The Story of the American Legion: The Birth of the Legion

by George Seay Wheat

Three large wooden tiers of seats, the kind the circus has under canvas, were built in a sort of semicircular fashion around the large stage. The New York delegation occupied one of these tiers; the Ohioans another, while the third was built for distinguished guests. If any distinguished guests came they were entirely put out of the limelight by the audience, for this was one show which was enacted before the footlights rather than behind them, and, with one or two exceptions the star performing took place where the spectators usually sit. In fact, the only spectators that I saw were the newspaper men, seated at tables within the corral formed by the tiers. All of them had been in the army or navy or had seen the big show abroad as war correspondents.

When Theodore Roosevelt, as temporary chairman jammed that gaveled bit of the rudder of the North Pole ship down hard on the table and called the meeting to order he got what he had never received while in the army: that is, direct disobedience. He commanded order, and there was utter disorder. It was rank insubordination, distinctly requiring court-martial of everyone present, from a military point of view—but the American Legion isn't military! And so the delegates howled joyously. Roosevelt, demanding order at this time, had just about as much chance of getting it as the Kaiser has of making Prince Joachim King of the Bronx. Somebody started a cheer, and the crowd didn't stop yelling for two minutes and a half.

"Young Teddy," as they called him, was manifestly surprised at the ovation and tried repeatedly to get the crowd quiet. He wanted to be pleasant and yet he wanted order and so between knocks with his gavel he smiled. And a very engaging smile it was, too.

"Gentlemen," he pleaded. "Gentlemen, a little order." Finally there was comparative quiet. "Now let's proceed to the business of the meeting. The floor is open for nominations for permanent chairman of this caucus."

Sergeant Jack Sullivan of the State of Washington got the floor. Sergeant Jack is a husky northwesterner who did his bit in the intelligence section in Seattle and has seen a lot of the Bolsheviki out there.

"In behalf of the State of Washington and representing the men of the rank and file of the Pacific Northwest, it gives me pleasure at this time to place for your consideration the name of a sterling patriot," he shouted. "The man I am going to place in nomination proved himself to be a one hundred per cent. true blooded American when his country's honor was assailed. He was among the first who placed himself in the front-line trenches, he was wounded twice, he was ready and willing to make the supreme sacrifice in order that this world might be made safe for democracy. I deem it an honor and a privilege, and the Pacific Northwest deems it an honor and a privilege to place in nomination the worthy son of a worthy sire—Theodore Roosevelt."

The crowd seemed to know all along who Jack meant and it held its enthusiasm in tether as best it could. But when Sullivan got to the word Theodore, the Roosevelt was drowned out in the mightiest cheer that is possible for eight or nine hundred throats to utter. The second to the motion, made by Colonel Luke Lea of Tennessee, wasn't heard at all. This time it took Colonel Roosevelt more than two minutes to get order.

"Gentlemen, I want to speak on that now," he shouted and during a lull in the cheering managed to make himself heard. "I wish to say that I want to withdraw my name from nomination—"

But the "gang wouldn't hear to it." Somebody raised the old cry:

"We want Teddy!" "We want Teddy!" "We want Teddy!" they chanted in unison. Bedlam broke loose at that. Men stood on their seats and waved their hats and handkerchiefs; some took their collars and neckties off; some wept, some cursed for sheer joy and others—I believe that when Gabriel blows his horn and all the dead arise that some of the men who attended that caucus will try to make a speech! These speeches were going on four and five at a time during the entire hullabaloo. It didn't seem to matter in the least to the speakers that they weren't being heard. They couldn't hear themselves. They added a little to the noise and that satisfied the crowd and seemed to satisfy them.