America 1929: John F. Kennedy, the Great Writer

Chapter 164 I Want to Record This Era

"Chairman Harrison. Congratulations. Indiana farmers should thank you."

After the meeting, Arthur approached Russell Harrison again to congratulate the chairman.

"Thank me? You handled everything for this scene today, from the script to the direction to the lead actor. I just sat on stage and banged the gavel a few times."

Russell took a deep drag on his cigar and exhaled a thick cloud of smoke.

"To be honest, in my thirty years in politics, this is the first time I've seen someone turn a state legislature's majority leader from an enemy into a pawn in just twelve hours."

Arthur corrected Russell: "Coldwell isn't a pawn. He's a dog that's been properly trained. As long as we keep that leash, he'll obediently bite whoever we tell him to bite."

Russell glanced at Arthur, a complex look flashing in his eyes.

"What are you planning to do next? Continue westward?" Russell changed the subject.

"Yes. Missouri, Kansas, Oklahoma." Arthur looked out the window, his gaze piercing through the glass, as if he could already see that vaster, more desperate land.

"The sandstorms there are far more brutal than those here. I need to see it for myself."

Russell was silent for a moment, then said, "Before you leave, I'd like to ask you to go somewhere."

Arthur turned his head, somewhat surprised.

"I have a ranch forty miles north of Indianapolis," Russell said.

"The Harrison family has lived on this land for three generations. My father grew up on that plantation before he became president."

Russell exhaled a puff of smoke, his tone carrying a rare hint of emotion.

"Tonight, I'm hosting a small, private dinner there. It's not an official occasion, just a get-together with a few old friends. There's one person among them that I think you should meet."

"Who is it?"

"An old soldier. To be precise, an old friend of mine, retired Brigadier General William Grant. He commanded the 32nd Infantry Division during World War I and participated in the Meuse-Argonne Offensive."

Arthur was unfamiliar with the name, but he knew about the Merz-Argonne Offensive.

During this time, he crammed on American history.

That was the largest campaign launched by the American Expeditionary Force in Europe in 1918, and one of the bloodiest meat grinders of World War I.

After a full forty-seven days of fighting, 26,000 American soldiers were left forever in the mud of France.

"General Grant has been living in Indiana since his retirement. For the past few years, he's been advocating for veterans' rights. Do you know about that adjustment compensation?"

Arthur nodded.

In 1924, Congress passed the World War Adjustment Compensation Act, promising every veteran a compensation payment calculated based on their length of service.

The problem was that the payment date was postponed until 1945.

For veterans who lost their jobs, homes, or even everything during the Great Depression, a check fifteen years later means nothing.

"Grant has been lobbying Congress for the past few years to get that compensation paid in advance."

Russell lowered his voice.

"He told me that veterans across the country are organizing. If Washington continues to turn a deaf ear, something big will happen soon."

Arthur suddenly became interested.

Another storyline.

Farmers, miners, unemployed auto workers—these are part of the grand tapestry of the Great Depression.

But there is another part, equally important, and even more painful to America’s conscience.

Those soldiers who once fought for the Stars and Stripes on the battlefield but were forgotten by their own country in peacetime are also part of this group.

"I would love to meet General Grant," Arthur said.

6:45 PM.

A black Lincoln sedan was parked in front of the small hotel where Arthur was staying.

The driver was a taciturn middle-aged man. He opened the back door for Arthur and drove silently toward the northern suburbs of the city.

Forty minutes later, the car drove onto a private driveway lined with oak trees.

At the end of the driveway stood a three-story red brick mansion in the Victorian style, brightly lit in the night.

This is the Harrison family's estate.

Arthur got out of the car, where the butler was already waiting at the door.

He was led through a Persian-carpeted foyer into a warm, oak-paneled living room.

There were already five or six people in the living room.

Russell Harrison stood by the fireplace, a glass of brandy in his hand, talking quietly with several middle-aged men in well-tailored suits.

Judging from their demeanor, they are likely allies of Russell in the Indiana legislature, those who stood on the right side at today's hearing.

Russell waved to Arthur as he entered.

"Arthur, come here. Let me introduce you."

Russell led Arthur to the other side of the living room. In the corner, a burly old man sat alone in a leather armchair.

He was in his early sixties, with neatly cut short gray hair and a ramrod straight back. Even when sitting, he exuded the distinctive posture of a soldier.

A black wooden cane was placed to his right.

As Arthur approached, he noticed that the old man's right trouser leg was empty, cut off below the knee.

"William, this is the young man I told you about. Arthur Kennedy. A reporter for the New York Herald and an investigator for the House Select Subcommittee."

The old man raised his head and looked Arthur up and down with his deep-set gray eyes.

His gaze was sharp and deep, as if he were scrutinizing a new recruit on the battlefield.

"Kennedy. I heard about today's hearing from Russell. You turned the tide of the entire political situation in Indiana in twelve hours. That kind of tactical execution is at least the makings of a regimental commander on the battlefield."

Arthur bowed slightly: "General Grant, I've heard so much about you. Your charisma is just as legendary."

Grant gestured with his cane to the chair opposite him: "Sit down. Don't give me that East Coast formality. What I hate most in this world is people who beat around the bush."

Arthur sat down opposite him.

Russell tactfully walked away and returned to the fireplace to continue entertaining other guests, leaving the two of them alone.

Grant picked up the whiskey glass from the small table next to him and took a sip.

Then he turned to Arthur and asked, "I've read *Sixteen Tons*. It's well-written. But I'd like to know, why did you write about those miners, those farmers, those unemployed auto workers? Was it to sell books and become famous, or for something else?"

Arthur looked him straight in the eye.

"I want to document this era."