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Truth on the Battlefield.

by Dan Rather

Between News and the Notional Interest

Reflecting on the evolving interplay between those who wage war and those who report on it, I'm reminded of the speculation, indulged in by more than one historian, on what effect television cameras and correspondents might have had on the pointless slaughter of World War I. Would all that tragic futility--the long and bloody stalemate in the trenches that defined so much of that struggle--have been cut short if it had been beamed into the world's living rooms on a nightly basis? It is a question built around a romantic vision of electronic journalism, that visual images (buttressed by trenchant voice-over scripts) of what was truly taking place on the killing fields in Europe could have changed the course of history.

As far as "what if?" scenarios go, this one is certainly pleasant to contemplate. It is most gratifying to believe that the craft I have chosen for my life's work could have saved millions of lives at a critical juncture in world history. Whether the conjecture has enough merit to be defended is a question best left to others. Far be it for me to second-guess historians, even when they are indulging in fantasy.

History is tricky, whether one is superimposing the present on the past or applying the lessons of the past to the future. As Stanford historian James J. Sheehan has written, "History often seems to lie just beyond our reach. But at the same time, it is all around us, shaping the way we view the world and insinuating its lessons for the future. And this can be dangerous."

We cannot know how today's journalistic technology would have affected World War I any more than we can know the degree to which our experiences with past wars will prove relevant to combat and to its coverage in the future. What I can assert with absolute certainty is that back in the 1950s, when I was a young reporter just starting out in my hometown of Houston, Texas, there was no idle speculation about how the power of television coverage could have brought an earlier end to World War I. At the time, television was still a new and cumbersome medium--one that had neither the technology nor the resources to cover combat on a daily basis. As it struggled through its early years, television's reporting of major events from distant locations closely resembled the superficial style of the newsreels that were a staple at movie theaters in the 1930s and 1940s (Oscar Levant once quipped that a newsreel is a "series of catastrophes that ends with a fashion show").

Yet revolutionary changes did occur. As the 1950s drew to a close, the time was fast approaching when television would muscle its way into the forefront of serious daily journalism. But nearly a decade would pass before the phrase "living-room war" would enter America's national vocabulary.

Partners in War

For my generation, the world war that had the most direct and telling impact was not the first but the second. For those of us who were born during the early years of the Great Depression, World War II was a dominating presence in our lives as we passed from childhood into adolescence, with a legacy that remains strong to this day. As I moved through my years as an apprentice at radio and television stations in Houston and on to the fast track of network journalism at CBS, many of my older colleagues had been involved in World War II, as either combatants or correspondents. It was only natural, I suppose, that I would be influenced by these more seasoned reporters and by the values and attitudes that had been shaped, at least in part, by their experiences in World War II.

Of all the dynamics that defined reporting during the war, perhaps the most startling was how thoroughly the guidelines of objectivity; long regarded as the sacred pillar of journalistic integrity; were suspended. When it came to the overall purpose of the war, the US correspondents (and their Allied counterparts) were no less committed to the defeat of Nazi Germany and Imperial Japan than were the commanders who led their troops into battle. As a result, the notion that our armed forces needed somehow to "handle" the press was irrelevant. Press relations--or "media" relations, as the Pentagon would have phrased it--did not yet exist in the way we recognize them from our post-Vietnam experience.

During World War II, the lines of distinction between the press and military were so blurred that journalists were required to wear uniforms with a large "C"--for Correspondent--stitched on the sleeve where the rank insignia would normally be found. Even more telling is the way in which war correspondents were placed in actual combat roles at times, as were a number of those who covered the air war in the European theater in 1943.

Because covering the air war from the ground was often a frustrating experience, a few of the correspondents badgered the Air Force brass for permission to accompany the crews on a bombing mission. They desperately wanted to view the action themselves, instead of having to rely on the recollections of the pilots and crews. After some initial reticence owing to the risks involved, the Air Force reluctantly gave its consent, on one condition: that the journalists would have to undergo rigorous training, including being taught how to fire 50-millimeter machine guns, for they were told that they would be expected to shoot at any enemy aircraft they encountered on the mission. When the time came to take part in the actual mission, the correspondents were ordered to open fire on the swarms of Folke-Wulfes and Messerschmitt aircraft that were zooming in on them. Blast away they did, as though their lives depended on their prowess as machine gunners--which may well have been the case.

A disproportionate number of the reporters involved in this particular case went on to become giants of American journalism. One was the legendary Homer Bigart, regarded by many as the greatest war correspondent of his generation (he would win two Pulitzer Prizes, one for his work during World War II and the other for his stories from the Korean War). Walter Cronkite and Andy Rooney, who would go on to distinguished careers at CBS, were also in this group. Yet the stories these distinguished men filed--predictably and understandably--reflected the human impulse to identify wholeheartedly with the cause they had joined. Peppered throughout are references to how "we fought off" German fighters, on "our mission" to drop "our bombs" on the enemy.

This was altogether typical of reporting in the United States during World War II, though it does not mean that reporters were uncritical propagandists or rubber-stamp robots for the military's point of view. Even under conditions of strict censorship, they challenged decisions to cut or embargo their copy and won a fair number of these arguments. For the most part, the officers assigned to work with the press took on their duties with open minds. If reporters were able to convince the officers that the deleted or delayed material would in no way jeopardize security or other classified considerations, then there was a good chance that a decision to censor would be reversed.

The best of the World War II correspondents also prided themselves on their accuracy. In their coverage of the D-Day invasion, for example, they did not flinch from reporting on all the bloodshed. Thanks to their eyewitness accounts from Normandy, civilians back home soon became aware of the terrible price in casualties the Allies were paying to secure those beachheads. Later, during the Allies' triumphant push across Europe, American reporters did not gloss over the occasional setbacks, most notably at the time of the Battle of the Bulge, when the US and British commands were caught napping. Even though I have chosen to focus on the European theater, comparable examples could easily be drawn from the war against Japan in the Pacific.

At the heart of the harmonious bond between the military and the press during World War II was a clear sense of mutual trust and shared objectives. The military brass generally recognized that the primary concern of most US correspondents was the welfare of the American troops and a complete victory that would bring an unconditional end to tyranny in Europe and Asia. In return, the journalists trusted the officers to understand that, within the necessary limits of security, the flow of honest reporting was a freedom to respect--indeed, it was a freedom they were fighting to defend in the war.

From Truth to Cynicism

These were the experiences of the generation of reporters who were mentors to the war correspondents of Vietnam. It can be dangerous to apply the lessons from past battles to the future. It can even be dangerous to apply the lessons of past wars about propaganda and press relations. Such was the professional baggage my colleagues and I took into Southeast Asia. We began coverage of the war prepared for an atmosphere of mutual trust.

In war, so goes the cliche, truth is the first casualty. In Vietnam, trust also took a big hit, almost from the start. From that loss came many problems, so many that one hardly knows where to start listing them, much less to offer a thoughtful analysis.

The way the United States fought the Vietnam War and the way journalists covered it were light years apart from their counterparts in World War II. Vietnam was the first television war and the first uncensored war. It was longer than World War II, and the United States never fully mobilized to fight it. Total victory was never a goal, a definition of "winning" never clear. Regular journalists were not in uniform, and the press corps was truly international and impartial. Complexities and difficulties abounded in ways no one in the military or in journalism could have imagined during the combat of the 1940s. Professional objectivity was the paramount goal of the overwhelming majority of American reporters and many others who covered the war.

From the point of view of at least one journalist--this one--a core problem began with the belief held by some US political, diplomatic, and military leaders that they could effectively mislead journalists and, through them, the public about the reality of the war: the political mess in South Vietnam and an extremely difficult, uphill combat situation. Neither the very top political leaders nor their diplomatic and military chiefs in the Kennedy, Johnson, and Nixon administrations believed they could afford to level with the public.

When journalists went to Vietnam, they found a political, diplomatic, and military quagmire, and when they reported it, efforts were made to discredit them both professionally and personally. This led to an escalation of mistrust between experienced journalists and the country leadership. Had the history of World War II not colored each side's expectations of the other's behavior going in, the sense of betrayal may not have been nearly so powerful.

Mark well, there was a baseline level of mutual trust--just not between the press and the top ranks. Relations between most journalists and military people of field-grade rank (major) and below were actually reasonable throughout the war, perhaps because we shared a worm's-eye view of how it was being fought, at what cost, against what odds. During the course of my own experience, I do not recall thinking that anyone below the rank of colonel ever knowingly tried to mislead me about anything. Indeed, time and again, they were remarkably candid about what they were doing, why they were doing it, what their difficulties were, and how they saw the war, big picture and small.

The problems with the military were mostly at flag rank, with a few top generals and the admirals. Most did try to be honest, but the few who were not (and there were very few) tended to be of the very highest rank. Their disdain, distrust, and even outright disgust for the press polluted the information environment. This was the exception, not the rule, but it was enough to make a critical difference.

The public at home, understandably and admirably, in my opinion, wanted to believe their government. And because they wanted so badly to believe they were being told the truth, they believed what their leaders were telling them despite strong evidence to the contrary appearing every night on their television screens, every morning in their newspapers, and every week in their newsmagazines. The public at large did not seriously begin to question the war until casualties mounted to the point where every neighborhood saw a flag-draped coffin return or saw the boy down the street come back without his legs or his eyes. This grim and inevitable result of the war's escalation was key in turning the tide of public opinion; it brought the war home to people in a much more forceful way than campus demonstrations or press coverage ever did. And, by the time of the Tet Offensive in 1968, the public's rising doubts about government propaganda overflowed into general distrust. People started to realize one of two things: their government had either lied to them or was wildly mistaken. Perhaps it was guilty of both.

The Media-Military Divide

The battlefield lessons of Vietnam led to the US military's current preoccupation with firm exit strategies and the doctrine of massive force. These seem to have generally served the armed forces well, though closer analyses of our more recent conflicts might also offer a decidedly more mixed verdict, especially if one factors in long-term political objectives (for example, an end to the fighting in the Persian Gulf War that nonetheless left Saddam Hussein in power). But Vietnam seems also to have taught the civilian and military command structure that the press, far from being a clear ally as in World War II, was a potential adversary to whom information must be spoon-fed with the greatest care and precision.

True to the pitfalls of applying lessons learned in previous conflicts to the situation at hand, the Persian Gulf War provided an example of how such a "media-relations" strategy can ultimately work against the armed forces. From a military standpoint, the Gulf War was a brilliant victory of modern, integrated forces executing an exceptionally well-developed battle plan, from Special Forces' work inside Iraq before the main ground offensive, to the success of vertical envelopment attack, to the role of air power in the eventual flanking operation to the west of Kuwait. In its totality, it was the stuff of military legend: doing the impossible, and doing it in record time.

But history may not give this victory the full measure of what those who earned it deserve because the record is sparse, and what there is of it is confusing. Excessive censorship and control of the press hid much of the accomplishment at the time and has shrouded much of it since then. The shroud includes a weave of confusion and uncertainty caused by the fact that those who set the rules allowed so little of the first-hand record to be compiled by independent witnesses. Too many unnecessary controls and ill-conceived policies concerning the flow of information clouded a story of great courage, effective strategy; and mighty triumph.

An over-emphasis on censorship and control of information does not necessarily benefit the military; indeed, it presents a danger to the country. People may say that truth is the first casualty of war, but I don't believe that it has to be. It had better not be, not when the United States of America has fighting men and women in the field. I believe that in war, truth is our best weapon. Even the tough truths. Even if the truth is that US troops are getting the hell kicked out of them.

I am not proposing that every commander tell every reporter the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth in any and all circumstances. I am saying that it is best not to lie. It is best to tell as much of the truth as possible, as quickly as possible. In the United States, only an informed citizenry will send its young people to fight and die for any extended period--and only then if citizens are convinced that the cause is just and worth the price, and that no other reasonable course is open. I believe any military commander who tries to mislead the people about the truth for very long will be doomed--and it is likely that the forces he leads will be doomed as well.

Misreading Success

In war, truth is the first necessity. But in war, as in so much else in life, the easy wrong is tempting in the face of the tough right.

Because the immediate outcome of the Persian Gulf War was a favorable one, the US military may believe that it has now found the right formula to compensate for the post-Vietnam changes in its relationship with the press. For this reporter, the restrictions that the armed forces placed on information make such a hypothesis distasteful and dangerous. Even from the Pentagon's point of view, the Gulf War experience is not likely to be of nearly as much value in future wars as many of our political and military leaders now seem to believe.

There are many reasons for this. On one side, the technology of newsgathering and coverage is changing at record speed; the press--the "media"--is almost daily, it seems, becoming more integrated and international, and press leadership is itself in a constant state of flux. On the other side, the nature of the conflict is unlikely to be duplicated in any predictable way.

In the decade since the Gulf War, the continuing miniaturization of equipment and other advances are making everything from cameras to satellite communications much better adapted to battlefield conditions than anything available in the Gulf War. At that time, CBS News had at its disposal some of the smallest, most up-to-date equipment for live, on-scene coverage. The necessary equipment fit in the back of a jeep, which enabled CBS to be the first with live pictures and sound from Kuwait City. Very soon, though, a lone correspondent will be able to carry all these tools inside a backpack. And soon after that, it will all fit in the pocket of a bush jacket. All of this and more in the exploding world of new, smaller, better technology has deep ramifications for how much and how little control any commander may have over what is and is not covered. What this increased portability will mean in practical terms can be anticipated, but it cannot be fully known until the technology is put to use under fire.

The same is true of the independent satellite pictures that are now available to news organizations, in addition to the military and intelligence agencies that are accustomed to being their sole guardians. Further, mergers of international news organizations and cooperative news-gathering efforts by news organizations of different nations would seem to point to a future in which war coverage is no longer split into competing, monolithic versions according to country.

Finally, we should remember that the Gulf War was a short war, with few casualties on the Allied side. The other most recent episodes of extreme press restrictions, Panama and Grenada, were similarly limited. Quick, decisive wars make it relatively easy for the military to get control and keep control of news coverage. Stonewalling, sophistry, even outright lying may work for a short time--especially when the euphoria of history overwhelms all. Long, bloody wars in which the outcome dangles in doubt make such efforts harder. The next war in which the United States is involved may be similar to the Gulf War, but odds are that it will not be.

Perhaps most important, though, is the human factor. Those who lead, fight, and cover the wars of tomorrow will be of a different generation. They will be working not in the shadow of Vietnam, but in the wake of the Gulf War. They will carry lessons from the latter conflict at the outset but, like my contemporaries and I who learned from the World War II correspondents, they will quickly develop their own perspectives dictated by the conflict at hand.

What will remain the same is the need for honest and dependable information from the field. This is what our system demands, and journalists will continue to do what they can to get it. I believe this is an advantage for our fighting men and women. Military leaders and journalists may agree to disagree about this, but in a constitutional republic based on democratic principles, a high degree of communicable trust between the leaders and the led is absolutely essential, especially in times of crisis.

We forget this at our peril. If the public is misled, if they are not told the truth--or if, through unnecessary secrecy and deception, they lack information on which to base intelligent decisions--the system, or some version of it, may go on. But it will not survive as a constitutional republic based on democratic principles. Political leadership may be able to survive for a time on the politics of lying, but not the country. War, moreover, cannot be sustained for long and cannot be victorious in a society such as ours if the military systematically conspires with civilian leaders in the politics of deception. Vietnam showed us how a disconnect between a war's reality and the leadership's official line can come dangerously close to pulling us apart.

Skepticism with Honesty

I am not convinced, though, that most US military personnel or journalists necessarily disagree on these fundamental precepts. On the contrary, I believe that most of the two groups do agree on the need to tell the people the truth and to give them honest information about the war and about their fellow citizens in uniform.

What is needed is a better understanding among military personnel and journalists that it is in the nature of political leadership to want to wedge us apart. The challenge is to retain the attitude of World War II, where press and military saw themselves as partners in patriotism, each needing the other to fulfill their different roles, but without the press abdicating the healthy skepticism learned in Vietnam. Our roles sometimes place us in adversarial positions, but we can and should be partners in trying to get truths about national defense to fellow citizens. In this spirit, perhaps, the soldiers and the journalists can find ways to work together, as can diplomats and journalists. With political leaders, developing such a spirit could prove more difficult, but it is no less important.

The new, more immediate, and more international media, with its immensely expanded reach into homes and decision-making centers around the world; the advances in weaponry and battlefield information systems; and the emergence of a global economy all place new and different demands before the political leaders who will try to keep the peace and who, failing that, will command the next war. But what should not and will not change in a country such as the United States is the absolute necessity of a high degree of trust between the leaders and the led whenever, wherever, and under whatever conditions any future war is fought. And for that we must not only look to the past and its inevitably imperfect lessons but also ahead. No one wants to fight the next war, and no one wants to cover it. But if we hammer out some understandings beforehand, we might find that truth and battlefield success can coexist.

DAN RATHER is anchor and executive editor of the CBS Evening News and the recent author of Deadlines and Datelines.

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