In those days it was impossible to carry on a conversation with Potter Waite on any subject but aviation. No matter where the talk started, aeroplanes seized it and flew away with it. He was a man preaching a crusade, and he preached it with an intensity, a fire, a grim fanaticism that caught and carried away his hearers if only for a moment of enthusiasm. He had the gift to make men see, and such singleness of purpose as somewhat nonplussed the careless and irritated them with the itch of accusing uneasiness. He would have had every man, woman, and child in America working to give America wings. He preached a religion, and the creed of it was, “By aeroplanes alone shall ye be saved.”
Men not yet touched by the gradual awakening of the nation avoided him as one infected, for he did not mince words with them, nor choose terms. He was intolerant with the intolerance of youth; impatient, restless, with an impatience and restlessness all his own. He burned. When he talked his hands were never still, and his eyes would grow hotter and hotter with the fires of his purpose until it made one uncomfortable to return their gaze. With men of a certain type he had scant popularity, which he was at no pains to increase. He did not seek opportunities to make himself heard, but if men would talk to him they must listen to what he had to say. Only once did he speak in public, and that was without invitation or premeditation. The occasion was a noonday luncheon of manufacturers in the Board of Commerce dining-room, where they listened to a millionaire manufacturer invited to speak about newly arising problems of labor.
It was a smug talk, with the jingle of dollars playing an obbligato through its length; it was a talk characteristic of the opinion and the lethargy of the day; characteristic of the individualism of the Middle-Westerner. It contained polite references to the war and to the flag and vague reflections as to the high duty of Detroit and Detroit’s wealth to lay some unspecified contribution on the nation’s plate. Probably the speaker imagined himself to be a patriot; his hearers applauded. It was a comfortable speech that caused no unpleasant notions to present themselves, and offered a sort of royal road to patriotic service. Potter listened and scowled and wriggled uneasily in his chair.
When the speaker had emptied his reservoir the chairman invited discussion, and more than one well-fed man of business arose to place his O. K. on the splendid sentiments which had drenched them.... Potter sat on the edge of his chair.
“Our duty lies in production,” a gentleman stood up to remark. “Production will win this war, and that is our part. We must see to it that business goes on as usual. We must raise food for Europe and manufacture supplies for Europe. There is America’s great opportunity, and, as I look about me at the character of this gathering, I see that Detroit can be depended upon to do her part. The country must not be disturbed....” And five minutes of such clarion words. The speaker subsided and Potter leaped to his feet and glared about him.
“Mr. Chairman,” he said, intensely, “I’ve sat through an hour of this twaddle, and, by Heaven! I’m sick!” He paused, careless of a hostile movement, of scowls, of whispers. “As I understand these men, we are not going to war beside England and France; we are invited to a comfortable, cozy opportunity to play we’re at war and to milk our allies for our own enrichment. That seems to be the idea expressed here to-day. I’ve even heard the word patriotism mentioned. Why, you fellows don’t know whether you’re living in America or in China, and you don’t care so long as the money keeps coming in. You have the idea America has gone to war as a salesmanship campaign for your merchandise.... You’re ducking and dodging war; you’re side-stepping. You’re talking nonsense about labor.... Do you know what’s going to become of labor—and capital, too. It’s going to Europe with guns in its hands and it’s going to fight. You want a war without fighting. You’re asleep; you’ve drugged yourselves; but you’re in for a waking up. There are men in this room who will lie dead under French soil before another year is gone, men here whose sons and brothers will lie dead or come home ghastly wrecks ... and you’ll be proud and glad it is so. That’s what’s coming. You’ll learn to know America, and you’ll learn what it is to love your country.... If you want to know what war is, let yourselves think about the murdered children, the raped women, the butchered men of Belgium and France.... That’s war, and America is sending her men to give their lives so the children and women at home may not be murdered and violated.... It isn’t a smug, comfortable thought. America is going out to kill a wild beast, and America will be torn by that beast.... Business as usual! Great Heaven! but you should be ashamed of yourselves!... Go home and think. Go home and shake yourselves awake, and then go to work—for your country. And for God’s sake quit making public spectacles of yourselves by talking the kind of nonsense you’ve talked to-day....”
He sat down suddenly amid a dead silence. The room quivered with fury; more than one man sprang to his feet to pour his outraged dignity upon Potter’s head.... But from the other side of the room a big man pushed his way to Potter’s side—a man who long before America entered the war had fought for preparedness and earned his enemies. He put out his hand and said, in his big, strident, rough voice:
“Give ’em hell, boy. You’ve got the idea. Let’s get out of this place. It stinks.”
Potter had been unfair, but he did not know he had been unfair. Those men meant better than they had spoken, and their intentions were good. They had not comprehended yet, that was all—not the greater part of them. But already there was a growing, silent minority who looked ahead and saw—a minority which was getting ready mentally, and which, with an avalanche from the majority, would one day stand up to its duty as Americans with love of America in their hearts.... The time was not distant, for events were lunging forward.
Potter and his friend walked out of the room and into the street. “They’ll say some nasty things about you, Waite,” said the big man, “and rake up old scrapes. Don’t let it worry you. Stick to the gait you’ve struck. You’re tackling a big job, and I like the way you go at it.”