The Tourists

In New York the ticker tape rained down as they rode up the Broadway canyon. In Washington they shook hands with the President. Baltimore showed them a sham battle. In Detroit they visited bomber plants. Portland dropped rose petals on their broad shoulders. In Los Angeles they danced with movie stars.

Everywhere, the people cheered.

Last week, on Independence Day, it ended in St. Louis: the most ambitious, most spectacular heroes' junket of World War II. For a solid summer month, 15 men of the United Nations fighting forces had shown themselves to the hero-worshipping public. Men of the R.A.F. who had bombed Augsburg in daylight and devastated Rostock at night. Commando-men who had raided Vagsoy and St.-Nazaire in blackface, U.S. flyers who had sunk subs in the Atlantic, had flown bombers on moonless nights over the South Pacific.

The tour was not of their choosing. They went at the Treasury Department's request, to help the sale of war bonds. They went cheerfully, did their duty like good soldiers. They had fun, too. The entertainment was lavish. The tables creaked with steak and chicken and lobster and capon. They had big leisurely breakfasts in their hotel rooms. Smart debs and sleek models took them to nightclubs. They rode in open cars, so the people could see them better.

Most, being modest men, blushed and scraped their feet when their deeds were told of time & again to cheering thousands.

The Welcomes. In almost all the 22 cities they visited-flying from point to point in a giant transport-the pattern of their welcome was the same, a routine in which only the names and places changed. They were greeted by civic and military dignitaries. They had a parade, in open cars if there was sun, in closed sedans when it rained. After a while, they got so they waved their hands at the crowds in a methodical way. There were stiff luncheons with polite speeches, formal dinners with high, windy, patriotic talk. There were rallies in auditoriums and ball parks. Sometimes there was vaudeville. Someone usually sang God Bless America.

The tour came to seem very arranged, like a Hollywood tour for a Hollywood premiere. Most of the heroes were strange heroes to the towns they visited. The best known was Ensign Donald F. Mason, who radioed the "Sighted sub, sank same" message. None were as fixed in the public mind as earlier Heroes Eddie O'Hare, John D. Bulkeley, Hewitt T. Wheless (see cuts), who also had been toured and feted and cheered. There was little spontaneity about the receptions. The newspapers covered the welcomes adequately, but there were no inspired stories-the story was all covered in the Treasury Department handout.

Time for Heroes? A few people wondered whether this was any time for heroic ceremonies. Some of the heroes themselves wondered. They were tired almost from the start. There is something exhilarating about coming back from a low-level bombing, from a raid over Germany at night. What about returning from a strange nightclub in a strange city to a strange hotel? Said one of the British heroes: "It's been bad physically and mentally on all of us."

"I'm Ashamed." Last week in Cleveland another hero spoke up bluntly. After listening to the Kiwanis Club discuss when & where to hold its picnic, up rose Lieut. William M. Bower, one of the 80 airmen who bombed Tokyo. Said he: "It's no picnic out there for your sons. They are having no good times. It is no time for good times. I'm disappointed by what I have found since I got back to my country. I'm disappointed at the failure of the people to realize that we are in a war-a war that we can lose.

"I'm ashamed of myself to be here. I'm ashamed to be here instead of overseas with my gang where I want to be."

The Kiwanians rose and cheered.

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