could have been reversed after the winter and spring of 1946. Thereafter,
events assumed an almost inexorable momentum, with both sides using
moralistic rhetoric and ideological denunciation to pillory the other. In the
United States it became incumbent on the president—in order to secure
domestic political support—to defend the Truman Doctrine and the Marshall
Plan in universalistic, moral terms. Thus, we became engaged, not in an
effort to assure jobs and security, but in a holy war against evil. Stalin,
in turn, gave full vent to his crusade to eliminate any vestige of free
thought or national independence in Eastern Europe. Reinhold Niebuhr might
have been speaking for both sides when he said in 1948, "we cannot afford any
more compromises. We will have to stand at every point in our far flung
lines."
The tragedy, of course, was that such a policy offered no room for
intelligence or flexibility. If the battle in the world was between good and
evil, believers and nonbelievers, anyone who questioned the wisdom of
established policy risked dismissal as a traitor or worse. In the Soviet
Union the Gulag Archipelago of concentration camps and executions was the
price of failing to conform to the party line. But the United States paid a
price as well. An ideological frame of reference had emerged through which
all other information was filtered. The mentality of the Cold War shaped
everything, defining issues according to moralistic assumptions, regardless
of objective reality. It had been George Kennan's telegram in February 1946
that helped to provide the intellectual basis for this frame of reference by
portraying the Soviet Union as "a political force committed fanatically" to
confrontation with the United States and domination of the world. It was also
George Kennan twenty years later who so searchingly criticized those who
insisted on seeing foreign policy as a battle of angels and devils, heroes
and blackguards. And ironically, it was Kennan yet again who declared in the
1970s that "the image of a Stalinist Russia, poised and yearning to attack
the west, . . . was largely a product of the western imagination."
But for more than a generation, that image would shape American life and
world politics. The price was astronomical—and perhaps— avoidable.
Chapter 2: The Cold War Chronology.
2.1 The War Years.
Whatever tensions existed before the war, conflicts over military and
diplomatic issues during the war proved sufficiently grave to cause
additional mistrust. Two countries that in the past had shared almost no
common ground now found themselves intimately tied to each other, with little
foundation of mutual confidence on which to build. The problems that resulted
clustered in two areas: (1) how much aid the West would provide to alleviate
the disproportionate burden borne by the Soviet Union in fighting the war;
and (2) how to resolve the dilemmas of making peace, occupying conquered
territory, and defining postwar responsibilities. Inevitably, each issue
became inextricably bound to the others, posing problems of statecraft and
good faith that perhaps went beyond the capacity of any mortal to solve.
The central issue dividing the allies involved how much support the United
States and Britain would offer to mitigate, then relieve, the devastation
being sustained by the Soviet people. Stated bluntly, the Soviet Union bore
the massive share of Nazi aggression. The statistics alone are overwhelming.
Soviet deaths totaled more than 18 million during the war—sixty times the
three hundred thousand lives lost by the United States. Seventy thousand
Soviet villages were destroyed, $128 billion dollars worth of property
leveled to the ground. Leningrad, the crown jewel of Russia's cities,
symbolized the suffering experienced at the hands of the Nazis. Filled with
art and beautiful architecture, the former capital of Russia came under siege
by German armies almost immediately after the invasion of the Soviet Union.
When the attack began, the city boasted a population of 3 million citizens.
At the end, only 600,000 remained. There was no food, no fuel, no hope. More
than a million starved, and some survived by resorting to cannibalism. Yet
the city endured, the Nazis were repelled, and the victory that came with
survival helped launch the campaign that would ultimately crush Hitler's
tyranny.
Such suffering provided the backdrop for a bitter controversy over whether
the United States and Britain were doing enough to assume their own just
share of the fight. Roosevelt understood that Russia's battle was America's.
"The Russian armies are killing more Axis personnel and destroying more Axis
materiel," he wrote General Douglas MacArthur in 1942, "than all the other
twenty-five United Nations put together." As soon as the Germans invaded
Russia, the president ordered that lend-lease material be made immediately
available to the Soviet Union, instructing his personal aide to get $22
million worth of supplies on their way by July 25—one month after the German
invasion. Roosevelt knew that, unless the Soviets were helped quickly, they
would be forced out of the war, leaving the United States in an untenable
position. "If [only] the Russians could hold the Germans until October 1,"
the president said. At a Cabinet meeting early in August, Roosevelt declared
himself "sick and tired of hearing . . . what was on order"; he wanted to
hear only "what was on the water." Roosevelt's commitment to lend-lease
reflected his deep conviction that aid to the Soviets was both the most
effective way of combating German aggression and the strongest means of
building a basis of trust with Stalin in order to facilitate postwar
cooperation. "I do not want to be in the same position as the English,"
Roosevelt told his Secretary of the Treasury in 1942. "The English promised
the Russians two divisions. They failed. They promised them to help in the
Caucasus. They failed. Every promise the English have made to the Russians,
they have fallen down on. . . . The only reason we stand so well ... is that
up to date we have kept our promises." Over and over again Roosevelt
intervened directly and personally to expedite the shipment of supplies.
"Please get out the list and please, with my full authority, use a heavy
hand," he told one assistant. "Act as a burr under the saddle and get things
moving!"
But even Roosevelt's personal involvement could not end the problems that kept
developing around the lend-lease program. Inevitably, bureaucratic tangles
delayed shipment of necessary supplies. Furthermore, German submarine assaults
sank thousands of tons of weaponry. In just one month in 1942, twenty-three of
thirty-seven merchant vessels on their way to the Soviet Union were destroyed,
forcing a cancellation of shipments to Murmansk. Indeed, until late summer of
1942, the Allies lost more ships in submarine attacks than they were
able to build.
Above all, old suspicions continued to creep into the ongoing process of
negotiating and distributing lend-lease supplies. Americans who had learned
during the purges to regard Stalin as "a sort of unwashed Genghis Khan with
blood dripping from his fingertips" could not believe that he had changed his
colors overnight and was now to be viewed as a gentle friend. Many Americans
believed that they were saving the Soviet Union with their supplies, without
recognizing the extent of Soviet suffering or appreciating the fact that the
Russians were helping to save American lives by their sacrifice on the
battlefield. Soviet officials, in turn, believed that their American
counterparts overseeing the shipments were not necessarily doing all that
they might to implement the promises made by the president. Americans
expected gratitude. Russians expected supplies. Both expectations were
justified, yet the conflict reflected the extent to which underlying distrust
continued to poison the prospect of cooperation. "Frankly," FDR told one
subordinate, "if I was a Russian, I would feel that I had been given the
runaround in the United States." Yet with equal justification, Americans
resented Soviet ingratitude. "The Russian authorities seem to want to cover
up the fact that they are receiving outside help," American Ambassador
Standley told a Moscow press conference in March 1943. "Apparently they want
their people to believe that the Red Army is fighting this war alone."
Clearly, the battle against Nazi Germany was not the only conflict taking
place.
Yet the disputes over lend-lease proved minor compared to the issue of a
second front—what one historian has called "the acid test of Anglo-American
intentions." However much help the United States could provide in the way of
war materiel, the decisive form of relief that Stalin sought was the actual
involvement of American and British soldiers in Western Europe. Only such an
invasion could significantly relieve the pressure of massive German divisions
on the eastern front. During the years 1941-44, fewer than 10 percent of
Germany's troops were in the west, while nearly three hundred divisions were
committed to conquering Russia. If the Soviet Union was to survive, and the
Allies to secure victory, it was imperative that American and British troops
force a diversion of German troops to the west and help make possible the
pincer movement from east and west that would eventually annihilate the
fascist foe.
Roosevelt understood this all too well. Indeed, he appears to have wished
nothing more than the most rapid possible development of the second front. In
part, he saw such action as the only means to deflect a Soviet push for
acceptance of Russia's pre-World War II territorial acquisitions,
particularly in the Baltic states and Finland. Such acquisitions would not
only be contrary to the Atlantic Charter and America's commitment to self-
determination; they would also undermine the prospect of securing political
support in America for international postwar cooperation. Hence, Roosevelt
hoped to postpone, until victory was achieved, any final decisions on issues
of territory. Shrewdly, the president understood that meeting Soviet demands
for direct military assistance through a second front would offer the most
effective answer to Russia's territorial aspirations.
Roosevelt had read the Soviet attitude correctly. In 1942, Soviet foreign
minister Molotov readily agreed to withdraw his territorial demands in
deference to U.S. concerns because the second front was so much more decisive
an issue. When Molotov asked whether the Allies could undertake a second
front operation that would draw off forty German divisions from the eastern
front, the president replied that it could and that it would. Roosevelt
cabled Churchill that he was "more anxious than ever" for a cross-channel
attack in August 1942 so that Molotov would be able to "carry back some real
results of his mission and give a favorable report to Stalin." At the end of
their 1942 meeting, Roosevelt pledged to Molotov-and through him to Stalin-
that a second front would be established that year. The president then
proceeded to mobilize his own military advisors to develop plans for such an
attack.
But Roosevelt could not deliver. Massive logistical and production problems
obstructed any possibility of invading Western Europe on the timetable
Roosevelt had promised. As a result, despite Roosevelt's own best intentions
and the commitment of his military staff, he could not implement his desire
to proceed. In addition, Roosevelt repeatedly encountered objections from
Churchill and the British military establishment, still traumatized by the
memory of the bloodletting that had occurred in the trench fighting of World
War I. For Churchill, engagement of the Nazis in North Africa and then
through the "soft underbelly" of Europe-Sicily and Italy-offered a better
prospect for success. Hence, after promising Stalin a second front in August
1942, Roosevelt had to withdraw the pledge and ask for delay of the second
front until the spring of 1943. When that date arrived, he was forced to pull
back yet again for political and logistical reasons. By the time D-Day
finally dawned on June 6, 1944, the Western Allies had broken their promise
on the single most critical military issue of the war three times. On each
occasion, there had been ample reason for the delay, but given the continued
heavy burden placed on the Soviet Union, it was perhaps understandable that
some Russian leaders viewed America's delay on the second front question with
suspicion, sarcasm, and anger. When D-Day arrived, Stalin acknowledged the
operation to be one of the greatest military ventures of human history.
Still, the squabbles that preceded D-Day contributed substantially to the
suspicions and tension that already existed between the two nations.
Another broad area of conflict emerged over who would control occupied areas
once the war ended? How would peace be negotiated? The principles of the
Atlantic Charter presumed establishment of democratic, freely elected, and
representative governments in every area won back from the Nazis. If
universalism were to prevail, each country liberated from Germany would have
the opportunity to determine its own political structure through democratic
means that would ensure representation of all factions of the body politic.
If "sphere of influence" policies were implemented, by contrast, the major
powers would dictate such decisions in a manner consistent with their own
self-interest. Ultimately, this issue would become the decisive point of
confrontation during the Cold War, reflecting the different state systems and
political values of the Soviets and Americans; but even in the midst of the
fighting, the Allies found themselves in major disagreement, sowing seeds of
distrust that boded ill for the future. Since no plans were established in
advance on how to deal with these issues, they were handled on a case by case
basis, in each instance reinforcing the suspicions already present between
the Soviet Union and the West.
Notwithstanding the Atlantic Charter, Britain and the United States proceeded
on a de facto basis to implement policies at variance with universalism.
Thus, for example, General Dwight Eisenhower was authorized to reach an
accommodation with Admiral Darlan in North Africa as a means of avoiding an
extended military campaign to defeat the Vichy, pro-fascist collaborators who
controlled that area. From the perspective of military necessity and the
preservation of life, it made sense to compromise one's ideals in such a
situation. Yet the precedent inevitably raised problems with regard to allied
efforts to secure self-determination elsewhere.
The issue arose again during the Allied invasion of Italy. There, too,
concern with expediting military victory and securing political stability
caused Britain and the United States to negotiate with the fascist Badoglio
regime. "We cannot be put into a position," Churchill said, "where our two
armies are doing all the fighting but Russians have a veto." Yet Stalin
bitterly resented being excluded from participation in the Italian
negotiations. The Soviet Union protested vigorously the failure to establish
a tripartite commission to conduct all occupation negotiations. It was time,
Stalin said, to stop viewing Russia as "a passive third observer. ... It is
impossible to tolerate such a situation any longer." In the end, Britain and
the United States offered the token concession of giving the Soviets an
innocuous role on the advisory commission dealing with Italy, but the primary
result of the Italian experience was to reemphasize a crucial political
reality: when push came to shove, those who exercised military control in an
immediate situation would also exercise political control over any occupation
regime.
The shoe was on the other foot when it came to Western desires to have a voice
over Soviet actions in the Balkan states, particularly Romania. By not giving
Russia an opportunity to participate in the Italian surrender, the West-in
effect-helped legitimize Russia's desire to proceed unilaterally in Eastern
Europe. Although both Churchill and Roosevelt were "acutely conscious of the
great importance of the Balkan situation" and wished to "take advantage of" any
opportunity to exercise influence in that area, the simple fact was that Soviet
troops were in control. Churchill-and privately Roosevelt as well-accepted the
consequences. "The occupying forces had the power in the area where their arms
were present," Roosevelt noted, "and each knew that the other could not force
things to an issue." But the contradiction between the stated idealistic aims
of the war effort and such realpolitik would come back to haunt the
prospect for postwar collaboration, particularly in the areas of Poland and
other east European countries.
Moments of conflict, of course, took place within the context of day-to-day
cooperation in meeting immediate wartime needs. Sometimes, such cooperation
seemed deep and genuine enough to provide a basis for overcoming suspicion and
conflict of interest. At the Moscow foreign ministers conference in the fall of
1943, the Soviets proved responsive to U.S. concerns. Reassured that there
would indeed be a second front in Europe in 1944, the Russians strongly
endorsed a postwar international organization to preserve the peace. More
important, they indicated they would join the war against Japan as soon as
Germany was defeated, and appeared willing to accept the Chiang Kaishek
government in China as a major participant in world politics. In some ways,
these were a series of quid pro quos. In exchange for the second front,
Russia had made concessions on issues of critical importance to Britain and
the United States. Nevertheless, the results were encouraging. FDR reported
that the conference had created "a psychology of ... excellent feeling."
Instead of being "cluttered with suspicion," the discussions had occurred in an
