E.
Weedsburg, May 30.
Dear Grandfather:
Just a line, Grandfather, to tell you the news. Mother received a letter yesterday from Congressman Shultz saying that I was to come to Washington at once, as he thought he could arrange for me to get a commission. He did not say what brand of the service it was in, but he did say I would be located in Washington and not sent to France, so I suppose it has something to do with the secret service or something.
Mother is almost heartbroken over the thought of losing me, but I tell her everybody must be brave in times like this and smile, no matter what happens. Besides, as soon as she can find trustworthy people to whom to rent the house, she is going to follow me to Washington and keep house for me.
I know you will be pleased to hear that I am about to enter the service, and that no one can say the grandson of a Civil War veteran and the son of a Spanish War hero failed to do his bit when his country needed him.
Mother and I were at the cemetery today and I thought of you when we saw the G.A.R. graves being decorated.
There is no time to write more now, as I must do a lot of packing, but Mother has made me promise I will write you once a week after I get there, though I would have made it a point to do so without her asking me, knowing as I do that you must be deeply interested in everything that is going on.
Washington, DC, June 2.
Dear Grandfather:
Well, Grandfather, here I am in the Capital, and it seems like a different world. Washington is not at all like it was when Mother and I were here in 1915. Then it was just a beautiful, staid old city, but now everything is bustle and hurry, and it gives me a thrill to think that soon I will be bustling and hurrying with the rest of them and doing my share, for everyone must do it here, as there is no room for a slacker.
I arrived this afternoon and am at the Shoreham, where I shall probably stay until Mother comes and finds a house or an apartment. I called on Congressman Shultz as soon I arrived, but he was busy and said I was to come again tomorrow morning.
The trip was hot and dusty, but I made up my mind I would not complain because a man must get used to things and take them as they come, and I would feel pretty mean if I “kicked” at discomforts.
For some reason our sleeper was taken off at noon and we had to complete the journey in another Pullman that was already pretty well filled, but I found a seat in the smoking-compartment, though I did not have it to myself, but shared it with an elderly man about thirty-six or thirty-seven. He smoked continually and nearly choked me to death, but I was so excited about getting here and “in it” that I hardly noticed his “poison gas.” I made some remark about the train being late, and I am glad I started a conversation with him, as it turned out to be rather amusing. One of the first things he said was:
“As a rule, when traveling, I shun intercourse with strangers. But how can a man be reserved when even the seats find it impossible?”
Then he asked me if I had ever been in Washington before, and I said yes, in 1915. Then he said:
“Well, young man, if you haven’t been there for three years, you will find some changes. I suppose the male population then was about two hundred thousand. Now there are two hundred thousand men and three hundred thousand officers.”
Of course I knew he was trying to jolly me, but I didn’t mind, so I asked him what kind of officers, and he said N.C.O.’s. So I pretended I believed him and said:
“You don’t mean to tell me there are actually three hundred thousand corporals and sergeants in Washington.”
“No,” he said. “But I do mean to tell you there are about three hundred thousand N.C.O.’s, and by that I mean noncombatant officers. I don’t know whether my figure is accurate or not, but I’ll make you a little bet there are more officers than men, and I’ll leave it to any bellhop you care to name.”
Well, I laughed and said I didn’t know any “bellhops” by name, so I was afraid his offer would have to go unchallenged. Then he asked me what I was going to do, and I told him I expected a commission, but I didn’t know just yet in what branch of the service it would be. He seemed very much interested in me and asked me all sorts of questions, so finally I thought it was time to return the compliment, and I began cross-examining him. He didn’t seem to mind at all and told me his name was Tracy and that he was a newspaper correspondent from Cincinnati, and he said he would like to call and see me after I had got my commission and have an interview with me for his paper. Well, I told him he might, for I suppose a man in the service must receive reporters and all kinds of people. Besides, as I said, he is rather amusing. So he asked me where I expected to stop, and I said at the Shoreham, and he said I would be right at home, because that was where most of the young N.C.O.’s were garrisoned.
“Of course,” he said, “you must expect a great many inconveniences. They have no rattraps in the rooms, and they don’t dress or
