PRESIDENT JOHN F. KENNEDY

The reputations of presidents’ are based on a number of factors, but luck plays a significant part – not just in terms of what happens while they are in office, but also the luck of who writes their biographies once they have gone. Wars, for example, give presidents a boost, whilst, conversely, any financial crises will have the reverse effect.

The pre-eminent political biographer, Robert Caro, delivered a monumental multivolume labour of love that has, in many respects, redeemed the reputation of Lyndon B. Johnson. Some may deduce that LBJ emerges as the luckiest president of the past century.

Robert Caro’s LBJ depicts and portrays an ultimate fixer, a politician who knew better than anyone how to get his way in the challenging and demanding burrow and nest of Washington. Because of how Caro has written, it’s Johnson’s guile that people look to when they ask how President Obama could do better in his dealings with Congress.

But, as the established stock of LBJ has risen, John F. Kennedy has become the man who merely talked about the transformative legislative programme that Johnson himself turned into reality. In the long shadow cast by LBJ, Kennedy is perceived as a glamorous but slight figure, a crowd-pleasing president who was brave, attractive and ambitious, yet ultimately ineffectual. On the 50th anniversary of Kennedy’s assassination, many of his admirers are trying to reverse this image. For example, Caro focuses on foreign policy, which was Kennedy’s strength and Johnson’s weakness. LBJ’s achievements were undoubtedly domestic; Caro, as yet, has failed to explain the terrible mess Johnson made of Vietnam. Caro’s ‘unfinished’ biography will surely have to tell in some future volume the tragic coda of this calamitous episode.

The presidency of John F. Kennedy ended just as he was finding ways to move beyond the stagnant and terrifying philosophical logic of cold war confrontation that had taken the world to the brink of catastrophe in the Cuban missile crisis. In 1963, it looked as though Kennedy had stumbled on the path to a more peaceful future. Johnson was the man who departed from it.

During the last year of his life Kennedy’s quest for safer relations with the Russians is evidenced from the speeches Kennedy gave in the summer of 1963 about war, peace and the means of moving from one to the other. The Limited Test Ban Treaty (LTBT), a nuclear arms control agreement that Kennedy signed into law in October 1963, was probably his proudest achievement of his presidency up to that point.

Some commentators may suggest this was a sure indicator of things to come, the first step towards a stable and secure coexistence between the superpowers. Others, like economists, may treat Kennedy as a moral visionary, but economists are not historians. A man, they say, who possessed the gifts of oratory and character that was able to change to change the course of history at this perilous juncture is based on two questionable assumptions.

The first is that treaties matters. The LTBT was only what it said it was: limited. It specifically prohibited further nuclear testing in space or underwater but clearly permitted it underground. The treaty had been watered down from something more comprehensive, first by Russian qualms about international oversight and then by the misgivings of the US joint chiefs about the government of Nikita Khrushchev. Charles de Gaulle refused to sign it.

Arguing, though, that it was a landmark moment (as opposed to changing the course of history) is probably better placed. The treaty certainly signalled that the US and the Soviets could agree on something substantial. It also showed that a US president could get such an agreement passed the Senate, which had a tendency of shooting down plans for peace. We should look no further than from all of that which followed-on from the failure of Woodrow Wilson to get the Senate to ratify the League of Nations in 1919, a deficiency that continually haunted Kennedy. Kennedy did, however, secure ratification of the LTBT by an impressive margin of 80 votes to 19. This subsequently opened the door to the creation and ratification of the Nuclear Non-Proliferation Treaty (NPT), which was approved by the Senate in 1969 and has been vital in limiting the spread of nuclear weapons around the world.

The contention that speeches actually matter is highly dubious. In his book, ‘To Move the World: JFK’s Quest for Peace’, by Jeffrey Sachs, the author believes that Kennedy’s oratory in 1963 – above all the ‘peace speech’ he delivered in Washington, DC, on 10 June that year – was crucial in persuading Russia’s leaders, US politicians and people all over the world that the time was right for a sea change in international affairs. Whilst Sachs talks up Kennedy’s logic with beauty and how it had the power to move, he provides no evidence that such rhetoric made the vital difference. Are we to conclude that just because Kennedy said it was time for peace the Soviets quickly signed a peace treaty? Sachs does infer that such a treaty came into being because they had been persuaded by what Kennedy had said.

The near calamity of the Cuban missile crisis is recognised as persuading both sides to look for alternatives. However, we should not take for granted that this took the form of turning away from war to peace. It wasn’t so much the risk of Armageddon, but the temporary loss of control that terrorised both sides. The LTBT and NPT were ways of reasserting control as the two superpowers had struggled for something to cling onto as they moved wearily about in the dark without direction. The treaties may have limited the ability of others to get nuclear weapons but it didn’t stop the superpowers from ramping up their own arsenals or persistently pursuing proxy wars around the globe.

Kennedy’s decision to focus on foreign affairs in 1963 was not without cost. It came at the expense of doing other, equally urgent things. The last 100 days in office encompassed both sides of Kennedy; the statesman and chancer on the one hand, the moralist and opportunist on the other.

Other commentators like Thurston Clarke in his book, ‘An Intimate Portrait of a Great President’, also celebrate Kennedy’s great achievement in getting the LTBT passed the Senate but suggests it was done by calling in political favours that could not then get cashed in elsewhere. Forcing the treaty through, for example, came at the expense of a concerted push on civil rights legislation. Clarke says that was a choice between ‘ethics and history’ with Kennedy, a vain, and when he needed to be, a cold-hearted man, choosing history. He was known to weigh himself after every swim, terrified that he was turning into a jowly, middle-aged man. Kennedy’s charm could be turned on and off like a light switch.

Nevertheless, like most commentators Clarke is convinced that this was a great man cut down at the moment of his greatest potential. He insists that Kennedy would have enacted his own comprehensive civil rights legislation in his second term, and argues that Kennedy had seen the folly of his Vietnam escapade and was determined to get out. He was just waiting for the right moment, which would come with his re-election.

The plausibility of this must be questioned. Presidents invariably think they will achieve in their second term what they failed to do in their first but it rarely happens like that. Kennedy’s mantra in 1963 was talked up as being what he was going to do ‘after 1964’ but he was also a well-established ditherer who made sure there was always a get-out clause. There is no evidence, for instance, that he knew how to get round the openly racist Southern bloc in the Senate. In 1963, he sounded more like someone who had parked comprehensive civil rights legislation than a politician who knew how to accomplish it. The day after his peace speech, he gave a powerful talk on civil rights – but he also told black civil rights leaders that they should learn to be more like the Jews and focus on education as the path to improvement.

Clarke cites as evidence of how much Kennedy meant to people and how much his passing mattered. In an unsentimental age, when it was unusual to shed tears in public (and unthinkable for many men), so many cried when they heard of the president’s assassination. According to a Gallup survey 53 per cent of Americans had wept in the days following his death. They shed tears because ordinary people felt a connection and shared a feeling that his death represented the loss of some unspoken promise.