Westmoreland: The General Who Lost Vietnam

by Lewis Sorley

  As he spun it to a correspondent, "CBS gave me a public statement that contradicted the theme of the broadcast and I dropped my charge against them, encouraged by the fact that my lawyer had run out of money." Later Westmoreland said the settlement was influenced by the assessments of his legal team's "jury watcher," who reported an anticipated unfavorable outcome. On yet another occasion he wrote a letter to the editor of the American Spectator in which he stated that "my attorney did not betray me" and that he had "weighed with Mr. Burt my chances with the jury and decided to accept a settlement after the judge imposed an inordinately high burden of proof on my attorney before a jury dealing with matters unfamiliar to them."61

  Thus, concluded Westmoreland, "the effort to defame, dishonor and destroy me and those under my command had been exposed and defeated. I, therefore, withdrew from the battlefield, all flags flying."62

  Others saw the statement and its import quite differently. The New York Post headline was "Westy Raises the White Flag." The Washington Post noted that CBS's only apparent concession was agreement "not to try to force Westmoreland to pay its court costs and legal fees." The New York Times succinctly stated the prevailing reaction, observing that "the general surrendered to the evidence that whether or not his superiors in Washington were in fact deceived, he and some of his aides in Vietnam in 1967 manipulated the estimates of enemy strength, apparently for political effect." At the trial, continued the Times, "General Westmoreland had trouble proving any falsehood. At the end, he stood in imminent danger of having a jury confirm the essential truth of the CBS report. For, in court, as on the original program, the general could not get past the testimony of high-ranking former subordinates who confirmed his having colored some intelligence information."63 Said one of the jurors, speaking to members of the press on the way out of the courthouse for the last time: "The evidence in favor of CBS was overwhelming."64

  The Baltimore Sun also commented editorially, saying: "Now he has lost it, no matter what face he chooses to put on it, and he deserved to lose."65

  THE ISSUES RAISED by CBS did not go away, despite Westmoreland's claims of victory. A decade later, in an A&E Biography segment about Westmoreland, Mike Wallace was featured, stating his retrospective view of the broadcast. "I believe that the documentary was accurate," he opined. "I do believe he cooked the books in pursuit of what he believed was the right thing to do."66

  George Crile had his own last say on the matter in a speech he gave several years after the trial, suggesting that some "people who watched General Westmoreland trapped, I think trapped in his own lies, at some point came to resent the fact that his patriotism was being taken from him."67

  Once, appearing on William F. Buckley Jr.'s program Firing Line, Westmoreland asserted that America did not lose the Vietnam War. "Tell that to the boat people!" Buckley exclaimed. Now, in the wake of the aborted libel suit, Westmoreland told a National Press Club audience that he did "not believe that either side in Westmoreland vs. CBS obtained what it had been seeking."68

  In a memoir published the same year in which Westmoreland died, Mike Wallace stated that "Westmoreland's big mistake was not withdrawing when he did, but his decision to initiate the costly libel suit in the first place. In that respect, his legal action stands as a parable of the U.S. involvement in Vietnam."69

  30. Dusk

  WESTMORELAND'S LIFE SINCE Vietnam has been miserable," said his former aide-de-camp, Lieutenant General Dave Palmer. Problems of racial disharmony, drug abuse, and indiscipline had plagued the Army during his tenure as Chief of Staff. Defeat in the Republican primary of the gubernatorial election had been a major disappointment, later described by Westmoreland as his "most degrading experience." Then the libel trial against CBS Television had been a disaster.

  Captain Richard Wright, a longtime Charleston resident, got to know Westmoreland during his later years and developed considerable sympathy for him. "I always considered the general a tragic figure," he said. "Although he carried himself as erect as a West Point plebe and had a somewhat arrogant demeanor, one could, I think, sense that his pride had been mortally wounded." Historian Michael Beschloss summed up the amalgam of sadness and futility, describing Westmoreland as a general "who, chained forever to the Vietnam catastrophe, spent the rest of his life trying to explain himself to people who would not listen."1

  In one of his last public declarations, Westmoreland sought to counter the perception that regrets and recriminations about the war had blighted his later years. "In my mind," he said, "Vietnam is ancient history and I've kind of divorced myself from it over the years. It was only one chapter in my history."

  Conflicted views of Westmoreland's legacy were reflected in an agonized decision at West Point, where in 2002 a bicentennial history of the Military Academy was published. Westmoreland was on the cover with a number of other graduates, recalled Colonel Lance Betros, editor of that work and now head of West Point's Department of History, "then (for about six months) off, then (after a lot of discussion) back on. Rationale: He was the top U.S. commander in a major war."

  At some point the National Rifle Association offered to present Westmoreland a scrimshawed powder horn decorated with the highlights of his life and career, and to that end queried Westmoreland about what might be included. He suggested that they "picture the dramatic spread of activities such as horseman, paratrooper, three wars, teacher, my wife Kitsy, father of three, talking to a Joint Session of Congress, TIME man of year."

  WESTMORELAND CONTINUED AN active speaking program until Alzheimer's disease, which afflicted him in the usual progressive way during about the last decade of his life, curtailed his activities.

  One of his finest days came in November 1982 when he led a veterans march down Constitution Avenue in Washington, D.C., to dedicate the Vietnam Veterans Memorial. Westmoreland called it "one of the most emotional and proudest experiences of my life."

  Westmoreland was always very proud of his work with and for Vietnam veterans. This devotion was honored in 1988 by a special award from the Association of the United States Army, which described how, on behalf of veterans, Westmoreland "set about the self-imposed task of restoring their honor and bringing recognition and dignity to their service. For over fifteen years, he has given his time, energy and loyalty to this unselfish cause." The citation, also noting Westmoreland's "massive" correspondence with veterans, concluded with these admiring words: "His is a special case. He made their cause his own. He has helped to bind up a nation's wounds. There is no more noble work."

  Westmoreland took advantage of the award ceremony to compliment Kitsy. Since marrying him, he noted, she had lived in three foreign countries, seven states, and thirty-three houses, and had during four years of near-total separation taken complete responsibility for raising their three children and much else. And he cited the hundreds of hours (and probably should have said thousands) she had contributed as a nurse's aide in military hospitals, including a special trip on a medevac aircraft to Japan, "where she gave a rose to every veteran from Vietnam that we had hospitalized there."

  General "Dutch" Kerwin observed of Kitsy's outlook that, in her opinion, "Westy carried the whole cross. And in a sense he did." Westmoreland had also addressed that perspective, saying that when he retired "my wife wanted to go home." He spoke of how she had lost a younger brother, "killed in Vietnam on the day I was sworn in as Chief of Staff." But Westmoreland felt he couldn't go home. "I decided to speak about the war, whenever and wherever I could. I was spat on, students and faculty were rude, one group set off the fire alarm while I was trying to speak, and so on." But he persevered, despite the entreaties of friends who advised leaving off the crusade and devoting himself to family in these later years.

  WESTMORELAND ALSO RETURNED to his opposition to the volunteer force, saying in the 1980s, "I firmly believe that, in the national interest, we must return to the draft," and at about the same time predicting "5 years from now selective service—the draft will probably have to be res
umed." To a correspondent he complimented for "wise thoughts" in expressing the view that "the draft will be back," Westmoreland wrote: "I agree with you. It is only a matter of time."

  In a new "Afterword" in the paperback version of his memoirs Westmoreland was hard over on this issue. "Time has also demonstrated," he wrote, "that the political maneuver by President Nixon of setting aside the draft was not in the national interest. The all-volunteer force has not produced the military posture required by the leader of the free world. Reappraisal of the ill-advised concept is essential."2

  But when an all-volunteer force performed brilliantly in the first Gulf War, Westmoreland sought some of the credit. Appearing before the House Armed Services Committee's Defense Policy Panel on 26 April 1991, he described his view "that the battle in the Gulf was a valid test of the Volunteer Army and it passed the test." And "in that context," he added, "I submit for the record a copy of my public address on October 13, 1970 wherein I committed the Army to the achievement of a modern volunteer force." That was the speech at the AUSA annual meeting that saved his job.

  ANOTHER POLICY ISSUE that caused Westmoreland great distress was the admission of women to West Point, begun in the summer of 1976. Rick Atkinson quoted Westmoreland's views on the matter: "Retired West Point superintendent General William Westmoreland extended some best wishes for their success: 'Maybe you could find one woman in 10,000 who could lead in combat,' he said. 'But she would be a freak, and we are not running the Military Academy for freaks.'"3

  Lieutenant General Dave Palmer, Westmoreland's former aide-de-camp, recalled another blow to Westmoreland in the summer of 1989. "The day that we announced that Kristin Baker was to be First Captain at West Point, the first female to hold that position, was when the annual conference for retired Army four-star generals was in progress," said Palmer. "They were stunned. Westy was livid that we had done this. They almost had to restrain him." Palmer was West Point's Superintendent when that appointment was made.

  Another participant in those annual four-star conferences recalled them as "delightfully patronizing" affairs at which the old boys were briefed on current issues and asked for their opinions. But most, knowing full well that old soldiers should just fade away, only "ask questions and praise the noble work being done by those still serving." But then there was Westmoreland, who instead offered advice, and lots of it. Thus "it was as if Westy assumed seniority among the retired that was neither challenged nor granted by the others, just politely ignored. That did not deter him from attempting to anoint himself at the following year's gathering, but with the very same results."

  IN THE SPRING OF 1992, soon after the first Gulf War, General Norman Schwarzkopf visited West Point, where he was feted for his role as commander of allied forces in that highly successful campaign. Schwarzkopf also spoke to the cadets, telling them among other things of his view that in Vietnam the Army had lost its integrity. Inflated reports of body count were what he had in mind, a charge he repeated in his book It Doesn't Take a Hero. These comments infuriated Westmoreland, who sought through intermediaries to pressure Schwarzkopf into retracting or softening the indictment. Nothing came of those efforts, and the criticism stood.

  BY THE MID-1990S, still making appearances at veterans events and the like, Westmoreland was relying primarily on a very short stock speech, maybe three minutes in length, consisting of a mildly humorous anecdote about addressing Korean cadets through an interpreter and a recital of the lyrics of "Stout-Hearted Men," which he knew by heart but attributed to the composer "Rogers Hammerstein." The veterans still crowded around him, still asked for his autograph, which he now rendered simply as "Westmoreland," written rather scrawly.

  And he still wore his uniform, still made pronouncements on the world scene. When the issue of establishing diplomatic relations with communist Vietnam was being debated he put out a brief statement. "I do not believe that the incumbent political leadership in Hanoi merits recognition of that country at this time," he said.

  As the United States was considering lifting its economic embargo of Vietnam, Westmoreland adopted the stance that "when Vietnam throws off its communist yolk," as he wrote to a friend, "then, and only then, should we do business with them." Then he completely reversed his stand, signing a statement in support of lifting the embargo. "It is well past time to put this divisive and difficult era behind us," he maintained. President Clinton wrote to express "deep gratitude" to Westmoreland for supporting him on the matter.

  WESTMORELAND DONATED his papers to the library at West Point, then took them back and gave them instead to the University of South Carolina. Apparently he was not satisfied that the people at West Point had been moving fast enough to make them available to researchers, something he was eager to have done.

  In 1996 Westmoreland was named a Distinguished Graduate by his alma mater, the U.S. Military Academy, along with General Alexander Haig and astronaut Frank Borman. Westmoreland's citation noted that he had "rendered a lifetime of extraordinary service to the United States Army and his fellow soldiers."

  ***

  WESTMORELAND DEPARTED THIS life the evening of 18 July 2005 at the Episcopal retirement home in Charleston where he and Kitsy then resided. He was ninety-one. The New York Times obituary referred to him as the officer "who failed to lead United States forces to victory in Vietnam from 1964 to 1968 and then made himself the most prominent advocate for recognition of their sacrifices, spending the rest of his life paying tribute to his soldiers."

  A funeral service was held on Thursday, 21 July 2005, in Charleston, in the historic and beautiful St. Michael's Episcopal Church, with a bishop and two other clergymen officiating. The casket was draped in a cream-colored pall with a maroon cross and was carried into the church by a multiservice detail of military pallbearers. Kitsy was of course joined by their three children. Bishop C. FitzSimons Allison delivered a eulogy for "the general," describing him as "a trustworthy gentleman" and reciting the Scout Laws, which he pointed out began and ended with "Trustworthy" and "Reverent." Westmoreland, he said, "was a throwback to a time when the word 'gentleman' meant something."

  On Saturday, 23 July 2005, Westmoreland was buried at West Point at a gravesite he had chosen when he was Superintendent there. It was an idyllic summer day, with a deep blue sky dotted with puffy white clouds, and hot.4 The provost marshal had anticipated throngs comparable to those on a football weekend. Thus military policemen spaced at intervals ringed the cemetery grounds, prepared to deal with traffic and crowds that never came.

  Epilogue

  TAKEN ALTOGETHER, THE life story of William Childs Westmoreland turned out to be infinitely sad. It had begun with such promise—Eagle Scout at fifteen, journeyer to Europe and the World Scout Jamboree, president of the high school senior class, Citadel cadet, First Captain at West Point, battalion commander at age twenty-eight, with the Presidential Unit Citation earned in combat in North Africa, full colonel at thirty, then a brigadier at thirty-eight while leading the airborne regimental combat team in Korea, major general—youngest in the Army—at forty-two, serving at the right hand of the famous Maxwell Taylor, then sent by him to command the storied 101st Airborne Division, on to West Point as the dashing Superintendent with the young and beautiful Kitsy at his side, and the three attractive children she had borne him, familiar then with so many greats of an earlier day—MacArthur, Eisenhower, Omar Bradley—then corps command, again with his beloved airborne, and the third star. The future seemed to hold limitless possibilities, perhaps—said some—even the presidency.

  Then came Vietnam, where the great arc of triumph and achievement peaked and fell, never to be recovered, although doggedly rationalized, explained, rued, regretted, for the rest of his days. The lifelong aspiration—Army Chief of Staff, the crowning achievement for a professional soldier, was attained, but only as a bitter and unsatisfying post in the shadow of Vietnam. Then retirement, a book, endless rounds of speeches, all exculpatory but ultimately unconvincing. A plunge into poli
tics, against the advice of wise friends and advisors, leaving a baffled neophyte defeated almost before he began. Then a lawsuit, charging a powerful and wealthy network with libel, again bucking the advice of those who wished him well and knew what they were talking about, and again abject failure, a last-minute withdrawal rather than face a jury's verdict, followed by lame and painful efforts to portray that outcome a victory.

  The young Westmoreland, from early days prideful and image-conscious, had developed into an adult of incredible industry, driving himself to achieve, forever in a rush—"This is the way I operate," he once said. "Don't talk long to any one person, but talk to as many people as I can."—unbounded ambition, no apparent sense of personal limitations, doing it by the book, even though he hadn't read the book or studied at any of the Army's great schools.1 Along the way he shed what sense of humor he might once have had, seldom smiled, held himself in a rigid posture that often seemed a pose, took himself very seriously, expected others to regard him thus as well.

  His ultimate failure would have earned him more compassion, it seems certain, had he not personally been so fundamentally to blame for the endless self-promotion that elevated him to positions and responsibilities beyond his capacity. "It's the aggressive guy who gets his share—plus," he insisted. "That principle applies to most anything."2

  "Great division commander," concluded another famous four-star. "He had this great appearance, and this charisma, to lead the 101st." Those were the best days, the balance between tasks and abilities still viable, the conceptual requirements minimal, much physical work, and a managerial span he could handle. Despite a certain silliness—most often displayed in a lifelong penchant for giving "cutesy" names to programs and operations—he was taken seriously, and at that stage not only by himself. He looked and acted like a great general, and the troops were convinced of it. Small wonder that he remembered those days as the most satisfying of his military career.