by Bob Woodward
Butterfield explained that he was coming to Washington on business. Of course the only business was to see Haldeman but he didn’t say that. He said he wanted no more than 30 minutes on an important personal matter. He knew he wasn’t fooling Higby, who replied they should talk the next day, and that he would probably have more to go on.
In Australia Butterfield was his own boss in charge of his schedule so he arranged to take leave and set up his travel. Within days he was in a room at the Washington Statler Hilton watching Nixon on television announce his cabinet.
Butterfield would later write in his memoir draft, “I took note of the Cabinet selectees’ names and as I did so a strange feeling came over me. It was one I’ve never forgotten—a good feeling, one of confidence, a premonition of sorts that I was closing in on my destiny, that I would definitely be a part of this upcoming Administration.”
The next morning, in freshly pressed uniform, Butterfield took a cab across the Potomac River to the Pentagon, which was familiar territory. He had worked there in several assignments. During the morning he tracked down colleagues who pulled the strings on the many military programs in Australia.
At noon he walked to the vast Pentagon Concourse, a mini-mall of retail stores, found a pay phone and called Higby.
“Mr. Higby is not available. Would you care to leave a message?”
Goddamnit! Butterfield muttered. He stared at the coin box of the pay phone, his long legs extended out of the booth. Now he was in the delicate minuet of making sure Haldeman knew he was available but not appearing overanxious. He calculated that if he called back in 30 minutes, and then again and again, his call slips could pile up and he would look like a pest. Not persistent, but annoying. Difficult and unwelcome. He decided to play a version of Hard to Get. He would wait until mid-afternoon to call again.
He went into D.C. and lunched alone at Duke Zeibert’s, then one of the most famous and busiest restaurants with the power set. He could think of many restaurants to have a belt—the Jockey Club, Rive Gauche, or Sans Souci. He’d dined and drunk in all of them. No city brought back more stirring memories because over the years he had been in and out of Washington, especially as the senior aide to General Rosy O’Donnell, who had been commander-in-chief of the Pacific Air Forces in the early 1960s.
At 3 p.m. he picked up the phone.
Bob will be able to see you tomorrow afternoon here in New York, Higby said. They agreed on 2 p.m.
The next day, Butterfield flew to New York City and checked his bags at the Plaza Hotel. As soon as the meeting with Haldeman was over, he was heading back to Australia. He then went down to the Oyster Bar for a light lunch and a little meditation—a comforting stream of hope punctuated with flashes of deep worry. He needed to present himself as a competent potential addition to Nixon’s team. There was much to think about. What exactly was the course he wanted to take? And was he going about it in the right way? How many acquaintances from decades back did Haldeman have knocking on his door? There was a bit of effrontery in it, but Haldeman also might find it comforting. The top aide to the president might be suspicious of new friends.
Butterfield stopped at the men’s room to gargle and brush his teeth, a ritual he practiced before important meetings. Soon he was out the door with briefcase in hand. It was cold but sunny, just right for the walk of several blocks to the Pierre, which had an elegance of its own. He visited the men’s room again to comb his hair. Whenever he went hatless, even in the slightest breeze, his wispy hair would go standing up on end. He was conscious of not wanting to look unkempt or goofy as though he had just stuck a finger in an electrical socket.
“I’m walking in for the final exam,” he recalled.
At the front desk, he asked for the main floor of the Nixon Transition Office and headed for the elevators.
Suddenly there was a commotion behind him, men moving fast. As he turned, he saw this wave sweeping in from the chilly air outside. He knew at once it was Secret Service moving with that special urgency and self-importance. “There’s this rush of humanity,” Butterfield recalled. “It looked like 40 or 50 people. Some of them had cameras. So this was the press. And lo and behold, Richard Nixon. I’d never laid eyes on Richard Nixon, but he comes rushing in. I’d thought at the time he looked a little more handsome than I thought he was, and a bit taller.”
Nixon smiled and nodded to the hotel staff and bystanders and did not turn Butterfield’s way. In 30 seconds Nixon and his Secret Service agents, and perhaps a handler or two, had crowded into an elevator and were gone.
Butterfield marveled at the way the old Haldeman connection was going, the timing, the prospect . . . the sense of destiny. In the back of his mind was the question: how far to push this? Well, he was pushing it to the limit, and the main event was to come. Maybe his hope was excessive, and he would get a polite brush-off, “Good to see you, Alex, and may the rest of your life turn out well.”
2
* * *
“This meeting meant a lot,” Butterfield recalled. “I am a full colonel, and I don’t want to leave the military. The whole point is to stay in the military.” He was not going to tell Haldeman his ultimate objective. “It was a surreptitious plan of mine. And some people would say it’s not cricket. If I just could get with the Nixon team, I thought in a year or a year and a half at the most, I could get out of there and probably get a good assignment back in Vietnam. But of course I couldn’t tell Haldeman that what I so desperately sought was only temporary.”
After announcing himself to the receptionist, Butterfield took a chair and watched the outer office. Lots of hurried movement but these were happy people. Their candidate, and Butterfield’s, had won. Their devotion was paying off for them. They were going to Washington, headfirst into the smoke.
A young man came tearing around the corner. He was grinning. Had to be Higby. They shook hands. Butterfield thought immediately and irreverently of Tweety Bird, the cartoon character, a baby chick popping his head through an eggshell. He looked 17. Thin, slight, blond with blue eyes—barely edging to manhood.
Sir, Higby said, please follow me.
“What a jolt it was to hear from you,” said Haldeman, standing and coming forward to shake hands in a warm greeting.
He had not changed. The 1946 crew cut was intact, a trademark of sorts. He was a two-decade-older version of his earlier self.
“What brought you back to the United States? Or maybe I should ask what you’re doing in Australia in the first place. Here . . . sit down.”
They updated each other on wives and kids. Butterfield outlined his Australia problem.
Nearly everyone signing up or designated for the White House staff was an out-of-towner, Haldeman said. He joked that Nixon, the former congressman, senator and vice president, was the only one who had been to Washington before. They needed people with “Washington experience” like Butterfield.
Army Colonel Alexander Haig, promoted to colonel only 18 months earlier, had returned from Vietnam and was slated to be the military assistant to Dr. Henry Kissinger, the newly announced Nixon national security adviser.
Butterfield knew Haig well from the Pentagon. They had both served in Secretary of Defense McNamara’s office.
Air Force Colonel Don Hughes, another old Butterfield friend, was designated Nixon’s senior military aide, Haldeman explained. Hughes had been a military aide to Vice President Nixon.
The Nixon world was moving fast, and Butterfield could feel it slipping away. Well, he proposed, perhaps there would be an open slot on the National Security Council staff?
No, Haldeman said, They planned for only one military officer on the Kissinger staff, and if they made an exception, Butterfield would have to take a job normally filled by a more junior officer. Haldeman assumed that would be worse for his career than being stuck in Australia another year or two.
Butterfield agreed. He wanted no part of an assignment he would be overqualified for, even if it were in the White House. He ha
d obviously arrived a few weeks late to compete with Haig, who was known as an ambitious, driven, wily opportunist.
As the talk was winding down, Butterfield stood and thanked Haldeman for slipping him into his schedule. He tried to feel good about it. He had taken maximum action, hatched a plan, flown to the United States and done as much as he could within the bounds of propriety—whatever that might be. So he would return to Australia, where he had a fine though exquisitely smokeless assignment.
He thought he read an expression of sincere regret on Haldeman’s face.
As they walked out, Haldeman asked, Why does it have to be a military job? Maybe there were other possibilities, maybe they should consider another job in the White House?
“Well, yes,” Butterfield replied, “maybe we should. I’ll think about that, Bob, and let you know right away. Meanwhile, the best of luck.” He added one of his signature lines. “I mean it.”
Back at the Plaza he tamped down his natural instinct to stop at the Palm Court to have a cold martini. It was a long trek home and he did not arrive in Canberra until December 16.
Days later he wrote Haldeman a long thank-you letter and said that if it would help Haldeman build his team he would consider a civilian position and leave the military. Butterfield later told me: “It seemed that Haldeman really liked being with me. You really could pull this off. You are going to need some luck.” At the same time, he added that he was surprised he had so readily offered to cast aside a 20-year sterling Air Force career. But he found there was an excitement in the air in both Washington and New York.
Weeks passed. On Sunday morning, January 12—eight days before the Nixon inauguration—Butterfield’s phone rang.
“I’ve been giving a lot of thought to our talk,” Haldeman said, “and wondering where you might fit into all of this. I didn’t tell you exactly what I’ll be doing in the White House, and there’s still a lot I don’t know but he—the president, Mr. Nixon—has said that I’ll be working directly with him. I’ll be ensuring that he gets everything he needs, that there’s proper follow-up to the tasks assigned the staff.”
“I know,” Butterfield replied. “Like an executive officer,” the number two in an organization, the person who gets the operations off the ground and follows up.
“Well,” Haldeman continued, “I’d thought all along that I wouldn’t need a deputy, that I could handle everything I had to do alone.” But General Andrew Goodpaster, the former adviser to President Dwight Eisenhower, who was familiar with the way the White House worked, had a strong view.
“I’m sitting here beside General Andy Goodpaster now and he has convinced me that I should have a deputy. I had never thought of that.” Haldeman said he did not necessarily want one but Goodpaster, about to become Supreme Allied Commander, Europe, had persuaded him.
“That seems to be a perfect job for you,” Haldeman announced. “How would you like to be part of this and come in as my deputy? I’m really going to be the president’s alter ego, and I want you to be mine.”
He then put it another way. “You will be to me what I am to the president.”
Butterfield was dumbfounded. This was the job offer of a lifetime. He thought, “If I’m going to go as a civilian, I’ve hit a home run.”
“Now, I realize you’ll want to think about this and talk to Charlotte, but we’ve decided here that we want the whole team on board the day after the inaugural. We don’t want people drifting into Washington for the next six months.”
“Jesus, Bob!” Butterfield almost shouted. “You’ve really knocked me for a loop.” He wanted to find words to express gratitude rather than surprise. “I do have things to think about. I’m not even sure how to get out of the Air Force. You know . . . how to retire. But whatever happens, I want to thank you for the confidence. I’m tremendously flattered and honored to be considered.” The wrong words, he later realized. He was not being considered. It was a flat-out job offer to be at the center.
“Just let me know as soon as you can, Alex. And incidentally, you don’t have to leave the Air Force. Of course, that’s all up to you.” They had power, he reminded Butterfield. “Keep in mind also that we can help you right here. Just call me.” He gave several phone numbers. “General Goodpaster is our conduit with the Defense Department, and if you need anything done, anything, we can do it immediately from here.”
Butterfield did not miss the “anything.” He promised an answer by Tuesday. “Is that okay?”
“Tuesday is fine,” Haldeman said. “And Alex . . . I’d encourage you to think carefully about this. It’s an opportunity you don’t want to miss.”
Butterfield loved the prospect. He had not accepted on the spot because he thought it might be improper, perhaps even unlawful for a military officer on active duty to accept a nonmilitary assignment in the White House.
Charlotte, his wife (they had met when he was in the fifth grade), didn’t like the idea. “He was a golden boy in the Air Force,” she said in a 2014 interview. “He was always promoted ahead of everybody else. And I loved my life. He was such a star. And at the time, everyone knew he was going to be on the next generals list. I liked that.”
She could see he was determined to accept and she did not expect him to forgo the opportunity because of her reluctance. “I would not have expected him to change his mind,” she said. “It was just my opinion.”
Butterfield called his main mentor, now retired Air Force General Rosy O’Donnell.
“When the president of the United States calls, Alex, you don’t have much choice,” O’Donnell said. Other close friends also said he had to take it.
On Tuesday morning, he called Haldeman and accepted.
Haldeman sounded genuinely pleased. “Do you have a place to stay?”
Butterfield did not ask about title or salary. He, however, decided it was best to resign from the Air Force to avoid any appearance of a conflict or impropriety.
“I’ll be an assistant to the president, one of five or six with that title,” Haldeman volunteered, “and you’ll be deputy assistant to the president.”
On January 17, Butterfield flew to the United States and was immediately invited to a black-tie dinner party given by General Earle Wheeler, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the highest-ranking military position in the United States armed forces. “The Honorable Alexander Butterfield” was seated ahead of all the ambassadors as if he were more senior to four-star officers. And he was given a general officer’s quarters at Bolling Air Force Base outside Washington.
The next day, Butterfield met Rosy O’Donnell at Rive Gauche, a top Georgetown restaurant. Over a pair of vodka Gibsons, O’Donnell poked him gently on the shoulder. “You know, your highness,” he remarked, “you never did tell me how you came by this presidential appointment?”
“Well,” Butterfield said, modifying an old vaudeville line, “I was in Moresby, and it was raining like a son of a bitch and . . .”
O’Donnell began to laugh. It was infectious. Soon they were giggling like boys and ordering another round of Gibsons.
• • •
It had been a race to get to Washington for the inaugural on January 20, and Butterfield watched snatches of it on television.
The next morning, wearing civilian clothes, he arrived at the White House for the first official day of the Nixon administration. At 8 a.m. Haldeman took the seat at the head of the table in what then was called the Fish Room, now known as the Roosevelt Room, in the West Wing right across from the Oval Office. Some 30 top White House staff crowded into the room, including Henry Kissinger. For Butterfield it was a room full of strangers. They had all, or nearly all, worked on the campaign or had deep associations with Nixon.
Haldeman was stern, all business, very much the man in charge. This is the new man Alex Butterfield, he announced. He is my deputy. He and I will be working together closely, he said.
Damn nice of him, thought Butterfield. It gave him immediate standing.
Keep in mind, Haldeman said, we’re here for eight years.
What? Looks of mild bafflement appeared on a number of faces. Haldeman explained that though Mr. Nixon had been elected to a four-year term, in this day and age it was virtually impossible to push through Congress any kind of meaningful legislative program and do all the other things—foreign and domestic policy—in four years. So it’s eight years for us—1969 through January 1977. Develop that mind-set, Haldeman said. Though he was clearly the top staff person in the new administration, he was adamant that he not be called chief of staff, he said.
Eight years was a bold declaration, boiling with self-confidence. It was a nice, unexpected touch. Butterfield thought it insightful, if they could deliver. Eight years could give them enough time for an era, a Nixon era. He figured Haldeman was acting as a good football coach getting his team mentally prepared: we are here to win our games, not to lose.
We want to start thinking of ourselves as invisible, Haldeman said. Mr. Nixon is the star on the team, the only star. We’re here to serve and support. No grandstanding by the staff.
This was all said in utter seriousness, no levity.
Finally, this is important, Haldeman directed, no one of the staff other than communications director Herb Klein, an old Nixon friend from California, and Ron Ziegler, the new press secretary, was to have any contact with a member of the press. “We’re going to be the silent staff.” Exceptions would have to be approved in advance by him. He would have to be convinced such contact would benefit the president. If not, he would not approve the contact. In case there was any ambiguity, the rule—Butterfield thought it was an edict—goes into effect today, Haldeman said. The atmosphere was clear. White House aide Egil “Bud” Krogh would later call it “a mood of manic resolve.”
Be in the East Room of the White House at 12:45 p.m. for a 1 p.m. ceremony in which each of you will take an oath of office, Haldeman said. Go to your assigned office and draw up a list of any repairs, furniture or supplies you might need.
