The Nation: The Particular Tragedy of Robert McNamara

IT is only the latest paradox in the career of Robert McNamara that he turns out to be a chief victim of the Viet Nam study that he initiated. In the documents that have been revealed to date—a partial picture, to be sure —the judgment of the once infallible Defense Secretary seems badly flawed. In the early 1960s, few other Government officials had quite his sense of assurance that escalation would pay off, that a steady application of American pressure and resources would turn the tide of war.

Somehow the strategies that won praise for McNamara in his early years as Pentagon chief landed him in deep trouble later. He wanted to escape from the Eisenhower era’s reliance on massive retaliation, so he pursued what was then considered a liberal course. He prepared for conventional war to combat Communism wherever it appeared to threaten American interests. Yet he helped lead the nation into a war of unforeseen magnitude. His business acumen enabled him to gain control of the sprawling Defense establishment. Yet he was so infatuated with statistics that he was long blinded to the human factors in the Viet Nam conflict. It was a puzzling outcome for a man who had entered Government renowned for his humane instincts as well as his technological brilliance. McNamara became a divided personality.

At first his personality seemed monolithic enough. He gave a powerful impression of the assured technician. Even reporters who did not cover the Pentagon liked to attend his press conferences. Briefed to the eyeballs behind his almost rimless glasses, his gleaming black hair immaculately slicked, McNamara delivered an unstoppable stream of convincing detail. He had a swift answer for every question, a sharp rebuttal for every doubt.

McNamara overawed the generals and admirals who worked for him, and he barely disguised his contempt for the military way of doing things. His notion of opening a conversation was not “Hello” but “I’ve got ten minutes for this one.” And ten minutes it was. The military resented the fact that he and his small band of “Whiz Kids” shunned their advice and blithely turned down the weapons they wanted. They grudgingly admitted that McNamara’s cost-effectiveness program had brought rationality to much Pentagon planning, but they could not forgive him for never admitting he was wrong. He was once summoned to appear before the House Armed Services Committee to explain why he had ordered the closing of 672 Army bases. Could he have made a mistake in the case of one or two? asked Representative Edward Hebert. “No,” said McNamara emphatically. Replied an exasperated Hebert: “Six hundred and seventy-two decisions and not a single mistake? You’re better than Jesus Christ. He had only twelve decisions to make and he blew one of them.”

McNamara brought the same technological assurance to the war in Viet Nam. At first he was too busy with reorganization to notice it. But as it grew, he willingly took command of what came to be called “McNamara’s war.” In 1964, he made his famous pronouncement that American troops would be home by Christmas of 1965. When that did not happen, he pressed hard at the White House for a greater troop commitment. He was mesmerized by the feat of getting the forces to Viet Nam: “We put 100,000 men across the beach in 120 days and did not impose wage or price controls or call up the reserves. The Russians could not do that.”

As the war widened he consistently underestimated its cost—in life, in spirit, even in money. He miscalculated the cost of the buildup by $11 billion in 1965, by $7 billion in 1966. Because of his confidence in technology, he did not appreciate the staying power of the North Vietnamese, who could get along without up-to-date military hardware. When the war bogged down and his well-laid plans went awry, he seemed to fit the classic case of the man who falls because of too much pride in his rationality. Yet there is another side to the story and to the man. Obscured by his veneer was an underlying, undeniable warmth of personality. The cold rationalist by day loved parties and lively talk, and he danced endlessly at night. He was the favorite dinner companion of the Kennedy wives. In public, he would berate an imprecise subordinate: “Don’t give me your poetry.” In private, he read poetry avidly.

Despite his hawkish pronouncements, he was essentially a reflective and circumspect man. He profoundly feared the outbreak of World War III, and this guided him in many of his decisions. The Viet Nam War overshadowed his earlier efforts to get the military to accept the nuclear test ban treaty. It had been no sure thing. He had had to sit for hours with the Joint Chiefs and patiently answer—with a little less arrogance than usual—their every objection. Even in the case of Viet Nam, he argued from the beginning against all-out war; he was never happy with bombing, and talked L.B.J. into ordering the 37-day Christmas pause in 1965.

McNamara agonized much more than he let on. The day after the Viet Cong raid on Pleiku, Hébert asked him why the U.S. could not even defend an airbase. “Because we don’t have enough people,” replied McNamara. “Why don’t you get them?” demanded Hébert. “Because more men would be killed.” “How many?” “Two hundred and fifty thousand,” said McNamara with finality. It was a price that he was unwilling to pay. He wanted to have it both ways: victory and humanity. It was not an easy mix, and even a man of his abilities could not bring it off.

Eventually, he would pace his bedroom far into the night reflecting on the dying Americans and Vietnamese. Sensing the shift in mood, Columnist Joe Alsop pronounced him a splendid “defense minister” but lacking the innate toughness required in a “war minister.” After McNamara appeared at a congressional hearing in summer 1967 and criticized the bombing policy as futile, Johnson griped that he had gone “dove,” and arranged for him to be appointed president of the World Bank.

Throughout his career as Defense Secretary, McNamara the technician seemed to be at war with McNamara the humanist. The man of supreme self-confidence was more of a Hamlet than anyone knew—torn between technocratic and humanistic impulses and afraid to go too far either way. If he had swung in one direction, would he have been more successful? Even McNamara could not answer that one. Probably no humanist could have brought the Pentagon under control, and no technocrat could conduct the Viet Nam War.