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after his grandfather and affectionately called “Dino.” Perhaps because Keller had become a father relatively late, dad and son, each with piercing blue eyes, bonded instantly.
    By the summer of 1943, Keller had established a career, married a woman he loved, and fathered a son who had become the pride and joy of his existence. But the world had changed. Just a year after little Deane’s birth, the Japanese had attacked Pearl Harbor. With the nation at war, Keller wanted to join the more than two hundred members of the Yale faculty already in military service. Yale, like all universities, underwent severe changes not just to redefine its relevancy during war but also to survive. Ninety-eight percent of Yale’s students continued their studies through the summer, reducing the normal four-year course work to two years and seven months. Military and physical training became a part of the curriculum. Yale officials even transformed parts of the campus—sandbags covered the windows of Wright Hall to protect the university’s central telephone switchboard.
    Keller knew that his lectures to departing soldiers, now down to just two per week because of the dwindling number of stateside volunteers, fell far short of what he could and should be doing. Keller wanted to get into the fight. He first tried the Marines, but they turned him down, blaming poor eyesight. With the news that the Allies had bombed Rome a second time, on August 13, and the battle for Sicily at an end, Keller predicted that the invasion of the Italian mainland would soon follow. The riches of thousands of years of civilization—some of mankind’s greatest creative achievements—lay directly in war’s path. Italy would soon become a combat zone. And here he was, an expert on Italy and its cultural treasures, stuck in a classroom, lecturing.
    Three months earlier, Keller’s friend and mentor, Theodore Sizer, Director of the Yale University Art Gallery, had written to suggest that he take a different path to serve his country, one that matched Keller’s experience with the military’s needs. Apparently a new unit was being formed to protect art. “Tubby,” as he was known to his friends, wasn’t so much suggesting Keller apply as he was demanding it:
    Dear Deane:
    . . . Suffice it to say that after a week here [US Army School of Military Government in Charlottesville, Virginia] . . . this above all else is the place for you. You are over 35 (requirement #1), know several foreign languages—Italian is very badly needed (requirement #2). . . . On receipt of this sit down & draft a letter to War Department . . . and apply. Stress your knowledge of Italy the country, of the people, their habits, etc. Language people are easy to get but they want those who understand the psychology of our enemies. . . . Most important—don’t be so damned MODEST—put it on thick. After the draft rewrite twice & boil down a bit—mail—forget about it. In this you have nothing to lose & a lot to gain. Don’t let the former disappointments blunt this necessary initiative. Do it NOW.
    Yours, T. S.
     
    Keller wrote the letter, but his continued lectures made it hard to take Tubby’s advice and just “forget about it.” Waiting made him anxious. After all, his poor eyesight hadn’t improved, and he wasn’t getting any younger. By August, however, Keller had become cautiously optimistic, informing his parents that if he passed the physical exam, he hoped to be shipped off to Italy to serve as a Monuments officer. “This is all very much might, for there is no word as yet.”
    AS INFORMATION SPREAD about the new art protection unit, another man from Yale ached to enlist. Deane Keller vaguely knew him, but he was considered a rising star within the community of art historians. On July 24, 1943, this tall, gangling scholar received his commission as a lieutenant in the United States Army. His name was Frederick Hartt.
    Whereas Keller had grown up in a stable and