The first time young David Dellinger made the
New York Times was on November 3, 1932, under the headline, “Yale Cub Harriers Pick Dellinger.” The story, all of two sentences, reports that the former high school track star was elected captain of the university’s freshman cross-country team. The doings of leading Yale men were news in those days, and although Dellinger was an enemy of hierarchy all his life, he was paradoxically a natural leader. Later, at New York’s Union Theological Seminary, he was made president of his class. Eventually he would become famous as a towering and uncompromising figure in radical causes; Paul Berman, an insightful historian of the postwar left, writes that, during Vietnam, Dellinger “became the single most important leader of the national antiwar movement.” He became a great deal more famous as a member of the Chicago Seven, whose trial on charges of criminal conspiracy and inciting to riot arose from their antiwar protests during the 1968 Democratic National Convention. Dellinger sat through the proceedings with awkward dignity along with codefendants including Abbie Hoffman, Jerry Rubin and Tom Hayden—all radical celebrities in those fraught times. But surely Dellinger, the oldest of the lot (and in the judge’s view, the guiltiest) was the only one entitled to a sense of déjà vu, because he had been through something similar so long before.
In 1940, as he was about to begin his second year at Union, Dellinger was the de facto leader of an idealistic band of students who had decided not to register for the nation’s first peacetime draft. Long before anyone might have dreamed of the Chicago Seven, newspapers across the country were reporting on the antiwar seminarians who would become known as the Union Eight. Despite considerable pressure from Henry Sloane Coffin—Union’s president was known as Uncle Henry behind his back—these young pacifists refused to avail themselves of a provision in the new draft law that was included with precisely their sort in mind: “Regular or duly ordained ministers of religion, and students who are preparing for the ministry in theological or divinity schools. . . shall be exempt from training and service (but not from registration) under this Act.”
So determined were these resisters to remain untainted by the apparatus of war that they went to federal prison—a segregated prison, reflecting a segregated society—rather than violate their beliefs by filling out a piece of paper. “The war system is an evil part of our social order,” the students wrote, “and we declare that we cannot cooperate with it in any way.” Because their objections genuinely were religious, they probably would have been granted conscientious objector status even had they not been divinity students. “War is an evil,” they wrote, “because it is in violation of the Way of Love as seen in God through Christ.” Reinhold Niebuhr, probably the nation’s leading theologian and a Union professor they had looked up to, may have been their harshest critic. A reformed pacifist himself, and perhaps therefore imbued with the zeal of the convert, he met with the students individually to try and change their minds. Dellinger’s hysterical father, in a hair-raising phone call, threatened suicide. But the young men were immovable, explaining: “We do not expect to stem the war forces today; but we are helping to build the movement that will conquer in the future.”
These words will seem impossibly idealistic today, much like the belief that freedom could be preserved from fascist military aggression by the sheer moral force of nonviolence. Yet to a great extent Dellinger and his fellow pacifists did conquer the future, even if he and many others left Christ behind. By 2004, when Dellinger died at the age of 88, Berman was able to put the late radical’s activism into remarkable perspective. Dellinger, he said, “came of age in one of the tiniest currents of the American left—the Rev. A.J. Muste's movement for World War II pacifism, a movement based on radical Christian values and vaguely anarchist instincts. No rational person observing that movement during the 1940’s would have predicted any success at all, and yet during the next two or three decades, Mr. Dellinger and his pacifist allies transformed whole areas of American life.”
That tiny current—which somehow became a tsunami of social change—has also given birth to this book, whose aim is not to make the case for pacifism but to tell the story of its remarkable adherents during its greatest trial: the Second World War. No one can dispute the horrors of war, or that opponents of our nation’s many military engagements were all too often right to challenge them as pointless, unjust or both. But it will come as a surprise to most Americans that, even after Pearl Harbor, thousands in this country opposed World War II. That’s the war we all seem to approve of—the quintessential “good” war during which Americans pulled together and sacrificed.
For the most part, they did, but it was a war thrust upon them despite their most strenuous efforts to avoid it. Before the outbreak of formal hostilities in Europe, polls showed that most Americans were firmly against U.S. involvement in yet another massive and bloody foreign conflict.
Conditioned by the bitter disappointment of the Great War, which by the 1930s was widely seen as a waste and a scam, many Americans were determined not to be conned again, this time by a war erupting from an unjust peace. “You were supposed to be wised up about the War,” said Mary McCarthy, explaining: “We were afraid of making a mistake, of being ‘taken in.’”
The evils of Nazism, early on visible only as the tip of a Satanic iceberg, competed in the public mind with those of Stalinism. The lies of the Great War had bred skepticism toward alleged German atrocities. People also worried that another foreign war would beget tyranny at home, for war always increases the power of the state, and tyranny in those days seemed to be in the air, spreading like a virus from nation to nation. American civil liberties had been trampled in connection with the last European war. This time, many feared, would be worse.
During the interwar period, moreover, the United States had developed perhaps the largest and best-organized pacifist movement in the world. Pacifism was part of the curriculum at some schools and firmly on the agenda of the mainline Protestant denominations that were such important institutions in the life of this churchgoing nation at the time. Liberal clergymen, including such celebrity ministers as the indefatigable Harry Emerson Fosdick, spoke out against war from their Sunday pulpits and via the popular new medium of radio, whence the gospel of pacifism reached a student by the name of Martin Luther King Jr. Pacifism was well-established on campuses thanks to a massive and diverse national student antiwar movement, with thousands pledging not to fight under any circumstances.
Even after the Nazi invasion of Poland, some people could find little basis for choosing between the growing array of combatants; alliances were shifting, and there were uncomfortable parallels between the imperialist Western powers and their enemies. Hitler’s persecution of the Jews (the “final solution” not yet in view among outsiders) was widely condemned. But why was it fine for Britain to occupy India and wrong for Germany to occupy Poland, or even France? Why not go to war with the Soviet Union, which invaded not just Poland but Finland and the Baltic States too? Who exactly were the good guys, aside from nations already crushed and beyond help? “If we see that Germany is winning we ought to help Russia,” Harry Truman would suggest on the Senate floor, “and if Russia is winning we ought to help Germany.”[viii] But when Hitler’s Panzers turned on Western Europe, more Americans began to side with the Allies and see U.S involvement as inevitable. The mass pacifism of the interwar years began to dissolve. After Pearl Harbor, which surprised nearly everyone by bringing war to America from Asia, domestic opposition to entering the fight collapsed.
Yet against all odds, and perhaps all reason, some Americans adhered so doggedly to the principle of nonviolence that they persisted in opposing the fight. About 43,000 men were granted conscientious objector status once the draft law of 1940 took effect. Most were purely religious objectors, and some contributed to the war effort as combat medics or in other non-lethal roles. About 12,000, unwilling to cooperate in military activities, accepted assignment to a far-flung network of rural work camps run by the traditional peace churches in uneasy partnership with government.
But a small number of resisters were radical pacifists whose opposition to war was—or would soon be—part of a vastly more ambitious reformist impulse. Not all these radicals were religious, and some who were grew less so. Some were granted CO status and some weren’t, the haphazard local adjudication system inevitably producing widely disparate results. And some, like Dellinger, refused to seek that status.
“Extreme pacifist is the best description I can think of,” Christopher Isherwood wrote of them a few years after the war, “but it is unsatisfactory and vague; for the group combined several sorts of anarchists, individualists, religious and non-religious objectors. Some of them had refused even to register for the draft, holding that registration itself implies acceptance of the military machine.”
Isherwood’s description serves well enough. Of the roughly 6,000 Americans who went to prison for refusing to cooperate with the war in any way, most were apolitical Jehovah’s Witnesses whose confinement reflected the government’s refusal to accept that everyone in the church was a minister. That left nearly 2,000 absolute resisters, a small number that belies a large impact. For the most radical resisters, who emerged from the experience hardened against prison, poverty and social disrepute, the war became a laboratory for developing the ideas and approaches they and others would employ, in the turbulent decades ahead, to bring about some of the most important social changes in this country since the end of slavery.
Copyright © 2022 by Daniel Akst. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
