THE UNITED STATES AND RUSSIA EMERGED FROM the war the two most powerful nations of the globe. This fact affected every detail of American official routine in conquered Germany, for any prolonged struggle between the two powers would hopelessly complicate our local problems and might even nullify our costly victory. But there was involved far more than efficiency in German administration or political control.
What permanence the new-won peace might have; what stature the United Nations could attain; even what the future course of civilization would be—the answers to these questions now clearly involved, as an important factor, the ability of East and West to work together and live together in one world.
In the past relations of America and Russia there was no cause to regard the future with pessimism. Historically, the two peoples had maintained an unbroken friendship that dated back to the birth of the United States as an independent republic. Except for a short period, their diplomatic relations had been continuous. Both were free from the stigma of colonial empire building by force. The transfer between them of the rich Alaskan territory was an unmatched international episode, devoid of threat at the time and of any recrimination after the exchange. Twice they had been allies in war. Since 1941 they had been dependent each on the other for ultimate victory over the European Axis.
Ideologically, however, they were in diametric opposition; the United States was devoted to a social and political order based upon individual liberty and human dignity; Russia, dedicated to the dictatorship of the proletariat, seemed in Western eyes to be engulfed in a form of statism under the absolute direction of a few men. By the same token, it is probable that to them our adherence to a system based upon personal liberty was actually a political immaturity that permitted exploitation of the masses. Out of this cleavage between the governmental systems of two great powers there might develop in the world two hostile camps whose differences would ultimately provoke another holocaust of war. Should the gulf, however, be bridged practically by effective methods of co-operation, the peace and unity of the world would be assured. No other division among the nations could be considered a menace to world unity and peace, provided mutual confidence and trust could be developed between America and the Soviets.
Obstacles, doubts, fears of failure in American-Soviet relations, there were on every side. But the alternative to success seemed so terrifying to contemplate that all of us on occupation duty sought every possible avenue through which progress might be achieved.
Berlin, we were convinced, was an experimental laboratory for the development of international accord. There the West was joined with the East in the task of reorganizing a highly complex economy and re-educating a numerous people to political decency so that Germany, purged of its capacity and will for aggression, might be restored to the family of nations.
If in that endeavor there could be developed friendly ways and means of solving our local differences and problems, a long step forward would be taken toward the friendly settlement of world problems. Overshadowing all goals for us Americans was the contribution we locally might make toward establishing a working partnership between the United States and Russia. My persistence in this effort and my faith also in the ultimate success of the United Nations were both rooted in my experience as supreme commander.
In that capacity I had seen many nations work out a fixed unity of purpose, despite all the divergences in aim and outlook and way of life that characterized them as individuals and independent states. The combat direction of their military power and the commitment of their armies to battle—the most jealously guarded tokens of national sovereignty—they delegated to single authority. While they retained administrative control of their military forces, from the appointment of commanders to the establishment of troop rations, the Allied command was a single engine in its battle mission—the winning of war. Direction by committee, in which unanimity had to be achieved before unified action could be taken, was abandoned in favor of a single commander representing all the nations engaged.
During the war it was demonstrated that international unity of purpose and execution could be attained, without jeopardy to any nation’s independence, if all were willing to pool a portion of their authority in a single headquarters with power to enforce their decisions. In the formation of the new United Nations and of the Allied organization for the control of Germany, this lesson had not yet been accepted. Its application would have meant some form of limited, federated world government which, while conforming to the Western Allies’ battle-front experience as providing the only sure way to success, was politically unacceptable to any of the great nations concerned. The insistence on retention of the veto during the United Nations Conference at San Francisco in June 1945 was based on the traditional but obsolete concept that international purposes could be decided only by unanimous action in committee. In Berlin the same unanimity was required on even minor matters.
Our chief hope, therefore, was to build among those engaged in the German occupation a friendly acceptance of each other as individuals striving peacefully to attain a common understanding and common purpose—our mutual good. Once that spirit could be developed in Berlin, it would spread beyond Germany to our own capitals. The international good feeling manifested at Potsdam, between the heads of states, was a favorable start. If we could learn at the conference tables to conduct our business as friends, we could eventually live together as friends and ultimately work together in world partnership. A modus vivendi between East and West was our first objective.
The President and his staff left Germany for the United States on August 2. A few days later I was informed from Washington that Generalissimo Stalin had sent me an invitation to visit Russia. This was a renewal of an invitation that originally had come to me in early June, when I could not accept because of a necessary appearance in the United States under War Department orders. With this invitation came an expression of my government’s hope that I could accept.
The Generalissimo suggested that a particular date to be included in my visit was August 12, a day set aside for a National Sports Parade in Moscow. I was pleased at this chance to see a country that I had never before visited, but I was even more pleased by the implication that the Soviet Government was as interested in developing friendly contacts as we were. I promptly accepted and was informed that Marshal Zhukov would be my official host for my stay in Russia and would accompany me from Berlin to Moscow.1
When news of my impending visit got around headquarters, literally scores of individuals submitted personal requests to go with me. Out of consideration for Moscow’s limited accommodations I took on this journey only General Clay and my old friend Brigadier General T. J. Davis. As an aide for this one trip, I wanted my lieutenant son John, who had been serving, for some months, in the European theater. His commander approved. Master Sergeant Leonard Dry, who served with me all through the war, also was in the party.
Upon arrival in Moscow we were housed at the American Embassy with my good friend Averell Harriman, who was then ambassador. His hostess was his charming daughter Kathleen. During a long war association I had formed a high opinion of Mr. Harriman’s abilities and public-spirited attitude and was delighted to have him as my mentor and guide during an important visit to a country in which I was a complete stranger.
Our first conference was with General Antonov, Chief of Staff of the Red Army. He took me into his war room and explained the dispositions of the Red armies in the Far East and showed me the exact plan of campaign, which had been initiated only a few days before. Everywhere in the Manchurian area things were going according to plan and Antonov was confident of a quick and easy victory. We discussed military subjects until late in the evening, all in an atmosphere of greatest cordiality and mutual confidence.
The following morning was the appointed time for the big Sports Parade. This was staged in the Red Square, a paved area of considerable acreage. The only people present were the specially invited guests of the government and the performers. Estimates as to the number of the latter varied between twenty and fifty thousand. I calculated that the lower figure was more nearly correct than the higher one.
Public attendance was not permitted and the whole area was well guarded by military personnel. The several hundred spectators were allotted spaces on a stadiumlike structure, which had no seating arrangements of any kind. Everyone had to stand. Just after we had arrived at the raised section of concrete reserved for the American ambassador and his party, General Antonov came to say that Generalissimo Stalin had extended to me an invitation to join him on top of Lenin’s tomb, provided I should like to do so. Since I was in the company of the American ambassador, whose prestige as representative of the President was important, I was doubtful as to the propriety of deserting him to join the Generalissimo. The necessity of saying everything through an interpreter denied me any opportunity to ask General Antonov, on a personal basis, for further details, and I momentarily hesitated. However, he relieved the situation by giving me the remainder of the Generalissimo’s message, which was: “The Generalissimo says that if you would like to come he also invites two of your associates, if you would like to bring them.” I turned to consult quickly with the ambassador. He said that the invitation was precedent-making; to the best of his knowledge, no other foreigner had ever been invited to set foot on top of Lenin’s tomb. Realizing, therefore, that a special courtesy was intended, I quickly told General Antonov that I would be happy indeed to accept and that the associates I wanted were the ambassador and, the head of the United States Military Mission to Moscow, Major General John R. Deane. My thought was that if there was any local prestige to be gained, then the people to whom it would be most useful were the ambassador and his assistant.2
We stood for five hours on the tomb while the show went on. None of us had ever witnessed anything remotely similar. The groups of performers were dressed in the colorful costumes of their respective countries and at times thousands of individuals performed in unison. Every kind of folk dance, mass exercise, acrobatic feat, and athletic exhibition was executed with flawless precision and, apparently, with greatest enthusiasm. The band was said to number a thousand pieces, and it played continuously, presumably by sections, during the entire five-hour performance.
The Generalissimo showed no sign of fatigue. On the contrary, he appeared to enjoy every minute of the show. He invited me to his side and, through an interpreter, we conversed intermittently during the entire period of the show.3
He evinced great interest in the industrial, scientific, educational, and social achievements of America. He repeated several times that it was necessary for Russia to remain friends with the United States. Speaking through the interpreter, he said in effect: “There are many ways in which we need American help. It is our great task to raise the standards of living of the Russian people, which have been seriously damaged by the war. We must learn all about your scientific achievements in agriculture. Likewise, we must get your technicians to help us in our engineering and construction problems, and we want to know more about mass production methods in factories. We know that we are behind in these things and we know that you can help us.” This general trend of thought he pursued in many directions, whereas I had supposed that he would content himself merely with some general expression of desire to co-operate.
At that time Marshal Zhukov was patently a great favorite with the Generalissimo. Zhukov was included in every conversation I had with Stalin and the two spoke to each other on terms of intimacy and cordiality. This was highly pleasing to me because of my belief in the friendliness and co-operative purpose of Marshal Zhukov.
The Generalissimo turned the conversation to the work of the Berlin Council and remarked that it was important not only because of its specific task but because it provided a testing ground to determine whether great nations, victors in a war, could continue to co-operate effectively in the problems of peace.
This thought coincided exactly with the convictions Clay and I held, but we thought also that one of the impediments to greater progress in Berlin was the apparent necessity for Zhukov to refer every new question, no matter how trivial, to Moscow. In the early days of the Council I had noted that, whereas Zhukov frequently seemed to be in agreement with some logical proposal of local import, he could apparently never give an immediate answer on his own authority. This led me to explore the remote possibility that I might be able to do something about it.
Knowing that everything my associates and I did and said was reported instantly to Moscow, and knowing also that national pride would impel the Russians to watch the comparative prestige and authority of their Berlin representative, I had adopted a simple plan which I hoped would have some effect. It was merely to take occasion, whenever possible, to make sure that Marshal Zhukov was aware of the degree of independence accorded me by my Washington superiors in dealing with all matters that did not violate approved policy. Whenever I had anything to discuss with Marshal Zhukov I made an opportunity to see him, usually just before or after a formal meeting of the Berlin Council. I then outlined the suggestion, which normally served the best interests of the Russians as well as of ourselves, and placed it before him in terms of a definite proposal. Then I would remark rather casually: “If this project looks well to you, I am ready to put it into effect whenever you say. If you want some time for study, or if you would like to refer the matter to Moscow, I am quite content to await your answer. But I am ready to act instantly.”
Once or twice he was fortunately prompted to ask: “What will your government say about this?” to which I would reply, “If I sent such small details to Washington for decision I would be fired and my government would get someone who would handle these things himself.”
Whether or not this personal campaign had any effect I do not know, but as time went on Marshal Zhukov began to exhibit a greater independence in action than he had at first been able to exercise. He discarded the practice of keeping his political adviser by his side and we would meet with no one present except an interpreter. Moreover, he became much more prone to say yes or no to a proposal than merely to ask for a delay in order to consider it.
So while standing on Lenin’s tomb, when the Generalissimo brought up the matter of the Berlin Council, I decided to follow up my Berlin campaign. I said to the Generalissimo: “Of course Marshal Zhukov and I get along splendidly. This is because great and powerful countries like yours and mine can afford to give their proconsuls in the field a sufficient amount of authority to achieve accord in local details and administrative matters. Smaller or weaker countries might possibly find it impossible to do this and difficulties would arise. But because Marshal Zhukov and I have such great leeway in reaching agreement we two usually overcome the little obstacles we encounter.”
The Generalissimo agreed with me emphatically. He said, “There is no sense in sending a delegate somewhere if he is merely to be an errand boy. He must have authority to act.”
A final remark of the Generalissimo’s while we were watching the sports spectacle was that mass athletics and exercises were fine because of their effect upon the populace. He said, “This develops the war spirit. Your country ought to do more of this,” and then he added: “We will never allow Germany to do this.” At that moment we were still at war with the Japanese.
During the few days we had in Moscow we went to a football game attended by 80,000 enthusiastic rooters. We visited the subway, of which the Russians are very proud, and went to one of their art galleries. We spent an afternoon in the Stormovik airplane factory and another day at state and collective farms. Everywhere we saw evidence of a simple, sincere, and personal devotion to Russia—a patriotism that was usually expressed in the words, “But this is for Mother Russia and therefore it is not hard.” A group of workers in the Stormovik factory told me that their work week during the war was eighty-four hours, and they proudly stated that the factory’s attendance record was something over ninety-four per cent. Many of the workers were women and children, and it is difficult to see how, with their meager rations and serious lack of transportation facilities, they could have maintained such a record. The same was true on farms.
The social highlight of the Moscow trip was dinner at the Kremlin. In the glittering dining hall there was an array of Red Army marshals, with Mr. Molotov present, and a number of Foreign Office officials to act as interpreters. Officers of my party attended, as did the ambassador and General Deane. Toasts were many, each of them directed to the spirit of co-operation and teamwork that had been gradually evolved during the war. After dinner we saw a movie. It was a picture of the Russian operations to capture Berlin, in which battle, the interpreter told me, they had used twenty-two divisions and an enormous concentration of artillery. I expressed an interest in the picture and the Generalissimo promptly said he would give me a copy. I suggested that I should also like a picture of himself and he forgot neither detail. Within a few days I received in Berlin the complete movie film together with a generously inscribed photograph of the Generalissimo.
He asked that I extend to General Marshall an expression of his personal regret for an act of what he termed personal rudeness during the progress of the war. He said that once he had received from General Marshall a piece of information concerning the enemy that later turned out to be false and occasioned some embarrassment to the Red armies. In his irritation, he said, he sent a sharp radio message to General Marshall, but later regretted this because of his confidence that Marshall was acting in good faith. He earnestly charged me with the errand of conveying his expressions of regret to the Chief of Staff.4
Throughout our stay Marshal Zhukov and other Russian officials pressed me to designate the spots I should like to visit. They said there was no place, even if it took us as far as Vladivostok, that I could not see. My time was limited but before leaving Moscow I did want to see the museum in the Kremlin. Upon expression of this desire, a visit was immediately arranged and I was invited to bring with me such aides or assistants as I might wish. It is possible that my hosts had in mind only the little group who accompanied me from Berlin but when the time came for the visit I found that almost the entire American Embassy staff had volunteered to act as aides-decamp that day. None of them had ever been permitted to visit the Kremlin and so I laughingly agreed to class them all as temporary aides. The entire party of some fifty or sixty people spent the afternoon viewing accumulated treasures of the czars.5 Jewelry, gorgeously incrusted costumes, flags, and decorations of every description filled the great halls and constituted a magnificent display.
While walking through the Kremlin grounds we passed the largest-caliber gun I have ever seen; the inside diameter of the barrel appeared to be over thirty inches. It was an eighteenth-century relic. As we walked away from it my son musingly remarked, “I suppose that was the weapon which, two hundred years ago, made future wars too horrible to contemplate.”
On the night before we left Moscow the American ambassador gave a reception for the visiting party. It was a stag affair and Russian guests were mainly individuals from the Foreign Office and the armed services. There were the usual toasts, followed by a supper, in the midst of which the ambassador received an urgent call to come to the Foreign Office at once. Suspecting that he might obtain news of a Japanese surrender, momentarily expected, Mr. Harriman asked me to do my best to hold all the guests until he returned. This proved to be quite a task because the ambassador was kept at the Foreign Office much longer than he had anticipated. However, by enlisting help from a number of American friends who devised new toasts, some of them even set to the tunes of the orchestra, we managed to entertain the guests and keep the bulk of them until Mr. Harriman returned.
He walked to the middle of the room and announced the Japanese surrender, which brought a joyous shout of approval from all the Americans present.6 But I noted that old Marshal Budenny, who was standing at my side, did not seem to exhibit any great enthusiasm. I asked him whether he was not glad the war was over and he replied, “Oh yes, but we should have kept going until we had killed a lot more of those insolent Japanese.” The marshal seemed to be a most congenial, humane, and hospitable type but at the same time he seemed to have no concern that even one day’s continuance of war meant death or wounds for additional hundreds of Russian citizens.
During the war I had heard much of the magnificent defense of Leningrad in 1941 and 1942. I expressed a desire to visit that city briefly. In the siege of Leningrad 350,000 civilians, according to the Russian records, died of starvation. Many more were killed and wounded. These figures were constantly recited to our visiting party by civilian officials of Leningrad who joined the military commanders to act as our local hosts. The extraordinary suffering of the population and the length of time that the city endured the rigors and privations of the battle combined to make the operation one of the memorable sieges of history; certainly it is without parallel in modern times. All of us were struck by the fact that in speaking of Leningrad’s losses every citizen did so with a tone of pride and satisfaction in his voice. The pride, of course, was understandable in view of the heroic endurance that had defeated the enemy at that vital point; but it was more difficult to grasp the reasons for satisfaction, even though it was explained to us that the city, by paying such a tremendous price, had proved itself “worthy of Mother Russia.”
The mayor of the city had us for luncheon with a number of civil and military leaders of the region. Russian artists were there to entertain us. We listened to vocal and instrumental music, to dramatic recitations—which, of course, we could not understand—and watched some beautiful dancing. I remarked to my host that I was struck by the universal respect for artists in Russia and the extraordinary appreciation that everyone, from highest to lowest, seemed to have for art in all its forms. My host replied that any Russian would cheerfully go hungry all week if by doing so he could, on Sunday, visit an art gallery, a football game, or the ballet.
During the toasting period at the Leningrad luncheon my son, who had heretofore escaped the ordeal, was called upon by Marshal Zhukov for a toast. Later John told me that during the entire visit he had been fearing such a challenge and had prepared himself for it as well as he could. He rose to his feet and after remarking that as a young lieutenant he was not accustomed to associate with marshals of the Soviet Union, mayors of great cities, and five-star generals, he said in effect: “I have been in Russia several days and have listened to many toasts. I have heard the virtues of every Allied ruler, every prominent marshal, general, admiral, and air commander toasted. I have yet to hear a toast to the most important Russian in World War II. Gentlemen, will you please drink with me to the common soldier of the great Red Army.”
His toast was greeted with greater enthusiasm and shouts of approval than any other I heard during the days when we heard so many. Marshal Zhukov was particularly pleased and said to me that he and I must be getting old when we had to wait for a young lieutenant to remind us “who really won the war.”
The return trip from Leningrad to Berlin became unpleasant when the weather turned bad. During our flights through Russia our agreements required us to use a Russian navigator. Their navigators seemed quite skillful in orienting themselves by terrain features in the countryside, with which they were very familiar. Apparently, they were not so proficient in celestial navigation and would never give us authority to fly at a greater height than would permit them to see the ground. On this particular trip the ceiling dropped so low that, finally, we were skimming along at treetop level in our four-engine transport. This was too much for my pilot, Major Larry Hansen, who pretended for a moment that he could not understand the broken English of the Russian navigator, and quickly pulled the ship up to the top of the clouds. From then on we had a normal and easy flight to Berlin.
During our hours on the plane Marshal Zhukov and I frequently discussed the campaigns of the war. Because of his special position for several years in the Red Army he had had a longer experience as a responsible leader in great battles than any other man of our time. It seems that he was habitually sent to whatever Russian sector appeared at the moment to be the decisive one. By his descriptions of the composition of the Russian Army, of the terrain over which it fought, and of his reasons for his strategic decisions, it was clear that he was an accomplished soldier.
The marshal was astonished when I told him that each of our divisions, with its reinforcing battalions, was maintained at a strength of 17,000. He said that he tried to maintain his divisions at about 8000, but that frequently, in a long campaign, some would be depleted to a strength of 3000 to 4000.
Highly illuminating to me was his description of the Russian method of attacking through mine fields. The German mine fields, covered by defensive fire, were tactical obstacles that caused us many casualties and delays. It was always a laborious business to break through them, even though our technicians invented every conceivable kind of mechanical appliance to destroy mines safely. Marshal Zhukov gave me a matter-of-fact statement of his practice, which was, roughly, “There are two kinds of mines; one is the personnel mine and the other is the vehicular mine. When we come to a mine field our infantry attacks exactly as if it were not there. The losses we get from personnel mines we consider only equal to those we would have gotten from machine guns and artillery if the Germans had chosen to defend that particular area with strong bodies of troops instead of with mine fields. The attacking infantry does not set off the vehicular mines, so after they have penetrated to the far side of the field they form a bridgehead, after which the engineers come up and dig out channels through which our vehicles can go.”
I had a vivid picture of what would happen to any American or British commander if he pursued such tactics, and I had an even more vivid picture of what the men in any one of our divisions would have had to say about the matter had we attempted to make such a practice a part of our tactical doctrine. Americans assess the cost of war in terms of human lives, the Russians in the over-all drain on the nation. The Russians clearly understood the value of morale, but for its development and maintenance they apparently depended upon overall success and upon patriotism, possibly fanaticism.
As far as I could see, Zhukov had given little concern to methods that we considered vitally important to the maintenance of morale among American troops: systematic rotation of units, facilities for recreation, short leaves and furloughs, and, above all, the development of techniques to avoid exposure of men to unnecessary battlefield risks, all of which, although common practices in our Army, seemed to be largely unknown in his.
However, he agreed with me that destruction of enemy morale must always be the aim of the high command. To this end nothing is so useful as the attainment of strategic surprise; a surprise that suddenly places our own forces in position to threaten the enemy’s ability to continue the war, at least in an important area. This effect is heightened when accompanied by the tactical surprise that arouses the fear in the enemy’s front-line units that they are about to be destroyed. Time after time in the campaigns in the Mediterranean and in Europe we successfully achieved surprise in either the strategic or tactical field, sometimes in both. We suffered tactical surprise in the strength and timing of the German attack in the Battle of the Bulge in December 1944. In this instance, however, the probability and the general location were foreseen to the extent that reaction had been planned and could be effectively executed. Nevertheless, the early effect on morale of front-line troops was noticeable.
The basic differences between American and Russian attitudes in the handling of men were illustrated on another occasion. While talking to a Russian general I mentioned the difficult problem that was imposed upon us at various periods of the war by the need to care for so many German prisoners. I remarked that they were fed the same rations as were our own soldiers. In the greatest astonishment he asked, “Why did you do that?” I said, “Well, in the first place my country was required to do so by the terms of the Geneva Convention. In the second place the German had some thousands of American and British prisoners and I did not want to give Hitler the excuse or justification for treating our prisoners more harshly than he was already doing.” Again the Russian seemed astounded at my attitude and he said, “But what did you care about men the Germans had captured? They had surrendered and could not fight any more.” However, these statements did not necessarily mean that the Russians were cruel or were innately indifferent to human life.
The experience of Russia in World War II was a harsh one. The year 1941 saw the entire western portion of that country overrun by the Nazis. From the region of the Volga westward, almost everything was destroyed. When we flew into Russia, in 1945, Idid not see a house standing between the western borders of the country and the area around Moscow. Through this overrun region, Marshal Zhukov told me, so many numbers of women, children, and old men had been killed that the Russian Government would never be able to estimate the total. Some of their great cities had been laid waste and until November 1942 there seemed to be little hope that their desperate defense could hold off the enemy until their industries could be rehabilitated and the Western Allies could get into the war in force.
All this would have embittered any people; it would have been completely astonishing if the Russians had not had a more direct and personal vindictiveness toward the Germans and a sterner attitude toward the realities of war than was the case in countries far removed from the scene of hostilities.
Even in their successful offensives they paid a terrible price for victory. The most costly form of warfare, and the one in which the diminishing power of the offensive soonest manifests itself, is the tactical advance by superior forces that gradually gains ground against a flexible and skillful defense. The enemy constantly readjusts his forces so as to compel successive and expensive attacks against the same troops in prepared positions and, as the maintenance factor begins seriously to enter the problem, the enemy may reverse original relative values in both moral and material strength. In the early Russian counteroffensives of the war Zhukov had been compelled to employ his armies in this expensive method. It was not until the final months of the war that the Soviets began, in a military sense, to gain the great rewards paid for by their earlier severe sacrifices. Proud of their victories, the Russians always remembered with bitterness their cost.
I know that in my personal reactions, as the months of conflict wore on, I grew constantly more bitter against the Germans, particularly the Hitler gang. On all sides there was always evidence of the destruction that Hitler’s ruthless ambition had brought about. Every battle, every skirmish, demanded its price in broken bodies and in the extinction of the lives of young Allied soldiers.
During the war hundreds of brokenhearted fathers, mothers, and sweethearts wrote me personal letters, begging for some hope that a loved one might still be alive, or, at the very least, for some additional detail as to the manner of his death. Every one of these I answered, and I know of no more effective means of developing an undying hatred of those responsible for aggressive war than to assume the obligation of attempting to express sympathy to families bereaved by it. Possibly, therefore, I had a more sympathetic understanding of the Russian attitude than would have been possible before the beginning of the war.
Marshal Zhukov showed little interest in measures that I thought, after Allied experience in North Africa and Europe, should be taken to protect the foot soldier and to increase his individual effectiveness. The efficiency of ground units is markedly affected by the success of a commander in getting his men onto the battle line without the fatigue of long and exhausting marches and under such conditions as to provide them protection from the sporadic fires that always harass the rear areas. Certain of our special formations habitually rode to battle in lightly armored vehicles and the percentage of losses among these, as compared to the percentage of losses among the fighting units of the normal infantry divisions, clearly indicated to me the desirability of devising ways and means whereby all troops could go into battle under similarly favorable circumstances. The Russians, however, viewed measures to protect the individual against fatigue and wounds as possibly too costly. Great victories, they seemed to think, inevitably require huge casualties.
To return the courtesy extended to me by the Russian Government, the American War Department, with the approval of President Truman, promptly invited Marshal Zhukov to pay a visit to America. An immediate acceptance was returned and we thought that the marshal would soon depart for the United States.7 He asked that General Clay or I go along with him so that he might have a friend in my country, just as he had accompanied me during my trip to Russia. I had to tell him that because of special circumstances and problems at the moment I could not do this, but I arranged for General Clay to go with him. Marshal Zhukov also asked if my son could accompany him as an aide. I told him that John would be honored to do so and that, moreover, I would be glad to send him in the Sunflower, the C-54 that I regularly used.8 This delighted him. He had already ridden through Russia in the plane and had great confidence in it and the crew. He said something to the interpreter which was given to me as, “With the general’s plane and the general’s son along, I know I shall be perfectly safe.”
Unfortunately the marshal soon fell ill. At the time there was some speculation as to whether it was diplomatic illness, but when I next saw him at a meeting of the Control Council in Berlin he gave the appearance of a man who had gone through a serious siege of ill-health. In any event this served to postpone his visit until the approach of winter weather and he then expressed a desire to go to our country in the spring.9 Before that time arrived the Russians had apparently no further interest in sending one of their marshals to spend a week or ten days in America.
I saw Marshal Zhukov for the last time November 7, 1945. It was a Soviet holiday, in honor of which he gave a large reception in Berlin, inviting to it the senior commanders and staff officers of all the Allies. The weather turned bad and flying was impossible. The other two commanders in chief canceled their engagements but, knowing that I was soon to be ordered home, I determined to attend the ceremony, although to do so I had to make a night trip by train, followed by a long automobile trip during the day.
When I arrived Marshal Zhukov, with his wife and a number of his senior assistants, was standing in the receiving line. He greeted me and then promptly deserted the receiving line. He took his wife by the arm, and the three of us, with an interpreter, retired to a comfortable room where were refreshments of all kinds. We talked for two hours.
The tenor of the marshal’s conversation was that he believed that we in Berlin had done something to help in the difficult problem of promoting understanding between two nations so diverse in their cultural and political conceptions as were the United States and the Soviet Union. He felt that we could accomplish still more. He talked at length about the new United Nations and remarked: “If the United States and Russia will only stand together through thick and thin success is certain for the United Nations. If we are partners there are no other countries in the world that would dare go to war when we forbade it.”
The marshal seemed to be a firm believer in the Communist concept. He said that, as he saw it, the Soviet system of government was based upon idealism, and ours upon materialism. In expanding his idea of this difference he remarked—and introduced an apology because of his criticism—that he felt our system appealed to all that was selfish in people. He said that we induced a man to do things by telling him he might keep what he earned, might say what he pleased, and in every direction allowed him to be largely an undisciplined, unoriented entity within a great national complex.
He asked me to understand a system in which the attempt was made to substitute for such motivations the devotion of a man to the great national complex of which he formed a part. In spite of my complete repudiation of such contentions and my condemnation of all systems that involved dictatorship, there was no doubt in my mind that Marshal Zhukov was sincere.
Another slight incident at that final meeting illustrated again how frequently things that we would probably consider inconsequential and scarcely worth noticing can become important in the eyes of individuals whose background from childhood has differed sharply from our own. The reverse, also, is probably true. The marshal told me that a book written by an American about Russia stated that Marshal Zhukov was shorter by two or three inches than his wife, and that he had two sons. This story irritated him because he saw in it personal disparagement and belittlement. He and his wife stood up for a moment and he said, “Now you see what kind of lies some of your writers publish about us.” And he added, “Also, we have no sons. We have two daughters.”
He referred to a picture of the Generalissimo published by one of our magazines. This was not a personal photograph but was a likeness of a painted portrait that hung in one of the Berlin night clubs. The magazine picture had been taken in such a way that, with seeming intent, the Generalissimo’s portrait was photographed in most unfortunate and undignified surroundings. This literally infuriated the marshal. He turned to me and said: “If a picture of you like this one should appear in a Russian magazine, I would see that the magazine ceased operations at once. It would be eliminated. What are you going to do?”
This called for me to describe the free press of America, but after an earnest and, I thought, eloquent attempt I found that I had made no impression whatsoever. The marshal merely repeated, “If you are Russia’s friend you will do something about it.”10
Similarly I tried to make him see the virtues of free enterprise. Firmly believing that without a system of free or competitive enterprise, individual political freedom cannot endure, I showed him that, so far as I was concerned, complete state ownership necessarily would involve complete dictatorship, and that the effort to escape all dictatorial rule was the reason for America’s founding and growth. He merely smiled.
Even after I returned to the United States the marshal and I continued, until April 1946, to correspond on our accustomed friendly terms. In the spring of that year he was relieved from his Berlin command and I have never since heard from him directly. It was rumored that he was out of favor—that for some reason he had fallen from the high place he held in Russian affections and popular esteem during the late months of the war.
One of the speculative reasons given for his virtual disappearance was his known friendship with me. I cannot believe that such was the case because, in spite of that friendship, he always seemed to be profoundly convinced of the essential rectitude of the Communist theory. He knew that I was an uncompromising foe of Communism because I believed that it was synonymous with dictatorship; he would listen patiently when I said that I hated everything that smacked of statism, and that our whole Western tradition was devoted to the idea of personal liberty. But his own adherence to the Communistic doctrine seemed to come from inner conviction and not from any outward compulsion.
The Russians are generous. They like to give presents and parties, as almost every American who has served with them can testify. In his generous instincts, in his love of laughter, in his devotion to a comrade, and in his healthy, direct outlook on the affairs of workaday life, the ordinary Russian seems to me to bear a marked similarity to what we call an “average American.”
The existence of a personal friendship and understanding with Marshal Zhukov did not, however, eliminate the incidents and conflicts which were always irritating and exasperating members of my staff. Occasionally these were serious. Every railway train and every automobile that we sent into Berlin had to pass through Russian territory. Several times these were molested or even robbed by roving bands of individuals wearing the uniform of the Russian Army.
Because of the difference in languages no one had available the instrument of direct and personal conversation to alleviate the intensity of the ensuing arguments. Misunderstandings arose over the implementation of the Potsdam agreement, particularly as it applied to reparations. While Clay and I had always fought for the rehabilitation of the Ruhr and the development of an economy in western Germany sufficient to support the population, we likewise insisted that every firm commitment of our government should be properly and promptly executed. We felt that for us to be guilty of bad faith in any detail of operation or execution would defeat whatever hope we had of assisting in the development of a broad basis of international co-operation.
The policy of firm adherence to the pledged word of our government was first challenged shortly after the close of hostilities. Some of my associates suddenly proposed that when so requested by the Russians I should refuse to withdraw American troops from the line of the Elbe to the area allocated to the United States for occupation. The argument was that if we kept troops on the Elbe the Russians would be more likely to agree to some of our proposals, particularly as to a reasonable division of Austria. To me, such an attitude seemed indefensible. I was certain, and was always supported in this attitude by the War Department, that to start off our first direct association with Russia on the basis of refusing to carry out an arrangement in which the good faith of our government was involved would wreck the whole co-operative attempt at its very beginning.
I always felt that the Western Allies could probably have secured an agreement to occupy more of Germany than we actually did. I believe that if our political heads had been as convinced as we were at SHAEF of the certainty of early victory in the West they would have insisted, at Yalta, upon the line of the Elbe as the natural geographic line dividing the eastern and western occupation areas. Although in late January 1945 we were still west of the Rhine, and indeed had not yet demolished the Siegfried Line, my staff and I had informed our superiors that we expected to proceed rapidly to great victories.11 Except for a fear that we could advance no farther eastward, there would seem to have been little reason for agreeing to an occupational line no deeper into Germany than Eisenach. This, however, is pure speculation. I have never discussed the matter with any of the individuals directly responsible for the decision.
In any event the Berlin record of those late summer and early autumn months of 1945 represents the peak of postwar cordiality and co-operation that we were ever able to achieve with the Soviet officials. In broader fields, on highest levels, misunderstandings continued to grow and these were inevitably reflected in the local German scene. It is possible, also, that this process worked in reverse.
Americans at that time—or at least we in Berlin—saw no reason why the Russian system of government and democracy as practiced by the Western Allies could not live side by side in the world, provided each respected the rights, the territory, and the convictions of the other, and each system avoided overt or covert action against the integrity of the other. Because implicit in Western democracy is respect for the rights of others, it seemed natural to us that this “live and let live” type of agreement could be achieved and honestly kept. That was probably the most for which we ever really hoped. But even such a purely practical basis for living together in the world has not been achieved.
What caused the change—not necessarily in the realm of ultimate purpose but definitely in the apparent desire for a pragmatic approach to co-operation—may possibly never be clearly understood by any of us. But two and one half years of growing tension have shattered our dream of rapid progress toward universal peace and the elimination of armaments. Seriously and soberly, aware of our strengths and our weaknesses, sure of our moral rectitude, we must address ourselves to the new tensions that beset the world.
The implications of the failure to eliminate aggression and to co-operate effectively are as full of meaning for the world as were the dictatorial and arbitrary acts in the late 1930s of Hitler, Mussolini, and Hirohito. The name of almost every small country of eastern Europe is a reminder to us of the lost objectives so bravely stated in the Atlantic Charter, even before Pearl Harbor Day. Fear, doubt, and confusion are the portion of those who fought and won the war with the fervent prayer that at last this was the war to end wars.
Volumes have been, and more volumes will be, written on the collapse of world co-operation and the true significance of the events that accompanied the tragedy. For us, all their words will amplify one simple truth. Freedom from fear and injustice and oppression will be ours only in the measure that men who value such freedom are ready to sustain its possession—to defend it against every thrust from within or without.
The compelling necessities of the moment leave us no alternative to the maintenance of real and respectable strength—not only in our moral rectitude and our economic power, but in terms of adequate military preparedness. To neglect this, pending universal resurgence of a definite spirit of co-operation, is not only foolish, it is criminally stupid. Moreover, present-day weakness will alarm our friends, earn the contempt of others, and virtually eliminate any influence of ours toward peaceful adjustment of world problems. The lessons of 1914 and 1939 remain valid so long as the world has not learned the futility of making competitive force the final arbiter of human questions.
Military preparedness alone is an inadequate answer to the problem. Communism inspires and enables its militant preachers to exploit injustices and inequity among men. This ideology appeals, not to the Italian or Frenchman or South American as such, but to men as human beings who become desperate in the attempt to satisfy common human needs. Therein it possesses a profound power for expansion. Wherever popular discontent is founded on group oppression or mass poverty or the hunger of children, there Communism may stage an offensive that arms cannot counter. Discontent can be fanned into revolution, and revolution into social chaos. The sequel is dictatorial rule. Against such tactics exclusive reliance on military might is vain.
The areas in which freedom flourishes will continue to shrink unless the supporters of democracy match Communist fanaticism with clear and common understanding that the freedom of men is at stake; meet Communist-regimented unity with the voluntary unity of common purpose, even though this may mean a sacrifice of some measure of nationalistic pretensions; and, above all, annul Communist appeals to the hungry, the poor, the oppressed, with practical measures untiringly prosecuted for the elimination of social and economic evils that set men against men.
As a world force, democracy is supported by nations that too much and too often act alone, each for itself alone. Nowhere perfect, in many regions democracy is pitifully weak because the separatism of national sovereignty uselessly prevents the logical pooling of resources, which would produce greater material prosperity within and multiplied strength for defense. Such division may mean ideological conquest.
The democracies must learn that the world is now too small for the rigid concepts of national sovereignty that developed in a time when the nations were self-sufficient and self-dependent for their own well-being and safety. None of them today can stand alone. No radical surrender of national sovereignty is required—only a firm agreement that in disputes between nations a central and joint agency, after examination of the facts, shall decide the justice of the case by majority vote and thereafter shall have the power and the means to enforce its decision. This is a slight restriction indeed on nationalism and a small price to pay if thereby the peoples who stand for human liberty are better fitted to settle dissension within their own ranks or to meet attack from without.
Here is the true, long-term assurance that democracy may flourish in the world. Physical means and skillful organization may see it safely through a crisis, but only if basically the democracy of our day satisfies the mental, moral, and physical wants of the masses living under it can it continue to exist.
We believe individual liberty, rooted in human dignity, is man’s greatest treasure. We believe that men, given free expression of their will, prefer freedom and self-dependence to dictatorship and collectivism. From the evidence, it would appear that the Communist leaders also believe this; else why do they attack and attempt to destroy the practice of these concepts? Were they completely confident in the rectitude and appeal of their own doctrine, there would be no necessity for them to follow an aggressive policy. Time would be the only ally they needed if Communism as a spiritual force and moral inspiration appealed more to mankind than do individual rights and liberties. We who saw Europe liberated know that the Communistic fear that men will cling to freedom is well founded. It is possible that this truth may be the reason for what appears to be an aggressive intent on the part of the Communists to tear down all governmental structures based upon individual freedom.
If the men and women of America face this issue as squarely and bravely as their soldiers faced the terrors of battle in World War II, we would have no fear of the outcome. If they will unite themselves as firmly as they did when they provided, with their Allies in Europe, the mightiest fighting force of all time, there is no temporal power that can dare challenge them. If they can retain the moral integrity, the clarity of comprehension, and the readiness to sacrifice that finally crushed the Axis, then the free world will live and prosper, and all peoples, eventually, will reach a level of culture, contentment, and security that has never before been achieved.