Copyright © 2020 by Wendy Waszut-Barrett
In 1918 Thomas G. Moses wrote, “The Big World War ended November 11th, and the biggest kind of rally was pulled off. I never saw such a crowd. It was not safe to be on the street with a hat on or a good suit of clothes.”
Front pages of newspapers across the country announced the end of the war to end all wars, but it was the Los Angeles Times that used the headline of PEACE. The first page of many city newspapers reported, “The world war will end this morning at 6 o’clock, Washington time, 11 o’clock, Paris time. The armistice was signed by the German representatives at midnight. The announcement was made by the State Department at 2:50 o’clock this morning. The announcement was made verbally by an official of the State Department in this form” ‘The armistice has been signed. It was signed at 5 o’clock a.m. Paris time and hostilities will cease at 11 o’clock this morning, Paris time.’”
In Chicago, the “Tribune” published, “Chicago Gets Out of Bed; Bedlam Reigns in the Loop.” The article continued, “The first news of the signing of the armistice reached THE TRIBUNE office at 1:55 o’clock this morning. It came in a flash from the Associated Press by telephone. The text of the flash was simply: “Armistice signed.” THE TRIBUNE immediately verified the flash. By this time the meager details of the announcement from Washington had reached the Associated Press offices. Assured that the news this time was authentic, from Washington had reached the Associated Press offices. Assured that the news this time was authentic, THE TRIBUNE set off its giant sirens and within a few minutes the sleeping town was astir. THE TRIBUNE sirens were at least five minutes ahead of any other noise producing instruments in the informing of the public of the news.
“Within ten minutes a long procession of blue jackets who were asleep in downtown hotels or awaiting trains in hotel lobbies had poured into the street and formed a cheering procession past THE TRIBUNE office in Madison street. Jackies and soldiers in other parts of the city were soon emulating the first detachments and they were joined inside of half an hour by yelling, howling throngs of civilians, who made the sleeping loop resemble the jam and jumble of midday.
“Bandsmen were quickly tumbled from their beds and formed into units of loud sound, announcing to the town that it was over over there. The noise and the hurrah and the people sprang up as if by magic, and before 3 o’clock the downtown street were taking on the aspect of madness which ran riot last Thursday when the country went crazy over a rumor.
“THE TRIBUNE, with its forms waiting, as they had been for three anxious days and nights, was, as usual, the first on the street, telling the people that the hour of democracy throughout the earth had struck. In less than thirty minutes from the time the first flash reached the telegraph desk the “Peace extra.” Was being sold by newsboys on loop corners. THE TRIBUNE sirens were quickly followed in the outskirts of other whistles, and soon from downtown hotels and lodging houses, and from residents both in the city proper and in the suburbs, the citizens began flocking downtown to join in the general hilarity.
“THE TRIBUNE notified the police and fire departments’ headquarters. Instantly the message was relayed to every engine house and police station in the city. Fireboats let go their sirens, awakening people for blocks around. Policemen on their beats were notified and in less than five minutes from the time of the arrival of the news in Chicago it had been carried to every nook and corner by the police and firemen.
Hundreds of taxicabs and other motor vehicles jammed the streets. The police reserves which had been held Sunday evening in expectancy of the signing of peace had been sent home, and save for a handful of policemen, the downtown streets were unprotected. Lieut. William Murphy of the Central station took it upon himself to call every available man from outside stations. By 3 o’clock 100 bluecoats were in the loop to keep order and facilitate traffic. I seemed as if the whole navy was downtown. An observer who came into the office a short time after the sirens had announced the greatest story in the world, said he thought there must be more sailors here than at Great Lakes.
“Parade after parade was quickly swinging up and down through the canons of the city, and the Stars and Stripes at the front, Uncle Sam’s men at home whopped and yelled the victory of their brothers in Europe. From hotel rooms the guests who tossed balls and ribbons of paper, and red fire and rockets soon came into the had not yet had tie to get outside game of rejoicing.
At the Hotel Sherman the news brought dozens of theatrical folks and guests into the lobby. Night manager Michael O’Brien had a general telephone alarm sent throughout the house, “Chicago Tribune announces armistice signed.” That was sufficient. The lobby soon looked like the height of New Year’s Eve. Every known noise devise was soon gathered. Brass cuspidors were grabbed. Flags were torn down and waved. At Randolph and Clark Street the crowd took possession and almost wrecked the newsstands. When THE TRIBUNE extra arrived announcing the news the crowd fought good naturedly for the papers. Dimes, quarters, and even dollars were tendered, no one waiting for change. Red fire was burned which lighted up the streets for several blocks. A fleet of taxicabs gathered and added to the other noise making devices.
“From the night watchman’s door of the Conway building five shots in the general direction of the cornice on the county building. A tall, gray-haired man jumped from a yellow taxi and asked what it all meant. The chauffeur, too, leaped out and gave the explanation.
“It means that you owe me just two-sixty,” he said, “if this is the end of your ride.”
“But the shots? The shots?” insisted the tall man.
“That’s the end of Germany’s ride,” said the chauffeur.
The tall man paid and rushed madly to Righeimer’s, where he pounded vainly on the door, calling “Let me in! Let me in! The law’s all off on booze this morning of all the mornings in the world!”
Somebody passed the hopeful, untrue word that the tall man was Righeimer himself, and that he was going to open the bar and take a big chance. The door, at the end of five minutes, was as in the beginning. Then the big man emitted a roar of rage and pain, tossed his hat to the pave, and raised his long strong arms into the night.
“Think of it, all of ye!” he cried to the crowd, now made up of at least five hundred. “Think of it and weep with me! Any poor, downtrodden, despised bartender might, with one key and an ounce of nerve share the glory of the world at this moment with Foch himself!”
It was evident that hundred had waited in the loop for the bona fide announcement. Flags and streamers appeared quickly. The “I had told you so” cards bobbed in hatbands over the crush. Horns and cowbells added to the din. Railroad torches lighted the crowd with red glare. And all the time celebrants appeared and added to the delirious mob.
One of the first incidents to attract a special crowd on THE TRIBUNE corner was an impromptu speech by an excited blonde. She started out to tell her views to a bystander, but as she grew more enthusiastic her voice rose and she widened her circle of auditors. Before long she was shouting at the top of her voice and had a bodyguard of Great Lakes gobs cheering her on. A motor truck rolled down Dearborn street with an immense sign torn from a movie house held high above it. It read: “The Prussian Cur.”
To be continued…
