I had met the Chinese premier, Chou En-lai, for several conversations during the Bandung Conference of 1955, when twenty-nine nations dissatisfied with the leadership provided by the major industrial nations met in stormy sessions to protest and pass resolutions calling for a rearrangement of world power. I had been deeply impressed by Chou’s conciliatory performance there and had told him so; now I was meeting him after he had become one of the most powerful leaders in the world, and again I congratulated him as we talked of the days in Bandung.
The Chinese had assigned as guide to me the head of what would be their equivalent of Associated Press, and he and his wife were examples of how thoroughly Mao Tse-tung’s people worked, for the man knew all about me and used me to excellent purpose to learn about American politics. But I also used him by insisting that he take my complaints to his superiors, because the Chinese had been almost contemptuous of President Nixon and his party. I warned my guide: ‘Your people must understand that if this chilly reception continues, the United States will play its Russian card, and when that happens China will be completely isolated.’ Buckley was telling his guide the same, and what we said must have been fortified by others, for my guide became intensely interested in American-Russian-Chinese relations and, with the assistance of his wife, interrogated me intensively. He was well informed and in no way antagonistic, and he assured me that Mao and Chou were aware of our displeasure at the poor reception and would change that situation immediately. The close of the China visit was much more pleasant than the beginning.
Having started with Nixon on his 1972 mission, I stayed with him on his visits later that year to the Soviet Union, Iran and Poland, and although the results were less spectacular than in China, he himself appeared at better advantage. He was an admirable negotiator, a suave representative and a man of solid perceptions. He shone wherever he went and impressed all who met him with his obviously sincere desire for improved relations. People who would later have grounds to denigrate him would have difficulty ignoring these real triumphs of foreign policy.
In Iran I proved that I was unfit to be a secret agent, because these were the days when Mohammed Reza Shah Pahlavi was riding high and I was not clever enough to detect that his was a cardboard throne that would soon be toppled. But I was amused to see the leaders of our nation kowtowing to him because, as I kept reminding my fellow scribes: ‘Remember that in 1919 his father was a peasant who got a job in the cavalry looking after the horses, a stable boy, if you please.’
‘How did his son become Shah?’
‘Revolts within the army, the old man becomes a general, revolts within the state, he becomes Shah. When he dies, his son inherits the job and awards himself the august title Shah-in-Shah.’ But although I had known Iran moderately well prior to Nixon’s visit, I was not perceptive enough to see how imperiled was the pompous King of Kings.
My perceptions were sharper when we stopped in Poland, my first visit to that country, for even in a whirlwind tour I became so convinced that events of great moment would have to erupt here that I would return time and again to study this unfortunate but heroic land with no defensible frontiers. In time I knew it so intimately that I would devote several years to exploring the meaning of Poland so that I could write about it in a coherent way.
In my travels with President Nixon I learned a limited amount about China, Russia, Iran and Poland, but a great deal about Nixon himself. I saw at close hand how his wife strove to support his missions and how she seemed always to be relegated to the background. I saw how Nixon maintained his uneasy relationship with the press, and I reached the conclusion that although he had a master touch in foreign relations, he was not at ease with his own people or his own country. Three times I would be his guest at the White House; once with the USIS board I would meet with him in the Oval Office as he wrestled with problems in Chile, and always I would see an extremely bright man, well informed on a wide variety of subjects, and one eager to please his constituency and leave a solid reputation behind.
When the Watergate scandals broke I told anyone who would listen: ‘Eisenhower or Kennedy would handle this in one television broadcast: “We’ve made a wretched mistake, but the men principally responsible have been fired. I apologize for having let it happen and promise you it will never recur.” And the American people would have bought it. Nixon can do the same.’ But he never accepted the responsibility. I felt so grieved at seeing a powerful man go down that, as I said earlier, I volunteered to help stem the rot, and when this proved futile, I was one of the first to advise, in the pages of The New York Times, that he resign on the grounds that used to be used to get rid of faulty emperors in China: ‘The mandate of heaven has been withdrawn.’ He had lost the nation’s confidence. I did not exult when he departed, for I had seen that he could have been a much better man than he proved to be in that dreadful year of 1974.
My other political service was a more rewarding experience in that it involved constructive counseling. In 1983, when American troops were slated to invade Grenada, our military leaders made a decision that seemed sensible to them at the time but perilously wrong in retrospect: ‘We’ll keep this operation entirely secret, both in planning and performance. Tell the news media nothing till it’s neatly wrapped up.’ The invasion took place within a total news blackout and all reporters, whether press or television, were kept totally uninformed till a decision had been reached and victory assured.
After the event all hell broke loose, because a principal tenet of warfare as conducted by a democracy—the electorate must be kept informed and involved—had been breached. Defenders of both the news media and the national welfare condemned this military arrogance so bitterly that the Pentagon realized, far too late, that it had run a fearful risk in conducting a secret war.
The criticism grew so strong that Defense Secretary Caspar Weinberger did a sensible thing: he consulted his Harvard classmate, Theodore White, the highly regarded political writer, and White recommended that Weinberger assemble a group of unexcitable older newsmen who had seen a lot of war to advise the military on how to avoid the pitfalls of the Grenada operation. This was done, and at the first Washington meeting of the small group Caspar and Teddy had selected, there were several who were veterans of a score of major battles in the field and policy struggles with their newspapers and television stations. Bob Sherrod, who had written some of the great on-the-scene reports of the Pacific war, was there, as were Walter Cronkite, who had covered the European theater; Eric Sevareid, with his wide knowledge of military affairs; and, of course, Teddy White, who had covered war in China. I was probably the oldest member, with extensive knowledge of both World War II and the Korean War. There was, of course, a public committee of experienced veterans meeting on this problem, too, and it included several of my friends, but we were the private clean-up crew whose discussions and findings would be kept private.
Our purpose was to help the military leaders avoid future actions that would alienate them from the general public, and although I played only a minor role in the discussions, it did fall to me to make the opening statement: ‘For the military to argue that they kept the press out to protect reporters lest they get hurt is not only preposterous but degrading. In Korea the percentage of press people killed in action was higher than that of any of the armed services. We went everywhere, took all risks, and in a shocking number of cases saw our fellow reporters killed. Your generals must in decency not use that excuse again.’
Next I made my important point: ‘The easiest way for an army to be defeated is for the home front to revolt against it. This happened to Russia in World War I and in a sense to Italy and Germany in World War II. A sequence of Grenadas, especially if a couple turn sour, could have a devastating effect on civilian morale and might erode support to a disastrous degree. Please, please take the whole society into your confidence if you start a military action.’
‘Surely secrecy should be maintained in actual operations?’ a general asked, and
I said: ‘Of course. Even far into the battle. But the general public must be allowed to know that a war is going on.’
At that point White and Cronkite assumed command of the discussion and their counsel was far more specific and relevant than mine. In the various meetings our informal committee held with Weinberger the harsh facts of military-civilian interrelationships were examined, and all of us older civilian men advised strenuously against secret military operations of any magnitude. At the same time we recognized and even appreciated the military’s inherent distrust of newsmen, who seem so often to get military men into trouble.
Weinberger knew well what we were talking about and how relevant our recommendations were. I found him sharp, but left our final session suspecting that when another Grenada loomed, as it might at any moment in Central America, the inclination of the field commanders would still be: ‘Keep the damned media away. They can only cause us trouble.’ We were worried about the consequences if secrecy became the rule.
Shortly thereafter Teddy White died prematurely, and we met no more, but I believe we had said all we were entitled to say, and we had been heard.‡
Why did I feel so strongly on such matters and what qualified me to speak so firmly? Two experiences.
Even though I could have been excused from service because of my religion, I had participated in World War II, a war that practically every American citizen had supported. No matter how deeply I penetrated into the recesses of the New Guinea jungle or how isolated I was on a remote coral atoll, I could feel the support of my countrymen and was reassured.
In the Korean War I’d had an opposite experience: our democracy lacked the courage either to declare war against the Communists or to mobilize the civilian economy in support of the quasi-war we were fighting. Arbitrarily we told certain young men: ‘You go to the icy ridges in Korea and protect us,’ while telling other young men of similar age and background: ‘You can remain home and earn a pile of money.’ At the same time we assured the general public: ‘Don’t inconvenience yourself. Don’t even pause in whatever you’re doing. Make a bundle. There’s no war.’
I was so disgusted with this unjust posture that I left my civilian work and, although approaching fifty, went to Korea. I accompanied the Marines on their retreat from the Hungnam reservoirs, flew combat missions with the Navy off their carriers, and served with a remarkable Marine division on the front farthest north in midwinter. The more I saw of the war, the more I realized how bitterly wrong it was for a democracy to engage in battle on foreign soil without enlisting the support of its entire civilian population. From the trenches and carriers I drafted an impassioned protest against the imposition of an unacceptable burden on the few who were called upon to fight. I knew then that if we got away with such immorality in Korea, and we did, we would be tempted to use the same strategy again, and we did—in Vietnam. When the troops of the Ohio National Guard murdered four student antiwar protesters at Kent State University in Ohio in 1970, I hurried out to investigate and found myself at the very heart of the danger I had foreseen so clearly in Korea. Surrounded by young men of draft age who did not want to go to Vietnam, I counseled many of them in long evening sessions after my day’s work was done. They knew that the way the war was being conducted was militarily ridiculous, with no real drive to win, and disgraceful on a human level, with disadvantaged young men being called to overseas service while privileged young men had four escape hatches about which they were cynically informed: ‘Mr. Michener, we face tough choices we have to make before our draft numbers come up. Safest and best is to hide in graduate school, law or medicine. Next best is to say we want to become teachers. Third best is to run off to Canada or Sweden. Fourth best is to wangle a spot in the National Guard, but if you do that you run a risk, though a very slight one, that your unit might be called up.’
Invariably I reminded them: ‘There’s a fifth way, the one I took in the other wars. Allow yourself to be drafted.’
When they said quite openly that they wanted none of that, I accepted their decision and then tried to analyze each of their options: ‘Law and medicine are honorable careers and I see nothing wrong in pursuing them, but I think you would be better doctors and lawyers if you served your country first. I’ve been a teacher and know what dedication is required to work long hours for little pay. I don’t think you ought to use that as a refuge, because we need good teachers, not runaways. Repugnant as it would be for me to kite out to either Canada or Sweden, I appreciate the reasons that might impel you to go, but I fear you’d have a heavy conscience later on, and undoubtedly even suffer legal penalties.’
‘What about the National Guard?’
Here I faced an ugly dilemma, for although I was well aware that many young men looked on the National Guard as the most honorable way to avoid overseas service, I had had an experience that colored my views on the matter. For one long spell I served with a Marine division in the worst part of the Korean mountain front. Terrible weather, worse terrain. I lived in the tent next to General Selden, a tough old bird, and every night he invited me to attend the briefings for the next day, and they went like this: ‘Tomorrow we attack at 0400. On our left flank we have those ROK’s and we know they’ll go forward with us. On our right flank we have that National Guard unit from”—and he mentioned the state from which it came—“so we have to be prepared for various contingencies. If they go forward with us and the ROK, fine, but of course they never do. If they stay in place but refuse to do their share, we must rush extra men to the right corner where their absence will make us vulnerable. If they start forward but then run back, we’ll have to protect our whole right flank.’ And that was the nature of each night’s briefing.
When I asked why General Ridgway didn’t remove the Guard unit from the line, Selden explained: ‘Politics. If he did that, which he should, every National Guard general in the United States, and they’re politicians you understand, not military men, would raise hell. Claim that we’re downgrading the Guard.’ He looked glum, then added: ‘You know the problem with that unit over there: Mothers back in the home state’—he mentioned one of the wealthy, favored states—‘protest to the papers: “Why should our sons have to go to Korea when the government could just as easily send units from the backward states like Mississippi or Arkansas?” When you have a Guard unit on your flank, you can count on having big trouble, political trouble.’
I told the young men at Kent State: ‘I accompanied our Marines on several night patrols, and we could never depend on the National Guard unit to scout their terrain. They didn’t like to go out at night. So don’t ask me to recommend the Guard as a way out. It’s available, but is it honorable?’
With those experiences modifying my attitudes toward the Vietnam war it is understandable that I did not want to become involved in what was a shameless adventure. Without doubt it was one of the most deplorable our nation has ever been involved in, not because the enlisted men in the field performed poorly, or because the young officers from West Point and Annapolis failed to do their jobs, but because as a nation we believed we could fight a war without our entire nation’s being mobilized to prosecute the war, and because we adopted the hideous policy of sending the sons of poor families to do the fighting while the sons of the rich were offered a cheap escape. The conclusions I had drawn about the immoral aspects of the Korean War were reinforced by the injustices of our system in Vietnam.
My reaction to the efforts to avoid service was illogical: I understood when the young men who talked with me that winter at Kent State tried desperately to get into graduate school, and I turned my head when they enrolled to become teachers without any inclination for a career in education; I deplored their seeking asylum in some foreign country but knew why they were doing it; but I felt a kind of disgust for those who sneaked into the National Guard, for they were using a sly military trick to avoid an honorable commitment.
My work for the government ended in 1989, when, at the age of eighty-two, I reti
red voluntarily from the last of my assignments. Ironically, no sooner had I quit helping in the long battle against the Soviet Union than Europe began to enjoy the very freedoms for which I had struggled with pen and arms and personal resolve. Two nations that I had grown to love in the years of their distress—Hungary and Poland—attained liberties undreamed of when I worked there. Afghanistan saw the Russian retreat,§ and victory seemed to be blossoming in all quarters.
As to my evaluation of Mikhail Gorbachev, I remember one of the last judgments volunteered at our Munich radio station prior to my departure: ‘We are certain that glasnost and perestroika are real. All the information we receive from behind the Iron Curtain confirms that. The Baltic republics long for freedom. The Ukraine is hopeful. There are strong currents in Siberia. And all along the perimeter people strike for freedom. Incredible things are happening in Poland and Hungary, and the two Germanys are acting once more like brothers. So we know it’s happening. But what it means, and how secure Gorbachev is in his leadership we cannot even guess.’
On a more relaxed note: One afternoon officials in Washington telephoned me with the surprising information I was to be appointed to the select committee that determines what postage stamps the government shall issue. If this sounds like a fairly routine or even dull task, one should listen in on the quarterly meetings of that group.
Few of the collateral operations of the government are more fraught with emotion, logrolling, pressure and even anger than this matter of what agencies and individuals should be honored on our postage stamps. By this device the popular heroes of the republic are identified and in a sense sanctified, so the competition is intense. If the state of Nebraska is honored, citizens of Alaska demand equal treatment. If farmers are glorified, engineers shout for attention. And the pressure becomes intense or even bitter when coonhounds are honored but collies are not. Hundreds and even thousands of groups clamor for deification, and to the committee falls the onerous and sometimes hilarious task of sorting out the unacceptables and then adjudicating among the eligibles.