The Kingdom and the Power (34 page)

While this did not present a problem during Krock’s years as the bureau chief, he being too vigilant and skeptical of the government and too demagogic to permit any personality but his own to flavor the news, the regulation of the Washington bureau was less rigid after James Reston, a more patriotic and flexible man, took over in 1953. But even under Reston, cronyism was never too noticeable; and even if it had been, the editors in New York would have been reluctant to condemn it strongly. Reston, like Krock, was a man of rank and reliability who condoned little interference from New York. As Krock had built his empire under Ochs, so did Reston
have a strong alliance with Sulzberger, and an even stronger one with Sulzberger’s successor, Orvil Dryfoos. It was also true that when Reston assumed command of the bureau, the possible existence of cronyism would not have caused great concern or notice in the New York office because the United States government was still a popular and trusted institution, the “credibility gap” was years away—the triumphant spirit of World War II, the complaisance during the postwar prosperity, the faith in the nation’s wisdom and righteousness was deeply infused in American thought, and this philosophy was not shattered by the Korean War or by the scandals in the Truman administration. It was not until Eisenhower’s final years that many illusions about America began to fade.

The disillusionment was hastened by such factors as the shock of Soviet achievements in space, and by the United States’ being caught in a lie during the U-2 incident, an opening round in the “credibility gap”; and by the Nineteen-sixties the national doubt had intensified into nationwide dissent, inspired primarily by a new generation of Americans untouched by old illusions. This generation was unwilling to support on moral grounds the United States military acts in Vietnam or its Civil Rights posture at home, and it was also motivated by hundreds of private reasons and human fears that found release in the larger voice against the government—flags and draft cards were burned, patriotism became the property of the nut fringe, and the old attitudes and terminology were twisted—“law and order” could really mean racism; “mother” and “peace” could be controversial words; the media manufactured dramatic events and colossal characters out of many small incidents and minor men. The government’s word was to be accepted with suspicion, and
The Times
’ editors in New York, influenced as much as anybody else by the new disenchantment and skepticism, began to prod the Washington bureau as never before to keep a watchful eye on the government, to expose its sins; and if the Washington bureau failed to do so, a few editors in New York, among them Harrison Salisbury, began to quietly suspect that the bureau was overly protective of its sources, was a victim of cronyism.

The bureau chief at this time, beginning in 1964, was Tom Wicker. Wicker had been on
The Times
only four years when Reston, wishing to devote more time to his writing and also a bit weary of office politics, vacated the bureau job after almost twelve years and installed in his place the thirty-eight-year-old Wicker, in whom Reston saw qualities that reminded him of himself. But
what Wicker did not yet have in common with Reston—and Krock—was singular strength with the publisher’s office, a personal bond that is built slowly during years of outstanding service on
The Times
. And so without a solid relationship with the owners of
The Times
, and not having had sufficient time to establish a national reputation as a journalist, Tom Wicker, from his very beginning as the bureau chief, was vulnerable in ways that Reston and Krock had never been.

Wicker’s added disadvantage, that of inheriting the bureau when the government’s honesty was widely doubted, required of his bureau an escalation of its right to question and challenge—and this at a time when Wicker lacked the power to direct his staff with anything approaching autonomy, and when
The Times
itself was undergoing vast internal changes and second-guessing, in part because of its sudden growth as a newspaper (a growth accelerated by the disappearance of the New York
Herald Tribune
), and also because of the expanding ambitions and philosophical differences of some important executives within
The Times
.

No matter what Tom Wicker’s personal limitations might have been in the mid-Sixties, he seemed to be plagued also by several forces beyond his control—his dilemma seemed to be linked, in fact, with the larger problems of the government of the United States. As the Johnson administration had lost much of its stature and believability with the American people, so had Wicker’s bureau lost much of its prestige and persuasiveness within the
Times
organization—the afflictions of the administration had infected the bureau, or so some New York editors thought, or
preferred
to think. For now they were trying to downgrade the bureau and to eliminate the last vestiges of its self-rule so that
The Times
could become
one
corporate body with all the power centered in the main office in New York. In this sense, it was the New York office that was moving on a parallel course with the government of the United States, a government of increasing federalization, of unprecedented power in the Presidency, of deteriorating States’ Rights. And it was neither coincidental nor surprising that
The New York Times
as a whole would reflect, in miniature, the collective style of the government because the two institutions at the top are shaped by the same forces historically, socially, and economically—what happens to the government inevitably happens to
The Times
. Should the United States continue as a preeminent power,
The Times
’ words will continue to carry weight in the world. Should the United States
decline as an international influence, so will
The New York Times
—following in the wake of
The Times
of London, which today does not thunder across the sea as it did during the glorious days of the British Empire.

And yet despite the United States’ incredible wealth and growth in the Nineteen-sixties, both the government and
The New York Times
were beset by internal conflicts, factionalism, executive scurrying—part of which had undoubtedly resulted from the sudden changes at the top following the premature death of a chief executive. Orvil Dryfoos, whose death occurred in 1963 some months before Kennedy’s, had been
The Times
’ publisher for only two years. His sudden departure, shaking as it did the executive order and alliances within the institution, added momentum to forces already in motion, and it led some older
Times
men to believe, with regret, that the paper had now completely severed its spiritual ties with the permissive patriarchy of Adolph Ochs. In Ochs’s earlier days, when the United States government was an isolationist power with more lofty and independent ambassadors,
The Times
was characterized by bureau chiefs and correspondents who enjoyed a kind of ambassadorial status in the major cities of the world. But now in the mid-Sixties, the home office of
The Times
, like the White House, seemed bent on ruling by direct control. Through the marvels of instant communications, jet airplanes, and various computerized gadgets available to a modern oligarchy, the New York office was indeed capable of directing the movements and minds of its men around the globe with speed and without having to work through bureau chiefs. There was no longer a need for strong bureau chiefs. Now the job could be done by superclerks. An electronic edict from New York could flash almost instantly thousands of miles away on the desk of the superclerk, who could convey it to his Times colleagues, who, ideally, would quickly comply with New York’s wishes.

And it was such an assumption as this, if not by such methods, that led some New York editors to believe, in the summer of 1966, that the Washington bureau would accept New York’s conclusion that Tom Wicker should be replaced—perhaps by a
Times
man from the New York office. Wicker had held the job for two years. This was long enough, it was believed in New York, to prove the point that Wicker had not adequately inspired the staff to the kind of aggressive reporting that was desired in Washington. Not only was Harrison Salisbury of this opinion, but so were Clifton Daniel
and A. M. Rosenthal, among others, and the same might be said of Turner Catledge; although Catledge seemed to be stalling for time, as if hoping to let the forces play out their aggressions before making his move.

If there was particular hesitancy on Catledge’s part to push for Wicker’s removal, it was perhaps understandable. Catledge had been part of the Washington bureau; he was the only New York editor who had ever worked in the bureau on a regular basis. He had been able to observe firsthand the power-building process of Arthur Krock during the Nineteen-thirties, knew the strengths and weaknesses of the Krock system, and had also benefited from it, had gotten the front-page by-lines that helped to establish his own reputation in the capital with the Congress and the President. Krock had regarded Catledge as the finest reporter on the staff, and in 1936 Krock had given Catledge the title of Chief Washington News Correspondent. But by 1941, it was obvious to Catledge that he could go no further. The bureau was really a one-man show. Catledge felt that his progress had stalled—he was hitting his head “against the bottom of Arthur Krock’s chair,” he described it to a friend—and so in the winter of 1941 Catledge quit
The New York Times
. He accepted what appeared to be a dream job, that of roving chief correspondent for the
Chicago Sun
, founded by Marshall Field III to compete with the
Chicago Tribune
. But Field’s ambition was never fulfilled, and Catledge was never happy in Chicago. His “roving” job consisted mainly of covering the Rio Conference in 1942, and there was considerable discord among the management members of the paper. Even his later promotion to the position of editor-in-chief of the
Chicago Sun
did not elate him. He had never caught the mood of Chicago, never felt a part of it. He became acutely aware of this one day as he sat in a courtroom, representing the
Sun
in a lawsuit; as the lawyers mentioned various sections of Chicago, the names of particular streets, Catledge realized that he had never heard of them. After seventeen months in Chicago, he was still very much a stranger.

He also missed working for
The New York Times
. There is a very agreeable sense of privilege about employment on
The Times
that can forever spoil an individual who identifies personally with corporate greatness and tradition. Catledge had grown accustomed to
The Times’
size and sway, the way it facilitated the opening of doors on almost every level of life. He let it be known that he wanted to come back, and in the spring of 1943 he was rehired by
The Times
. He was given the title of national correspondent, meaning that he could travel around the country reporting on politics and related subjects; his salary of $12,000 was not to be compared with the $26,500 he had been making in Chicago just before he left, but he did not quibble.

Returning to
The Times
, even after a relatively brief absence, Catledge was able to see the newspaper with more perspective.
The Times
had made many changes since Ochs’s death—obvious changes such as the printing of fashion and food pages, which Ochs would never have allowed, as well as the increased use of photographs, the greatly improved Sunday
Magazine
, and the brighter daily reporting, particularly by such men as Meyer Berger of the New York staff, and James Reston, who in 1944 became the diplomatic correspondent of Krock’s bureau, after having worked in London and as an assistant to Sulzberger. But
The New York Times
was also coasting a bit on its success, Catledge thought. It had now grown so enormously in the New York newsroom, mainly because of the hiring of many new editors and deskmen to handle the war news, that there was a vast depersonalization and coolness about the place. The paper lost a fine reporter, Robert Bird, to the New York
Herald Tribune
, and it would later take from the
Tribune
such men as Peter Kihss and Homer Bigart, but the New York editors seemed generally unconcerned over who came or went:
The Times
was unquestionably the best newspaper in sight, even though the
Tribune
in those days was a serious and interesting newspaper, and was no doubt a more congenial place for reporters wanting literary freedom. For straight reporting, however, and depth of coverage,
The Times
was incomparable. It was especially clear during World War II, when
The Times’
staff so outnumbered and outdistanced the
Tribune
’s, despite the remarkable efforts of some
Tribune
reporters who were as good as
The Times’
best, that the
Tribune
could never again gain on
The Times
in circulation or advertising.

The decision to increase
The Times’
staff and spare no expense in covering the war was Arthur Hays Sulzberger’s, and within that decision he revealed a business acumen that may rank as the wisest move he ever made as publisher. Since the raw materials for producing a newspaper—paper, ink, metal—were rationed during the war, the newspaper publishers around the nation had to decide whether they would try to become rich by filling their newspapers with more advertising, which was then available in great abundance, or whether
they would resist the easy revenue and print more news. Sulzberger chose the latter alternative with a resoluteness that the
Tribune
’s owners did not try to match, and as a result
The Times
conceded millions during the war years, but produced a superior newspaper. Sulzberger also maintained the good will of his advertisers, large and small, by permitting them to publish minimum-sized ads in
The Times
: a national advertiser who formerly might have purchased a full-page ad in
The Times
was restricted to a quarter-page, and a merchant seeking employees through the help-wanted columns could not exceed two lines for each appeal. But the additional space that
The Times
was able to devote to war coverage instead of advertising was, in the long run, a very profitable decision:
The Times
lured many readers from the
Tribune
, and these readers stayed with
The Times
after the war into the Nineteen-fifties and Sixties, while the
Tribune
, which featured columnists and sprightly makeup at the expense of solid reporting, began to lose its circulation, and its advertisers began to withdraw.