Jack Hartzman

Cy Fox mentioned that Jack Hartzman, for all his carefully-cultivated orneriness, was respected by the toilers in “the swamps”. Indeed, he was - on numerous occasions, calling London from some far-flung part of the world, I breathed a sigh of relief to hear those sotto voce tones querulously mutter “Hartzman”. You knew that what would come next was a succinct state-of-play on the story, its place on the world sked he was rigorously drafting, and what London wanted next.

A stickler in his habits, the stroll down the stairs of 85 Fleet St for the post-sked Scotch in the Old Bell comes to mind. He was exacting in his work, the “sked’ll be late” reflecting his determination to get the (under-appreciated in Reuters) sked - a well-regarded outlook in many newsrooms around the world - just right; his liberal use of “assholes” and other invective mainly directed at interfering hierarchy and others getting in the way of the story.

He also had an elephantine memory. Passing through London in October 1979, Jack stopped me briefly to remark “I’ve been meaning to say”, before going on to compliment me on a story I had covered in February 1972. Only a person as fastidious as Jack would have gone to such lengths and it was a deeply-appreciated gesture.

They don’t make them like that any more. They didn’t make them like that before, either. ■