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HARRY BENSON - PART 3INTERVIEW BY JESSE PEARSON  Harry Benson with Lord Beaverbrook. Sussex, England, 1963
The hardest thing I’ve done was when I was working for the London Daily Express. There was some lord—no, not a lord, a duke. He was going to marry an Irish scullery maid. Crossing the class lines. Right. And everybody in Fleet Street was after the picture. We managed to track them down to a restaurant in London. A place called the Caprice. The reporter went in first, looked, and then drew out for me where they were sitting. Of course they weren’t by the door. It was back in a corner. So in I go, flash on the camera under my coat, take the picture—bang—now I’ve got to get out. The waiters are shouting, “Cut him off! Cut him off!” That was awful. That’s more dangerous in your mind than being in Bosnia or Iraq? Yes! Put it this way—it’s more apprehensive. In Bosnia, I’m taking calculated risks. This was a whole different bunch of circumstances—and it was awful. Fleet Street at the time you started there sounds very tough. It was competitive, with all these young male photographers fighting—often literally—over who was going to get the picture first. It was almost like a sport or a game. It was and it wasn’t a game. If I didn’t get what was needed, I would know at 11 o’clock at night that the old man, my boss, might be on the phone and not be happy. And I’m talking about Lord Beaverbrook, the closest man to Churchill during the war. So you would know very soon whether you’d been beaten to the picture or not—and that was never pleasant. Lord Beaverbrook does not sound like a man from whom you wanted to feel disapproval. No. But he was also a man who stood by you. Like if I was going to photograph a duke or something like that. [laughs] It’s interesting that the Fleet Street world at the time is partially where today’s tabloid journalism has its roots. It seems like there was something a little more sophisticated or classy about this kind of photography back then. Nobody went after a story like Fleet Street did. The news editor would say, “Turn the hounds loose!” It was fun. I remember going to Nigeria or Yalta—one of those places. We were in this crappy old hotel. I was with a man who was British Army Intelligence during the war. Educated at Oxford, a foreign correspondent—one of Beaverbrook’s favorites. We checked in and then we discovered there was only one phone line out of the hotel even though each room had a phone. They are all on the same line. The place was full of journalists—the Evening Times, the New York Times… All the competition. They were all there. So my partner went down and said to the man working the phone, “What’s the best restaurant near here?” The guy said, you know, the Cock-a-Doo or something. [laughs] So we went and ate there, and then when we came back, we said to the man, “Oh, thank you, old boy. That was just great.” And then we gave this desk clerk 50 pounds or something. More than he would ever make in six months. And guess who got all the phone lines? We were straight through to London, no matter what. You’d hear other reporters in the bar: “I was cut off in midsentence!” They had to go 30, 40 miles away to find a place to wire their offices. From what I’ve read, you were a bit of a scrapper in your day, especially when it came to the competition. Put it this way: They’d give me a clear berth afterward. So it didn’t do me any harm. I mean, I didn’t go around looking for a fight. But in the heat of the moment, when everyone was jockeying for a certain photo… Oh, yes. But I was fortunate that there were a lot of good people I worked with. Smart people. Well educated. TO BE CONTINUED HARRY BENSON | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 |
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