Colossus (20 page)

The year 1951 was perhaps the only moment in its history that the
American Republic came close to meeting the fate of the Roman Republic. The man who would play the part of Caesar was the architect of the new Japan, now commander in chief of the UN forces in Korea, General Douglas MacArthur. Convinced that Truman’s chosen strategy of “limited war” was fatally mistaken, MacArthur effectively crossed the Rubicon by publicly saying so. In defying Truman, he had not only popular support but also the backing of the Republican leadership in Congress and of a substantial proportion of the conservative press. When Truman dismissed him and MacArthur returned home to a hero’s welcome, the Constitution itself seemed in peril. It has sometimes been argued that MacArthur was defeated because he was wrong about American strategy. This is debatable. MacArthur was certainly wrong in thinking he could ignore or subvert the orders of his commander in chief. But Caesar too had been in the wrong when he defied the Roman Senate; it had not stopped him from prevailing. The real reason MacArthur did not follow in Caesar’s footsteps was that he was outwitted by a more politically skilled opponent.

Truman had long detested MacArthur—“Mr. Prima Donna, Brass Hat, Five Star MacArthur,” he privately dubbed him. As far as the president was concerned, “Dugout Doug” was a “speechmaker” and a “showman,” who regarded himself as “God’s righthand man”—a “proconsul for the government of the United States [who] could do as he damned [well] pleased.”
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As early as January 1948 he predicted that MacArthur might seek to oust him by “mak[ing] a grand march across the country about a month before the Republican convention.”
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There is no question that MacArthur was guilty of what Truman called “insubordination.” The first transgression was the general’s letter to the national convention of the Veterans of Foreign Wars, intended to be read publicly on August 28, 1950, which denounced “those who advocate appeasement and defeatism in Asia.” This he withdrew at Truman’s request, but not before its contents had leaked to the press. The second offense came on March 24, 1951, when MacArthur knowingly preempted, and thereby stymied, Truman’s carefully laid plans to open negotiations with the Chinese, about which he had been notified four days previously. To some European observers, this was little short of a
pronunciamento
.
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The third came on April 5, when the Republican leader in the House of Representatives read out a letter from MacArthur that argued for the employment of “maximum counterforce”
against China and concluded: “There is no substitute for victory.” This was clearly in breach of a White House directive of the previous December, requiring State Department authorization for all public statements by MacArthur.
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Technically Truman’s case was cast-iron. But politically it was insufficient. It was vital that MacArthur’s strategic arguments also be discredited. To this end Truman worked assiduously—and in the end successfully—to win over MacArthur’s military superiors on the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

When MacArthur was informed of his dismissal on April 11—not from a presidential emissary, as had been intended, but from an aide who had heard the news on the radio after an extraordinary nocturnal press conference at the White House—he resolved to return to the United States and “raise hell.”
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He had little difficulty. When the news of his dismissal broke, there was outrage. Senior Republicans talked wildly of multiple impeachments, sentiments echoed by the
Chicago Tribune
. MacArthur was hailed as “one of the greatest military leaders since long before the days of Genghis Khan,” a “giant” and a “deserving idol of the American people”; Truman was nothing more than a drunk and a pygmy the leader of a “popular-front Communist-dominated Government.”
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There were pro-MacArthur demonstrations from New York to San Gabriel, California, from Baltimore to Houston. Four state legislatures passed resolutions condemning the president’s decision. Telegrams poured in from all over the country, overwhelmingly against Truman. The president’s approval rating crashed to 26 percent; a Gallup poll put support for MacArthur at 69 percent. Those in the White House who joked that MacArthur would “wade ashore” and burn the Constitution amid a “21-atomic bomb salute” were doing their best to make light of a grave political crisis.
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MacArthur’s return was no laughing matter. His address to Congress was a bravura performance, running the gamut of mawkish sentiments from the pious to the patriotic. It was watched on television by thirty million people and punctuated by thirty eruptions of applause from the people’s elected representatives. “We heard God speak here today, God in the flesh, the voice of God!” exclaimed a delirious congressman. One senator “felt that if the speech had gone on much longer there might have been a march on the White House.”
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MacArthur himself strutted through the streets of New York in an impromptu parade that
is said to have drawn a crowd of up to seven million. It was a triumph worthy of a Caesar.

Yet Truman prevailed—not through any public appeal, but by quietly and methodically securing the support of MacArthur’s fellow soldiers. MacArthur’s argument was, first, that “limited war” was undermining the morale of the American forces in Korea; secondly, that the United States should escalate its operations against China, attacking the Chinese airfields in Manchuria and blockading the Chinese coast; thirdly, that the Chinese Nationalist forces in Formosa (now Taiwan) should be mobilized on the side of the United States; and finally, that up to fifty atomic bombs should be dropped on Chinese cities.
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The alternative to “victory” was “appeasement,” which would merely “beget new and bloodier war.” Truman’s retort was that the war in Korea was “a Russian maneuver,” designed to distract the United States from the much more important question of Western Europe, which an all-out attack on China might prompt the Russians to invade.
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Fatally for MacArthur, Truman convinced the Joint Chiefs of Staff to back him. It helped that MacArthur’s successor, General Matthew B. Ridgway, so quickly stiffened the resolve of the American forces in Korea.
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But the key was the testimony of the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, General Omar Bradley, at the hearings held jointly by the Senate’s Foreign Relations and Armed Services committees. Memorably, Bradley argued that an all-out war against China would have left Western Europe at the mercy of the Soviets; it would have been “the wrong war at the wrong place at the wrong time and with the wrong enemy.”
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MacArthur had no answer to this. As “theater commander” he did not “know all of the details” about the European position, nor had he “gone into” the “global problem.”
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These were fatal admissions. By the time the Senate hearings ended, MacArthur’s credibility had evaporated. A poll in late May revealed that public support for him had fallen to 30 percent, his speaking tour through Texas flopped and a campaign to “draft MacArthur for president” was a damp squib.
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Liberals like Walter Lippmann, who had recognized the threat to the Republic, breathed sighs of relief.
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MacArthur had tried to cross the Rubicon only to sink before reaching the other side. Politically he had miscalculated. But had he been wrong on the strategic question of how to win in Korea? It is at least arguable that
he had a case.
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For a start, limited war did not deliver the swift agreement with China that Truman had hoped for. Armistice talks began in July 1951; they did not reach a conclusion for another two years. This was not just because of the official stumbling block, the question of whether or not the Chinese and North Korean prisoners of war should be forcibly repatriated.
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It was also because limited war waged simultaneously with peace talks gave the Chinese no reason to fear an escalation by the United States. For precisely that reason, the strategy MacArthur had advocated ended up being seriously discussed again just months after his departure. In January 1952 Truman himself advocated issuing an ultimatum, informing the Soviet Union that the United States would blockade the Chinese coast and destroy Chinese bases in Manchuria if there were no change of policy within ten days. This would mean “all out war. It means that Moscow, St. Petersburg, Mukden, Vladivostock, Pekin[g], Shanghai, Port Arthur, Dairen, Odessa, Stalingrad, and every manufacturing plant in China and the Soviet Union will be eliminated.” Three months later the JCS recommended the “tactical use of atomic weapons.”
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When negotiations broke down yet again in the autumn, Ridgway’s successor, General Mark Clark, sent a plan to Washington “designed to obtain military victory and achieve an armistice on our terms”; it explicitly raised the possibility of atomic strikes “against appropriate targets.”
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Truman’s successor, Eisenhower, also contemplated using atomic warheads “on a sufficiently large scale” to bring the conflict to an end.
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This had been MacArthur’s position all along. It was also the public’s position. Asked if they favored “using atomic artillery shells against communist forces … if truce talks break down,” 56 percent of those polled said yes.
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It may have been precisely this belated threat that persuaded the Chinese finally to back down on the issue of voluntary repatriation of prisoners. If so, then MacArthur was at least partly vindicated. Limited war had not succeeded in securing an end to the war; only the threat of an atomic escalation had. By overruling MacArthur, Truman and the Joint Chiefs of Staff had unwittingly prolonged the war for more than two years. By the time the armistice was signed (on July 27, 1953), more than thirty thousand American servicemen had lost their lives (though it is worth remembering that casualty rates declined sharply after 1951).
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Many more had been wounded, and more than seven thousand had endured the miseries
of captivity, which more than a third did not survive. Nearly four thousand troops from other countries who participated on the UN side were also killed. South Korean losses were vastly higher, over four hundred thousand.
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Worse, the outcome was no better than a tie. Korea was divided in two, leaving the armed forces of the North poised, where they remain to this day, just thirty-five miles from Seoul.

In some ways what the Korean War revealed was the remarkable self-limiting character of the American Republic. The United States in 1951 had both the military capability and the public support to strike a decisive military blow against Maoist China. Many another imperial power would have been unable to resist the window of opportunity afforded by America’s huge lead in the atomic arms race. Yet Truman drew back, and the general who defied him was thwarted. Why? The lesson Henry Kissinger and others drew from Korea was that America’s allies were as much a hindrance as a help. As Kissinger argued in 1956, “Either the alliances add little to our effective strength or they do not reflect a common purpose, or both…. We have to face the fact that only the United States is strong enough domestically and economically to assume worldwide responsibilities and that the attempt to obtain the prior approval by all our allies of our every step will lead not to common action but inaction…. We must reserve the right to act alone, or with a regional grouping of powers, if our strategic interest so dictates.”
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It was undeniable that the multilateral nature of the Korean intervention created some difficulties. MacArthur’s strategy was clearly not one that America’s European or Commonwealth allies wanted. Yet it seems clear that Truman would have opted for limited warfare even if the United States had been acting alone. The irony was that in acting as he did—in upholding the authority of the president and the republican Constitution in the face of MacArthur’s challenge—Truman was acting against the popular will. In the month of MacArthur’s dismissal, support for the war had stood at around 63 percent. By October 1952 less than half that proportion of those polled believed the war in Korea had been “worth fighting” (see
figure 4
). The trouble with limited war turned out to be that public patience with it was even more limited. It would take the United States another long war to learn that lesson, and this war would
end not in a tie but in a humiliating defeat. The paradox of the imperial Republic was that it was the civilian political elite—along with sections of the military—that favored limited war, much more than the wider electorate.

FIGURE 4
Support for the Korean War, 1950–53