The man who pulled the worker to his feet did not make a speech. He simply walked through the crowd on the Chicago dock, stepped over a fallen crate of apples, and took the beating worker's arm in his own.
The foreman turned, red-faced and swinging his leather strap. "Stay out of this, boy." The boy was not a boy. He was twenty-six, wearing a uniform that had been brown but was now the colour of dishwater, and his left sleeve was pinned up where his arm should have been. He had lost it at Belleau Wood, and he had not lost it for anyone to pin medals on. "This boy," the man said, speaking slowly...
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