Word
Gems
What is a
man but the sum of his thoughts?
Leadership
& Decision-Making
Paul Johnson
Heroes: What Great Statesmen Have to
Teach Us
PAUL JOHNSON is the author of several bestselling books,
including the classic Modern Times: The World from the Twenties
to the Nineties, A History of the American People, A
History of Christianity, Intellectuals: From Marx and Tolstoy
to Sartre and Chomsky, A History of the Jews,
Creators: From Chaucer and Durer to Picasso and Disney,
Art: A New History, George Washington: The Founding
Father, and most recently, Heroes: From Alexander the Great
and Julius Caesar to Churchill and de Gaulle. His articles have
appeared in numerous publications, including National Review,
the New York Times, the Wall Street Journal, the
Spectator, the Daily Telegram, and the Daily
Mail. In 2006, he received the Presidential Medal of Freedom.
The following is adapted from a lecture delivered on November 1,
2007, on board the Crystal Symphony, during a Hillsdale College
cruise from Montreal to Miami.
Heroes: What Great Statesmen Have to Teach
Us
IF WE LOOK at what heroic statesmen can teach us, the sartorial
dimension—what they wear—is indicative. Prince Otto von Bismarck,
the Prussian who created Germany in its modern form, always put on
uniforms when he addressed the Reichstag on an important
constitutional issue. His successor as Chancellor, Betthman-Hollweg,
had himself specially promoted from major to colonel so that, when
declaring war in 1914, he could speak to the Reichstag from a
suitable rank.
The English and American traditions and instincts are quite
different. George Washington might wear a uniform when the Republic
was in danger, to indicate his willingness and ability to defend it.
As a rule, however, he deliberately stressed his civilian status by
his dress. He was anxious to show that, unlike Cromwell 150 years
before, he would not use his military victories to become a Caesar.
His self-restraint fascinated contemporaries.
After American independence was secured, King George III asked an
American, “What will George Washington do now?” He was told: “I
expect he will go back to his farm.” The King commented, in frank
admiration: “If he does that, he will be the
greatest man on earth.” And that is what he did. When he
finally—and reluctantly—accepted political office, he waited to be
summoned by election. The importance of Washington’s behavior should
never be underrated, contrasting, as it did, so markedly with the
behavior of Napoleon Bonaparte a few years later. It illustrated all
the difference between a civil and a military culture. In
statesmanship, personal self-restraint in the search for and
exercise of power is a key lesson to teach.
The Duke of Wellington, for instance, though known as the Iron
Duke and the victor in some 50 battles, would never have dreamed of
appearing in Parliament in military attire. On the contrary: he
fought the Battle of Waterloo in dark blue
civilian dress. Winston Churchill, too, never set foot in the
House of Commons as a soldier. He loved uniforms and often wore them
on non-Parliamentary occasions, including his semi-nautical rig as
an Elder Brother of Trinity House. He had a right, too, to dress up.
For he had taken part in active campaigns in Asia and Africa, and in
1899, at the Battle of Omdurman, had taken part in one of the last
successful cavalry charges in the history of warfare. At the Potsdam
Conference in 1945 he appeared in Royal Air Force uniform, one of
his favorites. Marshall Stalin, as he liked to call himself,
appeared in the white full dress uniform of a Marshall of the Red
Army. But my award for statesmanship goes to the third member of the
Big Three, Harry S Truman, who wore a neat blue
civilian suit. No one had a better right to military rig. He
was, ex officio, commander-in-chief of the U.S. Armed Forces. He had
seen action in the First World War as an army major, and took an
active part in the Reserve throughout the interwar period, probably
knowing more about the military state of the world—and periodically
issuing well-argued warnings—than any other member of Congress. But
he rightly followed Washington’s example and stuck to the
constitutional proprieties. How sensible he was became clear later
when he had to deal with the popular but difficult General Douglas
MacArthur.
It is worth noting that one of the greatest victories of the 20th
century, the defeat of the Soviet Union in the Cold War at the end
of the 1980s, was achieved by three eminently civilian heroes: Pope
John Paul II, Ronald Reagan and Margaret Thatcher. The popes always
wear white, the symbol of peace. Mr. Reagan, quite capable of acting
heroic roles on screen, never succumbed to the temptation of wearing
uniform in office. Margaret Thatcher was a war leader as well as a
great leader in peace. She showed considerable courage during the
Falklands War, a hazardous business for Britain with its limited
military resources, but she never once stepped outside her strictly
civilian role, even sartorially—though, as I often noted, she could
snap her handbag with a military ring.
Statesmen at War
War is the most serious business that statesmen-heroes have to
undertake, and a proper understanding of the precise frontier
between civilian and military decision-making is one of the most
valuable lessons they teach, never more so than today. In Western
democracies like the United States and Britain, the civil power,
elected by the people, has the sole right to declare war and make
peace. In the conduct of operations, it must lay down clear
objectives and give the military commanders their orders
accordingly. But then, having done that, it must
leave the way to secure these objectives, subject to the rules of
law, to the professional commanders. It is not for the
military to dictate policies, as General MacArthur tried to do, but
equally it is not for the politicians to tell the generals how to
fight.
This last rule has been broken several times in my lifetime, and
always with disastrous results. The first occasion was during the
brief Suez War of 1956, which the British Prime Minister, Sir
Anthony Eden, with his French allies, launched against Egypt. Eden
was a man of peace who hated war, and got involved in this one
reluctantly. He made many mistakes. He acted in a secretive manner,
not taking into his confidence the House of Commons or even all his
Cabinet colleagues, and above all his American ally, President
Eisenhower. As a result there was great opposition to the war, at
home and abroad, once it was launched. But his most serious mistake
was to fail to give his military commanders clear orders about their
objectives, and then leave them to get on with it. He tried to fight
a kind of limited and political war, with the generals and air
marshals restrained by political factors in what weapons they could
use. He even told the Royal Air Force not to use
bombs above a certain weight. The confusion of the commanders
about what they were supposed to be doing was a factor in the war’s
failure, which ended with an ignominious Anglo-French withdrawal,
dictated by political factors. The Suez War was a historic
demonstration of how fatal to success it is to muddle politics and
military operations together.
That being so, it is astonishing to think that, only a few years
later, the United States made exactly the same
mistake in Vietnam. It has always struck me as tragic that
the decision whether or not America should get involved in Vietnam
was not taken while President Eisenhower was still in the White
House. He had seen, from his ample experience in World War Two, how
vital it was for politicians to settle the objects of war, and
soldiers the means to secure them. Confusion of the two roles, he
learned in the Mediterranean and European campaigns of 1942 to 1945,
invariably proved costly. My guess is that Eisenhower would have
decisively rejected any direct U.S. involvement, and would not have
agreed to any plan which meant fighting a land war there. In the
unlikely event of his agreeing to fight a war, however, he would
have insisted on fighting it properly—that is, going all out for
total victory with all the resources America could command—just as
he had done with the invasion of occupied Europe in June 1944. That
was the simple but logical view of a man who had exercised power
from both sides of the political-military divide: avoid war if you
possibly can, but if you can’t, fight it to win at all costs.
Unfortunately, Eisenhower was in retirement when the time for
decision came. John F. Kennedy agreed to enter the war, and Lyndon
B. Johnson agreed to extend it. At no point did either president
formulate clear war aims or issue precise orders to their military
commanders based on such aims. When I went to see President Johnson
in 1967 and had an opportunity to discuss the Vietnam War with him
in the White House, I was dismayed to find him imprecise about his
war aims. He used such phrases as “contain
communist advance” and “defeat communism.” But he did not lay down
any object which could be secured by military means, and I
wondered what exactly were the orders he issued to his generals or
how they understood them. Johnson, like Eden before him, interfered
almost daily in the conduct of operations, especially in the bombing
war, deciding himself when and where raids should take place and
what bombs to use, trying at times to orchestrate his military
operations with his peace ventures. The mistakes Eden made at Suez
were repeated, on a larger scale and for a longer period, and the
predictable and disastrous results were of a correspondingly greater
magnitude.
Let us turn now to Iraq, and see how the same considerations
apply. In the first Iraq war, we were responding to the unprovoked
invasion and occupation of Kuwait by Saddam Hussein’s forces. This
was a matter directly involving the United Nations. If Mr. Reagan
had still been in the White House, I have no doubt that he and Mrs.
Thatcher would have adopted stern war aims, involving not just the
liberation of Kuwait by armed force but the replacement of the
Saddam Hussein regime with a democratic one under Western and U.N.
supervision. Unfortunately Reagan had been succeeded by a much less
clear-sighted, albeit well-meaning, president, George Bush Sr. It
was not even clear, at first, that America would insist on reversing
the invasion and occupation rather than be content with containing
Iraqi aggression at the Saudi Arabian frontier. This disastrous
response was jettisoned by the most forceful pressure from Margaret
Thatcher, who insisted that Iraq be ejected from all Kuwait’s
territory. This was done, under a U.N. resolution, with the military
assistance of over 50 allies in Operation Desert Storm. But there
was no agreement about the future war aim of removing Saddam and his
militaristic regime. The generals had no instructions to “go on to
Baghdad” and therefore halted operations when Saddam and his forces
asked for an armistice. Alas, by that time Margaret Thatcher was no
longer in office and had been succeeded by the weak and uncertain
John Major. There was, in fact, weakness in both Washington and
London, and as a result Saddam Hussein was left in power.
It is important to remember all this when we consider the present
situation in Iraq. In the first war, the outrage the world felt at
the brutal Iraqi conquest of Kuwait was overwhelming, and to destroy
his regime and replace it by a peaceful and democratic one made
obvious and popular sense. I have no doubt that when George Bush the
younger authorized the second war against Iraq, he had in mind to
complete the business left unfinished by the first—the son showing
resolution where the father had shown doubt. But the actual reasons
given for the second war were quite different, and much less
plausible, and so carried less weight with the world. Many people
failed to follow or agree with the line of argument which led from
9/11—an unprovoked act of aggression similar to the Iraqi invasion
of Kuwait—to the subsequent American attack on Iraq. They welcomed
the overthrow of Saddam and his regime, and his subsequent trial and
execution. But they were not clear why America was occupying Iraq as
part of its worldwide fight against terror.
It seems to me that this confusion,
originating in the first Iraq war and deepened in the second, lies
at the root of our present difficulties. What successful
statesmanship in the past teaches us, again and again, is that
clarity of aim is paramount, above all in the deadly serious
business of war-making. The Allies in the First World War were never
clear about why they were fighting it—and Woodrow Wilson’s Fourteen
Points, it can be argued, added to the confusion. Therein lay the
weakness of the Versailles settlement, which laid the foundations of
another conflict. In the Second World War, the Allies agreed on at
least one thing: the unconditional surrender of Germany and the
total destruction of the Nazi regime. It was not everything but it
was something. By contrast, it is worth adding, the Western victory
in the Cold War—achieved not by military force but by politics,
economics, ideology and psychology—had no provision for what was to
happen in Russia. There was no de-communization, as there had been
de-Nazification in Germany after 1945, no trial of communist leaders
for crimes against humanity, and none of the efforts, so successful
in post-war Germany, to demonstrate the benefits of political and
economic freedom and the rule of law. The result
was to leave the communist apparatus intact beneath the
surface—especially its most resilient and ruthless part, the secret
police. And it is the secret police, personified in the presidency
of Mr. Putin, who have inherited the state. Russia is no
longer capable of challenging the United States and the West
militarily, as it did until the late 1980s. But it is still capable
and ready to make a great deal of trouble for us all, on a scale
which makes Saddam’s Iraq seem insignificant.
Five Keys to Democratic
Statesmanship
All these examples are reasons why I say that the ability to see
the world clearly, and to draw the right conclusions from what is
seen, is the foremost lesson which great men and women of state have
to teach us. But there are many more, of which I would single out
the five most important.
First, ideas and beliefs.
The best kind of democratic leader has
just a few—perhaps three or four—central principles to which he is
passionately attached and will not sacrifice under any
circumstances. This was true, for instance, of
Truman, of Konrad Adenauer of Germany, Alcide de Gasperi of Italy,
and Robert Schuman of France—all the outstanding men who did most to
raise Europe from the ashes of the Second World War and who built up
the West as a bulwark against Soviet advance and a repository of a
free civilization. It was also true of Ronald Reagan and Margaret
Thatcher, the two outstanding leaders of the next generation who
carried on the work. I am not impressed by leaders who have definite
views on everything. History teaches it is a mistake to have too
many convictions, held with equal certitude and tenacity. They crowd
each other out. A great leader is someone who can distinguish
between the essential and the peripheral—between what must be done
and what is merely desirable. Mrs. Thatcher really had only three
musts: uphold the rule of law at home and abroad; keep government
activities to the minimum, and so taxes low; encourage individuals
to do as much as they can, as well as they can.
There are also, of course, statesmen who are necessarily
dominated by one overwhelming object dictated to them by events or
destiny. Thus Abraham Lincoln felt all else had to be sacrificed to
the overwhelming necessity of holding the Union together, behind the
principles of 1776. Likewise, Charles de Gaulle, in 1940, advanced
the simple proposition that France was not defeated and incarnated
it in his person. The way in which both men concentrated all their
thoughts, energies, and skills on one end are lessons in
single-mindedness and the power this can bring to action. A
statesman must also be able, for a spell, to place one object of
policy before all others, and this Winston Churchill did in 1940,
when keeping Britain in the war by successfully preventing a Nazi
conquest took precedence over all other aims. Such concentration of
effort is itself a product of clarity of vision which includes a
strong sense of proportion.
Next comes willpower. I think the
history of great men and women teaches that willpower is the most
decisive of all qualities in public life. A politician can have
immense intelligence and all the other virtues, but if will is
lacking he is nothing. Usually a leader has it in abundance. Will
springs from unshakeable confidence in being right, but also from a
more primitive instinct to dominate events which has little to do
with logic or reason. Churchill had it. De Gaulle had it. Margaret
Thatcher had it, to an unusual degree. It could be seen that,
surrounded by her male Cabinet colleagues—whose knowledge and
technical qualifications were often superior—she alone possessed
will, and one could almost watch them bowing to it. Of course, will
is often in history the source of evil. Hitler came from nothing to
power, and the absolute control of a great nation, almost entirely
through the force of his will. And it remained in him virtually to
the end. Stalin’s dictatorship in Russia, and Mao Tse-Tung’s in
China, were also largely exercises in personal will. Mao’s
overwhelming will, we now know, led to the deaths of 70 million
fellow Chinese. The cost of a misdirected will is almost
unimaginably high. Those three or four simple central beliefs behind
the will must be right and morally sound.
A third virtue is pertinacity. Mere flashes
of will are not enough. The will must be organically linked to
resolution, a determination to see the cause through at all
costs. There are dark days in every venture, however just.
Washington knew this in his long, eight-year war. Lincoln knew this
in his long and often agonizing struggle with the South. One aspect
of pertinacity is patience. Another is a certain primitive
doggedness. One learns a lot about these things by studying Martin
Gilbert’s magnificent record of Churchill’s leadership. “It’s dogged
as does it” is an old English proverb. True enough. But doggedness
should not be confused with blind obstinacy—the obstinacy of a
George III or a Jefferson Davis. As with will, resolution must be
linked to sound aims.
Fourth is the ability to communicate.
The value of possessing a few simple ideas which are true and
workable is enormously enhanced if the leader can put them across
with equal simplicity. Ronald Reagan had this gift to an unusual
degree—quite unlike his co-worker, Margaret Thatcher. While Reagan
charmed and mesmerised, she had to bludgeon. There was a comparable
contrast between Washington, who had no skill in plausible
speechmaking, and Lincoln, not only a great orator for a set
occasion, but a man whose everyday remarks carried enormous verbal
power. But where words fail, example can take their place.
Washington communicated by his actions and his personality. He was
followed because Americans could see that he was an honest,
incorruptible and decent man. Mrs. Thatcher too governed by
personality. The Russians called her the Iron Lady. You do not need
to charm when you are manifestly made of iron. It is a form of
communication in itself.
The fifth and last of the virtues we
learn about heroes is magnanimity: greatness of
soul. It is not easy to define this supreme quality,
which few even among the greatest leaders possess. It is a virtue
which makes one warm to its possessor. We not only respect and like,
we love Lincoln because he had it to an unusual degree. It was part
of his inner being. And Churchill, who also had it, made it one of
the top quartet of characteristics which he expected the statesman
to show. A passage he penned as the First World War was about to end
reads: “In war, resolution. In defeat, defiance. In victory,
magnanimity. In peace, good will.” This is a sentiment which all
those in public life should learn by heart. It encapsulates the
lessons of history better than entire books.
* * *
I would like to end by stressing that my perception of heroic
virtues is not inclusive. I merely stress the central and essential
ones. One thing you learn from history is that a hero who can make
the public laugh as well as admire is likely to have a strong and
lasting hold on its affections. Here again Churchill stands high. He
made us laugh even in the darkest days of 1940, when in reply to the
Nazi jibe that “England in three weeks will have her neck wrung like
a chicken,” he said, simply but forcefully: “Some chicken! Some
neck!” As a teenager, when I had the chance to meet him in 1946, I
was bold enough to ask: “Mr. Winston Churchill, sir, to what do you
attribute your success in life?” He replied, instantly:
“Conservation of effort: never stand up when you can sit down, and
never sit down when you can lie down.” There was a delicious irony
with which this supreme man of action put the case for the
sedentary, even the supine. Abraham Lincoln, too, loved irony. He
often achieved an effect with jokes where mere oratory would not
work so well. And Mr. Reagan communicated and ruled through his
enormous collection of one-liners, which he suited to all occasions.
And a joke can often enshrine truth, as for instance when I heard
him say: “I’m not too worried about the deficit. It’s big enough to
take care of itself.”
Margaret Thatcher was often criticized for having no sense of
humor. Not true. I once heard her tell a joke to great effect. At
the end of a long wearisome dinner with ten speeches, she—as Prime
Minister—was scheduled to speak at the end. I could see she was
furious. She began: “As the last of ten speakers, and the only
woman, I have this to say. The cock may crow, but it’s the hen who
lays the eggs.” I think I was the only one to laugh. The rest were
shocked. I reminded Mrs. Thatcher of this recently, and she was
delighted. She said: “My father told me that joke.” And that itself
is a reminder that we learn from our parents at the fireside in our
childhood perhaps as much or more than from anyone. But from the
heroes of the past we learn, too, and what they teach, by the
example of their lives and words, has the special quality of truth
by personal example. Thus the good hero lives on, in our minds, if
we are imaginative, and in our actions, if we are wise.
|