The colonel arrived late in the afternoon on March 27, and before dinner he and Wilson discussed whether the president should ask for a declaration of war. House said he should, but, curiously, he also told Wilson that he was “not well fitted” to be a war president; “he was too refined, too civilized, too intellectual, too cultivated not to see the incongruity and absurdity of war.” Even more curiously, Edith told House that his opinion had encouraged her husband. The colonel argued for replacing Daniels and Baker as unsuited for war, and Wilson listened noncommittally. The next morning, he showed House a memorandum he had written overnight on subjects he wanted to address when he spoke to Congress. House liked the memorandum, “which could not please me better had I written it myself.” He particularly liked Wilson’s intention to draw a distinction between the German people and their rulers: “This is a war for democracy and it is a war for the German people as well as for other nations.” House also had to listen to complaints about Lansing, who Wilson said “was the most unsatisfactory Secretary in his Cabinet; that he was good for a second place but unfitted for the first. That he had no imagination, no constructive ability, and but little real ability.”53
It is doubtful that Wilson made up his mind to go to war during House’s visit. It is more likely that he had already made his decision out of a mixture of practical, temperamental, and philosophical considerations. One practical matter was the unsatisfactory nature of armed neutrality. Daniels had made this point at the cabinet meeting when he reluctantly recommended war. Wilson evidently agreed, because he told a political supporter, “Apparently, to make even measures of defense we must obtain the status of belligerents.” Another practical consideration was how to pursue the goal of a league of nations. Lansing noted in his memorandum that he had said at the cabinet meeting that “no League of Peace would be of value with a powerful autocracy as a member.” House made the same point when he urged Wilson to say to Congress “that the United States would not be willing to join a league of peace with an autocracy as a member.”54 Whether or not Wilson bought those arguments, they almost certainly struck a responsive chord in his mind.
Yet other aspects of going to war did not strike a responsive chord in him. He had long since gotten over his Roosevelt-style penchant for armed intervention. His horror at the slaughter in Europe was heartfelt, as he had revealed in his “prolegomenon.” Moreover, this preacher of self-control viewed this moment as one above all others in which to practice that virtue. The man who had once carried Kipling’s poem “If” in his wallet knew by heart the opening lines:
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you …
When cabinet members maintained that people were demanding war, Lansing noted, “I could almost feel the President stiffen as if to resist and see his powerful jaw set.”55
Still, other aspects of his mind and spirit did incline him toward war. Despite Roosevelt’s and Lodge’s aspersions, Wilson was not and never had been a pacifist, and this war repelled him because of its “mechanical slaughter.” Moreover, he possessed an incorrigibly activist temperament. Presented with alternatives, he almost always chose the path of boldness. That was what armed neutrality lacked, in addition to its practical shortcomings. It would be complicated, frustrating, and, worst of all, passive and reactive. War, for all its destruction and danger, was active and might lead to better results. Wilson knew full well war’s awful consequences, and he was keenly aware of the terrible risk he was taking. Yet given his temperament, it would have been nearly impossible for him not to choose war. Besides, he had a deeper philosophical reason for this choice, which he would implicitly reveal in the speech he was about to give to Congress.
When he closeted himself to write that speech, his labors exacted an emotional cost. Several people noted that he seemed out of sorts. The White House head usher said he never knew the president “to be more peevish. … Soon after lunch he went to the study, leaving word that he desired quiet.” On April 1, a Sunday, he sent Lansing a sentence from the speech that asked Congress to declare that a state of war existed with Germany, so that it could be used in drafting the necessary legislation. Otherwise, he shared none of the speech with cabinet members or anyone else, except possibly Edith, until he read it to House the next day. The colonel got to hear the speech in advance only because the machinations in organizing the new Congress delayed the president from going to the Capitol until the evening. “Neither of us did anything except ‘Kill time’ until he was called to the Capitol,” House noted.56
At eight-thirty, the president entered the House chamber to tumultuous applause. Many senators and congressmen were waving small American flags, although some, most notably La Follette, declined to join in the demonstration. Resting his hands on the desk, Wilson read from his manuscript, neither gesturing nor glancing up. After reviewing events since the Germans unleashed their submarines, he declared this “a war against all nations,” to which Americans must respond deliberately in order to seek “only the vindication of right, of human right, of which we are only a single champion.” He had hoped that armed neutrality might be enough to meet the challenge, but he now knew that it would not work and “we will not choose the path of submission and suffer the most sacred rights of our nation … to be ignored or violated.” Up to then, the audience had sat in tense silence. When Wilson rejected “the path of submission,” Chief Justice Edward White, who was sitting in the front row, dropped the big hat he was holding and raised his hands above his head to give an explosive clap. That broke the suspense. The chamber erupted into a prolonged roar of applause and then lapsed back into silence.57
Wilson now came to the action portion of the speech, which he introduced in a somber tone, noting the “profound sense of the solemn and even tragical character of the step that I am taking.” He advised Congress to declare that a state of war existed between the United States and Germany. At this point, the chief justice, with tears streaming down his cheeks, again led the applause with his hands above his head. Wilson proceeded to outline what belligerency would require: large-scale military and industrial mobilization, to be financed “by well conceived taxation,” together with continued material aid to the Allies. He also specified what kind of peace he sought, and here he began to inject emotion into the speech. “I have exactly the same things in mind now that I had in mind when I addressed the Senate on the twenty-second of January last. … Our object now, as then, is to vindicate the principles of peace and justice in the life of the world as against selfish and autocratic power and to set up amongst the really free and self-governed peoples of the world such a concert of purpose and of action as will henceforth ensure the observance of those principles.” He insisted that America had no quarrel with the German people, only with their criminal autocratic rulers. The establishment of democracy would ensure that such crimes as have been committed would never be committed again.58
Now, to repeated cheers, he unveiled his vision of democracy and peace. “A steadfast concert for peace can never be maintained except by a partnership of democratic nations,” he avowed. It was for this vision that America would fight: “The world must be made safe for democracy.” At those words, Senator John Sharp Williams of Mississippi, who was partially deaf and cupping his hands behind his ears to hear, began to clap alone, and the applause turned into an uproar. Of all that Wilson said in this speech, this sentence would take on a life of its own, for better and worse. On other matters, Wilson welcomed the new government in Russia and pointed out that the United States was going to war only with Germany, not with the rest of the Central powers, although relations with Austria-Hungary were strained. He affirmed that most citizens of German extraction were “true and loyal Americans,” but he warned that disloyalty “will be dealt with with a firm hand of stern repression.”59
He was coming to the end of this half-hour speech. He sought to conclude wit
h inspiring words that would encapsulate his message:
It is a distressing and oppressive duty, Gentlemen of the Congress, which I have performed in thus addressing you. There are, it may be, many months of fiery trial … ahead of us. It is a fearful thing to lead this great peaceful people into war, into the most terrible and disastrous of all wars, civilization itself seeming to be in the balance. But the right is more precious than peace, and we shall fight for the things which we have always carried nearest our hearts,—for democracy, for the right of those who submit to authority to have a voice in their own governments, for the rights and liberties of small nations, for a universal dominion of right by such a concert of free peoples as shall bring peace and safety to all nations and make the world itself at last free. To such a task we can dedicate our lives and our fortunes, everything that we are and everything that we have, with the pride of those who know that the day has come when America is privileged to spend her blood and her might for the principles that gave her birth and happiness and the peace which she has treasured. God helping her, she can do no other.60
Wilson had delivered not only the most important but also the greatest speech of his life. This was no lusty assertion of righteous wrath; this was not Roosevelt crying out to stand at Armageddon and battle for the Lord. The words solemn, distressing, oppressive, and tragical ran through the speech like a leitmotif. Wilson spoke the language of exalted idealism, but he did it in a humble, circumspect way. America was “only a single champion” of right. “The world must be made safe for democracy”—a world of difference lay in that self-conscious use of the passive voice by this most punctilious of stylists to sit in the White House. He did not say that Americans must make the world safe for democracy; he did not believe that they could. They could only do their part, join with other like-minded nations, and take steps toward that promised land. Above all, this speech was not a call to a holy war. America was making an unsought, inescapable choice. The actions of others had rendered it necessary, he believed, to plunge into the most terrible war yet in human history. After a deliberately downbeat opening, the speech had gradually taken on a somber beauty. The ending, with evocations of fear and cherished values and the shedding of blood, brought back memories of Abraham Lincoln, especially the last words. Its last sentences and last words made this the greatest presidential speech since Lincoln’s second inaugural address.
“God helping her, she can do no other”—what a haunting but strange way to close a call to arms. No other speaker would have said those words. Wilson was in the habit of occasionally saying things like “God grant” or “God helping me” at the close of speeches. But this usage was something different. As many people recognized, it was an exact paraphrase of Martin Luther’s declaration, “God helping me, I can do no other.” Here was possibly the clearest instance of where Wilson’s learned, sophisticated Protestant upbringing may have shaped his conduct as a political leader. He was casting America in the same role that Luther cast the Christian believer. For Luther, no one could know God’s will; the Christian could rely only on faith and scripture in trying hesitantly, imperfectly, often mistakenly to follow God’s will. Nor could the Christian avoid sin; he or she must, Luther declared, “sin boldly.” This is what Wilson was asking his country to do. This war was the greatest collective sin in history, and America would be taking part in that sin. And, like Luther, Wilson wanted to sin boldly in hopes of securing a more just and peaceful world. He was taking the boldest gamble of his life, and he knew that he might be doing the wrong thing.
As a piece of public persuasion, Wilson’s war address succeeded splendidly. When he finished, the House chamber exploded in an uproar of cheers, rebel yells, and the waving of little flags. Men flocked to congratulate the president as he left the podium. Lodge shook Wilson’s hand and said, “Mr. President, you have expressed the sentiments of the American people in the loftiest possible manner.” Not everyone joined in the cheering, however. Reporters noticed that Senator La Follette sat with his arms folded in front of his chest as he grimly chewed on a wad of gum. Editorial opinion across the country echoed the cheers in the Capitol, and opponents outside also rushed to heap praise. A flood of letters and telegrams offering congratulations and support swept into the White House. Wilson did not feel entirely comfortable with the way people reacted to his speech. “My message tonight was a message of death for our young men,” Tumulty later recalled him saying back at the White House. “How strange it seems to applaud that.”61
Congress made quick work of declaring war. The Senate acted first. When the war resolution was introduced the next morning, La Follette objected to the suspension of the rules required for immediate consideration, thereby delaying debate for a day. The Senate took up the resolution at ten o’clock on April 4, and debate lasted for thirteen hours. The majority of the speeches expressed support. Some senators were enthusiastic for war; others endorsed the move grudgingly. On the other side, La Follette would not be denied his say this time, and in a four-hour speech he tore apart Wilson’s claim to be defending democracy by joining the Allies. Norris was even more bitterly eloquent when he blamed intervention on Wall Street moguls: “We are going into war upon command of gold.” When the vote came, at eleven minutes after eleven that night, only six senators opposed the resolution—three insurgent Republicans and three Democrats.62
House debate also started on April 4, and it took seventeen hours, spread over two days. Under rules that limited each speech to twenty minutes, 100 representatives spoke in a debate that David Lawrence later described as desultory and at times flippant. Many of those who favored war seemed lukewarm, and almost none of them envisioned American troops fighting on the Western Front. “On the whole,” Lawrence also recalled, “the pacifist speeches seemed to be better received than those favoring war.” The dramatic high point of the debate came when Claude Kitchin rose to speak. Few knew what Kitchin planned to say, and he drew cheers even from opponents when he broke ranks with his party and remained true to his Bryanite convictions. For his part, Bryan opposed intervention only perfunctorily and declined to come to Washington to lobby against the war resolution. Reporters noticed that La Follette was sitting at the back of the House chamber, smiling broadly, as Kitchin spoke.63
When the time came for the roll call vote in the House during the early morning hours of April 6, there was one more moment of drama. All eyes in the galleries were on the first woman elected to Congress, Jeannette Rankin of Montana. She was a pacifist, but she was under pressure from suffrage organizations to vote for the resolution because they planned to use women’s patriotic support for the war as another argument for a constitutional amendment. When her name was called the first time, Rankin did not respond. According to one report, she sat staring at the ceiling, clasping and unclasping her hands. An old bull of the House came over and told her, “Little woman you cannot afford not to vote. You represent the womanhood of the country in the American Congress.” On the second call, Rankin stood up and said in a cracking voice, reportedly with tears in her eyes, “I want to stand by my country, but I cannot vote for war. I vote no.” Speaking during a roll call was against the rules, and some congressmen yelled, “Vote! Vote!” Speaker Clark sent the chief clerk to ask Rankin if she intended to vote no. She nodded, sat down, and threw her head back on her seat and sobbed. When the roll call was completed, at three-twelve in the morning, the clerk handed the tally to the Speaker, who banged down the gavel and announced, “On this motion the Ayes are 373 and the Noes are 50.” Voting against the resolution were eighteen Democrats, thirty-one Republicans—nearly all insurgents or midwesterners, including nine of Wisconsin’s eleven congressmen—and the lone Socialist, Meyer London of New York.64
Only formalities remained before the country officially went to war. The war resolution arrived at the White House at 1 p.m., while the president was having lunch with the First Lady and his cousin Helen Bones. They came out to the main lobby, where Wilson sat down at the head u
sher’s desk and wrote, “Approved 6 April 1917, Woodrow Wilson.” With those strokes of a pen, the United States was at war, and Woodrow Wilson was now a war president. War was something he had even less “preparation” for than foreign affairs and something he thought he was ill suited for. He was going to have to harness passion—other people’s and his own—and he would be resorting to bloodshed and destruction to try to realize his dream of a just, nonpunitive peace and new world order. God helping him, he could do no other.65
18
WAGING WAR
As he rode up in the White House elevator on the night of April 2, 1917, after delivering his war address to Congress, Woodrow Wilson reportedly remarked to his young cousin, “Fitz, thank God for Abraham Lincoln.” Fitz Woodrow, a grandson of Wilson’s uncle Jimmy, later recalled asking why he had said that and got the answer, “I won’t make the mistakes that he did.”1 Wilson did not explain to Fitz Woodrow what mistakes he thought Lincoln had made, but he would soon use the Lincoln precedent to answer congressional critics. The remark was noteworthy because it gave a clue to how he meant to wage war. He intended to plunge in fully and decisively. Many in Congress and elsewhere appeared to believe that the United States would mostly continue to furnish food, munitions, and money to the Allies. During the next eighteen months, supplies and naval assistance from America would prove essential to enabling the British and French to hold out against repeated and redoubled German onslaughts. But anyone who thought Wilson would limit his country’s role in the war to such things had sorely misread this man’s mind and spirit. He meant to wage war with every resource at his command, and he meant to do it his way.
Woodrow Wilson Page 55
