Lindbergh

by A. Scott Berg

While the Lindberghs’ controversial position ruptured several old friendships, it fostered as many new ones. Norman Thomas, America’s leading Socialist, disagreed with Lindbergh’s occasional bluntness; but, he wrote him, “I applaud your stand and deplore the rather vicious type of attack that has been made upon you.” New York attorney John Foster Dulles did not buy all Lindbergh’s arguments, but he too said he was “very glad you spoke as you did,” for he concurred with his feeling of “grave danger” should the United States continue its apparent foreign policy. Chester Bowles, then an advertising executive, congratulated Lindbergh for his courage and expressed his hope that “you will keep on talking and talking in spite of all the criticism and innuendos that will undoubtedly be fired in your direction.” Frank Lloyd Wright wrote, “We all knew you could fly straight. Now we know you can think straight. When talk is quite generally cheap and unreliable, you are brave enough to talk straight.”

  With Americans from all walks of life hoping Lindbergh would become the spokesman for their anti-interventionist cause—including Senators Bennett Champ Clark of Missouri, Ernest Lundeen and Henrik Shipstead from Minnesota, Burton K. Wheeler of Montana, Gerald P. Nye of North Dakota, Patrick McCarran from Nevada, and William E. Borah of Idaho, university presidents Alan Valentine of the University of Rochester and Robert Maynard Hutchins of the University of Chicago, and even John Cudahy, who had served in the New Deal’s diplomatic corps—Lindbergh found himself drawn to a group of young men in New Haven, Connecticut, mostly law students at Yale.

  R. Douglas “Bob” Stuart, Jr.—a good-looking, go-getting graduate of Princeton, the son of the first vice president of the Quaker Oats Company, then studying law—had contacted Lindbergh back in November 1939, after Lindbergh’s first antiwar address to the nation. Along with Potter Stewart and Sargent Shriver, Stuart had been one of six Yale students who had invited him to the campus to speak. In the spring of 1940, Stuart and Stewart and two other Yale University law students—Eugene Locke of Texas and Gerald R. Ford of Grand Rapids, Michigan—circulated a mimeographed letter and petition to students and recent graduates of universities throughout the country “to enlist the support of those who feel, as we do, that the policy of the United States should be hemisphere defense rather than European intervention, and who are willing to work for the adoption of that policy.” This introductory letter asserted that they were neither pacifists nor affiliated with any political party. On four military matters, these young bulldogs were firmly committed:

  1. The United States must build an impregnable defense for America.

  2. No foreign power, nor group of powers, can successfully attack a prepared America.

  3. American democracy can be preserved only by keeping out of the European war.

  4. Aid short of war weakens national defense at home and threatens to involve America in war abroad.

  Stuart had gone to Chicago in search of backing for his organization; and he enlisted a family friend, General Robert S. Wood, the chairman of Sears-Roebuck, to act as chairman. Stuart postponed his third year of law school in order to serve as the full-time director of this group, the Committee to Defend America First. The movement’s name got shortened in daily parlance to its last two words.

  “The early members of its governing body,” wrote Richard Moore—a young attorney who would soon leave his firm to become America First’s Assistant National Director—“… included a mixture of conservatives and liberals, Republicans and Democrats and independents.” From the Roosevelt Administration itself they included General Hugh Johnson, who had headed the National Recovery Administration, Stuart Chase, an economist credited with coining the phrase “New Deal,” and George N. Peek, the former head of the Agricultural Adjustment Administration. Two senatorial wives, both Democrats—Mrs. Burton K. Wheeler and Mrs. Bennett Champ Clark—and two daughters of famous men—Alice Roosevelt Longworth (daughter of T.R.) and Kathryn Lewis (daughter of labor leader John L. Lewis) also served on the national committee. Liberal journalists John T. Flynn and Oswald Garrison Villard, popular novelist Kathleen Norris, humorist Irvin S. Cobb, and World War I ace Eddie Rickenbacker, then head of Eastern Airlines, rounded out the list.

  Lindbergh was so impressed with the campaign the twenty-five-year-old Stuart had mounted in just a few months—complete with platform, personalities, and financing—he was considering his invitation to speak before a student gathering at Yale University. On October 22, 1940, Jim Newton and Lindbergh went to a Trans-Lux newsreel theater to watch the footage of a speech he had delivered eight nights earlier. That had been the first time he had not refused to allow the film companies to photograph him—a great risk, he believed, “because of the Jewish influence in the newsreels and the antagonism I know exists towards me…. I take the chance that they will cut my talk badly and sandwich it between scenes of homeless refugees and bombed cathedrals.” As Lindbergh’s picture came up on the screen, many in the theater hissed. The editing of the newsreels that night was not as distorted as Lindbergh had feared; and he was encouraged at the end when a larger number of people in the audience applauded. The next day, he accepted the invitation of the America First Committee, telephoning one of its leaders, Kingman Brewster—the student chairman of the Yale News, who would one day become president of the university.

  Lindbergh drove himself from Long Island to New Haven on October 30, 1940. After dining with several students at the home of Professor A. Whitney Griswold, another future Yale president, they all drove to Woolsey Hall. The imposing marble building was filled beyond capacity—close to three thousand people. Lindbergh spoke for half an hour, his longest speech yet. His first ten minutes were professorial in tone, a brief history of the events in Europe that had led to the current war. Then he articulated his message for the “generation which is taking over the problems of life during the greatest period of mutation that man has ever known”: “We must either keep out of European wars entirely,” he said, repeating his familiar refrain, “or participate in European politics permanently.” In making that decision he asked his audience, “Do we intend to attempt an invasion of the continent of Europe. Do we intend to fight a war in the Orient? Do we intend to try both at the same time?” If the answer to the latter questions was yes, he said, “it is long past time for us to begin the construction of bases in the Pacific, and to stop our wavering policy in the Philippines—we should either fortify these islands adequately, or get out of them entirely.” He confined his remarks that night to Europe, because, he said, “no nation in Asia has developed their aviation sufficiently to be a serious menace to the United States at this time …”

  Lindbergh expected heckling during his speech but encountered only rapt attention. He received a tremendous ovation, enough for him to note in his journal that the meeting “was by far the most successful and satisfying … of this kind in which I have ever taken part.” It encouraged him not only to continue speaking publicly but to do so under the aegis of this impressive “youth group.” While many of the other antiwar organizations had distinctly reactionary—often anti-Semitic—taints to them, America First seemed to attract men and women of all ages, political persuasions, and religions—including a number of influential Jews. These included Sidney Hertzberg, their publicity director, and Lessing Rosenwald, one of the Sears-Roebuck heirs. Furthermore, noted an FBI report on the organization, there was “a tremendous Jewish group” subsidizing the movement, using the Guggenheim Foundation as its front.

  During the next year, millions of words would be spoken and written on the subject of intervention. As each side fought for the soul of the nation, the argument boiled down to eleven months of oratory between Franklin Roosevelt and Charles Lindbergh. The latter would prove to be the biggest draw for the America First movement, making thirteen public appearances as its featured speaker in practically every region of the country. Contrary to persistent rumor, Lindbergh wrote all his own speeches—with only minor editing from Anne. He received no compensation from any organizat
ion or individual for his efforts; and he paid for all his own transportation and lodging.

  In January 1941, President Roosevelt asked for “all-out aid” for the democracies; and the Congress introduced a bill that would give him almost unlimited war powers. In his State of the Union address on January sixth, he gave the still-isolationist nation a big push toward war when he asked Congress for a lend-lease bill—one empowering the President to transfer war material to any country deemed vital to U. S. interests, deferring payments for those ships and arms. Four days later, Congress opened debate on the subject, one of the hottest in its history. Four days after that, Lindbergh received a telegram from Hamilton Fish, the President’s congressman, who actively opposed the bill in the House. “THIS IS MOST IMPORTANT AND FAR REACHING ADMINISTRATION BILL EVER PRESENTED TO CONGRESS,” Fish wired Lindbergh, asking him to testify before the Committee on Foreign Affairs.

  Lindbergh arrived at Capitol Hill early on Thursday, January 23, 1941, and walked through some of the buildings that had been his childhood playground. When he approached the Ways and Means Committee Room of the new House Office Building—at 9:55 as scheduled—he encountered a huge crowd. Police had to escort him into the room, which was jammed with a thousand people. Motion-picture cameras and lights were already in place, and dozens of still photographers swarmed around the table at which Lindbergh sat. He faced the committee—twenty-five-strong. Although he was as charismatic as ever, the public got its first hard look at a Lindbergh just shy of forty, his hair thinning and graying at the temples, with age lines in the alabaster skin. The hero famous for his perfect smile sat solemnly in a dark suit, eager to talk.

  For the next two and one-half hours he testified without pausing even for a drink of water. For the pro-intervention representatives, the hearing proved to be something of a joust, in which they attempted to knock Lindbergh off his horse of staunch neutrality. One such attempt came in answering questions from Rep. Luther A. Johnson of Texas:

  You are not, then, in sympathy with England’s efforts to defeat Hitler? I am in sympathy with the people on both sides, but I think that it would be disadvantageous for England herself, if a conclusive victory is sought.

  I think you are evading the question—not intentionally; but the question is very simple, whether or not you are in sympathy with England’s defense against Hitler?

  I am in sympathy with the people and not with their aims.

  You do not think that it is to the best interests of the United States economically as well as in the matter of defense for England to win?

  No sir. I think that a complete victory, as I say, would mean prostration in Europe, and would be one of the worst things that could happen there and here…. I believe we have an interest in the outcome of the war.

  On which side?

  In a negotiated peace; we have the greatest interest.

  … Which side would it be to our interest to win?

  Neither.

  After a lunch break, the tournament continued, as Rep. Wirt Courtney of Tennessee asked, “Do you think that either Germany or England is the more to blame for the present conflict?” Lindbergh replied: “Over a period of years, no.”

  Lindbergh expressed his belief that American aid to England would only prolong the war. He urged America to arm itself and defend its own borders; and he suggested that American entry into this war “would be the greatest disaster this country has ever passed through.” Several times during his four and one-half hours of testimony, the crowd burst into applause. Before dismissing the witness, even Chairman Sol Bloom noted, “you have made one of the best witnesses that this committee could possibly ever hear. You answered all the questions only as a Colonel Lindbergh could answer them …”

  A fortnight later, Lindbergh was back in Washington, testifying before the Senate. He found this hearing conducted with more dignity but also more acrimony. He used his opening statement to amplify some of the comments he had made before the House, particularly to explain that when he had refused to say he favored an English victory it was because “an English victory, if it were possible at all, would necessitate years of war and an invasion of the Continent of Europe,” which he believed “would create prostration, famine, and disease in Europe—and probably in America—such as the world has never experienced before.” That was why he preferred a negotiated peace to a complete victory by either side. Senate Bill 275, he believed, pursued a “policy which attempts to obtain security for America by controlling internal conditions in Europe.” It troubled Lindbergh that America was sending a large portion of its armament production abroad, while its own defense systems—especially the air forces—were in “deplorable condition.”

  Senator Claude Pepper of Florida got the inquiry off to an unintentionally amusing start when he tried to put Lindbergh’s comments in some historical context. “Colonel,” he asked, “when did you first go to Europe?”

  “Nineteen twenty-seven, sir,” he replied, which brought the house down in a prolonged demonstration of laughter and applause.

  Pepper soon made it clear that he wanted to show that Lindbergh was pro-German. He asked Lindbergh to comment on the fact that many people “have been puzzled by the absence of any indication on your part of any moral indignation at what they consider outrageous wrongs which have been perpetrated and are being perpetrated by the German Government.” Lindbergh asserted his belief “that nothing is gained by publicly commenting on your feeling in regard to one side of a war in which your country is not taking part.” Instead, he suggested, he felt “very strongly that the attitude of this country should be receptive to a negotiated peace.” He further asserted his belief that America should not “police the world.”

  While Lindbergh’s testimony may have sounded logical in theory, many Americans were incensed at the coldness of his responses. “[Y]our failure to denounce the perversions of Nazi doctrine, the shocking cruelty and destruction of which they are guilty,” wrote one stranger who expressed the sentiments of millions, “is an eloquent declaration of where you stand.” Cornelius Vanderbilt, Jr., expressed his sentiments more succinctly, when he wired Lindbergh: “WHAT AN UNPATRIOTIC DUMB BELL YOU ARE.” The Richmond News Leader, edited by biographer D. S. Freeman, observed on its editorial page that “Millions would vote today to hang LINDBERGH or to exile him—as enthusiastically as they cheered and extolled him. Half the letters that have come to newspapers during the past few days have been abuse of him. Some of the communications have been so scurrilous that they could not be printed, though the writers doubtless sealed them with satisfaction and then sat down by the fire to plume themselves as patriots.” Whether one agreed with Lindbergh’s view of the world or not, Freeman thought it surely demonstrated Lindbergh’s patriotism, that if he was trying to aid the Nazis he could achieve that “much more readily by keeping away from the committee room and plotting in the background.” Within the week, the House passed Lend-Lease by a vote of 260–165; the Senate followed suit in early March by a margin of 60–31. In London, the blitz continued.

  A case of chicken pox ran through the Lindbergh house, first putting Anne in bed and ultimately downing Charles for ten days. They both recovered in time to stick to plans they had made to revisit Florida. As before, they eluded the press. On March 6,1941, Jim Newton met them in Haines City, then drove them to Fort Myers, where he had outfitted the Lindberghs with a large sailboat with an engine and a small dory. Because he knew the coastal waters so well, he would be their only guide.

  “Occasionally we camped under twisted sea-grape trees on shore in a bugproof tent,” Anne would later write. “We explored Shark River again, silently this time, sailing before the wind with jib and jigger, into the timeless world of wilderness and wild life. Pushing through the maze of streams and rivers opening up before us, between bare ghostly arms of mangrove roots, we scarcely made a ripple, occasionally startling a great white heron, or a pink ibis, or water turkeys. Swallow-tailed kites circled slowly above our heads. At sunset we
put the sails down and poled through small bayous under arching bushes.”

  The centerpiece of their trip was a voyage to Dry Tortugas, one of the outermost keys off Florida’s southwest coast. Charles took command of the twenty-four-hour crossing, ordering watches on deck for everybody—“two hours apiece until nightfall, then four on and eight below.” Over the next few days, they explored the island—which boasted an enormous nineteenth-century fortress, Fort Jefferson—and the neighboring keys. In the calm waters they swam and dove, each trying for the first time a helmet attached by a forty-foot hose to an air pump. They were thrilled to enter this strange world of silence and exotic sights—“purple sea fans, luminous blue fish, yellow, black-and-white striped, gliding in and out of ferns, coral branches, all moving to a rhythm we did not know or feel.” Although they had set out for ten days, the Lindberghs floated off the tip of the United States for almost three weeks, all but completely detached from newspaper and radio reports. A refreshed Lindbergh returned to Long Island to resume his crusade.

  Working through young Bob Stuart, Lindbergh spent the next two weeks writing an address for a meeting in the Chicago Arena on April seventeenth. General Wood introduced him to the crowd of more than ten thousand, announcing that Lindbergh had officially joined the national America First Committee. Over the next twenty-five minutes, Lindbergh explained why. “The America First Committee is a purely American organization formed to give voice to the hundred-odd million people in our country who oppose sending our soldiers to Europe again,” he said. “Our objective is to make America impregnable at home, and to keep out of these wars across the sea. Some of us, including myself, believe that the sending of arms to Europe was a mistake—that it has weakened our position in America, that it has added bloodshed in European countries, and that it has not changed the trend of the war.”

  The plainspoken Lindbergh incited thirty interruptions of applause and almost no opposition within the hall. “War is not inevitable for this country,” he proclaimed. “Whether or not America enters the war is within our control.” While many took his clarity for clairvoyance, the future would later prove some of his pronouncements just plain wrong. “Personally, I believe it will be a tragedy to the world—a tragedy even to Germany—if the British Empire collapses,” he said. “But I must tell you frankly that I believe this war was lost by England and France even before it was declared, and that it is not within our power in America today to win the war for England, even though we throw the entire resources of our nation into the conflict. With all our organization and industry, we are not, and will not be able to transport an army across the ocean, large enough to invade the continent of Europe successfully as long as strong European armies are there for its defense.”