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    Archives for December 2016

    Defending Europe: The “Neutron Bomb” Controversy

    December 5, 2016 by Will Morrisey

    Sam Cohen: The Truth About the Neutron Bomb: The Inventor of the Bomb Speaks Out. New York: William Morrow, 1983.

    In the early years of the Reagan Administration, the proposed buildup of American nuclear weapons stockpiles provoked a backlash which took several forms. Among these were the ‘nuclear freeze’ movement in the United States and the demonstrations against deployment of short-range and intermediate-range nuclear missiles in Europe. At the time, the Warsaw Pact forces commanded by the Soviet Union outmatched those of the North Atlantic Treaty Organization. The ‘neutron bomb’ (originally conceived in the late 1950s by physicist Sam Cohen of the Livermore Laboratories) was intended to redress this imbalance by threatening ground troops with destruction while causing less (although still substantial) damage to buildings and other structures. This capacity inspired a memorable Soviet propaganda line, which described the weapons as “the capitalist bomb, which kills people while leaving property intact.” Given the fact that the Warsaw Pact forces would have destroyed both people and property (a telling commentary on the character of Communism), the witticism fell a bit flat.

    By the twenty-first century, the neutron-bomb technology had been countered by improved armor for tanks. Never deployed, the weapons themselves no longer form part of NATO stockpiles. This notwithstanding, the controversy raised important moral issues concerning military technology. The review below was published in Chronicles of Culture, Volume 7, Number 10, October 1983.

     

    “This book marks the first time a ‘nuclear hawk’ has defected from the American nuclear establishment,” the blurb-writer exclaims, with customary dustjacket urgency. One expects another “what have I done?” lament by a guilt-ridden nuclear physicist, stuff guaranteed to make its author a celebrity on the church-and-college lecture circuit. Some partisans of disarmament will surely buy it, hoping to confirm their prejudices.

    I hope they read it. For Sam Cohen resolutely disdains to conceive of himself as Dr. Frankenstein. After working at Los Alamos during World War II, he became a specialist in radiological warfare, inventing the neutron warhead in the late 1950s. “Speaking candidly and truthfully, I will say that I’ve never had any moral qualms or feelings of guilt about my pursuits in this military field. I have always believed that the United States must have strong and effective military forces—especially nuclear forces. His patience with dovish colleagues is limit; “many respected scientists… know better intellectually but are emotionally helpless to look objectivity at issues involving the military use of nuclear radiation.” Or, still more bluntly: “[T] here has been one thing that particularly impressed—better still, depressed—me about most renowned American scientists. This is their ability to be impeccably careful and responsible when working in their fields of specialization (if they’re not, their colleagues will catch them and even punish them) but their sloppiness and irresponsibility when giving their scientific opinion on nuclear weapons when they have an ideological bias against them, because they know that their colleagues, who share their bias, don’t give a damn when they do.” Among these are scientists now prominent in the ‘nuclear freeze’ campaign: Dr. George Kistiakowsky, science adviser to the president in the Eisenhower Administration, whose “strong ideological conviction that a nuclear test ban was imperative” led him to support the first such ban (1958), abrogated by the Soviet three years later; Dr. Jerome Weisner of MIT, who campaigned vigorously for John Kennedy and evidently has maintained his partisan allegiance; and Nobelist Hans Bethe, who claimed, with J. Robert Oppenheimer, that the hydrogen bomb could not be built. At very least, Cohen can further dispel the popular illusion that scientists speak to us, well, scientifically when they engage in politics.

    Cohen divides his book into two sections. The first four chapters contain his account of the neutron warhead’s invention and the controversies attending it. The Pentagon had wanted nuclear warheads that would generate a powerful blast, intense heat, and radiation—in that order. Cohen wanted to reverse that priority, for two purposes: to develop a warhead whose high radioactivity would cause the explosive in an incoming nuclear warhead to decompose (the Sprint anti-ICBM missile resulted, “many years later”); to develop a short-range missile warhead whose intense but short-lived radiation would make it “the first battlefield weapon… in history [which] would allow a guaranteed, highly effective defense against an invading army without producing wholesale physical destruction of the country being invaded.”

    The Pentagon, particularly the Navy, championed the neutron warhead from 1959 to 1961, not so much because it cared about the weapon itself but because it wanted to end the Eisenhower/Khruschev proposal for a nuclear test ban. Then as today, the Soviets denounced neutron technology, with Soviet Premier Nikita Khruschev averring, “This is the morality of monsters!” Similar protestations from the community of conscience recurred until September 1, 1961, when the Politburo announced a unilateral end to the ban, followed by “the most massive series of tests the world has ever seen.” Having arranged their experiments in advance while the Americans as it were busied themselves with inactivity, the Soviets briefly gained a lead in nuclear weapons technology. (Cohen has the good manners not to insist that readers associate this tactic with current Premier Andropov’s recommended ‘freeze’). After this debacle, the Pentagon no longer needed the neutron warhead as a weapon in bureaucratic warfare; interest in it disappeared until the mid-1970s.

    By then, America’s policy of détente with the Soviet Union had yielded not a relaxation of tensions but a Soviet advantage in European ground troops so striking that even President Jimmy Carter noticed it. He planned the neutron warhead’s production and deployment, then reneged after Soviet ‘President’ Leonid Brezhnev, United States Senator Mark O. Hatfield, and other peace-loving souls inveighed against the ‘capitalist bomb’ that ‘destroys people but not property.’ “The problem,” Cohen remarks, “is that any agreement, tacit or explicit, to effect a mutual forswearing of N-bomb production is nonsense. There is no conceivable way by means of national technical verification, that such an agreement can be monitored.” Seismic sensors can detect the underground testing of warheads that explode by nuclear fission; they cannot detect the much smaller explosions produced by nuclear fusion in neutron warheads. An unverifiable treaty won’t amount to much.

    President Ronald Reagan ordered the production of neutron warheads, but deferred their deployment in Europe until after land-based intermediate-range missiles (Pershing II’s and ground-launched cruise missiles) go into place. Impatient with diplomacy, Cohen argues that a weapon good enough to produce is good enough to deploy. This is not necessarily the case; scientists may not be any better at strategy than they are at purging their minds of ideological biases.

    The book’s last five chapters consist of polemics on the military, political, and ethical problems associated with Cohen’s invention. He quickly disposes of opponents regarded as experts by the news media. To Herbert Scoville, Jr., one of the most-quoted ‘freeze’ eminences, who claims that irradiated soldiers will fight harder, Cohen replies that the soldiers targeted will become incapacitated quickly, and that by asking us to fear the possible behavior of soldiers on the periphery of the explosion Scoville “divert[s] the targeting issue to troops that aren’t targeted.” To Dr. Kistiakowsky, who claims that the Soviets could shield their tank crews against radiation, Cohen replies that indeed one can, “provided that you’re willing to incapacitate the tank” by overloading it with heavy armor. To Stanford University physicist Sidney Drell, who claims that a neutron warhead explosion would make the irradiated area “uninhabitable for long periods of time,” Cohen replies that “This is patently false,” that calculations show radiation declining to a safe level in a few hours. To United States Senator H. John Heinz, who claims that the neutron warhead is “literally dehumanizing,” Cohen replies, “Speaking for myself, if I were going to be wounded on the field of battle, I’d far rather be dosed by radiation than burned by napalm, or crushed by blast concussion, or have my body torn up by a land mine or fragmentation bomb.”

    These arguments are not only persuasive, they are simple. Cohen argues that intellectuals think badly about war because they imagine suffering so vividly that their fear overturns their intellect. I am convinced that there is an additional problem; even when intellectuals master their fear, the basic simplicity of warfare befuddles them. It is too unsubtle for them to grasp, all this business of push coming to shove. They complicate matters beyond recognition, then take professional soldiers for bloody-minded dolt. Cohen, no professional soldier, is at his best when he thinks like one.

    At his worst, he essays geopolitical strategy. His advertised ‘defection’ from “the American nuclear establishment” consists of an argument for isolationism. In a war with the Soviets, Europe and the Middle East would cost us more to defend than they are worth, he writes. So pull our troops out and use the money we save to rebuild our nuclear arsenal and strengthen our civil defense programs. These eminently American sentiments cannot amount to a serious policy for a commercial republic confronting a military oligarchy animated by ideologically-inspired fanaticism. Soviet domination of Europe and the Middle East would obviously give them control of two of our principal markets.

    Even in its military aspect, Cohen’s isolationism must fail. He calls defending Europe impossible because the Soviets will try to destroy NATO’s nuclear defenses, including any neutron warheads in Europe, before the Warsaw Pact forces move in. But the Soviets warn that any NATO warheads hitting Soviet territory—and some surely would, even during an intendedly preclusive strike by the Soviets—will bring retaliation against the United States itself. If they mean that, they recognize that a European war would probably cause global war. They will not imagine they can win that war unless Western pacifists have their way. Nuclear weapons in Western Europe will tie America to its allies more firmly than at any time in the last twenty years. Europeans who fear this tie, who feel more threatened by our weapons and our policy than by Soviet weapons and policy may yet to decide to see more clearly. Cohen says they won’t; I suspect they will. We’ll see which one of us is right, but in the meantime it would be a bad mistake to insure defeat by giving up too soon.

    Filed Under: American Politics

    “Peace on Earth”

    December 4, 2016 by Will Morrisey

    At the time when a proposal for a “nuclear freeze”—that is, a cessation of the construction of nuclear weapons by the United States and the Soviet Union—had appeared as a ballot referendum in several states, including New Jersey, the Home News of New Brunswick, New Jersey requested statements on the question, “What is the meaning of ‘peace on earth’ today?” The replies were published on Christmas Day, 1983. Here is mine:

     

    The phrase “peace on earth” occurs in the New Testament. In the Gospel According to (2:14), angels sing to shepherds of the Christ’s birth:
    Glory to God in the highest,
    And on earth peace among men with whom
    He is pleased.

    There is no utopianism, here. The angels do not herald peace on earth among all men—only peace on earth among those with whom God is pleased. The New Testament famously insists that only those who sincerely worship the Christ please God.

    In Christian terms, then, there can be no general peace on earth today because genuine Christians do not rule all the nations. Nor will they ever rule on this earth, according to Scripture. Only the Christ can bring peace on earth, and only after He returns to earth, eventually creating a new heaven and a new earth. Centuries earlier, Jews also understood that divine intervention alone can bring peace to the nations. The prophet Isaiah foresaw swords beaten into plowshares after, not before the coming of the Messiah.

    Today, many people at “peace on earth,” believing that peace-loving human beings can themselves fashion perpetual and universal peace. There is no evidence for this belief either in history or in Scripture. Such persons transform Judaism and Christianity into a kind of politics called ‘pacifism.’ They confused themselves with the Messiah, forgetting both the realism of the political man and the humility of the religious one. Their utopian worldly ambitions are too spiritual, their proud spirituality too worldly. They invite martyrdom without redemption.

    Filed Under: Bible Notes

    Sentimental Individualism

    December 4, 2016 by Will Morrisey

    Richard Brautigan: So the Wind Won’t Blow It All Away. New York: Delacorte Press, 1983.
    Richard Sennett: The Frog Who Dared to Croak. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1983.

    This review was first published in Chronicles of Culture, Volume 7, Number 10, October 1983. Republished with permission.

    In the twentieth century, first-person narrative fiction asserts individualism while undercutting it. Although we quickly learn who this ‘I’ wants us to believe he is, and we rarely fail, in the end, to see who he really is, we do not always clearly see what the author thinks, or believes, about his narrator’s seeming and being. By refusing to judge explicitly, late modern novelists and poets depend on their readers’ ability to find a constellation of meaning beyond the narrative’s landscape—beyond the individual portrayed. Even in an irreligious time we have some idea of Dante’s judgments. But what will readers make of James Joyce six centuries after his death? He himself identified an immediate need for literary archeologists to interpret his books.

    This literary problem reflects and reflects upon the familiar political tension between liberty—an assertion of individuality—and authority—the embodiment of meaning. In modern times especially, individuals resent authority but find its destruction a diminishment of themselves. They eventually get the worst of both: individualism for Stalin, tyranny for the Russians; or, alternatively, anarchy for the many and subservience for the few.

    The novelist Richard Brautigan, whose earlier book, Trout Fishing in America became an icon of the Sixties ‘counterculture, explores liberty in America. Richard Sennett, a sociologist by day and sometime novelist by night, explores tyranny in Hungary and the Soviet Union. Both use first-person narrators, and both pose the problems individualism causes for ‘we moderns.’

    Brautigan’s middle-aged narrator remembers the summer of 1947, when he was twelve years old and “the most interesting thing happening in my life” was watching a husband and wife who fished in a pond while sitting in their living-room furniture, carefully trucked out and unloaded each evening at seven. Imitating their deliberateness, he intersperses his description of one afternoon spent waiting for them to arrive at the pond with memories of other days in his childhood, culminating in the day his “childhood ended” when he accidentally shot and killed a friend.

    The reviewer for the New York Times could find no purpose for this procedure, but the narrator explains it simply enough. “I am still searching for some meaning in [the story] and perhaps even a partial answer to my own life, which as I grow closer and closer to death, the answer gets farther and farther away.” Hence the attempt to reverse aging by the means of memory, to recapture childhood, the time when truth seems closer—not only Wordsworth’s famous reason but because an adult can see “unknown vectors” the child did not see.

    Brautigan does well. He remembers the boredom of childhood. His cuteness, which has irritated more than one reader of his other novels, here contributes to a story that does not omit childhood’s childishness. Children ponder lying and truth-telling, fantasy and reality, with an intensity most will lose in adulthood; Brautigan knows something of how these intertwine. So, for example, he has his narrator remember the “very ancient and fragile” lock on an old woman’s garage door:
    “The lock was only a symbol of privacy and protection, but that meant something in those days. If that lock were around today, a thief would just walk up to it and blow it off with his breath.”
    Blowing: the narrator remembers these things “so the wind”—today’s prevailing viciousness, a harsh reality—”won’t blow it all away.” His memories recapture not only childhood but the more humane minds of that time and place—the American Northwest a couple of years after World War II, “before television crippled the imagination of America and turned people indoors and away from living out their own fantasies with dignity.” This isn’t quite as sentimental as it sounds; lonely children who spend their days watching, not participating, often find their way to the eccentric adults (mostly old people, old age itself being a form of eccentricity) who have time for them. The narrator draws these portraits with a bright child’s mixture of sarcasm, curiosity, and fondness.

    Brautigan has never offered any but the simplest ideas, and his sentiments—the mixture of satire and sympathy Christianity becomes when secularized—recall Dickens (as do his congruent fascinations with eccentrics and children). He gets his style from Hemingway. But his tone belongs to him, and it is what makes him one of our most elusive writers. His teaching (as it were) is straightforward enough: the narrator remembers his childhood recreation of shooting apples in an abandoned orchard. He bought the bullet that killed his friend because he preferred the “dramatic” sound of “a .22 bullet burning an apple into instant rotten apple sauce” to the satisfaction of eating a hamburger in the restaurant next to the gun shop; he had only enough money for one or the other. He identifies the bullets with “aggressions,” hamburgers with the pleasant eccentricity of the married couple (“Take it nice and easy is my motto,” the husband says while cooking one). Brautigan surely thinks of this homey dichotomy as a choice Americans always have before them, and he leaves no doubt that he now prefers hamburgers.

    After the shooting, his narrator developed a sad/comic obsession with hamburgers. (“I was a weird kid,” he concedes; “weird” derives from a word that meant fate, “unknown vectors”).
    “Looking back on it now, I guess I used the hamburger as a form of mental therapy to keep from going mad because what happened in that orchard was not the kind of thing that cases a child to have a positive outlook on life. It was the kind of thing that challenged your mettle and I used the hamburger as my first line of defense.”
    This satirical counterpointing of guilt with Boy Scoutmaster understatement-by-cliché must leave many readers, including some good ones, strewn like apples shot by a weird kid. The problem of tone reveals the problem of meaning. The whole account sidesteps the fact that the accident could still have been prevented had the boy known not to fire a gun if your friend could be standing in the bullet’s trajectory. The narrator never considers this, his imagination obscuring common sense even after thirty-two years. What of Brautigan?

    We can’t know. Whatever Brautigan may think of his narrator, the tone gives us contrary signals, or signals one can interpret variously with equal justification. Like his narrator, Brautigan enjoys individuality, liberty, but not the responsibility they force upon us. That goes for the imagination as well as for action. He detests the mass-imagination of today, preferring the time when “people made their own imagination, like home-cooking.” The result was more palatable, perhaps, because however dotty or injurious it was still on a human scale. But to what extent can an individual really make his own imagination? Brautigan will not or cannot delineate the limits, or the complementary extent to which one must take his bearings from things beyond himself. Responsibility, which must be to something or someone, arises there; Brautigan eludes it. He knows and mocks the old fatherly bromides but his narrator has no father to tell him how to shoot a gun.

    Brautigan presents the world of pre-adolescence, omitting sexuality, that complication of love and friendship. In his imaginary memoir of a Hungarian philosophy teacher named Tibor Grau, Richard Sennett devotes only a few pages to childhood, many more to youth and adulthood. Sexuality and politics matter here. But they do so in a way that equally evokes the atmosphere of ‘counterculture’ sentiment.

    The notion that sexual liberation really is liberating was the ‘counterculture’s’ central illusion. Despite numberless illustrated instruction manuals and copious experiences, many of us still contrive to overlook the fact that sexual activity involves linking bodies—however variously—and not unrestricted movement. Presented as an act of liberation, ‘sex’ must disappoint. Reportedly, it often does.

    Tibor Grau does not share this illusion. Resented by his public school classmates for his superior wealth and intelligence, he wanted “to have them, to conquer them”; his homosexual passion based itself not on the illusion of sexual liberation but on the illusion that one’s enemies are worth “having,” an egalitarian presumption that lies beneath much of what passes for power-hungry elitism. After moving from teenaged schoolboys to young, displaced peasants who frequented Budapest’s Municipal Park, Grau’s “first steps” toward Marxism came “when I began to feel such love for some of the older boys that I wanted to stop paying them, imagining that they would freely return my feelings” if suitably impressed by his mastery of dialectics. They didn’t, of course, and Grau learned early “how sordid life is,” and “how sad and impossible it is to live.”

    Evidently, life’s sordidness, sadness, and impossibility result from the rarity of making love, liberty, and sexuality coincide. Liberty in particular causes the young to be “confused and afraid, as they should be.” Personal liberty means you’re on your own. “To avoid the terrifying solitude of liberty,” the young “search to find a realm of life in which they can immediately belong.” Giving up on the male prostitutes in the park, Grau sought love and friendship among the poor, sharing their “anger and hatred against the world.” Even in old age, he imagines “hatred of the world as it is” to be “the noblest emotion an adolescent can feel.”

    Resentment and love of love mix easily; they make a poison. We see this when Grau remembers a Deputy Director of “Cultural Propaganda” in Hungary’s short-lived socialist regime of 1919. With the rather heavy irony that tyranny provokes, Sennett shows how this poison caused suspicion, betrayal, and lying, not fraternal struggle for truth against shared enemies. Most insightfully, he has Grau write that he foolishly resisted what turned out to be at routine inquiry not only because he suspected a conspiracy but because he wanted to assert his liberty; he did not want to be forced into writing an apologia. Sennett knows that the problem of liberty would remain even if socialism solved the ‘problem of scarcity,’ economic and emotional, that socialists believe they can solve.

    Elsewhere, Grau reflects that socialism asks and promises too much because “no one can give another more than permission to exist, and that permission entails all manner of mistakes, stupidities, and waywardness.” Evil is the denial of this permission, a denial made by too many frustrated socialists, and fraudulent ones. The existence Grau praisses, moderately, is not mere life; “to live is to love something concrete for itself”—a formula that mixes Marxist materialism with Kant’s categorical imperative, in the hope of avoiding the worst aspects of both.

    Sennett has Grau survive some fifteen years in Stalinist Russia, including the Second World War. He gives him an elderly, male lover with whom to spend his last years in Hungary; justifiably embarrassed by this bluebird finale, he has Grau write, defensively:

    “I know what you will say: Grau, such a self-absorbed, unpleasant man before, now redeemed. You really understand nothing. I simply have something to do. This life formed for me these habit of small pleasures each day which the young would call the prison of old age.”

    We are meant to “understand” that the love of something—here someone—specific, for itself, is true liberty. It is surely closer to true liberty than either utopian socialism or Marxist ‘realism.’ But Grau overlooks something. Throughout, he describes himself as a philosopher. The prototypical philosopher, Socrates, insisted that philosophia or love of wisdom differs from loving men—or, for that matter, women. As long as he retains his wits, a philosopher always has “something to do.” Grau doesn’t know this, remaining an intellectual, not a philosopher at all.

    Does Sennett know this? He is less elusive than Brautigan; I suspect that he does not.

    The modern individualist recognizes no present authority; at most, he might recognize the authority of some imagined future condition of the human race. Yet he often finds the quest to satisfy mere appetites unsatisfying—as indeed he must, with advancing age and infirmity. With no faith in reason or revelation, he can only turn to memory or imagination. Not themselves authoritative, memory and imagination can conjure a dim authority. Remembered authority stands against the rapid changes of democracy or the equally rapid but more brutal changes of ‘totalitarianism’ or modern tyranny. Imagined authority wants to accelerate those changes, to move onward to a future that seems to resolve the unresolvable tensions of the human condition.

    Brautigan’s narrator attempts to find authority in childhood, rather like an American Rousseau. Sennett’s narrator “weed[s] his memories… to clarify and refine his understanding,” yielding a materialist Kantianism. The procedures differ, but both men look to the modern substitute for reason and revelation: sentiment. Unfortunately, sentiment’s multifariousness equals or exceeds that of reason, or perhaps even that of revelation. As a substitute for other forms of authority, it is insufficiently authoritative. Modern individualism undercuts itself in its very self-assertion

     

    Filed Under: Manners & Morals

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