A half century ago, UW students, administration and the Wyoming National Guard clashed on Prexy's Pasture
During the same academic year as the Black 14 incident, and just days after the Kent State Massacre, UW student protestors faced off against the Gov. Hathaway's forces.
Colonel F. W. Wickham of the Wyoming National Guard took in the dozens, the hundreds, before him. It was a motley assortment of radical students, liberal faculty, and curious townsfolk come to see what the ruckus at the college was all about.
They were blocking the way, standing or seated between Wickham and the flagpole, between the colonel, his 99 armed men, and what they were sent here to do.
Wickham raised a bullhorn and addressed the demonstrators. They needed to disperse, he told them.
“Three minutes,” he said. Lowering the bullhorn, he looked to his wristwatch, where the seconds ticked by.
Some of the braver faculty approached and pleaded for leniency.
The threat of violence hung over nervous soldiers and students alike. It had been a bloody week. Four students were dead, several more were injured and one was paralyzed for life. That tragedy went down a thousand miles east of here. But it felt close and repeatable tonight — May 6, 1970 — here on the University of Wyoming green.
Please, the faculty begged, don’t let this turn into another Kent State. The presence of armed troops was turning up the thermostat, and a hard time limit raised the specter of violence. Someone could be hurt, the faculty said. Someone could be killed.
According to contemporary accounts, Wickham’s response was nothing short of ominous.
“That may very well be,” he said, and went back to checking his watch.
Solidarity with Kent State
The United States invaded Cambodia on April 29, 1970. It was a move many took as a signal that Nixon would not withdraw from Vietnam, as he had promised on the campaign trail two years before.
The Cambodian incursion was intolerable for student peace activists across the country, including, notably, those at Ohio’s Kent State University. Student demonstrators began protesting on May 1 and carried on through the following days. The protests started peacefully, but there were eventual violent clashes between protesters and local police.
After Kent State’s ROTC building was burned to the ground, the governor deployed the Ohio National Guard to campus, where confrontations continued.
When an estimated 2000 people refused an order to disperse, the National Guard began using tear gas. Exactly how the situation turned deadly is still debated, but several National Guardsmen shot into a crowd of students some distance away. Four students — including two non-protesters who had just been walking to class — lost their lives. Another nine were wounded.
“The Kent State killings sent shock waves across the country,” said David Hasnard, then-president of UW’s Student Peace Union. University closings, student strikes and further demonstrations would follow throughout the United States.
Laramie was no exception.
As news of the Kent State shootings began to shift public opinion on Vietnam, UW barreled toward a tense stand-off of its own.
“It was totally unplanned, unscripted and it was actually — for a while — quite scary,” Hasnard said.
Some 50 UW students delivered a petition to Old Main around 8 a.m. on May 6, two days after the Kent State shootings. The petition — bearing 600 signatures and the backing of Faculty Senate leadership — requested that classes be suspended on May 7, the following day, for a day of mourning and reflection.
The petition also requested that the flag on Prexy’s Pasture, perhaps the university’s most prominent and visible flag, be lowered to half-mast in honor of those students gunned down in Ohio.
University administration went into overdrive, calling together deans, other officials, and even its legal counsel to coordinate a response. The students returned to Prexy’s Pasture and the Student Union to await a response and to accrue more signatures.
John Lent — a journalism instructor visiting UW that year — covered the unfolding events for Free Lunch, an underground newspaper circulating on campus at the time. He recounted the rising tension that morning.
“Some cowboys tried to steal the petition with the intention of destroying it,” Lent said. “There were threats such as, ‘If those dirty, long-haired hippies try to take down that flag, there’s going to be trouble.’”
Accounts vary, but the petition had gained somewhere between 660-1,000 additional signatures by noon. That’s when about 300 students marched from the Union back to Old Main for an answer to their requests.
The administration announced it would cancel Thursday classes, but refused to lower the flag on Prexy’s.
“We were told that was out of the jurisdiction of the Board of Trustees and the administration of the university,” Lent said.
This was probably not true.
Undeterred, the students dispatched some of their number to Cheyenne to seek permission directly from Gov. Stanley Hathaway. The rest of the students returned to Prexy’s Pasture, gathered around the flagpole and waited.
“We were told by someone from administration that it could not be at half-staff,” Lent said. “The U.S. flag could be lowered only with an order from Nixon.”
This was definitely not true.
Many students pointed out that other universities had already lowered their flags in honor of the Kent State victims, and flags in Laramie had previously been lowered in honor of locals.
But by now, another situation was developing. Law enforcement had arrived.
A radical time in Laramie
To say the 1960s and early '70s were a time of social upheaval in America would be an understatement. The United States was ramping up its involvement in Vietnam, especially under Presidents Johnson and Nixon.
“It was a very unsettling time,” said John Schmidt, who was a UW graduate student in 1969. John, and his wife Jan, took part in anti-war demonstrations during that era.
“It was a tough time,” Jan said. “People our age felt like the things that the government was doing in our name were not what we wanted.”
The Vietnam War was not the only thing on the country’s mind, however. The women’s movement and the long, hard fight for civil rights were also gaining steam.
In fits and starts, racial minorities were winning legal protections and social acceptance. Legislation throughout the mid-60s ended legal segregation, bolstered voting rights and banned housing discrimination.
But the backlash to those gains was brutal. Martin Luther King, Jr.’s murder in 1968 was one instance in a long, sustained history of racist violence in America.
This spirit of racism was present in the West and infamously divided the UW campus during the 1969 fall semester, when 14 Black football players were booted from the team.
The Black 14 — as they came to be known — had wanted to protest the racist policies of the church behind Brigham Young University. The Black 14 hoped to wear black armbands during an upcoming game against BYU, but were instead kicked off the team. The incident ignited a fierce debate on the UW campus that was still alive — and raw — in the spring of 1970.
“The campus was already primed for a fair amount of divisiveness and anger,” Hasnard said. “And it was very clear that the administration — the president, the trustees, the deans — had not a clue how to deal with these issues.”
In 2019, 50 years after the Black 14 incident, UW officially apologized to the booted players, while events and discussions across campus honored the men.
The long-lasting impact of the Black 14 incident might be why so few people have heard about the flagpole incident — that day in May 1970 when armed officers and soldiers met UW students on Prexy’s Pasture.
But the flagpole incident didn’t come out of nowhere. While many contemporary accounts describe Wyoming, and even the university, as removed from the radical activities taking place across the country, that was not entirely true.
The Laramie campus played host to demonstrations, sit-ins, protests against invited speakers, and even bomb threats. UW averaged seven bomb scares a year between 1966-1969, according to Deborah Hardy’s book “Wyoming University: The First 100 Years.”
There were even serious concerns that students might, at some point, attempt to take over a campus building as demonstrators had done elsewhere.
“We have to be decisive and firm no matter what the cost as far as I’m concerned,” Board President C. E. Jerry Hollon wrote in a May 1970 letter to President Bill Carlson. “If this happens … they must leave the building within the specified time. If not, they must be removed by force, which we realize is an ugly situation.”
The UW campus during the ‘60s and ‘70s was a place of upheaval — a battleground for cultural clashes and a haven for anti-war demonstrators in a generally pro-war conservative state. That much was made painfully clear in the days following Kent State.
Hathaway mobilizes the National Guard
Gov. Stanley Hathaway is remembered today more for his namesake than his governorship. The Hathaway Scholarship provides automatic and substantial college funding for any Wyoming high school graduate, tiered by academic performance and need. It’s not uncommon to hear community college or UW students remark that without the Hathaway, they would have missed out on higher education.
University students in 1970 did not share this fondness for Hathaway.
“Hathaway was as bad or worse than everyone else,” Hansard said. “His ignorance, incompetence and cowardice was staggering.”
As President of the Student Peace Union, Hasnard was doing significant legwork to coordinate a March for Peace, scheduled for Governor’s Day a week later on May 14.
The upcoming peace march was on everyone’s mind, including Hathaway’s. In a letter to UW President Carlson, Hathaway offered the services of the Wyoming Highway Patrol and the Wyoming National Guard, should they be needed for “quelling civil unrest on the University campus.”
Highway Patrol would be deployed first, and work in conjunction with the Laramie Police Department and campus police, under the direction of the president’s office.
“While on campus, these men of the Wyoming Highway Patrol will be assigned their regular issue uniforms and accessories, including hardhats, riot sticks and sidearms with live ammunition,” Hathaway writes. “They will carry neither shotguns nor rifles.”
If Carlson determined that the combined power of three law enforcement agencies was insufficient, Hathaway gave the university president authority to request the Wyoming National Guard. If Guardsmen were indeed deployed, they would remain under the direct control of the governor, and would aim to make a “show of force,” but not carry live ammunition.
“Their only means of self-protection will be gas canisters and unloaded rifles with fixed bayonets,” the letter reads.
On the evening of May 6, more than a week before the planned peace march, both Highway Patrol and the National Guard would be deployed to the Laramie campus.
But throughout the afternoon, a less militarized, peaceful standstill persisted. Both university administration and the governor had informed students the U.S. flag would stay at full mast, but students, faculty and now some curious Laramie residents remained on Prexy’s, surrounding the flagpole.
Dick Putney and the other ministers from United Campus Ministries had taken up a post on the platform around the flagpole. From there, the ministers led the crowd in prayer and reflection.
“It was not really designed as a protest against the war, per se, although that certainly was the backdrop,” Putney said. “It really was focusing on the students who were killed, and raising the issue of freedom of speech and freedom of protest — a much broader issue than just being against the war itself.”
University officials and local police relented at 5 p.m., lowering the U.S. flag and telling the demonstrators they could do what they wished with the flagpole until 6 a.m. the next morning, when the U.S. flag would be raised again to full mast. The students then raised both an American flag and a black flag of mourning to half-mast.
The incident might have ended there if not for the attention it had started receiving from law enforcement, state government, and concerned locals. Col. Wickham and his 99 National Guardsmen still surrounded the assembled students gathered at the flagpole. Tensions remained high and communication between the responding officials was strained.
Around 7 p.m., Putney was standing on the steps to the Wyoming Union. He said he could hear the Laramie Police Chief and a National Guard commander — maybe Col. Wickham — arguing from the second floor. An open window allowed him to overhear a terrifying exchange.
“The Laramie Police chief said in essence — I may not have the words right — ‘Go ahead and shoot the students. That’s what you came here to do,’” Putney said. “He was not happy about the guard being there, armed with rifles. And he stormed out and he and his officers left.”
The protest had become a different animal. There are indications that some in the gathered crowd were getting rowdy. Several cars were damaged, including a police car which was intentionally damaged. Additionally, someone was arrested around noon for trying to scale the flagpole and remove the flag himself. All of these appear to be isolated incidents.
As the sun set, and students settled in to wait out the night, the guard remained.
“It became something different than how it began,” Putney said. “It started as a memorial for the students who had been killed, but it took on a life of its own.”
Countdown to violence
John Lent, the visiting journalism instructor, had been outspoken the previous semester about the treatment of the Black 14. In response to that incident and in short order, Lent helped other students and faculty launch Free Lunch, an underground weekly established to report on what other newspapers wouldn’t.
“I felt at the time that we could not trust — I’m sorry to say it since you now write for the Laramie Boomerang — we couldn’t trust the Boomerang,” Lent said. “We couldn’t trust the student paper, and we couldn’t trust the public relations director at UW.”
In the aftermath of the flagpole incident, Lent — with help from his student Melanie Markley — produced an astoundingly thorough write-up for Free Lunch, covering all the events of May 6-7. It’s the most complete description of this chapter in UW’s history.
While being interviewed for this story, the 83-year-old Lent dug out his copy of that issue and read aloud the words he wrote 50 years before. The reporting is professional but carries an unmistakable flair, a sympathy for the demonstrators’ aims.
“I think this should be known,” Lent said. “But I don’t think it should be known to belittle the people or Wyoming or put down Wyoming, because the same stuff was happening other places. It was just the times — I hope.”
At 10 p.m., there were about 500 people seated or standing around the edges of the crowd, according to Lent’s reporting. Following proper flag protocol, several students bought a spotlight, which was then mounted on top of a bus and angled to illuminate the flags now flying halfway up the pole. Many, but not all, planned to spend the night on the campus green.
“As the demonstrators settled down for the nightlong vigil, they were confronted with the arrival of two firetrucks, one army load of state troopers, and assorted Laramie police,” Lent read. “The helmeted troopers brought along loaded shotguns to supplement their sidearms and billy clubs.”
The demonstrators, by contrast, were unarmed.
“Colonel F. W. Wickham announced over the bullhorn he was giving the demonstrators three minutes to clear the area around the flagpole,” Lent read. “After that, his men would move in. He was acting, he said, under direct orders of the governor to remove the American flag from the flagpole.”
The countdown started, and Wickham began checking his watch. Some faculty approached the colonel and warned that such a strict deadline could lead to an eruption of violence.
“Meanwhile, the troopers — their shotguns at ready — formed a double line at five feet from the demonstrators, who had by this time, formed tightly around the flagpole,” Lent read. “It was clear that the demonstrators were not going to leave, and equally clear that the troops were prepared to carry out their orders to use ‘whatever force necessary’ to remove them.”
Lent’s story included eyewitness accounts, from in and around the main action, of alleged threatening exchanges between some law enforcement and students. One student, a veteran of Vietnam, said he was told to remove his dog from the scene because the officer didn’t “want to kill a good dog.” Other students reported troopers pointing loaded shotguns at their heads.
“One trooper was overheard as saying, ‘Folks, these guns are loaded with live ammunition and we’ve come to shoot if necessary,’” Lent read.
Student Senate President Bob Archuleta approached and asked Colonel Wickham to extend the countdown. He asked for a half-hour continuum in order to contact Gov. Hathaway and President Carlson.
Being denied this extension, Archuleta scurried to the ASUW office in the union.
That continuum was not granted until an assistant dean came out of the union a little later, informing Wickham that Archuleta had the governor on the phone. Wickham granted the demonstrators another 30 minutes while he went to the ASUW office to take the call.
“The confrontation continued for another hour while the governor and President Carlson conferred with the Board of Trustees, and Colonel Wickham awaited their decision,” Lent read. “The crisis of violence had, as it turned out, passed.”
A separate peace
Even as officials talked over what to do, things began to cool down on the green outside.
“During the half-hour wait, the peacefully seated demonstrators sang a number of songs, including the national anthem, during which they stood and saluted the flag with the peace sign,” Lent read. “Both police and demonstrators were beginning to relax and joke back and forth.”
The students even handed over empty coke bottles, sticks, and anything else they had that could be construed as a weapon.
“In response, Colonel Wickham temporarily handed his billy club to another officer,” Lent read. “The colonel even greeted the demonstrators with ‘Peace, brothers,’ when he realized passive resistance was the name of the game.”
This spirit hung over Prexy’s Pasture for some time.
“About midnight, the colonel received a call from President Carlson, informing him the governor had ordered the withdrawal of the state troopers and the flag could stay for the night,” Lent read. “After the troopers withdrew, the University Common Ministry staff led demonstrators in prayer and the singing of the national anthem.”
The students were told simply that the governor’s original orders had been misconstrued, but few believed this claim. The potential for serious violence on par with that of Kent State had abated, although the scene was not entirely or immediately peaceful.
“As the vigil continued through the night, there were occasional forays by hostile students who attempted to harass the vigil by driving their cars through Prexy's Pasture,” Lent read. “A threat of fights developed from ‘cowboys, athletes, and drunk fraternity men standing by.’”
Yet the remainder of the night passed without further incident. At 6 a.m., the 125 remaining students voted to clear a corridor for law enforcement officers coming to raise the flag. They still asked that the flag be flown at half-mast, but announced they would no longer actively resist the flag being raised, given their commitment to nonviolence.
“At the raising of the national flag, the demonstrators sang the national anthem,” Lent read, laughing as he rediscovered the punchline he wrote 50 years ago. “As the breeze unfurled the state flag, it was discovered to be upside down.”
Witnesses say the flag mishap broke the tension leftover from the night before. Those raising the flag were embarrassed, and the situation hastily rectified. But in the light of day, standing peacefully among a giggling crowd, the thought of violence — so threatening and close just hours before — was made unimaginable.
A government in exile, an incident forgotten
The flagpole incident is seldom talked about today. Coming as it did on the heels of the Black 14 — and of more violent occurrences like the Kent State shootings — the flagpole incident is more notable for what did not occur than for what did.
The incident still had significant impacts for UW, however. Some 400 students met the next day and formed the Government-in-Exile — a group in direct opposition to the official student government, ASUW. The Government-in-Exile even scored a meeting with President Carlson — an indication that the body was viewed with some legitimacy during its lifespan.
A note to President Carlson from an administrative assistant for the governor appears to credit the peaceful outcome of the night to the presence of so many Guardsmen — whose deployment cost the state more than $2000.
“I think we are all extremely fortunate that things went off so well those two days,” the letter reads. “And this is a small amount of money to insure that adequate protection was on a standby basis in the event of difficulty.”
Many witnesses, however, view the state’s muscular response as having been the main — or indeed only — source of danger. Hasnard, the Student Peace Union president, said some looked to be itching for a fight.
“It seemed to me like they were — some of them — hoping that would happen, so they could respond as their brothers had at Kent State and shoot some commies, or hippies or whatever it was,” he said. “I had no doubt — given the mentality of some people in law enforcement in Laramie, Wyoming — that they would not hesitate to begin shooting if they were attacked.”
In the end, nobody was hurt, but Hasnard said there were real moments of terror.
“There was a point where it seemed to be going very close to the tipping point and it might go another way,” he said. “And I think there would have been a serious tragedy if that happened.”
Several witnesses made sure to point out that the flagpole incident is not so much a reflection of Wyoming or the people who live here, but a story from a particular time in American history.
“It really spontaneously embodied everything that was going on in the rest of the country,” Hasnard said. “And it was a time at which people in Wyoming thought this was never going to affect them — like they think the coronavirus isn’t going to affect them.”
That feeling of being somehow apart from the machinations and movements in the rest of the country meant the flagpole incident came as a surprise for many. Both President Carlson and Gov. Hathaway received angry letters and complaints from Laramie and the state at large following May 6-7.
But despite the excitement, the event eventually faded from memory, as those involved left the university and the radical era of the ‘60s and’ 70s wound down. Laramie is known for two major cultural events — the booting of the Black 14 and the murder of Matthew Shepard. It could have also been known as the place several students were gunned down on a college green — the second in a week — if the flagpole incident had erupted into violence, as it was threatening to do.
Luck — luck that Wickham gave the demonstrators three minutes instead of two, luck that Archuleta was able to reach the governor by phone, luck that university leadership came to its senses in (literally) the eleventh hour — is perhaps all that separates this historical footnote from a national tragedy.
This feature was first published four year ago on the front page of the Laramie Boomerang. It is reprinted here by its author for posterity.
Besides most colleges, many high schools became points of protest by walk outs and sit ins!
If you want an in-depth analysis of these incidents surrounding Kent State killings
Read... Michener's very meticulously researched book" Kent State"
Also not mentioned weirdly but consistent with the times, students were killed at Jackson State the same time period, which got less press coverage... black college!?!