Book Review: Frederick Kempe- Berlin 1961

John F. Kennedy remains the most divisive figure in modern American political history.  In ‘Berlin 1961’, Frederick Kempe gives the President’s reputation a good kicking, as he unpicks the political and diplomatic events that led to the construction of the Berlin Wall. 

 

Meticulously researched, and written with a good deal of flair, ‘Berlin 1961’ is an engaging and thoroughly entertaining read. That said, some of Kempe’s revisionist conclusions are, to be frank, unconvincing and poorly justified. 

Diplomacy, as far as the author is concerned, boils down to alpha males rutting amidst banquets and courses of strong alcohol. This caricature-- more accurate than desirable-- is a simplification none the less. Thus his description of the Vienna summit, (an unmitigated disaster for the President) which Kempe claims laid the foundations for all that followed, is lacking in subtlety. 

More, his conclusion that Kennedy’s stewardship in 1961 was ‘one of the worst inaugural-year performances of any modern US President’ rests upon a peculiar reading of the Berlin crisis.

Kempe would have us believe that the President had several options before him, and that he chose the worst: do nothing. In reality, however, the Americans’ were in an invidious position. Had Kennedy chosen to plough through the wall, he would have been required to mobilise forces, this in turn would have begat Ulbricht and Khrushchev to do the same. Of course, one cannot be sure how such a confrontation would have played out. It is possible the Soviets may have backed down; possible, but far from certain. 

Thus, Kennedy’s basic assessment that ‘a wall is a hell of a lot better than a war’ is one many of his contemporaries- on both sides of the Atlantic- would have shared. Indeed, I struggle to believe that Truman, Roosevelt, Johnson or even Eisenhower would have reacted differently, as fundamentally-- despite the rhetoric—Washington was not prepared to risk nuclear war over Berlin. 

This is not to say the President’s decision making was above reproach. Kempe rightfully points out there were several missed opportunities to improve superpower relations, and that Washington failed to respond promptly to the Wall’s construction. Yet, I fear most readers will share my assessment that Berlin was not the ‘defeat’ Kempe presents it as. 

This is because, in crude geopolitical terms, the Wall merely codified the pre-existing balance of power. Kennedy realised this, and indicated to Khrushchev that he was free to do as he wished on his ‘side’ so long as he afforded Washington the same leeway in theirs. To my mind, this implicit acceptance of the status quo was a useful and rather astute compromise (if tragic for the people of Berlin). To Kempe, however, and to a certain American sensibility, such an approach runs contrary to cherished beliefs and values. After all, wasn’t it America’s aim to roll back communism? To stand up for liberty and stem the red tide? 

Accordingly it is the hawks, such as Dean Acheson (outside party with the President’s ear) and General Clay (hero of the earlier airlift) that emerge with the most credit, as Kempe attempts to revise the narrative of 1961. 

One aspect, however, that escapes attention is how the Western intelligence agencies missed Ulbricht stockpiling the materials required for construction. Kempe mentions in passing how the East Germans  concealed the arrival of vast amounts of barbed wire, but chooses not to investigate how exactly the build up passed undetected. This is all the more surprising because it is reasonable to presume a link between Ulbricht catching the West off guard and the feeble American response.

For the sake of balance, I should add that Kempe’s book is neither overtly partisan nor infuriatingly biased. In general, his observations are astute and his criticisms of the President fair. My main gripe then, is with his overarching thesis which becomes explicit only at the end. Not only does he chastise Kennedy unfairly, but he draws an erroneous link between Berlin 1961 and the Cuban missile crisis of a year later. 

Put simply, to argue that Kennedy’s handling of the German question encouraged Moscow to ship warheads to Havana, is to conflate two separate events, and to engage in reductionist history. Or to put it another way, there is no evidence to suggest that a tougher stance over Berlin would have dissuaded Khrushchev from sending missiles to Cuba twelve months later.

Indeed, I couldn’t help thinking that Kempe at times mistakes pragmatism for weakness. Sure, Kennedy might have adopted a tougher line; he may have challenged Khrushchev more readily, and taken it upon himself to dictate the tempo of events. But such manoeuvres were fraught with risk. Kennedy was feeling his way into international affairs; and as such it paid to be cautious.

Historiographically, Kempe’s revisionist account forms part of a wider trend which has seen scholars challenge the perceived wisdom of the Kennedy administration. This year, for instance, in the latest volume of his biography of Lyndon Johnson, Robert Caro painted a none too flattering portrait of the Kennedy Whitehouse. He wasn’t nearly as scathing as Kempe, but his overall impression was far from entirely favourable. 

In terms of Cold War history, ‘Berlin 1961’ offers a snapshot of one particularly tense moment that had the potential to explode into something more. In this sense expect several similar works to be published in the near future as historians and writers move away from the over-arching narrative and towards smaller incidents which, at any given moment, could have precipitated another global conflict. 

There are, however, two potential dangers with such histories. First, there is the temptation to sensationalise the event. Kempe, for example, often deploys short- suspense laden- sentences which attempt to ratchet up the drama; to put the very future of mankind on a knife-edge. This is not always necessary, and the reader should remember that in a Cold War context, any incident, anywhere, at anytime can be described as potentially monumental. 

Second, the collapse of the Soviet Union often colours a scholar’s account of the entire period. In other words, it’s all too tempting to look back and ask: could it have been different? To Kempe’s credit he does recognises this weakness in his intellectual position, and argues that just because America ‘won’ the Cold War, this doesn’t mean all American President’s got it right. Yet, while true, just because the Soviet Union collapsed, this doesn’t mean Moscow was always susceptible to the kind of pressure it came under during the late 1980s. 

In sum, this is a fine book, a fine, well researched, excellently paced and engagingly written book, which ultimately draws some pretty debatable and rather fiery conclusions.

Book Review- The Anatomy of a Moment- Javier Cercas

The moment in question occurred during 23 February 1981. Just as parliament was holding the investiture vote for the incoming Prime Minister, Lieutenant Colonel Tejero --accompanied by a band of rebellious civil guards -- burst into the chamber and unleashed a coup designed to check Spain’s advance towards democracy.

Caught live on camera (you can see it here), the attempted coup began in dramatic fashion. After making his presence known, Tejero ordered the deputies to ‘Get down on the floor’. However, the Deputy Prime Minister, General Manuel Gutierrez Mellado, refused to obey the command. Soon he is confronted by some of the guards, and then, almost instantaneously, the dynamic changes completely when others fire their weapons. Terrified, all the deputies fall to the floor, all that is except for three men: the Prime Minister Adolfo Suarez, the Deputy Prime Minister, and Santiago Carrillo, the leader of the newly legalised communist party.

It is this moment that Cercas explores in detail. Part microhistory, part investigation into post-Franco Spain, The Anatomy of a Moment is an utterly absorbing tale which eludes categorisation.

Undoubtedly this has something to do with Cercas’ background. A novelist by trade, here Cercas has written (largely) a non-fiction book. This means that The Anatomy of a Moment has a different feel from most other works of history.

Most obviously, it reads differently. Yet, it’s not just the sentence structure that is unfamiliar. Normally in non-fiction writing, participants are ‘actors’; agents, who instigate, shape, or take part in an event. In The Anatomy of a Moment, however, we are presented with a series of characters; rounded individuals who come to embody a certain element of Spanish society.

This means that Cercas spends less time discussing deeds, and more time probing the psyches of those involved. At once, these characters represent themselves, their communities, and the particular notion of ‘Spain’ that they and their communities wish to realise.

This also means that not all of Cercas’ analysis is factual, and that it can be unconvincing at times. For instance, take this passage recounting a mid-coup conversation between General Armada (the political leader of the coup, who longs to be Prime Minister), and General Milans (the military leader of the coup, who wants to dismantle the democracy Suarez has fostered):

‘So Armada accepts Milans’ proposition [his suggestion was for Armada to go to the Parliament to negotiate the release of the deputies, and to form a unity government that would end the crisis], but, in order not to reveal his complicity with the rebel general before the generals who surround him at Army General Headquarters...publically he rejects it at first: as if the ambition to be Prime Minister has never entered his mind and he’d never spoken of it with Milans, he displays surprise at the idea and rejects it nosily, gesticulating, posing almost insuperable objections and scruples, then, slowly, sinuously, he pretends to give in to Milans’ pressure, he pretends to find himself convinced by his arguments, he pretends to understand that there is no other acceptable way out for Milans...and finally he ends up declaring himself ready to make this sacrifice for the King and for Spain demanded of him at this momentous hour for the nation.’

My problem here is that Armada’s actions are explained as if he were a character from a novel (indeed this passage reads as if it were from a novel), and that rather than focusing on the words he uttered (note the conversation is not quoted), Cercas attempts to deconstruct Armada’s thought process.

While this approach is not invalid, it produces a certain type of historical account, one which looks for answers not in documents, but in people. This means that Cercas ends up toeing the line between fiction and non-fiction, as often he probes motives, and dissects characters, instead of reconstructing events, or explaining actions.

This is not to say that The Anatomy of a Moment of inaccurate, or ‘bad’ history. I thoroughly enjoyed the book, and found it poignant at times. But, in a bid to flesh out those characters he presents us with, Cercas frequently engages in conjecture.

One final point, as the above passage demonstrates, the book is littered with colons and semi-colons. Add this to the fact that the translator, Anne McLean, has remained extremely faithful to the original text, and it’s worth pointing out that occasionally passages can prove heavy going.

But ultimately, any effort on the reader’s part is worth it. The Anatomy of a Moment is an important and engaging book that details how democratic Spain’s gravest crisis was also its greatest triumph.

Book Review: ‘Obama’s Wars’ by Bob Woodward

In December 2009, President Obama announced that he was sending 30 000 additional troops to Afghanistan. In ‘Obama’s Wars’, Bob Woodward explains how this decision was made.

Carrying on from his volumes on the Bush administration, Woodward knits together the recollections of various officials and seeks to guide the reader through the corridors of power.

As always, Woodward pays close attention to detail, and seemingly delights in cramming in as much information as possible. The only problem, however, is that often this information is reported, not ordered or sorted coherently; which makes it difficult for the reader to differentiate between what is crucial and what is not.

Woodward, furthermore, as is his prerogative, has based his account chiefly on several, confidential meetings with administration officials. This means that the reader is asked to put his/her faith not just in Woodward, but in the memories of those he consulted. As any good researcher will attest, memories are fragile and often rather unreliable sources, and yet Woodward describes conversations with such authority that occasionally I had to remind myself that he was not in the room.

Changing tact, there are significant technical flaws with Woodward’s writing. Particularly grating is his habit of drifting towards bad fiction. To illustrate my point consider this passage:

“While Holbrooke and Haqqani lunched, about ten miles across the Potomac River a tall, academic 56-year-old [Bruce Riedel] sat reading in his Alexandria, Virginia, town house. Sprawled in his lap was his King Charles spaniel, Nelson, named after the celebrated British admiral.”

Such sentences pepper Woodward’s pages. They are unnecessary, they add nothing, and they invite mockery.

Indeed, several reviewers have gladly accepted the invitation. In an unkind review published in the Wall Street Journal, Max Boot, dismisses ‘Obama’s Wars’ as a piece of ‘insiderdom’. Adding snottily, ‘[that] what Mr. Woodward does is fill in details of who said what at which meeting’.

This led to the following thought: are journalists who lack Woodward’s access; academics without his contact book, jealous of his writing, and envious of his status? After all, Woodward (I presume) profits handsomely from these books, and no one, not even Woodward himself would argue that he possesses any great literary flair.

If I am right, then envy explains why so many of Woodward’s critics are consistently wide of the mark. For instance, Boot complains that Woodward is too removed from the war; that he only visited Afghanistan once and that when there he spent his time ensconced at Camp Leatherneck.

But this, I’m afraid, is to misunderstand the purpose of ‘Obama’s Wars’. Woodward sets out to document not the progress of the war, nor the conditions on the ground, but the decision making process behind the announcement of 30 000 additional troops.

This is a crucial distinction. In effect the book describes how a policy came into being. Thus, the ‘wars’ in question are not those of Afghanistan and Iraq, but those of Afghanistan and Washington; or more specifically, those between NATO and the Taliban, and between the Whitehouse and the Pentagon.

Once this is grasped, many of Boot’s criticisms—and those of Richard Adams in the Guardian—melt away. Readers may tire of the stream of briefings, and the long, indistinguishable discussion sessions, but it is outrageous to suggest that for the sake of parsimony Woodward should have omitted them.

Indeed, I found the drawn-out deliberations instructive; they conveyed the difficulty of the situation, and the gap between the army (which advocated a counter-insurgency mission, and the associated 40 000 troops), and elements of the political class (such as Vice President Biden, who fought for a targeted counter-terrorism approach involving fewer front-line personnel).

Most importantly, the decision making process—protracted as it was—revealed much about the man who occupies the Oval Office. President Obama, for much of the book, lurks in the shadows, contemplating, assessing the available options. This image of the cool pragmatist has surfaced before, and it flatters. Unlike the scheming military advisors, the verbose Vice President, the hyperactive Whitehouse staff, and the fixated Generals, Obama comes across as poised, deliberate, and, when required, decisive.

A few concluding comments:

• As a Briton, I was surprised and disappointed by how little thought was given to the views of the various ISAF commanders from outwith of the United States. Obviously, the deployment was a domestic decision, but it does appear as if very little time was spent discussing how Washington’s coalition partners would respond.
• I was amazed by the difficulty officials had in defining the mission’s goals. The debate regarding whether the US should pledge to ‘defeat’ or to ‘degrade’ the Taliban makes for remarkable reading.
• I found the Army’s obstinacy to be both predictable and depressing. The Pentagon appeared to take little interest in budgetary matters, and Woodward at least suggests that several figures attempted to back the President into a corner so that he would end up endorsing the preferred policy of the Generals.

In summary, ‘Obama’s Wars’ contains no major revelations, and few pieces of juicy gossip. While this is frustrating for the reader, it reflects kindly on the professionalism of the administration. Speaking of which, Obama comes across as a rational, pragmatic Commander and Chief, and his decision making process is deliberately described as Kennedyesque.  

Stepping back, Woodward can be criticised stylistically, and some will no doubt be disappointed by number of meetings he forces the reader to sit through. Yet, I found this focus instructive (if not riveting). Woodward’s strength is his forensic reporting, and while the Afghan ‘surge’ might not go down as the most important decision of the Obama presidency, this is not Woodward’s concern, and nor should it be.

What can be said, however, is that the debate regarding Afghanistan probably didn’t contain enough drama to sustain a book of over 400 pages. Nevertheless, Woodward illuminates an important and underappreciated aspect of Government, of interest to those both inside and outside of the Beltway.  

Niall Ferguson: Good Historian, Poor Journalist

Recently, two prominent public intellectuals have had their credentials questioned. First, Fareed Zakaria, journalist, scholar, and television presenter, was accused of plagiarism, and then the historian, commentator, and documentary maker Niall Ferguson, had his controversial Newsweek cover-story ‘Hit the Road Barack’ thoroughly dissected by the blogosphere.

You can read more about the specifics here, here, here, here and here.

Now a lot of very intelligent people have already had their say, and I don’t wish to cover old ground. So rather than focus on what punishment — if any — either man should face, (for the record, plagiarism is about as serious as it gets (in academic discourse that is), so I judge Zakaria’s misdemeanour (or more accurately that of one of his flunkies) to be of greater significance than Ferguson’s) I want to discuss the comment they have provoked, with particular reference to Ferguson.

This is because as an ex-history student, I am very familiar with his work; and while I’ve always found Ferguson’s books entertaining (and, may I add, thoroughly researched), his political commentary has always left me underwhelmed.

This leads me to my key point: Ferguson’s history should be separated from his journalism. Unfortunately, too many of the pundits who have written about this issue have conflated the two, and come to the erroneous conclusion that Ferguson’s sloppy journalism somehow reflects poorly upon, or lessens, his academic work.

This could not be further from the truth. While anyone who has recently set foot in a history faculty will know that Ferguson has the dubious honour of being the butt of many a Professor’s joke, his credentials as a historian are above reproach. Sure, he can be controversial, and yes, he has used his academic status to carve out a very successful (never mind lucrative) media/public speaking career, but, as far as I am concerned, he should be criticised for neither.

So there is jealousy at play. Ferguson’s status as a celebrity-historian means that he has somewhat transcended the subject, even though he is (arguably) no more talented than many of his less well known (and poorer) peers.

But sour grapes aside, what was noticeable was the relish with which many went about dissecting his piece. I read a lot of news articles, and have come across some truly terrible op-eds, but rarely can I remember a Newsweek cover story being pored over with the same amount of intensity (and glee).

This leads me to suppose that Ferguson is being held to a higher standard than most; that his journalism is effectively being peer-reviewed. Partly, he is to blame for this: Ferguson trades off his Harvard Professorship, and gains authority from it. That said, he should not be subjected to any special treatment, just because he happens to hold a Ph.D. 

Thus, a clear line should be drawn between Ferguson’s history and his journalism. Or to put it in simpler terms: Niall Ferguson is a good historian, but a poor journalist.

In itself this is not surprising. To offer a decent comparison, Andrew Marr—one of the leading British political journalists of his generation—has also written several history books. Although decent reads, they are not scholarly works (and I don’t think he would argue differently). Therefore, Marr is a good journalist, but a poor historian.

Few, maybe A.J.P. Taylor alone, have managed to pull off both, so neither Ferguson not Marr should feel bad. And yet, it is important that this clarification is made. Although ostensibly similar, history and journalism are not interchangeable disciplines; they require different skill sets and mentalities.

Ferguson, in particular, suffers from his naked and peculiarly strident partisanship (given his place of birth). However, while I might not agree with his politics, I believe he right to suspect that he is being treated unfairly.

Therefore, it is not Harvard that should act, but Newsweek. It is not his academic credentials which should be questioned, but his abilities as a journalist.