‘Now I owned a private war’: Lee Miller and the female journalists who broke battlefield rules
In August 1944, Lee Miller, a photographer and war correspondent, was dispatched to France to cover the situation in the recently freed port city of Saint-Malo in Brittany. However, it soon became evident that there had been some miscommunication regarding the situation. Rather than being liberated, much of Saint-Malo remained a fierce battleground, with American troops facing intense gunfire as they fought to drive out the German forces.
By this point in World War II, around 200 women had achieved military recognition with the Allied forces, just like Miller. However, Miller understood that none of them were authorized to cover actual combat; their role was to tell the more gentle stories of war, focusing on topics like hospitals, air raid wardens, and civilian bravery. Although she knew that staying in Saint-Malo would likely lead to repercussions, the chance was too incredible for her to pass up. “I was the only photographer for miles,” she recalled, “and I was now capturing my own private war.” For five thrilling days, with the support of American troops and occasionally coming under fire herself, she documented everything around her.
Miller had never felt as awake or authentic as she did at that moment. Her story, depicted in Ellen Kuras's latest film *Lee*, had so far been a series of fleeting yet remarkable pursuits: her time as a model for Condé Nast, her role as an inspiration and collaborator to the surrealist artist Man Ray, and her work as a photographer capturing fashion and celebrities. It was only at this moment – huddled for cover in a German dugout and realizing that the cold, bloody object underneath her shoe was a severed hand – that Miller truly grasped that war was the subject she and her camera had been seeking all along.
Miller received her credential as a correspondent for British Vogue, and her editor was incredibly excited about the "amazing journey" of her Saint-Malo piece. However, the military officials didn’t share the same enthusiasm. Once they found out about Miller, she was subjected to a short-term house arrest, along with tighter restrictions on her freedom to move around, which also affected her fellow female reporters.
The rationale behind this policy stemmed, of course, from the outdated belief that women were the weaker sex, too delicate to handle the brutal realities of war. Alongside this belief, there was a more practical concern regarding restroom facilities. The idea of a woman needing to use the bathroom in front of men in a combat zone was something the sensitive military mind found unacceptable. During the war, when female journalists advocated for equal rights to report alongside their male counterparts, they were met with the argument that the "convenience issue"—or what the Americans bluntly referred to as the "latrine problem"—prevented it from being feasible.
The brave few who ventured into the fray displayed remarkable bravery and resourcefulness. They had no access to military vehicles or housing, and were often left out of official press briefings, putting them in situations of unnecessary danger. However, since they worked off the beaten path, these women were able to uncover stories that their more advantaged male counterparts often overlooked.
Certainly, while Karas has celebrated Miller's achievements regarding Lee, just two months earlier, Martha Gellhorn had embarked on an even bolder journey. On June 6, 1944, frustrated by the prohibition against women reporters covering the Normandy landings, Gellhorn sneaked onto a US hospital ship to cross the English Channel. She realized she was about to experience something remarkable when she emerged on deck to witness what she described as “the greatest naval traffic jam in history.” Her adventure became even more remarkable as she was assigned to assist the medical team in tending to injured soldiers onshore. Gellhorn found herself extremely close to the chaos at Omaha beach, where the sounds of gunfire and the cries of wounded soldiers were nearly overwhelming.
None of the male journalists had been allowed to disembark yet, but the report Gellhorn submitted was much more genuinely intense than her husband Ernest Hemingway's. Despite being arrested and losing her press credentials, her achievement as a stowaway made Gellhorn believe that rules existed only to be disregarded. After she managed to evade her captors, she caught a flight to Italy by inventing a tale about a lost fiancé. Throughout the remainder of the war, she would find understanding soldiers who assisted her in moving from one adventure to another on the front lines.
Gellhorn openly acknowledged the privilege that came with being “a tall blonde.” A few years prior, her friend Virginia Cowles had landed one of the most significant stories of the Spanish Civil War when a Soviet general, captivated by her charm, held her captive in his headquarters. For three full days and nights, he showered her with champagne and Marxist ideology, trying to win her over to communism.
Most female reporters acknowledged—if not with enthusiasm—that they occasionally needed to use their appearance to get ahead. However, Clare Hollingworth, who arrived in south-west Poland in late August 1939, secured her first major story due to a combination of chance, timing, and boldness. On September 1, she was in the right spot to report an eyewitness account of the German invasion, marking the onset of World War II. Remarkably, she managed to stay in Poland for the entire three weeks it took before the country capitulated, navigating under bombardment to share her exclusive reports.
Since the British forces were not engaged in Poland, there was no one to put a stop to her actions, allowing Hollingworth to navigate through areas of the conflict where allied rules were not strictly followed. This behavior infuriated Field Marshal Montgomery, who declared loudly, "I won't allow women in my war!"
For Helen Kirkpatrick, it was the unique backing of Supreme Commander Eisenhower that marked the beginning of her wartime experience. She made such an impression on the American leader with her understanding of military matters that he granted her special authorization to accompany the Allied troops as they advanced toward Paris. Not only did Kirkpatrick become one of the first journalists, regardless of gender, to enter the newly freed city, but she was also one of only a few reporters at Notre Dame Cathedral when German snipers attacked General de Gaulle during a blessing service while he was leading the French resistance.
Twenty-five people lost their lives, and Kirkpatrick's article titled “Daily News Writer Witnesses Man Shot Beside Her” made headlines the following day. By this point, the growing number of courageous war stories authored by women had become so notable that it was difficult for officials to uphold their restrictions. As the allied forces advanced into Germany, a handful of female reporters were finally granted permission to join as official members of the press.
The experience was both exhilarating and horrifying as the brutal realities of Nazi Germany came to light. When Miller arrived at Dachau only hours after the concentration camp was freed, she had to summon all her professionalism to record the unimaginable atrocities she witnessed, from the heaps of emaciated bodies to the "medical" torture room and the area where prisoners were killed.
Later, when Miller settled in Munich, she became known for a striking image of herself cleaning the grime of Dachau from her body in Hitler's bathtub. This photograph symbolized Miller's victorious experience during the war; however, once the conflict was over, maintaining that sense of triumph proved challenging. Many women journalists found themselves out of work and faced difficulties adjusting to life in peacetime. Miller, in particular, dealt with what is recognized today as post-traumatic stress disorder.
To cope with the trauma of the death and devastation she experienced, Miller chose to stop discussing the war and turned to alcohol for refuge. It wasn't until after her passing that her son, Antony Penrose, stumbled upon the collection of photographs and writings she had stored away. Through this discovery, he realized that his mother, often difficult and angry, had been an exceptional photojournalist whose bravery significantly contributed to the fight for women's right to cover war stories.
