American Caesar

by William Manchester

  In both the Korean and the Vietnam wars, the nation’s leaders—Presidents of both parties—concealed their own doubts. But they felt thwarted, all the same. Truman, in his way, was just as frustrated as MacArthur. Checkmated in the spring of 1951, each sought a target for his suppressed hostility. It is a historical fact that they found each other.

  TEN

  Recall

  1951

  During the controversy between the President and the General much was said about “the military mind.” There is such a thing, but MacArthur did not possess it. Those who do tend to be blunt, insensitive men who believe war is inevitable and shy away from ideologies. The General believed that war could be, and should be, abolished. As long as it endured, however, he saw it in romantic, mystical, and religious terms—as a Manichaean struggle between Christianity and the Antichrist. “The professional soldier,” writes Samuel P. Huntington, “exists in a world of grays. MacArthur’s universe was one of blacks and whites and loud and clashing colors. . . . MacArthur preferred the warlike spirit to the military spirit.”1

  In short, his was a warrior’s mind. That was the fundamental difference between him and George Marshall, who was more of a martial administrator. In 1918, while MacArthur was winning nine decorations for heroism, Marshall had been awarded a single Silver Star for “obtaining information” and contributing to the “training” and “morale” of doughboys. Comparing the two, Pershing (who liked Marshall and disliked MacArthur) said: “Marshall is a great Chief of Staff . . . MacArthur knows his troops. . . . He’s a fighter—a fighter—a fighter.” In 1931 MacArthur had told a congressional committee that “the objective of any warring nation is victory, immediate and complete.” Twenty years later, testifying before another committee, he rejected the idea that “when you use force, you can limit that force.” Thus he was closer to Ludendorff than to Clausewitz; he saw war, not as an extension of politics, but as the consequence of a complete political collapse which threw governments, so to speak, into a kind of military receivership. Such a bankruptcy of peacetime policies should be temporarily replaced, he reasoned, by the concentration of all power, “political, economic, and military,” in the hands of professional soldiers, whose sole mission should be eventual triumph. Warriors, no less than diplomats, had the right, indeed the duty, to manipulate civilian populations. If a commander found it necessary to retreat, for example, he must save face. This was particularly true in Asia. Fleeing Corregidor, he had vowed to return; having withdrawn from North Korea, he insisted that he be permitted to retake it. He hadn’t challenged the administration’s prewar policy of abandoning South Korea, but once he had been sent into battle, he contended, he must be allowed to win. If a nation wasn’t willing to make that total military commitment, he said, it shouldn’t fight at all.2

  This, not fanatical anti-Communism on his part, was the bone of contention between him and Truman. From the reaction to it one might have thought that conflict between soldiers and civilians over war policy was a new issue in the history of the world. In fact the annals of warfare are rich in instances of it. Before 1951, the most conspicuous American military protagonists in such confrontations had been Winfield Scott, George B. McClellan, Arthur MacArthur, and Billy Mitchell. “I can’t tell you how disgusted I am becoming with these wretched politicians,” McClellan wrote in October 1861, and again, on the following May 3, “I feel that the fate of the nation depends on me, and I feel that I have not one single friend at the seat of the government. Any day may bring me an order relieving me from my command. If they simply let me alone I feel sure of success, but will they do it?” They—or rather President Lincoln—didn’t. Lincoln later established a more satisfactory relationship with Ulysses S. Grant. He instructed Grant: “You are not to decide, discuss or confer with any one or ask political questions; such questions the President holds in his own hands, and will submit them to no military conferences or conventions. “ Grant wrote: “So long as I hold my present position, I do not believe I have the right to criticize the policy or orders of those above me, or give utterance to views of my own, except to authorities in Washington.”3

  Traditionally, American officers with conflicting loyalties have resigned their commissions. Billy Mitchell said: “I became so fed up with the way things were being conducted that I thought I could do more outside the service than in it.” MacArthur’s attitude toward soldier-civilian rhubarbs was ambivalent. On the one hand, he frequently said that he did not believe that senior officers should be silenced for disagreeing with their superiors. On the other hand, he had testified in 1932 that strategic decisions in wartime should be made “by the Head of State acting in conformity with the expressed will of Congress,” adding that any transfer of this authority to generals or admirals “would not constitute delegation, but rather abdication. “ Of course, in 1951 the issue was not that clear-cut. Congress had not declared war in Korea, and by the ninth month of the war it was obvious that its members were having grave second thoughts about Truman’s decision to send troops in without consulting them.4

  Probably MacArthur should have followed Mitchell’s example early in 1951, voluntarily relinquishing his command and touring the country in mufti, taking his cause to the people. But like Charles de Gaulle in 1940, he felt he could best state his case by remaining in uniform. The parallels between MacArthur and de Gaulle are fascinating—both were extreme egoists, both saw themselves as symbols of national destiny—and the Frenchman’s apologia for his own insubordination might have been repeated by the American eleven years later: “The man of character . . . in relation to his superiors . . . finds himself in a difficult position. Sure of his own judgment and conscious of his strength, he makes no concessions to the desire to please. . . . More than that: those who do great things must often ignore the conventions of a false discipline. Thus in 1914 Lyautey kept Morocco despite orders from above; and after the battle of Jutland, Lord Fisher bitterly commented on Jellicoe’s dispatches: ‘He has all Nelson’s qualities, except one: he has not learned to disobey.’ ”5

  Significantly, de Gaulle was MacArthur’s chief European defender in 1951. Continental critics, the Frenchman said, were castigating the man who was fighting their battles for them. He described the American General as “a foreign military leader whose daring was feared by those who profited by it” and suggested that instead they “pay deserved tribute to the legendary service of a great soldier.” But, as C. L. Sulzberger pointed out, “All the allies detested MacArthur.” Acheson wrote: “What lost the confidence of our Allies were MacArthur’s costly defeat, his open advocacy of widening the war at what they rightly considered as unacceptable risks, and the hesitance of the administration in asserting firm control over him.” The General had no illusions about the European diplomatic community’s opinion of him, but he believed that America’s NATO partners needed the United States more than the United States needed them—that, in Sidney L. Mayer’s words, “it was highly unlikely” that they “would have repudiated the U.S. if MacArthur had bombed Manchuria to unify Korea.”6

  De Gaulle said: “Bred on imperatives, the military temperament is astonished by the number of pretenses in which the statesman has to indulge. The terrible simplicities of war are in strong contrast to the devious methods demanded by the art of government.” This accounts for much of the confusion between Washington and Tokyo that winter, but in the United States both military and civilian leaders are bound by one absolute, their oath of allegiance, and it was here, given their differing interpretations of their pledge, that Truman and MacArthur collided. The President later wrote: “If I allowed him to defy the civil authorities in this manner, I myself would be violating my oath to uphold and defend the Constitution.” The General later told a Senate committee: “I find in existence a new and heretofore unknown and dangerous concept, that the members of our armed forces owe primary allegiance or loyalty to those who temporarily exercise the authority of the executive branch of the government rather than to the co
untry and its Constitution which they are sworn to defend. ”7

  His critics had little patience with this line of reasoning, inferring that he was presuming to decide which orders he would, and which he would not, obey. He himself stoutly maintained that he had violated no directives—that “no more subordinate soldier ever wore the uniform.” That was absurd. It would have been wiser to acknowledge his mutinous conduct and set forth his reasons for it. If Nuremberg taught the world any lesson, it is that the principle of “superior orders”—the proposition that a subordinate must comply with all commands, however outrageous—is discreditable. The real issue was MacArthur’s motives. He had several, all of them defensible, or at least arguable, including the one which infuriated the White House most: his political convictions. Briefly recalled to Washington in early 1951, Sebald found strong support in Congress for bombing Chinese supply lines and using Chiang’s troops in Korea. There is no question that the administration’s congressional critics—the Tafts, Wherrys, and Knowlands—represented a body of political opinion which was strongly held by millions of Americans. Isolationists until 1941, they still distrusted European alliances. They further believed that the domestic programs of Roosevelt and Truman were betrayals of American traditions: self-reliance, solvency, strong legislatures, and the least possible intrusion by government in the private lives of citizens. These congressional conservatives saw themselves as defenders of sacred customs, and since the military was the national institution most rooted in the folklore of the past, it was inevitable that MacArthur should have found common cause with them.8

  Doubtless the General’s champions on Capitol Hill encouraged him to believe that he was untouchable. Even without them he might have been convinced of it. After all, in World War II the Joint Chiefs had given him more latitude than any other theater commander. They had deferred to him again in Korea, remaining submissive when, ignoring their instructions, he had sent GIs right up to the Yalu. He knew he had strong support, and not only on Capitol Hill; here and there draft boards were already threatening to refuse to call up more men until he had been given a free hand in the war. Chennault had publicly taken the position that the Chinese were “peculiarly vulnerable to the process of blockade,” and two U.S. admirals had agreed with him. The General’s belief that containment wouldn’t work in Asia had been seconded by Walter Lippmann, who had written that in the Far East it was “a strategic monstrosity.” In Tokyo, MacArthur’s staff shared his confidence in his political invincibility. Huff told Sebald that he hoped the General would be recalled to Washington “for the purpose of clarifying some of the fuzzy thinking there. “ Sebald asked, “Do you think that the old man could stand the public criticism he would get if he pushed his ideas at home?” Huff nodded; he said he felt sure that he “could easily handle these problems in his stride.” Sebald recalls that Huff “had come to believe implicitly in the General’s capacity to overcome any challenge.” Nor, Sebald notes, was Huff alone: “In SCAP headquarters there was little tendency to believe that MacArthur could be punished, let alone dismissed, for his actions. Instead, there were many who thought, or hoped, that Washington could be converted to MacArthur’s view. These were military officers, for the most part, involved in what was certainly one of the most disheartening campaigns in American military history. When MacArthur protested the restrictions on his operations and demanded the chance to win a victory of arms, he spoke generally for most of the officers in his command.”9

  And so, Acheson writes, MacArthur “pressed his will and his luck to a shattering defeat.” Like many another proconsul in history, he had been moving ever closer to a revolt against his superiors, studying his orders, writes one of George Marshall’s biographers, “like a scholar deciphering a palimpsest” and interpreting them “according to his own established theories.” Almost certainly he would have followed the same course even if he had known that he would be relieved. With his field commanders reporting thirteen hundred casualties a week, he felt it his duty to try to change U.S. policy. According to John Osborne, he told a luncheon guest at the embassy that as “an old man of 71” he had nothing “to fear or lose” by risking removal from his command. Therefore, at some point in March, he decided to incite retaliation by challenging the President openly.10

  Britain’s Field Marshal Lord Alanbrooke, who admired what he called the General’s “grand seigneur” manner, said afterward: “The decisions MacArthur finally arrived at as regards the war in Korea were, I think, based on a Pacific outlook and, as such, in my opinion were right. He has been accused of taking actions without previous political approval, but he had been unable to obtain the political policy and guidance he had sought. To my mind a general who is not prepared to assume some responsibility on his own, when unable to obtain political direction, is of little value.”

  This general was now prepared to assume plenty. He began on March 7, when, returning from an inspection of the front lines, he called a press conference and predicted that unless he received “major additions” to his army, “the battle lines in the end will reach a point of theoretical stalemate,” which, because of the enemy’s “complete contempt for the sanctity of human life,” would be followed by “savage slaughter.” To avert this, he urged “decisions” on “the highest international level”—steps which he, as “the military commander,” could not take.11

  Washington ignored this violation of the President’s gag rule, so eight days later MacArthur contacted Hugh Baillie of the United Press and denounced halting the Eighth Army short of “accomplishment of our mission in the unification of Korea.” Acheson fumed that the General had been told “over and over again” that this was no longer “his mission,” but the White House again remained silent. Truman was hoping to keep MacArthur in the Far East if at all possible, determined not to be aroused by any move short of a flagrant provocation. The General, for his part, had reached the conclusion that Truman’s “nerves were at the breaking point—not only his nerves, but what was far more menacing in the Chief Executive of a country at war—his nerve.” A week later, therefore, MacArthur “perpetrated,” in Acheson’s words, “a major act of sabotage of a government operation. ”12

  Both the State Department and the Pentagon thought the time propitious for proposing a truce to the Communists. With that in mind, a carefully worded statement was drawn up and sent to each of America’s UN allies for approval on March 20. It dwelt on a restoration of the status quo and avoided any suggestion of threats or recriminations. Aggression against South Korea having been repelled, it said, every effort should be made “to prevent the spread of hostilities and to avoid the prolongation of the misery and the loss of life.” The UN was therefore “prepared to enter into arrangements which would conclude the fighting and ensure against its resumption. Such arrangements would open the way for a broader settlement in Korea, including the withdrawal of foreign forces from Korea.” The Joint Chiefs sent a copy of this document to the Dai Ichi, explaining: “State planning a presidential announcement shortly that with clearing of bulk of South Korea [the] feeling exists that further diplomatic efforts toward settlement should be made before any advance with major forces north of the 38th Parallel. Time will be required to determine diplomatic reactions and permit new negotiations that may develop. ”

  MacArthur replied that with his present forces a new offensive was “completely impracticable” anyhow; he merely hoped that “no further military restriction” would be imposed upon his command. Then, four days later, he took an extraordinary step. He issued what he called a “military appraisal.” Actually it was an ultimatum to the enemy. Its tone was taunting. China, he declared, obviously “lacks the industrial capacity” for “the conduct of modern war.” Its troops had displayed “an inferiority of ground firepower.” These “military weaknesses,” he continued, “have been clearly and definitely revealed since Red China entered upon its undeclared war in Korea. Even under the inhibitions which now restrict the activity of the United Nations forc
es” China had “shown its complete inability to accomplish by force of arms the conquest of Korea. The enemy, therefore, must by now be painfully aware that a decision by the United Nations to depart from its tolerant effort to contain the war would doom Red China to the risk of imminent military collapse.” Therefore he stood “ready at any time to confer in the field with the commander-in-chief of the enemy forces in the earnest effort to find any military means whereby realization of the political objectives of the United Nations in Korea, to which no nation may justly take exception, might be accomplished without further bloodshed.”13

  This was a threat—an attempt to intimidate Peking on pain of sanctions which neither the United States nor any other member of the UN was prepared to apply. It mocked China’s soldiers. It did more; it intimated that the enemy would be wiped out unless it submitted. Walter Lippmann wrote: “Regimes do not negotiate about their survival. There is nothing to negotiate about.” Radio Peking’s reaction was what one might have expected. MacArthur, it said, had “made a fanatical but shameless statement with the intention of engineering the Anglo-American aggressors to extend the war of aggression into China. . . . MacArthur’s shameless tricks . . . will meet with failure. . . . The people of China must raise their sense of vigilance by doubling their effort for a sacred struggle.” Andrei Vishinsky, speaking for the Kremlin, condemned the General as “a maniac, the principal culprit, the evil genius” of the war.14