All Too Human: A Political Education

by George Stephanopoulos

  Her worries of the night before had been wiped away. Sitting in the backseat, sipping from a bottle of water, Hillary was bubbling with ideas, refreshed from the morning's worship. On the ride back, as Clinton offhandedly waved to the small groups who stopped on the sidewalks at the sight of the presidential motorcade, Hillary tied the lessons of Bernardin's homily back to her work on health care. Clinton talked about how it related to the rest of his agenda and instantly started to compose a speech he now wanted to give on “common ground and the common good.”

  As we rode, Clinton recalled that the Catholic Church hadn't always taught that human life begins at conception, and I responded with what I remembered from my theological studies. The morning crises faded as we discussed Augustine and Aquinas, and their debates over when the body was “quickened” by being joined to a soul. “Garry Wills wrote a good article on this in the New York Review,” I said; promising to get him a copy. The president then asked me to dig up some statistics on abortion and adoption as he slid into a moist-eyed reflection on their overnight guest from Arkansas, Connie Fails, who had “brought home a beautiful little girl” from Korea who had been born without arms. Without interrupting, Hillary illustrated his commentary with a photo from her purse, and Clinton wrapped up the conversation by observing how brilliantly Congressman Barney Frank had captured the hypocrisy of those conservatives who acted as if they believed that “life begins at conception and ends at birth.”

  Tony joined us in the private sitting room between the kitchen and the Clintons' bedroom, and the president played host. “Would you like some coffee?” Normally, the waiters offered it on their own, and I almost preferred to be taken for granted. But today I took Clinton's solicitous gesture as a thank-you for how I had handled last night's phone call. It was also a way to avoid the matter at hand, if only for a moment.

  Tony was having a terrible morning, and it showed. He was normally restrained in the president's presence, but now he complained bitterly that he couldn't get straight answers from our embassy in Moscow, and he suspected that our sources in Mogadishu were deliberately keeping information from the situation room. I had hoped to keep the conversation focused on Russia because the press had been waiting for the president's response all morning. But although the situation in Russia was critical, early signs indicated that Yeltsin could handle it, and it didn't pose an immediate threat to American lives. Six U.S. soldiers were already dead in Mogadishu, and the firelight was still raging.

  “We're not inflicting pain on these fuckers,” Clinton said, softly at first. “When people kill us, they should be killed in greater numbers.” Then, with his face reddening, his voice rising, and his fist pounding his thigh, he leaned into Tony as if it were his fault: “I believe in killing people who try to hurt you, and I can't believe we're being pushed around by these two-bit pricks.”

  I couldn't tell whether this outburst was the product of forethought or pure frustration, but I understood the president's .anxiety. Since August, the situation in Somalia had been creeping out of control. What had started out as a humanitarian effort had become a futile manhunt. Now the president felt trapped between two bad options: accepting failure by abandoning an ill-conceived operation, or avenging today's losses by going in with “decisive force” to defeat the Somali warlords. Once today's casualties were public, neither course would be easy to pursue. Congress would vote to “bring the boys home” while attacking Clinton for causing a humiliating American defeat. Retreating under fire would also end a humanitarian intervention that had saved thousands from starvation.

  So far, the public had supported our presence in Somalia, but Clinton believed opinion would turn fast at the sight of body bags. “Americans are basically isolationist,” he said then. “They understand at a basic gut level Henry Kissinger's vital-interest argument. Right now the average American doesn't see our interest threatened to the point where we should sacrifice one American life.” By the end of that Sunday we were beyond that: Eighteen Americans were dead and seventy-four were wounded. All day Monday, CNN showed footage of a dead American soldier being dragged through the streets of Mogadishu, along with the videotape of a captured American pilot.

  By Sunday afternoon, the president had decided to go ahead with a scheduled trip to California, but the entire week was consumed by the crisis in Somalia. On conference calls from the road and behind closed doors at the White House, Clinton complained mercilessly about being blindsided by his national security team, insisting that he had never been fully briefed on how the original mission had evolved at the UN and on the ground. He never forgot Defense Secretary Les Aspin's failure to approve the military's September request for more tanks to protect the troops. But in public, the president accepted full responsibility, resisted congressional calls for an immediate pullout, and announced instead a plan for a temporary troop buildup followed by a March 31, 1994, deadline for disengagement. In an October 7 Oval Office address, he struck a defiant note: “We started this mission for the right reasons, and we're going to finish it in the right way.”

  In quieter moments, Clinton questioned himself, wondering whether he had been tough enough. One Friday evening late in the month, he walked into my office looking exhausted, the bags under his eyes bunched up like the skin on a chicken's neck. “This is what I'm worried about,” he said, dropping a red folder on my desk. It was a report on renewed interclan fighting in Somalia that was threatening the food supply. “I hope I didn't panic and announce the pullout too soon.”

  “Listen,” I said, “you had no choice. You got six more months. If you had tried for more, Congress would have forced a vote to end it now, and they would have won. You did the best you could.”

  As we talked, Clinton spied a copy of former Secretary of State Dean Acheson's memoir, Present at the Creation, on my desk, so I told him why I had it. The night before, taking the shuttle to New York to campaign for Mayor Dinkins, I had sat next to R. W. “Johnny” Apple of the Times. Our talk had turned to books, and I mentioned that the president and I had both recently read Reeves on JFK. Apple said that Clinton should really be reading Acheson's classic account of post-WWII American diplomacy because “it's much more like what he's going through right now.” That morning, I had asked Heather to order it from the White House library.

  Pushing out his lower lip, Clinton nodded twice as he picked up the book and headed back to his office. Halfway through the dining-room door, he swiveled around with a sudden thought. It was his turn to comfort me.

  “We'll figure this out, George. Good night.”

  Somalia, Bosnia, Haiti — foreign policy was a mess. In each case, we were caught between critics who said we should use American power for humanitarian purposes and those who insisted that “we can't be the world's policeman” so we shouldn't even try. Safire captured the predicament in a rare defense of the president:

  We, the media, hoot at the president for demeaning American power by entering the arena with such puny pugilists. We fault him for narrowly limiting the missions; for not foreseeing setbacks before we do; for making the American, military look like a pitiful helpless giant; or for putting the flower of our youth needlessly “in harm's way.”

  Clinton shared Safire's conclusion that part of America's “new impotence is the unwillingness of too many Americans to expend blood and treasure” beyond our borders. But in his study, as he waggled an old wooden-shafted niblick (a gift from President Bush), he told me to call Safire and remind him that “even though we're a volunteer army, we're not a mercenary army. That's the big difference.” In public interviews, he joked about the good old days — ”Gosh, I miss the cold war” — when our foreign policy was filtered through the anti-Soviet framework. But in private he railed against liberal critics, like Times columnist Anthony Lewis, who were making his life miserable by pushing him to send troops to Bosnia and Haiti: “Lewis has to accept the fact that he's been against every American intervention for thirty years, and now he's the biggest hawk in world.
” Sometimes he just exploded in frustration: “What would they have me do? What the fuck would they have me do?”

  My first brush with fame was as an altar boy with Archbishop Iakovos. This picture appeared in the Daily News. (Costa Hayden)

  The first comeback. After Gennifer and the draft, sitting with Clinton on New Hampshire primary day as he does interviews.

  On the road during the 1992 campaign. Riding shotgun with Paul Begala and reporters. (P. F Bentley)

  Clinton scores a direct hit. Backstage at the first Bush-Clinton debate. James Carville, Tom Donilon, Mandy Grunwald, Dee Dee Meyers (obscured), Stan Greenberg (behind Grunwald), Vicki Radd, Wendy Smith, me, and Paul Begala. (P. F. Bentley/Time)

  Waiting for the win. Presiding with James Carville at one of our last War Room meetings. (David Burnett/Contact Press Images)

  Savoring the win. Inauguration eve 1993, with my parents.

  (George Stephanopoulos)

  Clinton's first meeting with the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Subject: gays in the military. Me, Defense Secretary Les Aspin, General Colin Powell, General Gordon Sullivan. (Official White House Photograph)

  After the raid on the Branch Davidian compound in Waco, I advised the president — badly — not to face the press. With Bruce Lindsey and Mack McClarty. (Official White House Photograph)

  Facing the music. The press conference the morning I was fired as communications director. Vice President Gore, President Clinton, me, David Gergen, Mack McClarty, Dee Dee Meyers. (Official White House Photograph)

  By his side. The final run-through before the presidential address announcing the bombing of Iraq in June 1993. (Official White House Photograph)

  Sharing a light moment with General Colin Powell in the cabinet room.

  (Official White House Photograph)

  While the president is on the phone with Boris Yeltsin in his private residence study, I am wondering how we are going to finish the health care speech. (Official White House Photograph)

  The president as usual rewriting his speech minutes before the 1994 State of the Union address. (Bob McNeely/Official White House Photograph)

  My first trip to the grand jury. Hailing a cab to avoid the message sent by riding in an official White House car. (Associated Press/Worldwide)

  The infamous Time magazine cover photo, before they cropped out Dee Dee Meyers and David Gergen (extreme right). (Official White House Photograph)

  “You did great, Mr. President.” Congratulating Clinton after his performance at a White House Correspondents dinner. (Official White House Photograph)

  Much of my day was spent taking notes on the president's phone conversations for follow-up and informing the press. (Official White House Photograph)

  Opposite, top: On the European trip to commemorate the fiftieth anniversary of D day, with Wendy Smith and presidential aide Andrew Friendly. (Diana Walker/Time)

  Opposite, center: September 1994: Two months before the disastrous midterm elections, the president revels in an article attacking the press for not giving him enough credit. With Rahm Emanuel, Dee Dee Meyers (obscured), and Bruce Reed. (Official White House Photograph)

  Opposite, bottom: Helping the president go through his in-box after a Saturday morning radio address. (Official White House Photograph)

  Watching every word. Mark Gearan, Leon Panetta, Woodrow Wilson, Tony Lake, and I keep an eye on the president as he revises a speech on Haiti. (Official White House Photograph)

  The first lady and I compare notes. (Official White House Photograph)

  Still inside but feeling out. Reacting to another midnight policy flip engineered by Dick Morris. (Official White House Photograph)

  A happy moment at the final affirmative action meeting, July 1995. I had grown a beard to cover a stress-induced skin condition.

  (Official White House Photograph)

  The president about to blow. Gene Sperling (to my left), Erskine Bowles, and I try to persuade Clinton to retract his “I raised your taxes too much” statement. (Official White House Photograph)

  An Oval Office tableau. On the eve of the first government shutdown, November 1995. Left to right: White House photographer, Don Baer, Erskine Bowles, Mike McCurry, Gene Sperling, Michael Waldman,

  Plotting strategy with Erskine Bowles (left) and Harold Ickes during the government shutdown. (Official White House Photograph)

  Vice President Gore (foreground), Laura Tyson, President Clinton, Leon Panetta, and me. (Official White House Photograph)

  Saturday morning before Christmas 1995, preparing the president's radio address. The second government shutdown turned out to be Newt Gingrich's Christmas gift to the president. (Official White House Photograph)

  “What?” Clinton, who hated to be left out of any conversation, tries to find out what Leon Panetta and I are talking about. (Official White House Photograph)

  The president's ire wasn't reserved for pundits. He was plenty angry at his own team, particularly after the Harlan County debacle in Haiti. As part of the pact to return the democratically elected President Aristide to power, the United States had agreed to send 600 troops to Haiti with a UN force that would help reform the military and rebuild schools, roads, and hospitals. But the Haitian dictators who had deposed Aristide weren't ready to leave. When the USS Harlan County arrived in Haitian waters with the first contingent of lightly armed U.S. troops, it was blocked from landing by armed demonstrators directed by the Haitian security forces. After a day of deliberation, we pulled the ship back. So soon after Somalia, no one had the stomach for another fight.

  David Gergen — who knew the president was upset with Aspin, Christopher, and Lake, and sought an enhanced position on the foreign-policy team — saw this setback as an opportunity. On Tuesday, October 12, he boarded Marine One with the president for a trip to North Carolina and made his move.

  Whatever Gergen said to Clinton had its desired effect. Minutes after takeoff, the president was on the phone to Tony Lake, screaming about our screwed-up foreign-policy team and demanding to know why Gergen was being cut out of the decision making on matters like the Harlan County. Never mind that Gergen had been the loudest voice in the White House for turning the ship around. “I want Gergen working on this,” the president yelled. “The Reagan people were much better at the politics of foreign policy than we are. Look at Lebanon. They went into Grenada two days later and fixed it.”

  A few minutes later, as I listened with Sandy Berger to Tony's account of the president's tirade, I couldn't believe what I was hearing. Grenada? That's how we should handle things? Like Reagan? The answer to losing 250 marines in a terrorist attack is to stage the invasion of a tiny country? If you really believe that, then why'd we turn the damn ship around? It was bad enough to hear Gergen talk about the good old Reagan days, but to hear it parroted by the president was too much. I made excuses for him instead, almost whispering in disbelief: “He's so angry he doesn't even know what he's saying.” Sandy focused on Gergen's backstabbing maneuver: “It's despicable; it's the Nixon White House.” Tony wondered where it would lead.

  My first loyalty was still to the president, but I wanted to protect Tony too. The next morning, the president's aide Andrew Friendly pulled me out of a health care meeting because Clinton wanted to see me. I asked him for a mood check, and Andrew said, “It's not so bad, just tired.” When I entered the Oval, Clinton was reading an interview Tony had given to USA Today. “This makes it look like we weren't paying attention to Somalia,” he grumbled.

  Often, the best way to deal with Clinton's anger was to divert it. “Mr. President, I talked to Tony about the interview, and I'm sure he defended the Somalia decision. You know USA Today, they cut those transcripts to pieces.” But I also took the opportunity to address my deeper worry. The president's displeasure with his foreign-policy team was bleeding into the press. This wasn't only disheartening; it diminished their effectiveness, and it made Clinton look like a weak and disloyal leader who wouldn't accept responsibility for his decisions.<
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  “Mr. President, you just have to …” I started, not quite knowing how to begin. “I know that it's hard now, but you really have to, around other people, you have to stand by your people. You have to communicate confidence down the ranks.” He seemed to hear me, but I didn't push it. After a couple of minutes, we both turned to dumping on the press. When Tony arrived for a briefing a few minutes later, the president greeted him by saying, “Boy, you sure got screwed by the editors over at USA Today.”

  The rest of that week was spent deciding what to do in Haiti. The dictators were defiant, and the UN peacekeepers were preparing to evacuate. The president was torn. He understood why the military opposed an invasion and knew there would be no public support. But he wanted to keep our word and enforce the agreement, and he hated the appearance of being pushed around by two-bit dictators. Late Thursday afternoon, as the final cabinet room meeting with the national security team approached, he was thinking of nothing else. I was standing in front of his desk, running through some routine paperwork. The president glanced at each sheet, silently marking them one by one with his backward check. Then he suddenly looked up and asked me the question that was agitating him: “So you think I should go in and take them?”

  I normally wasn't shy about giving advice, even when I wasn't asked. That's why I was there: I wanted the ball at the buzzer. I was also sane enough to know that I was only one small voice among many. But what if I say yes and he goes in and it's a disaster? I like the idea of taking out terrorists like François and Cedras. But the whole Congress is against us, Aristide's a flake, and like Senator Dodd said, the last time we sent marines to Haiti they stayed thirty years. Whenever we invade a small country we change it, and not always for the better. Half the people hate us automatically, and we never know how to get out. That's the clincher, I guess. Unless we have a plan to get out, we can't go in.