America 1929: John F. Kennedy, the Great Writer

Chapter 165 Retired Soldiers

"Records?" Grant sneered.

"What's the use of keeping records? Your article is published in the newspaper, and those Wall Street tycoons will glance at the headline at their breakfast tables and then continue eating their fried eggs and bacon."

"Do you think a few articles can change anything?"

Arthur didn't care and explained earnestly, "I don't know if I can change it. But I do know that if no one records it, those who die in the mines, those who are driven from their homes by bulldozers, those who line up at the relief stations, will be completely forgotten. It will be as if they never existed."

Grant remained silent.

He looked down at his empty trouser leg.

"October 1918. The thirty-seventh day of the Meuse-Argonne Offensive. My regiment launched an assault on the Montfort Heights. The German Maxim machine guns riddled our formation with bullets."

He paused for a moment, his fingers gripping the wine glass tightly.

"I saw it with my own eyes. A young man, only twenty-two years old, from Indianapolis, whose father was a shoemaker. His head was smashed by a bullet, and his brains splattered on my boots."

"That night, a German shell landed next to my command post. When I woke up, I was already in a field hospital. I had lost my right leg."

He looked up at Arthur.

"I was lucky. I survived and even received a medal. But what about my lads who died?"

What about their families? What has the government given them?

Arthur didn't speak, he just listened quietly.

"After the war, Congress passed that damned Adjustment Compensation Act," Grant's voice became agitated.

"They promised every soldier who went into battle a compensation payment. Do you know how much? One dollar a day of service, and one dollar and twenty-five cents a day for overseas service. Sounds like a lot, right? But the problem is, this money wouldn't be paid out until 1945!"

Grant slammed his fist on the armrest.

"1945! Those young men who lost arms and legs in the trenches, those young men blinded by mustard gas, they need money now! Now! Not fifteen years from now!"

He took a few breaths, trying to calm himself down.

"After the Great Depression began, everything got worse. Those veterans, who had finally found jobs, started families, and were living normal lives, then the stock market crashed, factories closed, and banks foreclosed on their homes."

"They, like the farmers and the miners, became homeless overnight."

Grant looked at Arthur, a complex fire burning in his eyes.

There was anger, there was sorrow, and there was a glimmer of hope.

"Do you know, Kennedy? In Chicago, in Detroit, in Cleveland, in big cities across the country, there are hundreds of thousands of veterans sleeping on park benches and under bridges."

"They shed their blood for this country, but now this country treats them like trash, leaving them on the streets."

Arthur asked, "What are they planning to do?"

Grant remained silent for a moment.

"They're getting ready to go to Washington," he finally said.

"Veterans across the country are rallying together. They are preparing to organize a team to gather in Washington from all directions and petition in front of the Capitol, demanding early payment of their compensation."

Grant's voice lowered.

"They called themselves the Compensation Expeditionary Force."

The outline of a chapter was beginning to take shape in Arthur's mind.

This is a more complex and sensitive story than simply farmers losing their land.

Veterans petitioning the government is a legitimate civil right.

But if the petition fails, if the government chooses to use violence to disperse these people who once fought for the country—

That would be the darkest chapter in American history.

"General, could you give me a list? A list of the veteran leaders who are organizing this operation. I'd like to interview them."

Grant stared at him for a long time.

"Do you know what this means? Once you start writing these things, you'll become a thorn in the side of the Hoover administration."

The Hoover administration would not stand idly by while an influential journalist speaks for those "troublemakers."

"I'm already a thorn in Wall Street's side. One more Hoover won't make much difference."

Grant stared at him, then suddenly laughed.

"You young man, you have more courage than any general I have ever met."

He took out a small notebook from his inner jacket pocket, tore off a page, and quickly wrote down a few names and addresses with a pencil.

"These are some of my old comrades from Chicago, Cleveland, and Detroit. They were all key organizers of this operation. Go find them and say you were introduced by William Grant."

Arthur took the paper, folded it carefully, and put it into his inner bag.

"Thank you, General."

"Don't thank me." Grant stood up, leaning on his cane, one leg firmly supporting his burly body.

"If you really want to thank me, write down these veterans' stories. Let the American people know what kind of lives those who took bullets for them on the battlefield are living now."

He turned around and walked with a limp towards the fireplace.

The fire crackled in the fireplace, illuminating the oil paintings and hunting rifles adorning the walls. His silhouette, bathed in the firelight, appeared both lonely and resolute.

Grant's voice came from behind.

"Let them know that the United States owes those veterans justice."

Arthur stood there, watching the staggering figure stagger away.

This estate is filled with the glory and memories of three generations of the Harrison family.

But on this cold winter night, all Arthur heard was the hoarse accusation of an old soldier.

The dinner party lasted until late at night. Arthur declined Russell's invitation to stay the night and returned to his hotel in the city in the black Lincoln.

Back in his room, he didn't go to sleep immediately. Instead, he sat down at the table, lit a cigarette, and began to organize his day's findings.

Caldwell's defection, the victory at the hearing, and General Grant's list.

These are all extremely important materials.

Next, he will continue westward.

Follow Highway 66 to witness how farmers, swallowed by the Great Depression, struggled to survive.

Then, at the appropriate time, return to Washington to document the upcoming Compensation Expedition.

He wrote a line in his notebook: The Grapes of Wrath—Volume One: Mines and Wheat Fields.

Outside the window, the streetlights of Indianapolis flickered in the cold wind.

In the distance came the sound of a train whistle, a freight train heading west, carrying machinery and goods from factories in the east, and also the last hope of countless bankrupt farmers.