Roosevelt (20 page)

But his tactics were still at the mercy of Hitler’s strategy. And the Führer still saw this situation with unblinking insight. For months Admiral Raeder, apprehensive about the flow of supplies across the Atlantic, had urged him to step up hostilities by seizing the Azores or by attacking American warships and merchantmen
or by extending the blockade area. As if to goad his Führer, he drew up a list of twenty unneutral or hostile actions by Washington since the beginning of the war. Hitler was unruffled. Until Operation
BARBAROSSA
was well under way, he instructed Raeder, he wanted no provocative incident that Roosevelt could seize on to make war. Hitler not only refused to accelerate, but he decelerated. He insisted that Raeder take measures to insure that American vessels not be attacked by mistake—not that he would call a U-boat commander to account, he added, for an honest error.

Hitler had not been led afield by a passing whim of generosity. He reserved the right, he told Raeder, to deal with the United States “severely” after beating Russia. Meantime the Admiral must restrain his raiders and U-boats. Roosevelt must not have his incident.

While Hitler concentrated on Russia and played down the Atlantic in the early summer of 1941, Roosevelt concentrated on the Atlantic and played down the Pacific. Hitler was trying to avoid a showdown with the United States while he dealt with Russia; Roosevelt was trying to avoid a showdown with Japan while he engaged Hitler in the Atlantic. Churchill was dedicated to beating Germany—just how, he was not sure. And Japan wavered between moving north and driving south, all the while concentrating on its effort in China. Such were the main thrusts of the chief antagonists in the early summer of 1941, but in the ponderously swaying mobile of global strategies secondary stresses could throw the opposing weights out of balance.

It was no simple matter, Roosevelt knew, to be belligerent in the Atlantic and pacific in the Pacific. The two fronts were linked in numberless ways: Hitler’s hope for Japanese action against Russia; Tokyo’s stake in Hitler’s attack east; Britain’s eastern interests and obligations; Vichy’s vulnerable authority over Indochina; the Dutch presence in the East Indies, all combined with the interests of secondary powers. The President had to calculate how these strains and thrusts were cantilevered by the complex and ever-shifting balances of military power and strategy. One blow could put the whole fragile mobile in motion, but in what direction neither he nor any other leader could foretell. He had to consider, too, the internal forces at work—the rivalries in Tokyo between diplomats and the military, between soldiers and sailors, even between sailors and sailors; the extent of the weariness and disarray of Chiang’s armies; differences among the men of Vichy as to whether they should fight to hold Indochina. And always the differences at home, within Congress, within the administration, within the State Department and even the White House—and among the people, his constituents.

These were some of the imponderables in the global balance of mid-1941, but Roosevelt did not perceive them in this kind of systematic, categorized frame. He still preferred to deal with situations piecemeal, plucking the day’s problem out of the tangle of events, turning it over, seeing its involvement in wider issues but not trying to deal with
them
as a whole. He was not seeking to be a grand strategist. In telling reporters one day that the country was not yet making the effort it should, he quoted with relish, from Sandburg, Lincoln’s remarks to some visitors in 1862. The people, Lincoln had said, “have not buckled down to the determination to fight this war through; for they have got the idea into their heads that we are going to get out of this fix somehow by strategy! That’s the word—
strategy
….”

If Roosevelt was not making strategy, he was still recognizing priorities—especially the Atlantic over the Pacific. He felt that his policy of “babying” the Japanese along, of keeping them off balance, after two years was holding off a showdown in the Pacific. When Ickes pressed him to cut off oil to Japan, Roosevelt responded that “it is terribly important for the control of the Atlantic for us to help to keep peace in the Pacific. I simply have not got enough Navy to go round—and every little episode in the Pacific means fewer ships in the Atlantic.” One trouble with this simple priority was that it could easily be disrupted by a turn of events. And in early summer 1941 Roosevelt’s Atlantic First policy was nearly overturned, not by a hostile nation, but by Cordell Hull himself.

By mid-June Hull’s long negotiations with Nomura were producing, phrase by phrase, an elaborate formulation for a détente in the Far East. Some of the most controversial points—especially the basis for a Japanese settlement with Chungking—were nebulous, but Tokyo seemed willing at least to discuss some kind of withdrawal from China. Hull’s note late in June showed no sign of retreat from principles the Secretary had long preached: Wilsonian morality, international justice, equity, free trade, economic nondiscrimination, neighborly friendship.

All this was pure Hull, and surprised no one. But along with this moralistic note Hull gave Nomura an oral statement that had an unusually sharp edge. After a generous reference to the Ambassador himself it went on to assert that “some Japanese leaders in influential official positions are definitely committed to a course which calls for support of Nazi Germany and its policies of conquest.” So long as Japanese leaders took such a position and aroused the people behind it, Hull went on indignantly, how could there be a settlement?

The Hull who asked this question was a tired, disappointed, and somewhat ailing man. After all his efforts to restore morality among
nations he could not discern in Tokyo any real spirit of compromise. At times a terrible simplifier himself, he perceived Japanese leaders as neatly divided into two groups, one for peace, the other pro-German. Roosevelt, who had a strong streak of moralizing, too, but who coupled it with realistic and even Machiavellian attitudes, was content to let Hull sermonize to both the good guys and the bad guys in Tokyo while he played his main hand in the Atlantic.

Hull’s note arrived in Tokyo during a sticky period for the Konoye government. Matsuoka, under pressure from Hitler and Ribbentrop, had been urging his colleagues to seize this supreme opportunity to erase the Russian menace in the north. Konoye and most of the military feared Russia’s hardy Siberian troops and distrusted Hitler; why not wait until the Wehrmacht had broken Russia’s back, they still argued, and then move in for the kill? But, insisted Matsuoka, “we can’t take the fruits of victory without having done something. We have to either shed blood or engage in diplomacy. It’s best to shed blood….” First strike north, he urged, then go south. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. His skeptical colleagues preferred to reverse the order. The next objective, it was decided, was Indochina, with its tin and rubber, strategic relation to China, and fine possibilities as a jumping-off spot for further expansion south. On July 2 the Imperial Conference ratified this plan, at the same time deciding to prepare for—though it did not hope for—war with America and Britain.

“…The Japs are having a real drag-down and knock-out fight among themselves,” Roosevelt wrote to Ickes on July 1, “and have been for the past week—trying to decide which way they are going to jump—attack Russia, attack the South Seas (thus throwing in their lot definitely with Germany) or whether they will sit on the fence and be more friendly with us. No one knows what the decision will be….”

At this point a desperate Matsuoka seized almost with relief on Hull’s provocative words. An outrageous communication, he proclaimed to his colleagues. It was inexcusable for Nomura to transmit such a statement. America was seeking to destroy Japanese leadership in East Asia. Roosevelt was a demagogue; he was trying to lead his country into war.

The stage seemed set for a slandered Matsuoka to improve his shaky position through a bellicose policy north and south. But here surprising events intervened. By now Konoye and his colleagues had about enough of the impulsive, talkative Foreign Minister. His spring trip now seemed a fiasco. When Matsuoka stiffly rejected Hull’s note without at the same time sending an agreed-on counterproposal, Konoye, playing his hand carefully, asked his
Cabinet to resign; the Prime Minister then reappointed the same members except for Matsuoka. The new Foreign Minister was Admiral Teijiro Toyoda, a friend of Nomura’s who was expected to have Washington’s confidence. Hull also eased matters by agreeing to the return of his note.

The moment seemed ripe for a détente, but it was already too late. Tokyo was still set on the seizure of Indochina. Washington knew of the planned move because its cryptographers, in a brilliant feat, had broken a key Japanese code. In mid-July Tokyo put pressure on Vichy to allow Japanese troops into Indochina, with the right to use airfields and naval bases at Saigon and elsewhere. Admiral Jean-François Darlan, lacking support from Berlin, capitulated. Forty thousand Japanese troops moved into southern Indochina and quickly took control of the country.

Now it was Washington’s turn to wax indignant. Hull feared that Japan was breaking forth on a general program of expansion. Welles told Nomura to his face—and stated to the public next day—that Japan was bent on a policy of force and conquest. The Cabinet militants in Washington seized on Japan’s move to urge drastic action.

Now the President intervened. Flanked by Welles and Stark, he told Nomura late in July that he had allowed the continued export of oil to Japan—despite the outcries of oil-starved motorists on the East Coast—in order to prevent a showdown in the Pacific; if Japan now tried to seize East Indies oil, the Dutch would resist, Britain would help them—and a grave situation would result. But if Japan would reconsider its occupation of Indochina, the United States would combine with other Western nations and with Japan to neutralize Indochina in the manner of Switzerland. Nomura, who had told Welles that he personally deplored the move into Indochina, was interested but pessimistic. Roosevelt ended by warning the envoy that Hitler was bent on conquering the world, not merely Europe or Africa.

The next day Roosevelt froze all Japanese assets in the United States, as well as all Chinese, the latter at Chiang’s request. He notified Tokyo that the Panama Canal would be closed for repairs, and he took the long-planned step of mustering the Philippine military forces into United States service under Lieutenant General Douglas MacArthur. Newspapers rejoiced at the President’s forthright action. Actually he planned to proceed cautiously in denying licenses; he would not cut off all gasoline, for example, but only high octane. His chief, Ickes grumbled, was still unwilling to draw the noose tight. He preferred “to slip the noose around Japan’s neck and gave it a jerk now and then.” To Stimson the President’s fear that cutting off oil altogether would start a war was the “same
old rot.” Stark and the Navy planners, on the other hand, had warned Roosevelt that an embargo would probably bring more Japanese aggression. So if the President held a noose in one hand he still held out an olive twig in the other.

Tokyo’s first reaction to the freeze was bellicose. Toyoda warned Grew that if the United States made any hostile move toward Indochina, “on the exclusively theoretical ground that it contradicts general doctrinaire principles which the American government embrace”—a slap at Hull—Tokyo would not be able to suppress an outburst of nationalist resentment, which was already aroused over American aid to China. Grew now saw the “vicious circle of reprisals and counter-reprisals” heading toward war. No response came to Roosevelt’s neutralization proposal.

The crucial question always facing Roosevelt was whether firmness or conciliation would deter the Japanese. Now came a turn that seemed to justify the freeze. The moderates in Tokyo had been surprised by Washington’s response to the move south. They, too, were waiting on events: America was angry, Russia was fighting hard, Britain was still intact. They knew that Japan could not desert the Axis, quit China, or pull back from Indochina, but were other compromises possible? The Emperor and his advisers, Konoye, and key Navy leaders began to press during August for serious counterproposals to Washington. Konoye toyed with the idea of a dramatic personal meeting with Roosevelt, perhaps in Hawaii.

Grave differences still separated the two nations, but at the very least these second thoughts in Tokyo would give Roosevelt another month to press his main efforts in the Atlantic.

During the foreboding days of early summer 1941 conflict centered in two critical sectors: in the cold gray waters of the North Atlantic and on the vast plains of Mother Russia. And the nature of the struggle in each case would have gladdened the heart of Tolstoy’s General Kutuzov.

In Russia the Red Army was reeling back as whole corps were fed piecemeal into the Nazi grinder and simply disappeared. Communications broke down; supply failed; soldiers moved blindly ahead and died; generals blundered and were shot for cowardice. The Russian front turned into an inferno of smashed roads, blazing dumps, crazed horses, blasted tank parks, milling officers and men. Yet in all the confusion and despair, heroism and funk, a General Kutuzov might have seen omens of the future: conscripts from all over the Soviet Union dumped out of freight trains and moving off, cardboard suitcases in hand, toward the front; long lines
of Nazi tanks mired in the black mud and waiting for the earth to harden; Russians holding out in trenches, basements, burned-out tanks for days and weeks—and in the Wehrmacht the faint beginnings of doubt as the Russians, unlike Poles and Frenchmen earlier, showed signs of stiffening.

The North Atlantic presented a contrasting face of war. Moving in ten or twelve stately columns, a thousand yards apart, the great convoys of fifty or sixty merchantmen plowed slowly through summer seas. Speedy, sharply wheeling destroyers and corvettes darted back and forth on the ten-mile periphery. Everything was carefully planned: the assembling of the convoys, the evasive ocean routes, the elaborate zigzagging designed to outwit raiders without undue wasted motion. But in the thick, stormy nights, as the screening ships closed in to keep station, anything could happen—including a skirmish between an American destroyer captain, not sure of the application of his orders, and a German U-boat commander, impatient with his.