The subject of Karen DeYoung's new biography doesn't quite attain the stature that his many admirers might wish for him: that of a tragic hero. The Colin Powell portrayed in Soldier comes across as a disciplined and talented beneficiary of genuine equal opportunity, an inspiring leader of bureaucracies, "the world's best staff officer," a cool operator in Washington's political wars, an uncommonly decent man, a stellar product of great American institutions. But when those institutions failed -- when the Bush administration took the country to war in Iraq, rashly and under false pretexts -- Powell did not have the imagination to challenge or, finally, defy the system that had made him.
DeYoung, an associate editor at The Washington Post, had Powell's cooperation in the form of six extended interviews, but as she notes at the end of the book, they covered only the most recent ground -- the years since Powell told his own story in his 1995 memoir, My American Journey. For this reason, and because a man of Powell's supreme self-control is even more opaque than most public figures, her march through his early years and his rise through the ranks of the Army has a dutiful feel -- a blur of promotions and Powell family relocations without any strong sense of his inner life. In spite of DeYoung's reportorial talents and sympathetic understanding of her subject, the first half of Soldier should have been greatly compressed; Powell's career is simply not important or interesting enough for a full-dress biographical monument. (Would anyone want to read 500 pages about Brent Scowcroft?)
DeYoung might have done better to limit herself to Powell's years as secretary of state. She imbues this story with narrative tension and a steady accumulation of detail that shows exactly how he allowed himself to be used, mastered and then cast aside by his antagonists in the administration, above all by his longtime colleague Dick Cheney, now the vice president. It illustrates what critics, including Powell's former chief of staff Lawrence B. Wilkerson, have described as broken policymaking, with disagreements turning poisonously personal and key decisions, such as the jettisoning of the Kyoto accords or even the historic decision to invade Iraq, made without the knowledge of leading officials, usually Powell himself.
Powell had the devotion of those below him, and his instinct for the right word and gesture was never surer than on Sept. 11, 2001, when, marooned in Lima, Peru, at a meeting of the Organization of American States, he insisted on staying long enough to cast the American vote in favor of a document called the Democratic Charter. "He knew from the start that what we needed were friends," his spokesman Richard Boucher told DeYoung. "We didn't know who did it, we didn't know why. But we needed democratic friends -- that was the only way, whatever this was, that we were going to beat it."
It was the thinking of a moderate Republican member of the internationalist foreign policy establishment -- one of the last. It was not the thinking of the president and his most influential advisers, especially the vice president and Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld, who were more intellectually aggressive than Powell and far more ruthless in undermining their chief antagonist. In DeYoung's account, Powell believed for a long time that he was winning more than his share of interagency battles, partly because his meteoric rise through a system that operated in an essentially rational way had been almost untroubled. "But past experience was turning out to be a poor guide to the new reality," DeYoung writes, "and Powell was slow to grasp the extent of his -- and the State Department's -- isolation within Bush's national security team."
As the administration moved with blind self-confidence toward war in Iraq, Powell slowly became part of the machinery that he thought he was helping to brake. The process by which he began to accept the White House's terms of the argument makes for the best pages of Soldier, a fascinating study in bureaucratic maneuvering, groupthink and subtle self-deception. Powell's tactical successes obscured his larger strategic defeat: Once he persuaded the president to take his case against Iraq to the United Nations in September 2002, DeYoung writes, "Powell quickly moved to protect his right flank by establishing his bona fides inside the administration as a believer in the Iraqi threat and a firm supporter -- should diplomacy and international pressure fail -- of the use of force. Almost overnight, his carefully couched assessments of the state of Saddam's weapons programs were transformed into certainty." This change led directly to the moment for which Powell himself has said he will always be remembered: his dramatic speech to the U.N. Security Council on Feb. 5, 2003, vouching for the existence of weapons of mass destruction in Iraq, later shown to be almost completely wrong. After that, the war was inevitable, as was the historical verdict on Powell's tenure in office.
His entire career had prepared him to be a first-rate secretary of state in a functional administration, and if he had had the good luck to serve under a better president, he might be remembered in the company of one of his heroes, George C. Marshall, another former general who became secretary of state, for Harry S. Truman. But as George W. Bush's principal cabinet officer, Powell was condemned by his own limitations. He took comfort in Marshall's reply to critics who thought that he should have resigned over his disagreement with President Truman's decision to recognize the newly created state of Israel in 1948. "No, gentlemen," Marshall is said to have replied, "you don't take a post of this sort and then resign when the man who has the constitutional responsibility to make decisions makes one you don't like." To Powell, Marshall had "done his job. He had given the President his best advice. He had presented it strongly . . . [and] used every, every opportunity to press his case."
It is easy to understand why this story inspired Powell. But there is a crucial difference. Powell never told Bush not to invade Iraq; out of a lifelong sense of propriety and restraint, he kept his best advice to himself. In 2003, the country needed someone more than the world's best staff officer.
Reviewed by George Packer
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