Military makes its sacred claim
Christopher Caldwell | Saturday, 7 June 2008
YOU can measure the continuing power shift in Washington by looking at the costly package of veterans' benefits sponsored by James Webb, the Virginia senator elected on an anti-Iraq war platform in 2006. President George W. Bush has promised to veto the measure. The scene is set for a showdown and Mr Bush is set to lose it. Over Memorial day, the editorial pages of US dailies backed Mr Webb's bill as the least the country could do for soldiers who have sacrificed so much. A majority of Republican senators joined Mr Webb's Democrats to render the bill veto-proof.
John McCain, the Republican presidential candidate, has proposed a more modest alternative, but the defection of his party spells its doom. Now that Mr Webb's measure has been dubbed a "21st-century GI bill", it is above criticism.
The original GI bill of 1944 is a landmark piece of US welfare legislation. It was passed in the panicked anticipation that releasing 15.2m veterans (30 per cent of the country's grown men) into the labour market at once would sow economic chaos and political radicalism. Outlandish benefits were paid to place demobilised soldiers in universities - full tuition at any undergraduate or graduate institution, plus a comfortable living stipend for the soldier and his family. Because 7.8m men - the ruling class of the next generation - benefited from the GI bill, its drawbacks have been ignored or denied. It had no impact on the bottom of the US income pyramid. It drove female students out of universities. It was the channel through which the hierarchical, macho culture of the military spread into boardrooms and town halls. Its cultural legacy includes the three-martini lunch, Playboy and a lot of soulless public architecture.
This pragmatic intervention in the labour market was confused with a moral principle - a military "right" to a free college education and (therefore) a place in the ruling elite. General Wesley Clark recently co-wrote an article insisting that "education assistance is not a handout, it is a sacred promise that we have made for generations in return for service".
The old GI bill still exists, much amended, and it still offers a ton of money - up to $40,000 (
John McCain, the Republican presidential candidate, has proposed a more modest alternative, but the defection of his party spells its doom. Now that Mr Webb's measure has been dubbed a "21st-century GI bill", it is above criticism.
The original GI bill of 1944 is a landmark piece of US welfare legislation. It was passed in the panicked anticipation that releasing 15.2m veterans (30 per cent of the country's grown men) into the labour market at once would sow economic chaos and political radicalism. Outlandish benefits were paid to place demobilised soldiers in universities - full tuition at any undergraduate or graduate institution, plus a comfortable living stipend for the soldier and his family. Because 7.8m men - the ruling class of the next generation - benefited from the GI bill, its drawbacks have been ignored or denied. It had no impact on the bottom of the US income pyramid. It drove female students out of universities. It was the channel through which the hierarchical, macho culture of the military spread into boardrooms and town halls. Its cultural legacy includes the three-martini lunch, Playboy and a lot of soulless public architecture.
This pragmatic intervention in the labour market was confused with a moral principle - a military "right" to a free college education and (therefore) a place in the ruling elite. General Wesley Clark recently co-wrote an article insisting that "education assistance is not a handout, it is a sacred promise that we have made for generations in return for service".
The old GI bill still exists, much amended, and it still offers a ton of money - up to $40,000 (