It was the events of December 24, 1944, that Rufus Buin Spain, a then-21-year-old Army soldier from Pickens County, Alabama, recalled as most impressive from his time in World War II.
That Christmas Eve, the Belgian vessel SS Leopoldville, hastily loaded with materials and reinforcements for the Battle of the Bulge, had been torpedoed by a German U-boat just five miles from its destination, the shore of Cherbourg, France. Spain, who was stationed in Cherbourg, rerouted himself from midnight mass to shore to help the survivors of the sinking ship.
“When you see human beings stretched out like wet sacks, it’s impressive,” Spain told me when we met in November 2023. “It’s hard to forget if you want to.”
When I met Dr. Spain in his room at The Blake at Waco nearly 80 years after the sinking of the SS Leopoldville, he still winced at the memory. Nearing 101 years old and as humble as ever, he was flustered that day — even went so far as to say he was embarrassed — by the idea that anyone would want to interview him about what he considered a largely unremarkable life.
But those who knew Rufus Spain — a WWII and Korean War veteran; a shepherd of Baylor University’s integration of Black students; an active opposer of the Vietnam War; a prolific beekeeper, golfer, and woodworker; a Baptist historian; and a 56-year Baylor faculty member — know he was anything but average.
“I must admit it’s kind of pleasing to me for somebody to think that my life has not been just nothing,” Spain quipped.
Spain was born January 29, 1923 in Alabama to a Fundamentalist Baptist family. He graduated from Murphy High School in Mobile, Alabama before attending Mississippi College to pursue an undergraduate degree. He didn’t know then it would be a long road — a whole 21 years — before he’d complete his education with a Ph.D. in history from Vanderbilt University.
Just three years into his studies at Mississippi College, Spain, an 18 year old at the U.S.’ entrance into WWII, paused his education to join the Army. Spain served in the European theatre between 1943 and 1945, spending time stationed in England as part of the Transportation Corps before moving to France.
Nearly 800 U.S. soldiers died in the sinking of the Leopoldville, some 500 of the victims never being recovered from the waters near the shores of Cherbourg. The operation wasn’t made public until the 1990s — it certainly doesn’t appear within the hundreds of entries Spain wrote to his parents while in the service and later compiled into his book, Letters Home — likely due to the avoidable loss of lives caused by miscommunication over the Christmas holiday.
After WWII Spain continued his education, completed a bachelor’s degree in 1947, began graduate school, married his late first wife Elizabeth Finch, and welcomed two children. He returned to service in 1950 for two more years as an officer in the Korean War before being honorably discharged from the Army indefinitely.
Still, life goes on after war. Spain completed his educational journey at Vanderbilt, and attributes his arrival at Baylor to a Mississippi College professor and later Baylor colleague, the late professor emeritus Dr. E. Bruce Thompson.
Spain began his 56-year Baylor career in 1957 and taught full time in the history department for 31 years. He then taught part time for another 10 years before serving as director of the Retired Professors and Administrators Program from 1998 to 2013.
In 1950, the Supreme Court ordered the University of Texas to admit a Black student, though private schools like Baylor could still legally discriminate. By 1954 Baylor’s Student Congress had voted to accept Black students, though it would be nine more years until the Baylor Board of Trustees would vote to integrate in 1963.
As a young professor, Spain was an active figure for integration, joining fellow history professor Dr. Paul Armitstead in supporting the student push toward integration and helping lead to the Board of Trustees’ resolution of approval. But it is perhaps after the school’s first Black students were admitted that Spain’s support rang most strongly.
Robert Gilbert, Baylor’s first Black graduate, began at the University in summer 1965. Spain told Baylor Magazine he vividly remembered the first time Gilbert walked into his class.
“My first thought, I hate to admit it, was why are they sending this token student to me?” Spain said in the Baylor Magazine article. “There was almost no integration at Baylor at that time, and to my discredit I thought, well, we’re just putting him on display — he’s handicapped and so on — and probably won’t be a good student.”
But Gilbert proved him wrong and prevailed as a marvelous student who would go on to develop a lifelong friendship with Spain. Spain later interviewed Gilbert several times for Baylor’s Institute for Oral History, preserving Gilbert’s recollections of civil rights efforts and integration of Waco schools.
“He helped me from the standpoint that he made me feel at ease,” Gilbert said in an oral history. “He asked me to a faculty luncheon where a famous historian spoke. I was probably the only undergraduate there. I felt a little out of place, but that was one of my peak experiences.”
Spain is also a well-documented figure in the campus’ response to the Vietnam War.
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The Lariat reports the campus’ opposition to the Vietnam War was largely quiet in the early- to mid-1960s. The paper carries scarce mention of the conflict until 1965, when the Americanization of the war began to affect the draft status of college students.
But Spain’s collection of materials housed at The Texas Collection tells the story of a cautious historian with a wealth of knowledge and lived experience. He collected hundreds of pamphlets, flyers, and newsletters throughout the 60s and 70s documenting the growing conflict, often marking them up and writing his own questions and ideas.
On April 6, 1967, the first of a series of planned vigils took place at the base of the Judge Baylor statue calling for an end to the bombing of Vietnam. Despite the first protest’s abrupt end — a group of hecklers turned on a water sprinkler directly behind the group — Spain joined 10 other participants for a second demonstration the very next week.
This time the group was met with a counter-demonstration of Young Americans for Freedom, and chaos quickly erupted. Three cherry bombs were exploded, a stack of papers sitting in front of the demonstrators was set on fire, and the next planned vigil was canceled for fear of increasing violence.
“I did not stand because I believe fully in all the silent vigil connotes,” Spain told The Lariat following the fiery vigil. “I stood because I wanted to give encouragement to those who do believe in the principles of Christian pacifism. I wanted to let it be known in some way more significant than a letter to the editor that I believe in the right of a person to hold and express opinions contrary to the prevailing consensus.”
From then on Spain was a vocal opponent to U.S. involvement in the Vietnam War.
“I oppose the war,” Spain said in a March 1968 Lariat article. “We blundered into it.”
By 1969, mounting casualties, televised war, and a shifting political climate boiled opposition to the war to a breaking point. On October 15, 1969, the Baylor community joined in the first widespread moratorium to end the war in Vietnam. Spain gave the first speech on Burleson Quadrangle that morning and spoke again during a nationwide moratorium a month later.
Tensions surrounding the war at Baylor reached a high in 1969 and slowly drifted into the background. By early 1973 most American troops had already returned home, the draft had officially ended, and focus shifted.
Life at Baylor went on, and Spain would enjoy another 40 years of his career and become a professor emeritus of history. He’d live through the Gulf War, the War in Afghanistan, and the Iraq War and live to 100 years old to tell the tale. He guessed his greatest accomplishment was living so long, “and I guess not getting into bad trouble is a contribution to humanity.”
“As I said, I don’t like to brag. But I never did get into any serious trouble and I always felt that I did my work the best I could,” he said.
Spain’s anti-war resolve and overall moral profile was, no doubt, at least in part the repercussion of the horrors of war he endured as a young man. He was welcoming beyond measure, was a member of an affirming congregation at Lake Shore Baptist Church, and upheld the tenet that all violence is incompatible with Christian faith. He was shaped by his service, but not in the boasting way one would expect.
“I’m not the outspoken, bragging sort of veteran that many people are,” he said in 2023. “War is hell and I don’t want to glorify it. … I just don’t want to perpetuate that what people see in war is — I don’t know. I can’t even talk about it.”
He passed away on November 16, 2023 at 100 years old, just two weeks after we spoke.
And if there ever was a lesson Rufus wanted us to take away from his experience it would be this:
“I don’t know, it’s such a reflection on human beings. We like to think of ourselves as a bunch of good people, and there are, of course. But any group that winds up year after year with a world war is nothing to be proud of. Now, you can be proud in a sense that we won the war. I mean, I’m very happy we did, but there will be another one. You know, it’s possible with the way things are going now. So I don’t want to glorify war, but I would praise the people who took part in it voluntarily or were inducted, forced to.”
