1919 (23 page)

Joe got to talking with two guys from Chicago who were drinking whiskey and beer chasers. They said this wartalk was a lot of bushwa propaganda and that if working stiffs stopped working in munition factories making shells to knock other working stiffs' blocks off with, there wouldn't be no goddam war. Joe said they were goddam right but look at the big money you made. The guys from Chicago said they'd been working in a munitions factory themselves but they were through, goddam it, and that if the working stiffs made a few easy dollars it meant that the war profiteers were making easy millions. They said the Russians had the right idea, make a revolution and shoot the goddam profiteers and that ud happen in this country if they didn't watch out and a damn good thing too. The barkeep leaned across the bar and said they'd oughtn't to talk thataway, folks ud take 'em for German spies.

“Why, you're a German yourself, George,” said one of the guys.

The barkeep flushed and said, “Names don't mean nothin'. . . I'm a patriotic American. I vas talking yust for your good. If you vant to land in de hoosgow it's not my funeral.” But he set them up to drinks on the house and it seemed to Joe that he agreed with 'em.

They drank another round and Joe said it was all true but what the hell could you do about it? The guys said what you could do about it was join the I.W.W. and carry a red card and be a classconscious worker. Joe said that stuff was only for foreigners, but if somebody started a white man's party to fight the profiteers and the goddam bankers he'd be with 'em. The guys from Chicago began to get sore and said the wobblies were just as much white men as he was and that political parties were the bunk and that all southerners were scabs. Joe backed off and was looking at the guys to see which one of 'em he'd hit first when the barkeep stepped around from the end of the bar and came between them. He was fat but he had shoulders and a meanlooking pair of blue eyes.

“Look here, you bums,” he said, “you listen to me, sure I'm a Cherman but am I for de Kaiser? No, he's a schweinhunt, I am sokialist unt I live toity years in Union City unt own my home unt pay taxes unt I'm a good American, but dot don't mean dot I vill foight for Banker Morgan, not vonce. I know American vorkman in de sokialist party toity years unt all dey do is foight among each oder. Every sonofabitch denk him better den de next sonofabitch. You loafers geroutahere . . . closin' time . . . I'm goin' to close up an' go home.”

One of the guys from Chicago started to laugh, “Well, I guess the drinks are on us, Oscar . . . it'll be different after the revolution.”

Joe still wanted to fight but he paid for a round with his last greenback and the barkeep who was still red in the face from his speech, lifted a glass of beer to his mouth. He blew the foam off it and said, “If I talk like dot I lose my yob.”

They shook hands all around and Joe went out into the gusty northeast rain. He felt lit but he didn't feel good. He went up to Union Square again. The recruiting speeches were over. The model battleship was dark. A couple of ragged looking youngsters were huddled in the lee of the recruiting tent. Joe felt lousy. He went down into the subway and waited for the Brooklyn train.

At Mrs. Olsen's everything was dark. Joe rang and in a little while she came down in a padded pink dressing gown and opened the door. She was sore at being waked up and bawled him out for drinking, but she gave him a flop and next morning lent him fifteen bucks to tide him over till he got work on a Shipping Board boat. Mrs. Olsen looked tired and a lot older, she said she had pains in her back and couldn't get through her work any more.

Next morning Joe put up some shelves in the pantry for her and carried out a lot of litter before he went over to the Shipping Board recruiting office to put his name down for the officer's school. The little kike behind the desk had never been to sea and asked him a lot of damnfool questions and told him to come around next week to find out what action would be taken on his application. Joe got sore and told him to f—k himself and walked out.

He took Janey out to supper and to a show, but she talked just like everybody else did and bawled him out for cussing and he didn't have a very good time. She liked the shawls though and he was glad she was making out so well in New York. He never did get around to talking to her about Della.

After taking her home he didn't know what the hell to do with himself. He wanted a drink, but taking Janey out and everything had cleaned up the fifteen bucks he'd borrowed from Mrs. Olsen. He walked west to a saloon he knew on Tenth Avenue, but the place was closed: wartime prohibition. Then he walked back towards Union Square, maybe that feller Tex he'd seen when he was walking across the square with Janey would still be sitting there and he could chew the rag a while with him. He sat down on a bench opposite the cardboard battleship and began sizing it up: not such a bad job. Hell, I wisht I'd never seen the inside of a real battleship, he was thinking, when Tex slipped into the seat beside him and put his hand on his knee. The minute he touched him Joe knew he'd never liked the guy, eyes too close together: “What you lookin' so blue about, Joe? Tell me you're getting' your ticket.”

Joe nodded and leaned over and spat carefully between his feet.

“What do you think of that for a model battleship, pretty nifty, ain't it? Jez, us guys is lucky not to be overseas fightin' the fritzes in the trenches.”

“Oh, I'd just as soon,” growled Joe. “I wouldn't give a damn.”

“Say, Joe, I got a job lined up. Guess I oughtn't to blab around about it, but you're regular. I know you won't say nothin'. I been on the bum for two weeks, somethin' wrong with my stomach. Man, I'm sick, I'm tellin' you. I can't do no heavy work no more. A punk I know works in a whitefront been slippin' me my grub, see. Well, I was sittin' on a bench right here on the square, a feller kinda well dressed sits down an' starts to chum up. Looked to me like one of these here sissies lookin' for rough trade, see, thought I'd roll him for some jack, what the hell, what can you do if you're sick an' can't work?”

Joe sat leaning back with his legs stuck out, his hands in his pockets staring hard at the outline of the battleship against the buildings. Tex was talking fast, poking his face into Joe's: “Turns out the sonofabitch was a dick. S——t I was scared pissless. A secret service agent. Burns is his big boss . . . but what he's lookin' for's reds, slackers, German spies, guys that can't keep their traps shut . . . an' he turns around and hands me out a job, twentyfive smackers a week if little Willy makes good. All I got to do's bum around and listen to guys talk, see? If I hears anything that ain't 100 per cent I slips the word to the boss and he investigates. Twentyfive a week and servin' my country besides, and if I gets in any kind of jam, Burns gets me out. . . . What do you think of that for the gravy, Joe?”

Joe got to his feet. “Guess I'll go back to Brooklyn.” “Stick around . . . look here, you've always treated me white . . . you belong, I know that Joe . . . I'll put you next to this guy if you want. He's a good scout, educated feller an' all that and he knows where you can get plenty liquor an' women if you want 'em.” “Hell, I'm goin” to sea and get out of all this's—t,” said Joe, turning his back and walking towards the subway station.

his voice was three thousand miles away      all the time he kept wanting to get up outa bed      his cheeks were bright pink and the choky breathing      No kid you better lay there quiet we dont want you catching more cold that's why they sent me down to stay with you to keep you from getting up outa bed

the barrelvaulted room all smells fever and whitewash carbolic sick wops outside the airraid siren's got a nightmare

(Mestre's a railhead and its moonlight over the Brenta and the basehospital and the ammunition dump

carbolic blue moonlight)

all the time he kept trying to get up outa bed      Kiddo you better lay there quiet      his voice was in Minnesota but dontjaunerstandafellersgottogetup      I      got      a      date      animportantengagementtoseeabout those lots ought nevertohavestayedinbedsolate I'll lose my deposit      For chrissake dont you think I'm broke enough as it is?

Kiddo you gotto lay there quiet      we're in the hospital in Mestre you got a little fever makes things seem funny

Cant      you      letafellerbe?      You're      in      cahoots      withem      thaswhassematteris      I      know      theyreouttorookme      they      think      Imagoddamsucker      tomadethatdeposit      I'll      showem      Illknockyergoddamblockoff

my shadow on the vault bulkyclumsily staggering and swaying from the one candle spluttering red in the raw winterhospital carbolic night above the shadow on the cot gotto keep his shoulders down to the cot Curley's husky inspite of

(you can hear their motors now the antiaircraft batteries are letting loose must be great up there in the moonlight out of the smell of carbolic and latrines and sick wops)

sit back and light a macedonia by the candle he seems to be asleep his breathing's so tough pneumonia breathing      can hear myself breathe      and the water tick in the faucet      doctors and orderlies all down in the bombproof cant even hear a sick wop groan

Jesus is the guy dying?

they've cut off their motors      the little drums in my ears sure that's why they call em drums (up there in the blue moonlight the Austrian observer's reaching for the string that dumps the applecart) the candleflame stands up still

not that time but wham in the side of the head woke Curley and the glass tinkling in the upstairs windows the candle staggered but didnt go out the vault sways with my shadow and Curley's shadow dammit he's strong head's full of the fever reek Kiddo you gotto stay in bed (they dumped the applecart allright) shellfragments hailing around outside Kiddo you gotto get back to bed

But I gotadate oh christohsweetjesus cant you tell me how to get back to the outfit haveaheart dad I didntmeannoharm itsonlyaboutthose lots

the voice dwindles into a whine I'm pulling the covers up to his chin again light the candle again smoke a macedonia again look at my watch again must be near day ten o'clock they dont relieve me till eight

way off a voice goes up and up and swoops like the airraid siren ayayoooTO

General Pershing's forces today occupied Belle Joyeuse Farm and the southern edges of the Bois des Loges. The Americans encountered but little machinegun opposition. The advance was in the nature of a linestraightening operation. Otherwise the activity along the front today consisted principally of artillery firing and bombing. Patrols are operating around Belluno having preceded the flood of allies pouring through the Quero pass in the Grappa region

 

REBEL SAILORS DEFY ALLIES

 

Bonjour ma cherie

  
Comment allez vous?

Bonjour ma cherie

  
how do you do?

 

after a long conference with a secretary of war and the secretary of state President Wilson returned to the White House this afternoon apparently highly pleased that events are steadily pursuing the course which he had felt they would take

 

Avez vous fiancé? cela ne fait rien

Voulez vous couchez avec moi ce soir?

Wee, wee, combien?

 

HELP THE FOOD ADMINISTRATION BY REPORTING
WAR PROFITEERS

 

Lord Robert, who is foreign minister Balfour's right hand man added, “When victory comes the responsibility for America and Great Britain will rest not on statesmen but on the people.” The display of the red flag in our thoroughfares seems to be emblematic of unbridled license and an insignia for lawhating and anarchy, like the black flag it represents everything that is repulsive

 

LENINE FLEES TO ENGLAND

 

here I am snug as a bug in a rug on this third day of October. It was Sunday I went over and got hit in the left leg with a machinegun bullet above the knee. I am in a base hospital and very comfortable. I am writing with my left hand as my right one is under my head

 

STOCK MARKET STRONG BUT NARROW

 

Some day I'm going to murder the bugler

  
Some day they're going to find him dead

   
I'll dislocate his reveille

   
And step upon it heavily

      
And spend

       
the rest of my life in bed

Hibben, Paxton, journalist, Indianapolis, Ind., Dec. 5, 1880, s. Thomas Entrekin and Jeannie Merrill (Ketcham) H.; A.B. Princeton 1903, A.M. Harvard 1904

Thinking men were worried in the middle west in the years Hibben was growing up there, something was wrong with the American Republic, was it the Gold Standard, Privilege, The Interests, Wall Street?

The rich were getting richer, the poor were getting poorer, small farmers were being squeezed out, workingmen were working twelve hours a day for a bare living; profits were for the rich, the law was for the rich, the cops were for the rich;

was it for that the pilgrims had bent their heads into the storm, filled the fleeing Indians with slugs out of their blunderbusses

and worked the stony farms of New England;