World War II was the last government program that really worked.

Host: The city lay in twilight, a half-forgotten museum of shadows and neon. The river reflected the lights of the bridge like broken memories, trembling and bright. In a quiet bar by the water, Jack and Jeeny sat at a corner table beneath a flickering lamp that buzzed like a weary ghost. The smell of whiskey, wood smoke, and rain filled the air. A slow blues song played on the jukebox, its voice raw, its truth older than peace.

Jack’s hands were folded, his eyes fixed on the amber liquid in his glass, the kind of stare that holds more wars than any book could tell. Jeeny, across from him, traced circles on the tabletop with her finger, her mind somewhere between anger and sadness.

Jeeny: “George Will once said, ‘World War II was the last government program that really worked.’ You ever think about what that means, Jack?”

Jack: chuckling darkly “Yeah. It means that sometimes the only thing governments are good at is destruction. The war machine runs smoother than the peace machine.”

Host: The rain began again, tapping gently against the window, like a thousand quiet footsteps of ghosts returning to hear the debate. The bar was nearly empty; only a bartender polishing glasses, and a radio whispering some far-off news that no one cared to hear.

Jeeny: “You think that’s what he meant? That killing millions was our most ‘efficient’ project? That’s a cruel kind of success, Jack.”

Jack: “Cruel, yes. But honest. Look at it: governments mobilized millions of people, built industries, invented technologies, united nations—and for what? Because there was a common enemy. The world worked when it had a target. Now we just have bureaucracy without purpose.”

Jeeny: “You make it sound like humanity only knows how to unite through hatred.”

Jack: “Maybe it does. War gives people a clear story: heroes, villains, victory. Peace is complicated, dull. It asks people to think instead of fight. Governments don’t thrive on nuance.”

Host: The lamp above them flickered, humming like a tired heart trying to remember its rhythm. Jeeny’s eyes glowed softly in the dim light, reflecting both anger and pity.

Jeeny: “But you can’t deny what came after the war — the UN, the Marshall Plan, the European Union. Reconstruction. Healing. The idea that peace could be built with cooperation, not conquest.”

Jack: leaning forward, voice low and hard “And how long did that last, Jeeny? The UN can’t even stop a civil war. The EU cracks under its own rules. The Marshall Plan worked because America had money and motive. Now we have motives and no money. Governments today can’t even fix the roads, let alone rebuild a world.”

Jeeny: “You’re measuring the wrong success, Jack. You think efficiency is all that matters. But maybe the war ‘worked’ because it forced us to look at what we’d become. Sometimes you need to touch hell to believe in heaven again.”

Host: Her voice trembled slightly, but it carried a kind of fire, the kind that burns quietly but leaves no doubt. The rain thickened against the window, streaking the glass like tears sliding down a forgotten monument.

Jack: “And what did we learn, really? After the war came Korea. Vietnam. Iraq. We just gave the same machinery new names. Governments don’t learn lessons, Jeeny. They just repaint the battlefield.”

Jeeny: “And yet, we stopped fascism. We ended genocide. Millions were saved because governments did something. Would you rather they’d done nothing?”

Jack: pauses, his jaw tightening “No. But I’m saying maybe the real tragedy is that the only time humanity ‘works’ together is when it’s trying not to die.”

Host: The silence that followed was heavy, like a fog pressing against the windows. Somewhere, a sirene wailed faintly — not from war, but from the everyday battles of a city that never stopped fighting itself.

Jeeny: “You sound like you’ve given up on the idea of progress.”

Jack: “No. I’ve given up on the idea that governments make progress. People do. Artists, scientists, lovers — they build what politics destroys. The war worked because it forced ordinary people to do extraordinary things. But that wasn’t the government’s virtue. It was humanity’s desperation.”

Jeeny: “And yet without government, there would’ve been no coordination, no supply, no unity. Chaos would’ve devoured everything. Maybe governments are like surgeons — they cut to heal. Painful, but necessary.”

Jack: “Or butchers who think they’re surgeons.”

Host: A flash of lightning illuminated Jack’s face, revealing the shadow of some old memory behind his eyes — something personal, perhaps. A loss that still whispered in the dark. Jeeny noticed it but said nothing. Her hand moved slightly across the table, stopping just short of touching his.

Jeeny: “Did you lose someone?”

Jack: after a long silence “My grandfather. Normandy. They said he died for freedom. I just wonder if freedom should cost that much.”

Jeeny: softly “Sometimes the price isn’t the point. Sometimes the fact that we were willing to pay it is.”

Host: The music on the jukebox shifted — a slow, melancholic guitar, each note hanging in the air like an unanswered prayer. The bar grew quieter, as if the world outside had paused to listen.

Jack: “So, you really believe World War II ‘worked’? That it was proof government can succeed?”

Jeeny: “Not in the way you think. It ‘worked’ because it showed that human beings — even in the machinery of power — could still fight for something bigger than themselves. It was the last time our governments believed in moral clarity, however brutal the method.”

Jack: “And since then?”

Jeeny: “Since then, we’ve forgotten how to fight for ideas without weapons.”

Host: The clock above the bar ticked with a slow, almost sorrowful rhythm. Jack exhaled, his breath visible in the cold air, a reminder that even warmth fades when left unguarded.

Jack: “Maybe that’s why Will called it the last government program that worked. Because it was the last time leaders dared to act decisively — right or wrong. Now everything’s committees, debates, paralysis.”

Jeeny: “But would you really trade today’s paralysis for that kind of decisiveness? For another war?”

Jack: shaking his head slowly “No. But I’d trade a thousand speeches for one moment of courage.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe courage isn’t missing, Jack. Maybe it’s just hiding in quieter places — in peace talks, in protests, in small acts that never make headlines.”

Host: The rain outside had softened into a steady drizzle, turning the streets into rivers of reflected light. The city glowed like an exhausted but living thing. Jack looked out the window, his face caught between nostalgia and resignation.

Jack: “You always find light in the ruins, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “Because that’s where it’s needed most.”

Host: A long silence followed. Then Jack lifted his glass, eyes distant.

Jack: “To the last government program that worked.”

Jeeny: lifting hers gently “And to the hope that one day, peace will work better.”

They drank. The sound of the glasses meeting was soft, but it echoed like a verdict.

Host: The camera of the world pulled back — out through the window, past the rain, over the river glimmering like a wound that refused to close. Two figures remained in the corner of that bar, shadows against a trembling light — one believing in systems, the other in souls — both bound by the same memory of a war that worked too well, and a peace still learning how.