When Books Went to War

by Molly Guptill Manning

  The Chicago Sun suggested the public not kid itself about the true nature of the act and Title V: it was a Republican move to deprive Roosevelt of a fourth term. “Congress in its wisdom has decreed that fighting men should be insulated from political ‘propaganda.’ The idea was to protect these innocent young men from nefarious attempts to sway them for a F - - - th T - - m.” After considering the books being banned under Title V, the Sun remarked that not one of them had “any remote bearing on the F - - - th T - - m,” and that if they did have any political content, it was “in the same sense that the Constitution or a history of the United States might have it.” The whole episode seemed patently absurd, and the Sun said that the council “does well to protest this silly ban in the strongest terms.”

  One of the most exasperating repercussions of Title V was the fact that best-selling books with no apparent political agenda were swept up in the ban. That Catherine Drinker Bowen’s Yankee from Olympus, Charles Beard’s The Republic, and E. B. White’s One Man’s Meat were somehow going to sway the upcoming federal election was nonsensical. After the Rochester Times Union carefully inspected every page of Yankee from Olympus, it concluded that the only portion of the book that could have triggered the ban was a description of a conversation between the chief justice and President Roosevelt that was confined to a single page and did not go beyond an exchange of pleasantries. “If this is ‘political propaganda,’ then so’s your ‘World Almanac,’” the Times Union said. Similarly, a Michigan newspaper scoured Charles Beard’s The Republic, only to find no political partisanship; the book, however, did contain an “excellent discussion of how the fundamental principles of American government evolved from the Constitutional convention.” A favorite anomaly covered by the newspapers was the ban on E. B. White’s One Man’s Meat—a collection of whimsical essays about life in New England that originally appeared in the New Yorker and other periodicals; the very same essays were readily available to the fighting forces in the magazines they received. (White, himself, once admitted that he never understood why One Man’s Meat was banned, but he liked that it was. “It shows somebody read it,” he said.)

  The council’s media campaign generated an avalanche of letters to the editors of newspapers and opinion pieces slamming the Soldier Voting Act and demanding its repeal. Democracy on the home front was thriving: people were speaking their minds and criticizing their government. The backlash concerning Title V also showed that the public understood that books were not mere stories; they contained vital information that helped soldiers understand why they were fighting and risking their lives. Books were intertwined with the values at stake in the war, and Americans would not tolerate any restriction on their reading materials.

  On symbol-laden Fourth of July, the War Department made an announcement that, due to the Soldier’s Voting Act, it was forced to withdraw several textbooks used in Army education courses. These textbooks, which had been used in teaching history and economics to soldiers for years, had fallen into disrepute because they made at least a passing comment on politics or government. A few days later, Time magazine reported that the Army newspaper Stars and Stripes was forced to censor its news stories in order to avoid offending Title V. For example, when the Rome edition of Stars and Stripes published a story about the Republican candidate for president, Thomas E. Dewey, it was forced to omit Dewey’s criticisms of the Roosevelt administration. Another report said that the Mediterranean edition of Stars and Stripes was forbidden to print Associated Press articles on politics. The U.S. Air Force Institute was compelled to stop offering four of its correspondence courses because certain textbooks fell under the ban. Time commented that these books were “likely to be saved from Congressional book-burning only by the waste-paper salvage campaign.” It seemed incomprehensible that such actions were being taken in order to comply with American legislation. The Saturday Review of Literature diagnosed Congress with a bad case of “censoritis”; the only known cure was repeal of Title V.

  On July 3 and 5, 1944, the council met with the Writers’ War Board to strategize their next move. The two organizations agreed that they would personally contact Senator Robert Taft, Title V’s sponsor, to pressure him to support amending or repealing the law. A special committee of council members joined members of the Writers’ War Board, the Authors’ League, and the writers’ organization PEN to draft a formal letter to Senator Taft. The missive began by mentioning the recent publicity that Title V had received, noting that “all of it [was] sympathetic to our point of view.” Striking a conciliatory tone, the letter insisted that no one believed it was Taft’s intent to prevent the distribution of books that fell under a literal interpretation of the bill. Yet best-selling books containing no political propaganda were subject to the ban. The council warned that it would use the press and radio, at home and overseas, to inform the public and servicemen about Title V, and its “implication that the men overseas cannot be trusted with the same reading matter available at home.” The alternative: Taft could meet with the council to come up with a solution.

  Lieutenant Colonel Trautman soon informed the council that, after a recent meeting with five Army generals, a decision had been made that the bill would be interpreted even more strictly than before, causing additional books to fall within the scope of the ban. The Army’s position effectively was to double down its support for the council’s attack on the bill. A draft of the council’s meeting minutes reveals that Philip Van Doren Stern “reported that the Army had told him unofficially that they will continue to interpret the bill literally in the hopes that it will force a repeal or revision” of Title V. Stern’s remark was omitted from the final version of the council’s minutes.

  Senator Taft, a scion of Ohio’s powerful Taft family, a son of a president himself, and a perennial contender for the White House, was not prone to avoiding battles. Within days of receiving the council’s letter demanding amendment of Title V, the senator sent an unapologetic response, insisting that the council did not seem to understand the act. After noting that any book could be privately purchased and sent to those in the services, Taft emphasized that it was only books purchased with government funds that were affected. Taft smugly noted that “no one can question the wisdom of the provision which prohibits the expenditure of government money to print and distribute books containing political argument and political propaganda just before the 1944 election.” Taft faulted the Army for reading the act much too strictly and added he did not see how The Republic or Yankee from Olympus contained political argument or propaganda. Yet the senator did agree to travel to New York to discuss the legislation and possible revisions to it.

  On July 20, Senator Taft met with several members of the council, Lieutenant Colonel Trautman and several other Army representatives, Norman Cousins of the Saturday Review of Literature, and Carl Carmer of the Writers’ War Board. The group met at the Rockefeller Lunch Club in Manhattan, where Taft spoke for roughly fifteen minutes, explaining that it was not the intention of Congress, nor was it his purpose, to limit the supply of printed matter to those fighting the war. He expressed willingness to sponsor amendments to the act that would ameliorate the problems that had arisen. In response, the council and its supporters offered the senator three options: repeal, removal of the criminal punishment clause (making violation of the law practically meaningless), or amendment of the law to prohibit only those books that, when considered in their entirety, were obvious political propaganda.

  A representative from the Army spoke next on how Title V had hampered the Army’s massive program of information and education. To avoid violating the law, the Army had adopted the motto “Leave it out when in doubt.” Educational courses were dismantled, and individual books were removed from library shelves. “We believe that the best soldier is an informed soldier,” an Army spokesperson said. “We believe that we can fight a better war and end it sooner with men who know what is happening in the world.” But the recent limitations on books and education
al courses had thwarted the Army’s objectives.

  Despite his tenaciousness, Senator Taft was in a sensitive political position. He did not want to be seen as supporting censorship of servicemen’s reading materials. Nor did he want to be called out for backtracking on his own legislation. Thus, after meeting with the council, Taft issued a statement, reiterating his long-standing belief that “the general principle of prohibiting government funds for political propaganda is admitted by all, but the provisions of the act are somewhat too strict and make administration by the Army too difficult.” He openly criticized the Army’s interpretation of the law, but conceded that he would sponsor amendments to the act in order to increase its flexibility.

  Before Congress took any action, the situation only became worse for Senator Taft. A group of well-respected journalists who covered the July 20 meeting had overheard Taft state that 75 percent of the servicemen would vote for Roosevelt if given a chance, and that he was opposed to soldier voting because those serving overseas “were out of touch with the country, lacking knowledge of issues and candidates, and would quite naturally vote for their Commander-in-Chief.” The journalists who heard these comments published them. As word spread, Taft’s colleagues began to distance themselves from him. For example, Illinois senator Scott Lucas said: “Senator Taft apparently does not yet realize that this is a global war and that our men fighting and flying all over the world may have a better idea than we at home as to what the true issues for America will be in the 1944 election.”

  The Army continued to publicize the asinine consequences of Title V. On August 9, news broke that even more censorship was in store for the soldiers when the War Department announced that servicemen were barred from viewing the movie Wilson, a biography of the late president, and the film Heavenly Days, a comedy about a couple who visit Washington, D.C., starring the popular radio duo Fibber McGee and Molly (a film so anodyne, it has been long forgotten). The War Department also confirmed the rumor that all British newspapers were banned from circulation to American troops because these papers would undoubtedly take sides in the election. Two days later, the Army hammered the final nail into Title V’s coffin when it announced that it was forced to prohibit the sale and distribution of the Official Guide to the Army Air Force because it contained a picture of President Roosevelt labeled commander in chief. This was an Army that knew how to win wars at home. Congress had little choice but to act immediately.

  By August 15, Senator Theodore Green of the Committee on Privileges and Elections submitted a report stating that amendment of Title V was vital because members of the armed services needed access to a variety of reading materials to sustain morale and offset enemy propaganda. According to Green, the law’s intent was “not to shut off from members of the Army and Navy the news and information accessible generally to civilians in the United States.” In a reference to Senator Taft’s fondness for blaming the Army for too strictly interpreting the law, Senator Green said that “the cure for the situation is certainly not to have the services loosely interpret the law”; rather, Congress had an obligation to correct the law itself. Senator Green recommended that Congress eliminate Title V’s prohibition on materials containing a reference to politics and amend the law to permit distribution of books, magazines, and newspapers that were generally available on the home front. Under the amended law, the only acceptable limitation on the distribution of reading materials would be if “difficulties of transportation or other exigencies of war” prevented books from making their way to the various fronts. It wasn’t just an amendment, it was a full retreat.

  With uncharacteristic speed, the proposed amendment to the Soldier Voting Act was passed unanimously by the Senate on August 15, 1944. The following day, the House approved the amendment and sent the final bill to the White House for the president’s signature. By August 24, 1944, the council proudly announced that three of the books that had been previously banned under Title V would be published in ASE format: Catherine Drinker Bowen’s Yankee from Olympus; Charles A. Beard’s The Republic; and E. B. White’s One Man’s Meat. The council also printed Slogum House and Strange Fruit, Bostonians notwithstanding.

  The council’s victory in the battle over Title V was one of its greatest achievements. By galvanizing the media to report the issue and inspiring Americans to exercise their freedom of speech to criticize a ludicrous law, the nation proved its democratic mettle. In the words of the council’s executive director, Archibald Ogden, “it is a refreshing example of democracy in action to bring a complete turn-about in both the Senate and the House within the space of less than two months.”

  Perhaps the droves of soldiers who voted for Roosevelt in the 1944 election did so because he was the only candidate whose name they could recall and record on their bobtailed ballots. Perhaps the Title V fiasco left such a bitter aftertaste that many Americans were driven to side with Roosevelt rather than censorship-promoting Republicans. Or maybe the nation felt most confident with the man who had led them for twelve years, and the troops supported their commander. Whatever their reasons, in November 1944 voters elected Roosevelt to a fourth term as president by a relatively slim margin of approximately 3 million votes. An estimated 3.4 million votes were cast by absentee ballots under the mechanism provided by the Soldier Voting Act, and that may well have made the difference. When Harvard University issued its 1944 Alumni Bulletin, it drily reported: “Franklin D. Roosevelt, Grad. ’03–’04 . . . No change of address.”

  In May 1933, tens of thousands of books were burned in Berlin and in towns across Germany. By the end of World War II, more than one hundred million volumes were destroyed in Europe by the Nazis.

  America’s librarians responded to Germany’s “bibliocaust” by urging Americans to donate millions of books to the armed services. Here, on the steps of the New York Public Library, thousands gather to catch a glimpse of their favorite celebrities and donate books.

  The Victory Book Campaign’s fi rst director, Althea Warren, inspired librarians across the United States to gather millions of books for homesick and weary servicemen. “Librarians know,” she said, “that some printed pages are . . . tourists’ tickets out of boredom or loneliness to exhilarating adventures.”

  Celebrities including Kate Smith, a popular singer remembered to this day for her rendition of “God Bless America,” raised awareness of the need to donate books to the VBC.

  Eleanor Roosevelt urged Americans to give good books to the armed services and proudly gave on behalf of herself and the president.

  VBC posters were hung everywhere: in train stations, department stores, movie theaters, and schools. In 1943, the public was asked to give more books than they did the year before.

  In St. Louis, streetcar tickets were redesigned to include a book drive reminder. All libraries and schools served as donation centers.

  In New York’s Pennsylvania Station, a three-year-old girl donates hardcovers by depositing them into a novel drop box posing as the “world’s largest book.”

  In hospitals, patients eagerly read books to pass the time. Here, a Red Cross volunteer gives a volume of Shakespeare to an American wounded in Tunisia.

  Knowing hardcover books were unsuitable for men on the frontlines, Malcolm Johnson, of Doubleday, Doran & Co., helped develop troop-friendly paperbacks and revolutionized American publishing in the process.

  During the war, Armed Services Editions were bound on their short side and each page had double columns of text. Aft er V-J Day, ASEs, like The Chicago Cubs, were printed in upright format. The front cover of each ASE had a thumbnail image of the hardcover edition, the back cover described the book, and the inside back cover included a list of that month’s titles.

  Some servicemen were eager to read Strange Fruit and Forever Amber, as they contained sex scenes considered so indecent that they were banned in Boston. “If you’ve ever seen books that were completely worn out by reading,” one serviceman said, “it was the copies of Forever Amber.”


  Betty Smith’s A Tree Grows in Brooklyn and Rosemary Taylor’s Chicken Every Sunday were beloved for their wholesome accounts of American life. They were compared to taking a leave or receiving a good letter from home.

  Soldiers wrote heartfelt letters to Betty Smith, crediting her book with instilling a sense of purpose, helping them survive battles, and just plain cheering them up. Smith responded to most of her fan letters, even sending autographed photographs upon request.

  For hospital patients, nothing could break On LSTs, the stress of imminent battle the monotony of spending days in bed like could be suffocating. Books were a a book. Paperbacks were in high demand, godsend when it came to distraction. since they could be held comfortably for hours while a soldier was flat on his back convalescing.