George F. Kennan: An American Life (41 page)

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Authors: John Lewis Gaddis

Tags: #General, #History, #20th Century, #Political Science, #International Relations, #Historical, #Modern, #Biography & Autobiography

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The Kennans departed on the twenty-ninth, traveling with Smith by plane to Paris, where George spent a week with the U.S. delegation to the Council of Foreign Ministers, which was meeting there. They sailed for New York on May 10, and by the twenty-first were back at the farm in East Berlin. “We are as usual frightfully busy getting settled,” Annelise wrote to Frieda Por. “I wonder if we are ever going to get out of that state.” The State Department, in the meantime, had authorized George’s transfer, even if it was not quite sure where: “You are hereby assigned to duty at the Naval War College.”
17
Feeling guilty that he had abandoned Smith as the new ambassador was taking up his duties in Moscow, Kennan wrote him a long letter on June 27, explaining how he had used the past five weeks. Most of his time had been spent working with Gruenther and his colleagues on the war college curriculum. But there had also been “many demands” to talk about the Soviet Union:
I gave a full-fledged lecture to the representatives of over forty national organizations. . . . I gave a similar lecture to a packed house of officials from all parts of the State Department. I went over to the Navy Department, lunched with Admiral [Chester] Nimitz and the highest officers on duty there, and then talked for an hour and a half with a larger group of naval officers. I had similar sessions at the War Department, both with the operations and the intelligence people. I had an evening with Secretary [of the Navy James] Forrestal out on his yacht. I had a luncheon with General [Carl] Spaatz and sat in on the sessions of the Russian committee of SWIN [probably SWNCC, the State-War-Navy Coordinating Committee]. I talked to the assembled economic experts of the [State] Department (I think this was the least satisfactory of all the conferences I have had). I spent one lunch hour trying to warn Mr. [Harold] Ickes about the Communist front organizations which he is frequently associated with. I had appointments with Mr. [Donald] Russell [Assistant Secretary of State for Administration] and General [John] Hilldring [Assistant Secretary of State for Occupied Areas], with the heads of personnel and the director of [the] Foreign Service and the acting head of the Foreign Buildings Office. I talked at length with the officers of the USSR section of the Research and Analysis Branch of the [State] Department. I spent an evening with [Assistant Secretary of State] Spruille Braden and the Department’s leading Latin American experts. There was the usual number of unavoidable luncheons and dinners with press people. Finally, I had made arrangements (this should not go beyond you and the top officers in the Embassy) to give certain help to the new National Intelligence Agency now headed by General [Hoyt] Vandenberg.
There would now be three weeks at the farm until July 20, when Kennan would begin a speaking tour of the western United States. It was a State Department experiment in public outreach: “I hope it will be profitable to the victims.”
Kennan was grateful for the confidence Smith had shown in him by allowing his early return: the pressure would have been much greater had he had to remain in Moscow through most of the summer. He and Annelise hoped that the Smiths were beginning to feel “some of the ineffable and implausible, but nonetheless real compensations which life [in Moscow] has to offer.” The ambassador would probably say, “with a snort,” that these were apparent “only to those who have left and are reposing comfortably in the arms of capitalism. And to that retort, I have no reply.”
18
III.
When he began designing a course on grand strategy in the summer of 1946, Kennan had to start from scratch: “This was the first time I had personally ever had occasion to address myself seriously, either as a student or as a teacher, to this subject.” But it was also the first time the U.S. government had ever prescribed its study. Apart from Alfred Thayer Mahan, whose work at the Naval War College half a century earlier had focused exclusively on that form of power, no American had written anything worth reading on the relationship of war to politics. There were, to be sure, the great European strategists, conveniently analyzed in Edward Mead Earle’s recently published collection of commissioned essays,
Makers of Modern Strategy
. But “in no instance was the thinking of these earlier figures . . . adequate to the needs of a great American democracy in the atomic age. All of this, clearly, was going to have to be rethought.”
19
The rethinking, for Kennan, began with the bomb. His initial reactions to Hiroshima and Nagasaki had been a jumble—relief that the war was over, regret at the destruction employed to bring this about, alarm at the possibility that the Soviet Union might obtain its own weapon, whether through espionage or the Truman administration’s naïveté in prematurely embracing the principle of international control.
20
None of these thoughts cohered, however, until Kennan read another book of essays, edited by Bernard Brodie, just off the press in June 1946. Entitled
The Absolute Weapon: Atomic Power and World Order,
this volume, together with Earle’s
Makers
, gave Kennan a crash course in the field he was about to teach. The notes he took suggest what he learned.
Kennan began with Brodie’s book, grasping at once the paradox it posed: “Best way to avoid atomic war is to avoid war; best way to avoid war is to be prepared to resort to atomic warfare.” He recorded detailed information on the destructive capabilities of the new weapon, on the resources necessary to build it, and on the possibility that the Baruch Plan, then being proposed by the Truman administration, might provide a way for the United Nations to manage it. He was, however, skeptical: “Soviets would not hesitate to promise to forego production & proceed nevertheless to produce.” One essay claiming that only the world organization could handle the bomb caused Kennan to stop taking notes: “Remainder just rot.”
21
The real significance of atomic weapons, he concluded, lay not in the need to bolster international institutions but in the realization that “if we are to avoid mutual destruction, we must revert to strategic political thinking of XVIII Century.” The complete annihilation of enemies no longer made sense, because:
(a) in the best of circumstances (i.e., that the Russians lack atomic weapons or facilities for employing them against us) it implies on our part a war against the Russian people and the eventual occupation of Russian territory; and
 
(b) in the worst of circumstances, the virtual ruin of our country as well as theirs.
It followed, then, that American objectives should be limited to:
(a) preventing the power of the Sov. Gov’t from extending to point vital or important to US or British Empire; and
 
(b) without forfeiting the confidence & friendship of the Russian people, to bring [ab]out the discrediting of those forces in Russia who insist that Russia regard itself as at war with the western world.
22
And how might the eighteenth century help? Here Kennan drew on Earle’s volume, which contained essays on two post-Napoleonic grand strategists who had also rethought their subject in the aftermath of a total war.
The first, by the historians Crane Brinton, Gordon Craig, and Felix Gilbert, discussed the Swiss strategist Antoine-Henri Jomini, whose writings, the authors conceded, were outdated and little read. But Jomini had considered the central problem in warfare to be determining “correct lines of operation, leaving to enemy choice of withdrawing or accepting combat under unfavorable conditions.” Kennan saw a lesson for the United States:
Our task is to plan and execute our strategic dispositions in such a way as to compel Sov. Govt. either to accept combat under unfavorable conditions (which it will never do), or withdraw. In this way we can contain Soviet power until Russians tire of the game.
The note is undated, but it appears to be Kennan’s first use—in a geopolitical context—of the verb that became associated with his name.
23
By far the greater impression, however, came from Hans Rothfels’s article on Carl von Clausewitz—the best study available in English at the time on the much-misunderstood Prussian strategist. Kennan was struck by Clausewitz’s emphasis on
psychologically
disarming an adversary: finding the point at which “the enemy realizes that victory is either too unlikely or too costly.” Hence the need to pinpoint the “center of gravity”—an army, a capital city, an alliance, even public opinion—against which minimum pressure might produce maximum results. The defense would, thus, lure the offense into overextension: “Assailant weakens himself as he advances.” (Kennan thought it significant that both Jomini and Clausewitz had fought on the Russian side when Napoleon invaded in 1812.) Once the “culminating point” of the offensive had been reached, the enemy could only shift to defense without its advantages: “The best he can do is to demonstrate that, if there is no longer any chance of his winning, his opponent cannot reach this aim either.”
24
Most important, for Kennan, was Clausewitz’s claim that war is a continuation of policy by other means. Kennan correctly understood this to imply not that politics are suspended during war, but just the opposite: “For[eign] pol[icy] aims are the end and war is the means.” Violence therefore could never be an objective: “Even in case of Germany it is questionable whether a war of destruction was desirable.” It would certainly not be possible against the Soviet Union: the only possibility was “a political war, a war of attrition for limited objectives.”
We are in peculiar position of having to defend ourselves against mortal attack, but yet not wishing to inflict mortal defeat on our attacker. We cannot be carried too far away by attractive conception of “the flashing sword of vengeance.” We must be like the porcupine who only gradually convinces the carnivorous beast of prey that he is not a fit object of attack.
Not the least of Clausewitz’s attractions was that he provided ammunition for arguments with Bohlen: “Chip says that [a war of destruction] could not have been otherwise: that the U.S. cannot fight a political war.” Perhaps so, in World War II, but in the coming conflict Kennan—and Clausewitz’s ghost—were insisting that it would have no choice but to learn to do so.
25
What Clausewitz taught him, Kennan recalled years later, was that the United States had no peacetime political-military doctrine, only a set of obsolete traditions—isolationism, neutrality, the Open Door. There was, thus, the need to clarify the uses of military power: “what we could expect to do with it, what we could not expect to do with it, and how it should fit in with diplomacy and political aims.” Kennan’s war college teaching, he hoped, would “build an intellectual structure which could act as a guide to policy makers, and which could find acceptance gradually through the academic world in the country at large.”
26
IV.
In the meantime, though, the State Department had given Kennan an unusual opportunity to assess opinion in the country at large. He had called, in the “long telegram,” for educating Americans to the “realities of the Russian situation: I cannot over-emphasize [the] importance of this.” That passage particularly impressed William Benton, the new assistant secretary of state for public affairs, who pushed hard for giving Kennan part of that responsibility. The National War College appointment precluded any full-time commitment, but Kennan had been working with the department to find ways of “off-setting misleading and inaccurate propaganda.” The “experiment” of a speaking tour was one such effort.
27
Surprisingly for someone who had traveled so extensively elsewhere, Kennan had never been west of the Mississippi River until the State Department sent him there late in the summer of 1946. Accompanied by Annelise, George spoke in Chicago, Milwaukee, Seattle, Portland, San Francisco, Berkeley, and Los Angeles, concluding his trip with a talk to the Adams County Bankers’ Association of Gettysburg, Pennsylvania. He prepared no texts, relying “on a few scribbled notes, on the resources of memory, and on the inspiration of the moment.” The tour, for Kennan, was yet another discovery of America, although this time under official auspices, and with no bicycle.
28
Businessmen, he reported to the department, were his best audiences. Possessing few preconceived ideas on the Soviet Union, with no personal positions at stake, they were “friendly, curious, and generally anxious to be enlightened.” They were almost all male, and Kennan found that it was easier to hold their interest than when he was speaking to mixed audiences. Women, he still believed, were ill equipped to discuss international relations, because their clubs focused too earnestly on that subject. These organizations were a way of escaping “the boredom, frustration and faintly guilty conscience which seem to afflict many well-to-do and insufficiently occupied people in this country.” Russia—“mysterious and inviting, with just enough of wickedness and brutality to complete the allure”—was easier to talk about than the problems of race, slums, and labor unions at home. Having been told so often that only cooperation with Moscow could ensure peace, it was a shock for them to hear that peace would be possible “only through a long, unpleasant process of setting will against will, force against force, idea against idea.”
Professors were also difficult, because many of them had taken positions in public that were not in accord with what Kennan had to say. Their reputations were at stake, their pride was affected, they had made “rosy forecasts” in the hope of enhancing “their own glamour, prestige and importance.” The tendency showed up most clearly in California, where university faculties also seemed to have “a geographical inferiority complex,” resentful of the fact that foreign policy was still an East Coast product, confident that if given the chance they could handle it better, convinced that the future lay as much with countries bordering the Pacific as the Atlantic, certain that the Soviet Union, especially Siberia, fell within that realm.

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