Every war has its propaganda. Some get stirring speeches, others get grim newsreels. World War II got sequins, tap shoes, and Irving Berlin. In 1943, the United States Army somehow became the producer of one of Hollywood’s biggest musicals, This Is the Army—a film that proved you could fight fascism with jazz hands. Before that, there was another war, another show, and another moment when the military decided that what the troops really needed was a chorus line. The result was one of the strangest, most successful morale operations in American history.

Act One: “Yip Yip Yaphank” — The Doughboy Revue That Started It All

In 1917, as the United States joined the Great War, the Army found itself drafting not just soldiers, but songwriters. One of those recruits was Irving Berlin, already a household name thanks to hits like “Alexander’s Ragtime Band.” Instead of being sent to the trenches, Berlin was stationed at Camp Upton in Yaphank, New York—where his commanding officer quickly realized that a man who could write catchy tunes was far more dangerous with a piano than a rifle. Berlin’s assignment: raise morale and raise money for a new community center. His weapon of choice: a Broadway-style revue performed by the soldiers themselves.

The result was Yip Yip Yaphank, written and produced by Berlin in 1918 with help from fellow songwriter Harry Ruby. It debuted at the camp’s Liberty Theatre that July and quickly made the leap to Broadway’s Century Theatre in August. The show was a glorious oddity—part military pageant, part vaudeville comedy, and entirely staffed by real soldiers from Camp Upton who could carry a tune or at least march in rhythm. The audience was treated to sketches, musical numbers, military drills set to music, and more heart than most professional shows of the day.

Among the highlights was “Oh! How I Hate to Get Up in the Morning,” Berlin’s comic masterpiece about the universal misery of reveille. The song’s wry humor captured the experience of every bleary-eyed private and became one of Berlin’s signature hits. It also featured soldiers performing in drag, back in the days when that sort of thing was purely for comedic effect (and because the cast was exclusively male) with no political implications. Audiences roared, critics applauded, and Berlin somehow turned the discipline of army life into show-stopping entertainment.

The grand finale was nothing short of genius—and slightly unsettling. The entire cast, dressed in full marching gear, sang “We’re On Our Way to France,” parading off the stage, through the aisles, and straight into waiting trucks outside the theater. This wasn’t just a theatrical device; they were literally shipping out to war. It was the most literal closing number in Broadway history and the kind of finale that made audiences cheer and performers wonder if the Germans they’d face on the battlefield would be as terrifying as the audience on opening night.

Yip Yip Yaphank raised about $80,000 for the Camp Upton community fund—a huge success, even though the building it was meant to finance was never actually constructed. The show closed later in 1918 at the Lexington Theatre, but its impact lingered. For the first time, a wartime production had shown that the military could mix patriotism with parody, morale with melody. It was a strange, inspired blend of marching orders and musical comedy, a reminder that even in wartime, America preferred its courage set to a snare drum.

And while Berlin himself never made it to France, Yip Yip Yaphank marched its way into history. It proved that morale could be choreographed and that laughter, not just loyalty, could keep soldiers standing tall.

Act Two: “This Is the Army” — The Sequel Nobody Expected

America genuinely believed the Great War had settled everything once and for all. It was, after all, the War to End All Wars. When the guns fell silent on Armistice Day, the nation imagined it had outgrown the need for both armies and the kind of soldier-staffed spectacles that kept their spirits marching.

That kind of rosy thinking aged about as well as a trench ration. History, never one to leave a hit alone, rolled out the sequel nobody ordered: World War II. Once again, America needed soldiers—and with them came the same need for laughter, music, and a reminder of what they were fighting for. The stage lights flickered back on, and there was suddenly room for another all-soldiers show.

The world was at war again, and Irving Berlin was older, more talented than ever, and still capable of inspiring patriotism with just a few musical notes and well-chosen words. Since Yip Yip Yaphank had worked so well the first time around, why not dust off the script, add a splash of Technicolor and a future president (to be fair, neither of them probably didn’t see that one coming), and do some good old-fashioned morale-building for the latest “war to end all wars”?

The result was This Is the Army — a stage show for World War II, again featuring real soldiers as actors and musicians. It opened in 1942 at the Broadway Theatre and became an instant hit. The combination of Berlin’s music, military precision, and genuine emotion struck a chord with audiences. The War Department, sensing an opportunity, decided to take the show to the big screen.

From Stage to Screen: Uniforms, Cameras, and a Very Young Ronald Reagan

Warner Bros. picked up the project, and with Berlin’s involvement, This Is the Army became one of the most ambitious wartime films ever produced. It was directed by Michael Curtiz, who had just finished Casablanca, and featured a cast that reads like a time capsule of early-1940s America. Ronald Reagan—before the White House, before the cowboy movies—plays a wholesome soldier named Johnny Jones. George Murphy, a song-and-dance man who would later follow Reagan into politics, co-stars. Alan Hale, who would become most famous for being the Skipper (and possibly the embodiment of the Deadly Sin of Wrath) on Gilligan’s Island. Boxing legend Joe Louis appears in a brief but significant cameo, and Kate Smith delivers a show-stopping rendition of “God Bless America” that probably registered on the Richter scale.

Ronald Reagan played the featured role of Johnny Jones. George Murphy, who would later be elected to the U.S. Senate, played Johnny’s father, Jerry. After Reagan’s election as the 40th President of the United States, several scenes took on unintended irony, such as:

• When the cast learns that the show is going on tour and will perform in Washington, DC, one of the soldiers says, “Hey, Johnny, wouldn’t it be something if the President comes to see us?” Reagan, as Johnny, is unimpressed and says, “Wouldn’t it be something if we can get this makeup off before the war is over?”
• Johnny’s girlfriend, Eileen, shows up before the show and tells Johnny, “I came to see the President — and you.” Presumably, she was unaware that she was being repetitive.
• As Jerry peeks from behind the curtain, he excitedly tells his son, “Johnny, look! There’s the President! And General Marshall! And the Secretary of State!” Johnny can’t seem to be bothered to look — possibly because he is too busy, or maybe he could see a president anytime he wanted by just looking in the mirror.

Irving Berlin himself appears on-screen, playing—well, himself. The movie blurs the line between fiction and reality, weaving the story of the original Yip Yip Yaphank into the creation of the new show. Real soldiers filled out the ranks of the chorus, and the film doubled as a fundraiser for the Army Emergency Relief Fund. It wasn’t just entertainment—it was a national project, with Warner Bros., the U.S. Army, and Hollywood’s most famous songsmith working in perfect sync. If you squinted, it looked like the Allies’ answer to fascist propaganda—but with better choreography.

Behind the Curtain: What It Meant (and Who It Moved)

The film premiered in August 1943 and became an instant phenomenon. It raised more than $10 million for the Army Emergency Relief Fund—a staggering sum at the time. Soldiers loved it. Civilians loved it. Even critics, usually allergic to overt patriotism, found themselves humming along. For two hours, audiences could believe that America’s military machine could win the war with nothing more than tap shoes and some magical musical notes.

But beneath the bright lights, This Is the Army was more than a spectacle. It captured a rare cultural moment when the nation’s optimism still outweighed its cynicism. The war was brutal, but this movie offered a version of America that sang instead of shouted, danced instead of despaired. It made patriotism catchy. And in an era before social media or viral videos, that was no small feat.

The Legacy: Could We Ever Do This Again?

After the war, the formula was never quite replicated. The Korean War produced somber dramas like The Steel Helmet and The Glory Brigade, where the humor was unintentional. Vietnam gave us Good Morning, Vietnam, where the music was still there but the message had soured. By the time Desert Storm rolled around, the military preferred USO tours to full-blown musical revues. It turns out there may have been only one historical window when we could choreograph patriotism without irony, and it closed sometime around 1945.

This Is the Army stands as a cultural time capsule—a moment when national unity could be set to a syncopated beat. It was propaganda, sure, but it was also sincerity in sequins. Berlin managed to do something remarkable: he made war humane by turning it into art.

Final Curtain: When Patriotism Rhymed with Showbiz

This Is the Army is both a relic and a revelation. It reminds us that in the darkest years of the 20th century, America believed morale could be manufactured—one chorus line at a time. It’s the story of how Irving Berlin, an immigrant who couldn’t read music, managed to outshine entire battalions with nothing more than melody, humor, and heart.

It’s unlikely anyone will ever make a film quite like it again. Modern audiences would roll their eyes at the earnestness; cynicism doesn’t tap-dance. But for one glorious moment, patriotism rhymed with showbiz, and Irving Berlin made the world believe that the sound of freedom wasn’t gunfire—it was applause.

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