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to assist in the Allied occupation and conduct the “denazification” of Germany. Instead of being discharged, Salinger was reassigned to this detachment for the next six months and moved, along with other CIC agents, to Weissenburg, outside the city of Nuremberg. He had already written home, warning that his war might continue for some time.46 It meant that he was parting company with the 12th Infantry Regiment, which had been his home for more than a year. Now among strangers, the events and emotions that combat had held at bay, “those that were not potentially and thankfully void,” as Babe had grieved in “A Boy in France,” “began to trickle back into his mind.” When the soldiers of the 12th were discharged and he was left behind to deal with his memories, he began to sink into despair.

On May 13, about the time of his reassignment, Salinger wrote to Elizabeth Murray. The letter shows him dejected, expressing his resentment toward the army and its conduct of the war. He was distraught over the horrors he had lived through and haunted by the dead whom he had known. His own survival might have been nearly miraculous, but it carried with it a guilt particular to the survivors of war. “It’s been a mess Elizabeth,” he told Murray. “Wonder if you have any idea.”47

In times past Salinger had turned to writing to ease his pain and express inner feelings difficult to convey in daily life. During the war, when he found trouble expressing himself through prose, he turned to poetry.

In 1945 alone, he submitted at least fifteen poems to The New Yorker—so many that the editors started to complain.48 Regardless of the method employed, he had always used writing to deal with difficult emotions. It would have been natural for him now to render his feelings and experiences into a war novel. Many who knew him, Whit Burnett not the least among them, expected that he would do exactly this. But they were to be disappointed. After depictions of combat in “The Magic Foxhole” and “A Boy in France,” Salinger reverted to observing Babe’s oath in “Last Day of the Last Furlough” and chose “never to speak of it again.” Yet he did recognize the need for such a novel. In an interview with Esquire released that October with “This Sandwich Has No Mayonnaise,” he made it clear that he, however, was not ready to author it:

So far the novels of this war have had too much of the strength, maturity and craftsmanship critics are looking for, and too little of the glorious imperfections which teeter and fall off the best minds. The men who have been in this war deserve some sort of trembling melody rendered without embarrassment or regret. I’ll watch out for that book.49

• • •

In the summer of 1945, Jerry Salinger’s war experiences, extended service, sudden loneliness, and reluctance to express his pain converged upon him with disastrous effect. As the weeks wore on, his depression deepened and his feelings began to immobilize him. He had seen many cases of battle fatigue on the front, what we would now call post-traumatic stress disorder, and recognized the potential menace of his current state of mind. In July he voluntarily checked himself into a general hospital in Nuremberg for treatment.

Most of what we know about Salinger’s hospitalization is derived from a July 27 letter he wrote to Ernest Hemingway from the hospital. Addressed to “Poppa,” it began by openly confessing that he had been “in an almost constant state of despondency” and wanted to talk to someone professional before it got out of hand. During his stay, the staff had peppered him with questions: What was his childhood like? How was his sex life? Did he like the army? Salinger had given a sarcastic answer to each question—except for the one about the army. That query he had answered with an unambiguous “yes.” He had the Holden Caulfield novel in mind when he gave the answer, explaining to Hemingway he was afraid of the impact a psychological discharge might have on how the book would be perceived.

It was a splendid letter, and the wit of Holden Caulfield leapt off its pages. “There are