The United States assigned photographic duties to the Signal Corps. The Red Cross, charged with distribution and unclear on the notion of profit, allowed the four major news distributors—Pathé, Universal, Mutual, and Gaumont—to compete for the footage via games of ro-sham-bo, and from there the accounting system broke down.

Which is where McAdoo came in. Fresh from the Liberty Loan tour, he was President Wilson’s point man in the picture show. America would get into the film business itself. The first film produced by the Signal Corps was Pershing’s Crusaders, and this was the footage now showing in the White House basement.

The country’s first film was indistinguishable from the earlier news-reels—here were soldiers in basic training, then men on the decks of ships, waving, then horses being curry-combed, soldiers oiling their rifles. McAdoo thought that after a while all shots of battle seemed the same. And you never saw the human pulp that followed an explosion. Not that anyone needed to see that. He struggled to right himself against the chair, his calves aching, his shoulders throbbing, wondering how Grover Cleveland’s Cabinet had stood the discomforts of a caneback chair, no pillows.

When the lights were up, he was shocked to see the young men of the War Department, several of them, wiping away tears. “I never understood before,” one of them said, pausing, for he was suddenly in unfamiliar waters. He had blond hair with a messy parting, and the makings of a second chin. “This is not the war described. It’s the war.”

“You know, uh—I’m sorry, is it Jim?” said McAdoo.

“John.”

“Sure. Sorry. But it’s not the war. It’s mediated by—”

“Mediated?”

“Well, are you familiar with the term ‘diegetic’— Oh, never mind. Listen, we have other business to talk about.”

“It’s just that”—John could not quite let it go; he sniffled—“it has no editorial slant. It’s objective. I’ve never seen that before.”

“Oh, gosh, look.” McAdoo considered, and reconsidered. If this was how an audience of intelligent men felt, then perhaps the war films were an excellent tool. Plus, he didn’t want to make Jim feel like an idiot. “All right,” he said. “Let’s just finish the war soon, okay?”

Such was the atmosphere in the White House lately. As McAdoo dismissed the younger bureaucrats, they were discussing how, after the war, the energy and commerce and power marshaled against the forces of evil could be redirected. A mighty body of nations using diplomacy to solve disputes, end poverty, raise standards of living. With the application of “sanity and intelligence and morality,” Wilson’s three graces, America would establish on the world stage something close to paradise.

It was damp in the basement. The door closed. Now it was just McAdoo and the projectionist. “Show me again, if that’s all right.”

“The war footage?” asked the projectionist.