by Lewis Sorley
While these accounts differ, there is little doubt that the alleged attitudes existed. Brigadier General Allen Grum, who served as an officer for thirty-four years, observed that he "could not remember a Chief of Staff so disdained as Westmoreland." At the Army War College, he remembered, the students in his class created a fake prize, the William C. Westmoreland Award, and presented it to "the dumbest, best-looking officer in the class."13
Westmoreland remained defiant: "Nobody has suffered more anguish as to the plight of the Vietnam veterans than I have. Nobody has taken more guff than I have, and I am not apologizing for a thing—nothing, and I welcome being the point man!"14
A critical part of that stance was maintaining that whatever good things happened in Vietnam after his departure were simply the result of building on what he had accomplished and that his successor had made no significant changes in the conduct of the war. At most, Westmoreland asserted, any changes made were simply adaptations to different enemy tactics.
A lot of this spinning came out in Westmoreland's confrontation with Marine Corps historians over their history of the war. The Marines published some of the comments Westmoreland had made on a draft of one volume, as for example his take on the "One War" approach to the war under Abrams, Bunker, and Colby. "It was not Abrams that did it," insisted Westmoreland, "it was the changed situation which he adapted to."15 Indeed, Westmoreland refused to give Abrams credit for any changes he might have made: "Any changes that Abrams made in strategy and tactics that was presumably mine—and it was my watch and I assume full responsibility for them—or any policies as practiced by me, there was any changes made in my view were the function of the changed situation after the defeat of the Tet offensive."16
As time went on Westmoreland broadened the scope of these comparisons and contrasts, as in his oral history: "I came back in the summer of '68," he recalled, "and discipline collapsed after I left Vietnam, not while I was there, it collapsed later on. And the drug thing started after I left, too. And a lot of the [problems with lack of] discipline had crept in, which was a spin-off of the anti-war syndrome. It started after I left Vietnam. When I left during the '67–'68 time frame, I don't think America has ever put a better force in the field than we had then, a more professional force."17
In October 1971 the Washington Post published a series of articles, "Army in Anguish." This material caused great distress to both civilian and uniformed military officials. Ironically, Westmoreland may have been the precipitating factor. At one point he had said to Ben Bradlee, managing editor of the Post, "I'm not sure I can hold this Army together." Bradlee told his reporters George Wilson and Haynes Johnson that that sounded like something worth looking into, and the hard-hitting series resulted. The traumas of incremental withdrawal from Vietnam, racial divisiveness, widespread drug problems, and erosion of discipline were laid out in telling detail.
Westmoreland soon cabled Abrams, in Vietnam, with a long description of the articles and their fallout. Generals Palmer and Kerwin had been called to testify before the House's Mahon Committee for a full day, he reported. "The Committee expressed deep concern for, what appear to them, to be a deteriorating discipline and lack of leadership in the services, particularly the Army. The questioning was intense and, at times, hostile."
Westmoreland devoted the bulk of his long message to the appearance of soldiers in Vietnam. One of the Post articles, he noted, included a photograph of a soldier reading his mail. Westmoreland had many problems with how that soldier looked, describing them in detail—his haircut, the appearance of the uniform, his wearing "what appear to be peace and religious medallions." In short, said Westmoreland, "This soldier is a sorry sight." Then came the rebuke: "I assume that Army policies regarding personal appearance and wear of the uniform have been received in Vietnam and are known to the chain of command. Enforcement by the chain of command is critically important. There must be no misunderstanding on this point." And finally: "With competent and alert professional officers in the chain of command, a communication such as this should not be necessary. Nevertheless, it has become necessary and I expect you to take those measures you deem required to correct the situation and reestablish the Army's traditional standards."
WESTMORELAND'S CLASH WITH the prevailing youth culture had begun at home. He had problems with his children during these years, as did many other senior officers who through long service in Vietnam had only sporadic contact with their families. A family friend, very sympathetic to the situation, recalled that "the children were out of step with Westy all through the war. It created an atmosphere of coolness between them and their father which took some time to resolve. One daughter became involved with an anti-war group, and that was very difficult."18
Rip, the only son, sandwiched between his sisters, was candid on these matters in notes he wrote as a high school freshman. "My sister and my father get into a lot of arguments," he revealed. That was his older sister, Stevie, then twenty years of age, who went to school in California. "She is strongly opposed to the war," he said. "She brings home students and friends with long hair whom my father doesn't like at all." The elder Westmoreland made comparisons to his own youth, said Rip, and they were predictably unfavorable to the way his children were conducting themselves. Added Rip, "I respect my father's ideals," even though he was getting flak on the length of his own hair. "I guess he doesn't like long hair because it is a symbol of being against the system, and my father is all for the system." In concluding this account Rip demonstrated considerable insight and compassion, despite his youth. "He likes his job a great deal," he said of his father, "although I don't think he enjoyed staying in Vietnam for five years. That really changed him."19
Westmoreland's sister, Margaret, was also a sympathetic observer of his family situation. "The children resented their father's long absence during the Vietnam War," she recalled, "but later they were reconciled." Said Rip on one occasion, "I got to know my father during lunches at the Brook Club," a New York establishment to which Westmoreland belonged in his retirement years. It had taken that long for reconciliation to take place.
25. Departure
AS RETIREMENT IMPENDED, Westmoreland was aggressive in taking what final steps he could to shape the historical record of his service. In published materials and in a letter to President Nixon he claimed that the Army was in good shape and that the officer corps had never been stronger. Those were empty boasts. Just two years earlier, the internal study conducted by the Army War College at Westmoreland's request had documented deep-seated and widespread failings of professionalism among the Army's senior leadership, not the kind of thing susceptible to quick fixes. And the trend line of Westmoreland's four years as Chief of Staff had been, especially in terms of resources, relentlessly downward. As documented in the Department of the Army's Historical Summary for Fiscal Year 1970, for example: "Whether the subject is funds, personnel strength, training, combat, casualties, construction, research, development, procurement, or production, the tendency was toward reduction. Curtailment, consolidation, withdrawal, retrenchment, adjustment, constraint—these are the watchwords that set the tone of Army operation in 1970 and charted the directions for the coming year."1
The noted military sociologist Charles Moskos called the years 1970–1973 "the worst times in modern Army history."2 General James Woolnough, Commanding General of Continental Army Command, had observed in late 1970 that "the military services, particularly the Army, are actually fighting a delaying action at this time, giving ground as grudgingly as possible and hoping for reinforcements in the form of a changing public attitude before it is too late."3
May 1972, observed the Army Center of Military History, "was the month in which the Army 'bottomed out' in its personnel situation," a crisis artificially induced when, well into the fiscal year, Congress reduced the authorized end strength by 50,000, producing near chaos in Army personnel.
Not all of this was Westmoreland's fault, of course, but his denials of the prevailing
realities were disingenuous and further undermined whatever credibility he might otherwise have retained.
Some problems were just too difficult to be solved, given the context of the times and the available resources, a situation that even Westmoreland, despite his upbeat public pronouncements, was finally forced to acknowledge. "It may be that a combination of personnel turbulence, the readiness reporting system, and cumulative mandatory training requirements all taken together represent an impossible situation at the lower unit levels," said Westmoreland very late in the game.4
Speaking at a Commanders Conference at Fort Monroe in May 1972, Westmoreland said that "our Army is understrength. Our Army has enormous, conflicting, often overly extensive commitments." After a recital of widespread problems with training and in other areas, Westmoreland told these senior commanders that "excellence should be our by-word. At this time we are falling short of such a standard." With no sense of irony he added, "The key to our success will be honesty... honesty in facing the facts of life... honesty in developing realistic goals and priorities... and honesty in conducting our day-to-day business." He was then just six weeks from retirement.5
Westmoreland did not want to retire. He asked his executive officer to contact Brigadier General Michael Dunn, then Army aide to the President, "to reaffirm that the only Federal job he is interested in is a fifth year as Chief of Staff. He is perfectly willing to delay his civilian plans if the Administration desires in order to make a major contribution as the Army moves through one more year of transition. If the President is really serious about achieving a volunteer Army, General Westmoreland is prepared to work toward that end, but he does not want the Administration to feel obliged to find another Government position for him."6 Of course nothing came of that.
WHEN HERBERT ABRAMS painted Westmoreland's portrait as Chief of Staff, Westmoreland chose to pose in jungle fatigues, with his badges nailed into the plain wooden frame of the painting.7 He stands out in the long corridor lined with portraits of successive Chiefs of Staff, the only incumbent depicted in field uniform rather than the dress uniform of the day. What message Westmoreland intended to convey by this departure from custom is somewhat obscure, but it makes him a very sad figure, permanently out of uniform, as it were, for the duties he could never bring himself to turn his attention to, obviously mired in another time and place that continued to obsess him.
Lieutenant General Phillip Davidson, his chief intelligence officer in Vietnam, later wrote about Westmoreland's legacy as Chief of Staff. "The consensus of the army," he concluded, "is that Westmoreland tried hard as chief, but that the times and its problems overwhelmed him."8 General Walter Kerwin was succinct in describing Westmoreland's years as Chief of Staff: "An unhappy time."9 Said General Bruce Palmer Jr., Westmoreland's classmate, associate in Vietnam, and now for four years Vice Chief of Staff: "With great nostalgia we bade him farewell. It was the end of an era for the U.S. Army—a drama-packed and unhappy era."10
MANY TRIBUTES MARKED Westmoreland's final days on active duty. There was a dinner hosted by the Joint Chiefs of Staff, who gave Westmoreland a plaque. He was invited to lunch by the Marine Corps Commandant, and on another day lunched with long-retired Major General Louis Craig, his division commander from World War II. He went to Fort Campbell, where he awarded the Presidential Unit Citation to the 3rd Brigade of the 101st Airborne Division, an element of the division he once commanded. He also visited Fort Bragg, site of his first airborne duty after World War II, for a parade, reception, and dinner, and presented a uniform he had worn while in Vietnam to a museum at the post. Admiral and Mrs. Moorer hosted a black-tie dinner at their quarters. Secretary of the Army Robert Froehlke gave a dinner at which the Army Band and Chorus presented a musical "This Is Your Life," recalling highlights of Westmoreland's career. Among these engagements he fitted in calls on a dozen or so senators and congressmen at their offices on Capitol Hill.
Westmoreland was presented the Distinguished Service Medal, his fourth award of that decoration, by President Nixon. On his last day in uniform he said, "I am reminded of the responsibility and trust which have been reposed in me, of old friendships which have warmed and sustained me, and the comradeship in arms which I have shared with American soldiers for more than 36 years."
It rained that day, with the planned parade at Fort Myer replaced by an indoor ceremony. Westmoreland wore his white uniform. His family was with him, all except his daughter Stevie. Mamie Eisenhower attended, but the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Admiral Thomas Moorer, did not, citing a "conflict in our schedules." Westmoreland and Kitsy were taken by horse-drawn carriage to the following reception, then it was home to the South Carolina of his youth.
26. In Retirement
CHARLESTON BECAME THE Westmorelands' final home. Things there got off to a happy start, Westmoreland writing to an old Army friend in January 1973: "Retirement I have found quite satisfactory and have experienced no trauma in the least." That euphoria was short-lived, however, as a letter to that very same friend in October admitted: "We speak from experience and the knowledge that making the transition from that of a military life to a civilian environment is not easy and is fraught with frustrations. We have not overcome ours yet."
A part of the problem may have been that the Westmorelands were not accepted into Charleston's old-line social circles quite as readily as they might have anticipated. Westmoreland's sister, Margaret, remembered, "[A]fter they moved to Charleston, Kitsy complained that nobody was paying any attention to them. I told her that she had to start making friends one at a time."1 They decided to build a house at 107 Tradd Street, in Charleston's historic district, on a lot so narrow that the house had to be oriented sidesaddle, facing not the street but the house next door. In December 1972 the Westmorelands obtained the services of their old friend Leslie Boney as the architect of their new home. Soon Boney wrote to them of his plans for "a garden between house and slave quarters."
Westmoreland wrote to a friend that "we plan to build a modern house in the midst of antiquity." Completing the house turned out to be an ordeal, as the site proved marshy and much money had to be spent on expensive underpinnings. In late November 1973 Westmoreland wrote to a friend that "for the last year and a half, Mrs. Westmoreland and I have been struggling to build our first home and we have encountered every obstacle and frustration imaginable."
Orr Kelly, the veteran military affairs correspondent for the Washington Star, wrote at the time of Westmoreland's retirement that, "in other times and under other circumstances, the career of Gen. William C. Westmoreland was such that he might have found himself propelled into politics—into the presidency itself."2 Of course that was out of the question. Westmoreland needed something else to do. Only four months after retiring, he reached out to Richard Nixon. "If at any time I can be of assistance in lending, for what they are worth, my views or insights," he wrote to the President, "I stand ready to be of service, either as an individual or as part of an advisory group."
Westmoreland also made some fairly strenuous efforts to obtain a full-time appointed position. Submitting a Personal Data Statement to a White House staffer, Westmoreland offered to put the securities he had inherited from his father into blind trusts, "as I did while serving as Chief of Staff of the Army." He also wrote to Ambassador Bunker, asking his help in being appointed to the Panama Canal Commission Board.3 Somehow investigative reporter Seymour Hersh learned about these overtures, writing that Westmoreland "waited embarrassingly for an offer to join the Nixon administration," but that "he heard nothing and retired to South Carolina to work on his golf game."4
Then, in the autumn of 1972, only a few months after his retirement, South Carolina's Governor John West offered him a part-time position as head of a state task force on economic growth, charged with developing increased economic opportunities in the state. This involved Westmoreland in extensive travel throughout the state, and may have been viewed by him as an opportunity to become better known in advance of
a political opportunity.
Meanwhile, the White House did ask his advice. Westmoreland had complained of not being consulted while Chief of Staff about matters in Vietnam. Now, only months into retirement, he was called to the White House for a'séance with Richard Nixon on the Vietnam cease-fire agreement then being negotiated. After being briefed on the proposed agreement, wrote historian Stephen Ambrose, Westmoreland urged the President "to delay action on the new agreement and to hold out for better terms." He "emphasized that it was 'vital' that North Vietnamese troops be compelled to withdraw from South Vietnam. As to the National Council of Reconciliation, Westmoreland thought it was 'impractical, almost absurd, nothing more than a façade.'"5 Admiral Thomas Moorer commented acidly: "This is typical Westy. He always had a solution after the fact."6
Henry Kissinger was stung by Westmoreland's stance. "This was amazing," he wrote in a retrospective analysis of the Vietnam War, "since a stand-still cease-fire had been part of our position since October 1970 and had been endorsed then by the Joint Chiefs of Staff, of whom Westmoreland was one."7 Westmoreland took issue, arguing in a letter to Kissinger that, since he was now retired, he was "not a party to the development of the concept of a cease-fire as it was being applied at that time."
That was disingenuous at best. In October 1970, when President Nixon made an important speech to the nation, Westmoreland had been Acting Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Thus Secretary of Defense Laird asked Westmoreland to review a copy of the speech the President planned to give. "I informed him that the speech caused me no problems and that I thought the plan was well conceived and the wording appropriate," said Westmoreland. Laird then took Westmoreland with him to the White House, where the President was meeting with the cabinet and then with the Congressional leadership. At one point Nixon asked Westmoreland to comment. "I stated in effect as follows," Westmoreland said in a memorandum for record dated the following day: "In my opinion, a ceasefire in place entails little if any risk." Then, he continued, "before the speech I called each member of the JCS and covered the major points of the speech. All agreed that the proposal was consistent with positions taken by the JCS."8