Warriors
The great writer Neil Sheehan has died at 84. In 1971 as a reporter for The New York Times, he obtained the Pentagon papers, which uncovered secrets and blunders of the U.S. engagement in Vietnam. He was also the author of the definitive book about America’s involvement in the war, A Bright Shining Lie.
The book, published in 1988, was broad in scope but narrow in its focus on one man: John Paul Vann, a career Army officer who became a senior civilian in the U.S. effort in Vietnam. He was killed in a helicopter crash in a battle zone in the spring of 1972.
Vann, in Sheehan’s brilliant telling, was a metaphor for America’s experience in the conflict. The country’s motivation was to forestall a communist takeover of Southeast Asia in the belief that its people needed our brand of freedom and democracy. Vann came to understand how misguided that goal was and how badly the Pentagon and successive administrations tactically and strategically fought the war. He (privately) became a particularly good and accessible source of insight and criticism to me and other reporters in Vietnam of that era.
When Sheehan died, a friend asked me who might turn out to be the John Paul Vann(s) of the Donald Trump era? Who would represent the committed military who believed they could have impact on U.S. policy only to discover, to their dismay and eventual humiliation, that they had signed on to a catastrophic venture.
My answer: it was the men Trump called “My Generals” at the outset of his presidency. Three took on major civilian roles: James Mattis as Secretary of Defense, John Kelly, first as Secretary of Homeland Security and later as White House Chief of Staff and H.R. McMaster, the National Security Adviser who was hired after another general, Michael Flynn was fired days into his tenure.
Mattis, Kelly and McMaster seemed to provide the new administration with the sophisticated, politically savvy authority that would be necessary in a cabinet led by someone with no government or military experience and, as we now know, no capacity to learn.
They were chosen, as nearly as I can judge, for their “optics.” Trump liked the nickname for his secretary of defense, “Mad Dog” Mattis., But it was a misunderstanding of Mattis’ reputation as a Marine four-star commander with a 44-year career, and a nickname Mattis personally disavowed.
Meanwhile, Kelly’s four Marine stars and demeanor were seen by Trump as a paragon of toughness to be used, eventually, in restricting immigration at the U.S. southern border by any means necessary.
And McMaster had the bearing of a ball-buster and a pedigree as a military intellectual having written an admired assessment of leadership failures in Vietnam called Dereliction of Duty: Johnson, McNamara, the Joint Chiefs of Staff and the Lies that Led to Vietnam. In my one brief encounter with him I was surprised to see that he was not at all fierce as we chatted about this and that.
All these men left the administration ignominiously. One by one, the generals were defenestrated and then trashed by Trump. (Though none of their departures were as embarrassing as that of Secretary of State Rex Tillerson, who was fired over the phone by Kelly while, it was reported, sitting on a toilet in Kenya with diarrhea.)
The questions that a Sheehan-style examination of these trajectories in Trump’s entourage would need to ask is what their reason for joining was in the first place, what their rationalizations for staying as long as they did were and what were their regrets (if that is what they had) after they were sacked.
Some of this can be found in the interviews, books and speeches they have since done. Their messages have become increasingly bold. They don’t want to take political positions, they say, but they have reflected on how appalled they were in military-style jargon.
So why take the jobs? I can make some guesses based on my experience with senior military officers from Vietnam to Colin Powell (who tarnished his impeccable reputation for integrity and political intuition when he mislead America in the run-up to the Iraq invasion).
They were all ambitious and self-confident having risen to the general grade rank. And having completed their military careers, the chance to take a top White House role was doubtless appealing — another chance to influence history with all the rewards in prestige and money that can accrue.
I think they were naïve about the dark side of Trump’s character. Having come up through the military, I doubt they could fathom who Trump was beyond his stardom as a brash reality television performer with a flash and dash reputation in business where, in fact, he had a miserable record. And after all, he had beaten Hilary Clinton and been elected President.
Being portrayed as “grown-ups in the room” was flattering. Mattis easily got a waiver to serve in a job that was designed for a civilian. Kelly’s loss of a soldier son in the Iraq War gave him the extra, Gold-Star credibility that he deserved. And as I said, McMaster looked the part.
What did they think once they saw how Trump behaved? Self-reflection is not a trait, I suspect, that is common among career generals. But respect for the chain of command is embedded in them.
Trump was the Commander-in-Chief. How else can you explain, for example, carrying out the horrendous border policies? Or tolerating the chaotic, vindictive activity emanating from the Oval Office?
And finally, how did it feel to be busted? Were they relieved? Shattered? What was the impact on their egos? Who knows?
There is one way to find out. Neil Sheehan grappled with the Vann story for 16 years in the writing of A Bright Shining Lie. A reporter or historian (or two) should take on this challenge. Tell us what happened and why. We need to know and maybe keep this from all happening again.
