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" "At last General Pershing finished his speech and climbed down from his platform. He came straight toward Lieutenant Hays. I kept my eyes glued to the front, but I knew what he was doing. He stopped before the lieutenant, plopped his heels, and did something with his hands. I heard him speak to the lieutenant. Then he was standing in front of me. He saluted, and I almost snapped my right arm off in answering. But I did it automatically. My head had about quit functioning. The general stepped up close to me, did something with the front of my blouse- and a pin went straight through the blouse into the flesh on my chest! He shook hands with me and congratulated me, and said something about a "fellow Missourian." Then he knocked his heels together, gave a low, snappy salute, sidestepped to the right, and began decorating the next fellow.
John Lewis Barkley (August 28, 1895 – April 14, 1966) was a United States Army Medal of Honor recipient of World War I. Born in Blairstown, Missouri, near Holden, Barkley served as a Private First Class in Company K, 4th Infantry Regiment, 3rd Division. He earned the medal while fighting near Cunel, France, on October 7, 1918.
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Ever since I'd learned to talk- or tried to learn- my stuttering had made a barrier between me and other people. It hit me harder, too, because that morning word had come that one of our neighbor boys had enlisted and I'd heard my father say he "guessed the Barkleys were petering out." From Revolutionary days on, whenever America got into trouble there'd always been a Barkley in on the fight.
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When the decorating part of the ceremony was over they marched us around and placed us on the reviewing line behind General Pershing. That review was the grandest sight I've ever seen. The First Division went by with its scarlet "One." The Second with its Indian Head. Jesse had been given the D.S.C. and was somewhere in the reviewing line, and i wondered what he thought of that head. Last came our own Third Division, with its blue and white bars. Infantry, line after line, poured past us, machine-guns, engineer and special troops- clicking like a machine. Caterpillar tractors kicking up the dirt. Seventy-fives traveling in a cloud of dust.
I looked at General Pershing. It seemed to me he was growing taller and straighter all the time. He'd rare up on his shoes, as he watched, then come down on his heels again. He was a soldier from the ground up! And I didn't blame him for being proud of our outfits that day. When I looked back at the lines of men, marching and marching past us, at the flags and the artillery and the horses, I felt cold chills running over me. I felt stirred up and warlike inside. I was almost sorry the war was over.