The reaction to the story among soldiers in Panama was, so what? There were soldiers, men and women, who didn’t like the females getting special attention, or they considered the coverage typical media hype. No one said the combat didn’t happen. The higher up the chain of command, however, the more sensitive they were to public opinion and especially to Congress. People on TV were speaking out for and against women in combat. Female members of Congress called for the law to be changed to recognize the new role of women in the military.
More than anything else, the brass wanted the issue to go away. A few days after my story appeared, a Los Angeles Times reporter spoke to an army general at the Pentagon and wrote that the army considered the press accounts of women in combat “grossly exaggerated.” The story said the army had determined the heavy gunfire at the kennel lasted only ten minutes, and no enemy dead were confirmed.
I was blindsided by the L.A. Times story. I felt betrayed that another reporter would undercut me like that, and I was angry with the army for trying to soften what had happened in Panama. The L.A. Times story made the whole incident appear to be something minor and insignificant, certainly not real combat.
Then I started to doubt myself. In my story I had called the confrontation a “fierce firefight.” Those were my words, not Capt. Linda Bray’s. Did I exaggerate what she said to make a more dramatic story?
I went over my notes again and again. Everybody I interviewed from the kennel talked about exchanging fire, about having to keep their heads down to avoid getting shot. I didn’t know how many rounds were fired, but to me any exchange of gunfire was serious. A “fierce firefight” might have been redundant, but it wasn’t exaggerated.
Bray and her soldiers had told me about three enemy killed at a checkpoint, and that three other dead were reported found later near the kennel, which is what I wrote, trying to word it cautiously. Now the army was saying the three dead at the kennel were unconfirmed. I wished I had left out the body count, because the discrepancy cast doubt on the whole report.
This wasn’t a story I had been leaked by a covert source. There was no secret military communication about women in combat that I had exposed. I found these soldiers on my own and convinced them to talk. They told me something that was common knowledge to them but was unknown to people back home. The story of women in combat really was just a description of something that happened in plain sight that nobody paid much attention to, until everyone did when it hit the front page.
Dale called from Washington to warn me the controversy was growing.
“What are you going to say about the L.A. Times story?” I asked.
“We are going to say that we stand by our story,” Dale said. Pause. “Don’t we?”
“Yes,” I said. “We do stand by our story. That was chickenshit of the army to do that, and I’m pissed at the L.A. Times.”
“Dan is pissed, too,” Dale said, referring to our boss, the bureau chief. “He’s having it out with the L.A. Times bureau chief.”
I felt sick to my stomach. Was my story solid? Yes. Were people going to doubt me? Probably. The L.A. Times was a big important paper. I worried that no matter what, my reputation would be tarnished. People remembered the controversy, not the facts or who had it right.
Dale told me one of our largest papers had not run my original story but now wanted to use the L.A. Times story attacking me. Dale, normally mild-mannered, told them they better-the-hell-not run the L.A. Times story because it was bad journalism. Forget loyalty or standing by our man, Dale argued, the L.A. Times story misrepresented the very real combat role of women during the invasion.
I sat on the floor of my hotel room, relentlessly chewing over what had happened. I couldn’t sleep or even lie down. I rarely felt anger but was quick to feel guilt and anxiety. The more I ruminated, the worse I felt. I held a printout of my story in my hand and went through every line, again and again.
My story was about the many women who participated fully in the fight in Panama, and Linda Bray was just one example. Now all the attention was on my coverage of this one young captain, and what she did or didn’t do.
Stewart Powell, a reporter for the Hearst Newspapers, sat with me and listened. He was just enough older and more experienced to calm me down. Stewart had covered big stories and had dealt with public criticism. He knew I was feeling alone. He also didn’t think I had done anything wrong.
Maru listened to my worries over the telephone, but she didn’t really follow the news and had not heard about the controversy over women in combat. She was fiercely protective of me, however, and didn’t need the specifics to know I was upset. I felt stronger hearing her voice.
After all the attention, Capt. Linda Bray was not given a hero’s welcome when she returned home. She felt her army colleagues resented her, but she just wanted her career to return to the way it was before all the news coverage. She didn’t want to be a celebrity; she simply wanted to do her job. Now her commanding officers were riding her and increasing the pressure. She felt she was being driven out of the army, so she quit.
Months later, I tracked Bray down at home in Georgia for a follow-up story. A civilian now, she was more relaxed than when I had met her in Panama, her hair was longer and frosted, and her once-plain nails were painted a reddish color called Maui Mango. She was trying to decide what to do with her life after her army career was cut short. I knew she had been treated unfairly, but I had been so worried about my own reputation that for a moment I had lost sight of hers. She was kind enough not to blame me for ending the career she loved.
I was reminded, again, of my responsibility to be accurate and fair. There was no wiggle room at this level of journalism. A word written could never be erased. I thought my story was good, but I realized every single phrase and characterization mattered, and what seemed obvious to me might not be obvious to everyone.
My story wasn’t wrong, but it could have been better. I should have left out information I had not confirmed, such as the number of dead, and been more careful describing a firefight I did not witness.
Covering breaking news means having limited time to determine the facts, and limited space to tell the story. It often feels like there’s neither enough time nor space to do the job. There is not a story written or produced, especially on deadline, that could not be improved. It’s healthy to be forthcoming and transparent about our limitations, because acknowledging mistakes is good training for reporters and helps maintain the confidence of our audience.
Even though I was careful reporting in Panama and tried to do everything right, it wasn’t enough to keep Linda Bray, a good person trying to do her job and get her soldiers home safely, from being treated unfairly. I tried my best as a reporter—and she should have been in her hour of glory as a warrior—yet she was the first casualty of the crossfire I had started.
Holley Gilbert at the City News Bureau of Chicago in 1980. She was the rewrite on my first story, about a fire at an apartment building. Behind her is Kinsey Wilson, who went on to lead the digital news operations at USA Today, NPR, and the New York Times. Photo by Michael Haederle.
I had my first computer, and the first desk I didn’t share with other reporters, at the El Paso Herald-Post in 1982. Working in crowded, open newsrooms taught us to write amid the noise of police radios, ringing phones, and lots of chatter. Photo by John Hopper.
After I interviewed this man about the Mexican economy in Ciudad Juárez, on the border with El Paso, he persuaded me to help push a newly filled gas tank to his home. Photo by John Hopper.
Standing on the Mexican side of the Rio Grande (called the Río Bravo in Mexico), I interviewed this young man, known as a “coyote,” who was helping people cross illegally (for a small fee) into the United States. Photo by John Hopper.
El Paso Herald-Post photographer Ruben Ramirez (left) and reporter Joe Olvera (right) were two of my best teachers of journalism on the border. We traveled down Highway 15 into the heart of Mexico’s drug country in se
arch of a missing American professor. Photo by Ruben Ramirez.
Newspaper rack cards in El Paso announced the opening of a new bureau in Mexico City. The company took a chance sending a twenty-six-year-old reporter on such a big assignment, even though more experienced journalists hoped for the job. Courtesy of the E. W. Scripps Company.
This ad ran on the back cover of Editor & Publisher magazine when I was assigned to Mexico City in 1984. My friend John Hopper shot the photo on the bridge between El Paso and Ciudad Juárez, with the US and Mexican flags in the background. Courtesy of the E. W. Scripps Company.
The Mexican Army took foreign reporters on a helicopter tour of a drug-producing region in northern Mexico. Some of the scariest stories I covered were about drug trafficking, including the 1985 torture and murder of an American DEA agent. Photo by John Hopper.
I met Maru Montero in Mexico City during 1984. She had just left the famed Ballet Folklórico de México after completing long tours dancing in Europe, the United States, and Asia. We had little in common, and I was far from home in one of the world’s largest cities, yet somehow we found each other. Author photo.
My friend from El Paso, photographer John Hopper, covered the 1985 earthquake in Mexico City. We collaborated on many stories across Latin America, looked out for each other in dangerous places, and had some fun. Courtesy of John Hopper.
Journalists from around the world converged on Mexico City after the 1985 earthquake. Reporter Thaddeus Herrick (center) came down from our newspaper in El Paso. Photo by John Hopper.
The ghost of Ernie Pyle was with me reporting on wars in Latin America, the Middle East, and Africa. Pyle was a beloved Scripps Howard reporter who covered World War II in conditions far more dangerous than anything I ever witnessed. He was killed in action on April 18, 1945. Photo courtesy the E. W. Scripps Company.
Saudi troops were deployed to the desert in 1990 during the Gulf War against neighboring Iraq. Unfortunately, our military handlers did not allow us to identify the soldiers by name or even our location, except “somewhere in Saudi Arabia.” Photo by Frank Aukofer.
NPR’s John Ydstie (front, middle) indulged my quest to ride a camel during the hot Saudi summer of 1990, just before the Gulf War. He’s holding the tape recorder and microphone that got us into trouble in a crowded market. Photo by Frank Aukofer.
My hosts during the ground campaign of the Gulf War were Col. Morris J. Boyd (center) and Command Sgt. Maj. John L. Woodley (right). They gave me unusual access to the combat operations of the Forty-Second Field Artillery Brigade, including an unexpected drive through a deadly minefield. Photo by David Lawhorn.
My company placed this ad on the back cover of Editor & Publisher magazine in 1991 to promote our coverage of the Gulf War. After the war, I visited cities where Scripps operated newspapers, and I enjoyed answering questions from readers about what it was “really like” to cover US troops in combat. Readers had seen my newspaper stories but wanted to hear it firsthand. Courtesy of the E. W. Scripps Company.
I rode into Kismayo, Somalia, with these Marines atop a tracked vehicle, swerving and sliding down a sandy road. We had just come ashore during a spectacular amphibious landing from the USS Juneau. The Marines stared down the local warlord that day in 1992, but a few months later the fighting would turn ugly. Photo by Kirk Spitzer.
Our children, Isabella and Lucas, dressed in traditional Mexican folk dance costumes for a performance with their mother’s dance company, around 1999. Author photo.
9
OPERATION DESERT SHIELD
——— ON COMPETITION ———
One quiet weekend during the summer following Panama, I was relaxing at home with Maru, when the phone rang.
“Mr. Copeland,” the caller said, “the National Media Pool has been activated.”
This was a call I had hoped for but did not expect. A pool was a small group of reporters who represented the rest of the media when open coverage was not possible. The National Media Pool, called up by the Pentagon from a rotating list of media organizations, traveled with the first wave of troops into combat. I had been told the call could come at any time, and that I would have two hours to get ready, but I would not know where I was going, or whether it was for a training exercise or the real thing.
I wasn’t supposed to ask questions on an unsecured line, but I really wanted some details. The most likely destination was Liberia, where crazy rebels wearing bathrobes and pink wigs were fighting the government. The story was all over the news, and I assumed there was going to be an evacuation of US citizens.
“Should I go to Andrews?” I asked, referring to the air base just outside of Washington.
“Negative, sir. You need to come to the Pentagon right away so we can take your measurements,” the caller said.
At first I thought, cool, we are going to get uniforms like the ones the World War II correspondents had.
“No sir,” he said. “It’s for your chemical suit.”
Change of plans. We were not going to Liberia, but to the Middle East. A few days earlier, on August 2, 1990, Iraqi leader Saddam Hussein had invaded neighboring Kuwait, and his troops were a short drive from Saudi Arabia’s oil fields and control of the world economy. President George H. W. Bush wanted Saddam to leave Kuwait and to stay away from Saudi Arabia. Now it sounded like Bush was sending US troops to fight Saddam if necessary, and I was going along.
Saddam was a brutal dictator, deeply in debt after a long war with Iran. He justified the invasion by accusing Kuwait of pumping oil that really belonged to Iraq, and he further claimed, incorrectly, that all of Kuwait and its oil rightfully belonged to Iraq. The United States was not an enemy of Saddam before his invasion of Kuwait, and for decades the main concern of the US government had been to keep the oil flowing from that little corner of desert, which held most of the world’s proven oil reserves. Neighboring Saudi Arabia, a longtime US ally, was key to protecting the oil and would be the base for US troops massing against Saddam.
The Pentagon was quiet over the weekend, even though they were about to go to war. I was measured for my chemical suit and left my passport to get a visa for Saudi Arabia. Then I was told to go home, pack, and report later to Andrews. I was nervous about the chemical suit—getting gassed seemed worse than getting shot—but I was excited to cover the story. I had never been to the Middle East, but I felt confident about reporting on US military operations. Like the soldiers I covered, this is what I had prepared for, this is what I lived to do.
I told Maru I was leaving again, but I didn’t have answers to her questions. I didn’t know where I was going, for how long, or whether it would be dangerous.
My talk with Maru did not include any details about the chemical suit. I wasn’t sure what to make of it myself, so I wasn’t going to burden her. Her concern was that I might be gone for months. She did not feel at home in Washington, partly because she was still learning English. Working as a waitress and Spanish teacher helped pay the bills but was not engaging for her. It only made her miss the dance career she left back home. When we lived in Mexico, she was my guide and teacher in a new place and culture. I wanted to do the same for her in Washington, but now I had to leave her.
I was packing my stuff when the phone rang, an urgent call from the Pentagon. Bad news. I was not going with the pool. The military caller said I had been denied a Saudi visa, and I couldn’t go on the pool without one. The reason, he explained, was that there wasn’t a single blank page in my passport. I had traveled so much that every page had entry and exit stamps from different countries, but the Saudi visa required an entire blank page. I argued without getting him to budge, and then I panicked. This was nuts. How would I explain it to Dan and Dale? How could I ever face the other Pentagon reporters? My passport was too full?
I made a call out of desperation. The head of Pentagon Public Affairs was a former reporter from Wyoming, Pete Williams. Williams was in his office preparing for a major deployment and possibly a war, but he t
ook my call. I explained what had happened and begged him to let me go.
There’s nothing I can do, he said, if you don’t have a Saudi visa.
I was sunk, disappointed, and embarrassed. I told Maru what had happened, and she tried to console me.
Maybe you can go later, she said.
After a few hours, the phone rang again. It was Pete Williams. Even though it was a weekend, he had personally driven over to the State Department, found somebody with enough authority, and convinced them to graft several blank pages into my passport. Then he took the expanded passport to the Saudis for my visa.
I was good to go, he said. Wheels up.
I owe you, I replied. Forever.
What did you take to a war in the Middle East? I didn’t have trouble packing for a war in Panama because I had experience there, but going to Saudi Arabia was a first. I knew it would be hot and sandy, but it wasn’t the same as packing for the beach. I needed to be protected from the elements but light enough to move around. I would be wearing boots not flip-flops. Did I even need a jacket? Was it cold at night? Did it ever rain? Would we be in tents or sleeping outside? Was it too hot for a sleeping bag?
“I’ve got to go,” I told Maru.
“I know,” she said.
“I’ll be back soon.”
“How soon?”
“I don’t know.”
“Be careful, Pito.”
I was afraid, but I didn’t want her to know. I had left her for a story many times before, starting the day after we met at the movies in Mexico City when I flew to cover the war in El Salvador. I usually knew where I was headed and where I was going to stay. I also was pretty sure I would be safe. This time felt different. Saddam Hussein was in another category of bad guy from a Colombian drug lord or even the death squads in Central America. A firefight in Panama was not the same as tank warfare in the desert. And scarier than anything was the thought of poison gas bubbling my skin and turning my lungs to bloody liquid.
Finding the News Page 17