Newspapers on Guard

I

WHEN the President referred, in his first war speech, to the tremendous responsibility resting upon radio and the press, he linked them in a fashion that indicated his belief that the same responsibility rests upon them both. From the standpoint of the Commander in Chief that is true enough. The responsibility the Commander in Chief naturally, and properly, had in mind is the responsibility of affording neither aid and comfort to the enemy by revealing military secrets, nor hindrance and discomfort to the population by the propagation of false rumors. This responsibility does rest upon all disseminators of news, radio and press included.

But the press carries further responsibilities that radio shares only to a slight degree, if at all; and the peculiar character of this war has made them peculiarly onerous. The President, as Commander in Chief, instructed the newspapers as to what they must not do, and quit with that. The fact remains, however, that the American press is facing not merely the usual prohibitions that always go into force with the outbreak of hostilities, but positive duties unlike those laid upon it in any previous war; duties whose successful discharge presents formidable difficulties that will tax not only the skill, but also the ingenuity and, above all, the judgment of the profession as they have never been taxed before.

On the other hand, the press is relieved, in this war, of one responsibility it has carried in all other wars. That is the responsibility of speed. The first news no longer comes to the public from the newspapers. That reporting has been taken over by the radio, which is so much better equipped for the purpose that it is idle for the press to think of trying to compete. Newspapermen are sometimes inclined to regret, even to resent this; but it may be argued very plausibly that they are really being relieved of a handicap. Breakneck speed does not make for good journalism. Release from the necessity of straining for speed should have a tendency to improve the quality of the newspapers.

That is one condition the press has not faced before. Another is the almost complete absence of neutrals in this struggle. At this writing Switzerland and Sweden still exist precariously as technical neutrals, but they both exist on sufferance, and their neutral status will certainly be abolished the moment Germany decides that she loses, rather than gains, by its continuance. All good news writers strive for objectivity, and the ablest, after years of training, attain it to a remarkable degree. But the best reporter in the world, with many years of rigorous training behind him, will not write from Berlin precisely as he writes from Bern when Germany is at war and Switzerland is neutral. That is true regardless of censorship, and it is true because he will not think in Berlin precisely as he thinks in Bern. If there were no censor, if no one so much as mentioned his work to him, still the mere presence around him of a population under the intense physical and psychic strain of war would inevitably have an effect on his mental processes, and that effect would be reflected in what he wrote.

Moreover, fine reporting is dependent upon the reporter’s background to a greater extent than most non-professionals realize. The correspondent in a belligerent capital is necessarily poorly informed about what is going on in the rest of the world, and for that reason he is constantly in danger of misinterpreting the significance of what goes on under his eyes.

A reporter is not a transcriber; reporting is a selective process. Even the New York Times, most voluminous newspaper in the world, omits vastly more news than it presents; how much judgment then must a foreign correspondent, restricted to a few hundred words, exercise in picking out the really important from the multitudinous events of the day! Yet the importance of an event may be affected tremendously by what is occurring elsewhere, and the reporter without information may — indeed, almost surely will — misjudge its significance. In time of war every American news editor knows that his cables from the various capitals can never be judged alone, but must be carefully checked and balanced against each other to give him even a reasonable approximation of the truth. He usually finds the reports from neutral countries more enlightening than any others — sometimes as much for what they omit as for what they include.

II

Henceforth American newspapers must proceed without the advantage of a neutral filter, except for such use, steadily narrowing, as may be made of Bern and Stockholm. This can hardly fail to exert a damaging influence upon the quality of the news presented to American readers; but it will have another effect that is probably more important because it may be more damaging in the long run — the effect upon conscientious newspapermen themselves.

I know that the statement will be received with incredulity, but it is true that every reputable American newspaper is extremely reluctant to attack any man or any individual until it is sure of its facts. Frequently some of the facts are of such a nature, or have been learned in such a way, that their publication is impossible; nevertheless, the newspaper knows them before it opens fire. The energy and care that are spent upon investigation and verification before a responsible American newspaper prints a derogatory statement would astound a good many law offices. Inaccuracy is humiliating, even if no question of libel is involved. It is almost a matter of instinct, therefore, at least in the good shops, to be silent when you are not sure.

Now that the war has spread into every corner of the earth, and the censors are omnipresent, it will become harder and harder always to be sure. The inevitable result will be to make the press hesitant and slow in its judgments.

This is not desirable at any time, and it is doubly undesirable in time of war. Factious and obstructive criticism at such a time is criminal, to be sure; but well-founded criticism is a contribution to the safety of the nation and one of the most important duties that devolve upon the press.

For it is of the very nature of war to stir up all the evil in the dark depths of society.

This has no reference whatever to the character of the present administration at Washington. I care not what sort of administration may be in power, the same thing will happen. Since time began the vultures have followed the battle, and were Arthur the President, — I mean the Briton, not Chester A.,— supported by a Cabinet consisting of ten Galahads, nevertheless within ninety days after the outbreak of war Washington would be infested with rascals of every stripe. Nor is that all of the picture, or by any means the worst of it. Unless this war differs from every other ever fought, there will be incompetence and stupidity in high places, which favoritism will endeavor to conceal. Against this sort of thing it is the duty of the press to be vigilant. But it is hard to be vigilant when one is hesitant and uncertain.

By way of illustration let us consider one possibility that did not develop. Within two hours of the first report of the attack on Pearl Harbor every newspaperman in the country knew there was something wrong. The information given the press before the war was that, with the defenses properly manned, the harbor itself could not be reached. But it was reached. It was obvious, therefore, either that the press had been misinformed — and had misinformed the public — or that the defenses had not been properly manned.

In this instance, Washington acted swiftly and resolutely. Before the newspapers had time to do more than mutter, the Secretary of the Navy was on his way to the scene; and within forty-eight hours of his report the three ranking officers in the region were yanked out of their commands and put under the magnifying glass. There was, therefore, no occasion for the press to do anything beyond reporting the news.

But suppose Washington had not acted? Suppose the newspapers had had reason to believe that Washington was not going to act because one, or all, of the officers involved had friends in high places who were using political influence to prevent any really ruthless investigation? It did not happen in this case; but such things have happened in the past and, unless we are lucky beyond all precedent, such things will happen again. In that event it would be the plain duty of the press to cry aloud and spare not. This would involve publishing information of value to the enemy — for what could be more valuable to the enemy than to be informed, truthfully, that we had a jackass in command? Yet to let the enemy know such a fact is not as dangerous as to keep the country from knowing it.

I have chosen the Pearl Harbor incident, I repeat, for the very reason that the situation the newspapers dread did not develop in that connection — and what a relief it was to conscientious newspapermen when they realized that the government would need no prodding! But it is beyond belief that this will always be true.

III

There is another factor that will operate in restraint of alert and vigorous criticism — namely, the unfortunate position of most of the larger newspapers in relation to the present administration. In 1940 Mr. Roosevelt was opposed by a majority of the big-city press. It may be that this will make them all the more anxious to expose his shortcomings as the war progresses, but I doubt that it will work that way in most instances. Probably there are a few newspaper proprietors so poisoned by hatred of the man that they are capable of sacrificing the interest of the country to indulge their hatred; but they are not many, and they are regarded by their betterpoised colleagues as repulsive. I am inclined to believe that most of the men who have fought Mr. Roosevelt in time of peace will now be inclined to lean backward in their desire not to be classed with those who are capable of carrying partisan disputes into this gravest of national emergencies. Their criticism will be less aggressive, not more so, because of their consciousness that they are criticizing a man whom they dislike on grounds having no connection with the war.

But what of the isolationist press? Well, where its isolationism is sincere, and not adopted simply because the President was non-isolationist, it has been offered the means of making a graceful exit from its position. The genuine isolationist opposed intervention in a war being fought on foreign soil. No reputable American newspaper has ever suggested that we should yield an inch of our own territory, nor am I aware that any has opposed severe chastisement of an invader, although that necessarily involves chasing him back into his own premises and finishing him off there. Now that Japan has started it, no newspaper need feel, nor is any likely to feel, that previous isolationism is a bar to insisting that the United States finish the war; and if that means carrying the fight into Africa (which seems probable enough), nevertheless we must finish it.

The press, like every other element of our national life, owes to the Mikado the valuable gift of unity. The treachery of the attack, made at the very hour when so-called peacemakers were in conversation with the American Secretary of State, has absolved all consciences, and Japan is destined to learn the important truth that if you are going to stab a man in the back, failure to reach a vital organ is worse than a crime — it is a blunder. Unsuccessful or even half-successful treachery is idiotic, for it confers upon your opponent the inestimable advantage of righteous wrath.

IV

I have considered, so far, only the situation of honest newspapers. I am convinced that it is hardly worth while to consider any others, but it would be fatuous to deny that they exist. The reptile press falls into two classes — that part owned by Hitler and that part owned by megalomaniacs.

It may be assumed as a matter of course that agents of the Axis powers have endeavored to purchase some American newspapers, and it is highly probable they have succeeded. It is not likely, however, that this is of much importance, for the simple reason that any newspaper Hitler could buy must have been a rather scurvy paper beforehand, with small circulation and smaller influence. It is improbable that these gutter rags will do much damage before they are exposed.

More trouble may be caused by newspapers that happen to be under the control of men with an insane estimate of their own importance. There are such men in American journalism — not many, but enough to constitute a considerable nuisance in time of war. The ballooning conceit of these fellows can be pricked by one force only, and that is the force of public opinion. Some may be rash enough to expose themselves to action by the military authorities and wind up in Leavenworth prison; but in general the one defense against them is the common sense of their readers. When their readers desert, they will be done for.

But the Benedict Arnolds and the Mad Mullahs combined constitute only a small part of the American press. The question of importance is what the honest and patriotic papers are going to do.

V

At first the chances are that they will do rather less than their duty, not for any lack of energy and sincerity but because, like all Americans, they are confused and uncertain. Some of the boys like to speak oracularly of their prescience, and by this time some have doubtless convinced themselves that they knew the Japanese attack was inevitable and almost the day and hour when it was bound to come. But they are talking through their hats. On Sunday, December 7, 1941, American newspapermen were surprised as completely as their fellow countrymen, including those at Pearl Harbor.

Americans spent more than twenty years talking themselves into the conviction that it was high and holy patriotism, instead of blind and stupid selfishness, that made us run out on civilization in 1919. The American press led the gabble, and in the end the American press talked itself almost entirely out of contact with the realities of international politics. The Cloud-Cuckoo-Land in which we all lived was to a large extent the creation of the press, and nobody believed in it more firmly than some sections of the press. So the ‘murder of a beautiful theory by a gang of brutal facts’ staggered us who deal with the news as it staggered everyone else. It is going to take us some time to collect our scattered wits and begin to function again with any certainty and precision. Until we do so, we are likely to make rather indifferent sentinels upon the watchtower.

But when the newspapers have recovered from the initial shock they will find a new, unfamiliar, and rather distasteful task before them in adjusting themselves to working under governmental censorship. In this endeavor much will depend upon the censorship. It began very well. The appointment of Mr. Byron Price as director was approved by the press, for he is admittedly one of the ablest newspapermen in the country. But Mr. Price, after all, is not the final authority. There are powers behind him, and it is conceivable that these may force him sometimes to follow courses that his own judgment does not altogether approve.

The cheaper sort of politicians — including politicians in the armed forces — will certainly exhaust every resource their ingenuity can suggest to employ the censorship, not to keep the enemy ignorant of our military dispositions, but to keep the country ignorant of the stupidities and worse perpetrated by incompetent or dishonest officials. Sometimes they will succeed. We may as well face that depressing fact in the beginning. No war was ever fought, and doubtless none ever will be fought, without the enrichment of some rascals, the sanctification of some villains, and the laudation of some fools. The restriction of these melancholy incidents to the irreducible minimum should be the limit of our hopes; and that limit is likely to be approached in such measure as the censorship is prevented from becoming the protection of the brainless and the conscienceless.

We are fortunate in having before us the example of the British, who, after some fumbling in the early stages, seem to have worked out a reasonably efficient system of suppressing indiscretion without suppressing criticism. It must be borne in mind, however, that Mr. Price faces certain difficulties from which the British censor is free. News gathering is much more highly centralized in Great Britain than it is in this country. Modern communication has reduced the effect, but not abolished the existence, of distance; no one American city can blanket the country with its newspapers as London blankets England. More than that, British newspapers, by reason of their geographical proximity to the Continent, have always had a much more intimate understanding of the policies of the Foreign Office than most American newspapers have of those of the State Department.

Nevertheless, the idea that the American press will be in constant collision with the censorship is fantastic. In 1917 we had remarkably little trouble, although the censorship of the press was on a voluntary basis. As a matter of fact, in 1941 the newspapers, time after time, held up news items which they were under no compulsion to delay, until the proper government authorities could be consulted.

While it is practically certain that there will be an occasional slip, we may feel confident that the press will not fail to assume its full responsibility as regards the publication of news that may be of military value to the enemy. The serious question concerns its assumption of responsibility for its other function, that of keeping the American people informed, not as to military dispositions, but as to the honesty, intelligence, and efficiency of their government. Efforts will be made to employ the censorship for preventing the discharge of that function. Efforts will be made to employ to the same end political pressure, economic pressure, patriotic fervor, and the unfamiliarity of the situation.

The defeat of these efforts will demand the exercise of skill in a high degree, energy, courage, and, above all, cool, balanced judgment. To assert that the press will always measure up to standards so high would be little short of imbecile. There will be failures. There must be failures. The job is simply too difficult for humanity to do it perfectly. But the failures in detail will not add up to failure in the large. By degrees the press will adjust itself; slipping here, and sliding there, it will nevertheless keep its footing in the main and thread its way through this unfamiliar labyrinth at a pace that will improve with the passage of time.

Being an American newspaperman in the months immediately ahead is going to be more difficult than ever before in this generation, but it is also going to be more interesting; and in the end, I have faith to believe, the coming epoch will reflect credit on the craft.