in view of the Belgian babies of World War I you should go cautiously here; they were surely wrong to torture Jews, who he had discovered in college were, at least in their American branch, a pretty good bunch of fellows given certain peculiarities, and who apparently had not during the German inflation of the twenties enriched themselves while gentiles starved, as alleged by Hitler & Co., although one must be careful here, too, in simple justice, for anyone who had ever traded in a Hebrew haberdashery knew the Jew as far from a naïve man—he had come under an obligation to find reasons why the Germans, though mistaken, though bullies, though bad, if you will, were yet not bad, were not to be allowed that case which the greatest writers assure us even Satan has.
The Army, oddly enough, was filled with superior people, the universities being then in the process of emptying to that purpose. Every barracks had its circle of cultivation, and while its membership was still outnumbered by the gross herd playing cards, shooting dice, and shouting incessantly fuck this, fuck that, it in the strength of unity read newspaper editorials, went on pass to hear the nearest city’s philharmonic, and discussed international political events. At every post where Reinhart served, this circle in fact had been semi-officialized, meeting at least once a week with the authority and encouragement of an intellectual officer. Since he was channeled in that direction by cultural imperatives and nobody else seemed interested in him, Reinhart willy-nilly frequented this society, attending a few concerts, where he felt unpleasantly conspicuous as the middle-aged civilian audience beamed benevolently on the display of high-minded soldiery, and sitting in on some discussions, quaking with terror that he might be called upon to add his half-cent. If that sum were indeed low enough to symbolize the content of his head as he sat surrounded by his frighteningly articulate comrades.
The prevailing sentiment was, as one intense, red-haired, hollow-cheeked PFC (they were all privates and PFCs) put it, “just left of center, like FDR.” Reinhart literally did not know what this meant, except that while in grammar and high schools, when he took his father’s cue in politics, he had detested Roosevelt, had at campaign times worn little buttons against him, one for Landon pinned to a sunflower head of yellow felt, another reading simply: “We don’t want Eleanor either.” And still, even after he lost all interest in that sort of thing, carried a vague distaste for the man which was renewed at every picture of the teeth, the cape, the cigarette holder, the dog, the wife melting in good will, the sons drooping in false modesty, the desk ornaments, and Sarah Delano R., the grim progenitor of all these. Yet it was not subsequently hard to swallow that he had been an improvement on old Hoover, starched-collar, pickle-faced, the personified No. And whatever left-of-center now meant—he had always supposed it a kind of radical creed presided over by kindly-looking cranks like Norman Thomas who were understood to be not serious and a more extreme variety represented by Earl Browder with his mustache and dark shirt and faintly alien air, which might be sinister if it ever got its most improbable chance—what it meant now could only be something respectable, if somewhat strangely motivated, for these young men professed a constant concern for victims of one social outrage or another, in which company they themselves could not be counted, so that it was not a demonstration of self-interest.
Reinhart was impressed, even cowed, by their easy yet earnest assurance and disturbed by the shrinking of his hitherto supposed wide horizon. How he had wasted his faculties to date! Even if his sympathies had been all along on the right side: these people too were opposed—and from a far more intelligent point of vantage—to the double-breasted, cigar-smoking deities of
The Army, oddly enough, was filled with superior people, the universities being then in the process of emptying to that purpose. Every barracks had its circle of cultivation, and while its membership was still outnumbered by the gross herd playing cards, shooting dice, and shouting incessantly fuck this, fuck that, it in the strength of unity read newspaper editorials, went on pass to hear the nearest city’s philharmonic, and discussed international political events. At every post where Reinhart served, this circle in fact had been semi-officialized, meeting at least once a week with the authority and encouragement of an intellectual officer. Since he was channeled in that direction by cultural imperatives and nobody else seemed interested in him, Reinhart willy-nilly frequented this society, attending a few concerts, where he felt unpleasantly conspicuous as the middle-aged civilian audience beamed benevolently on the display of high-minded soldiery, and sitting in on some discussions, quaking with terror that he might be called upon to add his half-cent. If that sum were indeed low enough to symbolize the content of his head as he sat surrounded by his frighteningly articulate comrades.
The prevailing sentiment was, as one intense, red-haired, hollow-cheeked PFC (they were all privates and PFCs) put it, “just left of center, like FDR.” Reinhart literally did not know what this meant, except that while in grammar and high schools, when he took his father’s cue in politics, he had detested Roosevelt, had at campaign times worn little buttons against him, one for Landon pinned to a sunflower head of yellow felt, another reading simply: “We don’t want Eleanor either.” And still, even after he lost all interest in that sort of thing, carried a vague distaste for the man which was renewed at every picture of the teeth, the cape, the cigarette holder, the dog, the wife melting in good will, the sons drooping in false modesty, the desk ornaments, and Sarah Delano R., the grim progenitor of all these. Yet it was not subsequently hard to swallow that he had been an improvement on old Hoover, starched-collar, pickle-faced, the personified No. And whatever left-of-center now meant—he had always supposed it a kind of radical creed presided over by kindly-looking cranks like Norman Thomas who were understood to be not serious and a more extreme variety represented by Earl Browder with his mustache and dark shirt and faintly alien air, which might be sinister if it ever got its most improbable chance—what it meant now could only be something respectable, if somewhat strangely motivated, for these young men professed a constant concern for victims of one social outrage or another, in which company they themselves could not be counted, so that it was not a demonstration of self-interest.
Reinhart was impressed, even cowed, by their easy yet earnest assurance and disturbed by the shrinking of his hitherto supposed wide horizon. How he had wasted his faculties to date! Even if his sympathies had been all along on the right side: these people too were opposed—and from a far more intelligent point of vantage—to the double-breasted, cigar-smoking deities of
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