Thunder from a Distant Hill
THE WAR
(See Cover)
Crawling out of his sandbagged bunker, the helmeted Marine blinks in the afternoon light, cocks his head for a moment, listening intently, and then starts jogtrotting down the hill. With frayed trousers flapping and a cumbersome flak jacket jiggling against his bare chest, he makes his way through the debris of cartridge boxes and C-ration cans. Deep, viscous red mud sucks at his boots and oozes up to his knees as he struggles down the slope. Suddenly, from high above, comes a familiar, chilling whine. "Incoming!" someone yells, and the leatherneck flattens himself in the mud. The artillery shell bursts 50 yards from him, gouging out a small crater through the slime. A breeze wafts away the cloud of smoke and detritus, the rifleman listens for a moment and then stands up. "Man!" he exclaims, scraping mud from his caked body. "This just must be the worst place in the world."
It is Con Thien, South Viet Nam, in the autumn of 1967.
In Vietnamese, the name means approximately "place of angels." To the 1,200 U.S. Marines guarding it and to Americans watching their ordeal, Con Thien has come to mean something more akin to hell. Since Sept. 1, the outpost, less than two miles from the southern edge of the six-mile-wide Demilitarized Zone that separates the two Viet Nams, has been under relentless bombardment from Communist guns. In one barrage last week, the Communists sent 903 artillery, mortar, rocket and recoilless-rifle shells whistling into the perimeter around Con Thien's three barren, red clay hills--probably the greatest single Red bombardment of the war. In August, the leathernecks took 388 casualties along the northern defense line that stretches from the South China Sea to Khe Sanh in the mountainous borderlands near Laos; in September, more than 2,200 Marines were killed and wounded.
Dangerous Detonations. In the U.S., 10,000 miles away, Con Thien dramatized all the cumulative frustrations of the painful war. A long-rising surge of doubt about Viet Nam was intensified for Americans as the bloody, muddy ordeal of Con Thien flickered across the TV screen. With total U.S. casualties nearing 100,000 since 1961, with the war's cost running at $24 billion a year and with rumors circulating on Capitol Hill that Lyndon Johnson may need $4 billion more before the end of 1967, there was a measurable increase in American unease and impatience.
Most pressing reasons for disquiet:
> Rightly or wrongly, most Americans believe that the bombing of the North, which has drawn pungent worldwide criticism, has fallen far short of its objectives, whether to crimp the Communist war effort or to bring Hanoi to the negotiating table.
> The Administration's preoccupation with the war has seriously distracted its attention from crucial domestic issues, chilled relations with many of its allies, and diminished the prospects for any realistic rapprochement with Russia.
> While the war is hardly beyond the means of the world's wealthiest nation, many Americans are beginning to begrudge such vast expenditures as disproportionate to the results.
> Though geographically remote and relatively small, the Viet Nam conflict has divided and disconcerted the nation more than any other single issue since the pre-Pearl Harbor debate over U.S. participation in World War II.
Until recently, most of the opposition has come from intellectuals and the young, from college professors and clerics. But now the ranks have been swelled by apolitical businessmen and uneasy politicians eying the antiwar sentiment in the polls, thinking about 1968. Congress is in a rebellious mood, and the insurrection is fast spreading from Democratic ranks, where opposition to the war was previously centered, to the Republican side of the aisle. "The war is behind all of our problems," says a member of the House. "It's a millstone around our necks."
Just about everybody blamed his hang-ups on the war--from civil rights leaders, who saw it siphoning funds from the blighted cities, to profit-minded merchants, who saw it increasing pressure for a tax increase. All at once, too many Americans found it too much to bear--or at least began to wonder whether it was worth it. Senate Minority Leader Everett M. Dirksen worried: "There's fatigue in the country."
Cork in the Bottle. By no coincidence, it was fatigue in France in the wake of Dienbienphu that finally propelled French arms out of Indo-China 13 years ago. Would Con Thien induce the same mood in the American public? "The enemy is fighting for American public opinion," says U.S. Commander General William C. Westmoreland, "and he is willing to pay a dear price to influence it. This is the way he expects to win the war--it is the only conceivable way he could win it."
But Con Thien, plainly, is not Dienbienphu. The French garrison was 76 min. by air from its supply sources, isolated in a narrow valley over 200 miles from the French stronghold at Hanoi. The French were hemmed in and, after the 56-day Viet Minh siege began, had to be resupplied by parachute drops through dense antiaircraft fire. Con Thien can be resupplied within six minutes by helicopter from Dong Ha, ten miles to the southeast, or by land from Cam Lo, seven miles to the south, when the road is not washed out. The French conceived of Dienbienphu as "the cork in the bottle," designed to stop Viet Minh movements into the fertile Red River delta and Laos. But the garrison was ringed by hills that General Vo Nguyen Giap's artillerymen, who outgunned the French 5 to 1, used to murderous advantage.
Con Thien, by contrast, rising nearly 500 feet above sea level, is the most commanding point all the way to the DMZ. It is supported not only by Marine and Army artillery but also by B-52 Stratofortresses, each packing 60,000 lbs. of bombs, U.S. warships bristling with 5-and 8-in. guns, and clouds of fighter planes. Westmoreland described the bombardment of suspected Red gun positions as the heaviest concentration of firepower "on any single piece of real estate in the history of warfare."
Dienbienphu was a last, desperate gamble to win a decisive victory after seven years of war. If Con Thien was set up somewhat by chance, it nevertheless has a clear-cut tactical purpose. Sitting astride invasion routes from the North, the 1,200-man garrison is there to prevent, or at least slow down, a southward surge by the estimated 35,000 North Vietnamese regulars positioned in and around the DMZ. Poised to meet this threat are eight South Vietnamese airborne and eight Marine battalions strung along the DMZ; in all of I Corps, the five northernmost provinces of South Viet Nam, a total of 79,000 U.S. Marines stand ready.
Death Valley. Despite the advantages they enjoy over Dienbienphu's doomed defenders, the Marines involved in the Con Thien Sitzkrieg are in something less than an enviable position. The 100 or so Communist guns that are trained on them with lethal accuracy are difficult to spot and almost impossible to wipe out except by direct hits. With ranges of up to 18 miles and guns as big as 152-mm. "bunker crackers," enemy ordnance plasters the Marine outposts almost at will. By firing only a few rounds and then quickly moving their artillery pieces or hiding them--in bunkers scooped out behind thick jungle foliage, in caves or under houses--the Communists have been largely successful in preventing U.S. forward observers from spotting their positions.
The artillery bombardments have left the three red hills of Con Thien a crater-pocked moonscape. Monsoon rains, a month ahead of their normal mid-October arrival, have churned the outpost into a quagmire reminiscent of Ypres in World War I. Everything must be brought into the outpost by helicopter to a landing zone grimly known as "Death Valley," or over the unpaved road from Cam Lo. Everything rots or mildews. The Marines at Con Thien live on C rations. Because water is scarce, they shave only every other day and can seldom wash.
They live in crude, sandbagged underground bunkers where often the only light comes from an improvised candle with a rag as a wick. There are no connecting trenches; the leathernecks, some of them raw teenagers, must move at a run from bunker to bunker. Where once a crude French fortress stood, not a single building or even a tent breaks the bleak horizon. Often the only signs of life are a horde of bold rats and a few cats. "The men think they keep the rats down," grumbled one officer. "I suspect they share the garbage."
Leatherneck Square. The Communists fire their artillery at Con Thien on a random schedule to keep the Marines guessing when the next bombardment or the lone round of explosives will crunch into the camp. "Those single rounds are the most dangerous," says a young Marine. "But the barrages wear you down. You just lie there shaking and saying 'Please, Christ, just get me out of this one.' "
The only relatively safe spot at Con Thien is the aid station presided over by Navy Lieut. Donald Shortridge, 26, of Indianapolis. Dug deep into the muck and reinforced by heavy wooden beams and a mountain of sandbags, his spartan shelter is strictly for keeping the wounded alive until they can be evacuated to hospitals in the rear. Shortridge uses a stretcher balanced between two sawhorses as his emergency operating table; hissing Coleman lanterns furnish the light, and an armored amtrack stands outside to accommodate extra patients. Most of the wounded suffer from arm and leg injuries. "That 20-lb. flak vest is worth five times its weight in gold," says Shortridge. "It must have saved a hundred lives."
At night the Communist artillery eases up, and the 5,000 North Vietnamese troops surrounding the Con Thien area become active. They probe the outpost's defenses, shove bamboo bangalore torpedoes under the barbed wire to breach the perimeter, and unleash mortar and recoilless-rifle attacks. In one 18-day stretch, the Communists launched four harassing ground attacks against Con Thien.
As the northwest corner of Leatherneck Square, Con Thien is well covered by U.S. guns. Approximately seven miles south of it lies Cam Lo at the southwest corner of the square. About the same distance east lies Gio Linh, at the northeast corner, with Dong Ha to its south. All four outposts, in addition to others farther south, notably Camp Carroll, can provide artillery support for one another or reinforcements if necessary.
"I can't envision," says a high-ranking Marine officer, "Con Thien's being overrun. It is a symbol in people's minds, but what we're talking about is the entire defense of the northern area. We are facing a major invasion. It's either fight it off or give up."
Barrier Post. Con Thien is also important because it is likely to be one of the posts along the barrier that Defense Secretary Robert McNamara said would be constructed south of the DMZ. Already it is the western terminus of a 600-yd.-wide swath that was bulldozed for eleven miles through the scrub brush and elephant grass earlier in the year to serve as a free-fire zone in which anything that moves is shot at. Though details of the new barrier remain secret, it is assumed that it will be an extension of the present line over to the Laotian border. Thus it probably will be necessary for the Marines to hold Con Thien until combat engineers complete the barrier and electronic devices, mines and barbed wire take over the surveillance role.
Crumbled Foxholes. Savage as it is, the potency of Communist firepower in the DMZ has been exaggerated--partly because casualties from artillery and every other cause have been lumped together by the military and reported as though they were all inflicted by the big guns. Of 158 Marines killed around Con Thien during the first 24 days of September, 44 died in artillery, rocket and mortar attacks, the rest in firefights with North Vietnamese infiltrators. One captured Communist reported that Red casualties were so heavy in the DMZ area that aid stations were overflowing.
When the northeast monsoon begins pelting Con Thien with 20 to 25 inches of rain a month, the Marines and the enemy will both have trouble preventing their sodden fortifications from crumbling. Within three days last month, 18 inches of rain poured down on Con Thien, caving in foxholes. Continuing rains and Communist pressure last week closed the resupply route from Cam Lo--at a time when most of the CH-46 choppers used to airlift material were grounded for defective tail assemblies. The low monsoon clouds will hinder U.S. air strikes, but the rain will also cause problems for the Communists. "We'll have a better opportunity to catch the enemy on higher ground, where he has to bring his weapons and be careful where he stores his ammo," says a Marine officer. "He'll have difficulty maintaining well-camouflaged and underground positions in the DMZ."
U.S. officers believe that the difficulty of supplying tons of munitions for their great guns has already limited the Communist artillery buildup. "Were it not for our air strikes on the lines of communication in North Viet Nam," says Westmoreland, "the number of artillery pieces north of Con Thien would be several-fold and the number of rounds fired would be tenfold."
Shock Value. Thus the Marines feel that they have already stood and taken practically the hardest punch that North Viet Nam can throw at them until the monsoon ends next April. All the same, military men express considerable doubt about the concept of static defense embodied in Con Thien. Some would prefer to see the Marines make more forays to spike any Communist guns below the North Viet Nam border--as the Israelis did with the Syrian artillery atop the Golan Heights. U.S. military doctrine holds that a force assumes a defensive position only when it is not strong enough to take the offensive, wants to use its main strength for an assault elsewhere, or is stalling for time. None of these arguments seems to apply to Con Thien. Still, a civilian specialist notes that the "setpiece assault" is causing the North "a tremendous effort, tying up a tremendous amount of manpower and transport at terrible cost." Why, then, do the Communists concentrate on Con Thien?
Their objective is political, says the specialist. It is to inflict "the maximum number of American casualties within the shortest time period. They are banking on the shock value to merge with uninformed opinion in the U.S. to put pressure on the Johnson Administration to get out of Viet Nam." In purely military terms, of course, Hanoi's objective is to pin down the greatest possible number of American troops in the defensive position most favorable to the North Vietnamese, thus markedly reducing U.S. pressure on the Communist forces operating in the rest of I Corps.
Out of the Shell. As yet, most Americans are not persuaded that the U.S. should simply write off this vast investment in Viet Nam. Many other Western nations are convinced that there is no other course. At the United Nations, Denmark, Sweden, Indonesia and, naturally, Charles de Gaulle's France called on Washington to unconditionally end its bombing of the North. Explicitly or implicitly, their ambassadors condemned the war in toto.
Secretary-General U Thant made no secret of his feeling that the U.S. was being unreasonable. To which Secretary of State Dean Rusk--as near to exasperation as he ever gets--retorted: "If we were to say that we would negotiate only if all of the violence in South Viet Nam were stopped while we continue to bomb the North, most people would say that we were crazy. When the other side makes exactly the same proposition in reverse, it is hard for me to understand why there are people who say, That sounds like a good proposition. Why don't you accept it?''
Rusk won some sympathy for his plight from Japan's Premier Eisaku Sato. During an Asian tour designed to bring his country a little farther out of the diplomatic tortoise shell into which it retreated after World War II, Sato declared: "If there is any suspension of the bombing, there should be a firm assurance that this would lead to an eventual settlement." In this, he echoed the privately held, if rarely voiced view held by practically every Asian leader.
"Tougher than I Am." Washington officials are convinced that Ho Chi Minh wants no negotiations with the U.S. until after the 1968 elections, hoping that with a change in administrations he might achieve victory. Johnson has warned that "my successor will be a lot tougher than I am" in prosecuting the war--but growing segments of the U.S. public seem to be disinclined to believe that.
In California, Don Muchmore's State Poll showed that voters there "want an end to the war in Viet Nam and no longer have confidence in the Johnson Administration's policies." Of those questioned, 59% opposed his Viet Nam policies outright and 58% called on the U.S. to enter into negotiations unconditionally. The national board of the 55,000-member Americans for Democratic Action promised its support next year to "whoever gives the best prospect for a settlement of the Viet Nam conflict"--and it was obvious that Johnson was not likely to be the choice.
Alternative Actions. Dump-Johnson movements were forming in scores of cities, aiming at blocking his renomination or at least embarrassing him with strong anti-L.B.J. showings in the primaries. In California, the names of such entertainers as Actor Robert Vaughn (The Man from U.N.C.L.E.) and Comedian Dick Van Dyke appeared on the letterhead of the newly formed Dissenting Democrats. New York's fractious reform Democrats were seeking to run slates of anti-Johnson delegates in next June's primary. In Washington, the Conference of Concerned Democrats was preparing to challenge him. In Pittsburgh, supporters of New York's Senator Robert F. Kennedy from ten states adopted a statement urging the replacement of the present Administration with "an alternative which offers hope of bringing peace in Viet Nam."
There was even a freelance effort by California Clothier Harry Roth, who spent $7,800 on a New York Times ad urging Johnson not to seek renomination because "there is no possible way" for him to end the Viet Nam war.
Administration Democrats dismissed the proliferating anti-Johnson groups with bored shrugs. A White House staffer scoffed: "All it takes is two people with a mimeograph machine and the cooperation of the New York Times. It looks like a movement, but the moment you touch it, it dissolves into mist." Wyoming's Democratic Senator Gale McGee urged Johnson to put purely political considerations behind him and concentrate on winning the war. "The issue is so critical that if I were in a position to talk to the President," said McGee, "it would be with the suggestion that he be prepared to lose, if necessary, on Eastern Asia, rather than tack with the political winds."
Left-Footed Erratics. The winds from Capitol Hill were far from kindly. Of the Senate's 36 Republicans, at least ten, possibly 16, can be classified as doves. In the House, 52 Representatives urged a full-dress inquiry to determine "whether congressional action is desirable in respect to policies in Southeast Asia"; a year ago, no more than four or five were willing to speak out against the President's policies.
Two Republican Senators who have long been critics of Johnson's policy in Viet Nam renewed their attacks, but with a special sting to their words. Illinois Republican Charles Percy accused the President of having allowed U.S. soldiers to fight the war "while the South Vietnamese hold our coats" and declared that "a new face--any new face--can help bring about honorable negotiations" more easily than can Johnson. Noting with pleasure that the majority of war critics were "no longer just a handful of left-footed erratics," Oregon Republican Mark Hatfield complained that "misleading the American public" has been a "consistent policy of the Administration."
Two attacks, in particular, wounded the President. New Jersey Republican Clifford Case, among the mildest, most even-tempered of men, lit into Johnson for his "misuse" and "perversion" of the Tonkin Gulf resolution, accusing him of having acted in a "highly irresponsible manner" and of having "squandered his credibility."
On the heels of Case's attack came an outspoken rebuke by Kentucky's Republican Senator Thruston Morton. His forum was a convention of the Business Executives Move for Viet Nam Peace, a 950-member group that wants to end the bombing. Morton acknowledged that he once supported Johnson's Viet Nam policies, but declared: "I was wrong."
Getting Iffy. One Republican who did not waver in his support of the President's Viet Nam policy was Everett Dirksen. The scramble among his fellow Republicans to dissociate themselves from Johnson's war policy prompted him to shake his head. "They're all getting iffy. I don't know what the hell's wrong with them," he complained last week. "The fellows in uniform over there aren't going to appreciate it one damn."
For his part, Johnson spent more time than usual expounding his Administration's policies. In a ceremony during which he awarded the 19th Medal of Honor of the Viet Nam war, he replied to Morton's charges that he had been "brainwashed"--a usage that must have warmed George Romney--by the military-industrial complex into seeking a solely "military" solution to the impasse in Viet Nam. Said the President: "We have also had to face the hard reality that only military power can bar aggression and make a political solution possible."
Within the privacy of his White House office, the President assiduously searched for some common ground with his critics. One evening he played host to a dozen Democratic Senators, ten of whom face re-election next year. Among them were some of his harshest opponents on the war, but Johnson was eminently conciliatory, assuring them that he bore no grudges and wanted to do all he could to help them win reelection.
At another meeting, Johnson spent two hours with 15 Harvard professors, including Nobel-Prizewinning Physicist Edward Purcell, who wrote him in August with a list of questions about Viet Nam. The professors, representing the "troubled middle" of academe, neither urged Johnson to get out of Viet Nam nor to leap into an ill-timed bombing pause. But they did want to know whether some move toward de-escalation could be made. "We are groping for ways out of this war," the President said, but he added: "There is absolutely no sign that these fellows want to end the war."
"We Are Going to Stay." In a public move to stanch the nation's unrest, the President decided to turn an address to the National Legislative Conference in San Antonio into a major policy speech. His timing, uncharacteristically, was bad. Only NBC-TV aired him live. As a result, most Americans missed a hard-hitting speech, briskly delivered without any overtones of Johnson's weary-preacher style. Written in close consultation with National Security Adviser Walt W. Rostow, the address explained that the U.S. was in Viet Nam not only because "we cherish freedom and self-determination for all people," but also to look after "our own security." Said Johnson: "I am convinced that by seeing this struggle through now, in Viet Nam, we are reducing the chances of a larger war--perhaps a nuclear war."
The President reiterated his desire to negotiate, but in the softest terms yet. He made no demand for a prior, specific quid pro quo from Hanoi. "The United States is willing to stop all aerial and naval bombardment of North Viet Nam when this will lead promptly to productive discussion," he said. "We of course assume that while discussions proceed, North Viet Nam would not take advantage of the bombing cessation or limitation." For the first time, Johnson seemed to be wigwagging a readiness to stop the bombing and enter into talks without advance guarantees or gestures from Hanoi.
Whether the slight opening in Johnson's speech will be explored by Hanoi remains to be seen. However, a similar and only slightly less conciliatory phrase in Ambassador Arthur Goldberg's speech to the U.N. General Assembly two weeks ago was brusquely dismissed by Hanoi as "insolent and ridiculous."
Unfortunately, the President's critics are scarcely more helpful when it comes to offering alternatives to his policies. Few go so far as Novelist Mary McCarthy, who insists that it is the duty of the antiwar intellectuals not to suggest ways to get out of Viet Nam gracefully--just to keep pounding away at Johnson to get out, period. "How this should be done," she wrote in her frankly biased account, Vietnam, "ought not to be the concern of those who oppose our presence there." A far different approach was adopted by Novelist John Updike, in a letter to the New York Times last week. "Anyone not a rigorous pacifist," he wrote, "must at least consider the argument that this war, evil as it is, is the lesser of available evils, intended to forestall worse wars."
Whatever the degree of evil, Lyndon Johnson would unquestionably like to end it--if only to ease the enormous pressure on his Administration. Four broad routes are, and always have been, open to him:
sbDISENGAGEMENT. The most extreme move would be a precipitous pullout, which few besides those on the extremist fringe see as a possible solution. A more gradual form of disengagement would be to concentrate U.S. forces in coastal enclaves, as proposed by retired Lieut. General James Gavin. In effect, the enclave solution would amount to a phased withdrawal, leaving most of South Viet Nam to the mercy of the Communists.
sbDE-ESCALATION. The most modest proposals call for a pause in the bombing of the North and reduction of U.S. "search-and-destroy" operations in the South. Cutting back search-and-destroy efforts would reduce the U.S. to a static defense posture little different from the enclave stance. These swift, surprise sweeps of Viet Cong territory have kept the guerrillas off-balance, deprived them of sanctuaries they have used for years, and prevented any large-scale attacks for three months.
sbESCALATION. The U.S. could increase its 525,000-man force to some 750,000--or even more, but only if the President is willing to call up the reserves and step up draft calls. Otherwise, the present force is likely to remain stable. To ease pressure on the Marines at the DMZ, the U.S. could stage an Inchon-style landing north of the 17th parallel, silence the guns that are raking Con Thien and Gio Linh, and pull out again. And, as the Joint Chiefs unanimously recommend, bombers could mine Haiphong harbor--a proposal that has consistently been rejected by Johnson, Mc-Namara and Dean Rusk. Were Haiphong choked off, argues Joint Chief Chairman General Earle Wheeler, most of the $1-billion-a-year flow of arms from Russia would dry up and the war would end in a "relatively" short time.
The danger that any intensification of the war could prompt Chinese intervention has receded with the turmoil brought on by Peking's Proletarian Cultural Revolution, but it has not disappeared. As for increasing the bombing, there is a hazard that it would stir hope in the U.S. that a little more bombing will end the war--and thus pave the way for a later letdown and demands for peace at any price.
sbCONTINUE THE PRESENT STRATEGY. Those who support a continuation of the Administration's course argue that its policies have just begun to pay off. When the U.S. went into Viet Nam in force 30 months ago, its object was to avert an imminent Viet Cong victory. Now, says Westmoreland, "the enemy is in the worst posture he has been in since the war started." Admittedly, pacification is lagging woefully, and the South's army, officered largely by opportunists or languid political appointees, is a major weakness. Nonetheless, the Communists have lost ten times more men than the U.S. since 1961, and have yet to win a major battle against the Americans. And the foundations for representative government have been laid in the South and beyond its borders.
The continuation of the bombing is an intrinsic part of this strategy. North Viet Nam this year is importing 2,050,000 metric tons of supplies--an increase of one-third over 1966--of which U.S. bombers prevent an estimated 30% from reaching the South. The air raids have disrupted highways, bridges, rail lines and infiltration routes, so that at least one out of eight men ordered South never makes it. Moreover, 500,000 civilians have been diverted to undo what the bombers have done. While Haiphong harbor is still a prohibited target, the bombing of adjacent bridges, warehouses and marshaling yards has reduced the port to chaos; last week the one intact bridge leading out of the city was cut, thereby isolating Haiphong until the repair crews get to work. The bombing has not completely choked off men and supplies, but the military never expected it to do so.
Mincing Machine. In the current political climate, it is questionable how long Johnson can maintain his more-of-the-same stance. Certainly, he has the resources to outlast Ho Chi Minh, whose industries and agriculture are under intense pressure from the bombing. Indeed, some officials wonder that Ho has not taken stock and simply called off the war. If he did, the U.S. might pull out so rapidly that the Communists could take over at their convenience--and it is highly doubtful that any U.S. Administration would ever send troops back to challenge them.
There is another side to that coin: while the credibility of U.S. power would be severely damaged by a hasty pullout, it is also bound to suffer in the long run if America's superiority proves to be incapable of destroying a largely guerrilla army. After all, as a German editor pointed out recently, the Wehrmacht went through Poland in six days. Yet, like the duel of the DMZ, the Viet Nam war has from the start been a grueling struggle of attrition--one that could go on for 15 years, according to a Pentagon-subsidized study.
However, as Singapore's Prime Minister Lee Kuan Yew pointed out last week, a poorly timed U.S. withdrawal would mean that "the mincing machine--terrorism, subversion, guerrilla insurrection"--would soon be at work throughout Asia. "I know enough about Southeast Asia," he said, "to know that the wrong kind of conclusion to the mess in Viet Nam can absolutely unscramble the whole lot of us."
To prevent this, Johnson needs some dramatic action to persuade a skeptical public of two things: the sincerity of his desire to end the war, and the necessity to continue it if peace eludes his reach. The bombing pause that he hinted at in his San Antonio speech could prove the answer. It would, however, entail military risks that should be understood. During this year's six-day pause for the Tet holiday, for example, the North Vietnamese stockpiled 25,000 tons of supplies north of the DMZ--and the Marines at Con Thien may still be suffering from Hanoi's New Year's resolve. If Johnson were to decide on a new bombing halt, it could embrace all of the North; but with Hanoi lobbing shells across the DMZ from positions above the 17th parallel, it would be more realistic to limit air strikes to the area south of Vinh near the 19th parallel. Most of the North's major population centers lie above that point and would thus be spared.
Hollywood Solution. Hanoi has repeatedly hinted that it would sit down and talk once the U.S. quit bombing the North. U.S. officials cannot help but wonder. Hanoi's tone is as belli cose as ever, and the North sounds almost as if it were believing its own propaganda that 100,000 U.S. troops have been killed (actual total: 13,000) and 2,300 planes downed (v. 800).
If the talks were begun in earnest, the U.S. would then confront the question of terms. Almost certainly, no settlement will be possible without U.S. acknowledgment that the Viet Cong's political arm, the National Liberation Front, must have a role in South Viet Nam's political life--after its members turn in their weapons. Some form of international inspection would be required to help prevent the ex-guerrillas from reverting to terrorist tactics in order to convert a coalition regime into an outright Communist government.
Any such solution entails obvious risks. So, for that matter, does an intensification of the war, or even its continuation along present lines. In any case, Johnson and his advisers regard withdrawal as unthinkable.
"Two things we must do," said the President at San Antonio. "Two things we shall do. First, we must not mislead our enemy. Let him not think that debate and dissent will produce wavering and withdrawal. For they won't. Let him not think that protests will produce surrender. Because they won't. Let him not think that he will wait us out. For he won't. Second, we will provide all that our brave men require to do the job that must be done--and that job's going to be done."
Precious Commodity. Probably the only thing that can prevent its getting done would be an overwhelming upsurge of war weariness within the U.S. McNamara carries in his pocket a recent editorial from the London Economist pointing out that the President is in danger of losing a precious commodity--"patient public support for the whole idea of a limited war." Agreed Maxwell Taylor: "This country is being tested as it never has been since the Civil War. We impatient Americans like the Hollywood solution where the good guy hits the bad guy, and it's all over. We want the quick and easy out. There is none now."
In fact, most informed Americans realize only too well that there are no instant, painless answers to the ordeal in Viet Nam, and that the options are growing fewer. The President's determination to stay the course promises a sorely trying year for the nation. Even Lyndon Johnson's well-hedged hint of another bombing pause should raise no undue hopes. Nor, if the halt is ordered, is there any guarantee that it will move Hanoi any nearer to the conference table than the six previous suspensions of the air war in the North. Nonetheless, conscience and practical politics alike dictate that the Administration devise and pursue every conceivable alternative to warfare within its power. Some day--who knows?--Hanoi may get the message.
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