by Allen Drury
“This is not in any way to embrace the viciously childish ‘Yellow Peril’ argument put forward by ex-Senator Van Ackerman. It is simply to recognize the fundamental human and ethnic fact that the Chinese have an alien background, an alien history, an alien tradition, an alien ambition in the world—and that if it is really coming down with great rapidity on the battlefield to a question of ‘them,’ meaning the Eastern tradition, or ‘us,’ meaning the West as symbolized now by the embattled Russians, then Americans may find they have no choice.
“Such is the mood, and such are the considerations, which underlie the bitter Congressional debate, now entering its second day, on the Richardson-Bernard resolution calling for American intervention on the side of the Russians. It is beginning to appear to many that there can be only one safe and honorable decision if civilization as we know it is to be saved.…”
“Washington,” Frankly Unctuous said solemnly on “Today,” “awaits, as does all America, the results of Congressional debate on the Richardson-Bernard resolution calling for American intervention on the side of the desperately retreating Russians.
“It is believed here that the outcome in Asia may be measured in hours rather than days. A dreadful urgency impels all who have responsibility for the decision.
“So it is not surprising that the resolution is gaining strength with a rapidity which indicates its likely passage sometime in the next forty-eight hours—not because of an argument so unworthy as former Senator Van Ackerman’s ‘Yellow Peril,’ but simply because the war appears to be resolving itself into a contest to the death between an alien way of life, on the one hand, and all those dearly held traditions which we in this country and in Europe lump generally under the phrase ‘Western civilization,’ on the other.
“Many here are coming swiftly to the conclusion that Western civilization is indeed at stake in the savage death struggle in Asia. The immense tide of Chinese, sweeping forward in almost uncountable millions into Russia and toward the West, carry with them a tradition and history which are different from, and alien to, everything for which America and her allies have always stood. Russia is the bastion that today holds the line against the surging tide. The bastion is terribly shaken and may fall. Shall we let it go, or shall we help it, and so shore up and restore again the safety, stability and future of the West?
“Many fear intervention in atomic war, and with great reason. But, as Congressional proponents of the resolution have made perfectly clear, the intervention contemplated here would not be a bogging down in the endless morass of a land war in Asia. It would in no way entangle America for years, or waste her men and treasure, or commit her to a lengthy and devastating conflict. Rather it would be what Senator Richardson calls a ‘surgical strike,’ quick, clean, efficient—ended with luck in a day or two, certainly in less than a week.
“And it would be over, which is the important thing, and over in the cause of saving Western civilization from the essentially alien culture which now threatens to overwhelm that civilization’s gallant defenders in Russia. It is this productive prospect which is beginning to appeal to so many here.…”
In a White House pulsating with the excitement of the great crisis, he put aside the papers, snapped off the nattering machine, passed a hand that trembled a little with strain and tiredness across his eyes.
So turned the tide, embellished with graceful phrases, adorned with elegant ratiocinations, laced with dainty hesitations and delicate reluctances, but moving, just as fast as they could make it go, steadily and implacably away from neutrality and toward intervention on the Russian side.
And the gut reason was not that they were still involved in their long-standing, fatuous and desperately self-destructive love affair with Communism and the Soviet Union, but that they were simply becoming scared to death of exactly what they pretended not to be scared of.
“The Yellow Peril” was condemned with a fine indignation: then the fear implicit in the slogan was trotted out and made respectable under other language. The “threat of alien culture” was treated to dutiful scorn; then its implications were embraced and made respectable a moment later.
Thus were liberal consciences appeased. Thus was consistency maintained. Thus was hypocrisy transformed into forthright candor.
He sighed again.
They were on their way. The next step would be Fred’s word “hordes,” together with an animal fear of onrushing China; and then would come the renewed attacks upon the President.
They had carefully refrained today from mentioning him at all, but if he stood firm for neutrality it would be only a very short moment, now, before they would renew, with an even greater zest inspired by fear, their violently virulent anti-Knox diatribes of the pre-war period.
And everybody would be back once more to square one.
He decided he would not let this aspect go by default, any more than he intended to let the rest of it go by default. He picked up the Picturephone and spoke directly to the editorial director of the Times, the executive chairman of The Greatest Publication That Absolutely Ever Was, the general director of the Post, the directors of ABC, CBS and NBC, to Walter and to Frankly. Cullee would speak to the Senate in a couple of hours, he said, and he would like them to join him in his office to listen. Startled and reluctant, but perforce bowing to the weight of his office if no longer to him, they said they would be there.
Aid-Russia resolution gaining ground steadily as Congress prepares to meet for second day of tense debate. Hint “major administration spokesman” to make surprise statement on white house position. Sources say President still firm in determination to veto.
Russians continue to fall back as Chinese hordes pour through disintegrating line. Report “yellow wave” racing hundreds of miles toward Moscow. Observers say “perhaps fifty million Chinese” overwhelming Russ in human death tide. Many unarmed but sheer hatred of Russ driving mass forward to swamp defenders. Atomic lull gives cities respite as huge new casualties reported on both sides.
Death drive races toward Europe as fearful world awaits U.S. action. Panic spreads as atomic cloud drifts nearer.
“Members of the Senate,” Cullee said shortly after noon, and in the Oval Office as in many other places his countrymen concentrated on his handsome, troubled face, “I ask your indulgence for a few brief minutes while I state my views on the pending resolution. It is a matter of such enormous importance that I feel the Vice President, like anyone else, has a right to be heard.
“I realize that this is somewhat irregular, although not without precedent. But I feel that my race gives me the right to comment on an issue which is essentially an issue of race: and so I shall.”
There was a restless stirring across the floor and in the rapidly filling galleries, where for the first time in several weeks a few of NAWAC’s black-jacketed hearties could be seen. In his seat beside Powell Hanson of North Dakota, Johnny DeWilton of Vermont murmured, “That’s a good point for Arly to answer. Wonder how he’ll do it.” “If he has an ounce of sense,” Powell murmured back, “he’ll keep his damned mouth shut altogether.”
“Members of the Senate,” Cullee went on earnestly, “it is quite obvious to everyone familiar with the Hill that sentiment has grown very rapidly for the Richardson-Bernard resolution in the past few hours. And the reason for that, however much it may be obscured by other arguments, is race-based fear.
“It is not that a major power is seriously threatened—it is that a major white power is seriously threatened by a non-white power. That is what sets the pulses racing here and sends the shivers down so many backs. That is what makes the true hidden argument for intervention such a shabby and truly tragic one. For it goes back to old blind hatreds that we had thought the world was civilized enough to have overcome.
“Perhaps men can never really become that civilized. But I suggest to you, members of the Senate, that now of all times is the time they should try.
“At the moment, it appears that the Chinese at
tack, literally insane in its fury, is pushing the Russians back with steadily increasing rapidity. At the moment, we don’t know when or where this process will stop. Already the media, whose major elements are beginning to swing very noticeably in the direction of intervention as their proprietors grow more fearful”—this time the uneasy stirring occurred in the Oval Room, though no one spoke—“are using headlines and reports to inflame public sentiment and quite possibly exaggerate the success of the Chinese drive.
“I am authorized to say to you, members of the Senate, that no reliable intelligence has yet reached this government that the Chinese onslaught, heavy as it is, has threatened any decisive portion of the Russian land mass. Cities and civilians have been killed but not much territory has been consolidated—at least not on the mammoth scale the headlines would have you believe. Headlines which refer to ‘Chinese hordes’ and say that they are ‘pouring’ everywhere through the Russian lines give a false emphasis. There is an unconfirmed report that a ‘yellow wave’—and note that terminology, Senators—is ‘racing’ toward Moscow. Its progress, which is not accompanied by any newsmen but is only filtered through Hong Kong, not always a very reliable listening-post, is measured not in miles but in ‘hundreds of miles.’ Unidentified ‘observers’—a word which all Americans know by now means the reporter who happens to be writing the story, with all his human failings and his human prejudices and his strong personal likes and dislikes—tell us that ‘perhaps fifty million Chinese’ are ‘overwhelming’ the Russians. Their progress is referred to consistently now as a ‘death wave’ or a ‘death surge’ or a ‘death tide.’
“From a position of reasonably sincere neutrality when the contest seemed equal, the media are now plunging headlong toward intervention and toward the war which only yesterday, it seems, they abhorred and violently condemned.
“It appears once again that in the American media, as on this Hill, the basic controlling principle is still that fine old saying, ‘It all depends upon whose ox is gored.’
“The ox this time is white, and the reaction in this country is already becoming blind, emotional, unrestrained and terribly dangerous to the best interests of America.”
He paused and again there was an uneasy movement in the room and in the galleries. Into it someone suddenly shouted, “Black and yellow, black and yellow, hit ’em hard and hear ’em bellow!” There was an instant disturbance as heads turned, startled comment exploded and elderly Senate guards glared dutifully around in a stern and admonitory manner.
Cullee looked completely taken aback for a second. Then he crashed down the gavel with a heavy hand and spoke with a naked anger.
“Yes!” he said. “That’s the next step! Get frantic about the yellow races and then get frantic about the black races! And then, my slimy friend in the gallery, whoever you are, you’ve got a hell of a lot of people in this world to be frantic about!
“Members of the Senate,” he continued more calmly, mastering his anger with an obvious effort, “that is exactly what we are heading into, if we allow our approach to this war to be influenced by racial fears. We cannot afford to do this. Nothing can more certainly ruin our good judgment concerning our best interests in this terrible conflict, and nothing can more certainly divide us internally and get us to fighting among ourselves.
“Both of these results, I suspect, are exactly what those who are whipping up racial antagonisms have in mind. I suspect this is particularly true”—his voice became heavy with sarcasm—“of that great statesman, the former Senator from Wyoming, who was the first to inflame this issue and get us all to thinking along these lines. That’s exactly what Fred Van Ackerman and his slimy NAWAC would like to achieve.”
This time there was a genuinely ugly booing from many places in the galleries. This time he glanced up with an angry scowl but otherwise did not respond.
“Members of the Senate,” he said earnestly, “there are many extraordinarily compelling reasons for staying out of this tragic war. Not the least of these is the likelihood that we might not be able to keep it from spreading, that no ‘surgical strike,’ however well and hopefully planned, could keep us from being dragged in deeper and deeper. Then we, too, in all likelihood, would suffer terrible atomic damage. We are not immune from such things. It would be very possible.
“Rather, we must stay out, as the President has said, holding ourselves ready to mediate, help and restore. We must never let ourselves be motivated by racial fears that can only subvert our judgment and turn us against one another.
“The Chinese are not landing on Long Island or Hawaii. They are not attacking us. They are making one last desperate effort and whether it succeeds, as momentarily seems possible, or loses, they are not going to be able to do anything more for a long, long time.
“The Congress must not tie the hands of the President with this resolution. We must not take sides. And above all we must not give way to ugly racial fears, for they become us not at all and weaken us most fearfully.”
“And to that, gentlemen,” the President said, reaching over to snap off the machine as Arly Richardson rose in the Senate and prepared to make his reply, “I for one say, ‘Amen.’” He looked at them calmly across the big desk. “What say you?”
There was an uncertain silence and then by instinctive agreement they turned to the gentle old man who was executive chairman of The Greatest Publication That Absolutely Ever Was. He cleared his throat, studied the President thoughtfully for a moment and spoke with a careful deliberation.
“With his general sentiments, Mr. President,” he said, “I think we all, of course, agree in principle. Whether the principle can be applied across the board in the present situation …” His voice trailed away, then resumed in what appeared to be a tone of genuine curiosity. “May I inquire, Mr. President, why you have asked us to come here? It seems to me a rather puzzling—”
“No, it doesn’t, at all, Arthur,” the President interrupted. “It seems to you perfectly obvious, just as it does to me: I need your help.”
“In what way, Mr. President?” the editorial director of the Times inquired blandly. And the general director of the Post added with equal blandness:
“Why?”
It was his turn to study them thoughtfully, these eight stubborn faces already closed off and turned away from him, whose owners exercised so much completely uncontrolled control over what America thought—responsible to nothing at all but their own ruthless prejudices and arbitrary beliefs. He realized with a wry inward humor, not really very amused, that they were all much more comfortable now that they were on their way back to where they belonged—opposing Orrin Knox.
“The way in which you can help me,” he said quietly, “is by devoting yourselves to keeping the country calm, and by continuing to oppose, with every means of influence you have, the racial frenzy against the Chinese which is fueling the drive for intervention. If you should join the hue and cry for that reason—or indeed for any reason—it could force my hand and, I believe, help to destroy possibly the last chance to save the world. I am asking you to support me in what I am trying to do. It is as simple as that.”
“Mr. President,” Walter Dobius said, his tone, while equally quiet, filled with a growing indignation, “I for one resent the implication of your remarks. I think we are doing our best to keep the country calm, to judge the whole situation calmly, and to advocate what we think is best for the country and the world, which is just as much our responsibility as it is yours. We are against racial frenzy as much as you, Mr. President. You aren’t unique in that.”
“But you aren’t quite as firm against intervention as you were a little while ago, are you, Walter?” he asked.
“No, we’re not,” CBS said sharply, “because the situation has changed so rapidly in the past forty-eight hours that it’s no longer as simple a question as you make out.”
“Oh?” he inquired. “Have I made it sound simple? Forgive me, gentlemen. That was furthest from my thoughts.”
“It seems to me,” NBC remarked, “that all of us, be it in editorial, column or broadcast, have made several very valid points in the last few hours. The first is, of course, that you can end the conflict by intervening, and nobody else can. The second is that it is indeed a conflict between two cultures, to one of which we belong. The third is that if Russia does go down, if the balance of power is destroyed permanently by the onrushing hordes of China”—he flushed at the President’s sudden quizzical expression but managed to amend with reasonable dignity—“if the balance of power is permanently upset in favor of China—then there is a strong possibility that we will sooner or later be attacked ourselves. We all seem to be agreed that those things are valid. I don’t know why we should pretend they aren’t.”
“We regret as much as you do, Mr. President,” ABC pointed out earnestly, “that some people are using race to stir up trouble, but there it is.”
“Exactly,” Frankly Unctuous agreed. “We have all deplored that. But we can’t shut our eyes to the realities of world affairs.”
“Which I am,” he said sharply.
“You are not doing that, Mr. President,” the Post said with a calm arrogance that took his breath away, “but it may be that you are confusing your own conclusions about these things with what is really best for the country.”
For a moment the President stared at him with an open disbelief.
“Well, by God,” he said finally. “So I am the one who is confusing his own conclusions about these things with what is really best for the country, am I? Well, well.”
“There is possibly a legitimate difference of opinion, Mr. President,” the chairman of The Greatest Publication observed gently. “None of us is impugning your motives.”