Free Someone to watch over me by Jill Churchill Page B

quickly and went on without a break, chewing while he spoke.
    “Towns took up funds to rent boxcars and send their vets to Washington. Seven hundred or more vets made their way down from Philadelphia. A bunch of Tennessee folks also came in boxcars, along with a goat named Hoover.”
    Edwin chuckled, spewing a few crumbs.
    “So here we all are, sitting it out. We’re planning to stay here until 1945 if we have to. A week and a half ago was the best day of all so far. The House, bless ‘em, voted to pass the Patman bill and pay us the bonus money. But the Senate overruled it. General Waters was called in to be told.
    “Nearly half the BEF showed up to hear what he had to say when he came out of the Senate room. He said we’d had a little setback and we’d all hold out for better news, and someone in the crowd started singing ‘America,’ and everyone else joined in. I tell you, Summers, I damn near cried my eyes out. All those men and women taking it on the chin like that, singing ‘America.’ “
    Edwin paused again briefly to take a big spoonful of coarse oatmeal, and one of the other men got a chance to speak.
    “I don’t call him General Waters. I call him a fascist. His head’s gotten as big as a dirigible. He’s got bodyguards and has set up his own military police force and is talking big about what great fellows Hitler and Mussolini are to rise through the ranks like he has and take control. He said so in the camp newsletter, and he couldn’t even spell Hitler’s name right. He’s turned into a menace to the cause.”
    Edwin had been uttering liquid mews of dismay throughout this speech. “It don’t matter if he can’t spell right. Only someone like you, a teacher, cares about that kind of stuff.”
    A third man said, “I’d rather call Glassford ‘General.’ He’s the Bonus Army Expedition’s treasurer. It’s him who’s collecting the money to feed us, from towns and bigwigs and ordinary people all over the country who send a dollar bill or two to help us out.”
    Jack wasn’t eating. He was furiously scribbling down everything that was being said. vets made their way down from Philadelphia. A bunch of Tennessee folks also came in boxcars, along with a goat named Hoover.”
    Edwin chuckled, spewing a few crumbs.
    “So here we all are, sitting it out. We’re planning to stay here until 1945 if we have to. A week and a half ago was the best day of all so far. The House, bless ‘em, voted to pass the Patman bill and pay us the bonus money. But the Senate overruled it. General Waters was called in to be told.
    “Nearly half the BEF showed up to hear what he had to say when he came out of the Senate room. He said we’d had a little setback and we’d all hold out for better news, and someone in the crowd started singing ‘America,’ and everyone else joined in. I tell you, Summers, I damn near cried my eyes out. All those men and women taking it on the chin like that, singing ‘America.’ “
    Edwin paused again briefly to take a big spoonful of coarse oatmeal, and one of the other men got a chance to speak.
    “I don’t call him General Waters. I call him a fascist. His head’s gotten as big as a dirigible. He’s got bodyguards and has set up his own military police force and is talking big about what great fellows Hitler and Mussolini are to rise through the ranks like he has and take control. He said so in the camp newsletter, and he couldn’t even spell Hitler’s name right. He’s turned into a menace to the cause.”
    Edwin had been uttering liquid mews of dismay throughout this speech. “It don’t matter if he can’t spell right. Only someone like you, a teacher, cares about that kind of stuff.”
    A third man said, “I’d rather call Glassford ‘General.’ He’s the Bonus Army Expedition’s treasurer. It’s him who’s collecting the money to feed us, from towns and bigwigs and ordinary people all over the country who send a dollar bill or two to help us