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Last year on Labor Day the speeches were routine: from bandstands and platforms U.S. workers heard again about the glories of U.S. workers. They cheered, carried banners. There were no uniforms.
This year the pattern had changed. This time there were men in khaki and blue, men whose only uniform last year might have been that of a filling-station attendant or mailman or bellhop.
In New York's Central Park, at a C.I.O.-U.S.O. rally, a small, swart young hero in khaki and an overseas cap stepped to the microphone (see cut). Filipino Lieut. Mones had fought on Bataan. His shirt fit him loosely; his face was thin. He spoke only a few sentences. The last one: "The enemy will yet be driven from Bataan, the Philippines and the world shall be free."
Behind him stood other heroes, Americans and Filipinos. They had fought together; they were heroes together. Their uniforms had begun to have the look of veterans' uniforms; their words the ring of Fourth of July oratory in the days before such oratory became mere inflated pomposities.
This was the shape that public celebrations would have in the U.S. for some time.