John Passos - 1919

The colored elevatorboy grinned at him when he took him up in the elevator, “Is they startin’ to go past yet, mister?” Ben shook his head and frowned.

The lawoffice looked clean and shiny. The telephone girl had red hair and wore a gold star. There was an American flag draped over the door of Stein’s private office. Stein was at his desk talking to an upperclasslooking young man in a tweed suit. “Ben,” Stein said cheerily, “meet Stevens Warner… He’s just gotten out of Charlestown, served a year for refusing to register.”

“Not quite a year,” said the young man, getting up and shaking hands. “I’m out on good behavior.”

Ben didn’t like him, in his tweed suit and his expensive looking necktie; all at once he remembered that he was wearing the same kind of suit himself. The thought made him sore. “How was it?” he asked coldly.

“Not so bad, they had me working in the greenhouse… They treated me fairly well when they found out I’d already been to the front.”

“How was that?”

“Oh, in the ambulance service…. They just thought I was mildly insane…. It was a damned instructive experience.”

“They treat the workers different,” said Ben angrily.

“And now we’re going to start a nationwide campaign to get all the other boys out,” said Stein, getting to his feet and rubbing his hands, “starting with Debs… you’ll see, Ben, you won’t be down there long… people are coming to their senses already.”

A burst of brassy music came up from Broadway, and the regular tramp of soldiers marching. They all looked out of the window. All down the long grey canyon flags were streaming out, uncoiling tickertape and papers glinted all through the ruddy sunlight, squirmed in the shadows; people were yelling themselves hoarse.

“Damn fools,” said Warner, “it won’t make the doughboys forget about K.P.”

Morris Stein came back into the room with a funny brightness in his eyes. “Makes me feel maybe I missed something.”

“Well, I’ve got to be going,” said Warner, shaking hands again. “You certainly got a rotten break, Compton… don’t think for a minute we won’t be working night and day to get you out… I’m sure public sentiment will change. We have great hopes of President Wilson… after all, his labor record was fairly good before the war.”

“I guess it’ll be the workers will get me out, if I’m gotten out,” said Ben.

Warner’s eyes were searching his face. Ben didn’t smile. Warner stood before him uneasily for a moment and then took his hand again. Ben didn’t return the pressure. “Good luck,” said Warner and walked out of the office.

“What’s that, one of these liberalminded college boys?” Ben asked of Stein. Stein nodded. He’d gotten interested in some papers on his desk. “Yes… great boy, Steve Warner… you’ll find some books or magazines in the library… I’ll be with you in a few minutes.”

Ben went into the library and took down a book on Torts. He read and read the fine print. When Stein came to get him he didn’t know what he’d been reading or how much time had passed. Walking up Broadway the going was slow on account of the crowds and the bands and the steady files of marching soldiers in khaki with tin hats on their heads. Stein nudged him to take his hat off as a regimental flag passed them in the middle of a fife and drum corps. He kept it in his hand so as not to have to take it off again. He took a deep breath of the dusty sunny air of the street, full of girls’ perfumerysmells and gasoline from the exhaust of the trucks hauling the big guns, full of laughing and shouting and shuffle and tramp of feet; then the dark doorway of the Federal Building gulped them.

It was a relief to have it all over, alone with the deputy on the train for Atlanta. The deputy was a big morose man with bluish sacks under his eyes. As the handcuffs cut Ben’s wrist he unlocked them except when the train was in a station. Ben remembered it was his birthday; he was twentythree years old.

in British Colonial Office quarters it is believed that Australian irritation will diminish as soon as it is realized that the substance is more important than the shadow. It may be stated that press representatives who are expeditious in sending their telegrams at an early hour, suffer because their telegrams are thrown into baskets. Others which come later are heaped on top of them and in the end the messages on top of the basket are dealt with first. But this must not be taken as an insult. Count von Brochdorf-Ranzau was very weak and it was only his physical condition that kept him from rising

PRIVATES HOLD UP CABMAN

Hold the fort for we are coming

Union men be strong;

Side by side we battle onward ,

Victory will come.

New York City Federation Says Evening Gowns Are Demoralizing Youth of the Land

SOLDIERS OVERSEAS FEAR LOSS OF GOLD V

CONSCRIPTION A PUZZLE

Is there hostile propaganda at work in Paris?

We meet today in Freedom’s cause

And raise our voices high

We’ll join our hands in union strong

To battle or to die

FRANCE YET THE FRONTIER OF FREEDOM

provision is made whereby the wellbeing and development of backward and colonial regions are regarded as the sacred trust of civilization over which the league of nations exercises supervising care

REDS WEAKENING WASHINGTON HEARS

Hold the fort for we are coming

Union men be strong

the marine workers affiliation meeting early last night at no. 26 Park Place voted to start a general walkout at 6 A.M. tomorrow

BURLESON ORDERS ALL POSTAL

TELEGRAPH NEWS SUPPRESSED

his reply was an order to his followers to hang these two lads on the spot. They were placed on chairs under trees, halters fastened on the boughs were placed around their necks, and then they were maltreated until they pushed the chair away from them with their feet in order to finish their torments

four hours we casuals pile up scrapiron in the flatcars and four hours we drag the scrapiron off the flatcars and pile it on the side of the track KEEP THE BOYS FIT TO GO HOME is the slogan of the YMCA in the morning the shadows of the poplars point west and in the afternoon they point out east where Persia is the jagged bits of old iron cut into our hands through the canvas gloves a kind of grey slagdust plugs our noses and ears stings eyes four hunkies a couple of wops a bohunk dagoes guineas two little dark guys with blue chins nobody can talk to

spare parts no outfit wanted to use

mashed mudguards busted springs old spades and shovels entrenching tools twisted hospital cots a mountain of nuts and bolts of all sizes four million miles of barbedwire chickenwire rabbitfence acres of tin roofing square miles of parked trucks long parades of locomotives strung along the yellow rails of the sidings

KEEP THE BOYS FIT TO GO up in the office the grumpy sergeants doing the paperwork dont know where home is lost our outfits our service records our aluminum numberplates no spika de Engliss no entiendo comprend pas no capisco nyeh panimayoo

day after day the shadows of the poplars point west northwest north northeast east When they desoit they always heads south the corporal said Pretty tough but if he aint got a soivice record how can we make out his discharge KEEP OUR BOYS FIT for whatthehell the war’s over

scrap

it was a gala day for Seattle. Enormous crowds not only filled the streets on the line of march from the pier but finally later in the evening machineguns were placed in position, the guardsmen withstanding a shower of missles until their inaction so endangered them the officers gave the order to fire. WOULD CUT OFF LIGHT. President Lowell of Harvard University has urged the students to serve as strikebreakers. “In accordance with its tradition of public service, the university desires at this time of crisis to maintain order and support the laws of the Commonwealth.”