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The Washington
Merry-Go-Round
By Drew Pearson
Washington – The other day, this
columnist perpetrated on a long-suffering public some of his view
regarding surcease from war. It took the form of a letter to his
sister, Mrs. Lockwood Fogg, Jr., congratulating her on the birth of a
son. Since then, many people have written to Mrs. Fogg expressing a
gamut of stimulating views which probably represent a cross-section of
the American people on the question of birth and war.
Here are three of the letters – from a
soldier, a mother and a grandfather – expressing the hopes and fears
with which they view the world of tomorrow.
From a Soldier
A soldier at Turner Field, Georgia,
writes:
“I too am a little concerned about
what the future holds. At times the shadows are deep and the picture
gloomy. Fortunately, there is always a bright light, dim sometimes,
but present.
“The boys in the service do a little
thinking too. Presently, when casualty lists mount, they will do a
lot more. When they read and think, somber though is put into
militant words. They boys don’t like strikes in wartime – but they
like the progressive things for which the strikes thrive. They like
the end, they don’t like the means.
“Also they don’t like the way things
go on in some communities – and Miami Beach is just a sample. Most of
the youth of the world is in the military service of their country. I
have always said – and still maintain that the future of the world
will be safe in the hands of youth. Periodically, it seems, the ardor
of youth is curbed by the anguish of war. But always out of it has
come progress and a better world. I still have confidence in youth.
“Congratulations on your fine (xxxxxx).”
A mother in Wisconsin who has given
one son to the war expresses a more somber note:
“Have read and reread the letter your
brother wrote to you. Then I sit and stare into space, as no doubt he
did before writing it. He wondered if this is a good world to bring a
son into. That took me back nineteen years, when we welcomed five
pounds of babyhood into our home. The angels must have smiled on him,
he was so beautiful. And I though it was a beautiful world to bring
him into, for did not his father go overseas for fourteen months to
make the world safe for little boys like ours?
“I used
to watch him kick his feet and wiggle his toes, and I prayed that they
would always walk on the right path, but I either did not pray hard
enough or long enough, for I did not plan that drilling at Camp
Wolters is what a mother calls ‘the right path.’
“While I
was busy watching him grow, I failed to watch the man down the
street. He was busy selling tons and tons of scrap iron to Japan, so
they could kill little babies like mine.
“Today – the house is quiet unless you
can hear the quiet sobbing of a father and mother. The trampling of
feet you hear in Miami are the heavy boots of my son. A letter dated
Christmas Eve reads: “Tonight the barracks are very quiet except the
scratching of pens. When I finish writing, I’m going somewhere so I
can cry unashamed, becacse I’m so homesick.’
“But the man down the street still
does not care. He orders a big steak and then goes to the race
track. When I complain that the only race I’ve ever seen were two
horses plowing up a field, that a hundred dollar bill is something
banks have in the vaults, he tells me not to expect anything else
because there is a war going on.
“My old
pal Uncle Sam seems busy and tired, too. Just like Mr. Hull. So I go
on praying, praying for one more visit with my son before he goes
across. It’s nine long months since I’ve seen him and I pray hard for
just one more visit before he goes to some foreign land to fight a war
that was not of his making, and from which he may never return.
“Tonight I’m sitting very quiet, not
even praying, for my son is gone. I feel “let down’ by the big man
down the street, by Mr. Hull and my Uncle Sam. Eventually I’ll turn
to my God, but then I’ll add to my prayers that mothers like you will
watch dangers to your son other than a cold or measles. Maybe my
letter will depress you. I hope not, for in my heart is nothing but
good for you and your darling son.
“Writing
this is like sitting on a park bench – thinking – thinking. I look
around. The man next to me looks like Mr. Pearson. On the end sits
Mr. Hull. At that age, you nod when you feel tired. Uncle Sam is
there too. He also looks tired. His should (xxxxx) from a heavy load
(xxxxx)
Then we are (xxxxxx) guessed it. Mr.
Big Business just came back from the race track. His car does a lot
of miles on two gallons per week. I could go on and on, but my son’s
face seems to hover before me, and I fold my love around him, for I’ll
always be his mother.
From a Grandfather.
Finally a grandfather and Spanish War
veteran from New Orleans looks down from his vista of age with this
philosophic advice:
“Pardon the temerity of an old man, a
very old man, to address you. It is all the fault of your brother.
He took us into his confidence as he addressed you at the birth of
your son. He counsels you in the words of a benign patriarch – you
the mother of children – a faith, a religion, a never-flagging
devotion. He pens a sorry picture of Miami and of Florida, though it
be no new theme to us. How well I remember those desolate sands in
the days of ‘Remember the (xxxxxx). We have come a long way since
then, thanks to our versatile adaptability.
“Pray do not allow Drew to persuade
you that this is not time to bring forth a son. His mood is shadowed
by his consorting with diplomats. Cordell Hull is indeed finished if
he thinks in the terms of the four old men of Versailles.
“But believe me, us old gray dads with
grandsons in training and in the fighting will stay squarely with you
for bringing in the world another free-born, clear-thinking man son.
“A
respectful, much abash grandfather.”
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