Six Crises

by Richard Nixon

  Deliberately I waited until the others in the room had expressed their opinions and then I suggested that Ambassador Achilles and I discuss the matter alone.

  Achilles, a mild-mannered, able career diplomat with a distinguished record in the Foreign Service, had joined in the gathering and assessing of the facts but, up to this time, had not expressed his own opinion. After the others had left the room, I requested his candid judgment as to the course of action that would best serve the interests of the United States. Perhaps unnecessarily I added that regardless of what he might advise I would assume full responsibility for the consequences of what I did the next day. He did not answer for what seemed like two or three minutes. Like most men of good judgment I have known, he wasted few words and he chose the best time to say what he had to say. This is approximately what he said: “From a personal standpoint you should not go. Latin American mobs often get out of hand and there is a risk not only of embarrassment but also of personal injury to you. On the other hand, when I consider the alternatives, I find none which would not give the Communists a propaganda victory. One characteristic common throughout this hemisphere is that the people admire courage. They have contempt for fear. That is why the bullfight is a favorite sport here. That is why the government officials, the university officials, and the police will not take responsibility for withdrawing the invitation. They would lose face. They know it is wrong for them to leave this responsibility to you, a distinguished guest in their country.

  “However, if you do not go to San Marcos, the Communists will boast throughout Peru and all Latin America for weeks and months that the students of one of the oldest and greatest universities in the Western Hemisphere so disliked the United States that they refused to allow the Vice President of the United States to visit their campus and that he was afraid to go there because of the reception they had planned for him.

  “In summary,” Achilles concluded, “I believe from a personal standpoint you should make a decision not to go. But from the standpoint of the United States, I will have to say that your failing to go may lead to some very detrimental publicity reactions throughout the hemisphere.”

  It was past 2:00 A.M. when I finally turned out the light and tried to get some sleep. I had only eight hours in which to decide whether or not to keep the appointment at San Marcos. Whether, in effect, to fight or to run away from this crisis which had implications far beyond my personal safety. I slept very little that night. I could feel the tension building up. Outside the hotel, I could hear the chants of the mob, swirling around the hotel, “Fuera Nixon, Fuera Nixon, Fuera Nixon.”

  As I tossed in bed, I knew from previous experience that this necessary period of indecision was far more wearing than tomorrow’s action would be, no matter which way I decided. This was part of the crisis syndrome as I knew it. I had discussed the decision-making process with President Eisenhower during the first year of his term on a long automobile ride from Quantico to Washington. He told me he had gone through hours and days of mental and physical tension before making the final decision for the time and place of the embarkation for the Normandy landing. But once the decision was made, his mind and body relaxed. He slept restfully and was in prime shape for the hundreds of subsequent decisions essential to the success of D-Day.

  I carefully reviewed and analyzed all the factors of the decision I had to make, and I did this in the context of the objective I hoped to attain. The purpose of my tour was to present a symbol of the United States as a free, democratic, and powerful friend of our South American neighbors. In this context, my decision became clear. If I chose not to go to San Marcos, I would have failed at least in Peru. But if I did go, I would have a chance to demonstrate that the United States does not shrink from its responsibilities or flee in the face of threats. While I might not be able to break through a mob at the gates of San Marcos, there was a chance that I could face them down and possibly still win the day.

  But the case for not going was also compelling. I would be risking injury, not only to myself but to others. If someone was hurt, I would be blamed. And if I took the easier and safer course of canceling the visit to San Marcos and going to Catholic University I might well be able to put the blame on both the Peruvian officials and the Communists.

  But my intuition, backed by considerable experience, was that I should go. In doing so, I would be overruling a majority of my advisers. But a leader must do more than count noses of his advisers. He should consider their opinions, but he must always remember that it is his responsibility to make decisions—not theirs.

  I gave little thought to the possibility of personal injury to myself not because I was “being brave” but because such considerations just were not important in view of the larger issues involved. A man is not afraid at a time like this because he blocks out any thought of fear by a conscious act of will. He concentrates entirely on the problem which faces him and forgets about himself. It would not be simply a case of Nixon being bluffed out by a group of students, but of the United States itself putting its tail between its legs and running away from a bunch of Communist thugs.

  In a larger sense, this was another round in a contest which has been waged from the beginning of time between those who believe in the right of free expression and those who advocate and practice mob rule to deny that right. I did not believe that the feelings and opinions of the Peruvian officials who did not want me to go should play a part in my decision. I recognized that the United States, as a world power, should always take into consideration the sensitivities of smaller nations. While it is pleasant to be popular and liked, I have always thought that our country in its leadership should never lose sight of the goals, objectives, and aspirations of the United States itself. Thus, while I could understand why the Peruvian leaders shrank from this crisis, I thought that my actions should not be inhibited by their fears.

  It was almost daylight when I reached a tentative decision to go, leaving open the possibility of changing my mind if events changed the situation. I had learned that in decision-making one should not commit himself irrevocably to a course of action until he absolutely has to do so. This leaves the least time possible between the time of decision and that of action in which changes may occur in the situation.

  • • •

  Leaving Mrs. Nixon behind in the hotel, I went downstairs the next morning for the scheduled ten o’clock wreath-laying ceremony at the tomb of General José de San Martín, the George Washington of Peru. The press, Peruvian officials, and members of my staff and the Embassy staff met me in the lobby and asked if the San Marcos visit was on or off. The press, I was told later, was split about 50–50 on the question of whether I would go. I told them I had not yet made a final decision. I wanted to retain my freedom of action until the last possible moment and I wanted to give the mob-leaders as little notice as possible of our plans.

  The police cleared a path through an undemonstrative crowd as I walked to the San Martín monument, which was in the square directly in front of the hotel. About a thousand persons had been standing in the square for two or three hours, I was told, waiting to see how I would react to the Communist challenge which was the news of the day throughout Peru. Two American Marines from the Embassy helped me carry the wreath, a huge floral replica of the flags of the United States and Peru, to the base of the statue. Then I stepped back three paces and stood at attention in silence. The normal protocol is to stand in this position for approximately thirty seconds. But I stood there in silence for what must have been two minutes. It seemed much longer.

  The time for decision had come. When I stepped away I would have to tell Sherwood whether we were going to San Marcos or to Catholic. Among the thoughts which ran through my head was that San Martín had led the fight against monarchist tyranny in South America. He would have fought just as fiercely against the Communist tyranny, represented by the mobs now gathered outside the gates of San Marcos. Finally I turned away, walked over to Sherwood, said “San Marcos,” a
nd then went on to my car. Sherwood knew what to do. The evening before, I had given instructions that if the decision were to go to San Marcos only he, Colonel Walters, and I would get out of the car, that the police were not to use any weapons of any kind, and that if violence occurred, under no circumstances were we to initiate it or, if we could avoid doing so, react to it.

  Word of our coming was flashed ahead to the mob at San Marcos. I learned later that it came as an unpleasant surprise to the Communist leaders there. They had counted on a victory by default.

  Our motorcade moved slowly through the virtually empty streets. Two blocks before we arrived at the University plaza, we began to hear ahead of us the frenzied howls of the mob. They were screeching, “Fuera Nixon, Fuera Nixon,” with an occasional “Muera Nixon [Death to Nixon]” dropped in. As my car moved slowly toward the plaza, I planned what I would do when I arrived on the scene. This was not my first experience in facing a Communist-led gang.1 Among the tactics I had found effective in dealing with similar, although less hazardous, situations were these: take the offensive; show no fear; do the unexpected; but do nothing rash.

  About fifty yards from the front gate of the University, I told the driver to stop. Walters, Sherwood, and I got out of the car and walked directly toward the crowd. There were more than two thousand of them against three of us, yet those in front backed away. Their surprise was unmistakable. The noise of the shouting and whistling seemed to subside. I tried to get their attention, speaking in English with Walters shouting his interpretations in Spanish. “I would like to talk to you. If you have complaints against the United States, tell me what they are and I shall try to answer them. This is the free way, the democratic way to discuss the differences we have.”

  For a few moments, I thought I might get the situation under control. Those in front of me continued to give way and I walked directly into the mob. Some of the younger students started to quiet down. But the older ones in the rear, the ringleaders, saw what was happening. They tried to whip up a frenzy again, egging the younger students on, just as if they were driving them with whips. They shouted insults at those who shook hands with me. There were only a few leaders—the usual case-hardened, cold-eyed Communist operatives. The great majority were teenage students. And what struck me about them was not the hate in their eyes, but the fear. We had no weapons; the police, following my instructions, were not with me. And yet the very fact that we dared to walk toward them seemed to strike fear into their hearts.

  Just as it seemed that the balance might be tipping in our favor, I felt something glance off my shoulder. Sherwood put his hand to his mouth. Walters whispered in my ear, “Mr. Vice President, they are throwing stones.” I leaned toward Sherwood: “OK, all right, let’s get out of here. But move back slowly, keep facing them.”

  We moved toward our car, continuing to face the mob and talking to those nearest us as though we were taking our leave but not retreating. As we got into the car, the rocks were flying around us but I could not resist the temptation to get in one other good lick. I stood up on the rear seat as the car moved slowly away and asked Sherwood to brace my legs so that I would not fall. I shouted, with Walters translating in rapid-fire Spanish, “You are cowards, you are afraid of the truth! You are the worst kind of cowards.” I felt the excitement of battle as I spoke but I had full control of my temper as I lashed out at the mob. Those nearby us who heard me, quieted down but the rocks from the rear continued to fly.

  As we moved out of range, I turned to Sherwood and said, “OK, now we’re going to Catholic University.” When he answered I could see why he had put his hand to his mouth; a rock had broken off one of his front teeth.

  As we started to pick up speed, Tad Szulc, Latin American correspondent for the New York Times, ran alongside the car saying, “Good going, Mr. Vice President, good going.” This, I learned later, was the verdict of virtually all the forty to fifty men in the press corps who were with me that day.

  On the other hand, I was not sure who had won. I had hoped that I would be able to get through the mob so that I could keep my commitment to speak on the University campus. In this I had failed.

  On the other hand, no one had been seriously injured and I was hopeful that people all over Latin America would see the lesson of what had happened—the Communists had had to stoop to violence to prevent a free discussion of ideas.

  • • •

  The Rector of Catholic University had kept his promise to say nothing about the possibility of our visit. Our arrival was a complete surprise. The Communist apparatus, which had only a few representatives in this institution, was taken unaware. By coincidence we walked into the administration building at the time the students were electing officers for the Student Council. When I entered the auditorium, bedlam broke loose. The students wanted me to speak immediately. But I said, “Nothing must interfere with a free election,” and sat on the stage with the student officers for about five minutes while they completed the counting of the ballots.

  Then I spoke for a few minutes and answered questions. I got off to a particularly good start when I compared the attitude of the students at Catholic University, who practiced as well as preached freedom of expression, with those of San Marcos, who had just denied it. I responded to questions for almost thirty minutes before some Communist hecklers tried to regain the initiative. They cut their own loudspeaker into the public address system and tried to drown me out. But the students were so overwhelmingly on my side that they tore out the wires of the loudspeaker, threw the hecklers out of the building, and asked me to continue.

  A short time later, however, Sherwood walked up to the rostrum and whispered, “We’d better cut this off and get out of here; the gang from San Marcos is on its way.” I quickly concluded my remarks and left the Assembly Hall with the students shouting “Viva Nixon” and slapping me on the back and shaking hands. We moved just in time. As our motorcade pulled away, we saw a hundred or so shouting, arm-waving men running down the street from San Marcos, but they were too late to intercept us.

  Most of the mob, however, had moved on to San Martín Square in front of my hotel. At the square they had whipped up a frenzied reception for me. They had torn to shreds the floral wreath that I had placed at the monument to San Martín, the national hero of Peru. They had broken windows, torn down government welcome signs, and were leading the crowds like cheerleaders in stock slogans, “Yankee Warmonger,” “Nixon, go home.”

  Again, as at San Marcos, I heard the crowd before I saw it. A block away from the hotel, I could see thousands of people milling around in the square in front of the hotel entrance and I ordered the motorcade to stop. I realized that if we drove up to the hotel, as they expected, the mob would have us trapped inside the car. Sherwood, Walters, Hughes, and I got out of the car and walked the block to the hotel entrance. Again, we caught the Communist leaders by surprise. They learned we were there only when others in the crowd began shouting “Viva America,” “Viva Nixon.” While the mob from San Marcos, swollen by the street bullies who had been in the square all night, made up a majority of the crowd, there were others who were spectators caught in the melee by their desire to see what would happen.

  We were only about fifty feet away from the hotel entrance when the agitators first became aware of my presence. Then they began to push toward us from the fringes of the crowd. The whole mob began to sway. I was squeezed between Sherwood, Walters, and Hughes in a sort of three-layer club sandwich. The only sensation I can recall like it was when Pat and I were caught in the crush of the crowd celebrating V-E Day in Times Square in 1945. The hotel door was only a few steps away, but it took us several minutes to reach it. We succeeded only because Sherwood and Hughes had now become experts at using their elbows and knees to clear a path.

  Just as I reached the hotel door I came face to face with a man I later learned was one of the most notorious Communist agitators in Lima. I saw before me a weird-looking character whose bulging eyes seemed to merge wi
th his mouth and nose in one distorted blob. He let fly a wad of spit which caught me full in the face. I went through in that instant a terrible test of temper control. One must experience the sensation to realize why spitting in a person’s face is the most infuriating insult ever conceived by man. I felt an almost uncontrollable urge to tear the face in front of me to pieces. Sherwood deserves the credit for keeping me from handling the man personally. He grabbed him by the arm and whirled him out of my path, but as I saw his legs go by, I at least had the satisfaction of planting a healthy kick on his shins. Nothing I did all day made me feel better.

  Back in my hotel room, I peeled off my rumpled clothes, took a hot shower, and sank down into a comfortable arm chair for a few moments’ rest. It was noon. I had been away only two hours, but I was completely worn out. I longed to relax, but I snapped myself out of that mood. My schedule for the day had hardly begun. Ahead was a twelve-hour agenda. I knew that if what had happened this morning were to have any meaning, it would depend on what I did and said during the balance of the day. While I was thinking of how I could present the incident in its proper context, Don Hughes came into the room. I looked up and saw that he was standing at attention in front of me. This seemed rather strange for there had never been such formalities between myself and my staff.

  “Sir, could I say something personal?” he asked.

  “Sure, go ahead,” I said, still mystified.

  “Sir,” he said, “I have never been so proud to be an American as I was today. I am honored to be serving under you.”

  I couldn’t think of anything to say in reply. I just nodded my head and smiled in appreciation and he turned and left the room. In my fourteen years of public life I had never been so moved as by this remark, coming as it did from a Purple Heart jet fighter pilot of the Korean War.