THE LIMITS OF U.S. POWER

IN the aftermath of World War II, the international casualty list read like a global roll call. Europe was an economic ruin; Russia was still reeling; Japan was shattered; China and Southeast Asia were torn by revolution. By comparison, the U.S. seemed a privileged party indeed. It boasted 40% of the world's income and a burgeoning economy. It was as rich as ever in natural resources, its population was growing, and it had an enormous output of food. It also had incredible military muscle; it possessed the world's only nuclear weapons. At the end of 1945 the U.S. had all the classic attributes of power. It had, says Hunter College Political Science Professor John G. Stoessinger, "the capacity to use its tangible and intangible resources to affect the behavior of other nations." And after a long era of isolation and inaction, the U.S. felt a responsibility to exercise its power in behalf of rehabilitation and order.

Under U.S. protection, Western Europe built back to prosperity, and Japan became the first nonwhite nation with an industrialized economy. Beyond the Iron Curtain, Russia and China reconstructed their own bases of power. As others grew, the relative power of the U.S. inevitably shrank. In two decades, its share of the world's income dropped to one-third, its steel production fell from three-fifths to onequarter, its great gold stock melted as the balance of payments shifted. And most significantly, it lost its unique position as the world's only nuclear nation.

It is a basic irony that the balance of terror between nuclear powers, which has helped to prevent a global conflict, has also hampered peaceful diplomacy. For the ability to exercise military force is the ultimate threat behind all international arguments. Yet the patent and proper reluctance of big powers to resort to their biggest weapons gives smaller states an opportunity for mischief and arrogance. The difficulty of reacting without overreacting sets a definite limit on power. Thus Castro feels free to talk tough with Russia; the Rhodesians thumb their noses at the British; little Cambodia dares the wrath of Red China. And North Korea boldly hijacks a ship of the U.S. Navy.

Inevitably, such non-nuclear confrontations sometimes lead to armed conflict. Then, as the U.S. has learned, and is still learning in Viet Nam, the limits of power expand into exasperation. Determined not to use its nuclear might, a big power must be doubly cautious with its conventional weapons. For no one can be certain of the level of warfare that might earn a smaller belligerent some nuclear assistance from outside. And these days, even conventional arms are so devastating that they demand restraint.

Threats & Timidity

There are other limitations. A strong nation can shrug off the disapproval of its friends--but not for long, as Britain learned to its dismay when world opinion forced it to retreat from Suez in 1956. It does not follow, however, that when friends agree with a course of action, their aid can be counted on. It is a paradox, says General Alfred M. Gruenther, that "our power tends to hurt the alliance system." The U.S., he points out, "seems so mighty that our smaller allies stand aside and say, 'Let the U.S. do it.' "

Attitudes at home set more stringent limits as a rising number of Americans demand to know why they must commit their strength on distant frontiers. They see a diminishing threat to their security as world Communism splits into opposing camps. They relax as the U.S. dialogue with Russia mellows; they worry less about a Red China hobbled by internal dissension. By their insistent questions they force the Administration to search for a set of priorities, to think twice before it exercises U.S. power.

Such restriction is often beneficial. At its best, it amounts to a requirement for valid explanation, for honest justification of U.S. actions. But as Lyndon Johnson continues to seek a consensus of approval, he remains a prisoner of critics who are often capricious. Many of the same people who urged Franklin Roosevelt to come to the aid of the Spanish Republic and fight fascism in the Spanish Civil War now call for a retreat from a fight against Communism in Viet Nam. One of their reasons: it is a civil war. Some of the loudest dissenters from any U.S. military presence in Southeast Asia were the most militant interventionists when the Arab-Israeli war erupted last June. For them the U.S. responsibility was plain: it called for warships at Aqaba, for guns and planes as fast as Israel might need them.

The clamor of opposition can hardly be avoided in a democracy. But if the President tries to satisfy everyone, he may end up using power so sparingly that he will satisfy no one. "The danger is," says University of Chicago Political Scientist Morton Kaplan, "that we will now hold back too much out of fear of another Viet Nam."

If that happens, the U.S. will be turning its back on contemporary history. John F. Kennedy learned at the Bay of Pigs that timid application of power can be worse than no exercise of power at all. Putting his experience into practice, he acted like a different leader during the Cuban missile crisis. He made it bluntly clear to Nikita Khrushchev that the U.S. was prepared to invade and overrun Cuba if the Russians did not remove their missiles. The result was a textbook settlement for a nuclear confrontation: both sides could claim a victory of a sort. The U.S. had erased a Communist threat, and Khrushchev could tell his people that he had prevented a U.S. invasion of Cuba.

Lyndon Johnson, too, profited from the lesson of the Bay of Pigs. When he and his advisers decided that U.S. intervention was required in the Dominican Republic in 1965, he used no halfway measures. The U.S. landed in force, the job was done with dispatch, and the critics who carped about "gunboat diplomacy" were simply ignored.

U.S. power is still considerable, and the responsibility to use it wisely has, if anything, grown over the years. The challenge is to find the right way to apply it to each situation. Threats may work against a probable enemy, as with Khrushchev in Cuba, but even angry coercion may not move a friend. Thus British ships still carry cargo for Hanoi.

What is needed most is a kind of moral suasion that applies power effectively before threats or coercion are necessary. It is difficult to achieve, and failure to find the right formula prevented the U.S. from heading off war in the Middle East last summer. But things were different when Cyrus Vance went to Turkey and Greece as a special envoy in November. At the time, war over Cyprus seemed certain; yet Vance managed to convince both sides to cool it.

Wits More than Brawn

Power is not easy to wield, but despite the restrictions, it does carry influence when used shrewdly. And it can be used in many ways, far short of war. U.S. aid, economic and otherwise, carries immeasurable weight in foreign capitals. It may be good politics in these days of growing nationalism for a country to be outspokenly independent, even loudly critical of the U.S. But it is not good politics to bear the unequivocal label of "and-American."

For all its shortcomings, the most effective form of U.S. power has been foreign aid. Today it can no longer be furnished as prodigally as it was following World War II, either in money or in arms. As a result, the U.S. is being forced to be selective--a not unhealthy circumstance. By using brains more often than brawn, the U.S. should be able to make its limited power suffice. Thus, as often happens in human ecology, its very limitations may challenge the U.S. to perform more effectively and intelligently.

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