ON THE GRASSY FLATS OF ANACOSTIA, across the river from the Navy Yard and the Marine Corps barracks, Lt. Edwards walked down a line of junior police officers while instructing them on the use of riot gear. “Never fire over the heads of rioters. Aim low with full-charge ammunition. Most rifles are sighted too high for the average riot distance and are likely to wound innocent persons.”
The men in the ranks stole distracted glances toward the bluffs behind the lieutenant, where Chief Glassford, accompanied by two men, stood listening.
Edwards remained unaware that his commander was watching. “Negotiating with a mob is a sign of weakness. By their inferior nature, rioters and troublemakers are peculiarly prone to dejection or elation. They will sneak into their hiding places or swarm into the streets at the smallest instigation.”
Glassford had heard enough. He walked down the path to the drill ground with Harry Shipley, the homeless veteran arrested for panhandling, and a third man dressed in U.S. Army fatigues.
Lt. Edwards, not seeing their approach, continued his lecture. “If you start to execute a duty, finish it. Retreating will only—”
“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Glassford said. “That will be enough.”
Edwards flushed, incensed at being secretly observed. “I was just instructing the men on riot procedure. With these vagabonds pouring in—”
“I’ll let you know when and what instruction will be given. And it won’t be prisoner-of-war tactics.”
Edwards chafed at the putdown. “These are standard procedures.”
“Procedures responsible for the massacre at Dearborn.”
Grumbling a curse under his breath, Edwards traded insubordinate glances with several cronies in the ranks.
Glassford pulled the officer aside. “I know you’re raw over being passed over for my job, Edwards. But if you can’t follow my way of doing things, I suggest you look for other employment.” He motioned Shipley up to his side. “See to it that this man gets a uniform.”
Edwards set his jaw. “You’re giving jobs to these hobos now?”
Glassford took a billy club from one of his cops. “This is used to direct traffic, not to beat heads. Understand?”
The cop glanced at Edwards, then said frostily, “Yes, sir.”
Glassford brought forward his companion in the Army uniform. “This is Captain John Hucks from Fort Myer. He will be instructing you in the martial art of jiu-jitsu.”
Edwards and several cops held looks of disbelief.
“You will learn to bend to force,” Glassford said. “Not give it.”
One of the officers in the line, a brawny man named Shinault, smirked and muttered to the cop next to him, “We’ll see how Chief Watercolor bends when he takes a punch in the gut.”
Hearing the remark, Glassford wheeled on Shinault. “Front and center!”
Shinault stepped up slowly, spoiling for a fight.
“I take it you don’t particularly care for my approach.”
“There’s nothing wrong with the old way.”
Glassford removed his hat. “Give me your best shot. That’s an order.”
Shinault held back, but his defiant eyes betrayed his eagerness to teach this appeaser a lesson. Edwards and the other men nodded him on. When Glassford motioned him forward, Shinault raised his fists and stalked the police chief. Infuriated by Glassford’s dancing footwork, the officer took a wild swing at his chin, but Glassford easily deflected the blow. Confused by the defensive tactic, Shinault swung again. Glassford intercepted the punch and took the officer down to his knees from the force of his own momentum. With his arm locked behind his back, Shinault could only look up at Edwards and beg for help.
Glassford released the pinned cop and shouted an order to the ranks. “Every man who is a veteran, step forward.”
A third of the men—including Edwards and Shinault—came up.
Glassford took a large rolled map of the United States from Shipley and hung it on a notice board. He pulled a stack of note cards from his pocket and began tacking them over many of the states, until he had nearly half the country covered. “The veterans from Oregon will arrive in the city tomorrow. More are following them. Eight hundred left Chicago two days ago. Two hundred more from Utah. Another two hundred from Tennessee. Four hundred from New Jersey. And these are just the ones we know about.”
“How many you figure in total, Chief?” asked one of the younger cops.
“Truthfully, I don’t know. But those of you who served in the military, and you only, will keep watch over these veterans when they get here. No other officers will have contact with these groups. And no live ammunition will be carried. Is that understood?”
The chosen officers nodded, though some could not hide their skepticism.
“Now, we’ve got some Communists in town trying to stir up trouble,” Glassford said. “These instigators will likely try to mix in with the veterans and create havoc. You may not like Communists, and that’s your prerogative. But I don’t read anything in the Constitution that says they don’t have the same rights to assemble and express their views like everyone else.” He reached into Shipley’s knapsack and pulled out the two books that Anna Raber had given him. “Every officer in this force will read Lincoln Steffens and Upton Sinclair. You’ll be required to prove it on a written test.”
Shinault and Edwards were forced to swallow their bile in silence.
Captain Sid Marks, Glassford’s most loyal officer, drove Blue Bessie down the bluffs to the parade ground and offered the motorcycle to him. “Chief, he’s here. I got him waiting for you in the Kaufman Building down on Eighth Street, just like you said.”
“Do I need to go in there armed?”
Marks shook his head. “He looks pretty harmless.”
Glassford signaled for Captain Hucks to continue with the new training.
“One more thing.” Marks angled his shoulder to prevent the ranks from hearing him. “The Worker’s Ex-Servicemen League is back in our hair again.”
“I thought we got rid of them two months ago?”
“The Detroit police cabled us this morning. A Communist rabble-rouser named John Pace left Michigan yesterday. He’s heading our way.”
“What’s his background?”
“Ex-Marine, and tough as coal. He turned Red after he lost his contracting job. Word is he’s bringing in some firebrands with him. The Detroit department says he’s been blowing off steam about infiltrating the veterans and storming the White House.”
Glassford nodded and sighed as he mounted the motorcycle. Why, he wondered, did trouble in this job always seem to come at him in battalions?
WATERS PACED THE PEELING LINOLEUM floor of the abandoned apartment store near the old Navy Yard. The cop who had picked him up in Cumberland that morning had ordered him to wait here, but that had been five hours ago. As the afternoon shadows grew longer, he began to suspect that he’d been conned. Was this Dearborn all over again? Had these Washington stripes ordered him here alone to deliver a message with their batons? He stole a nervous look through a wall crack toward the Potomac and the cranes that hovered over the ship docks. He’d been driven into the city through the back door, the Negro neighborhoods. Grimed with tenement shacks, this part of the city was not what he had expected. He was starting to wonder if maybe things weren’t any better here than in the rest of the country.
A distant door squealed open. He heard footsteps. His heart raced.
A tall police officer, hiding his hands behind his back, walked into the diffused light. When the officer came within striking distance, he brought forth his right hand. Waters flinched and covered his face, expecting a blow.
“Sorry, it’s only lukewarm,” the cop said. “Took me a while to find this place.”
Waters risked opening his eyes. He blinked in surprise. The cop was offering him a cup of coffee. He looked beyond the cop’s shoulder, expecting to see his toughs, but the cop had apparently come alone. He gratefully accepted the offer and sipped the brew, the first nourishment he’d had since that gruel they’d been served up in Cumberland.
“Hundred Forty-Sixth,” the cop said. “You boys weren’t more than a mile from my unit at the Marne.”
Was he dreaming? The head cheese had come down here himself?
The police chief extended his hand in welcome. “Happy Glassford.”
“G-g-general, I didn’t expect to t-t-talk to you.”
Glassford laughed. “Who’d you expect? The President?”
Waters released a breath of relief. “I’m glad to kn-kn-know an Army man’s in charge down here. Tell you the truth, I didn’t kn-kn-know what to expect.”
Glassford found a couple empty paint buckets and turned them upside down to sit on. He motioned Waters over to take a load off with him. “Tell me what you’ve been up to since the war.”
Waters got the feeling that he was being sized up. “You r-r-really care? Or you just trying to t-t-trick me to let my guard down?”
Glassford took off his boots to give his feet a breather. “These damn police shoes are worse than those shitkickers they issued us in France.”
“I still use mine to c-c-carry kerosene.”
Glassford nodded as he rubbed his sore toes. “I understand you haven’t exactly had it easy since the war.”
“I ain’t had it no different than most.”
“I hear you,” commiserated Glassford. “I'll bet I’ve lost more jobs in the last ten years than any vet in the country.”
Waters gave him a suspicious glance. “I’d take that bet, if I had any dough.”
“Carnival barker. Rancher. Newspaperman. I’ve lost count.”
“Try c-c-canning tomatoes at ten cents a day.”
Glassford smiled sadly. “I guess that would be pretty close to the bottom of the barrel.” He pulled out a chaw of jerky and offered Waters a pull. “What condition are your men in, Sergeant?”
Addressed by his old military rank, Waters came to his feet and stiffened to attention. “They look about as thin and forlorn as those B-b-boche we sent back over the Rhine in Eighteen. We’ve been between hay and grass for more than a few months now. And not to be c-c-contrary or nothing, General, but they ain’t my men.”
Glassford motioned him back down to his seat on the bucket. “I must have heard wrong, then. I was under the impression that you were the Black Jack Pershing of the BEF.”
Waters couldn’t suppress a grin at the discovery that his reputation had made it all the way to the nation’s capital. “The boys just look to me for orders from time to time. But we’re a d-d-democracy.”
“Well, we’re going to have to change that. These veterans coming in from all over the country are going to expect discipline and drilling, just like in the old days. An army doesn’t run like a democracy. There has to be a chain of command. And I’m hereby officially recognizing you as Commander of the Bonus Expeditionary Force here in Washington. You’ll report directly to me. And I’ll convey my directives through you. Is that agreeable?”
Buoyed by the recognition, Waters saluted. “Yes, sir. You can c-c-count on me.”
“Good. Now, here’s our current situation. I’ve been handed a forty-eight hour ultimatum by the commissioners to get you and your men into the city, let you have your say to Congress, and then escort you back out.”
Waters paled on hearing of the short deadline. “General, no disrespect intended, but we ain’t leaving until we get the m-m-money owed us.”
Glassford studied him. “Let’s take one day at a time. You know the old saying: A military plan gets ditched the first day of battle.”
“Yeah, we s-s-saw that on the Meuse, didn’t we?”
Glassford put his boots back on and stood up, preparing to leave. When Waters rose to his feet with him, the police chief patted the veteran on the back. “I’m going to let you in on some classified intelligence. I need you to keep it from trickling down to the ranks.”
“Yes, sir.”
“We’ve got some Communists roaming the city. And more are on their way. Unfortunately, some of them are veterans.”
“There ain’t no Reds in my unit, General! I’ll go down to the Supreme Court and swear to that on George Washington’s Bible! We’re all loyal American soldiers, through and through.”
“I never doubted it. But I need you to keep a sharp eye out for anyone who starts talking treason against the government.”
“There won’t be any of that radical winding. You got my word. And I already b-b-banned all panhandling and liquor consumption. If any of those Reds c-c-come trying to horn in, we’ll reason with them with the logic of knuckles.”
Glassford walked him toward the door. “What do you think of this place?”
Waters looked around the vast empty store. “I’ve taken shelter in worse.”
“We’ll be quartering you and your Oregon men in here tomorrow.”
“We were hoping to be a little c-c-closer to the Capitol. Maybe on that street where the Wall Street lobbyists b-b-bed down.”
“I’ll keep looking for better accommodations. One of my officers will drive you back to Cumberland tonight.” Glassford shook hands with Waters and turned to walk out. At the door, he turned back and asked, “Walter?”
“Call me Dubya, sir. Everyone else does.”
“All right, then. Dubya. How many vets do you figure will be coming to Washington?”
“I’d take the over on twenty thousand.”
Glassford’s smile vanished. He looked shaken, but quickly recovered. He reached into his pocket and handed Waters a wad of bills. “Get your men a good breakfast and some smokes. I want them walking on full stomachs when they come into town tomorrow.”
Waters counted out fifty dollars. “General, where’d you g-g-get this kind of payroll?”
Glassford turned and, without answering, walked out.
Waters was stunned. The police chief, he realized, was paying for the BEF’s first meal here out of his own pocket.