(See Cover)
On the walks and lawns of Washington's Walter Reed Hospital the war-wounded push themselves around in wheel chairs or hobble among the reddening leaves. In the afternoon they see a spare old, straight-backed figure in dark civilian clothes who walks slowly to the drive and hoists himself into a limousine. Even the newest convalescent recognizes him. The face is chipped away by age, the eyes dim. But it is the face on monuments, and the bearing is still West Point. That's Black Jack Pershing, mister.
It is the week of the...
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