1962 we were to do a series of concerts in western Pennsylvania, and in connection with that trip we were scheduled to perform for the prisoners in the Harrisburg Federal Penitentiary. This prison houses some of the worst criminals in the United States. Prior to this trip there had been many reports in the news media of unrest in this institution: talks of hostage taking, riots, etc.

 There were 36 of us in the band. We arrived on a beautiful Saturday morning and were received at the main reception area. There we were greeted by a tight-lipped warden who was looking rather pale and tired. He told us that "up to five minutes ago I was deciding whether or not to cancel this concert but I am allowing it to go ahead against my better judgement. You are to walk straight in and straight out. You are not to look to the right or the left, and there are to be no announcements. This is not a request, but an order!"

 We were then ushered into a room that was much like a large bank vault. The massive stainless steel doors were at least 12 inches thick: one at each end of the room. They opened by spinning a wheel to the correct combination. There was an armed guard at the front and the rear of the group, and there was only just enough room for the 38 of us with all our instruments. Both doors were locked and both guards conducted a head count. When both called out "36" the forward door was opened which led into a second chamber identical to the first. Yet another head count was conducted, and when "36" was called out again, the forward door again opened which took us into yet a third room exactly the same! Not a place to be with claustrophobia! The band fellows by now were quite subdued as the enormity of the situation began to dawn. I know my legs felt like rubber. Finally the last door opened and we walked right onto the stage. There we faced 800 of the most violent criminals in the United States. Guards with loaded rifles ready were spaced about ten feet apart all the way down each outside aisle of the auditorium.

 We started the program and received polite applause. I remember the first piece was entitled "Fling Wide the Gates!" Needless to say, that was not announced! Towards the end of the program, one of the prisoners stood up in the middle of the front row and addressed the warden. When he stood up one could feel the air crackle, and the guards took a fresh grip on their firearms. "Sir," he said, "we request permission to sing for the band." There was a long silence. "Denied!" said the warden. "Sir," he persisted, "we have practised for two weeks, and respectfully request permission to sing for the band!" The warden hesitated, and looked over to our conductor who gave a slight nod. "Alright," he said.

 Twenty-two men filed out and formed around the piano. They sang in two-part harmony, and the intonation was almost perfect. "When you walk through the storm hold your head up high, and don't be afraid of the dark…You'll never walk alone." About half way through many of the bandsmen were shedding tears. After the song was finished they filed back to their seats, and then we played one final march. At the end of the march, the band threw caution to the wind and, as one, jumped to their feet and applauded the prisoners, who likewise applauded us. Some of them were crying.

 After the dust settled, the guards put down their rifles, and the prisoners filed quietly back to their cells. We returned through the three rooms (vaults) and back outside. At the bus I turned to look at the slits that were their windows, and then I looked up at the blue sky, seeing it with different eyes. The whole thing had a profound effect on the band, and hardly a word was spoken from Harrisburgh to Pittsburgh. I listened carefully to newscasts for two weeks afterwards, and that penitentiary was not mentioned.

 We had gone there to bless and inspire those inmates. It turned out to be the other way around.

 David Robinson-Cooke is now retired and living in Ancaster, Ontario.