From Colony to Superpower: U.S. Foreign Relations Since 1776 (113 page)

While the nation agonized over
Sputnik,
the Cold War raged across the world. In distant Tibet, site of the mythical Shangri-La, fierce Khampa tribesmen, trained in Colorado by the CIA and parachuted back into their homeland, fought a "pinprick" war against Chinese occupation forces. The rebels gained valuable intelligence about China's nascent nuclear program. They also suffered horrendous losses—like "throwing meat into a tiger's mouth," one guerrilla conceded. The enterprise was generally counterproductive. The guerrillas did enough to annoy China but never threatened its control; U.S. support for them enabled the Chinese to use an external threat as an excuse to invade Tibet in 1959.
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Certain that the mercurial Sukarno's neutralism exposed Indonesia to a possible Communist takeover, Eisenhower and Dulles in 1957 began covert support for rebel forces on the islands of Sumatra and Sulawesi. The CIA delivered arms by submarine and airdrop, and in 1958 U.S. and Taiwanese "volunteer" pilots began to provide air support. Unlike Mosaddeq and Árbenz, Sukarno hung tough and the Indonesian Army outfought the rebels. The U.S. hand was revealed in May 1958 when American pilot Allen Pope was shot down and captured. Eisenhower's claims that Pope was a soldier of fortune fooled no one. An embarrassed administration had to scrap an already faltering covert operation. The United States' involvement actually strengthened Sukarno and the Indonesian Communist Party. When the Soviets began large arms sales to Sukarno, the administration, to retain some influence in Indonesia, did the same. The debacle in Indonesia was an unnoted harbinger of things to come.
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Old Cold War hot spots flared up again in 1958. A second Taiwan Straits crisis erupted in August when China resumed shelling Quemoy and Matsu. Mao hoped to demonstrate his independence from Moscow and derail any Soviet tilt toward the United States. Thinking in conventional Cold War terms and fearing an all-out attack by Mao—or Chiang Kai-shek—Eisenhower and Dulles took a tough line. In his last go at brinkmanship, a gravely ill Dulles threatened war while the president briefly pondered using tactical nuclear weapons against Chinese airfields. Mao terrified Soviet diplomats by appearing to welcome a U.S. attack. Maneuvering skillfully amidst these conflicting forces, Eisenhower committed the United States to defending Quemoy and Matsu while leaving an opening for the Chinese. Having used the islands as a baton to make Khrushchev and Eisenhower dance, as he put it, Mao backed off. Sino-American ambassadorial talks resumed in Warsaw. Eisenhower's diplomacy provoked a backlash from some Democrats and European leaders who feared his actions might spark a war over worthless Asian real estate and from supporters of Taiwan who smelled appeasement.
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The United States encountered problems with allies as well as enemies. As Japan grew stronger economically and recovered from the trauma of defeat, sentiment increased for revision of the 1952 treaty. Japanese compared that pact to the unequal treaties of the past century. They resented the continued presence of more than two hundred thousand
U.S. "occupation" troops, highlighted by a much publicized 1957 incident in which a GI brutally shot a Japanese woman picking up shell casings on an American firing range. They feared the treaty might drag their nation into war with the Soviet Union or China. Vividly remembering Hiroshima and Nagasaki, they especially feared the presence of U.S. nuclear weapons on their territory. With typical, superheated Cold War rhetoric, Ambassador John Allison warned Washington that if relations were not soon put on a more equal basis Japan might slip away.
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Eisenhower moved expeditiously to stabilize relations with a crucial ally. In 1957, he authorized a major CIA covert operation to bolster conservative elements in Japanese politics. The agency bankrolled the Liberal Democratic Party (LDP) to the tune of $2 million to $10 million a year to influence elections for the legislature and secure political intelligence to discredit that party's foes. Such methods represented a blatant intrusion in Japanese politics and abetted the creation and perpetuation of a one-party "democracy."
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The administration also opened discussions for a new security treaty. To facilitate the process, it voluntarily reduced by more than half the number of troops stationed in Japan and offered generous trade concessions. After months of sometimes difficult negotiations, the two nations in early 1960 concluded an agreement that made concessions to Japan but protected what the United States considered most important. Each side could terminate the treaty after ten years. The United States gave up the right to intervene militarily in Japan's internal affairs, but it could act to protect the security of Japan and the Far East, a vague provision that aroused great concern among Japanese. Japan renewed U.S. base rights, a crucial matter for Washington, but U.S. and Japanese forces could be employed only after consultation, a key issue for Japan. The delicate question of nuclear weapons was addressed in a separate, secret agreement, the existence of which has still not been officially acknowledged or the terms divulged, permitting the United States to move such weapons in and out of Japan.
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The United States appears to have violated the spirit if not the letter of that agreement by keeping nuclear weapons on Iwo Jima and Chici Jima and housing bombs without cores and nuclear components on bases in Japan.
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The treaty marked a major change in the Japanese-American relationship.

It also provoked a crisis in U.S.-Japanese relations. To be sure, Americans warmly welcomed Prime Minister Kishi Nokosuke to the United States in January 1960, and the Senate approved the treaty without fanfare. But in Japan it became an explosive political issue. The left bitterly protested the continued presence of foreign troops on Japanese soil and warned of being drawn into war with the Soviet Union or China. The Soviet shooting down of a Pakistan-based U.S. spy plane in May, followed by another round of Khrushchev nuclear threats, gave powerful ammunition to foes of the treaty. Thousands of Japanese took to the streets to protest the alliance and Eisenhower's scheduled June visit. For a while, both governments stood firm, but in the face of rising protest and violence the United States agreed to Kishi's request for postponement. The president authorized the CIA to take additional measures to firm up the position of the LDP and promote the treaty. The agency also funded right-wing hit groups to harass leftist protestors. Democrats complained of yet another embarrassing defeat. Editorialists deplored cancellation of Eisenhower's visit as a "serious challenge to American prestige and a threat to our entire position in Asia."
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In the meantime, Khrushchev triggered yet another crisis over that perennial Cold War flash point West Berlin. For the Soviet leadership, in the premier's colorful imagery, Berlin was a "bone in the throat," a "malignant tumor" that required "some surgery."
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It provided an escape hatch for thousands of skilled workers who fled to the West, damaging the East German economy and embarrassing the USSR in a contest where symbols had become increasingly important. Khrushchev also perceived that Berlin was among his adversaries' most vulnerable positions—"the testicles of the West," he called it. "Every time I give them a yank, they holler."
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Now more secure in the Kremlin hierarchy, the Soviet leader interpreted as a victory U.S. refusal in July 1958 to send troops to Iraq to uphold the pro-Western government, further bolstering his self-confidence and confirming his view that threats and pressure were the only language the West understood. Exhibiting both his "peasant logic" and his reckless, sometimes bizarre, diplomatic style—he compared it to playing chess in the dark—in November 1958 he squeezed hard by demanding that West Berlin be made a free city (a city governed autonomously under international agreement).
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If the Western allies did not comply within six
months, he would conclude a separate peace with East Germany, terminating the World War II four-power arrangements and leaving the question of access to West Berlin in the hands of his East German ally. Khrushchev's confused and risky diplomacy was designed to scare the West into serious negotiations and wangle an invitation to visit the United States for a summit meeting. But his move was poorly thought out and characteristically impulsive. If it failed, he casually remarked to his son, "Then, we'll try something else."
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Eisenhower agreed that Berlin was a "can of worms." He also was eager to settle the volatile German question. But he could not appear to give in to Soviet threats. He rebuffed hawkish proposals from his military advisers but stood firm on Berlin. He ordered a quiet military buildup while calmly reassuring the nation. Khrushchev's ultimatum expired May 27, 1959—ironically, the day John Foster Dulles was buried—without any comment from Moscow. The crisis eased momentarily, but Berlin would remain the most explosive spot in world politics for the next few years.

Even as the Berlin crisis smoldered, the major powers inched toward the first Cold War agreement on nuclear weapons. Initial discussions emanating from the 1955 Geneva summit went nowhere. Eisenhower was at best lukewarm, believing that real disarmament would come only after the Cold War had been won. Nuclear testing was the most pressing issue, and the United States refused to deal with it except as part of a larger agreement that included on-site inspections, a provision the Kremlin seemed sure to reject. Moscow linked a ban on nuclear testing to a sweeping ban on all nuclear weapons, an offer the United States turned down because of its inferiority in conventional forces. The deadlock provided ample room for propaganda moves, and Moscow took full advantage. In late 1957, Bulganin proposed suspension of nuclear testing for two to three years along with a summit to discuss other disarmament issues. In January 1958, Khrushchev proclaimed Soviet intentions to cut conventional forces by three hundred thousand troops; two months later, he announced a unilateral suspension of nuclear testing.
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Within a year, both sides took dramatic steps forward. Even as he sought to exploit nuclear threats, Khrushchev increasingly saw the dangers of nuclear war. Keenly aware that military spending was holding back Soviet economic development, to which he was deeply committed, he sought
agreements that would enable him to divert precious resources to domestic needs. Eisenhower still dragged his feet. He did not trust the Soviets to abide by agreements that lacked the sort of inspections they were sure to reject. The Department of Defense and the Atomic Energy Commission adamantly insisted that testing was essential to U.S. national security. On the other hand, domestic and international pressures for test bans increased dramatically, and the president began to see other benefits. A test ban would be relatively easy to monitor, and Soviet acceptance of inspections might generate other intelligence to help guard against a surprise attack. A testing agreement might help check the spread of nuclear weapons to other nations, a growing concern in Moscow as well as Washington. After another uproar over the dangers of nuclear fallout, Eisenhower belatedly committed to suspending atmospheric testing and subsequently underground testing above the "threshold" of 4.75 on the Richter scale. "We have got to try to make some progress somewhere in the disarmament area," he exclaimed.
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His stand helped get the Anglo-American-Soviet talks in motion. By early 1960, the major unresolved issue concerned the number of on-site inspections.
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Khrushchev's fall 1959 visit to the United States provided further hope for easing Cold War tensions. Eisenhower acceded to Khrushchev's wish to come to the United States reluctantly and mainly because a State Department official—without authorization—had extended an unconditional invitation. The affair was grand Cold War theater, a first-class media event before the phrase was coined. Barely five feet tall, portly, and balding, Khrushchev did not present an imposing figure. Limited in education, profoundly insecure, and determined to prove himself, the ebullient, bumptious, and unpredictable Soviet leader this time arrived in a humongous aircraft so high off the ground that the passengers had to exit from an emergency ramp. He showed poor taste in presenting his host a model of the latest Soviet space achievement. He bristled at tough questions from U.S. reporters about Hungary. "I do not have horns," he goaded a New York audience.
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He complained that he was not permitted to visit Disneyland and protested—perhaps too much—the scanty apparel worn by actresses on the set of the movie
Can-Can
. He also displayed flashes of folksy charm. The two-week visit ended with private top-level talks at Camp David, the presidential retreat in the Maryland mountains. Ever nervous, Khrushchev worried that the hideaway named for Eisenhower's
grandson might be some kind of internment center. Perhaps surprisingly, the talks went smoothly. The Soviet premier came to see the president as someone he could work with. He withdrew his Berlin ultimatum—sort of—and Eisenhower vaguely agreed that the status of the city must change. Khrushchev also concluded that his grand scheme for improved relations was workable. The scheduling of a four-power summit for Paris in May 1960 followed by an Eisenhower visit to Moscow brought forth talk of a "spirit of Camp David" and worldwide hopes for peace.
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It was not to be. On May 1, two weeks before the summit was to begin and just as May Day celebrations were starting in Moscow, a Soviet surface-to-air missile shot down a U-2 spy plane over the village of Povarnia in the Ural Mountains. Both sides handled the incident badly. Eisenhower had long been uneasy about the U-2 flights, recognizing that they constituted an act of war. He consented to this particular flight only at the insistence of the military and the CIA and with assurances there would be no problems for the summit. For Khrushchev, the overflights had been especially humiliating. Still clinging to hopes for a productive summit, he blamed the hard-liners around Eisenhower. He hoped to capitalize on the triumph of shooting down the plane without destroying the summit, but he could not resist the temptation to overreach. He initially concealed that the pilot, Francis Gary Powers, had been taken alive and parts of the aircraft recovered, catching Washington in a lie when the usual explanations were issued of a weather plane straying off course. Eisenhower then compounded the problem by admitting to the spy flights without acknowledging that he had approved Powers's mission. Khrushchev's loud denunciation of the U.S. military for ordering the flight, perhaps intended to give Eisenhower a way out, instead forced the president to accept responsibility to make clear that he was in charge, thus undercutting Khrushchev's efforts to portray him as someone Moscow could deal with. Furious that Eisenhower had accepted responsibility, thus ruining his own scheme, an increasingly agitated Khrushchev once in Paris spewed forth a vitriolic, highly personal, forty-five-minute attack on the president. He demanded a formal apology and promises of no more violations of Soviet airspace. Publicly, the president struggled to contain his fury. Privately, he denounced Khrushchev as a "son-of-a-bitch" and refused even to speak his name.
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He agreed to suspend the U-2 flights, no huge concession since spy satellites would soon take their place. But he refused to apologize, believing that Khrushchev would have to give way to save the
summit. After days of frenzied efforts by British and French leaders to salvage something, the meeting broke up in anger. Whether the Paris meeting might have accomplished anything without the U-2 incident can never be known. The two sides still differed sharply on Berlin and disarmament. What is certain is that the "U-2 mess," as Eisenhower referred to it, destroyed the summit, cost the president and the United States heavily in prestige, ended any chance of substantive negotiations before the November elections, and left Berlin more dangerous than ever.
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