Cronkite

Once upon a time, and it wasn’t so very long ago, the men who had established their news credentials in areas other than TV, entered it, and set standards by which all correspondents and producers are measured. There were many such, but I will confine my comment to just one, Walter Cronkite, who made his reputation the hard way, he earned it.

I got to know him slightly when the reporters for the local stations in New York City went on strike. The issues were basic and although they had somehow made their way to the Baghdad on the Hudson, they were paid a disgracefully low wage, probably about $250 per week in the 1960s. It is to Cronkite’s credit that he refused to cross the picket lines while Chet Huntley did. That strike created animosities which lasted for many years.

Network salaries were much higher, as were those of the anchormen and, often, weather persons. They became celebrities and thus were far better paid and got the best tables in local restaurants, etc. Truth be known, TV is Hollywood’s handmaiden, and the celebrity system is right out of Tinseltown. Knowing your craft was helpful ,but not being telegenic was sure death, hence the star system and ridiculous salaries.

But Cronkite stood head and shoulders above just about all his confreres. He had covered World War II, including D-Day, knew how to write, and had the disciplines necessary to find and broadcast the most elusive virgin of them all, the truth. He was the one we all looked toward and used as a standard.

His manner on the air was straightforward and his “And that’s the way it is,” sign-off reflected exactly what was going on without interpretation or slant of any form. Everyone remembered his reporting the day Jack Kennedy was killed, his iron control almost breaking, but he hung on and he was watched by tens of millions. I was working sixteen hour days on the streets and in the studios. Catharsis belonged to television and the American people. They were perhaps TV’s finest hours.

So it was that in the days of great fleets of bombers gently cascading millions of tons of high explosives on the wonderful terra firma of Viet Nam, Cronkite pondered and probably wished he were there to get a sense of it. Lo, that day came when the North Vietnamese and their Viet Cong cadres invested every major South Vietnamese city. This presumably ragtag opponent, in his funny truck tire sandals, was using very modern weapons while overrunning South Vietnamese troops throughout the country.

It was too much for Cronkite. He packed up his gear, got his dozen shots and was in Saigon within days. They equipped him with helmet, fatigues, flak jacket and escort and Walter proceeded into the fray. I had been slightly wounded in the hand at Khe Sanh and was back in Saigon briefly when Cronkite showed up, looking as if he had really been with the “grunts.” Rumor had it that he had gotten too close to the action and the army had to send in half a dozen well-armed helicopters to haul him to safety. Can those of you who remember, imagine the reaction if the dean of American television journalists had gotten his ass all shot up, or even killed, if we were in supposed control of the war?

He showed up on the tenth floor of the Caravelle Hotel and all of us, regardless of network, surrounded him. The big guy was here, he wasn’t afraid of putting his ass and reputation on the line (or, if he was, he overcame that fear,) and we felt better for his presence; Big Daddy was on board.

I was talking to him and asked a question that had been on my mind for several days. It was not uncommon for network news executives to show up for a few days, get the guided tours and a helicopter ride of the supposed battlefronts, which didn’t really exist, get tailored for a correspondent’s suit along Duong Tu. Do, then head back to New York, reflect on their “battle” experiences and proceed to tell the people in Saigon what needed to be done. I said to Cronkite, “What the hell is it with these network types; come into town, drink at this bar, get a briefing and helicopter ride, return to the U.S. and proceed to tell us how to cover this lousy war?”

He exploded, saying among other things, “You young pup, what the hell do you know about covering this war? What are your credentials?” To which I immediately replied, “As good as yours,” yet I was stunned and added, “Jesus, Walter I wasn’t talking about you,” but he was furious at me for suggesting that he was one of the very executives I was criticizing. He got even angrier and ended up by saying, :””I ought to punch you in the nose.” “I said , “You wouldn’t hit a wounded man, would you?” and started to back off when he made another crack which blew me over the top and then I wanted him to throw a punch.

At that moment, George Murray, the fine NBC producer, jumped in and pulled us apart. He half dragged me away and said, “Jesus, Tom, did you have to pick on Cronkite?” as if I had committed the unpardonable sin. I was flaming. “ What the fuck is wrong with him, he must have known I wasn’t using him as an example?”

“I have no doubt about it,” Murray said, then added , “We are all crazy,” and I knew him to be right.

He had maneuvered me out onto the tenth floor balcony where everyone has a wonderful view of the city of Saigon in the midst of a war. There were dozen of fires. Artillery and small arms were still going off and the “Pearl of the Orient,” was fast becoming an open-air graveyard. It was said that the children were fascinated by the tracer fire of the “spooky” transports and their Gatling guns, and would run into the streets to watch these beautiful, deadly lights from the sky.

Cronkite and the blow-up faded as Murray came back with two drinks, asked me if I was O.K., then went back inside. I looked at the ravaged city and heard a voice behind me. “I’m sorry I blew up at you, Tom.” It was Cronkite. I nodded and said something to the effect, “No offense taken. Walter. You’ve seen it all, D-Day and all that good stuff. Have you every seen anything like this?”

He looked out over the magnificent, maimed remnant of French culture, and said, “Never. You know, I thought we were winning this God-damned war. Wait ‘til I get home.” We stood and stared at the death of a conviction and a city.

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