Summer and fall, 1964
he summer of 1964 brought a brief abeyance in the violence T between dove and hawk groups on college campuses. Clashes returned, however, with renewed vigor, at summer’s end. Students died, some at the hand of other students, and some by police called in to calm the unrest. Despite pleas by both candidates to end the violence, eleven students died in the months leading up to the 1964
presidential election.
Kennedy felt lonely and filled with despair in the months before the election. He knew the rationale of the war hawks. Truth be known, he had come oh so close to joining their ranks, and many times during these months he thought how easy it would be still to take the easy path, give in, and in so doing abandon the long trek up the hard road to the shining vision he’d glimpsed so briefly.
Two weeks before the election, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs called on JFK. General Maxwell D. Taylor had a deep personal respect for John and Bobby Kennedy, and they for him.
Bobby would even come to name a son after Max Taylor. It didn’t surprise JFK when Taylor showed up outside the Oval Office and asked to see him. It was just past eight PM. Kennedy walked to the door and opened it. Grinning, as he motioned with his thumb, he said, “Get in here, Taylor.”
As Taylor entered Kennedy’s office, he heard the strains of a sweetly sad stringed composition coming from a pair of small speakers behind Kennedy’s desk, under the windows. Taylor had heard JFK’s interest in classical music had spiked. That interest had begun to rub off on White House staff as well.
“I recognize that, Sir,” Taylor said.
“I don’t know why, but I can’t stop listening to this,” Kennedy said, as he motioned Taylor to a chair.
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Taylor waited for Kennedy to sit before settling into his own chair. “I know I’ve heard it before. Can’t place it, Sir.”
“Adagio for Strings,” Kennedy said.
“Ah, from the Barber piece, yes,” Taylor replied.
The music, in its final minutes, compelled attention, and by unspoken agreement both men sat back to listen. The final chords died away to silence, leaving Kennedy and Taylor each contemplating their own personal manifestations of sorrow and loss, each recognizing the potential for loss evident in the issues before the country, each recognizing the role they would play. When the silence had stretched uncomfortably long, Taylor cleared his throat and said,
“Sir, thank you for seeing me without an appointment.”
Kennedy waved his hand to silence Taylor, and said, “You know you don’t need an appointment, General. What’s on your mind?” He straightened his chair behind his desk and faced Taylor.
Taylor had intended to confront Kennedy on the Vietnam issue.
He had mixed feelings over the merits of sending in troops, though he considered it a foregone conclusion it would eventually become necessary. He thought he would come here to reassure Kennedy, tell him that while the decision to go to war might be a hard one to make, it was the right one. Now, after hearing the human emotion of sorrow expressed so poignantly, he wasn’t so sure. It felt as if the music had been created for this moment, and it left him questioning, as great art should. “It seems to have slipped my mind, Sir,” Taylor replied.
“Well, can’t have been too important then, right?” Kennedy said. He turned his chair ninety degrees to the right and turned his head further right to look out the windows behind his desk. Without looking at Taylor, he asked, “Decided how you’re voting next month?”
“Do we have an election coming up, Sir? I hadn’t noticed.”
Kennedy laughed loudly. “You’d be the only one who hasn’t noticed, Max.”
“Could I ask Sir, are you worried?”
Turning his chair to face Taylor again, Kennedy thought for a 161
second or two, then responded, “Not for me, General, and not for the Party. Both will survive, no matter what happens on November third. I worry for us, this country. I can see two distinctly different paths ahead of us, and I’m uncertain how to get us aimed toward the right one. I’m getting a second chance,” he said, as he stared far away, over Taylor’s head, “and I’m not sure how to use it.”
Taylor looked puzzled when he said, “I’m… not sure I followed that last bit, Sir?” Kennedy slowly returned his gaze, from wherever it had been, back to the Oval Office.
“Ignore that General. Just me woolgathering. You know, you should run for something Max. You’ve mastered the art of not directly answering a question.”
“Sir?”
“You didn’t answer my question about voting.”
“Ah. Then I’ll answer it now, Sir. No. Sir.”
Kennedy inched his chair closer to his desk so he could lean his forearms on its top and draw closer to Taylor. “Getting kind of late in the game to be undecided, General. What’re you waiting for?”
General Taylor thought for a few seconds, then looked directly at Kennedy and said, “Off the record, Sir?”
With a slight nod of his head the president replied, “Just you and me, Max.”
Taking a deep breath, and exhaling, the general said, “We’ve talked about this before, Sir. You know my thoughts on Vietnam. If you’ll pardon my saying so, I know how you think. I keep thinking, given the information available, you should have made a different decision, by now. Then it occurred to me, last night. He knows something I don’t know. Do you Sir? Know something I don’t?”
“Yes. I’d be lying if I said anything else. I know this war would be a mistake. But I can’t tell you how I know that.” Kennedy took a deep breath, and then said, “Off the record, General?”
“Of course, Sir.”
“If we go in, our choices are, A: we go in increments, to show our resolve. Five or ten thousand troops now, a few thousand more in four or five months, on and on, never tiring, until we find the 162
magic number. Or B: go in with everything we’ve got. Accurate?”
“Accurate enough, Sir. Those are our choices.”
“OK. We know NVA troop strength is roughly a half million, and they could draft another half million, any time they choose.
Roughly a quarter million Viet Cong are operating in the south now.
Estimates of how many troops China or Russia might commit are all over the board.”
The general nodded. “Accurate, Sir.”
“To have even a chance of winning, how many troops do you think we’ll need to send over? Fifty thousand? A million? How many won’t come home?” Kennedy stood and looked out the window again. “What is acceptable, do you think? A thousand body bags? Ten thousand?” He continued looking out his window while the General collected his thoughts.
The general remained seated. “Sir, we’ve run the numbers. I don’t have to tell you that even the worst estimates are not anywhere near as high as the numbers you just suggested.”
“Can you pick one of those estimates, General, and give me an ironclad guaranty our losses will not be greater?”
“No Sir, I can’t do that, Sir,” Taylor said, with no hesitation.
“I know. I know, Max,” Kennedy said, pacing now, behind his chair. “I know if we commit, we can’t quit, even if too many mam-mas cry to us about losing too many babies. If we commit, we’re in, no matter how many boys we lose.”
“You’re right, of course, Sir.”
“Imagine this, Max,” Kennedy said, as he stopped his pacing and turned to Taylor. “Humor me, and imagine the decision is yours, and you decide to go. It’s now ten years later, we’ve fought a determined enemy, we’ve lost, oh, 58,000 men, and we’re no closer to winning than we are today. Would you, at that point, in your heart of hearts, wish you could go back? Make the decision over again?”
Taylor heaved a mighty sigh, then said, “Mr. President, you know how I feel about the danger of hypothetical questions.”
“Yes, I do Max,” Kennedy said, grinning. “But the question 163
“Alright, Sir, I’ll answer. But I ask you to remember the specifics of your question, should you remind me of my answer one day.”
“I will. Scout’s honor.”
“Very well, Sir. As hypothetical questions go, and given the specifics of the question, this one’s not very difficult to answer.”
“How so?”
“Sir, 58,000 is a horrific number. I… I can’t imagine the U.S.
losing 58,000 men in a proxy war in Vietnam. It’s just unthinkable.”
With that, General Taylor rose and began pacing, back and forth, in front of Kennedy’s desk. Kennedy knew Taylor was forming his thoughts, and did nothing to interrupt.
“However,” Taylor continued, after a minute of pacing, “that being said, and knowing, as we both do, that once committed, we have to accept our losses, whatever they may be, I could imagine thinking of 58,000 as a high, but acceptable, price to pay, if we won the war. Winning, with 58,000 lost, would imply we fought bravely, wisely, we made the most of our strengths, learned from our mistakes, kept our eye on the ball, and all the while moved toward a conclusion, an end we could see.
“But,” Taylor continued, “you asked if I could accept ten years of war and 58,000 lost if, and I quote, ‘we’re no closer to winning than we are today.’ Sir, that would be unacceptable, an abomination.
That would imply we, we generals and leaders, fought the war badly, we squandered our brave soldiers, we foolishly used failing tactics repeatedly, and reach the ten-year mark with no idea what to do next.
“Sir, if you say you know these things will come to pass, then you have no choice but to do all you can to prevent them, and I will support you toward that end. First, Sir,” the general said, as he stepped closer to Kennedy and looked him in the eye, “first, you must tell me how in bloody hell you can know that! Sir.”
The ferocity in the general’s voice surprised Kennedy, but he wasn’t upset. The general was sharp, and he had zeroed in on the 164
crux of the matter. For the general, it all came down to that one question. How did Kennedy know? For Kennedy, the question was, how could he answer without sounding like a fruitcake?
“You deserve an answer Max, and I know how inadequate it will sound to say I just know. That’s all I can tell you. I’m certain.
I’d bet my life on it.”
That statement surprised Taylor. Until now, he had regarded Kennedy as a thoughtful, intelligent man whose grasp of the subject may have given him insights others could not see. Now, he wondered if Kennedy might be a leader who simply knew the truth, one who could somehow see beyond a decision of the present to its eventual outcome. Such a man was rare, and though he may in fact be wrong, in spite of how certain he claims to know he is right, such a man must be considered carefully, in the context of everything else there was to know of him, before determining to either follow or abandon him.
“Alright Sir, let’s say you’ve convinced me it would be a mistake to commit troops to Vietnam. We sit this one out. How sure are you that Vietnam will not become the first of many weak nations to fall to Communism, if we give up Vietnam so easily?”
Kennedy looked at the general. “I’m not sure at all, Max. If we go in, outcomes range from bad to horrible. We’ll lose a great many men. By sitting this one out, we save those lives. It’s as simple as that.”
Taylor thought about America pulling its troops out of Vietnam, and what the aftermath might look like. “If we pull out, the north should win easily. They’re getting aid from both Russia and China.”
Kennedy nodded. “Right now, Russia and China are united against the U.S. Neither want democracy in Vietnam. Once we’re gone, how do you suppose their motivations might change?”
Taylor eyed Kennedy suspiciously. “Well, Sir, they represent two different flavors of Communism. With us out of the way, I suppose it’s possible they turn on each other. It won’t be much of a contest though. China’s economy is in a shambles now. I doubt 165
they’d even try to overcome the military muscle Russia could bring to bear.”
“Um, what if China got the mistaken idea the U.S. was secretly helping the Russians?”
“Why would they think that, Sir?”
“Oh, perhaps they might get the idea Russia has agreed to allow us to install a degree of Capitalism in a united Vietnam. Russia’s already shown a willingness to coexist with Capitalist nations.
China knows that; they consider Capitalism to be the enemy.”
Taylor thought for a few seconds. “I could envision China becoming more aggressive over Vietnam, under those circumstances.”
“How might such a confrontation play out, do you think?”
“We could only guess, Sir. Russian war machinery is vastly superior, but direct supply routes to Vietnam take them past China, whether by air, land or sea. China’s supply of troops is nearly lim-itless, and they’re closer to Nam, just over the border.”
“So, a proxy war in Vietnam, between Russia and China, is possible, if America steps away from the region?”
“In my opinion, it would hinge on how threatened China felt.”
“Such a war could spread to Laos, Cambodia, even Thailand?”
“That is quite possible, Sir.”
“A large war; great loss of life,” Kennedy said, as he turned to look out the window again, “whether we stay in Nam, or leave.”
Taylor joined Kennedy at the window and stared into the darkness with him. “Given the parameters you’ve laid out Sir, yes.”
“Our Vietnam war,” Kennedy said, “should we wage it, would not even rate an upper-case W, not unless Congress declares it.”
“I can’t think of more than a dozen who’d want a ‘Yes’ vote for war attached to his political record, Sir. Lonely at the top, huh?”
“I’ve heard that, General.” Staring out at the night, Kennedy said, “None of this will matter after November third. Nixon has the ear of the voters. The voters are never wrong.”
General Taylor took two steps away from the window, turned around and said, “Well then, you should tell ‘em, Jack.”
The president turned from the window, surprised, and a little 166
pleased, to hear the general address him by his nickname here in the Oval Office. “What did you say?”
“I said tell ‘em. Tell the voters why Nam would be a mistake.”
Then he offered his right hand and said, “Good luck, Mister President. You have my vote.”
Jack said nothing, but shook the outstretched hand of the Joint Chiefs Chairman. He watched as Taylor turned on his heel and marched out of the Oval Office. For a full minute after Taylor left his office, JFK remained standing, looking at the door Taylor had closed behind him. A slight smile replaced the frown that had set up near permanent residence on his face over the last few weeks.
Two days before the election, President Kennedy addressed the nation from the Oval Office. He looked tired, but engaged. He used no notes, cue cards, or teleprompter. He neither rehearsed nor memorized his words. He did this against the advice of all his advisors, except Jacqueline. It was she who, upon hearing what General Taylor had said to Kennedy, had told him, “Then tell them Jack, tell them your truth, and let them decide.”
So that’s what Jack did. In an impassioned, ten-minute speech, destined to occupy the number one slot on any future list of, “The Most Important Speeches of the Twentieth Century,” Jack told the American people about North Vietnam and South Vietnam, and why they were at war:
“Two governments… in a far-off land… one a puppet of our enemy… the other corrupt beyond salvage.”
“If you who would send us to war… think this fight is worth the life of even one of our brave boys in uniform… Please, reconsider, the value of that life.”
He told the American people why China and Russia were involved. He said the two communist countries were, “… in the end…
nations we should neither emulate… nor become.”
Most important, JFK reminded the American people who they were. He explained what he felt would be certain to happen if he maintained or escalated America’s involvement in Vietnam. Then 167
he said good night, stood up and walked off-camera to his right.
They turned the camera off, and across America, television screens tuned to all three networks went to static. Five seconds later, with no fanfare, normal programming resumed.
Nixon demanded and received equal time, the following evening, the night before the election. He made an equally impassioned presentation, the best of his career, some said.
On November 3, 1964, John Fitzgerald Kennedy won his second term as President of the United States. It was another narrow victory. Nixon gave a short concession speech, turned to embrace his friends and said, “I missed him again.”
In his State of the Union speech on January 14, 1965, in a single sentence, Kennedy stated clearly, and with no elaboration, that he would bring home the country’s brave soldiers fighting in Vietnam.
He spent so little time on the issue that many of those assembled before him said later that they had missed it. He moved swiftly to his next topic. Even those few who would have applauded the announcement were caught unprepared, with no time to show their appreciation.
The next day Kennedy sent word to the Joint Chiefs to submit a plan for removing all U.S. personnel from Vietnam by the end of 1965. When a week went by with no plan on his desk, he asked again. A week later he received a plan. They had put it together hastily and it was deeply flawed, Kennedy recognized, as if his senior military staff were daring him to criticize it.
It’s important to understand Kennedy’s thinking at this point in history. He was certain that pulling out of Vietnam was the right thing to do. That certainty was based on his knowledge of the issue, his own personal convictions, and the brief glimpse into the future he’d had on Elm Street. His legal Pads were little more than a novelty for him at this time, with no power to guide him, or even to confirm his ideas as beneficial.
With only his own convictions to guide him, and with so many of the nation’s respected military and civilian leaders believing him wrong, he was reluctant to push too hard. He was still concerned his 168
military could come to believe him to be so detrimental to the wel-fare of the nation that they would, with good conscience, move to overthrow him. No matter how sure he was about the path he chose, he was even more certain that the greatest harm he could possibly do to his country would be to provoke his military into overthrow-ing the government, an action he was certain would place his country on the road to perdition.
As a result, Kennedy (he would later come to believe) wasted most of 1965 in half-hearted debate with those who opposed him.
His generals made an art of submitting one flawed drawdown plan after another, both he and they coming to trust he was unlikely to authorize any of them. Additional boatloads of troops steadily increased American involvement in a war that had not been declared a war by the Congressional branch of the American government.
Kennedy maintained the pretense of leadership, while he spent most of his time locked away behind the closed door to the Oval Office.
The stalemate may have continued indefinitely, were it not for the event of July 30, 1965.
Through Ken’s attention to the matter, Kennedy had learned of Casey’s success in basic training, early in 1964. Over the next year, he had followed Casey’s successes in flight school, somewhat proudly, he realized. However, he knew what that success implied, so it didn’t surprise him when, in May 1965, Ken delivered a copy of Casey’s orders, assigning him to the 220th Aviation Company, Quang Tri Province, Vietnam.
“Shit,” he said to Ken. “I knew this was coming.”
That evening Kennedy went once again to his pads, looking for any sign that Casey would die in Viet Nam. Once again, he found nothing. He knew it was not a guaranty Casey would survive, but it stayed his hand from attempting to bring him out.
Quang Tri became the northernmost province in South Vietnam when Vietnam was divided, in 1954. America began building bases there in 1964, and Casey Peterson arrived on June 6, 1965.
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