routine that has Strange’s in-lawsncaught—all ring as true as the figuresnon Keats’ urn, and as equally caught;nforever fixed in time and place.nIt was not until I began to read Whistlenthat I realized I have never forgottennFrom Here To Eternity, although it appearednin 1951. That was nearly thirtynyears ago, and at the time critics called itna regular hippopotamus of a book, stackednwith stereotypes and unreal situations.nThey drew attention to his wavering style,nwhich shifted from time to time, reflectingnvarying influences. Its enormous salesnnotwithstanding, the novel was not seriouslyndiscussed. Certainly I did not takenit seriously—but I never forgot it. Therenwas also a movie made, in 1953, thatnwon an Academy Award, and served asna vehicle by which the sagging fortunesnof Frank Sinatra were forever restored.nCertainly Jones was never hailed as anpromising new talent, despite the enormousnsuccess of his first novel, as wasnNorman Mailer for his 1948 The Nakednand the Dead. But Mailer’s novel containednseveral features that enrapturednthe critics. For one thing, it exceeded innobscenities any previous general novelnfrom a respectable house. For another, itnexuded a disguised contempt for Americannfighting men, and it overlookednenlisted men from a lofty aerie. It featuredna major-geheral from a proper backgroundnwho was not only a crypto-fascistnbut a closet queen and it projected asnhero a soft Harvard lieutenant who wouldnhave been at home on the staff of thenNew York Times. Jones, who capitalizednthe terms Regular Army and who lovednhis enlisted men, who considered officersnburdens to be endured in an organizationnactually managed by sergeants, was—likenthe public—behind the times; unawarenof changes in attitude that Mailer reflectednas accurately as a weathervane.nWhile Mailer sunned himself in annacclaim that, to a great extent, still unaccountablynlingers, Jones moved to Paris.nHe surmounted the challenge of laternnovels with admirable skill but nevernreally succeeded in becoming a majornliterary lion. Mailer, who lived in NewnYork—his natural ambience—distinguishednhimself by a serious crime, bynappearing drunk in public on numerousnoccasions and by cocktail party fisticuffs,nbetween potboilers and exhibitions. YetnMailer was termed an artist and Jonesna hack.nJones labored under the critical handicapnof not using his characters to illustratena theory, or to ridicule this civilization.nHe wrote of people and scenes henknew, and of times that had pressed deeplyninto his mind. His women were real butnhis sex scenes were flat. He was at hisnbest with friendships inside a group ofnmen. These, despite the Mailers of thisnworld, were untinted by homosexuality.nHis Army men were not even especiallynpatriotic: they fought to keep faith withntheir comrades and to maintain their ownnself-respect.nJ. he ending of Whistle is sad, but sonis the end of youth. Only the Medal winnernwas left onstage, being exhibited on tournas a freak to raise War Bond sales by annArmy theater group headed by MajornJerry Kurntz. Jones knew the changesnEmpty CaricaturesnJohn Casey: An American Romance;nAtheneum; New York.nby Edward J. WalshnJtvomantic love is of course a perennialntheme of great literature. It wasnso when Shakespeare read medievalnromans before producing Romeo andnJuliet; it is so today, when John Caseynhas published his An American Romance.nBut between Shakespeare andnCasey many years passed, and many cataclysmsnof popular culture, one of thenunfortunate consequences being thatnwhile Shakespeare felt constrained tonhave his lovers properly married, CaseynMr Walsh is an officer of the UnitednStates Industrial Council.nnnthe war brought. Jones’ friend WillienMorris describes, in a foreword, hownJones toiled to end his trilogy. The final,nindented section is taken, verbatim, fromna tape Jones dictated in a Long Islandnhospital two days before his death—ofncongestive heart failure. That and othernclues make it clear Sergeants Warden/nWelsh/Winch was Jones, idealized. Ofnall his portraits, it is the most impressive.nMany other writers have tried to conveynthe American enlisted man; virtuallynall have failed because they looked downward.nJones was the real thing, andnadmired his friends. He did not countndraftees—those self-pitying, involuntarynheroes. His great achievement was tondefine the points of honor for his generationnand group, which to them spellednthe differences between real men andnfailures. In doing that and completingnhis trilogy, Jones forever outdistancednall the other writers regarding Americansnin the Pacific. Many of his competitorsnhad better technique and more education,nbut none as true a heart or better eye,nnor a deeper knowledge that real honornmeans to stand fast whenever, or whereever,ncombat is joined. Dndoes not. To the contrary, he makes themndo almost everything except marry. Thencritics have acclaimed him, and tell usnthat he has produced a great love story.nBut hopes that he has written a novelnexpressing values akin to Shakespeare’snare unfounded.nCasey’s title throws one off at once.n”An American Romance,” it seems,nsimply put, would generally summonnvisions of boy meeting girl, falling innlove, writing notes, sending flowers,nspeaking to father. But Casey’s novel ofnAmerica is a crude, mutant joke. It isnperhaps as dishearteningly American asnthe Greenwich Village singles scene; thensignificant difference is that Casey’snlovers, Anya and Mac, spend most ofntheir time copulating and psychoanalyz-n15nChronicles of Culturen