enter this war, but that the Chinese certainly will.”
It was a question as well as a statement.
“If Major McCoy said anything like that—and I don’t doubt that he did—it was unofficial, out of channels, and if the rank difference were not so great, I’d say between friends. That was not the CIA speaking.”
“General Almond took pains to make sure I understood that,” MacArthur said. “McCoy, he said, admitted that he had absolutely nothing concrete on which to base this conclusion. But your man McCoy obviously impressed Ned to the point where Ned thought he should pass it on to me. And I would be grateful to learn what you think.”
“General,” Pickering said, “unofficially, out of channels, and between friends—if I may so presume—and absolutely not as a statement, or even an opinion, of the CIA, I’d bet on McCoy.”
“My sources, General Pickering,” Willoughby said coldly, “have turned up nothing that suggests that either the Chinese or the Soviets are coming in.”
“Which I find disappointing,” MacArthur said. He stopped when he saw the look on Willoughby’s face. “Because, Willoughby,” he went on, “if they crossed the border into northern Korea, I would have the opportunity to bloody the Chinese nose, something which could be rather easily accomplished with our available airpower, and without the political ramifications incident to our crossing the border into China.”
MacArthur paused, then went on: “I was disappointed in the conclusions you have drawn from your intelligence, Willoughby, not with the intelligence.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
“Do you follow my reasoning, Fleming?” MacArthur asked.
“I’m not sure, sir.”
“We’re talking about face,” MacArthur explained. “The importance of which never seems to be understood in Washington. Let me try to explain: My basic reasoning in not wanting to cross the Chinese border for any purpose, in any strength, for any distance—and, Fleming, I am fully aware there are many Washingtonians who sincerely believe I am frothing at the mouth for any excuse to cross the border—is face.
“A platoon of American soldiers in Manchuria would cause the Chinese to lose face. They would be forced to regain face, not only by expelling the American force, but by retaliating. They would feel wholly justified to send a company—or even a battalion—across the border to regain face. What would happen next I can only conjecture, but I know as certainly as I do that the sun will rise in the morning that the only circumstances under which a war with China should be fought is when the objective is total victory, the total destruction of the Chinese Communist infrastructure of government. I doubt if that could be accomplished without the use of nuclear weapons. And I certainly am not advocating such a move or, indeed, any military action which, even by accident, sees even the aforementioned platoon of infantry cross the border.”
Pickering thought: He wants to give me—and probably Banning, and maybe even Charley Willoughby—this little lecture, of course, but I think he hopes—maybe expects— that I will immediately report it to Truman. Which, of course, I will. Am I thereby being manipulated? Or just doing my job?
“However,” MacArthur went on, “the reverse is not true. If the Chinese were to be so misguided as to send a military force—even a substantial one, say a hundred thousand men, even two hundred thousand—across the border, and we annihilated most of it—as we are completely prepared to do—and sent the rest fleeing in chaotic retreat back across the border, while they would lose some face, they wouldn’t lose much. The Chinese capacity for self-delusion is limitless. They would immediately say the force they sent was inconsequential, and that they withdrew of their own choosing. And, since face does not govern my military actions, we would not retaliate—for the reasons I have just given—and the incident would end there. To our advantage. We would have reduced a substantial military force to ineffectiveness, and bloodied their nose, imparting the lesson that the United States of America cannot be pushed around with impunity.”
Pickering thought: He believes that, and he’s just about got me convinced, too. I wonder what Beetle Smith would think, if he were here?
“For those reasons, Fleming,” MacArthur went on, “unofficially, out of channels, and between friends—if I may so presume—and absolutely not as a statement, or even an opinion, of the UNC Supreme Commander . . .”
He paused, waiting for appreciation of his wit, got it in the form of smiles and chuckles, and then went on: “. . . I really hope that General Willoughby is