Richard Nixon loves astronauts. Not all astronauts. That John Glenn, with his snooty comments about the President’s ABM proposal, is not a Nixon favorite. Nixon does love Frank Borman, a good conservative, and is glad Borman is the White House liaison for the Apollo XI mission. But what Nixon loves is not so much individual astronauts as astronauts in general. Or perhaps it’s more accurate to say he loves the mission of astronauts—the largeness, boldness, riskiness. The possibility of death accompanying the possibility of triumph, a triumph so grand its scope cannot be contained by the Earth’s atmosphere.
Alas, for Nixon, as perhaps for us all, with love comes complications. The current complication, the one pertaining to a space mission, is that the Apollo XI moon shot was famously fostered by Presidents Kennedy and Johnson, and so its culmination in a moon landing during the first year of the Nixon administration is a tricky thing. Nixon may not have made the investment, and certainly does not want to praise an initiative of two Democratic Presidents, but why the hell should he not reap the dividends—he is, now, the President, for crying out loud.
Nixon, although not at all surprised, is nonetheless furious that the editorial boards think differently, to wit this particularly craven, thinks Nixon when he reads it in his morning daily news summary, unsigned editorial in The New York Times published the morning of Saturday, July 19, 1969, rhapsodizing his predecessors as a “dream” for which they “worked so effectively,” while ridiculing Nixon’s “unseemly” efforts to “share the stage with the three brave men on Apollo XI,” first by dining with the astronauts the night before takeoff—an idea discarded for its medical risks, and then by cutting into the astronauts’ “extremely precious time” on the lunar surface with a split-screen video/telephone conversation. The Times, damn their smugness, called this plan “a publicity stunt of the type Khrushchev used to indulge in.”
In the margin, Nixon writes—if his astonishingly scrawly handwriting can even be called writing: “H—Get Z to knock this down,” “H” standing for Chief of Staff Haldeman and “Z” for Press Secretary Ziegler, both of whom ignore the instruction, although Haldeman dutifully marks it with the broad, red checkmark that indicates “seen and acted on.”
Just after noon at Camp David, Nixon summons Haldeman to the Aspen Lodge, who has just begun bowling in the Laurel Lodge with his son Hank. The intersection of Nixon, Haldeman, and young Hank brings to Haldeman’s mind the always-hovering-in-the-background thought that Nixon almost certainly does not know the name of Haldeman’s son—either as Hank or his full name, Harold, Jr.—nor, likely, the first name of Haldeman, himself, which is also Harold, although everyone calls Haldeman “Bob.” Oh, well, Haldeman thinks, while putting on a tie to join Nixon, a good Nixon man is both faceless and nameless.
Nixon, in swimming trunks, is on the lower terrace, under an umbrella that shelters the men from the direct sun but not the heat, and Haldeman is soon perspiring so freely that his pen slips from his fingers again and again as he takes notes from the Nixonian monologue, which begins with the Times editorial:
OK, maybe the idea of dinner with the astronauts before launch wasn’t great—Nixon can’t recall who came up with that one; it certainly wasn’t him—but Nixon is the President, something that obviously sticks in the craws of the Times and the Post, and as such Nixon has not only the right but the duty to recognize this momentous moment in a meaningful way, which means some interaction with the astronauts, and fine, Nixon knows they’re busy, and he’ll keep it short. He will compose the remarks himself—too important to entrust to a speechwriter, although he is sure he will receive any number of unsolicited, unnecessary suggestions, and Nixon is confident he can drop in some appropriate extemporaneous banter, he is excellent at that, but, back to the core topic, he will not tolerate the editorial’s imputation that Nixon is not the legitimate President; Nixon can only imagine how the papers would be encouraging Kennedy to engage in any way imaginable with the astronauts on the moon—a telephonic cocktail, perhaps, or suiting up and heading for the moon along with the astronauts. Nixon is surprised the papers haven’t called for Teddy Kennedy to speak with the astronauts when they land.
Within two hours of releasing Haldeman, Nixon calls him back to the Aspen residence, where Haldeman finds Pat, Julie, Tricia, and Nixon friend Bebe Rebozo. In the living room, fireplace fire blazing as the air conditioner cranks away, Nixon intones, ceremonially, the news that, not long ago, Ted Kennedy, in Martha’s Vineyard, drove his car off a bridge called Chappaquiddick into a river or pond or something and left a girl—a former secretary of Bobby’s—in the car to drown. Lots of peculiar possibilities, the President says, but we can’t say anything publicly. Nixon has ordered White House Counsel John Ehrlichman to get “our own man” down there to check things out; the President is concerned the whole thing will be covered up by a Kennedy-loving press, then changes his mind, calculating that, for the press, self-interest trumps political leanings: “It’ll be hard to hush this one up; too many reporters want to win a Pulitzer Prize.”
Nixon shakes his head in sorrow, frowns broadly, and directs his eyes to the ottoman between his feet. “Poor guy. But a fatal flaw in his character. Cheated at school. Runs away from an accident.” Compare him, Nixon thinks but does not say, to those astronauts, poised to land on the moon, to step onto its surface, to expand the reach of Mankind.
He looks toward the fire, shakes his head again, this time in relief, and says, “Just imagine how bad it would be if it were one of our people.” The warrior nods; the faces all around him are unnoticed by the President.
The next morning, Saturday, July 20, it’s back to the White House for Nixon, where, after lunch with Pat, Julie and her husband, David Eisenhower, and Bebe, Nixon headquarters himself in his EOB office, planning to review, review, review and refine, refine, refine and memorize, memorize, memorize his remarks for the intergalactic interactions with astronauts that night, their landing, which will be televised only through animation and commentator commentary, scheduled for about 0400 hours EDT (Nixon finding himself lapsing into Military Time, that being the vernacular in his briefings from Borman and others at NASA), their moonwalk, to be televised live, scheduled to begin at some unknown number of hours later, and the telephonic hookup and live, split-screen, President-to-astronauts conversation to be enacted around an hour or so after that.
Nixon loves a writing assignment with a duration limit, and although everyone who spoke with the President about this event was too chicken-livered to give him a specific length limit for his remarks, leave it to an astronaut, Borman, to give it to the President straight, telling him late last week, “Say something simple, something nonpartisan, and get off the air,” and also to not play the Star Spangled Banner, because the astronauts have “other things to do” on the moon’s surface, all of which Nixon interprets to mean he should speak for one minute, maximum.
Nixon frequently expresses his craving for solitude, its importance to his ability to think his broadest, most Presidential thoughts, and to write, which is how a President captures those thoughts and transmits them to his staff for execution and to the public for its support in advance of the next election.
That vision of solitude comports with reality on some days, but often does not, particularly when some large event looms in the near term, as is so often the case for a President, particularly this President, who, after all, titled his memoir Six Crises. When a crisis-like event looms, what passes for solitude is far more, shall we say, interactive. And who can blame the President, in this case, for being increasingly excited as the afternoon wears on toward landing and as the evening wears on toward lunar overshoes hitting the moon and as the evening wears on further until the President-to-Astronauts Conversation, too excited to sit still. Astronauts are soon to land on the moon! Man will set foot on a planetary body that is not Earth! Nixon will speak to them while they are on that body! Millions (how many millions?—get Haldeman to get Ziegler to find out; surely this will be the most viewed television broadcast in history, but best to document that) will witness that Conversation!
Nixon’s solitary-but-not-solitary preparation on the afternoon and evening and night of July 20, 1969, cannot be done justice through summary or explanation; it can only be appreciated by presentation of the facts of Presidential Action, of what passes for solitude in the Nixonian universe:
At 2:54 pm, the President enters his office in the EOB, where a small television sits on a stand to one side of the fireplace, with a fire burning. On the yellow legal pad on his lap, holding his favorite Parker pen, the President begins marking up his draft remarks to the astronauts, sometimes changing a word, sometimes inserting a phrase, sometimes underlining or placing an asterisk beside a passage he finds particularly apt. Soon, however, he picks up his telephone receiver and asks the White House operator to place a call.
At 3:26 pm, the President speaks with National Security Advisor Henry Kissinger for eight minutes. At 3:45 pm, the President speaks with Frank Borman for one minute, requesting that he join the President, which he does three minutes later. At 4:07 pm, the President speaks with Appointments Secretary Dwight Chapin for one minute. At 4:09 pm, the President speaks again with Chapin for one minute. At 4:12 pm, the President speaks again with Chapin for one minute. At 4:20 pm, the President speaks with Bill Rogers, old friend and current Secretary of State (although Rogers knows nothing, Nixon believes, about foreign relations), for four minutes. At 4:24 pm, the President requests that a call be placed to NASA Administrator Thomas O. Paine in Houston, but the White House operator reports that Mr. Paine is unavailable. At 4:29 pm, the President speaks with Mr. Paine for two minutes. At 4:40 pm, the President receives a call from Dwight Chapin, who conveys a message from speechwriter Bill Safire that “tranquility should be the keynote of the President’s remarks to the astronauts.” Nixon finds it a bit cheeky that a speechwriter would suggest the President’s “keynote.” At 4:53 pm, the President speaks with the First Lady for four minutes. At 5:16 pm, the President speaks with his counsel, John Ehrlichman, for 12 minutes. At 5:57 pm, the President requests that a call be placed to Reader’s Digest Editor-in-Chief Hobe Lewis, but the White House operator reports back that Mr. Lewis is unreachable. At 6:09 pm, the President requests that a call be placed to bestselling presidential historian Theodore White, but the White House operator reports back that Mr. White is unreachable. At 6:19 pm, the President speaks with Mr. White for four minutes. At 6:36 pm, the President speaks with Haldeman for nine minutes. At 6:45 pm, the President speaks with Haldeman for one minute. At 6:52 pm, the President speaks with the First Lady for one minute. At 7:41 pm, the President speaks with Ehrlichman for seven minutes. At 8:06 pm, the President speaks with Rogers for two minutes. At 8:19 pm, the President meets with his Assistant Military Aide, Col. Vernon C. Coffey, for three minutes. At 8:39 pm, the President speaks with Ehrlichman for two minutes.
During and between these phone calls, with Borman at his side, Nixon follows the television account:
A clear, loud voice says, “Eagle, Houston. If you read, you’re GO for powered descent.” Scratchy voices say, if Nixon can decipher, “Proceed; one, zero,” and “Ignition,” and “Throttle up; looks good!” The President asks, “Good?” Borman says, “Well, they’re committed now.”
The President hears the clear voice say, “Eagle, Houston. You’re GO for landing.” Then something about an alarm. Voices. “We’re GO on that alarm.” Apparently, this time the word “go” means to ignore the alarm, which Nixon loves.
A scratchy voice says, “Houston, Tranquility Base here; the Eagle has landed.” A clearer voice says, “We copy you on the ground. You’ve got a bunch of guys about to turn blue; we’re breathing again,” and Nixon’s heart is ready to burst with happiness.
The President ascertains that the astronauts are trying to decide whether they should sleep before exiting the LM onto the moon’s surface; they haven’t slept in a long time. Nixon himself has elaborate beliefs about the non-necessity of sleep.
The astronauts will forego sleep. Nixon expected nothing less. A scratchy voice says they propose leaving the capsule “at about 8 o’clock this evening.” A clearer voice says, “We’re GO at that time.” A pause, and the clearer voice is back: “Was your eight o’clock Houston time a reference to opening the hatch or starting the prep for EVA?” and Nixon is teeth-grindingly reminded of his own aides’ responses to just about everything he says. Borman explains that EVA means extravehicular activity and LM means lunar module, and Nixon manages to stop himself from saying he figured that out.
Nixon loves astronauts, and that includes Borman. He loves Borman’s clean-cut-ness. He loves his limitless certainty. He loves his dedication to mission. He loves that Borman hated The New York Times editorial carping at Nixon for horning in on the moon landing, although Nixon suspects Borman hasn’t expressed that hate to anyone in a position to publish his response. He loves that Borman is a man of accomplishment and a possessor of sophisticated, technical information. He loves that Borman and his fellow astronauts seem to float, in complete ease, at a level higher than most men—Nixon believing himself to be such a man, except that his own ease, he knows, is not so complete, but becomes more so in the company of men like Borman.
But one can only hang around such a man for so long. It’s a little exhausting. Nixon even suspects that Borman may believe himself to be Nixon’s equal, perhaps his superior.
Without quite realizing that he is responding to these feelings, Nixon stands, gestures for Borman to accompany him, and heads for the office door and, hence, to Haldeman’s office in the West Wing, where the room’s television, a permanent fixture, is set up on a stand in the corner, and Haldeman, Chapin, Ziegler, and others are already crowded around it on couch and chairs, two more of which are pulled up, one for Borman, and one for Haldeman, who relinquishes his desk chair for the President.
The President lets the conversation go on around him, as he watches the television.
From the Command Module, Collins says, “I haven’t heard a word from those guys” in the LM.
Then from the LM, Buzz Aldrin says, “I’d like to take this opportunity to ask every person listening to pause for a moment and contemplate the events of the past few hours and to give thanks in his or her own way.”
“Good man,” Nixon murmurs.
Nixon hears Mission Control make the same request in Nixon’s mind: “We’d like some estimate of how far along you are with your eating and when you may be ready to start your EVA prep.” An astronaut says they’ll start prep in about a half hour, which seems excessive to Nixon, but he doesn’t know how difficult eating in space is, and he’s tired of asking Borman such questions.
Nixon hears an astronaut say, “Do we have a GO for cabin depressurization?” and a pause, and another astronaut say, with some impatience that Nixon can empathize with, “We’re standing by for a GO to decompress,” and Mission Control saying, “You are GO for cabin depressurization,” and an astronaut says, perhaps with a hint of sarcasm, or is it relief, or is it apprehension, “Roger. Thank you.”
The others in the office are no longer speaking.
The cabin is still depressurizing. Nixon feels a not-unpleasant fuzziness entering his head.
Mission Control requests a status update on opening the cabin door. An astronaut says, “Everything is GO here. We’re just waiting for the cabin pressure to bleed…” Nixon feels the pressure bleeding.
The astronauts open the hatch door. Nixon says under his breath, “GO for leaving the lunar module.”
The television screen flickers, and a high-contrast, indistinct image appears: a dark background, a bright slash toward the bottom, and a dark gray shape to the left, which turns out to be the lunar module. Neil Armstrong is on the ladder. He says, “Okay, I’m going to step off the LM now,” and Nixon says to himself, “GO for stepping onto the moon.”
The final step, from bottom rung to moon’s surface, which apparently is a further distance than anticipated, takes forever.
When Armstrong steps onto the moon’s surface, Richard Nixon says, aloud but not loud, the word “Hurray!” which Haldeman understands to be the closest to spontaneous joy this man Nixon is likely to ever experience.
After Aldrin descends (“GO for Aldrin,” Nixon thinks) and says, “Beautiful,” Nixon is summoned to the Oval Office. “I have to make a phone call, gentlemen” is the President’s exit line, the elevated quality of the quip—most such attempts from Nixon are real groaners—a sign of Nixon’s elevated level of joy.
In the Oval Office, he is seated and told—much to his disappointment—that he will be able to see only Neil Armstrong, not the split-screen image of Armstrong and himself that will be broadcast to millions (millions?—remember to get the correct number).
Almost as miraculous as the moon landing itself, the audio-video connection seems to be working, or at least so the technician tells him. Nixon puts his legal pad in his top desk drawer—this call is to be spontaneous, showing the President’s easy grasp of the most momentous of moments—considers and discards an opening line about the cost of this long-distance call, and waits for the signal.
During this period of waiting — five minutes, no more — television lights heating the room, voices murmuring, occasional beeps emerging from bits of equipment, a disheveled-looking producer suggesting that the President straighten his tie and sit just a bit straighter in his chair, during those minutes, Richard Nixon, President of the United States of America, has this feeling, this feeling of moving forward, stepping toward, toward something.
The producer signals the President to begin speaking.
“Hello Neil and Buzz, I am talking to you by telephone from the Oval Room at the White House, and this certainly has to be the most historic telephone call ever made from the White House. I just can’t tell you how proud we all are of what you have done. For every American, this has to be the proudest day of our lives, and for people all over the world, I am sure that they, too, join with Americans in recognizing what an immense feat this is. Because of what you have done, the heavens have become a part of man’s world, and as you talk to us from the Sea of Tranquility, it inspires us to redouble our efforts to bring peace and tranquility to earth.” (Damn, Nixon thinks, that needed a better transition. That’s what happens when he uses someone else’s ideas.)
“For one priceless moment in the whole history of man all the people on this earth are truly one—one in their pride in what you have done and one in our prayers that you will return safely to earth.”
To which Armstrong replies, with considerable grace, the President thinks, “Thank you, Mr. President. It is a great honor and privilege for us to be here representing not only the United States, but men of peaceable nations, men with an interest and a curiosity, and men with a vision for the future. It is an honor for us to be able to participate here today.”
JFK and LBJ and The New York Times and even, intermittently, Teddy Kennedy are forgotten; the President is witnessing History Being Performed on the Biggest Stage, and Nixon, well, perhaps he could, perhaps even does to some extent, view himself as the Conductor of this Performance, but he is, more accurately, not a conductor but a kid watching a ballgame, or maybe a kid playing in a ballgame, and Nixon, despite his being ever the clumsiest of sports participants, just pitched the last scoreless inning in relief to end the ballgame, a ballgame that Nixon’s team wins.
As if stepping out of the hazy television picture of the moon, Pat, Julie, and David Eisenhower appear at the door of the Oval Office as Nixon leaves. For a nanosecond he wonders how they knew to be there, and where they were before, but that wondering is overridden by the certainty that, as President, things just appear for him, for his convenience, for his comfort, for his recognition.
The President asks, “How was it?” and all assure him that he was marvelous. The four walk to the Residence, where they separate—Nixon to the Lincoln Sitting Room, the others to their bedrooms.
Johnny Sain, baseball pitcher from 1942 through 1955, most famously for the Boston Braves, and at that moment pitching coach for the Detroit Tigers, sometimes speaks of “the cool of the evening,” that feeling of calm after having played well, just as well as one could, the culmination of practice and planning and more practice and more planning. “The cool of the evening” is the time when one can stop the practice and planning, when one can be utterly still and completely satisfied, just for that evening, before the practice and planning begin again.
We do not want to claim that Nixon does not have his own experience, on this night, of “the cool of the evening.” He certainly feels the sensation, especially delicious because it is so rare for him, of an event that was executed fully up to the President’s standards, and when the President himself performed superlatively.
But for Nixon, feeling the cool of the evening is antithetical to what Great Men do. Nixon again feels what he felt before speaking to the astronauts, that sense of moving forward, moving toward something, stepping onto his own moon.
“GO, Nixon,” Nixon murmurs.
In the Lincoln Sitting Room, a fire blazing, balanced by active air conditioning that makes those in bed in the Residence tug their covers tightly around them, Nixon gets on the phone.
At 12:10 am, the President speaks with Ehrlichman for three minutes: “What reactions are you hearing to the moon broadcast? Anything more on Kennedy? Frank Borman was sore as hell at that Times editorial. He’s a real patriot, that guy.”
At 12:15 am, the President speaks with William Safire for six minutes: “Well, I got in your tranquility line. You and Ray gave me good things to say on space—I didn’t use much, I know. Frank Borman was sore as hell at that Times editorial. He’s a real patriot, that guy.”
At 12:50 am, the President speaks for four minutes with television producer and friend Paul Keyes. At 12:57 am, the President speaks for two minutes with Lyndon Johnson. At 1:00 am, the President speaks for one minute with Ron Ziegler. At 1:01 am, the President speaks for 11 minutes with Reverend Billy Graham. At 1:13 am, the President speaks with Borman for two minutes. At 1:17 am, the President speaks for one minute with Ray Price. At 1:20 am, the President speaks for three minutes with speechwriter Pat Buchanan. At 1:26 am, the President speaks for three minutes with House Minority Leader Gerald Ford. At 1:35 am, the President speaks for two minutes with House Minority Whip Leslie Arends. At 1:38 am, the President speaks for two minutes with Senate Majority Leader Everett Dirksen. At 1:42 am, the President speaks for three minutes with Vice President Agnew. At 2:03 am, the President speaks for three minutes with Senator Barry Goldwater. At 2:07 am, the President speaks with Borman for two minutes. At 2:16 am, the President speaks with Bebe for three minutes. At 2:19 am, the President speaks for five minutes with Senator Margaret Chase Smith. At 2:22 am, the White House operator reports she is unable to reach California Governor Ronald Regan. At 2:36 am, Regan returns the call, and he and Nixon speak for eight minutes.
Sometime around 3:00 am, Richard Nixon goes to his bedroom, but he does not sleep.
At 9:00 am, the President quickly spoons down his breakfast of cottage cheese and catsup and is in the Oval Office by 9:11 am, asking Rose Woods to figure out a way to get Haldeman, Ehrlichman, and Kissinger into the Oval Office for an extended meeting—“highest priority,” he says, annoyed that he would need to say the level of priority to ensure the necessary scheduling changes to accommodate the President’s directives. At NASA, someone at Mission Control would say, “GO for meeting,” and everyone would assemble. Ehrlichman arrives at 9:16, and when Haldeman and Kissinger have not appeared a minute later, Nixon summons Woods, who, with a smirk, tells Nixon that Kissinger is unavailable for some unknown reason and unknown period of time, and Nixon thinks, fuck it, and tells her to place calls to the British Prime Minister and the German Chancellor for a little obligatory moonwalk follow-up and a smidgen of gloating. At this point, Haldeman arrives, and Nixon begins laying out his message, but Rose keeps interrupting with updates on the two calls, the one to the British Prime Minister taking place at 10:10 for four minutes, and then Nixon says to Ehrlichman, “We’ll cover this later,” and Ehrlichman leaves, but Haldeman hangs back to receive a Nixon order, and then Kissinger arrives. Nixon shakes his head—hardly NASA-like efficiency—but refrains from comment. Haldeman leaves to implement Nixon’s order, and Kissinger stays for two hours, but because Haldeman and Ehrlichman are not present, Nixon and Kissinger mostly shoot the shit about the moon broadcast, review the sorry state of Vietnam negotiations, confirm plans for, after stopping at Johnston Island for the Apollo XI splashdown, the coming trip to Saigon, although the President frequently digresses to declarations about how staff needs to “get down to business,” which Kissinger assumes has nothing to do with him, because he is always down to business.
After a five-minute lunch of his usual cottage cheese and pineapple at his desk, and a two-minute conversation with Ziegler, checking to see how the press conference with Borman went, the President enjoys that most serene of experiences, 40 minutes in the barber’s chair, after which he is finally able to talk with the German Chancellor for one minute.
A previously scheduled 90-minute meeting with seven Louisiana conservative Democratic U.S. Representatives—and Ehrlichman, Attorney General Mitchell, and Deputy AG Mardian—to reassure the congressmen about the difference between Nixon’s public positions and operational practices in enforcing school desegregation further delays Nixon’s post-moonshot meeting and causes momentum to sag. However, after the congressmen exit the Oval Office, Nixon, without really thinking why, calls his daughter Julie, and before he can say more than, “Hello,” she says, “Daddy, I can’t stop thinking about you on the television last night,” and that buoys and comforts him, as conversations with Julie always do. Ringing off one minute later with, “Well, the boys are arriving,” Nixon greets Haldeman, Ehrlichman, and Kissinger, and before they are even seated, he imparts an impatient and magisterial, “Fine, fine, let’s get started.”
The President remains at his desk, a desk he believes was once Woodrow Wilson’s, the one he used throughout his Vice Presidency. He sits up, leans forward. He scans the room, wondering when in hell the redecorating will begin, when the line of sight to the fireplace will be cleared, whether the portrait of Washington above the fireplace should be replaced by one of Lincoln, whether they should get rid of the Boehm Birds on the shelves. Never mind, he thinks. Today is the day he will finally feel at home in this office. Today is the day he will set his course to his own moon—steps in order, checklists to be checked, never to waver, until the Eagle has landed and Nixon is on the moon.
Nixon surveys his team. Haldeman, before being named Nixon’s Chief of Staff, was for 20 years an executive at the J. Walter Thomas advertising agency, taking breaks to work on Nixon’s 1956, 1960, 1962, and 1968 campaigns. Ehrlichman, before being named Counselor to the President, was for 17 years an attorney in Seattle specializing in land use and zoning, taking breaks to work on Nixon’s 1960, 1962, and 1968 campaigns. Before being named Nixon’s National Security Advisor, Kissinger was, for 15 years, a professor of government at Harvard and also worked on Nelson Rockefeller’s 1960, 1964, and 1968 campaigns for the Republican presidential nomination. Nixon, recalling only the résumés of these men in passing, surveys his team and finds him good. These are the right men to find and fulfill the purpose of the Nixon Presidency.
“Last night,” the President begins, pausing for the rare act of making eye contact with each man, “each of us…the whole country…the whole world…witnessed what I would say is mankind’s greatest accomplishment.
“My question for each of you, and for me, of course, is this: In the six months since I was elected President, in the six months all of us have occupied this grand and historic house,” an awkward gesture around and behind him, “what have WE accomplished?”
Long-time Nixon men, like Haldeman and Ehrlichman, and intelligent, self-interested shorter-time Nixon men, like Kissinger, who are experienced in serving powerful men (in Kissinger’s case, Rockefeller), know when a question requires a pragmatic answer, when a question requires an answer the sole purpose of which is for the President to shoot it down as pedestrian, and when a question requires only a nod to acknowledge its penetrating wisdom. This question, the three know, is the latter, and they nod: Haldeman soberly, Ehrlichman sardonically, and Kissinger gravely.
“What we have accomplished,” the President says, “is to figure out how to run this place. Nothing more.” He means the remark to be scathing, but at the last minute loses his nerve. “Don’t misunderstand me; that is no small feat.”
He directs his eyes between Haldeman and Kissinger and then between Kissinger and Ehrlichman, “My point is, we need to put all these operations, which work reasonably well, anyway, they work well sometimes, put them into action to accomplish something. Which,” the President transforms the right palm resting on his desktop into a fist, “which to date, gentlemen, we have completely failed to do.”
Haldeman, upright, legs crossed crisply, jots on the legal pad resting on his lap. Ehrlichman, slouched in his chair, yellow legal pad on his lap, arches an eyebrow, a gesture Nixon is beginning to find tiresome, and Kissinger murmurs in a thick accent that Nixon is pretty sure is an affectation, “In most respects, I couldn’t agree more, Mr. President.”
Nixon waves away these responses. “Where have we failed?” he asks, in the tone of a statement rather than a question. “First, we have failed to establish a mystique of the Presidency. The impression out there, you know, among the columnists and, I believe, among the people, is that we are efficient. But being efficient does not win elections. It does not capture the imagination. We need to build up the mystique of, well, of this President. Think about De Gaulle, about Disraeli, about T.R. Now there you have mystique. There you have men who are feared and loved, men who are leaders, men who wield the power that they hold. I read a little history, as you know, gentlemen, and I can tell you that none of these men was known, in their time, for his efficiency.” Nixon shakes his head, as if in disgust.
“Second,” Nixon pauses, “we have failed to use our power. We have temporized. We have not used the power of the White House to reward the behavior we want, nor, more importantly, to punish our enemies and change the behavior of our friends. People have leaked; those who should support us have remained silent or publicly contradicted us. These actions, the people who have taken these actions, have completely, and may I say, inexplicably, at least to me, escaped any consequences. And so, they continue merrily on their way, flouting this Administration and this Office.
“Third, we have utterly, we have totally failed to inculcate staff—and here I mean all appointees, but the point could certainly be made also about elected Republicans—into their core job. For too many of them, shit, for all of them, they see their job as building up themselves. What they need to understand is that their job, their core job, is to build up the President.”
The President shifts in his chair, reaches into his top desk drawer for no reason the others can perceive because when the hand reappears it is empty, and continues.
“Now. Now, gentlemen, I want you to think of those brave astronauts last night, think of those heroic men, and also think of their mission. And think of what we witnessed, think of the way that mission was carried out. A clear goal, yes. But also, clear steps, clear communication, clear authority, clear progress. Ready for the next step, and GO. Ready for the next step, and GO. GO for launch. GO for landing. GO for stepping onto the goddam MOON.
“And what does GO mean? It means all systems are ready. It means never being indecisive. It means get going. Take risks. Be exciting. Do something!”
The President shakes an index finger; Haldeman wonders if it’s a gesture of command or the shaking hand of one who has had too little sleep, too little to eat. Or is the President shaking with anger?
“I want,” the President says, the three of you, under the President’s direction, of course, to function as the hard-core inner circle. I want the three of you to zero in on a hard-nosed basis. I want you to take charge.”
Haldeman is mildly surprised that no fire is going in the fireplace.
“What do I mean by that? I will tell you what I do not mean. I do not mean falling into the dry rot of managing the chaos better. That’s where we are today. What I mean is using the great power of this office to do something. To be bold. To get going. Now is the time to go. We’ve organized things; now is the time to use them. Go for broke and do it now.”
Nixon’s voice is loud; it is his oratorical voice, but it seems flat to Haldeman, the voice of Nixon distracted, or Nixon reciting prepared remarks.
“There is no shortage of people who will tell us what to go for broke about. I am not interested. They are all thinking too small. We will go for broke on what’s right. If that loses us 1972, I accept that. The power of the United States must be used more effectively, at home and abroad, or we go down the drain as a great power. Let’s face it. The United States has already lost the leadership position we held at the end of WW II. Am I right, Henry?” Kissinger, one whose exercise of power includes allowing silence to build before speaking, begins to do that, but Nixon carries on. “But we can regain it. We can regain world leadership. But only if we act quickly.
“What I am looking for, when I say leadership, is a sense of history. And a sense of drama.”
“I want,” Nixon says, “this group, you three, to concentrate. I want you to decide what the President should use his time for. What,” he says, in the manner of one getting to the heart of things, “this President’s moon mission should be.” He shakes his head violently, causing his jowls to bounce. “Don’t use that phrase; that’s a Kennedy phrase. But you know what I mean. What is our great step for mankind?”
This question, it seems to all three men, is not rhetorical. It is their turn to speak. Nixon wants answers.
Ehrlichman is the first to respond. Which does not mean he has a suggestion for how the Nixon administration can make its mark on mankind. Rather, he is the most willing to extemporize, the most confident in his ability to parry. “Mr. President,” he says, “don’t you think Brother Harlow should be part of this august group?”
Bryce Harlow is a venerated government official, an expert in congressional relations, beloved by colleagues, and a friend of Nixon. Currently, he is Nixon’s Congressional Liaison. In some ways, an obvious choice for the “hard-core inner circle”—yet Harlow is unhappy, actually considering resigning. Nixon has little interest in the give-and-take necessary to appease congressional egos, and, because that is precisely Harlow’s job, Harlow finds himself largely cut off from his friend Nixon.
Ehrlichman again proves his mastery of misdirection: The four men spend a chunk of minutes on The Harlow Problem.
The transition to the next topic is a bit of a mystery; perhaps the connection is Congress, perhaps just the gravitational pull of an absolutely top-notch scandal, but after a brief stop at other Staff Who Are Unhappy Because They Are Not In On Things—Rose Woods, Pat Nixon’s staff, Agnew—the conversation shifts to what Nixon calls “the Ted Kennedy episode.” Surely, he was drunk. Surely, he’s morally compromised. Surely this ends his presidential candidacy in ’72. But what about ’76? ’80?
Ehrlichman is reluctant to discuss, in front of Kissinger, the infiltration he is overseeing into the Chappaquiddick hubbub, but Nixon shows no such qualms, steering the discussion toward the meeting’s first concrete plans. Nixon directs the group to set up and activate a “dirty tricks” operation staffed by Pat Buchanan, Lyn Nofziger, Clark Mollenhoff, Herb Klein, and Rose Woods, the first two names making sense, as they are hard-charging political operatives, but the next two bizarre, as Mollenhoff may look like a bear but is a morally righteous journalist and Nixon’s ombudsman, for crying out loud, and Klein is obviously too quiet and contemplative for such an assignment, and Rose Woods, well, true, she knows the game of politics, but probably she knows a little too much; maybe, Haldeman thinks, Nixon means her brother Joe, the Cook County Sheriff. “Hit them the way they have always hit us,” Nixon says. “I want our people planted as spies in opposition campaigns. Phony campaign literature. Phony calls. I want one campaign blaming the other for our tricks. And I want them bugged. Shit, they bugged us in ’60 and in ’68. Johnson told me.”
Nixon deftly consolidates his stance: “I want our enemies punished,” and reiterates that “I mean it” about the ban on The New York Times.
Mention of the ban on the Times reminds Nixon that he wants staff to anticipate his reactions to the morning news summary and to take action before they receive his marginal notes; he points to Haldeman and tells him to issue that instruction.
And so the meeting proceeds, breaking up at 8:28 pm, more than three hours after it began.
Alone in the Oval Office, Nixon again gazes at the Boehm birds. Six of them rest on the shelf at any given moment, the items rotating from time to time. Songbirds, gamebirds, some at rest, some in flight, some in attack, but all so fussily detailed, all action and no direction. Not a one of them an Eagle that has landed.
Outside the Oval Office, Kissinger goes one way, and Haldeman and Ehrlichman the other. When they are out of Nixon’s and anyone else’s earshot, Haldeman says, “Did you enjoy our little around-the-globe tour back there?” Ehrlichman is annoyed that Haldeman has made the kind of smart remark Ehrlichman usually makes.
Before heading home, Haldeman handwrites a memorandum to be typed and distributed in the morning.
To: Mr. Ehrlichman, Mr. Ziegler, Mr. Klein, Dr. Kissinger, Mr. Harlow
From: H. R. Haldeman
As each of you is aware, the President reads his daily news summary quite closely, and he has directed that each of you be provided with a copy of it by 9 am.
Almost without exception, the President issues daily instructions based on the stories and articles in that summary, instructions for action by the White House Staff. He now feels that each of your offices should read that news summary as early as possible in the morning and that action should be taken on those items that are within the scope of your department and that quite obviously call for some form of remedy.
After this memorandum is received, the President will assume that you have read Buchanan’s news summary by 10:00 o’clock and that you have taken action on issues affecting your department by, at the latest, noon.
One of the Administration’s great needs is quicker action and reaction by the staff—independent action that the President does not direct but that is taken automatically.
Postscript
On July 24, the President attends the splashdown of the Columbia, the Apollo XI spacecraft, watching from the bridge of the aircraft carrier Hornet. The spacecraft looks like a fireball with a tail, arching through the sky. Nixon shows those accompanying him his fancy binoculars, which actually belong to military aide General Don Hughes.
Mrs. Nixon waits for the President in Honolulu because of a Navy rule disallowing women from Navy vessels during major operations—even First Ladies. She watches the splashdown on television.
On the Hornet, Nixon orders the band to play “Columbia the Gem of the Ocean,” which those accompanying the President agree is a darned clever idea. Eager to meet with the crew face to face, Nixon is disappointed that medical protocol forces him to address them through a small window in their quarantine chamber, which further disappoints him because it looks like a trailer. Nixon uses his line about the expense of the long-distance call he made to the astronauts on the moon, and he asks them which team they are rooting for in the baseball All-Star Game. Nixon loves astronauts.
The President says, “This has been the greatest week in the history of the world since the Creation.”
When Reverend Billy Graham reads an account of this remark, he suggests there are three greater days: Christ’s birth, Christ’s death, and Christ’s resurrection. When Nixon sees this rejoinder in his daily news summary, he writes in the margin: “H—tell Billy RN referred to a week, not a day.”
