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INTRODUCTION

The End

This book begins with an ending. In August 1945, American pilots flew over Hiroshima and Nagasaki to drop their atomic cargo on Japanese civilians. The war in Europe had ended months before, and this was the frightening and fiery finale to the Pacific war. Within hours, news of this terror from the sky reached those on the ground in the United States, and among the myriad reactions to the bomb was impatience for a quick exit from the war. Peace was now finally perceptible, almost fully real, so it was hard for Americans to digest the official line that dismantling the war in Europe, and now in Japan, would require a long series of diplomatic conversations, formal agreements, and ceremonial signatures. Peace was paperwork.

Compared with Europe and Asia, the United States had emerged from World War II relatively unscathed. Two oceans had insulated it from the aerial bombings and scorched earth troop movements that had slaughtered so many elsewhere. In defeated Axis countries, British and American bombing targeted urban areas, killing approximately a half million people in Germany and about the same number in Japan. Survivors walked through ruins, “ghost cities,” where it was hard to tell where and how to begin the reconstruction. Starving inhabitants survived on a thin gruel, with barely enough calories to fuel a personal recovery much less a national one. The Japanese called their postwar condition kyodatsu, a word that captured an utter collapse of body and mind in response to so many years of war.¹ Although official combat had ended, the situation was far from peaceful. In Europe alone, rubble and ruined farmland, hungry and frightened refugees, revenge assaults, murders, and rape, and political retribution all marked the landscape. In his epic history of postwar Europe, Tony Judt wrote, “Surviving the war was one thing, surviving the peace another.”²

In safety and intact, Americans sat poised for a smooth recovery. Still, World War II had demanded much from them. It is important to count first: sixteen million suited up to serve, and millions of others suited up to work. The human losses totaled over four hundred thousand uniformed dead and almost seven hundred thousand injured, not even close to the numbers in other countries, but trauma and anguish nevertheless. We can add to this count by citing other kinds of wartime “casualties”: skyrocketing injury rates on the job, often-violent racial repression (from internment camps to deadly race riots), an intractable housing crisis in every city, and deep and ongoing family disruption and dislocation. So when President Harry S. Truman announced the peace, first in Europe in May, and then in the Pacific in August, there was a good reason to rejoice—twice.

In the United States, peace started as a noisy street party. The now iconic photos capture Americans jamming into their downtowns, cheering, dancing, and kissing as confetti rained down from office windows. In Chicago, one of the many cities altered deeply by war, officials braced themselves for the revelry. On the cusp of Germany’s surrender, the city council had voted unanimously to ban the retail sale of liquor within city limits for twenty-four hours. Worried that pent-up joy and relief could lapse into short-term mayhem and long-term production declines, council members urged all Chicagoans to stick to their usual routines, “including war work … attending the church of their choice,” and to engage in “sober and thoughtful reflection” on the day’s implications.³ But after Japan surrendered, there was no war work left to do, so people let loose. On August 15, 1945, the Chicago Daily Tribune’s headline read: “Great War Ends!” The celebrating had actually begun the night before when President Truman previewed the news at 6:00 P.M., “central war time,” as the Tribune put it. It was a Tuesday night, rush hour for many workers, but “pent up restraint and anxieties burst,” and Chicagoans poured into the streets. “Joyous Bedlam Loosed in the City,” a headline read, as half a million people crowded into the downtown within just a few hours. “They were noisy. They represented all ages and all classes. Elderly men and women were as numerous as bobby soxers,” reported the Tribune. In a scene unthinkable now, a group of thirty sailors formed a kind of kissing assembly line in which young women were passed from man to man until they smooched their way to the end. People hammed for photographers, holding up newspapers and pointing at the headlines as if to prove to themselves that the fighting had really stopped.⁴

Not far from this mayhem, Edna Johnston was working her shift as the solo hostess at the American Women’s Voluntary Services lounge in Chicago’s famed Bismarck Hotel. Ordinarily, she would have been busy serving refreshments and solving problems, but tonight, with her regular customers out in the street, she was left alone to ponder the news. She wrote in the daily logbook: “‘VJ’ Day is here in all its glory. Not a soul here to talk over the surrender or even watch the celebration on Randolph St. Well its [sic] all over now.”⁵ This lonely, even melancholy, moment was a stark contrast to the street carnivals that lasted into the next day and night, bringing the city’s regular business to a happy but temporary halt. Yet it was probably more indicative of the way most Chicagoans experienced World War II’s end. Like Johnston, people wanted to talk about what the surrender would mean for the victors. What did it mean to win? What would “peace” deliver for the weary winners? In other words, now what? As the historian Richard Lingeman has noted, the seeming certainties of war fast became “the ambiguities of peace,” a much murkier collective condition. Building the postwar society was the new national project, but it was not yet clear what that would really require from Americans. It may have been telling, then, according to one Chicago reporter, that on VJ Day “everybody talked of the ‘end of the war,’ not ‘victory.’”⁶ This fine distinction between war’s end and victory captured the mood in parts of victorious Allied Europe, too. As one Londoner put it, “Victory does not bring with it a sense of triumph—rather a dull numbness of relief that the blood-letting is over.”⁷

This book tries to make sense of this ambivalence—to scrutinize the limbo when the shelling was over but the peace was ill defined. The United States had won decisively, but that victory has generated some popular amnesia about the turbulent and contentious times that followed in this country. The end of World War II—or any war—is not merely the date when the truce is signed. Rather, we should think about peacetime as process, a set of economic, political, and social transformations that amounted to much more than merely war’s final moment. I examine peacetime as its own complex historical passage from conflict to postconflict, which contained human struggles and policy dilemmas that would shape later decades as fatefully as had the war. In diplomacy, it is often the treaties and settlement terms that define the meaning and impact of a war—more than the war itself. Wars still matter, but it is their tentative and precarious “posts” that redraw the new world survivors will inhabit. This was as true on the home front as it was on the battlefield. Who would write the treaties that defined the peace at home?⁸

This book explores that question by diving into one city and its neighborhoods. Chicago was the place where World War II had both a beginning and an ending: it was where President Franklin D. Roosevelt made his famous 1937 “quarantine speech,” in which he first warned about U.S. involvement in brewing troubles overseas, and it was the intellectual and scientific headquarters of the atomic bomb that finally ended it all.⁹ Its location, transportation infrastructure, and diverse manufacturing base attracted defense contracts and job seekers, making it one of the war’s busiest urban industrial hubs. It was peopled with a fascinating mix of European working-class immigrants and their next generation, a large population of African American migrants from the South, and a wholly new community of Japanese Americans who had just come from wartime prison camps in the West and South. Chicago is my “for example” city to focus on peacetime as an experience, not in the halls of Congress or in the White House but on the ground in one place. Its neighborhoods are a laboratory in which to explore bigger questions. What would peacetime mean for people whose private lives had been rearranged to serve the war? What would the peace offer them? What might it take away?

At the core of this story is Chicago’s working class, the ordinary people who lived World War II’s big events as their day to day reality. I follow them during the war’s final years, through the first years of the “postwar,” and into the early 1950s, as the United States became embroiled in another foreign war in Asia. Their experiences are less well known, partly because we historians have a bit of the journalist in us; we can be more attracted to the epic battles, grand personalities, and crises of war than to its less epic aftermath. But real people made war, and thus they had to make the peace, too. Their demobilization, or reconversion as it was also called, was part of a colossal national undertaking, and yet now over seventy years later, we still know only the contours of this story. Scholarly attention to demobilization has been fleeting, in terms of both time and space. Says one historian, we have divided the era awkwardly into categories of “prewar” and “postwar” and have thus “leap-frogged over this war-to-peace transition.”¹⁰ Demobilization serves as either a postscript for a book on the war itself or as the hazy preamble for subsequent Cold War dramas. The histories that do linger in these years tend to locate the action in the suburbs, chasing families in their new cars that drove from city streets into suburban garages. And yet the city is where most of the World War II generation remained—either by choice or constraint. In fact, it was not until the 1970 Census that suburban residents outnumbered central city dwellers, and not by much (37.6 versus 31.4 million). Further, the United States was a nation of renters until 1950, when 55 percent of the housing became owner occupied—again, not a wide majority.¹¹ The view that World War II quickly yielded suburbia triumphant has already changed, thanks to urban historians who have reminded us how cities became the first battlegrounds of the era’s most decisive domestic conflicts. In these works, too, though, the actual transition to peace is still the backstory.¹²

Into this breach has flowed a string of mainstream histories about the World War II cohort that have gripped the popular imagination. The best known among these, Tom Brokaw’s The Greatest Generation, tells the stories of both veterans and home front warriors as they tried to rebuild their lives. Brokaw’s genial appellation has stuck, and now the “greatest generation” has become a cottage industry, the shorthand for World War II-era America since its publication twenty years ago. Unlike Studs Terkel’s “the good war,” a term Terkel used introspectively and ironically, Brokaw wielded his phrase audaciously, confident of its historical accuracy. Defending his contention that the thirties and forties spawned “the greatest generation any society has ever produced,” he wrote: “While I am periodically challenged on this premise, I believe I have the facts on my side.”¹³

It is not my intention to deny this generation its heroics or heritage, nor do I want simply to debunk a popular genre—although as the historian David Kennedy has noted, historians have “got to be ready to commit blasphemy” when it comes to shaping American memory about World War II.¹⁴ Rather, this book seeks to relieve this cohort of a burdensome mythology that hides their complexity, humanity, and rather democratic ordinariness. My aim is to freeze the action in the postwar city, to explore the varied meanings of peace to those who had experienced the varied costs of war. Tearing down a war, so to speak, was work. It was a series of personal, often bureaucratic, encounters with global diplomatic currents, federal policy, city politics, and even new neighbors. Americans’ wartime sacrifice had been the down payment on the celebrated postwar “good life,” and now they wanted their reward.

But how to define and secure that reward raised some essential but thorny questions about how sacrifice could be measured and repaid—and by whom? The men in charge of national demobilization quickly got down to the business of shrinking the parts of the government most tied to war; they discharged soldiers, auctioned materiel, and withdrew the defense contracts that had kept so many employed. But they wanted to go even further. Political and corporate conservatives saw an opening in this moment. They had never liked the New Deal, because it represented a break from the privileges they had enjoyed with small government and a relatively free market. In their view, World War II only magnified the New Deal’s excessive reach and authority, which they tolerated to win the war. But now in peacetime, they saw a chance to reverse course—to use a big war to make a small state. For conservatives, then, 1945 was a new beginning. Republicans seized on people’s war fatigue the next election year, using the campaign taunt “Had enough?” to sow discontent about rationing, regulations, and shortages. They won big in Congress, capturing a majority of both chambers in 1946, intent on rolling back not only the 1940s wartime state but also the 1930s welfare state.

Their victory is cited everywhere as the American electorate’s first postwar thumbs down on activist government, but the answer to “Had enough?” was actually “not quite,” if we relocate the conversation more deeply in working-class communities. Reflecting on World War II’s legacy, one worker said: “As a result of the war, the public generally … became more aware of the government’s influence on our everyday life.”¹⁵ One of the main inquiries of this study is how war—especially total war—shapes ordinary people’s awareness and expectation of government when the fighting ends. War is violence, sacrifice, and loss, but it is also an experience of governance that can fine-tune, reconfigure, or reaffirm Americans’ worldviews about the state’s operation in their lives. “States make wars; wars make states,” argues one historian, and World War II had, indeed, made the American government bigger, more intrusive. Typical war workers felt their government’s presence first thing in the morning, when they put on their price-controlled clothing and fumbled for their rationed shoes, when they reached for their rationed morning coffee and tried to sweeten it with a tiny amount of sugar—also rationed. The war had even shrunk the size of their afternoon candy bar.¹⁶ When it ended, though, that war loomed large as the rationale for their postwar entitlements, the kind detested by conservatives. Even with the Republicans’ winning mantra, and some genuine fatigue with daily regulations, the generation that had survived depression and war still wanted to feel the state’s presence in their daily lives. It had been both rescuer and regulator amid the two national—but very personally experienced—crises of depression and war. As decision makers debated the balance between strong governance and corporate self-rule in order to achieve “economic growthsmanship,” members of the working class had their own theories about what “growth” could look like after the war: vocational training, an education, a job, a pension, a more spacious apartment, more in the refrigerator, more to buy, more in the bank. In short, they wanted a “peace dividend,” and they looked to their governments—federal and local—to help them get it.¹⁷

This grassroots perspective on the state crossed gender and racial lines and took varied forms, from single women’s arguments for rent control to Japanese American claims for government restitution. Many in my neighborhoods did not work in unionized industries, so they voiced their wants outside the traditional conveyors of union leadership or labor’s elite liberal allies. Despite their diversity, they held fast to a few common convictions: they liked the idea of unfettered abundance but they feared unregulated markets; weary of wartime regulations, they were also wary of none. They believed their peace dividend should come from a marvelous show of America’s manufacturing might and new economic innovations, but government help was always part of their vision. Chicago’s working class defined this “help” as reparations for wealth lost or delayed by war, or as arbitration to defend or acquire new material gains. Indeed, they understood that the fight over war’s spoils might get contentious, and they wanted their government, when needed, to step in to referee. Theirs was a kind of hybrid liberalism, an ideological creature of New Deal-style safety nets and reinvigorated postwar convictions about the virtues of consumer capitalism.

But it was a war liberalism, too. Indeed, war was their primary language of entitlement, their way into worthiness. This working-class war liberalism emerged from the kitchens, bedrooms, and even bathrooms of the city apartment. It was a darker echo of New Deal liberalism, because war’s ruthless and relentless violence underlay peoples’ suffering and needs. It was also portable: everyone from the waitress to the returning vet could invoke it. War liberalism could sound different, too, depending on who was using it. The veteran had the most powerful claim on it, but as one scholar points out, all “Americans visualized themselves as comrades of the soldier” and so others used it, too.¹⁸ Of course, to ask for something in return for a national sacrifice was not new to World War II. But the war liberalism that emerged after 1945 was novel in the sense that its adherents saw a modern welfare state already in place—even if under siege by conservatives. They could see governance, that is, the national and local administration of New Deal programs designed to help families solve their problems, and many were already using them. Even those denied welfare benefits could at least see the promise of them. In short, there was precedent for imagining government provision during a national emergency. The war added even more urgency to that model. War liberalism could often sound like New Deal liberalism repurposed, but sometimes it was simply about the war—what it took from people and what they thought their government should help them replace. We cannot pin down precisely what war liberalism meant because human beings used it. They stretched, bent, and tailored it to their postwar situations; they invented different versions of it. September’s usage might not be December’s. As with any other ideology, a plural is always implied.

Most of us have not lived through the kind of conflict that generates such great expectations. Our current wars are fought by a tiny percentage of the population, and the rest of us are merely obliged to say “thank you for your service.” But total war is invasive. It finds everyone. Survivors in Europe and Asia knew this well, and although the war was not fought on U.S. soil, it still “touched every room in the house.”¹⁹ This gave it considerable staying power. What is remarkable about the war liberalism of the World War II era is its endurance. In many ways, it is the “post” in the postwar. Well after the fighting stopped, Americans continued to make war-related claims for the state’s help and for some kind of war-related cultural reverence, as well. Arguably, the World War II generation still has this claim on our nation’s conscience, after several more wars, and now in a new century.

Extending World War II’s history into the postwar, relocating it in city neighborhoods where working-class voices are more amplified, can help us rewrite a national history of postwar liberalism, from Harry Truman to Ronald Reagan. Indeed, it seems scholars have prematurely declared the demise of postwar statism, and, just as importantly, they have missed the centrality of war to liberal discourse. Much of the scholarly narrative traces a “rise and fall,” a tale of postwar possibility dashed by conservative ascendance and corporate power, and a hopeful and demanding electorate depoliticized by the lure of “stuff”—the consumer goods they had been missing since the thirties.²⁰ Scholars earlier identified Americans’ “fear of the state” and their “slow repudiation” of government intervention as an ideological hangover of World War II. As a result, “most … did not think that government could—or should—intervene very far in economic matters.” A coordinated “business assault on labor and liberalism,” reenergized by a new strain of anticommunism, this time related to Cold War aims, all frustrated liberal hopes that the vestiges of the warfare state could be reengaged or reimagined in the postwar. It was the “end of reform,” and the “emergence, or perhaps crystallization, of a powerful postwar rejection of the New Deal project.”²¹

Much of this was true. Corporate elites, congressional fiscal conservatives, and anti-New Deal ideologues of various stripes had all launched attacks on “big government” well before VJ Day; their creeds and words seeped into the policy discourses of demobilization, and then into the Cold War mobilization.²² Yet despite this antistatist offensive, Chicago’s working-class residents wanted to see government in action. Their fusion of faiths in growth consumerism, social safety nets, and government arbitration was hardly a repudiation of postwar statism. That interpretation may make sense in broad strokes, but I have found a resilient and expectant war liberalism among the urban working class that lasted well into the next war in Korea. It may be more accurate to say that the 1946 election was a vote against inept statism rather than an outright rejection of it. In fact, what seems more plausible is that demobilizing citizens got cranky about government intervention only when it failed to fulfill their high expectations.²³ This means that our relationship with government—with governance—has been cozier than we have thought, a claim conservatives have been refuting since Reagan’s presidency. In fact, Reagan’s own brand of World War II nostalgia circulated widely, and it still has a grip on the part of our politics that uses memory to make policy. The kind of blasphemy I want to commit here is to puncture some of those pieties about the postwar. We can no longer narrate the transition to peace as a straight line to privatization, consumption, domestic cocooning, and Cold War antipathy to the state’s nonmilitary functions. The stories from Chicago’s neighborhoods suggest a slower, more crooked path.

Our postwar narrative changes, too, if we redefine what we mean by the “state.” Scholars of political history have described the American welfare state as a joint enterprise of public and private, a combination of government-funded and government-administered programs and privately managed provision. Yet the term “private” does not quite capture what we see in the American welfare state, especially after World War II, when federal funds poured into the “family service agencies,” as they were called, to meet the needy where they were. In fact, the “official” national state delegated many functions to these local agencies.²⁴ Working-class Chicagoans could not distinguish between federal, state, municipal, or charitable funding streams when they leaned on local resources, but they used them all. Indeed, they turned to many “states” in the postwar city: the Travelers Aid Society when they arrived at the train station exhausted and disoriented, the Young Women’s Christian Association when they needed a housing referral, the local Office of Price Administration to fight rent hikes, the local outpost of the Veterans Administration to claim GI benefits, and the neighborhood settlement house for almost everything else. Their state was referee, resource, and referral wherever it could be found, wherever it was accessible and seemed safely approachable. Sometimes their neighborhood state helped them hold their national state accountable to get what was promised, playing the role of intermediary. This was especially important for Japanese Americans whose national state had just imprisoned them. In essence, the state was, as historian Linda Gordon puts it, “more than government.”²⁵

Exploring war’s aftermath as its own historical process means we cannot relax into the familiar time lines and terminologies of war making. This makes my job as writer and your job as reader a bit harder. Trying to historicize peacetime is tricky, for how do we pick a date when the war ended? I put this question to my students when I pivot from World War II to the Cold War, and it always sparks a lively discussion that upends their high school textbook notions of history as start and stop. The fact that World War II was punctuated by Pearl Harbor and Hiroshima makes it tempting to adopt a conventional time line, but we have to be willing to sit with some chronological fuzziness here. Scholars are still debating the Cold War’s time lines, and the “war on terror” continues to defy easy periodization. My focus is not on official declarations, cease-fires, and treaties but on war’s “private times,” the home front recoveries that should also count as “wartime.” World War II held many and varied endings for people—chronological, geographical, material, even emotional: a GI’s premature discharge in 1943 sent him stateside to start his psychological recovery, an early release from internment in 1944 launched a reentry into a life interrupted for a middle-aged Japanese American man, and an African American couple’s hunt for fair housing extended their postwar well into the 1950s.²⁶

This chronological confusion is aggravated by the policy incoherence of the immediate postwar years. After 1945, we find policymakers rapidly demobilizing but not necessarily demilitarizing—a new “era of war-but-not-war,” as one historian puts it.²⁷ There was simultaneous talk of domestic tranquility and nuclear panic, an emerging cold war and a hot war in Korea, a reverence of U.S. military expansion, but an equally nagging unease about its costs.²⁸ Some groups made passionate claims on their government for new rights, while others lodged equally vigorous arguments for small government and states’ rights. As Americans congratulated themselves on their postwar bounty, they fought each other over war’s spoils. In other words, the postwar United States was a state of contradictions.

This means, then, that there will be some intentional ambiguity in my war story. We cannot call what comes right after World War II “militarization,” although we see the hints of it. It is too early for that Cold War characterization, especially if we are foregrounding the worldviews of the urban working class instead of national policymakers. The war loomed large, to be sure, but ordinary Chicagoans thought about it in terms of their local recovery, not as the path to global hegemony.²⁹ “Postwar,” “peacetime,” “the peace,” or the “aftermath” will generally signal that we are moving through Chicago in the months and years after VE and VJ Day, but at times, the endings people defined as their own “post” will situate us. I will use the terms “demobilization” and “reconversion” interchangeably, although, at the time, reconversion was often more associated with industrial transition and demobilization with cutbacks in defense activity, such as troop reductions. Still, the press used both terms and many people understood them to mean the same thing: undoing the war.

A focus on the urban working class means we will follow people who worked for wages, who rented a room or flat, and who had to strategize to survive or thrive. Before the rise of a more widespread and durable suburban middle class, working-class people tried to make a go of it. They asked for things from more powerful people—on paper and in person—and we must pause to appreciate the ask. That took time and labor and often carried real risk. The cumulative power of those individual asks was not a mass movement but an effort nevertheless to build a postwar society more responsive to the needs of renters and wage workers—the ordinary people who had won the war in some fashion, whether in uniform or out. Their stories reveal both the creativity and constraint of working-class life in war’s wake. Of course, the term “working class” is a blurry vocabulary now and was then, for class is malleable, and race and racism intensified many Chicagoans’ economic struggles. And these city dwellers were more than workers. In fact, this book as a whole stays away from the workplace. It does not follow people to their shop floor, their office, their restaurant shift, or their union hall. It looks for class identity and consciousness in mundane places like train stations and apartment buildings. But there is nothing trivial about what happened there. The sociologist Charles Tilly reminds us that in urban history we find regular people “buffeted by the great winds of economic and demographic transformation” in their “households, shops, and neighborhoods.”³⁰

None of these descriptors for the World War II generation will be laser sharp. But I would argue that language and theory can fail us when we try to name the lingering traumas, conflicts, and paradoxes bred by total war. We are stuck with “postwar” and “peacetime” to describe what came after war, but those are vague—maybe even misleading—terms, perhaps dangerously so for what they hide about war’s violence. But the imprecision of our language for war’s “posts” is precisely my point, and it serves as the departure for the stories that follow. Each chapter explores a different category of wartime citizen and how they navigated their own transition in a city in transition. Renters, newly freed internees, soldiers turned veterans, single and married women, and African American migrants were Chicago’s working class. I listen to their varied definitions of “peacetime” and then track how they made that term real in their daily lives. Their local private struggles were enmeshed in national policy debates about the future of the country after its second world war in just over two decades. Their stories are about rupture and repair, about sacrifice and reward, about the self and the state, and I try to capture the interplay of these moments and moods.

It is important to reflect on their endings because our culture prefers beginnings. Historians talk more about origins, catalysts, and mobilizations. Textbooks hurry us through the end of big events because we must get to the next one. Coverage leaves little time for closure. Sociologist Sara Lawrence-Lightfoot has found that Americans struggle to think about “exit moments,” that is, the ways in which we take leave of or terminate something. “Exits … are ubiquitous, marking the physical landscapes we inhabit, embedded in our language and metaphors, embroidered into the historical narrative of our country,” she observes, yet it can be awkward or agonizing to examine them. We much prefer to think about starts, where there is hope and a plan, not failure and futility.³¹ Lawrence-Lightfoot chronicles the exits of mainly personal affairs, but we can apply her insights to the affairs of state. Wars are relationships, after all, between the state and the citizens enjoined to fight, and between the nations that have declared war on one other. In the Broadway hit Hamilton, Lin-Manuel Miranda playfully frames the American Revolution as a breakup story, with King George III as the spurned lover, singing refrains of “You’ll be back” as his lament.³² Underlying this amusing double entendre, though, is a serious reflection on the pain of an exit moment.

This book is an argument to stay in that moment. World War II’s peacetime was neither a smooth nor passive transition. Americans had to make peace—just as they had made war. They saw World War II’s peacetime not as an end but an entrée into something new, a chance to contemplate the terrible costs of violence and the possibility of regeneration. Ideally, this book helps us meditate on the tragic contradictions of war—what it destroys and what can be built from that destruction. War-weary and eager for victory, working-class Americans in 1945 certainly welcomed the truce, but it would be a mistake to assume that peace did not introduce its own set of wrenching changes. Their stories move us closer to a more accurate rendering of war’s history for new generations of warriors and pacifists, alike. It may be an ironic measure of our progress as a nation that we can stand back and assess what we build after we destroy. We should thus dissect our postwars as carefully as we have our wars.