Has Reston Kept Up With the Times?

Q. Have you ever been accused of being a friend of the White House?

A. Never. It is our job to watch them, not to be friends with them. --James Reston's column,   June 29, 1973

JAMES RESTON has watched presidents from Roosevelt to Nixon, and while he has not been friends with them, he has offered them a great deal of friendly advice in his columns. Reston seems more cynical these days, but he is still holding tightly to those exalted American institutions--the Presidency and the Republic. Nixon still can lift himself out of the Watergate quagmire, Reston says; by revealing the truth, Nixon can save his weakened presidency. Even after the disclosure of an 18-minute gap in one of the Watergate tapes, Reston said that by inviting leaders of Congress to the White House to talk about Watergate, Nixon "made progress toward restoring confidence in his battered administration" (column, November 16, 1973).

He admires Nixon for refusing to yield. In the same column, he wrote, "You can't blame a man for trying to save his honor and his life, and this is now obviously what [Nixon's] trying, and trying with some success, to do." Reston approaches the issue of impeachment with great reluctance. One can envision him sitting in front of his typewriter shuddering at the thought of what impeachment might do to the fragile presidency.

Obsessed with preserving the institution of the presidency, Reston pays too little attention to the fact that Nixon's presidency is not worth saving. Reston's fascination with powerful men, especially American presidents, goes back to his early reporting days. He respected Roosevelt and the way he ran the war, he admired Truman's straight-forwardness, he regarded Eisenhower as a light-weight. He both praised and criticized Kennedy, Johnson confused him, and Nixon confounded him. But while Reston could vilify the man, he maintained his awe of the office.

Of all the men and women who write for The Times, none has as great a reputation as Reston. He commands the respect of his newspaper's staff and publisher; his columns are read in congressional offices, the White House, and foreign capitals. It therefore is especially disturbing that he should take it upon himself to withhold news from the American people, to decide that he knows what constitutes the public's right to know.

The most flagrant instance of Reston's selfcensorship came in April 1961. Ten days before the Bay of Pigs invasion, Times reporter Tad Szulc put together a detailed story describing the training of Cuban refugees in Miami and the imminence of an invasion. But before the first edition came off the presses, Times publisher Orvil Dryfoos--on Reston's advice--ordered several changes. The story was moved from the lead column eight position to column four, and the headline was reduced from four columns to one column. All references to the imminence of the invasion were eliminated, and information linking the CIA to the invasion was omitted.

The story appeared on April 7. On April 17 the Cuban refugee force landed in Cuba. The U.S. government, through the CIA, was deeply involved in the invasion, although President Kennedy had assured the Washington press corps only three days earlier that the United States would not intervene in Cuba "under any circumstances" (press conference, April 12, 1961).

Kennedy reportedly said in 1962 that if The Times had printed all it knew, the United States would have been saved from a "colossal mistake." But Reston has maintained that disclosure would not have prevented the invasion, and that publication would have endangered the lives of the invading Cuban refugees.

Reston did not hide his distaste for Castro's Cuba. He said that the "self-interest of the [U.S.] undoubtedly requires the overthrow of the Cuban government of Fidel Castro, which is providing a political and, increasingly, a military base of communism in the Carribean" (column, April 12, 1961). The column was headlined "The Moral Question."

RESTON said in a 1965 lecture to the Council on Foreign Relations that "the rising power of the United States in world affairs, and particularly of the American president, requires not a more compliant press, but a relentless barrage of facts and criticism, as noisy but also as accurate as artillery fire."

But his vision of the press-as-cannon became press-as-popgun when "the national interest" was involved. Invocation of the phrase could limit his criticism of the government's Vietnam policy. And he knew of the U-2 flights a year before one of the planes was shot down, but his view of "the national interest" prevented him from printing what he knew.

In his 1965 lecture Reston said, "Much of the time, contrary to the official mythology, the people who write the news are not the enemies but the allies of public officials." But he is wrong to think that a government-press alliance is in the national interest. Government protects its own interests, and the press's job is to question the government's every action.

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Throughout his career on The Times, Reston has chased an elusive vision of America. Gay Talese wrote in his study of The Times, The Kingdom and the Power, that Reston's America "was a land in which the citizens seemed not so disenchanted, the police not so brutal, the United States's bombing in Vietnam not entirely unjustified, the politicans in Washington not so self-serving, the age of Jefferson not so long ago or lost in essence."

When Reston began working for The Times's London bureau in 1939, the U.S. had not yet felt the shock waves of the Vietnam War; most Americans shared Reston's faith in America's innate goodness. The day after the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor, Reston wrote: "The United States went to war today as a great nation should--with simplicity, dignity, and unprecedented unity."

HE DID not think 25 years later that the U.S. conducted the war in Vietnam with simplicity, dignity, or unity. He saw almost from the beginning that the U.S. government did not tell the whole truth about Vietnam, yet he did not lead American journalists in attacking the Kennedy and Johnson Administrations. He felt he had a role to play--as journalism's elder statesman and voice of moderation. He saw "a great nation" fighting someone else's war, but he gave the great nation the benefit of the doubt: he wanted more information before making a judgment.

Reston the reporter had been nurtured on war. As a mainstay in the London bureau during World War II, he learned daily that war reporters write for the censors. Wartime censorship made sense to Reston; he often has said that reporters must not delve into areas in a way that might threaten the country's safety. The lessons learned by Reston the war reporter helped form the values of Reston the columnist. Referring to Vietnam in his 1965 lecture, he said, "It is clear in this time of half-war and half-peace that the old principle of publish-and-be-damned, while very romantic, bold and hairy, can often damage the national interest."

But what is the national interest? Reston himself seemed unsure. He remembered the days when the United States led the march of history against Fascism. But in 1965 he saw a government marked by confusion instead of high-minded principles; a war waged with apologies, and not with dignity.

Despite Reston's skepticism toward the Kennedy-Johnson administration's policy in Vietnam, Reston could not bring himself to condemn the policy. He talked instead of "the fundamental question of ends and means," saying he had to have more facts before he could accept the necessity of America's war against the North Vietnamese.

Before the Gulf of Tonkin incident in August 1964, Reston opposed further U.S. involvement in Vietnam because he was unconvinced that the future of South Vietnam was vital to American security. When President Johnson began to claim that that was the case, Reston was satisfied--but only briefly. By 1965 he saw that the war could not continue without a massive U.S. ground troop commitment, and he knew that although Americans were unwilling to give up the end of halting communism, they were equally unwilling to use the means of such a large commitment.

Reston the unflagging optimist became Reston the disillusioned cheerleader. America the great nation had become, for him; the helpless giant. He wrote, "If there has been a decline in American optimism it is not because we do not know how to solve our problems, but because we do not yet know how to discuss them. The politicians insist on pretending that everything is soluble--that we can achieve almost unlimited ends with limited means--and while the people would like to believe it, they increasingly have their doubts" (June 6, 1965 column).

If the people did not, Reston did. Vietnam became a private war for him. His hawk-self wrestled with his dove-self. The hawk-self feared communist expansion and thus supported the original premise of the conflict ("The original American policy in Vietnam was far easier to understand than the present one"--December 1, 1965 column). But the dove-self saw the wanton destruction of human lives ("How many more men and planes can we send there without turning the war into an American war and destroying the country we are trying to save?"--same column).

In the end, Reston's dove-self won out, although he maintained an unshakable dislike of communism. Nixon's promises to end the war did not restore Reston's lost faith in America's Vietnam policy. When Nixon carpet-bombed North Vietnam at Christmas 1972, Reston wrote, "This is war by tantrum" (column, Dec. 26, 1972). In a news analysis written the day after the cease-fire agreement on Jan. 23, 1973, Reston again lamented the loss of America's innocence. "The guess here is that it will take some time to restore the self-confidence of the pre-Vietnam years, but it may be that the destruction of many popular misconceptions will produce a more mature, if sadder, nation."

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The burden of history weighs heavily on Reston. He frequently concludes a column in which he has presented both sides of a certain issue by reminding his reader that "the rest is now up to the historians."

Reston desperately wants his America to achieve a solid place in history; last summer, while Watergate witnesses daily revealed White House corruption, Reston mused on how Nixon's America would look on July 4, 1976--the nation's 200th anniversary. That the bicentennial was three years away did not stop Reston. In fact, he wrote as early as 1966: "The 200th anniversary of the Declaration of Independence will be celebrated ten years from this week, and while Americans are not normally enthusiastic about ten-year plans, it is a date worthy of some serious and sustained planning" (July 6, 1966 column).

He repeatedly returned to this theme after Nixon fired Archibald Cox last October. While other commentators demanded impeachment, and even the cautious Times called for Nixon's resignation, Reston worried about the anniversary celebration: "The issue is no longer of the Watergate tapes, or the Middle East, or even of the President, but the leadership of the Republic and the trust of the American people on the 200th anniversary of the nation on July 4, 1976, and between now and Jan. 20, 1977" (Oct. 28, 1973 column).

According to Reston's November 4 column, "Most of the nation has been too sad or preoccupied to think much about the 200th anniversary of the Declaration of Independence recently." And three days later: "There was a theory a year ago that Mr. Nixon would ... use his victory to bring about an era of reconciliation before the 200th anniversary of the Declaration in 1976."

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Reston cares about the bicentennial; the people do not. They are not sad, and they do not mourn the decline of the presidency or the tarnishing of the Republic. The people care about money and job security; they leave shattered political ideals to the columnists. But then Reston never talked to the people; he thinks he speaks for them, but he does not. Until 1968 he reported in addition to writing his column. His columns were filled with sub-stantiating evidence; they often revealed information not found elsewhere in the press. But since he has abandoned reporting--except for occasional exclusive interviews--his columns have consisted mostly of irrelevant philosophy.

In 1972 Reston was one of 11 recipients of the Horatio Alger award, given to men who rose from "humble origins" to a position of power. There is no doubt that Reston has reached the level of the powerful. Reston writes for the men in power. His columns seem to say, "Read me to find out what America is thinking."

From traveling secretary of baseball's Cincinnati Reds to reporter to Washington bureau chief to Journalist Statesman-in-Residence. And what does Reston search for? The meaning of the nation's 200th anniversary. Perhaps he thinks that America will find "dignity, simplicity, and unity" through some gala birthday party. It is a fruitless hope.