The President went on: “That was what I said to Bill Knudsen the other day. In about the fourth or fifth list of these dollar-a-year men, they were all listed as Republicans except a boy who had graduated from Yale last June and never voted, and I said, ‘Bill, couldn’t you find a Democrat to go on this dollar-a-year list anywhere in the country?’ He said, ‘I have searched the whole country over. There’s no Democrat rich enough to take a job at a dollar a year.’ ” Again and again the reporters burst into laughter at Roosevelt’s sallies—and then stood impressed while he went into the detailed historical background of Denmark and Greenland.
Actually the President was deeply concerned about Britain’s position—even more so because he felt helpless to intervene with decisive effect. He asked Marshall and Stark to reassess the situation in the Middle East in the event of a British withdrawal from the eastern Mediterranean. And inexplicably he sent Churchill the long cable that upset the Prime Minister but that was evidently intended to solace Churchill if he had to pull out of the Middle East.
Of all the spikes of the global crisis the sharpest was in the North Atlantic. As the days lengthened, shipping losses mounted sharply again. The German battle cruisers Scharnhorst and Gneisenau were terrorizing the Atlantic, and the U-boats were perfecting new wolf-pack tactics. During one frightful night in early April a convoy lost ten of its twenty-two ships. The Atlantic was the one pivotal arena in which American intervention could be quick and crucial. Churchill was pleading for help. What could Roosevelt do?
For months the President had been tacking back and forth on the question of protecting British convoys. The administration had long before established patrols to observe and report on the movements of Axis raiders; they had even reported movements to the British. But naval escorts of convoys were a far more serious matter; such escorts would presumably attack nearby Axis ships or submarines on sight—and that was precisely why Churchill wanted Roosevelt to escalate from patrolling to escorting. The President fully saw the implications. In January he had said to reporters, as if to disarm his critics: “Obviously, when a nation convoys ships, either its own flag or another flag, through a hostile zone, just on the doctrine of chance there is apt to be some shooting—pretty sure that there will be shooting—and shooting comes awfully close to war, doesn’t it?” The reporters agreed. The President continued: “You can see that that is about the last thing we have in our minds. If we did anything, it might almost compel shooting to start.” In the following weeks Stimson, Knox, and Stark pressed Roosevelt to give British shipping the protection it needed; the President had been evasive and noncommittal. During this same period he was insisting publicly that Lend-Lease would help keep the nation out of war.
After the spring crises it seemed to many that the decision to escort convoys could no longer be put off. At a White House meeting Stimson, Knox, and now Hopkins urged the President to act. If the Navy was turned loose, Knox said, it “would clean up the Atlantic in thirty days.” But forthright action in the Atlantic required in advance the transfer of a fleet from the Pacific, and the President quailed at this global redisposition. Here Hull affected the problem. For weeks he had been holding interminable discussions with Ambassador Kichisaburo Nomura, who had been presenting the more pacific face of Japan. Hull feared that Tokyo would misinterpret withdrawal of fleet units from the Pacific as a sign of weakness. Stimson and Marshall tried to convince their chief that Hawaii was impregnable; but the President feared that Singapore, Australia, and the Dutch East Indies would be vulnerable without the American Navy. In vain Stimson urged on him that Britain could protect Singapore if the United States would reinforce the Atlantic. The President, backed by Hull and aware that the military itself was divided, would not move the fleet—and he would not order Atlantic escorts.
Harold Carlisle, The Des Moines Register and Tribune Syndicate, from the Washington Post, April 29, 1941
May 5, 1941, Rollin Kirby, reprinted by permission of the New York Post
Roosevelt hoped that stepped-up patrolling would help in the Atlantic. Then, he told Stimson and Knox late in April, he could inform Latin-American capitals about Axis raiders. Stimson bridled. “But you are not going to report the presence of the German Fleet to the Americas. You are going to report it to the British Fleet.” With his simplicity and directness and his narrower military responsibilities, he wanted Roosevelt to be honest with himself. The President must take the lead and also the risk, Stimson felt, for the public would not tell him ahead of time if they would follow him. But the President would not lead.
Was Roosevelt hoping that patrolling would trigger an incident that would dramatize Hitler’s threat to the hemisphere and unite Americans behind a bolder strategy? Ickes and others were convinced that he was. But evidently no ordinary incident would do. On April 10 the American destroyer Niblack, while picking up survivors from a torpedoed Dutch merchantman, had made sound contact with a submarine and had driven it off with depth charges. This episode—the first military encounter between American and German armed forces—Roosevelt had not used to dramatize the emergency. What was he waiting for?
A deepening crisis of confidence enveloped the administration in May. No one knew what was going to be done, Stimson complained. Morgenthau, who had now concluded that the United States must go to war to save Britain, felt that both Roosevelt and Hopkins were groping as to what to do. Wallace wrote that the farm people of Iowa were ready for a “more forceful and definite leadership.” Hopkins at one moment defended the President and in the next urged the military leaders to press their chief harder. In a tragicomic moment Stimson actually interrupted Hull’s croquet game to enlist support for a changed policy. The croquet player continued his game. Roosevelt’s personal friends—MacLeish, Frankfurter, William C. Bullitt—were deeply troubled. Ickes met secretly with Stimson, Knox, and Jackson to discuss ways of putting pressure on the President; all agreed that Roosevelt was failing to lead, that the country wanted more action and less talk, that something dramatic was needed to seize the attention of the world. It was Stimson who finally belled the cat. The people, he told the President to his face, must not be brought to combat evil through some accident or mistake, but through Roosevelt’s moral leadership.
Why was Roosevelt so passive? His lieutenants searched for clues. He was in and out of bed with an enervating fever during much of May, but he seemed no more militant during his ups than his downs. He was watching Congress and public opinion warily—especially an anticonvoy resolution in the Senate—but he seemed no more purposeful after the resolution was blocked. Clearly he felt constrained by his peace pledges—to Stimson, he seemed “tangled up in the coils of his former hasty speeches on possible war and convoying as was Laocoön in the coils of the boa constrictors”—but the militants were not urging a declaration of war, but simply more drastic action. Bullitt perhaps came closest to understanding Roosevelt’s mind at this point. The President realized that the United States would stand alone and vulnerable if Britain went down, Bullitt reported to Ickes after a long talk with Roosevelt, but he could not bring himself to go in simply and directly. He was still waiting for a major provocation from Hitler even while recognizing that it might not come at all. Above all, he was trusting to luck, to his long-tested flair for timing, and to the fortunes of war. He had no plans. “I am waiting to be pushed into the situation,” he told Morgenthau in mid-May—and clearly it had to be a strong shove.
So the crisis of confidence was also a crisis of strategy. Roosevelt was still waiting on events. When he and Hull caviled at shifting fleet units from the Pacific, he was ultimately responding to Hitler’s strategy of bolstering Tokyo in order to divert America from Europe. But the President had the virtues of his strategic defects; at least he would stay flexible, loose, ready to seize the opportunity. During May he agreed to shift about a quarter of the Hawaiian fleet to the Atlantic. And under pressure from the militants he considered making a major speech in which he would declare an unlimited n
ational emergency—but then to their despair he delayed the speech.
The President wanted to move foot by foot. At a Cabinet meeting he had contended that patrolling was a step forward. Stimson burst out: “Well, I hope you will keep on walking, Mr. President. Keep on walking!”
STALIN: THE TWIST OF REALPOLITIK
Half a world away from Roosevelt—and a world away in mind and outlook—Joseph Stalin, too, was watching Adolf Hitler, playing for time, hoping for the best. If Hitler and Roosevelt were near-opposites in ideology and temperament, the Soviet dictator and the American President seemed almost polar opposites in personal style: the one hard, stolid, patient, granitic; the other dexterous, articulate, supple, noncommitted. Both were outlanders—Roosevelt the product of a graceful Hudson River culture; Stalin, of the violent, poverty-ridden, hate-seared land of Georgia—and both had moved into the political heartland and mastered it. But while Roosevelt had risen through the loose, fragmented politics of an open society, Stalin had played a different game, slowly amassing influence in a monolithic party structure, effacing himself to avoid the ripostes of Trotsky and other Bolshevik luminaries, building alliances, jockeying for key posts, and then, after acquiring the party leadership, coldly isolating and destroying his political adversaries.
Stalin was the supreme ideologue, calculating and acting within a closed logical system, viewing the world through vulgate-Marxist prisms. Roosevelt was the supreme opportunist, eschewing dogma, avoiding final commitments. They spoke different political languages. Stalin preferred the “practical arithmetic” of agreements to the “algebra” of declarations, as he once remarked to Eden, but Roosevelt preferred political algebra—the forms, symbols, devices that facilitated day-to-day compromise even at the risk of disagreement and misunderstanding.
Now, by a hard twist of fate, the ideologue was not controlling history, and the opportunist could not long evade it. Hitler had not only forced these disparate men into the same camp, but also forced them into a similar global stance. Strategically they were both marching to the Nazi drum beat.
As a strategist, Stalin had sought to combine ideology and Realpolitik in the service of Bolshevism and the motherland. His armies were to stand clear of the long-expected death struggle of fascist and bourgeois states; meanwhile they would prevent hostile encirclement of Mother Russia and avoid a two-front war. During the 1930s he had tried warily and sporadically through Foreign Minister Maxim Litvinov to join Western nations in efforts at collective security. The West, its leaders irresolute and divided, fearful of both fascism and Bolshevism, had temporized too long. Stalin’s ideological radar picked up, amplified, and distorted the complex forces at work in the West, exaggerating the influence of Russophobes and Red baiters in Western chancelleries, assuming that “monopoly capitalism” would be bound by the ineluctable logic of history to attack Bolshevism, perceiving every conciliatory move toward Hitler as a capitalist plot to deflect Nazi expansion to the east. Munich was not only a surrender to Hitler but also a catalyst of fear and mutual suspicion between Moscow and the West. Within a year Stalin had replaced Litvinov with the glacial Molotov, signed a nonaggression pact with Hitler, and stunned the world with his ideological and military flip-flop.
Molotov rubbed the salt of Realpolitik into Western wounds. Only recently, he conceded before the Supreme Soviet, Germany and Russia had been enemies. “The situation has now changed,” he went on blandly, “and we have stopped being enemies. The political art in foreign affairs is…to reduce the number of enemies of one’s country, and to turn yesterday’s enemies into good neighbors.”
But how good were the good neighbors, now hundreds of miles closer to Moscow after the partition of Poland? Stalin had played the diplomatic game with Hitler, bargaining, pressuring, protesting, appeasing, and always hoping that Axis and Allies would bleed each other to debility if not death. As a strategist Stalin faced a dilemma like Roosevelt’s. He led a people conditioned to wanting to stay out of other people’s wars, namely “European” wars. Stalin knew that Russian soldiers would fight badly in the attack but defend their motherland tenaciously if invaded. He was almost as restricted as Roosevelt in seizing the strategic initiative; hence Hitler held it.
The fall of France, the siege of Britain, the accession of Japan to the Axis upset the balance of power and hostility on which Stalin had been counting. If Britain should go down and America stay neutral, Moscow would face the peril of isolation on a Nazi-dominated continent. A logical strategy might have been to build a global counter-coalition to the Axis, but the anti-Hitler leaders were crippled by suspicion and history. Britain had been cool to Moscow, especially over the Soviet attack on Finland and the Bear’s swallowing up of the little Baltic states. The United States, remote and unfriendly, still maintained in 1940 the “moral embargo” placed on aircraft exports to Russia after the Soviet bombing of Finnish towns. “I shall not dwell on our relations with the U.S.A. If only because there is nothing good to report,” Molotov told the Supreme Soviet, amid laughter, in August 1940.
Such was the course of affairs when Molotov journeyed to Berlin in November 1940. He returned with Hitler’s vague proposals that Russia adhere to the Axis, be guaranteed existing frontiers, and receive a free hand in the south—toward the Indian Ocean. Stalin saw his chance to bargain. He would not join the Axis unless Hitler withdrew his troops from Finland, recognized Bulgaria as part of the Soviet sphere of influence, and supported Moscow’s historic ambition to gain bases in the Dardanelles. Probably Stalin knew that these were impossible conditions for the Führer. At this juncture there was still a small possibility that Hitler would turn west rather than east. But during early 1941 events in the Balkans seemed to gather a momentum of their own. Helplessly Stalin watched the Germans infiltrate Bulgaria and crush Yugoslavia and Greece.
It was the eleventh hour for a counter-coalition to stop the surging Nazis. In January 1941 Roosevelt lifted the moral embargo against the Soviets; in February and March Welles informed the Kremlin of reports that Hitler planned to attack east. But Soviet ideology and narrow Realpolitik and American ideology and isolationism made a unified stand impossible. Britain remained hostile, partly because Moscow was still sending raw materials to Germany. By mid-June 1941 Washington was still sharply curbing economic intercourse with the Russians.
During the spring, rumors and reports of Hitler’s intentions reached the Kremlin from many sources. Stalin did not ignore them or necessarily disbelieve them; he processed them through his ideological, Realpolitik mind. He was wary. Were the Nazis building up their eastern frontier and letting out rumors simply to camouflage their spring assault on England? Was Churchill—who had sent him an inconclusive warning that was delayed in the delivery—trying once again, like a typical imperialist and warmonger, to let Russia pull his chestnuts out of the fire? Was Hitler simply securing a position of strength from which he hoped to bargain harder with Moscow? Or could Hitler possibly be contemplating a war on two fronts?
At least Stalin could avert a second front against himself. The neutrality pact that he and Matsuoka had negotiated gave him a rare moment of relief—along with a moment of humor when the Japanese Foreign Minister said that the better elements in Japan were originally “moral Communists.” In one stroke Stalin had minimized the chance of an eastern front and hence—presumably—a western one. In a surprise visit to Matsuoka’s alcoholic, back-slapping send-off at the station, he embraced his guest, remarking, “We are Asiatics, too, and we’ve got to stick together.” He went on: “Now that Japan and Russia have fixed their problems, Japan can straighten out the Far East; Russia and Germany will handle Europe. Later together all of them will deal with America.” Seeking out the German Ambassador, he threw his arm around his shoulder and exclaimed: “We must remain friends and you must now do everything to that end.”
For such friends time was running out. Early in May, Stalin spoke in the Kremlin to young officers just graduated from military academies. He told them bluntly
that the situation was extremely serious, a German attack was possible; but that the Red Army was not strong enough to smash the Germans easily because of inadequate training, equipment, and defense lines. The government, he said, would try by all diplomatic means to put off a German attack until the fall; but even if this succeeded, almost inevitably there would be war with Germany in 1942, but under more favorable conditions for Russia. “Depending on the international situation, the Red Army will either wait for a German attack,” Stalin went on, “or it may have to take the initiative, since the perpetuation of Nazi Germany as the dominant power in Europe is ‘not normal.’ ”
Two days later Stalin made himself Chairman of the Council of People’s Commissars, and thus the formal head of government. By now he seemed to be fighting for time, hoping Hitler would still turn west. He tried to appease Berlin by closing down embassies and legations of Nazi-occupied nations. He kept Russian oil and other supplies moving to Germany. He had TASS deny rumors that Berlin was putting pressure on Moscow—a denial that in fact was correct, because Hitler was now bound on annihilation, not bargaining—and imply that London was still trying to foment war between Russia and Germany.
Seven nights later the German Ambassador drove to the Kremlin shortly before dawn and read to Molotov a cable just received from Berlin. It was the same pack of Nazi lies and accusations a dozen nations had heard just before their doom.
“This is war,” Molotov said. “Do you believe that we deserved that?”
At that moment—dawn of June 22, 1941—a tide of German troops, tanks, and guns was flooding across the open plains. The Wehrmacht struck with its usual deception, surprise, efficiency, and stunning force. In the north three Panzer divisions, with over six hundred tanks, simply swarmed over a weak Russian rifle division. In the center the Nazi spearhead—two Panzer groups comprising seven divisions and almost 1,500 tanks—burst through understrength Russian divisions. In the south another German army brushed aside Russian defenses—they might have been a row of glass houses, a German lieutenant observed—and soon was rolling along hard and intact roads with the sound of guns fading behind. By evening the leading Panzer divisions, stretched out over seven to ten miles-motorcyclists and armored cars scouting ahead, massed tanks following, and a “sandwich” of infantry and artillery in between-had pierced the Soviet border by almost twice their own length.
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