The Measure of a Man: My Father, the Marine Corps, and Saipan
Kathleen Broome Williams. Annapolis, MD: Naval Institute Press, 2013. 224 pp. Illus. Notes. Biblio. Index. $34.95.
Reviewed by Richard B. Frank
Roger G. B. Broome III, born and raised in rural Virginia and Washington State, became a Marine Corps Reserve officer in February 1941, after graduating from the University of Virginia. He served in the United States, Brazil, and finally the Pacific. The author is Broome’s daughter, born in September 1944, between her father’s wounding on Saipan in July 1944 and his death in January 1945. This haunting work is a hybrid: at once a biography of a World War II Marine who was awarded a Navy Cross and a memoir of a daughter in search of the father she never knew.
Like other children in her situation, Kathleen Broome’s early years were consumed with carrying on the family her father left: her mother, Jane Louise Leininger Broome, and her older brother, known as “Four” because he carried his father’s name with the appropriate Roman numeral. She reflects that at some level her search for her father began early in life, but did not commence in earnest until sparked by Mary Nelson Kenny, the daughter of Broome’s executive officer, Captain Loreen A. O. Nelson, who was mortally wounded in the same incident as Broome.
Anyone who has done original research will admire the author’s amazing industry in fleshing out the story of this man’s life. At the core were 250 letters her parents exchanged, official Marine Corps records, networks of relatives and veterans, and the skilled assistance of outstanding archivists including Tim Nenninger, Sandy Smith, and Barry Zerby at the National Archives and Records Administration, to name just three. This enormous effort results in a work that relates very well the outward narrative of her father’s life. But what gives it hard-earned depth is the author’s thoughtful exploration of what her research did or did not ultimately reveal about her father’s inner life.
Broome’s peripatetic childhood ended when he attended a prestigious boarding school in Richmond, citadel of the Confederate “Lost Cause” ideology. Success there led to further achievement at the University of Virginia. Described by relatives as “crazy about the military” from an early age, he pursued a coveted regular commission in the Marine Corps. Color blindness presented what seemed an insurmountable obstacle, but Roger waged an extraordinarily diligent and ultimately triumphant campaign to be found fit for service. He was bitterly disappointed that by that time, however, being over 25, he had to settle for a reserve commission.
Three weeks into the basic course in March 1941, Roger met Jane Leininger on a blind date in New York City. They were both instantly smitten and married in November. Immediately after Pearl Harbor, Roger flew off on one of the most obscure Marine expeditions of the war: a miserable tour guarding air facilities in Brazil. A bad case of malaria brought him back to the United States in April 1942. Thereafter he eventually finagled orders to the newly formed 4th Marine Division. Broome’s letters show that he steadfastly affirmed his love for his family and vigorously exercised his right to gripe. Recurring targets of his ire were higher commanders he found wanting, unfaithful spouses, and those who avoided combat duty. The letters also exhibit ugly prejudices about non-whites that make the author cringe—but not omit. On the other hand, Roger also wrote a remarkably prescient service-school paper proposing a generous postwar treatment of Japan.
His service as an aide to the division commander, Major General Harry Schmidt, created unhappiness for both parties. But Roger found an idol in the division: Lieutenant Colonel Evans Carlson, who indelibly impressed him with his character and leadership. Rightly celebrated for his innovative squad tactical organization, Carlson also proved a staunch advocate of very egalitarian relations between officers and men and what are now called “progressive politics.” These latter two ran against the grain of most other senior Marine officers and made Carlson suspect.
In 1944, by then a major, Broome finally got his long-sought combat command: Weapons Company, 24th Marines. An outstanding strength of the author’s account of the campaign on Saipan is her candidness in bringing up not only the admiring tributes paid by members of the company to her father’s leadership and care for his men, but also the issue of whether a pursuit of glory made him reckless and eventually cost him his life and that of Nelson, his much-beloved executive officer.
Overall, this is an impressive, unusually insightful, and moving account of a daughter’s search for her Marine father who died of combat wounds shortly after her birth. It was assembled with equal parts love and skill.
Young Mr. Roosevelt: FDR’s Introduction to War, Politics, and Life
Stanley Weintraub. Boston: Da Capo Press, 2013. 288 pp. Illus. Notes. Index. $25.99.
Reviewed by Lieutenant Andrew Cox, U.S. Navy
Young Mr. Roosevelt shows us “how the expectations of an unremarkable patrician future unraveled and the FDR that we, and history, remember began to emerge.” Set during the decade of World War I, we see the 30-something Franklin leave wealthy obscurity to pursue public service and continuously struggle with the complicated legacy of his famous uncle, Theodore Roosevelt.
Weintraub begins in 1913, when FDR finished his first term in the New York state senate and joined Woodrow Wilson’s administration under the watchful eye of teetotaling Navy Secretary Josephus Daniels. As Assistant Secretary of the Navy, FDR dealt with all manner of Navy business: procurement, supply, budgets, shore installations, inspections, force allocation, and more. But the prospects of applying U.S. naval power to national and international affairs provided him the station that his ambition desired, and Weintraub explores this extensively.
The brash navalist FDR clashed with the pacifist Daniels and idealist Wilson often; he felt their ideas on limiting American international presence and military modernization endangered the country. However, FDR and Daniels also worked quite well together, never arguing in public or undermining each other. Weintraub explores how Daniels deeply trusted Roosevelt, who knew far more about the Navy and seamanship, to run the department in his stead when he was away. Influenced by big-Navy proponents like Alfred T. Mahan, FDR enthusiastically embraced these opportunities and pushed his own vision for America’s future. Much of the Navy’s top brass supported him, and admirals would even wait until FDR was Acting Secretary to take him requisitions for signature.
Though FDR kept close watch on the brewing world conflict, he despaired of convincing Wilson’s cabinet to rearm the military. Upon hearing of Archduke Ferdinand’s assassination, he wrote to Eleanor that “nobody seemed the least bit excited about the European crisis . . . So I started in alone to get things ready and prepare plans for what ought to be done by the Navy end of things.”
He proposed and supported many initiatives designed to get the United States on solid war footing, including modern shipbuilding programs and modifications, organizing Allied convoys, arming merchant ships, developing a massive submarine force, exploring applications of naval aviation, and forming small regional squadrons of private vessels into submarine patrols. When FDR could not complete what he saw necessary, he harangued his superiors. Like his famous uncle, he constantly considered resigning his post and joining the war overseas, but he ended up staying in office where he was much more valuable.
At the end of his term, FDR confronted meager national political opportunities, especially since the close of Wilson’s administration had tainted the Democratic label. His surname and previous work impressed enough influential people to land him the vice-president spot on the doomed-to-fail Democratic ticket in 1920, but Weintraub insists FDR’s time with Daniels and Wilson left a more enduring legacy. While constructing his own political character, he blended different reformist themes from both his uncle and Wilson. He learned how to get what he felt was most important done without antagonizing or undermining his superiors and allies. He cultivated political capital and favorable relationships that he intended to use for the future. And, as Weintraub notes, “he was always aware that government, to succeed, had to pass muster by the public.”
The book follows a tight chronology and flips between FDR working with Wilson and Daniels, tending to or ignoring his family life, having an affair with Lucy Mercer, and dealing with Uncle Ted. Sometimes the transitions seem a bit random or unnecessary. There are several instances where Weintraub makes rather weak suppositions that an event in young FDR’s life is directly connected to an attitude or decision that happened later in his presidency (or, more unbelievably, to future leaders such as Barack Obama). These diversions don’t add anything concrete but do lead one to question the credibility of a work from an otherwise-esteemed historian.
Overall, however, this is a solid biography that presents an in-depth look at a formative period of one of America’s most important Presidents. It also highlights the difficulties the early 20th-century Navy struggled with as America stepped onto the world stage. FDR’s vision for the future ensured that the Navy played an essential and evolving role in determining American foreign and military policy while he ran the department. Such historical observation encourages one to reflect on our current strategic problems and the Navy’s role today. Decisions on everything from modern weapons to deployment cycles follow an administrative tradition influenced by FDR.
To Be A Friend is Fatal: The Fight to Save the Iraqis America Left Behind
Kirk W. Johnson. New York: Scribner, 2013. 339 pp. $26.
Reviewed by John R. Ballard
This very interesting book really began when its author, Kirk Johnson, learned Arabic as a child. Eventually he was drawn into the second war between America and Iraq as a civilian U.S. Agency for International Development (USAID) official in 2004–05. Like most civilians who experienced the conflict in Iraq, his work was centered in Baghdad, but he served for a short time in Fallujah as well. Johnson is also a victim of PTSD, and one of the valuable aspects of this book is the fact that it does help people understand the causes and effects of such conflict-driven illness.
This book, though, is not only about Johnson, his service in Iraq, and his life afterwards in rehabilitation; it also includes the tale of a number of Iraqis—an interpreter named Yaghdan, for example—whose lives in and out of Iraq during the war parallel the author’s. It interweaves these two distinct storylines and thus is both about the numerous Iraqis scarred by America’s (in)actions in the war and an American equally scarred by the effects of the same conflict.
The other major subject is the U.S. government, which is harshly yet accurately portrayed as overly bureaucratic, largely uncaring, and bumbling. The book gives much evidence to support the assertion that the federal government was both ill-equipped and largely ineffective at handling the issue of Iraqi refugees. Johnson mostly faults the State Department and USAID, but Congress and other government agencies don’t come away innocent either. Johnson created “The List Project,” which named a number of Iraqis seeking asylum and helped spur government action to bring many who helped the American cause in Iraq to the United States when their lives and families were endangered because of their support.
To Be A Friend is Fatal seeks to justify the need for individual Americans and their government to have assisted the patriotic interpreters who were mostly left behind in Iraq (often to terrible fates). The overly rigid American immigration policies made it very difficult for Iraqis to come permanently to the nation they helped in time of war. The case of Yaghdan is compelling: Educated in the United Kingdom, fully fluent in English, and a significant help to the American cause from the very first days of the 82nd Airborne Division’s arrival in Baghdad and then for several years within the USAID compound in the Iraqi capital, he risked everything he had and served in every capacity requested. But as compelling as is Yaghdan’s individual case, the larger cause of the thousands of other Iraqis has to recognize the fact that the federal government is not designed to respond effectively to such issues.
One should question whether the U.S. government actually should bear responsibility for these people. As clear as the humanitarian need is and as poignant as their individual cases are, the tragedy of the Iraq war has many even larger problems that were effectively ignored by the U.S. government. Should foreign nationals who work for the United States be given a fast track to American residency? If so, regardless of the nature of their work, thousands of people would be eligible for immigration, and it is not clear that Iraqis have a stronger case for immigration than Somalis, Afghans, or Bosnians.
The book does not tell the story of the Iraq War. It complains about both the policies and the stereotypical bureaucrats who served in Baghdad and did little else, but it explains none of the goals, issues, or constraints of the agencies or people whom it criticizes. It also does not tell the full story of any of the actors it mentions or of the Iraq War in the period Johnson served; it is a personal tale and never attempts to be anything else.
Still, for those who want to better understand the war fought for a decade in Iraq, it does offer something valuable. Few other books reveal the motivations of individual Iraqis or tell the reader much about civil life in Iraq during the war. This volume does that passionately, and I think accurately. It also helps the reader understand why the military actions in Iraq were so easily misunderstood, by both everyday Iraqis involved in the conflict and the American civilians who served in Iraq, at least one of whom experienced the post-conflict trauma of the war as much as many soldiers and Marines.
Blind Over Cuba: The Photo Gap and the Missile Crisis
David M. Barrett and Max Holland. College Station: Texas A&M University Press, 2012. 222 pp. Notes. Biblio. Index. $29.95.
Reviewed by Lieutenant K. Beth Jasper, U.S. Navy
As information pertaining to the 1962 Cuban Missile Crisis continues to be declassified, a number of books on the event have emerged, most of which focus on the history and strategic decision making. Blind Over Cuba: The Photo Gap and the Missile Crisis examines numerous government documents declassified in 2003, historical accounts, and formal government investigations performed following the crisis to paint a picture of the circumstances surrounding the gap in photographic reconnaissance during this period. The book seeks to provide little known insights internal to the Kennedy administration and the intelligence community and demonstrate that political tensions and uncertainty led to the lack of photographic reconnaissance from 5 September through 14 October 1962.
The authors begin by describing the international environment in which the players found themselves in 1962. On 30 August a Strategic Air Command U-2 violated Soviet airspace leading to a Soviet government protest, and on 8 September a U-2 flown by a Taiwan-based pilot was shot down over China. Barrett and Holland attribute the fear of another U-2 incident as a main factor behind the Kennedy administration’s decision not to fly directly over Cuba. The formal investigations conducted post-crisis reflect that the Kennedy administration’s concerns of a potential international incident, intelligence estimates, and analytical errors were the primary causes of the degradation of intelligence collection.
Examining the administration’s and the intelligence community’s cultural tendencies and operational realities, the authors cite reasons from both camps that contributed to a dearth of intelligence collection during this time. Blind Over Cuba elaborates on the administration’s fears of another U-2 incident, a distrust toward intelligence professionals with opposing political views, a hypervigilance to protect the reputation of the President following the Bay of Pigs, and a lack of senior technical knowledge. For the intelligence community’s part, Barrett and Holland cite the unwillingness of intelligence professionals to stray from conventional wisdom in spite of contrary evidence, the unwillingness of imagery analysts to make definitive assessments, and a propensity to discount raw intelligence that conflicted with assessments. Additionally, competition between the State Department and the Central Intelligence Agency and the lack of intelligence experience of new CIA leadership are noted as contributing factors.
The authors offer an accurate and informative historical chain of events supported by documentation, including papers written by members of Congress as evidence of an environment wrought with tension and uncertainty. While Barrett and Holland successfully provide insight into how it was possible for administration officials to make politically motivated decisions—and errors—that resulted in a cover-up, they do not give sufficient evidence to explain intelligence errors that led to the crisis. Specifically, they did not adequately explain why experienced professionals discounted raw intelligence reports indicating that the Soviet Union was moving missiles into Cuba.
Psychological studies of the human cognitive process supported by scientific experiments provide substantive explanations for all the proposed failures cited by Barrett and Holland. The Psychology of Intelligence Analysis by Richards J. Heuer explains cognitive and unmotivated biases associated with intelligence analysis, such as an analyst’s tendency to see information confirming already established ideas more acutely than new “disconfirming” information. Additionally, Intelligence and the Cuban Missile Crisis by James G. Blight and David A. Welch provides a comprehensive study of the crisis. Blight and Welch, much like Barrett and Holland, focus on the historiography leading to it but also demonstrate that human cognitive processes and motivational pathologies directly influenced the intelligence process that led to errors.
Barrett and Holland sought to provide a scholarly approach to the Cuban Missile Crisis that focuses on the intelligence community and politics. However, the book fails to weigh the most basic human psychological processes as they have been studied and applied to the intelligence community as explanations for perceived failures. The errors and the ultimate decisions made by senior government leadership are more closely related to the cognitive processes associated with human psychology than mere political tensions and mistrust within competing organizations and opposing political parties. Blind Over Cuba: The Photo Gap and the Missile Crisis provides a historical overview but avoids the technical nuances necessary to be of value to the intelligence professional.