Free When the Cheering Stopped by Gene; Smith Page B

was the greatest speech he had ever heard in his life, it was so perfectlyturned, so sure, so musical and so appealing in that hour in that place. Another speech of another war President came into Baker’s mind—the speech made at Gettysburg.
    In the acacia groves on a hillside from which one could gaze off to the valley of the Seine and to Paris, he stood bareheaded under a hot, bright sun near the old fortress of Mont Valérien, dust from the new cemetery rising from under the feet of the listening thousands, many of whom were wounded soldiers, and said:
    â€œSo it is our duty to take and maintain the safeguards which will see to it that the mothers of America and the mothers of France and England and Italy and Belgium and all the other suffering nations should never be called upon for this sacrifice again. This can be done. It must be done, and it will be done. The great thing that these men left us … is the great instrument of the League of Nations …
    â€œIf we do not know courage, we cannot accomplish our purpose and this age is an age that looks forward, not backward; which rejects the standard of national selfishness that once governed the counsels of nations and demands that they shall give way to a new order of things in which the only questions will be, ‘Is it right?’ ‘Is it just?’ ‘Is it in the interest of mankind?’
    â€œLadies and gentlemen: we all believe, I hope, the spirits of these men are not buried with their bones. Their spirits live. I hope—I believe—that their spirits are present with us at this hour. I hope that I feel the compulsion of their presence. I hope that I realize the significance of their presence. Think, soldiers, of those comrades of yours who are gone. If they were here, what would they say?
    â€œThey would remember America … they would remember the terrible field of battle. They would remember what … they had come for and how worthwhile it was to give their lives for it.
    â€œâ€˜We command you in the names of those who, like ourselves, have died to bring the counsels of men together, and we remind you what America said she was born for. She was born, she said, to show mankind the way to liberty. She was born to make this great gift a common gift. She was born to show men the way of experience by which they might realize this gift and maintain it.’
    â€œMake yourselves soldiers once for all in this common cause, where we need wear no uniform except the uniform of the heart, clothing ourselves with the principles of right, and saying to men everywhere: ‘You are our brothers and we invite you into the comradeship of liberty and peace.’ Let us go away hearing this unspoken mandate of our dead comrades.
    â€œIf I may speak a personal word, I beg you to realize the compulsion that I myself feel I am under. By the Constitution of our great country, I was the Commander in Chief of these men. I advised the Congress to declare that a state of war existed. I sent these lads over here to die. Shall I—can I—ever speak a word of counsel which is inconsistent with the assurance I gave them when they came over? It is inconceivable. There is something better, if possible, that a man can give than his life, and that is his living spirit to a service that is not easy, to resist counsels that are hard to resist, to stand against purposes that are difficult to stand against, and to say, ‘Here I stand, consecrated in the spirit of the men who were once my comrades, and who are now gone, and who left me under eternal bonds of fidelity.’”
    The First Lady, on crutches because of an infected foot, sat in a car. Near her was her secretary, Edith Benham, and in the crowd were Miss Benham’s two young servicemen assistants, whom she sent to the ceremonies because she wanted them to have something, some ideals, a memory, to take home and make a part of their lives. Listening, she wondered if