The poignant record of Princetonians who served

The book that most fascinated me last year was not by Plato or Machiavelli, but a big gilt-edged volume in a display case in Frist Campus Center. Every day, like the Book of Kells of Trinity College in Dublin, some mysterious hand would turn one page of the book. Each new page would list the name of a Princeton University student, a year and a place. It was a yearbook of sorts, though what it recorded was not graduation years and hometowns, but the year and place of those students' deaths. The book was a memorial to the hundreds of Princeton students who died in battle during the Second World War. The thickness of that book staggered me — so many, so far away.

I was always saddened by that book — of course by the loss of life, the cost of sacrifice that was paid by those brave (and undoubtedly terrified) young men, but also because, almost invariably, I found that I was one of too few people who would stop to pay my respects and silently acknowledge a debt that cannot be repaid. Afterward, I would position myself at a table where I could keep the display in my sight as I drank my afternoon coffee; sometimes a prospective student with parents in tow (or vice versa) would stop to look at it, but almost without exception, a steady flow of students would walk past it without a glance on the way to the next Lab or precept.

Princeton University speaks proudly of its tradition of educating students "in the nation's Service," and, since 1996, "in the service of all nations," but it is certainly striking to compare the sizeable numbers of students who entered military service during World War II and the relative dearth one finds in this era of the "War Against Terrorism." Indeed, there is astonishingly little reflection whether there might be a fundamental tension between serving the nation and serving all nations: Military service certainly implies that service to the nation often will be undertaken in direct opposition to other nations. To fudge this point is to suggest that the University at least implicitly disapproves of military service: It's customary to hear commendations of volunteer service or public service in the civilian sector, but it would be downright jarring to hear an outright recommendation of military service from Princeton's administrators.

I don't seek to chide today's students on this score: You are exceptionally good students, and you have learned society's lessons exceedingly well. We live in a society that recommends a radical division of labor: Some people govern, some people soldier, and most people concentrate on chosen professions. Citizenship entails occasional civic attentiveness and even less frequent voting, but even those "duties" are finally optional.

Recently, Congressman Rangel called for the reinstitution of the military draft. Most people saw the call as a cynical political ploy, and, indeed, he admitted that such a universal requirement was designed to reveal that wars such as that in Iraq would be less palatable to the population at large if all the nation's children might potentially be put at risk. Behind the cynical point, however, was a real truth: Universal service decreases the likelihood of foreign military adventurism and empire. This has traditionally been one of the arguments classic republicans make against a standing army: Militias based on universal compulsory service are more likely to be defensive than aggressive. Universal service also puts all citizens more realistically on a level playing field: All serve for a time, regardless of personal circumstance. We mix with people of different classes and backgrounds — real diversity, not the kind concocted in admissions offices. It represents a form of civic equality that tempers the inequalities of our meritocratic society. It points us toward a common good to which we all contribute.

I was struck this week by General Wesley Clark's call for increased national service in the form of a civilian reserve corp. Clark clearly understands that the call for universal military service is a nonstarter in the current environment; yet, he also recognizes that a reservoir of civic goodwill is going untapped by the current administration. Calling his plan a "New American Patriotism," Clark is proposing a voluntary five-year commitment in such a civilian corps and potential active service for up to six months. Not part of an entitlement program, Clark nevertheless argues that volunteers would be accorded a stipend, health care, and a guarantee that they could return to their jobs. More, he hopes that such a form of service could begin to slake the hunger for sacrifice that the country experienced in the aftermath of Sept. 11. In the days that followed that terrible attack — as citizens stood in line to offer blood and treasure — President Bush called upon Americans to visit their local shopping mall. Certainly we can do more honor than that to the fallen Princeton students in that big, sad, noble book.

Patrick Deneen is an assistant professor in the politics department.