Cold War

a basis for continued partnership. As Harry Hopkins later recalled, "we

really believed in our hearts that this was the dawn of the new day we had

all been praying for. The Russians have proved that they can be reasonable

and far-seeing and there wasn't any doubt in the minds of the president or

any of us that we could live with them and get along with them peacefully

for as far into the future as any of us could imagine."

In fact, two disquietingly different perceptions of the Soviet Union

existed as the war drew to an end. Some Washington officials believed that

the mystery of Russia was no mystery at all, simply a reflection of a

national history in which suspicion of outsiders was natural, given

repeated invasions from Western Europe and rampant hostility toward

communism on the part of Western powers. Former Ambassador to Moscow Joseph

Davies believed that the way to cut through that suspicion was to adopt

"the simple approach of assuming that what they say, they mean." On the

basis of his personal negotiations with the Russians, presidential aide

Harry Hopkins shared the same confidence.

The majority of well-informed Americans, however, endorsed the opposite

position. It was folly, one newspaper correspondent wrote, "to prettify

Stalin, whose internal homicide record is even longer than Hitler's."

Hitler and Stalin were two of the same breed, former Ambassador to Russia

William Bullitt insisted. Each wanted to spread his power "to the ends of

the earth. Stalin, like Hitler, will not stop. He can only be stopped."

According to Bullitt, any alternative view implied "a conversion of Stalin

as striking as the conversion of Saul on the road to Damascus." Senator

Robert Taft agreed. It made no sense, he insisted, to base U.S. policy

toward the Soviet Union "on the delightful theory that Mr. Stalin in the

end will turn out to have an angelic nature." Drawing on the historical

precedents of the purge trials and traditional American hostility to

communism, totalitarianism, and Stalin, those who held this point of view

saw little hope of compromise. "There is as little difference between

communism and fascism," Monsignor Fulton J. Sheen said, "as there is

between burglary and larceny." The only appropriate response was force.

Instead of "leaning over backward to be nice to the descendents of Genghis

Khan," General George Patton suggested, "[we] should dictate to them and do

it now and in no uncertain terms." Within such a frame of reference, the

lessons of history and of ideological incompatibility seemed to permit no

possibility of compromise.

But Roosevelt clearly felt that there was a third way, a path of mutual

accommodation that would sustain and nourish the prospects of postwar

partnership without ignoring the realities of geopolitics. The choice in

his mind was clear. "We shall have to take the responsibility for world

collaboration," he told Congress, "or we shall have to bear the

responsibility for another world conflict." President Roosevelt was neither

politically naive nor stupid. Even though committed to the Atlantic

Charter's ideals of self-determination and territorial integrity, he

recognized the legitimate need of the Soviet Union for national security.

For him, the process of politics—informed by thirty-five years of skilled

practice—involved striking a deal that both sides could live with.

Roosevelt acknowledged the brutality, the callousness, the tyranny of the

Soviet system. Indeed, in 1940 he had called Russia as absolute a

dictatorship as existed anywhere. But that did not mean a solution was

impossible, or that one should withdraw from the struggle to find a basis

for world peace. As he was fond of saying about negotiations with Russia,

"it is permitted to walk with the devil until the bridge is crossed."

The problem was that, as Roosevelt defined the task of finding a path

of accommodation, it rested solely on his shoulders. The president

possessed an almost mystical confidence in his own capacity to break

through policy differences based on economic structures and political

systems, and to develop a personal relationship of trust that would

transcend impersonal forces of division. "I know you will not mind my being

brutally frank when I tell you," he wrote Churchill in 1942, "[that] I

think I can personally handle Stalin better than either your Foreign Office

or my State Department. Stalin hates the guts of all your top people. He

thinks he likes me better, and I hope he will continue to do so."

Notwithstanding the seeming naivete of such statements, Roosevelt appeared

right, in at least this one regard. The Soviets did seem to place their

faith in him, perhaps thinking that American foreign policy was as much a

product of one man's decisions as their own. Roosevelt evidently thought

the same way, telling Bullitt, in one of their early foreign policy

discussions, "it's my responsibility and not yours; and I'm going to play

my hunch."

The tragedy, of course, was that the man who perceived that fostering

world peace was his own personal responsibility never lived to carry out

his vision. Long in declining health, suffering from advanced

arteriosclerosis and a serious cardiac problem, he had gone to Warm

Springs, Georgia, to recover from the ordeal of Yalta and the congressional

session. On April 12, Roosevelt suffered a massive cerebral hemorrhage and

died. As word spread across the country, the stricken look on people's

faces told those who had not yet heard the news the awful dimensions of

what had happened. "He was the only president I ever knew," one woman said.

In London, Churchill declared that he felt as if he had suffered a physical

blow. Stalin greeted the American ambassador in silence, holding his hand

for thirty seconds. The leader of the world's greatest democracy would not

live to see the victory he had striven so hard to achieve.

2.2 The Truman Doctrine.

Few people were less prepared for the challenge of becoming president.

Although well-read in history, Truman's experience in foreign policy was

minimal. His most famous comment on diplomacy had been a statement to a

reporter in 1941 that "if we see that Germany is winning [the war] we ought

to help Russia, and if Russia is winning we ought to help Germany and that

way let them kill as many as possible, although I don't want to see Hitler

victorious under any circumstances." As vice-president, Truman had been

excluded from all foreign policy discussions. He knew nothing about the

Manhattan Project. The new president, Henry Stimson noted, labored under

the "terrific handicap of coming into... an office where the threads of

information were so multitudinous that only long previous familiarity could

allow him to control them." More to the point were Truman's own comments:

"They didn't tell me anything about what was going on. . . . Everybody

around here that should know anything about foreign affairs is out." Faced

with burdens sufficiently awesome to intimidate any individual, Truman had

to act quickly on a succession of national security questions, aided only

by his native intelligence and a no-nonsense attitude reflected in the now-

famous slogan that adorned his desk: "The Buck Stops Here."

Truman's dilemma was compounded by the extent to which Roosevelt had

acted" as his own secretary of state, sharing with almost no one his plans

for the postwar period. Roosevelt placed little trust in the State

Department's bureaucracy, disagreed with the suspicion exhibited toward

Russia by most foreign service officers, and for the most part appeared to

believe that he alone held the secret formula for accommodation with the

Soviets. Ultimately that formula presumed the willingness of the Russian

leadership "to give the Government of Poland [and other Eastern European

countries] an external appearance of independence [italics added]," in the

words of Roosevelt's aide Admiral William Leahy. In the month before his

death, FDR had evidently begun to question that presumption, becoming

increasingly concerned about Soviet behavior. Had he lived, he may well

have adopted a significantly tougher position toward Stalin than he had

taken previously. Yet in his last communication with Churchill, Roosevelt

was still urging the British prime minister to "minimize the Soviet problem

as much as possible . . . because these problems, in one form or another,

seem to arrive everyday and most of them straighten out." If Stalin's

intentions still remained difficult to fathom so too did Roosevelt's. And

now Truman was in charge, with neither Roosevelt's experience to inform

him, nor a clear sense of Roosevelt's perceptions to offer him direction.

Without being able to analyze at leisure all the complex information

that was relevant, Truman solicited the best advice he could from those who

were most knowledgeable about foreign relations. Hurrying back from Moscow,

Averell Harriman sought the president's ear, lobbying intensively with

White House and State Department officials for his position that

"irreconcilable differences" separated the Soviet Union and the United

States, with the Russians seeking "the extension of the Soviet system with

secret police, [and] extinction of freedom of speech" everywhere they

could. Earlier, Harriman had been well disposed toward the Soviet

leadership, enthusiastically endorsing Russian interest in a postwar loan

and advocating cooperation wherever possible. But now Harriman perceived a

hardening of Soviet attitudes and a more aggressive posture toward control

over Eastern Europe. The Russians had just signed a separate peace treaty

with the Lublin (pro-Soviet) Poles, and after offering safe passage to

sixteen pro-Western representatives of the Polish resistance to conduct

discussions about a government of national unity, had suddenly arrested the

sixteen and held them incommunicado. America's previous policy of

generosity toward the Soviets had been "misinterpreted in Moscow," Harriman

believed, leading the Russians to think they had carte blanche to proceed

as they wished. In Harriman's view, the Soviets were engaged in a

"barbarian invasion of Europe." Whether or not Roosevelt would have

accepted Harriman's analysis, to Truman the ambassador's words made eminent

sense. The international situation was like a poker game, Truman told one

friend, and he was not going to let Stalin beat him.

Just ten days after taking office, Truman had the opportunity to play

his own hand with Molotov. The Soviet foreign minister had been sent by

Stalin to attend the first U.N. conference in San Francisco both as a

gesture to Roosevelt's memory and as a means of sizing up the new

president. In a private conversation with former Ambassador to Moscow

Joseph Davies, Molotov expressed his concern that "full information" about

Russian-U.S. relations might have died with FDR and that "differences of

interpretation and possible complications [might] arise which would not

occur if Roosevelt lived." Himself worried that Truman might make "snap

judgments," Davies urged Molotov to explain fully Soviet policies vis-a-vis

Poland and Eastern Europe in order to avoid future conflict.

Truman implemented the same no-nonsense approach when it came to

decisions about the atomic bomb. Astonishingly, it was not until the day

after Truman's meeting with Molotov that he was first briefed about the

bomb. By that time, $2 billion had already been spent on what Stimson

called "the most terrible weapon ever known in human history." Immediately,

Truman grasped the significance of the information. "I can't tell you what

this is," he told his secretary, "but if it works, and pray God it does, it

will save many American lives." Here was a weapon that might not only bring

the war to a swift conclusion, but also provide a critical lever of

influence in all postwar relations. As James Byrnes told the president, the

bomb would "put us in a position to dictate our own terms at the end of the

war."

In the years subsequent to Hiroshima and Nagasaki, historians have

debated the wisdom of America's being the first nation to use such a

horrible weapon of destruction and have questioned the motivation leading

up to that decision. Those who defend the action point to ferocious

Japanese resistance at Okinawa and Iwo Jima, and the likelihood of even

greater loss of life if an invasion of Japan became necessary. Support for

such a position comes even from some Japanese. "If the military had its

way," one military expert in Japan has said, "we would have fought until

all 80 million Japanese were dead. Only the atomic bomb saved me. Not me

alone, but many Japanese. . . ." Those morally repulsed by the incineration

of human flesh that resulted from the A-bomb, on the other hand, doubt the

necessity of dropping it, citing later U.S. intelligence surveys which

concluded that "Japan would have surrendered even if the atomic bombs had

not been dropped, even if Russia had not entered the war, and even if no

invasion had been planned or contemplated." Distinguished military leaders

such as Dwight Eisenhower later opposed use of the bomb. "First, the

Japanese were ready to surrender, and it wasn't necessary to hit them with

that awful thing," Eisenhower noted. "Second, I hated to see our country be

the first to use such a weapon." In light of such statements, some have

asked why there was no effort to communicate the horror of the bomb to

America's adversaries either through a demonstration explosion or an

ultimatum. Others have questioned whether the bomb would have been used on

non-Asians, although the fire-bombing of Dresden claimed more victims than

Hiroshima. Perhaps most seriously, some have charged that the bomb was used

primarily to intimidate the Soviet Union rather than to secure victory over

Japan.

Although revulsion at America's deployment of atomic weapons is

understandable, it now appears that no one in the inner circles of American

military and political power ever seriously entertained the possibility of

not using the bomb. As Henry Stimson later recalled, "it was our common

objective, throughout the war, to be the first to produce an atomic weapon

and use it. ... At no time, from 1941 to 1945, did I ever hear it suggested

by the president, or by any other responsible member of the government,

that atomic energy should not be used in the war." As historians Martin

Sherwin and Barton Bernstein have shown, the momentum behind the Manhattan

Project was such that no one ever debated the underlying assumption that,

once perfected, nuclear weapons would be used. General George Marshall told

the British, as well as Truman and Stimson, that a land invasion of Japan

would cause casualties ranging from five hundred thousand to more than a

million American troops. Any president who refused to use atomic weapons in

the face of such projections could logically be accused of needlessly

sacrificing American lives. Moreover, the enemy was the same nation that

had unleashed a wanton and brutal attack on Pearl Harbor. As Truman later

explained to a journalist, "When you deal with a beast, you have to treat

him as a beast." Although many of the scientists who had seen the first

explosion of the bomb in New Mexico were in awe of its destructive

potential and hoped to find some way to avoid its use in war, the idea of a

demonstration met with skepticism. Only one or two bombs existed. What if,

in a demonstration, they failed to detonate? Thus, as horrible as it may

seem in retrospect, no one ever seriously doubted the necessity of dropping

the bomb on Japan once the weapon was perfected.

On the Russian issue, however, there now seems little doubt that

administration officials thought long and hard about the bomb's impact on

postwar relations with the Soviet Union. Faced with what seemed to be the

growing intransigence of the Soviet Union toward virtually all postwar

questions, Truman and his advisors concluded that possession of the weapon

would give the United States unprecedented leverage to push Russia toward a

more accommodating position. Senator Edwin Johnson stated the equation

crassly, but clearly. "God Almighty in his infinite wisdom," the Senator

said, "[has] dropped the atomic bomb in our lap ... [now] with vision and

guts and plenty of atomic bombs, . . . [the U.S. can] compel mankind to

adopt a policy of lasting peace ... or be burned to a crisp." Stating the

same argument with more sophistication prior to Hiroshima, Stimson told

Truman that the bomb might well "force a favorable settlement of Eastern

European questions with the Russians." Truman agreed. If the weapon worked,

he noted, "I'll certainly have a hammer on those boys."

Use of the bomb as a diplomatic lever played a pivotal role in Truman's

preparation for his first meeting with Stalin at Potsdam. Not only would

the conference address such critical questions as Eastern Europe, Germany,

and Russia's involvement in the war against Japan;

It would also provide a crucial opportunity for America to drive home

with forcefulness its foreign policy beliefs about future relationships

with Russia. Stimson and other advisors urged the president to hold off on

any confrontation with Stalin until the bomb was ready. "Over any such

tangled wave of problems," Stimson noted, "the bomb's secret will be

dominant. ... It seems a terrible thing to gamble with such big stakes and

diplomacy without having your master card in your hand." Although Truman

could not delay the meeting because of a prior commitment to hold it in

July, the president was well aware of the bomb's significance. Already

noted for his brusque and assertive manner, Truman suddenly took on new

confidence in the midst of the Potsdam negotiations when word arrived that

the bomb had successfully been tested. "He was a changed man," Churchill

noted. "He told the Russians just where they got on and off and generally

bossed the whole meeting." Now, the agenda was changed. Russian involvement

in the Japanese war no longer seemed so important. Moreover, the United

States had as a bargaining chip the most powerful weapon ever unleashed.

Three days later, Truman walked up to Stalin and casually told him that the

United States had "perfected a very powerful explosive, which we're going

to use against the Japanese." No mention was made of sharing information

about the bomb, or of future cooperation to avoid an arms race.

Yet the very nature of the new weapon proved a mixed blessing, making

it as much a source of provocation as of diplomatic leverage. Strategic

bombing surveys throughout the war had shown that mass bombings, far from

demoralizing the enemy, often redoubled his commitment to resist. An

American monopoly on atomic weapons would, in all likelihood, have the same

effect on the Russians, a proud people. As Stalin told an American diplomat

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