The Nation: The Particular Tragedy of Robert McNamara

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McNamara brought the same technological assurance to the war in Viet Nam. At first he was too busy with reorganization to notice it. But as it grew, he willingly took command of what came to be called "McNamara's war." In 1964, he made his famous pronouncement that American troops would be home by Christmas of 1965. When that did not happen, he pressed hard at the White House for a greater troop commitment. He was mesmerized by the feat of getting the forces to Viet Nam: "We put 100,000 men across the beach in 120 days and did not impose wage or price controls or call up the reserves. The Russians could not do that."

As the war widened he consistently underestimated its cost—in life, in spirit, even in money. He miscalculated the cost of the buildup by $11 billion in 1965, by $7 billion in 1966. Because of his confidence in technology, he did not appreciate the staying power of the North Vietnamese, who could get along without up-to-date military hardware. When the war bogged down and his well-laid plans went awry, he seemed to fit the classic case of the man who falls because of too much pride in his rationality. Yet there is another side to the story and to the man. Obscured by his veneer was an underlying, undeniable warmth of personality. The cold rationalist by day loved parties and lively talk, and he danced endlessly at night. He was the favorite dinner companion of the Kennedy wives. In public, he would berate an imprecise subordinate: "Don't give me your poetry." In private, he read poetry avidly.

Despite his hawkish pronouncements, he was essentially a reflective and circumspect man. He profoundly feared the outbreak of World War III, and this guided him in many of his decisions. The Viet Nam War overshadowed his earlier efforts to get the military to accept the nuclear test ban treaty. It had been no sure thing. He had had to sit for hours with the Joint Chiefs and patiently answer—with a little less arrogance than usual—their every objection. Even in the case of Viet Nam, he argued from the beginning against all-out war; he was never happy with bombing, and talked L.B.J. into ordering the 37-day Christmas pause in 1965.

McNamara agonized much more than he let on. The day after the Viet Cong raid on Pleiku, Hébert asked him why the U.S. could not even defend an airbase. "Because we don't have enough people," replied McNamara. "Why don't you get them?" demanded Hébert. "Because more men would be killed." "How many?" "Two hundred and fifty thousand," said McNamara with finality. It was a price that he was unwilling to pay. He wanted to have it both ways: victory and humanity. It was not an easy mix, and even a man of his abilities could not bring it off.

Eventually, he would pace his bedroom far into the night reflecting on the dying Americans and Vietnamese. Sensing the shift in mood, Columnist Joe Alsop pronounced him a splendid "defense minister" but lacking the innate toughness required in a "war minister." After McNamara appeared at a congressional hearing in summer 1967 and criticized the bombing policy as futile, Johnson griped that he had gone "dove," and arranged for him to be appointed president of the World Bank.