of flies and mosquitoes, the dreadful food, the diseases that were breaking out around him were about to make him run back home to Voorburg.
But before he could leave, he had to justify having done this. He came here to interview the local men, or at least some of them. He had to hunt through what seemed to be half of humanity to find the locals, but he finally managed to run down the one who had been a teacher and asked if he had time to talk.
“As if I had a job to go to,“ the man said bitterly. “What do you want to talk about? This?“ he gestured at the Hooverville of handmade tarpaper shacks, boxes, crates, and tents made out of old newspapers and strips of canvas stuck together with paste. “Is this any way for people to live? Some men have been here since March or April. And many have nothing better to go home to. They have no homes anymore.”
Jack felt someone owed this man an apology, but it wasn’t his job or his fault.
“You know the history of this movement, I assume,“ the man said. “By the way, my name’s George Newman. I didn’t catch yours.”
Jack introduced himself and they shook hands.
George led the way to the mess tent, empty now of all but the staff, who were cleaning up, and what seemed like millions of flies and an equal number of mosquitoes.
George sat down, swatting randomly, and said, “Edwin McBride, the guy who was shooting off his mouth when you arrived, is a good man, but he’s let the wool be pulled over his eyes. He’s only recently out of work, and it hasn’t gotten through to him that he’s not going to get a job when he returns home any more than the rest of us will. He’s gone from being a professional man to a porter working for tips that most people can’t afford to give him. I’ll grant, it was a touching moment when everyone sang ‘America’ together. But it didn’t make any difference to Hoover and his toadies in the Senate. And it never will.
“You know, don’t you, that Hoover’s given orders, now that we’ve been offered the cost of part of our fare to go home, that we’re going to be run out of Washington?“
“Do you really think so?“
“I know it. And the hundred thousand dollars he granted to get people home. Do you know where our esteemed President got that money?”
Jack couldn’t bring himself to admit he didn’t even know about the hundred-thousand-dollar bribe.
“He took it out of the bonus-money fund. Which has already been raided by this administration before. It’ll come out of the amount that every single vet eventually gets in 1945—if there’s anything left—whether the vet was here or not.”
Jack was almost too stunned by this to write it down. He knew he wouldn’t forget it, though.
“What else can he do?“ George went on. “All this stupid talk of staying until 1945 is nonsense. You must have seen how many are already leaving as you got here. They were afraid of what would happen to them if they stayed.“
“And you’re not?“ Jack asked.
“What the hell,“ George said. “My wife’s given me up as a loss already. She’s moved to Vermont and taken the children to her mother’s. I can’t get a job. My house is gone. I even had to sell my books to buy food to eat on the way here. What have I got to lose? I only wish ...“
“Wish what?“
“... that some of the rest of us who served together could have been here. We lost three good men in Voorburg after the Great War who might have knocked some sense into someone.“
“Who were they? What happened to them?”
George quit scowling and swatting flies and said, “One of them—my best friend, in fact—was Butch O’Dwyer. He was really big and tough. One of the smartest men I ever knew, almost had his law degree when he joined up for the army. But he lost his right arm at Verdun and came home and drank himself to death. Just keeled over one night at Mabel’s and was dead before he hit the floor. It was the second anniversary of the
But before he could leave, he had to justify having done this. He came here to interview the local men, or at least some of them. He had to hunt through what seemed to be half of humanity to find the locals, but he finally managed to run down the one who had been a teacher and asked if he had time to talk.
“As if I had a job to go to,“ the man said bitterly. “What do you want to talk about? This?“ he gestured at the Hooverville of handmade tarpaper shacks, boxes, crates, and tents made out of old newspapers and strips of canvas stuck together with paste. “Is this any way for people to live? Some men have been here since March or April. And many have nothing better to go home to. They have no homes anymore.”
Jack felt someone owed this man an apology, but it wasn’t his job or his fault.
“You know the history of this movement, I assume,“ the man said. “By the way, my name’s George Newman. I didn’t catch yours.”
Jack introduced himself and they shook hands.
George led the way to the mess tent, empty now of all but the staff, who were cleaning up, and what seemed like millions of flies and an equal number of mosquitoes.
George sat down, swatting randomly, and said, “Edwin McBride, the guy who was shooting off his mouth when you arrived, is a good man, but he’s let the wool be pulled over his eyes. He’s only recently out of work, and it hasn’t gotten through to him that he’s not going to get a job when he returns home any more than the rest of us will. He’s gone from being a professional man to a porter working for tips that most people can’t afford to give him. I’ll grant, it was a touching moment when everyone sang ‘America’ together. But it didn’t make any difference to Hoover and his toadies in the Senate. And it never will.
“You know, don’t you, that Hoover’s given orders, now that we’ve been offered the cost of part of our fare to go home, that we’re going to be run out of Washington?“
“Do you really think so?“
“I know it. And the hundred thousand dollars he granted to get people home. Do you know where our esteemed President got that money?”
Jack couldn’t bring himself to admit he didn’t even know about the hundred-thousand-dollar bribe.
“He took it out of the bonus-money fund. Which has already been raided by this administration before. It’ll come out of the amount that every single vet eventually gets in 1945—if there’s anything left—whether the vet was here or not.”
Jack was almost too stunned by this to write it down. He knew he wouldn’t forget it, though.
“What else can he do?“ George went on. “All this stupid talk of staying until 1945 is nonsense. You must have seen how many are already leaving as you got here. They were afraid of what would happen to them if they stayed.“
“And you’re not?“ Jack asked.
“What the hell,“ George said. “My wife’s given me up as a loss already. She’s moved to Vermont and taken the children to her mother’s. I can’t get a job. My house is gone. I even had to sell my books to buy food to eat on the way here. What have I got to lose? I only wish ...“
“Wish what?“
“... that some of the rest of us who served together could have been here. We lost three good men in Voorburg after the Great War who might have knocked some sense into someone.“
“Who were they? What happened to them?”
George quit scowling and swatting flies and said, “One of them—my best friend, in fact—was Butch O’Dwyer. He was really big and tough. One of the smartest men I ever knew, almost had his law degree when he joined up for the army. But he lost his right arm at Verdun and came home and drank himself to death. Just keeled over one night at Mabel’s and was dead before he hit the floor. It was the second anniversary of the
Similar Books
