RN

by Richard Nixon

  My old friend Manlio Brosio, the Italian diplomat who was then Secretary General of NATO after having served in Washington for six years and in Moscow for five, emotionally and emphatically expressed his doubts about Soviet intentions. “I know the Russians,” he said. “They are great liars, clever cheaters, and magnificent actors. They cannot be trusted. They consider it their duty to cheat and lie.” A Belgian I talked with pithily expressed his own skeptical view of détente: “It is like the Virgin Birth. I accept it, but I don’t believe it.”

  I had been refused a visa to visit Poland on this trip and was therefore surprised to receive one from Romania. Even so, I assumed that I would get one of the cold-shoulder receptions that Communist governments are particularly good at. But from the moment Ellsworth and I stepped off the plane in Bucharest, it was clear that this was going to be a remarkable visit. Everywhere we were greeted with outbursts of friendship from the people.

  I called on the Romanian Communist Party’s Secretary General, Nicolae Ceauescu, at the Central Committee Building. We had a long talk, ranging over the spectrum of East-West relations. I doubted that any true détente with the Soviets could be achieved until some kind of rapprochement could be reached with Communist China. If its 800 million people remained isolated, within twenty years China could pose a grave threat to world peace. I said that I thought the United States could do little to establish effective communications with China until the Vietnam war was ended. After that, however, I thought we could take steps to normalize relations with Peking. Ceauescu was guarded in his reaction, but I could tell that he was interested to hear me talking in this way, and that he agreed with what I said.

  On my trip to Asia in April I wanted to evaluate the situation in Vietnam and the importance of the conflict to Vietnam’s neighbors. I also particularly wanted to learn how Asian leaders were viewing China and its future relationship with the rest of Asia and the world.

  Many Americans were primarily Europeanists in their approach to foreign affairs, dismissing Asia as relatively unimportant. But the United States is a Pacific power, and rapid changes were taking place in Asia—where more than half the human race lived—that might well determine the world’s future. Japan would soon be the world’s third-ranking industrial power, behind the United States and the Soviet Union. Some of the most rapid rates of economic progress anywhere were being achieved by the nations of non-Communist Asia. And mainland China potentially posed the greatest threat to peace during the final third of the twentieth century.

  I met with Prime Minister Sato, former Prime Minister Kishi, and a number of other Japanese political officials. The Japanese leaders felt strongly that the United States must remain in Asia, and that it was vital that we continue to help defend South Vietnam. They were keenly aware that, because of memories of World War II, there were limits to the leadership Japan could exercise. Nonetheless, they acknowledged the need for regional cooperation to contain the Communist challenge.

  I visited Chiang Kai-shek at a lake resort on Taiwan. Chiang still dreamed of returning to the mainland, and once again he urged that America support such an effort. He argued that the Chinese on the mainland were disenchanted with their leaders and ready to rally to another force. A Nationalist invasion of the mainland, he said, would end the threat of a Red Chinese atomic bomb, end Chinese support of the Vietnam war, and end the chance of a Sino-Soviet rapprochement.

  Chiang was a friend and unquestionably one of the giants of the twentieth century. I wondered whether he might be right, but my pragmatic analysis told me that he was wrong. His burning desire to return to the mainland was understandable and admirable. But it was totally unrealistic in view of the massive power the Communists had developed.

  In Vietnam, despite the military’s optimistic prediction, I became further convinced that continuation of the administration’s policy of fighting a defensive war of attrition would inevitably lead to defeat. It was small comfort to learn the enemy was losing more men than we were. It had become America’s war, and the South Vietnamese were not being adequately trained and equipped to defend themselves. The Communists were willing to continue fighting regardless of losses. They had a total commitment to victory. We had, at most, a partial commitment to avoid defeat. If this situation continued, in the end they would win.

  Every leader I talked to in Asia expressed support for a strong American position in Vietnam. But I also found on this trip a growing concern about Communist China. Some who had adamantly opposed any change of American policy toward China had come around to the view that some new and direct relationship between the two nations was essential if there were to be any chance at all after the Vietnam war was over to build a lasting peace in Asia in which free nations would have a chance to survive.

  In Latin America in May I found that Kennedy’s Alliance for Progress had raised expectations too high. The leaders I met with expressed their disappointment and urged that the United States develop a new approach to attract the private investment from both the United States and Europe that the Latin American economies desperately needed in order to make any meaningful progress.

  In Africa in June the leaders emphasized their desire to have more aid from the United States rather than depend on their former colonial masters. But I was discouraged by the fact that, with a few exceptions, the new black African nations simply did not have the trained leadership to achieve their goals in any forseeable future.

  I visited Israel just after that country’s victory in the June war. In a long conversation with General Yitzhak Rabin I pointed out that Israel had a stake in the outcome of the war in Vietnam. He was obviously interested in my analysis that if the United States were defeated or humiliated in Vietnam, the American people could well turn isolationist and be unwilling to come to the aid of other small nations, like Israel, who depended on us for survival.

  I was impressed by the courage and toughness of the Israeli leaders and people. But I was disturbed by the fact that their swift and overwhelming victory over the Arabs had created a feeling of overconfidence about their ability to win any war in the future, and an attitude of total intransigence on negotiating any peace agreement that would involve return of any of the territories they had occupied. Their victory had been too great. It left a residue of hatred among their neighbors that I felt could only result in another war, particularly if the Russians were to step up military aid to their defeated Arab clients.

  I summarized my conclusions from these trips first in a speech at the Bohemian Grove and then in an article for the quarterly Foreign Affairs.

  If I were to choose the speech that gave me the most pleasure and satisfaction in my political career, it would be my Lakeside Speech at the Bohemian Grove in July 1967. Because this speech traditionally was off the record it received no publicity at the time. But in many important ways it marked the first milestone on my road to the presidency.

  The setting is possibly the most dramatic and beautiful I have ever seen. A natural amphitheatre has been built up around a platform on the shore of a small lake. Redwoods tower above the scene, and the weather in July is usually warm and clear. Herbert Hoover had always delivered the Lakeside Speech, but he had died in 1964, and I was asked if I would deliver the 1967 speech in his honor. It was an emotional assignment for me and also an unparalleled opportunity to reach some of the most important and influential men, not just from California but from across the country.

  In the speech I pointed out that we live in a new world—“never in human history have more changes taken place in the world in one generation”—and that this is a world of new leaders, of new people, of new ideas.

  I led the audience on a tour of the world, tracing the changes and examining the conflicts, finding both danger and opportunity as the United States entered the final third of the twentieth century. I urged the need for strong alliances and continued aid to the developing nations; but I also urged that we should provide our aid more selectively, rewarding our friends and di
scouraging our enemies and encouraging private rather than government enterprise.

  Turning to the Soviet Union, I noted that even as the Soviet leaders talked peace they continued to stir up trouble, to encourage aggression, and to build missiles. I urged that we encourage trade with the Soviet Union and Eastern Europe, and that “diplomatically we should have discussions with the Soviet leaders at all levels to reduce the possibility of miscalculation and to explore the areas where bilateral agreements would reduce tensions.” But we should insist on reciprocity: “I believe in building bridges but we should build only our end of the bridge.” And in negotiations we must always remember “that our goal is different from theirs. We seek peace as an end in itself. They seek victory, with peace being at this time a means toward that end.”

  Looking ahead, I said:

  As we enter this last third of the twentieth century the hopes of the world rest with America. Whether peace and freedom survive in the world depends on American leadership.

  Never has a nation had more advantages to lead. Our economic superiority is enormous; our military superiority can be whatever we choose to make it. Most important, it happens that we are on the right side—the side of freedom and peace and progress against the forces of totalitarianism, reaction, and war.

  There is only one area where there is any question—that is whether America has the national character and moral stamina to see us through this long and difficult struggle.

  To me, that would be the central question at issue in 1968.

  The subject of my October 1967 Foreign Affairs article was “Asia After Vietnam.” In it I stressed the importance of Asia to the United States and the world, and concluded with a section on U.S. policy toward China:

  Some counsel conceding to China a “sphere of influence” embracing much of the Asian mainland and extending even to the island nations beyond; others urge that we eliminate the threat by pre-emptive war. Clearly, neither of these courses would be acceptable to the United States or to its Asian allies. Others argue that we should seek an anti-Chinese alliance with European powers, even including the Soviet Union. Quite apart from the obvious problems involved in Soviet participation, such a course would inevitably carry connotations of Europe vs. Asia, white vs. non-white, which could have catastrophic repercussions throughout the rest of the non-white world in general and Asia in particular. . . . Only as the nations of non-Communist Asia become so strong—economically, politically, and militarily—that they no longer furnish tempting targets for Chinese aggression, will the leaders in Peking be persuaded to turn their energies inward rather than outward. And that will be the time when the dialogue with mainland China can begin.

  For the short run, then, this means a policy of firm restraint, of no reward, of a creative counterpressure designed to persuade Peking that its interests can be served only by accepting the basic rules of international civility. For the long run, it means pulling China back into the world community—but as a great and progressing nation, not as the epicenter of world revolution.

  Soon after I got back to New York on June 24 I began checking to find out how the political situation had developed during my absence. Things were moving so fast that even the few months I was away had produced an almost completely different political landscape.

  I found that sentiment was beginning to turn very decisively in my favor. But everyone was still asking the big question: after two defeats, could I shake my “loser image”? It appeared more and more that the presidential primaries offered the only way to show that I could win.

  Ronald Reagan was one of the potential presidential candidates who denied any interest in the nomination. I had seen him at the Bohemian Grove in July where Senator George Murphy, he, and I had a candid discussion of the political situation as we sat outdoors on a bench under one of the giant redwoods. I told him about my tentative plans to enter the primaries. I assured him that it was my intention to do everything possible to unite the party and to campaign only against Johnson and his administration, and not against any fellow Republicans.

  Reagan said that he had been surprised, flattered, and somewhat concerned about all the presidential speculation surrounding him. He did not want to be a favorite son, he said, but he would probably have to allow it in order to assure party unity in California. He said that he would not be a candidate in the primaries.

  On July 17, I flew to Gettysburg to see Eisenhower. I looked forward, as usual, to discussing politics and world affairs with him, but now we had another subject of mutual interest. Julie and his grandson David had been seeing a great deal of each other while at college. Actually, though it was not known to the respective families, they had already decided to marry.

  We ate lunch alone on the screened-in porch overlooking the farm. We had chicken with noodles and a salad garnished with pickled watermelon rind, which he proudly said he had helped to make. “The rind wasn’t thick enough,” he said as he helped himself to more.

  Eisenhower had been quite animated at lunch, but afterward he looked tired and had to grope for words. He was particularly fatigued after we took a short walk to the barn, but he was firm in the advice he gave me. He advised me against making Vietnam a political issue because many Republicans supported Johnson’s goals, although questioning the means he was using to achieve them. He agreed with my long-held view that Johnson’s greatest error in prosecuting the war was not having used more power at the outset. He said he knew from his own military experience that gradual escalation did not work. He said, “If an enemy battalion is defending a hill, you give me two battalions and I’ll take the hill—but at a terrible cost in casualties. Give me a division and I’ll take it without a fight.”

  Eisenhower asked if Goldwater was still writing a newspaper column. “Barry is the least qualified man I know to write on foreign policy,” he said. “He has charm and he is very likable, but he is just not smart.” He felt that Scranton was the best qualified of any of the men who had not held national office.

  He also talked about Johnson. “Lyndon is too poll-conscious and too sensitive about press criticism,” he said. “I told him that directly. I said, ‘You are the President, don’t worry about jackasses like Fulbright and Morse.’ ” He added, “The difficulty with Johnson is that he is only interested in what people will approve, and that makes it difficult to get people to believe him.”

  That fall of 1967 I visited most of the Republican governors and party leaders in their home states. They all wanted to know my plans, but I said only that I was considering entering the primaries and would be grateful for any advice they had. While this position did not commit me or call for any commitments from them, it reinforced their determination to see how I would do in the primaries before deciding whom to support.

  In fact, it looked as if many Republicans were using my possible candidacy as an excuse for remaining uncommitted to anyone else. Many Southern leaders, particularly, were holding back on these grounds. In their hearts they would have preferred Reagan, but they had been burned by Goldwater and had learned a lesson of political pragmatism. If they thought I was the man who could win, they would support me.

  I was in my law office in New York on Saturday, September 30, 1967, when Rose came in to tell me that my brother Don was on the telephone. I was in a conference, so I asked Rose to tell him I would return the call. She began to cry and said, “No, you should talk to him. Your mother just died.”

  My mother had suffered a stroke two years before, and we had reluctantly put her in a nursing home in Whittier. Whenever I was in the Los Angeles area I drove out to see her. She never gave any signs of awareness and could speak only in monosyllables, but I felt sure that in the deep recesses of her mind she recognized me.

  She had always hated the idea of being in a rest home, but she needed constant attention from nurses and doctors that would have been impossible to provide either at Don’s house or in our New York apartment. There were times when I regretted that we did not do whatever was
necessary to keep her in one of our homes. There was no doubt, however, that it was better for her to be where she could receive proper care. I also knew that she would have wanted it that way, because she never wanted to be a burden to her family.

  Perhaps because I was prepared intellectually for the idea of her death, it took some time before the emotional impact of it hit me. By the time I got home about an hour later, Pat had told the girls. They were in tears; they loved their grandmother very much, although it would not have been possible for them to love her as much as she loved them. Her love was all-encompassing and totally unselfish—never expecting or wanting anything in return. I did not cry when I heard the news, nor when I talked with Pat and the girls in the apartment, nor on the plane to California for the funeral. My principal thought was a feeling of deep regret that I had not done as much for her as I might have if I had not been so busy with my own career and concerns.

  My mother had been a great admirer of Billy Graham, even before he became famous. She had attended one of his first crusades in Southern California and spoken to him afterward, and he never forgot her in the years that followed. As soon as he heard of her death, he called me from his home in North Carolina and said that he wanted to come to the funeral. The service was held in the same Friends Church in East Whittier where as a child I had played the piano for Sunday School and sung in the choir. It was in this church that my father’s funeral service had been held eleven years earlier.