An Unfinished Life: John F. Kennedy 1917-1963 (66 page)

But shelter advocates gave Kennedy two reasons for going ahead. Publicizing a shelter program “would show the world that the U.S . . . is really prepared to suffer the consequences” of a war and “would thus strengthen our negotiating position” and allied confidence in America’s willingness to protect them against Soviet aggression. Second, an expanded civil defense program would put additional strains on the Soviet economy by forcing them to spend more on nuclear arms—in retrospect, an amazing, even nutty, prescription for protecting Americans from a potential nuclear attack.

There was more. Kennedy described the program as an insurance policy, “which we could never forgive ourselves for forgoing in the event of catastrophe.” The slightest possibility that millions of lives could be saved was enough to convince any president that he needed to make it part of the country’s national defense. Criticism from New York governor Nelson Rockefeller, a likely Republican opponent in 1964, of the administration’s “complacency” on the issue was not lost on Kennedy. Indeed, Rockefeller’s political challenge was more important than any real hope that the so-called shelters could save millions of Americans from an initial nuclear blast or the subsequent radiation fallout.

Kennedy’s other major initiative in his speech was a declaration of intent to land a man on the moon and return him to earth before the end of the decade. Such a mission, he believed, would be of compelling value in the contest with the Soviets for international prestige, as well as a way to convince allies and neutral Third World nations of American superiority. Because he saw such a commitment as certain to divert resources from other essential needs for years to come, he believed Americans would be reluctant to embrace the idea. Indeed, Sorensen noted that the only time Kennedy ever departed extensively from a prepared text in speaking to Congress was in emphasizing the pointlessness of going ahead with a manned moon landing unless the country was willing to make the necessary sacrifices. “There is no sense in agreeing or desiring that the United States take an affirmative position in outer space, unless we are prepared to do the work and bear the burdens,” he said. And, as he anticipated, Kennedy faced substantial opposition—both among the general public and within the government. A panel of scientists Eisenhower had asked to evaluate a moon flight had believed it worth doing, but Eisenhower saw a manned moon landing as a “stunt” and said privately that he “couldn’t care less whether a man ever reached the moon.” Kennedy’s science advisers conceded that successful space probes could advance America’s international prestige, but they doubted that the U.S. could beat the Russians to the moon and warned that such a project could be prohibitively expensive. David Bell, Kennedy’s budget director, wondered whether the benefits of manned space flights would exceed the costs and said that the administration could find better and cheaper means of raising America’s international standing. A majority of Americans agreed: 58 percent of the public thought it a poor idea to spend an estimated $40 billion—roughly $225 per person—on something the Soviets might beat them at.

But Kennedy refused to accept what he saw as a timid approach to space exploration. Acknowledging in his speech that the Soviets had a lead on the United States and that no one could guarantee “that we shall one day be first,” he did “guarantee that any failure to make this effort will make us last.” Psychologically, the challenge of putting a man on the moon and beating the Russians in the effort to do it resonated with Kennedy’s affinity for heroic causes and the whole spirit of the New Frontier. For Kennedy, it was “clearly one of the great human adventures of modern history.” As he said in a later speech, “But why, some say, the moon? . . . And they may well ask, why climb the highest mountain? Why, thirty-five years ago, fly the Atlantic? . . . We choose to go to the moon in this decade, and do the other things, not because they are easy, but because they are hard; because that goal will serve to organize and measure the best of our energies and skills.”

Other considerations were at work in shaping Kennedy’s decision. He shared with James Webb, the head of NASA, and Johnson, the chairman of Kennedy’s National Space Council, the conviction that a manned mission would yield technological, economic, and political advantages. The thirty to forty billion dollars the government seemed likely to spend on the project promised to advance America’s ability to predict the weather and achieve high-speed electronic communications with satellites. Space spending would also provide jobs, and the political gains in the South and West, where NASA would primarily spend its funds, were not lost on savvy politicians like Kennedy and Johnson.

More important to Kennedy, however, than any tangible benefit was the potential boost to America’s world image. In April, after Soviet cosmonaut Yury Gagarin had orbited the earth and the Bay of Pigs had humiliated the administration, Kennedy had asked Johnson to make “an overall survey of where we stand in space. Do we have a chance of beating the Soviets by putting a laboratory in space, or by a trip around the moon, or by a rocket to land on the moon, or by a rocket to go to the moon and back with a man? Is there any other space program that promises dramatic results in which we could win?” Johnson had confirmed Kennedy’s supposition that a strong effort was needed at once to catch and surpass the Soviets if the United States wanted to win “control over . . . men’s minds through space accomplishments.” Landing a man on the moon would have “great propaganda value. The real ‘competition’ in outer space,” Johnson had added, was between the communist and U.S. social systems. Control of outer space would “determine which system of society and government [would] dominate the future. . . . In the eyes of the world, first in space means first, period; second in space is second in everything.” When people complained about the costs of the moon mission, Johnson replied, “Now, would you rather have us be a second-rate nation or should we spend a little money?” The president obviously agreed.

Kennedy’s concern about the impact of space travel on the country’s morale and its hold on world opinion registered clearly before NASA’s first manned mission. Prior to Commander Alan Shepard’s brief but successful space flight on May 5, Kennedy talked to Rusk and Webb about the risks of television coverage. The president “is afraid of the reaction of the public in case there is a mishap in the firing,” Evelyn Lincoln noted in her diary on May 1. Webb told Kennedy that “he had tried to keep the press away from this and likewise the TV but they had been given the go sign long before he took over. In fact, the previous administration had sold rights to
Life
magazine on reports of this launching.” Kennedy, Lincoln added, had tried unsuccessfully to reach the network executive in charge of the TV coverage “to play down the publicity and this venture as much as possible.” A Pierre Salinger follow-up call had had no better result.

By contrast with civil defense, which in time proved to be a wasteful, foolish idea, a manned moon mission amounted to a highly constructive program with benefits much beyond the boost to America’s international prestige. When the Shepard mission was a success, the television and magazine coverage was greatly appreciated by the administration, which realized that similar reporting could galvanize public support for the moon program.

In June, as Johnson rode in a car with the president, FCC director Newton Minow, and Shepard to a National Convention of Broadcasters, Kennedy poked the vice president and said, “You know, Lyndon, nobody knows that the Vice President is the Chairman of the Space Council. But if that flight had been a flop, I guarantee you that everybody would have known that you were the Chairman.” Everyone laughed except Johnson, who looked glum and angry, especially after Minow chimed in, “Mr. President, if the flight would have been a flop, the Vice President would have been the next astronaut.”

KENNEDY’S MAY 25 ADDRESS
was also a forum for justifying a trip to Europe to meet with de Gaulle in Paris and Khrushchev in Vienna. He described discussions with de Gaulle as “permitting the kind of close and ranging consultation that will strengthen both our countries.” Left unsaid were differences with the French that—like those with Canada—seemed harmful to U.S. national security. Kennedy hinted at the problems, saying in his May 25 speech, “Such serious conversations do not require a pale unanimity—they are rather the instruments of trust and understanding over a long road.”

De Gaulle was an inherited problem. Although the French leader liked to quote Sophocles’ belief that “one must wait until the evening to see how splendid the day was,” de Gaulle understood that he had become a legend in his own lifetime—“a great captain of the Western World,” Kennedy called him. His leadership of the Free French in World War II and his restoration of French influence after 1945 had established him as one of the twentieth century’s greats, but his determination to reestablish France as a European and world power had also brought him into conflict with every president from FDR to JFK. At six-foot-three-and-a-half-inches, his physical stature complemented an imperiousness that had angered previous American presidents. Roosevelt had compared the temperamental de Gaulle to Joan of Arc and Clemenceau. He irritated Eisenhower no less. Indeed, in their January 19 meeting, Eisenhower had told Kennedy that de Gaulle’s attitude jeopardized the entire Western alliance.

But Kennedy had genuine regard for de Gaulle. He admired his courage in supporting unpopular causes and shared his conviction that only through difficulty could a leader realize his potential and that “small men cannot handle great events.” Specifically, Kennedy agreed with de Gaulle’s conviction that the West had to resist compromises with the Soviets over Berlin; needed to back self-determination in Africa, especially in Algeria, where de Gaulle was finally accepting an end to French control; and should integrate European economies as a way to avoid resurgent German nationalism. These common beliefs encouraged Kennedy’s hopes for Franco-American cooperation.

Yet Kennedy also knew that differences over nuclear weapons, NATO, and Southeast Asia put considerable strain on America’s relations with France. De Gaulle, who did not trust American commitments to defend Europe with nuclear weapons, wanted the United States to share nuclear secrets to help France build an independent deterrent. American proposals to provide “enough conventional strength in Europe to stay below the nuclear threshold” heightened de Gaulle’s suspicion that the U.S. would not fight a nuclear war to preserve Europe from Soviet communism. De Gaulle also objected to American control over NATO’s freedom to respond to a Soviet offensive. He was unwilling to commit France to a larger role in defending Southeast Asia against communist subversion. He dismissed Laos as a “peripheral area that can be abandoned with impunity” and warned about the difficulties of fighting in Vietnam.

De Gaulle, Kennedy believed, “seemed to prefer tension instead of intimacy in his relations with the United States as a matter of pride and independence.” Harvard political scientist Nicholas Wahl, who had met de Gaulle several times, counseled the White House, “Even when there is a dialogue, one usually emerges with the impression that it has all been carefully ‘managed’ by de Gaulle from the beginning. . . . He often uses the third person to refer to himself, which is more his own historian speaking than the megalomaniac, the latter not being completely absent.” Still, Kennedy hoped that his discussions with de Gaulle would at least create the appearance of Franco-American unity. Such an appearance could serve him well in his subsequent discussions with Khrushchev and help reestablish some of his lost credibility at home and abroad after the Bay of Pigs. It was a shrewd assessment of what he could gain from the visit to France: The public ceremonies were much more helpful to Kennedy than the private discussions. In preparation for their meeting, Kennedy read de Gaulle’s war memoirs. De Gaulle’s recollection that “behind his patrician mask of courtesy Roosevelt regarded me without benevolence,” but that “for the sake of the future, we each had much to gain by getting along together” convinced Kennedy that de Gaulle would be publicly accommodating to him as well.

The only topic for discussion de Gaulle had agreed to in advance was Berlin. Since he had no hope that Kennedy would agree to tripartite (the U.S., France, and the U.K.) consultations about Europe or to share nuclear secrets, de Gaulle wanted no discussion of these subjects. De Gaulle, who understood perfectly what Kennedy hoped to gain from seeing him, may have had some expectation that he could bend the inexperienced young president to his purposes, something he hadn’t been able to do with Eisenhower. But his willingness to help Kennedy make the most of his Paris visit partly rested on concrete self-interest. Aside from possible improvements in France’s world position, positive newspaper articles and huge crowds lining procession routes eager for a glimpse persuaded de Gaulle that he would gain politically from Kennedy’s visit. De Gaulle, who almost never greeted English-speaking visitors in anything but French, asked Kennedy on his arrival, “Have you made a good aerial voyage?” The trip from Orly Airport to the center of Paris in an open limousine, with the two seated side by side and escorted by fifty motorcycle policemen decked out in special uniforms, demonstrated de Gaulle’s regard for his visitor. At a formal dinner that night, de Gaulle praised Kennedy for his “energy and drive,” and his “intelligence and courage.” Although de Gaulle privately regarded Kennedy as “suffering the drawbacks of a novice,” he said before the dinner audience, “Already we have discerned in you the philosophy of the true statesman, who . . . looks to no easy formula or expedient to lighten the responsibility which is his burden and his honor.”

Berlin, NATO, Laos, and Vietnam received their share of attention during three days of talks, but no minds were changed or major decisions made. Kennedy used the talks to flatter de Gaulle, showing him the sort of deference the seventy-year-old expected from the young, inexperienced American who had proved, in de Gaulle’s words, “somewhat fumbling and over eager” after the Bay of Pigs. Kennedy had memorized quotes from de Gaulle’s memoirs and gave him an original letter from Washington to Lafayette, which de Gaulle considered a thoughtful, tasteful gift. “You’ve studied being head of a country for fifty years,” JFK said to him. “Have you found out anything I should know?” De Gaulle advised him to hear the advice of others but to decide matters for himself and live by his own counsel. When de Gaulle told him that intervention in Southeast Asia would be “a bottomless military and political quagmire,” Kennedy expressed the hope that “you will not say that in public.” De Gaulle replied, “Of course not. I never speak to the press. Never.” Kennedy was indeed grateful that de Gaulle gave no public indication of their differences over Europe and Asia. He also listened respectfully to everything de Gaulle told him, though after their talks, Kennedy told an English friend that de Gaulle cared for nothing except the “selfish” interests of his country.