Punch Sulzberger and the Pentagon Papers

By CLYDE HABERMAN

Newspapers, this one perhaps more than all others, routinely prepare obituaries of the celebrated and the infamous well in advance of their deaths. It fell to me - quite an honor, really - to write the advance obituary of Arthur Ochs Sulzberger, long the publisher of The New York Times until he passed the reins in 1992. Punch Sulzberger, to use his nickname since boyhood, died on Saturday at age 86.

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Clyde Haberman offers his take on the news.

As part of my research, I interviewed Mr. Sulzberger years ago. It was the only time I'd ever done that with the subject of a future obit, let alone one whom I knew, however superficially. As I sat down to begin asking him questions for an article that he obviously understood was contingent on his death, I felt a need to express my unease.

“Punch,” I said, “bef ore we start, can I just say how uncomfortable this makes me?”

With feigned dismay, he replied, “You!?”

It was characteristic of the man to punctuate a sober situation with humor. This isn't to suggest that he could not be tough as steel wool. But his good spirits shone through time and again - a genial touch that could leaven a serious moment. He had an appealing capacity for self-deprecation, perhaps most strikingly displayed in connection with what was surely his finest hour.

That was his decision in 1971 to publish the Pentagon Papers, a classified and exhaustive government history of how the United States became mired in a war in Vietnam that was increasingly unpopular and seemingly endless. (Sound familiar?) Attempts by the Nixon administration to block publication on national security grounds - to impose “prior restraint” - led to an important Supreme Court decision affirming the primacy of a free press ove r the government's desire to preserve secrecy.

Twenty-five years later, in 1996, The Times was honored by the Committee to Protect Journalists for having stood firm back then. Mr. Sulzberger accepted the award. But he didn't want to tread “old ground,” he said in his speech. Instead, he preferred to “indulge in a few personal remembrances,” including how he had cut short a trip to Europe to deal with the legal fallout that swiftly followed publication of the first batch of Pentagon Papers on a June Sunday in 1971.

What follows is his description of events after A.M. Rosenthal, The Times's editor in 1971, had told him about this mass of secret documents that he wished to put in the paper - if the publisher approved, of course, for the buck stopped with him.

Snippets of this speech have been quoted from time to time, but it deserves a fuller treatment. Here it is, with inevitable excisions for space purposes. It is, in so many ways, vintage Punch:< /p>

“The more I listened, the more certain I became that the entire operation smelled of 20 years to life. I quickly called The Times's longtime outside lawyers.”

“They certainly were cautious, so cautious indeed that their senior partner told me that if The Times chose to publish the documents, his firm would refuse to defend us. With all that cheerful advice, I called Abe Rosenthal, and told him that if I were going to jail for publishing something, I thought it made sense to read it. “‘Do you wish to read it all?' he inquired. ‘Yes,' I responded, ‘all of it.'

“From the glee in his voice, I should have smelled a rat. It wasn't too long before there was a knock at the door, and in comes Abe pushing a large shopping cart overflowing with papers. With a beatific smile, he announced, ‘Here you are. Happy reading.'”

“Until I read the Pentagon Papers, I did not know that it was possible to read and sleep at the same time. They were l ong, very long. But one thing was undeniable. If I had been in charge of that mess, I'd have tried to keep it secret also.”

“What became clear after reading was that these were extraordinary documents proving deceit of the American people by their elected officials. I had no doubt but that the American people had a right to read them and that we at The Times had an obligation to publish them.”

“I had been scheduled to go to Europe with my family on the day following publication. By then, I was convinced that one of two things would occur: either they'd come and take me to jail, or readers of The Times would fall back to bed exhausted by the weight of our coverage.

“Monday morning came. And as I was still a free man, I assumed our readers to be asleep, so I went to Europe. It was a fine visit, lasting about three hours. But ever confident, I told my wife to keep my suitcases, and I'd be right back. My clothes had a wonderful holiday.

“T he rest is history. It was a fascinating time. But, like this speech, I'm glad it's over.”