Dodging Submarines to Cover the Biggest Game of All
Wednesday, July 18. A Lake Michigan Port.
I kept an appointment today with a gentleman from Somewhere in Connecticut.
“How,” said he, “would you like to go to France?”
I told him I’d like it very much, but that I was thirty-two years old, with a dependable wife and three unreliable children.
“Those small details,” he said, “exempt you from military duty. But we want you as a war correspondent.”
I told him I knew nothing about war. He said it had frequently been proved that that had nothing to do with it. So we hemmed and we hawed, pro and con, till my conscientious objections were all overruled.
“In conclusion,” said he, “we’d prefer to have you go on a troopship. That can be arranged through the War Department. There’ll be no trouble about it.”