An Unfinished Life: John F. Kennedy 1917-1963

  De Gaulle was an inherited problem. Although the French leader liked to quote Sophocles’ belief that “one must wait until the evening to see how splendid the day was,” de Gaulle understood that he had become a legend in his own lifetime—“a great captain of the Western World,” Kennedy called him. His leadership of the Free French in World War II and his restoration of French influence after 1945 had established him as one of the twentieth century’s greats, but his determination to reestablish France as a European and world power had also brought him into conflict with every president from FDR to JFK. At six-foot-three-and-a-half-inches, his physical stature complemented an imperiousness that had angered previous American presidents. Roosevelt had compared the temperamental de Gaulle to Joan of Arc and Clemenceau. He irritated Eisenhower no less. Indeed, in their January 19 meeting, Eisenhower had told Kennedy that de Gaulle’s attitude jeopardized the entire Western alliance.

  But Kennedy had genuine regard for de Gaulle. He admired his courage in supporting unpopular causes and shared his conviction that only through difficulty could a leader realize his potential and that “small men cannot handle great events.” Specifically, Kennedy agreed with de Gaulle’s conviction that the West had to resist compromises with the Soviets over Berlin; needed to back self-determination in Africa, especially in Algeria, where de Gaulle was finally accepting an end to French control; and should integrate European economies as a way to avoid resurgent German nationalism. These common beliefs encouraged Kennedy’s hopes for Franco-American cooperation.

  Yet Kennedy also knew that differences over nuclear weapons, NATO, and Southeast Asia put considerable strain on America’s relations with France. De Gaulle, who did not trust American commitments to defend Europe with nuclear weapons, wanted the United States to share nuclear secrets to help France build an independent deterrent. American proposals to provide “enough conventional strength in Europe to stay below the nuclear threshold” heightened de Gaulle’s suspicion that the U.S. would not fight a nuclear war to preserve Europe from Soviet communism. De Gaulle also objected to American control over NATO’s freedom to respond to a Soviet offensive. He was unwilling to commit France to a larger role in defending Southeast Asia against communist subversion. He dismissed Laos as a “peripheral area that can be abandoned with impunity” and warned about the difficulties of fighting in Vietnam.

  De Gaulle, Kennedy believed, “seemed to prefer tension instead of intimacy in his relations with the United States as a matter of pride and independence.” Harvard political scientist Nicholas Wahl, who had met de Gaulle several times, counseled the White House, “Even when there is a dialogue, one usually emerges with the impression that it has all been carefully ‘managed’ by de Gaulle from the beginning. . . . He often uses the third person to refer to himself, which is more his own historian speaking than the megalomaniac, the latter not being completely absent.” Still, Kennedy hoped that his discussions with de Gaulle would at least create the appearance of Franco-American unity. Such an appearance could serve him well in his subsequent discussions with Khrushchev and help reestablish some of his lost credibility at home and abroad after the Bay of Pigs. It was a shrewd assessment of what he could gain from the visit to France: The public ceremonies were much more helpful to Kennedy than the private discussions. In preparation for their meeting, Kennedy read de Gaulle’s war memoirs. De Gaulle’s recollection that “behind his patrician mask of courtesy Roosevelt regarded me without benevolence,” but that “for the sake of the future, we each had much to gain by getting along together” convinced Kennedy that de Gaulle would be publicly accommodating to him as well.

  The only topic for discussion de Gaulle had agreed to in advance was Berlin. Since he had no hope that Kennedy would agree to tripartite (the U.S., France, and the U.K.) consultations about Europe or to share nuclear secrets, de Gaulle wanted no discussion of these subjects. De Gaulle, who understood perfectly what Kennedy hoped to gain from seeing him, may have had some expectation that he could bend the inexperienced young president to his purposes, something he hadn’t been able to do with Eisenhower. But his willingness to help Kennedy make the most of his Paris visit partly rested on concrete self-interest. Aside from possible improvements in France’s world position, positive newspaper articles and huge crowds lining procession routes eager for a glimpse persuaded de Gaulle that he would gain politically from Kennedy’s visit. De Gaulle, who almost never greeted English-speaking visitors in anything but French, asked Kennedy on his arrival, “Have you made a good aerial voyage?” The trip from Orly Airport to the center of Paris in an open limousine, with the two seated side by side and escorted by fifty motorcycle policemen decked out in special uniforms, demonstrated de Gaulle’s regard for his visitor. At a formal dinner that night, de Gaulle praised Kennedy for his “energy and drive,” and his “intelligence and courage.” Although de Gaulle privately regarded Kennedy as “suffering the drawbacks of a novice,” he said before the dinner audience, “Already we have discerned in you the philosophy of the true statesman, who . . . looks to no easy formula or expedient to lighten the responsibility which is his burden and his honor.”

  Berlin, NATO, Laos, and Vietnam received their share of attention during three days of talks, but no minds were changed or major decisions made. Kennedy used the talks to flatter de Gaulle, showing him the sort of deference the seventy-year-old expected from the young, inexperienced American who had proved, in de Gaulle’s words, “somewhat fumbling and over eager” after the Bay of Pigs. Kennedy had memorized quotes from de Gaulle’s memoirs and gave him an original letter from Washington to Lafayette, which de Gaulle considered a thoughtful, tasteful gift. “You’ve studied being head of a country for fifty years,” JFK said to him. “Have you found out anything I should know?” De Gaulle advised him to hear the advice of others but to decide matters for himself and live by his own counsel. When de Gaulle told him that intervention in Southeast Asia would be “a bottomless military and political quagmire,” Kennedy expressed the hope that “you will not say that in public.” De Gaulle replied, “Of course not. I never speak to the press. Never.” Kennedy was indeed grateful that de Gaulle gave no public indication of their differences over Europe and Asia. He also listened respectfully to everything de Gaulle told him, though after their talks, Kennedy told an English friend that de Gaulle cared for nothing except the “selfish” interests of his country.

  So the conference was a case study in symbol over substance. Photographs and television pictures of the two standing together were by themselves a boost to Kennedy’s prestige. The legendary de Gaulle treating JFK as an equal immediately raised Kennedy to the level of a world statesman. His was an image of vibrancy, competence, and strength.

  The greatest enemy of this image was Kennedy’s health. During his visit to Canada, while turning over a spadeful of earth at a tree-planting ceremony at Government House in Ottawa, Kennedy had aggravated his chronic back problem; he had triggered painful spasms by forgetting to bend his knees, but this was an injury waiting to happen. The bone loss and destruction in his lower back from steroids had been the source of back pain since at least 1940. And while the 1954 surgery that his Addison’s disease had made so risky had given him some limited relief, he continued to live with almost constant discomfort. As president, he sometimes took five hot showers a day to ease his pain. A rocking chair, which put less pressure on the muscles and nerves in his lower back than a conventional chair or sofa with soft cushions, gave him additional relief. Procaine, a variation of novocaine, injected into his lower back since 1951, also eased his pain. (During periods of travel, when he had less access to the hydrotherapy and the rocking chair, he relied more on the procaine.) During the campaign in 1960, he had begun seeing Dr. Max Jacobson, the New York physician who had made a reputation for treating celebrities with “pep pills,” or amphetamines, that helped combat depression and fatigue. Jacobson, whom patients called “Dr. Feelgood,” administered back injections of painkillers and amphetamin
es that allowed Kennedy to stay off crutches, which he believed essential to project a picture of robust good health. All of this was kept secret. When he went to France to meet de Gaulle, his long-standing physician Dr. Janet Travell, and Dr. George C. Burkley, an admiral and member of the White House medical staff, accompanied JFK on Air Force One. Unknown to Travell and Burkley, Jacobson flew on a chartered jet to Paris, where he continued giving the president back injections.

  Biographers have speculated on whether Kennedy’s medical treatments, including daily cortisone for Addison’s and back injections, affected his performance as president. Previously secret medical records gathered by Janet Travell give us a more authoritative answer to the question. During the first six months of his presidency, stomach/colon and prostate problems, high fevers, occasional dehydration, abscesses, sleeplessness, and high cholesterol accompanied Kennedy’s back and adrenal ailments. Medical attention was a fixed part of his routine. His physicians administered large doses of so many drugs that they kept an ongoing “Medicine Administration Record” (MAR), cataloging injected and oral corticosteroids for his adrenal insufficiency; procaine shots to painful “trigger points,” ultrasound treatments, and hot packs for his back; Lomotil, Metamucil, paregoric, Phenobarbital, testosterone, and Transentine to control his diarrhea, abdominal discomfort, and weight loss; penicillin and other antibiotics for his urinary infections and abscesses; and Tuinal to help him sleep.

  Though the treatments occasionally made him feel groggy and tired, Kennedy did not see them as a problem. He dismissed questions about Jacobson’s treatment, saying famously about the injections, “I don’t care if it’s horse piss. It works.” When he felt especially tired a few days before a press conference, he wanted additional cortisone to help buoy him up. Moreover, Kennedy did not concern himself with having a single physician oversee his medical care. There was no one, historian Michael Beschloss pointed out, who “was in overall charge to anticipate or deal with the danger that an interaction of cortisone, procaine, amphetamines, or whatever else Jacobson had in his syringe could cause the President to behave in Vienna in a way that could have had dire consequences.” Presidential biographer Richard Reeves said that “doctors came and went around Kennedy. In a lifetime of medical torment, Kennedy was more promiscuous with physicians and drugs than he was with women.” Though Kennedy’s doctors would eventually address this issue, in June 1961, it was unresolved. But if the combination of drugs was having a destructive impact on Kennedy’s ability to function effectively, it did not manifest itself in Paris.

  The president was not the only White House resident treated by Dr. Feelgood. In May, after deciding to go to Europe, Kennedy had asked Dr. Jacobson to treat Jackie for the headaches and depression she was suffering after the birth of John F. Kennedy Jr. in November 1960. Kennedy wanted Jackie, who had met and impressed de Gaulle during his visit to the United States in 1960, to come with him to Paris. Jacobson administered a series of injections to Jackie that gave her the wherewithal to make the trip.

  Kennedy’s instinct to bring his wife was a good one. Her command of the French language and expressions of regard for French culture and taste made her an instant hit with the French, who lined up by the thousands to catch a glimpse of her passing automobile or arrivals at and departures from well-publicized ceremonies. Dazzled by her beauty and knowledge of French history and art, de Gaulle publicly spoke of Jackie’s “charm.” The French press, thrilled by her appearance in a white silk Givenchy gown, anointed her “a queen” and described the Kennedy-de Gaulle dinner as an “Apotheosis at Versailles.” Kennedy delighted French and American journalists with opening remarks at a Paris press luncheon: “I do not think it altogether inappropriate to introduce myself to this audience. I am the man who accompanied Jacqueline Kennedy to Paris, and I have enjoyed it.” When the journalist Marianne Means later interviewed Kennedy for a book on First Ladies, it was clear to her that he had actually resented Jackie’s spectacular emergence from his shadow. But public images were much more important to Kennedy in Paris than any personal feelings, and his joke struck a perfect ending to a highly successful visit. A column in the International Herald Tribune reflected the renewed confidence in his leadership: Kennedy, journalist Marguerite Higgins declared, “intends to act not only as his own foreign minister but as his own Soviet expert, French expert, Berlin expert, Laotian expert, nuclear test ban expert, etc.”

  THE BACKGROUND MUSIC was less harmonious. On May 31, during his first day in Paris, Kennedy received word of the assassination of General Rafael Trujillo, the Dominican Republic’s long-standing dictator. The failed Cuban invasion had triggered fears of a communist coup in the Republic and Haiti, and the White House saw the two countries as the “most vulnerable to a Castro takeover.” In April and May, Kennedy had directed that the NSC develop emergency plans for intervention by U.S. troops to maintain order and preclude communist control. At the same time, however, he wanted no direct U.S. involvement in rumored plots to topple Trujillo. On May 24, Kennedy had received a State Department report of an imminent “attempt [by political opponents] to assassinate Trujillo.” Consequently, when Pierre Salinger, unaware that news of Trujillo’s death was still a secret, revealed the assassination to the press at a news conference in Paris, Kennedy was furious. The administration’s early knowledge of the plot and Trujillo’s death suggested that it might have been in on the killing, which it was not.

  Kennedy’s bigger problem was whether to send in the marines. Although there was no clear evidence that Joaquin Balaguer, Trujillo’s likely successor, would tilt to the left, White House officials, led by Bobby, urged U.S. intervention. Bowles, who was heading the department while Rusk was in Paris, opposed an action that could “throw us into a war in the most casual fashion.” Although Bowles agreed to the deployment of forces outlined in contingency plans, he emphasized the need to keep it as low-key as possible. But Bobby, who Bowles believed “was clearly looking for an excuse to move in on the island,” raised a ruckus. Convinced that the new Dominican government “might team up with Castro,” Bobby, supported by McNamara, Goodwin, and Schlesinger, wanted to take what Bowles accurately called “half-cocked action” or “action for action’s sake.” For starters, Bobby suggested that they consider blowing up the American consulate to provide the rationale for an invasion. When Bowles resisted, Bobby, whom Bowles described as “aggressive, dogmatic, and vicious,” and ready to destroy the new government—“with an excuse if possible, without one if necessary”—attacked him as a “gutless bastard.” Bowles reported the disagreement to Kennedy, and the president sided with him. “Well, I’m glad to hear it,” Bowles replied, “and in that case would you clarify who’s in charge here?” “You are,” Kennedy answered. “Good,” Bowles exclaimed. “Would you mind explaining it to your brother?”

  The excessive fears about communist control of hemisphere countries extended to British Guiana, a small outpost of empire with a population of less than 600,000—one half East Indian, one third African, and the rest British, Portuguese, native Indian, and Chinese. The British hoped to give the colony independence after elections in August 1961. Cheddi Jagan, the head of the colony’s People’s Progressive party, a man with strong leftist leanings, seemed likely to become head of government. Although British authorities “tended to minimize, if not discount, the view that Jagan was a communist,” and a CIA report concluded that “neither the Communist bloc nor Castro has made any vigorous effort to exploit the British Guiana situation” and that Jagan seemed unlikely “to establish an avowed Communist regime,” Kennedy and the NSC unsuccessfully pressed the British to prevent or allow the U.S. to stop Jagan’s election in August. It was a secret demonstration of limited regard for democratic elections, which, if known, would have deepened hemisphere skepticism about America’s genuine commitment to an alliance for progress. For Kennedy, democracy in Latin America could never be put ahead of perceived threats to U.S. national security, even if those dangers might turn out
to be more illusory than real.

  IT WAS AGAINST THIS BACKDROP of anxiety about the communist menace in Latin America, Asia, Africa, and above all central Europe, where Moscow seemed determined to alter the status of East Germany and Berlin, that Kennedy met Khrushchev in Vienna. Kennedy had come armed with advice from America’s leading Soviet experts—Charles Bohlen, George Kennan, and Llewellyn Thompson—and de Gaulle on what to expect. Averell Harriman, who had represented Roosevelt and Truman in dealings with Moscow and was negotiating with the Russians about Laos, insisted on seeing Kennedy in Paris to give him his opinion. “I hear there is something you want to say to me,” Kennedy told him at de Gaulle’s state dinner, which Harriman had arranged to attend. “Go to Vienna,” the seventy-year-old confidently advised the president. “Don’t be too serious, have some fun, get to know him a little, don’t let him rattle you; he’ll try to rattle you and frighten you, but don’t pay any attention to that. Turn him aside, gently. And don’t try for too much. Remember that he’s just as scared as you are . . . he is very aware of his peasant origins, of the contrast between Mrs. Khrushchev and Jackie. . . . His style will be to attack and then see if he can get away with it. Laugh about it, don’t get into a fight. Rise above it. Have some fun.”

  Kennedy had asked de Gaulle for his views on Moscow’s policy toward Berlin, the most contentious East-West issue since 1945. At the end of World War II, Germany had been divided into British, French, and U.S. zones in the west and a Soviet area of occupation in the east. Berlin, which was 110 miles inside the Soviet zone, was also divided into four parts. The Soviets had agreed to guarantees of Western access to Berlin through their zone. A reunified and rearmed Germany allied with the West was Moscow’s constant fear. Consequently, a separate East German state had been central to Moscow’s German policy throughout the fifties. By 1961, the embarrassing exodus of East Germans and other east Europeans to the west through Berlin provoked the Soviets into warnings that they would sign a peace treaty with East Germany, creating an independent state that could then choose to end allied rights in Berlin by integrating the city under its control. Such a treaty promised to reduce chances of a unified Germany posing renewed threats to Moscow.