Cuban Missile Crisis - 60 years ago this week - Oct. 16-Oct 28 - from my novel, Shelter - A Cold War Memory

From chapter 8 of my novel, Shelter - A Cold War Memory 

Fall 1962. Tom Chapman, the narrator, is in the 7th grade. 

 

"My husband is in those ashes.”

             from Hiroshima, by John Hersey

"... but neither will we shrink from that risk at any time it must be faced."

             from President Kennedy's address to the nation, October 22, 1962

 

CHAPTER EIGHT

 Monday, October 22

            I waited for Cindy outside homeroom Monday morning before we climbed the stairs to first period. Her copy of Hiroshima was in her arms, on top of her notebook and school books.

            "Cindy, I read something about Hiroshima this weekend. Could I borrow your book some time?"

            She looked surprised to see me walking beside her, to have me talking with her.

            "I don't know. Gee, I have this science report next week and I'm using it, you see, and‑," she stopped suddenly to reach inside her blue-rimmed glasses to scratch her left eye. Her rims were even shaped strangely, rising at the top outside corners in a curve, reminding me of pointy little cat ears.

            "I'm sorry," I said, "I thought it was about the war with Japan and all and nuclear bombs."

            "Oh it is," she said, taking her hand away from her eye and looking straight ahead, "but it's also about burns and radiation." We turned the corner at the landing, by the main door, and climbed the next twelve steps. "Here," she resumed, taking Hiroshima from beside her notebook, handing it to me, and ‑ for the first time ‑ looking at me, "take it for a few days. I need it by the weekend, that's all. OK?"

            I told her I didn't want to keep her from doing her report, but she insisted I have it.

            "Thanks," I said, as we entered Room 106.

            "Maybe," she shrugged. I wondered what she meant by this, but she still wouldn't look at me. "It's hard to believe." Her eyes looked sad. "And depressing." She shook her head and turned away to take her seat there in the first row.

            It was the longest conversation we had had in nearly a year.

 

 

            Mr. Reynolds read us only one headline from the Times that morning: 

Capital's Crisis Air Hints

At Development on Cuba;

Kennedy TV Talk is Likely

"A couple of sentences," he went on, "from the article: 'There was an air of crisis in the capital tonight. President Kennedy and the highest Administration officials have been in almost constant conference all weekend, imparting serious agitation and tension to official Washington."'

            This must be why my uncle had missed Saturday's game. Mr. Reynolds encouraged us to watch the President on TV that night if he did speak. But our teacher did not sound excited about any of these developments.

            "It's unlikely anything will happen, however. As a nation we're great at saying things as if we mean them, but damned if we do anything. Speak boldly at times, yes, but carry a quiet little stick. Afraid of our own strength. We play the mild‑mannered gentleman, and do the 'proper thing' ‑ by not acting we show just how weak, and gutless, we really are."

            "Gutless." Was he using the word to describe President Kennedy? It seemed so. I could see Mr. Reynolds using this word, or one like it, with his football team. I heard the guys say he was a good coach, a tough coach. My final game had been on Friday; that Monday afternoon the season ended for all of us as Mr. Reynolds' team, the Lions, played the Bears for first place. I wondered if Mr. Reynolds would accuse his own players of being "gutless." I could almost imagine him barking at me, after a missed tackle, "Chapman, dammit, you're gutless!" Even if it sometimes seemed true. Not in football, I didn't think. In other ways. More important ways.

            I tried to get my mind back on what Mr. Reynolds was saying.

            "‑has now had six weeks to put together a plan on how to deal with Cuba. You hear the Times tell us we might be approaching a crisis. If it's not too late, I suspect that whatever we do will be too mild. Oh, well," and he gave a small shrug, "if he speaks, try to see some of what your President has to say."

            "And don't worry," he added, "about the possibility of me disappearing into the service. Am on alert now, I remind you, but again, it's terribly unlikely we'll be called up."

            I heard Ian whisper something to the boy in front of him ‑ I could almost hear the words myself ‑ and Mr. Reynolds looked their way.

            "Yes, I know you might like to see me disappear for a while, Gilbert. Sorry to disappoint you."

            Ian glowered, at first, but then he seemed embarrassed. He took his hands away from his mouth and put them on his desk, fidgeting, as if he did not know what to do with them, before finally folding them together. He kept his eyes down for much of the rest of the period.

            We listened to Pam and Gary give their reports. Pam spoke about what UNICEF stood for, and what the Children's Fund did; it was a reminder that Halloween was approaching. My plan for that year was to go around the neighborhood with the orange milk carton and trick‑or‑treat for UNICEF, and then bring in the $3 or $4 I usually collected to be sent to India and Africa. But I would not put on a costume. The year before Lynn came up with the idea of the two of us going out as the Kennedys: I was the President, all dressed up, in my Sunday School clothes, with a bow tie and a top hot; she was Jackie, with her hair puffed up, and lots of eye‑shadow and lipstick. It was fun ‑ fun to be greeted by the neighbors, "Oh, Jack and Jackie, what an honor! How nice of you to visit us! Won't you come in!" But I had outgrown costumes now.

             

            I often had half an hour after lunch to go play touch football, before going to French, but that day I walked back into my homeroom ‑ Mrs. Brady was gone, it was her lunch period, too ‑ and read Hiroshima instead. After school I stayed to watch the football game. The Lions won easily. Once home I continued to read Hersey's book. My father called us down when supper was ready, and I turned over the corner of page 38, and realized my stomach did not feel well. I placed the book on top of The Yearling. I was reading about Mr. Tanimoto's efforts to find his family after the bomb, courageously entering the city while everyone else was trying to escape. As he passed hundreds fleeing the city "every one of them," the book said, "seemed to be hurt in some way. The eyebrows of some were burned off and skin hung from their faces and hands. Others, because of pain, held their arms up as if carrying something in both hands. Some were vomiting as they walked. Many were naked or in shreds of clothing...." As I headed downstairs, I recalled Cindy's warning about this book.

 

            We sat down to eat. I usually loved my mother's lamb, but I wasn't hungry. My father spoke to Lynn and to me, "and you, too, Beth, if you want ‑ I'd like you to watch the President at 7:00, so let's hustle a bit."

            "Can't I watch?" Danny said, dropping his fork on his plate, loudly.

            My parents tried to explain to him that he wouldn't understand any of it, that he should try to be quiet and play in his room. We rushed through the rest of dinner. My father went upstairs with Danny, and Lynn assured my mother that we could take care of it, so she left, too. Beth and I put the dishes into the dishwasher and cleaned the pots and pans, and Lynn wiped off the stove and the kitchen table and put the leftovers away. I checked the kitchen clock when we were done: 6:56. I hurried upstairs to my parents' bedroom and sat down in front of my father's bed. My mother was already watching the end of the Huntley‑Brinkley broadcast. Lynn came in and took her place in the blue armchair near my feet, and Beth followed and lay down on my mother's bed.

            My father arrived just as a voice introduced President Kennedy. The TV showed the seal of the President of the United States. Kennedy sat at a desk behind a lectern and two microphones. Behind him were two flags, an American flag on the left, and a dark flag on the right, which I did not recognize.

            The bed behind me creaked as my father lay down.

            "Good evening, my fellow citizens."

            "Turn it up, Tommy, please," my father asked.

            I jumped up and increased the volume.

            "Thanks."

            I sat back down.

            "... the purpose of these bases," the President was saying, "can be none other than to provide a nuclear strike capability against the western hemisphere."

            The camera was closing in on his face. Now we could only see the very top of the two microphones, and just the gray background. I had noticed before how his eyes seemed rather close together; what I saw now, though, was how tired his eyes appeared. Even his voice sounded restrained, unemotional, that first minute or so. He did not talk in his usual spirited way; there was none of the crisp, cool style I had seen in his press conferences. He glanced down at his speech at the beginning of each sentence, then looked up for five or six words, and then back down again.

            "And having now confirmed and completed our evaluation of the evidence and our decision on a course of action," he said, "this government feels obliged to report this new crisis to you in fullest detail."

            He told us there were now, or there would soon be ‑ I couldn't tell from the way he said it ‑ in Cuba, "that imprisoned island," he called it, medium‑range ballistic missiles "capable of carrying a nuclear warhead for a distance of more than 1,000 nautical miles," and “intermediate‑range ballistic missiles capable of striking most of the major cities in the western hemisphere, ranging as far north as Hudson Bay, Canada, and as far south as Lima, Peru."

            With all his bending over to read his words, I saw his tongue more than I normally did. And his lower teeth. Not his upper teeth. There would be no broad smiles, no smiles at all, that evening.

            He went on. "This urgent transformation of Cuba‑," the pronunciation was more like "Cuber" this time, I thought, "‑into an important strategic base ‑ by the presence of these large, long‑range, and clearly offensive weapons of sudden mass destruction ‑ constitutes an explicit threat to the peace and security of all the Americas."

            He quoted several lines from the Soviet government ‑ I liked the way he made it a pattern: "and I quote ... unquote," using their words to show how they had deceived us. His voice grew more assertive, I thought, as he said, "That statement was false." It occurred to me that I should try to say it this way ‑ "quote ... unquote" ‑ when Mr. Reynolds called on me to give my report on Berlin. As in those three or four passages from my uncle: "As David Chapman, assistant to Secretary of State Dean Rusk, says, quote ... unquote." The President quoted Soviet Foreign Minister Gromyko's reassurances to him, commenting that in each case, and here his voice dropped heavily on the last word of the phrase, "That statement was also false."

            I was struck by how clean shaven President Kennedy looked, here at 7 p.m. at night. My father's hair wasn't as dark, but by supper time it often seemed as if he needed another shave. What a good, strong chin the President had, I thought. There was toughness in that chin. I thought of Mickey; Mickey had the thicker neck, but the chin, the wide jaw, they seemed to be the same. The President looked angry, in his way, but he was not about to lose control as Mickey might do, when he exploded. Nor would Kennedy swear at the Russians, the way Uncle David might have done, saying something like, "Those damned bastards!" Still, the President was mad.

            He continued to look down for his next phrase, but his pace quickened, and the words rolled out more smoothly.

            "... and our history, unlike that of the Soviets since the end of World War II, demonstrates that we have no desire to dominate or conquer any other nation or impose our system upon its people. Nevertheless, American citizens have become adjusted to living on the bull's eye of Soviet missiles located inside the U.S.S.R. or in submarines."

            Lynn, four feet away in the armchair, had pulled a Glamour magazine from off my mother's desk and was looking up and down ‑ at the President, and then at the women, the ads, the articles, and then back up again to Kennedy. His phrases grew choppier. The hard edge to his voice grew sharper.

            "But this secret, swift, and extraordinary build‑up of Communist missiles ... this sudden, clandestine decision ... is a deliberately provocative and unjustified change in the status quo which cannot be accepted...."

            The words were difficult to follow, but they seemed to pound away, as if a hand were silently pounding the desk with each point. I had seen him use his hands so often in his speeches and press conferences ‑ showing conviction and energy, as well as calmness and composure. But in this speech, those hands stayed beneath the lectern, out of sight.

            He spoke of the United States being opposed to war, but also being "true to our word." And so action was now necessary. It had already begun, he told us. "And these actions may only be the beginning. We will not prematurely or unnecessarily risk the cost of worldwide nuclear war in which even the fruits of victory would be ashes in our mouth ‑ but," and for these final two phrases he only looked down once, briefly, trying to keep his eyes on the camera, on us, as he spoke, "neither will we shrink from that risk at any time it must be faced."

            "Worldwide nuclear war." "Ashes in our mouth." I wanted him to stop. It made me think for a moment of scenes in Cindy's book. Of the city on fire, almost everywhere. Of terrible burns, of people burned so badly they were bleeding to death. Of the incredible numbers I had come across before dinner: 100,000 dead, and another 100,000 wounded. And all from only one bomb. Atomic bombs. They could not only destroy cities, as I was beginning to understand, they could do so much more....

            And the phrase ‑ "worldwide nuclear war." Where had I read about this? ... Then I remembered ... wasn't there something about this in his Inaugural Address, something I could not understand the year before when I had given my report?

            I wasn't sure I could follow the President even now. Winning, he said, would taste like death ‑ "the fruits of victory ... ashes in our mouth" ‑ but if that was the cost, he also seemed to be saying, we would pay it. Maybe I didn't understand. And he was going fast now. I could not keep up.

            The several steps already taken, he said, included "a strict quarantine on all offensive military equipment to Cuba...."

            "What's that, Dad?" I asked.

            "A blockade," he answered. "Like a road block ‑ at sea."

            The President was on his second step.

            "‑Should these offensive military preparations continue, thus increasing the threat to the hemisphere, further action will be justified. I have directed the Armed Forces to prepare for any eventualities...."

            I thought of Mr. Reynolds at home in Stamford, watching this, too. I wondered if these steps would please him.

            President Kennedy went on to the third step.

            "It shall be the policy of this nation to regard any nuclear missile launched from Cuba against any nation in the western hemisphere," he paused, "as an attack," another pause, "by the Soviet Union on the United States, requiring full retaliatory response," and he paused one more time, "upon the Soviet Union. Fourth."

            But I did not hear fourth, or fifth, or sixth.

            Now it was more clear what he was threatening. The phrase "worldwide nuclear war" made more sense to me now. A "full retaliatory response" was somewhat confusing, and yet the main idea was understandable. My father had taught me the word. "Never retaliate," he had said to me, and to the other pitchers on the Tigers, once, after a game in which two batters were hit, accidentally. "That's not for Little League. Not for kids. Don't you ever try to hit another batter."

            The President was giving his warning: we would pay them back, if they started it. After bombs hit us, lots of bombs would be sent from here to there ‑ to the Soviet Union. It might be the start of World War III. The fighting, the battles, would not be like those I had seen in movies about the Second World War on TV. There would be no submarines seeking the German cruiser, no airplane pilots shooting at each other over the Pacific. Just how it would be different, I would have to find out. I pictured Mr. Tanimoto running by all those people, arms in the air, burned, crying, fleeing from his city....

            "Seventh and finally," the President was saying, and I turned my attention back to his words, "I call upon Chairman Khrushchev to halt and eliminate this clandestine, reckless, and provocative threat to world peace and to stable relations between our two nations. I call upon him further to abandon this course of world domination and to join in an historic effort to end the perilous arms race and transform the history of man. He has an opportunity now to move the world back from the abyss of destruction...."

            What was an "abyss," I wondered? But I didn't want to interrupt again. "We have no wish to war with the Soviet Union, for we are a peaceful people who desire to live in peace with all other people," he said. At the same time he used the terms "the Soviet threat to peace" and "this latest Soviet threat," and warned that the United States would respond to "any hostile move anywhere in the world ... ‑ including in particular the brave people of West Berlin ‑ ... by whatever action is needed." I wondered what Berlin had to do with this, but I liked the phrase, calling those people brave. Uncle David would have agreed.

            He was now saying a few words "to the captive people of Cuba." I could tell he was nearing the end. Lynn was looking at Glamour now with even more concentration, apparently reading an article. As the President went on I reached out my foot to the side of her chair to nudge her, and nodded my head toward the TV. She opened her eyes widely, and glared at me; her lips were tight, but I could almost hear her saying: "mind your own business!" Even so, she turned her eyes back to the screen, and watched the final minute.

            He was speaking with more concern in his voice. "No one can foresee precisely what course it will take or what costs or casualties will be incurred. Many months of sacrifice and self‑discipline lie ahead ‑ months in which both our patience and our will will be tested, months in which many threats and denunciations will keep us aware of our dangers. But the greatest danger of all would be to do nothing."

            He spoke with extra forcefulness here. Yes, I was quite sure Mr. Reynolds would be pleased.

            "... The cost of freedom is always high," Kennedy said, and he held the word "high" for an additional second or two, "but Americans have always paid it. And one path we shall never choose, and that is the path of surrender," and he paused briefly, before adding, "or submission."

            I turned as Beth cuddled close to my mother, her head resting under my mother's chin, her eyes closed. My mother looked worried. She held Beth more tightly.

            "Our goal is not the victory of might but the vindication of right," he said, approaching the end of his speech, and the camera began to pull back again, and the microphones and the flags reappeared, "not peace at the expense of freedom, but both peace and freedom, here in this hemisphere and, we hope, around the world. God willing, that goal will be achieved."

            He nodded his head, a slight drop to one side, as if - I wasn't sure ‑ it seemed an odd gesture, somehow not quite right.

            "Thank you and good night," he said. I studied his face. He did not seem pleased.

            Sometimes after the President was on TV my father responded to Kennedy's words with a quick reply ‑ "And goodnight to you, too, Jack" ‑ but not this evening.

            "Flip it to 2," my father said, as he lit up a Winston. I did, to Walter Cronkite.

            Beth opened her eyes, and started to leave. So did Lynn, taking Glamour with her. I did not want to stay either.

            "What do you think?" my mother asked.

            I thought she was asking me. I did not know how to put it all together. There was something impressive in the bold, dramatic words. They had been serious, angry, and in a small way, hopeful. But more than anything the President had asked me to begin to imagine the possibility of "a worldwide nuclear war," of more bombs like the one that had destroyed Hiroshima ... falling on Moscow, New York, back and forth. Fallout shelters ‑ for the first time in months I thought about the bomb shelters several neighbors had installed. We would need to hide in one. I imagined that next door the Mills were getting fresh supplies ready, about to take them out to their shelter. Randy would bring lots of Coca‑Cola.

            And I thought of the President's words, of another possibility ‑ of a victory that tasted like "ashes in our mouth."

            "I don't‑," I began.

            "I wouldn't worry," my father said, more loudly, drowning me out. "Khrushchev's not that crazy. Seems to me that he's giving the Russians a clear line." He took a deep drag on his cigarette, and held the smoke in his chest for five or six seconds before exhaling. "I like it," he added, through the smoke. "I think it's on the money. Firm, strong."

            "But frightening, too, isn't it?" my mother added.

            Neither of them said a word to Lynn or Beth as they departed. I got up and moved for the door.

            "So a Russian ship tries to run through the blockade," my mother was saying, "are they going to blow it up? Is he really willing to start ‑ God knows what ‑ over a few missiles inside of Cuba?"

            "Ssshhh," my father demanded, "let's listen." Mr. Cronkite was summarizing the President's main points, and my parents remained quiet as I left the room.

  

            Danny was on the floor, playing on the new hockey set my father had given him the week before for his sixth birthday. He was spinning his players, trying to score with his defensemen from back near his own goal, shooting the marble between the opposing players and his own and on towards the other goal ‑ which had no goalie, I noticed, when I nearly stepped on him, a two-inch masked figure, stick in hand, crouched over, lying there beside Danny's knee.

            "Want to play?" he asked.

            "No thanks," I said, heading for our bookcase, where I thought I had last seen the Life magazine about the President's inauguration.

            What was it he had told us, in that speech? I found the special edition buried under a dozen copies of Sport and Sports Illustrated I had saved over the summer and fall. I turned on my light and sat on my bed and leafed through the photographs for a while before searching for those three passages that had puzzled me so much the previous spring. There they were: 

Man holds in his mortal hands the power to abolish all forms of human poverty ‑ and all forms of human life. 

Both sides (must) begin the quest for peace before the dark powers of destruction unleashed by science engulf all humanity in planned or accidental self‑destruction. 

... two great and powerful groups of nations ... racing to alter that uncertain balance of terror that stays the hand of mankind's final war. 

            They were still hard, but I understood these passages better now. The President had been more direct back then. It seemed to me he had been more truthful as well. They were like a prophecy.

            Like Joseph, it occurred to me. Predicting the future.

            Except that Joseph had figured out how to save lives. How to feed people during the seven years of famine. Seven years of withered corn and thin cows.

            The President was saying we as a country would be willing, in spite of the risk and the cost, to "retaliate."

            I put his speech back into my drawer. I thought of picking up The Yearling, but returned, reluctantly, to Hiroshima.