Over the past century, soldiers of all nations have learned a lot about living with the media. The education process began in earnest in the First World War. In August 1914, British military commanders felt that they had seen enough of newspapermen to be sure that the huge struggle then getting going would fare better without the presence of people whom they termed with wholehearted irony “the gentlemen of the press”. For many months after Mons and the Marne, information reaching the British public from France and Flanders was both thin and often wildly inaccurate, based solely on official bulletins from British headquarters. No journalists were allowed to visit the front, nor given access to even routine military information. Yet as the war dragged on, losses mounted horrifically and victory seemed ever more remote, the directors of the British war effort were compelled by their political masters to review policy. They began to understand that the public’s ignorance of what was happening in France, of what millions of British soldiers in uniform were doing, was seriously injuring public morale. Here was the country engaged in the greatest military effort in its history. Yet its people were being told nothing about the experiences which their sons and husbands were enduring in the trenches. The decision was made that it was essential to accredit some correspondents to GHQ. The quality of British reporting remained poor to the end of World War I. The access granted to correspondents was pathetically limited. But the central point was conceded, which has been recognised ever since: to sustain the will of a democracy for a war, it is essential to tell its people what is being done in its name.
In 1939, the lessons had to be learned all over again. It was not until at least 1941 that the British media and the government settled down to a reasonably satisfactory relationship, which endured until the end of the Second World War. Not only was there a vital learning process for the heads of the institutions concerned, editors and ministers alike. It was also necessary for a generation of journalists to learn in the field about the realities of war, about how armies, navies and air forces did their business. Over months and years, they did so, but it took a long time for the likes of Alan Moorehead and Alexander Clifford to develop the brilliant expertise which they displayed in the later years of the struggle.
In the 1960s and 1970s, the Vietnam experience caused many American generals to believe that they could have done their business better if the prying eyes of the media had been kept at a distance. Some of those commanders honestly believe to this day that the media lost Vietnam for them, which is a travesty of the truth. And in any event, they could never fulfil their aspiration to keep reporters at home, any more than they can do so in Iraq today. In part, this is because they have been forced to accept that their own men, the soldiers doing the fighting and putting their lives on the line, need to feel that their families and people back home know what they are doing.
To be sure, soldiers, sailors and airmen in action get cross about media exaggerations or misreporting, partly because these frighten their families at home. But they want their kith and kin to know all that can be told about what is happening to them. I’ll give you an example from the 1982 Falklands War. In the early days after the landed at San Carlos, we quickly realised that the critical battle was being fought offshore, between the Argentine air force and the Royal Navy. Yet there was no reporter aboard any of the front line frigates. I flew out to the command ship, and harassed the naval staff to be allowed to visit one of the ships bearing the brunt of the battle. They were dismissive. They said the sailors had no time for the likes of me, when they were running the fight of their lives. Eventually I appealed to the captain, a sensible chap, who saw the point. Between Argentine sorties, he had me flown to the frigate Arrow. When I got there, I was deluged in rude remarks from the sailors, who demanded to know where all the reporters had been. They said they were weary of turning on the BBC World Service, and hearing so much said about the landing force, and nothing from the navy’s frigates at the centre of the storm. When they were being bombed and shot at, it really stung them to feel that nobody at home was noticing.
They wanted to get their names in the paper, as most warriors do. Censorship, when it is imposed, is often unimaginative. In the Falklands, the Mod ‘minders’ routinely deleted all identification of units from reporters’ copy. But after the Parachute Regiment’s triumph at Goose Green, for morale reasons it was decided to let it be known that 2 Para had won the British victory. Once 2 Para had been cited, it kept being named all through the war. This caused huge resentment among all the other units doing the fighting, which stayed anonymous. On the night of June 11th, 1982, three Royal Marine Commandos carried out gallant and successful attacks upon Argentine hill positions overlooking Port Stanley. I filed a long report on the experience of 42 Commando, with whom I climbed Mount Harriet, and which appeared in most British newspapers. But the MoD censors deleted all references to the unit’s identity, and even to the fact that its men wore green berets. The Marines were furious that 2 Para was given a free run in the headlines, while they were kept out of them. This may sound childish, but it reflects the way soldiers feel. Today, in Iraq and Afghanistan, it is a source of tremendous pride that say, the 3 Para or Royal Anglian battlegroups get credit for their actions. The generals know this matters, in sustaining the will of the nation at home as well as that of the soldiers on the battlefield. Sure, some publicity can be damaging- viz Abu Gharaib and stories of mistreatment of civilians. But most reporting plays a vital role in sustaining morale.