Nobody ever accused George Creel of thinking (or writing) small. Creel's first test was a day that many in Washington regarded with trepidation — June 5, 1917, the date on which all American males of combat age were to register for the draft. Remembering the draft riots of the Civil War, Senator James Reed of Missouri had warned Secretary of War Newton Baker that the streets of American cities would 'run red with blood on registration day.'

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A month before the day of reckoning, Creel unleashed his most potent brainchild: the Four Minute Men. He got the idea from a young Chicagoan, Donald Ryerson, who told him he had inspired a number of pro-war friends to make speeches in motion picture theaters. Creel decided to turn that concept into a national effort, gave the volunteers their patriotic name and appointed Ryerson their director.

Soon, in movie theaters across the nation, a glass slide was thrown on the stage curtain before or after the main feature. It announced the imminent appearance of the local Four Minute Man and certified that he was speaking under the auspices of the Committee on Public Information. Creel supplied the Four Minute Men with bulletins and four-minute speeches, but urged them to add a personal touch whenever possible. Their first topic was 'Universal Service by Selective Draft.' From May 12 to 21, 75,000 orators deluged moviegoers with the idea that registration day should be a festival of honor for the future draftees.

The country responded ecstatically. On June 5, 10 million men signed up without a murmur of protest. Seattle, Wash., gave a public banquet for its draftees before they departed for Camp Lewis. In hundreds of small towns, Civil War veterans turned out to escort the new soldiers to the railroad station. By the end of the year, the country had 516,000 draftees in training camps, still without a whisper of protest.

Meanwhile, the Four Minute Men were tackling other topics, such as 'Why We Are Fighting' and 'What Our Enemy Really Is.' Creel never stopped trying to improve their performances, sending teams of speech teachers and noted writers around the country to coach them. Eventually, he had 'inspectors' checking up on them. In order to join the FMM ranks, a man needed endorsements from three prominent citizens in his hometown. If he did not measure up on the platform, he was ruthlessly removed from the group.

The FMMs were soon speaking at lodge and labor union meetings, granges, lumber camps, and even on Indian reservations. College FMMs operated in 153 institutions of higher learning. Creel even trained soldier FMMs to speak to their fellow doughboys. Finally, there was a cadre of Junior FMMs who spoke to high schools. The best speakers in that division won prizes. Two hundred thousand high schools participated in support of the Third Liberty Loan drive.

By the time the war was over, Creel, who loved statistics, claimed his orators had given 755,190 speeches to a total of 314,454,514 Americans. They reached more than 11 million people per month. Newspapers reported on them to the tune of 900,000 lines, a statistic based on a check of only the larger papers. The whole stupendous program cost the government a mere $101,555.10.

Most propagandists would have rested on their laurels at that point, but Creel was just warming up. Aided by a committee of prominent historians, he began churning out 'Red, White and Blue Books,' which expanded speeches by Wilson into high-flying paeans to America's war aims and a series of ferocious attacks on Germany under titles such as German War Practices and The Prussian System.

Creel also got into the movie business. His filmmakers produced features such as Pershing's Crusaders and Under Four Flags, and distributed them with the help of D.W. Griffith, the man who had made The Birth of a Nation, Hollywood's first superhit. In addition to drenching the public in patriotic fervor, Creel's films earned the committee $852,744.30–not a bad profit in the days when a movie cost only a nickel.

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