by Jo Haldeman
Back at Laurel, two stewards in red Camp David blazers take drink orders and pass hors d’oeuvres. Larry and his wife, Dolores, are here, and they recommend the toasted tortilla chips with melted cheese and green chili, which were a favorite of President Johnson.
Bob joins us at 7:00 p.m., just as dinner is announced. He has changed out of his coat and tie into khaki pants and a sweater. The wood-paneled dining room with its royal blue carpet and stone fireplace is inviting. China is displayed on a hutch against the wall, and the large oval table in the center of the room is covered with a bright red tablecloth. At each of the eight place settings, there’s a blue menu with a gold tassel and a white linen napkin, folded to look like a chrysanthemum blossom. Ann doesn’t want to unfold hers and asks if she can take it home.
Our choice of entrée is lobster, steak, or chicken, followed by a dessert of big, gooey pieces of chocolate cake. The instant we finish, the stewards begin rearranging the captains’ chairs from the table. They pull back shutters to expose a movie projector recessed in the wall, and in front of the opposite wall, they set up a screen. Large bowls of hot, buttered popcorn are brought in, and the lights are dimmed. The children groan when I tell them what movie I selected, but we stick with it to the bitter end.
The next morning, Bob and I are awakened by our porch door banging closed as a steward delivers our newspapers. On our way to Laurel, I collect some of the brightly colored leaves that carpet the ground. Bob walks beside me, clutching The Washington Evening Star, The New York Times, and The Washington Post.
At breakfast, the steward tries to hide a smile when I order banana pancakes, bacon, hash browns, fried eggs, and coffee. While eating, Bob and I read the papers. The war dominates the news. An article on the upcoming lottery for the draft causes my stomach to churn. Hank turns sixteen next month, which means that he could be called up in two years. I dread the thought of it. What if he is sent to Vietnam? I don’t know what I would do.
With perfect fall weather, the children and I have a wonderful weekend. We swim in the large staff pool, ride bikes, bowl, and play tennis and croquet. Bob joins us when he can. When we’re packing to leave on Sunday, I ask if he wants me to drive him in one of the golf carts to the helicopter for the flight back to the White House. His answer is an emphatic “no.”
“The president and first lady should never be aware of staff or their families when they’re at Camp David,” he tells me. “It’s the one place where they can be completely on their own. You’ve got to understand this, Jo…and respect it.”
Things Are Never Going to Be the Same
When we return home Sunday evening, Susan packs for Stanford. Sitting on the guest bed in Susan’s room, Ann watches every move her big sister makes. As I enter the room with a mound of clean laundry, Ann wistfully remarks, “Things are never going to be the same.” Although the two girls are eight years apart, I know this separation will be a real adjustment for our younger daughter.
Later when I go upstairs to say Ann’s prayers, I find her talking to Bob in his office.
“Things are never going to be the same, Dad,” she says.
Bob puts down his pen. Looking her straight in the eye, he replies, “You’re absolutely right.” The words aren’t cold or cruel. He speaks the truth, and there’s strength in his honesty. Ann appears satisfied.
◆
The next morning—at exactly 7:15 a.m.—a White House car pulls up to the front walk. Carrying his briefcase, Bob strides out. Twenty-five minutes later, a green Mustang convertible stops at the same spot. Our neighbor Harry C. has offered to drive Hank, Peter, and Ann, along with his own son, to school on his way to work. He has assured Bob and me that taking our children won’t be an imposition.
A couple hours later, Susan loads her suitcase into the car, and we depart for Dulles. After putting her on a flight to California, I return home to an empty house. Ann was right. “Things are never going to be the same.”
◆
As chief of staff of the White House, Bob is required to have a “secure” home, and Mr. Sherman of the Secret Service insists on installing a full-fledged security system. Arriving promptly at 9:30 a.m., on September 26, he has an army of men with him. Dressed in dark suits and ties, they immediately fan out and begin testing locks, raising windows, opening doors, and taking Polaroid pictures.
Close to noon, the men gather around the kitchen table to compare their research. Following a lengthy discussion, Mr. Sherman tells me that our house has too many outside doors for them to provide us with complete security.
“Your best protection, ma’am, is your dogs.”
“Our dogs!” I exclaim, glancing at the three pugs snoring in their beds. Pokie, our Dalmatian, is stretched out under the kitchen table. “You can’t be serious.”
Mr. Sherman looks helpless and shrugs.
Over the next few days, the Secret Service installs the best security system they can under the circumstances. The following week, the Army Signal Corps installs seven phones with multiple lines. One line connects directly to the White House switchboard, and one to the Signal Corps. The third is our personal line, and the fourth is an intercom. The fifth button is for “hold.” Additionally, a heavy “portable” phone is bolted to the floor of our station wagon between the driver and front passenger seats. It’s green, and it looks like something that the army would use in war. I don’t dare touch it.
◆
Late this month, I get an unexpected phone call from the Greyhound bus station in the District. A former housekeeper of ours has traveled across the country, hoping to work for us again. I’m surprised and delighted. As part housekeeper, cook, laundress, and babysitter, Bertha is just what I need.
Our family loves Bertha. She’s devoted to us, but she has one major drawback: Bertha is a “bull in a china shop.” In her first week, not only does she accidentally ram the handle of the vacuum cleaner through our most valuable painting, but in her zest for cleanliness, she also uses a solvent that removes the finish on our kitchen floor.
On the other hand, Bertha is a good cook and we love her Mexican dinners. As soon as I hear the rhythmic cadence of her hands patting mounds of masa into homemade tortillas, I can easily overlook her faults.
Shades of Gray
October 1969
Although an opinion poll indicates that well over half the country approves of President Nixon’s Vietnam policy, the antiwar organizers make plans for a “Moratorium to End the War on Vietnam,” with events to be held around the country on the fifteenth of every month. The first rally is scheduled for October 15. In Washington, a huge demonstration is expected on the National Mall, which stretches from the Lincoln Memorial to the Capitol. Vice President Agnew lambastes the demonstrators as Communist “dupes” and calls opponents of the war “an effete corps of impudent snobs who characterize themselves as intellectuals.” North Vietnam’s prime minister encourages the protestors in a letter: “…may your offensive succeed splendidly.”
The National Mall isn’t far from the White House, and it’s only a few miles from the children’s schools. Hank, Peter, and Ann haven’t been exposed to anything like this before, and I worry that they might get swept up in all of the excitement and rhetoric. I envision lots of disrespectful hippies who smoke pot and use drugs.
Because she is younger, Ann will probably be minimally affected; however, I am concerned about the boys. At twelve and almost sixteen, Peter and Hank are at impressionable ages. I also worry about Susan. Stanford has been referred to as a “hotbed of liberals,” and I’m not sure what effect the Moratorium will have on her.
I’d like to get Bob’s advice on the situation; he is invariably levelheaded. The only problem is I never know if he’s going to have the time to talk, and even when he does, he often only half-listens. I devise a system. I write a note telling him what I want to discuss and put it in with his mail. This way, he can tell me
when he’s available, and I can have his full attention.
Tonight, Bob glances at my note but doesn’t acknowledge it. I try to keep myself occupied while he goes through the mail and places several phone calls. First, it’s the president. Then, Attorney General John Mitchell. The last call to Larry is the longest. When he hangs up and turns to me, I comment that I’m probably the only wife who has to make an appointment to speak to her husband.
He laughs, but I’m serious. When I have Bob’s full attention, I express my concerns about the children and the upcoming Moratorium. He says he’s not worried, as long as they don’t show signs of rebelling or taking drugs.
“There’s always going to be something going on that we don’t like,” he explains. “That’s life, Jo. We have to trust our kids. We’ve prepared them to make good decisions. They might make a few mistakes, but in the end, they’ll be fine.”
Bob is right. Although the Moratorium is the largest protest in the history of the antiwar movement, it doesn’t appear to have any negative impact on Susan, Hank, Peter, or Ann. Throughout the United States, diverse groups of people come together and peacefully demonstrate their opposition to the war.
◆
On Wednesday evening, October 22, President and Mrs. Nixon entertain members of the White House staff and their families at an all-American picnic on the South Lawn. Despite the freezing cold and biting wind, the 2,500 guests are in a festive mood. They patiently wait in long lines to help themselves to hot dogs and hamburgers served inside two huge tents.
After dinner, we huddle on bleachers to keep warm as the US Marine Corps drill team entertains us. Wearing dress blues, one hundred Vietnam veterans present the colors and go through their precise drills and marches. I’m bursting with pride and patriotism. Our soldiers deserve our respect. If only the antiwar demonstrators understood this. Everyone wants peace. It’s just that we don’t agree on how to get it. The protestors want the United States to walk away from all that we have fought for in the past. The president wants to phase out our troops and achieve a peace with honor.
Suddenly the lights dim, and everything is quiet. We sit in darkness. A single marine emerges from the shadows into the penetrating beam of a spotlight. He walks to the center of the lawn. He wears camouflage fatigues and his battle helmet. With the lighted Washington Monument behind him, the young man slowly raises a bugle to his lips and plays “Taps.” The twenty-four soulful notes hang suspended in the night air, as if they were mourning those who have given their lives to preserve our freedom.
The bugle cries, and so do I.
November 1969
Tonight, November 3, the president will address the nation on Vietnam. Sixty million Americans wait to hear what he has to say. The atmosphere is tense, and our country is divided. The doves hope that the Moratorium has pressured Nixon into announcing troop withdrawals. The hawks insist on an “honorable” peace. I can only imagine the anxiety Bob must be experiencing in the West Wing right now.
Hank turns on the TV in the den, and I settle on the couch with a pad and a pencil to take notes. At exactly 9:30 p.m., Nixon appears on the screen. Seated at his desk in the Oval Office, he’s wearing a dark blue suit with a small American flag in the lapel. In a firm, steady voice, he states that the US will keep its commitment. Our troops will remain in Vietnam until the Communists negotiate an honorable peace or until the South Vietnamese are able to defend themselves. The president reaches out to the young people and tells them that he respects their idealism and shares their desire for peace. He appears confident, and his tone is presidential.
“So tonight,” Nixon concludes, “to you, the great silent majority of my fellow Americans, I ask for your support.… Let us be united for peace. Let us also be united against defeat. Because let us understand: North Vietnam cannot defeat or humiliate the United States. Only Americans can do that.”
When it’s over, I realize that I’m gripping the arm of the couch. Hank doesn’t move. It was a strong speech. Both he and I are moved by its clarity and impact. The phone rings, and the White House button lights up. The operator tells me that Mr. Haldeman is on the line.
“Wasn’t the president terrific?” Bob sounds ecstatic. “What’d you think?”
I’m amazed that Bob wants to hear my reaction, and I read my notes to him. He listens attentively and agrees with most of my comments. He tells me that he plans to make follow-up calls to get feedback on the general reaction around the country. He won’t be home until after midnight.
Fired up by Bob’s interest in my opinion, I impulsively crush my notes into a tight ball and aim for the wastebasket across the room. The wad of paper arcs high in the air and drops in.
“Two points,” I say under my breath. “Tonight, I score!”
The next day, thirty thousand letters and fifty thousand telegrams pour into the White House. They are overwhelmingly favorable, and Nixon’s approval rating rises to 68 percent in the Gallup Poll. To quote the press, “The great ‘silent majority’ has spoken.”
◆
On Thursday, November 13, the children and I join Jeanne Ehrlichman and her children on a NASA flight to Florida. Our two families have been invited to witness the Apollo 12 moon launch the next day at Cape Canaveral.
Bob and John will meet us there at the last minute. With thousands of antiwar protestors pouring into the nation’s capital for the second Moratorium on Saturday, they think they should remain in Washington as long as possible. A massive crowd is expected, topping last month’s turnout. Emotions are running high, and there is fear of violence. Concerned, Bob decides to spend the night at the White House.
“Where?” I ask. “Your office is so small.”
“I can sleep in the bomb shelter in the basement,” he explains. “It’s not bad. It has a bed and a bathroom…but no windows.”
When the children, Jeanne, and I arrive in Cocoa Beach, Florida, our flight is met by a sleek NASA limousine, which transports our families to a seedy motel on the beach. Although ominous, black clouds are closing in above us, the seven children insist on taking a quick swim in the ocean. By evening, a full-fledged thunderstorm engulfs us.
At midnight, following a dinner at NASA where Jeanne and I were seated at the head table, Dr. Thomas Paine, the director of NASA, drives our two families directly onto the Apollo 12 launchpad. In the darkness, the Saturn V rocket resembles a throbbing monster being held in check as it hisses and lets off steam. In just a few hours, three astronauts will be strapped in their seats in the space capsule, and for the second time in history, man will be on his way to the moon.
On Friday, a thick cloud layer obscures the morning sun, posing a threat to the launch. Adding to the gloominess of the weather is the deep disappointment of our children. For security reasons, they will be watching the liftoff from an office in the Space Center more than a mile away.
Jeanne and I have reserved seats on a small grandstand on the tarmac. When a single, heavy raindrop plops onto the ground, I immediately wonder how this will affect the launch. By the time Bob and John join us, the rain is coming down in torrents. The four of us huddle together under two umbrellas and wait.
Half an hour passes. Then, a man’s voice comes over the loudspeaker. The countdown begins. “Five, four, three…” Before he can say “two,” a jagged bolt of lightning cuts across the sky directly above the rocket.
“Two,” the voice calmly continues. “One. Zero… We have liftoff.”
The rocket moves slowly, struggling to gain the tremendous force it needs to break free. When the sound catches up with us, the powerful roar causes the grandstand to tremble. Little puddles of rainwater dance and jiggle on the asphalt below. On the launchpad, the scaffolding collapses, and Apollo 12 climbs steadily upward. Its mighty roar turns into a deep rumble when it is swallowed up by the low-lying storm clouds. Soon, only a dull glow is left in the leaden sky.
As soon
as the launch is over, Bob and John leave to join the president on Air Force One for the return flight to Washington. They are concerned about the march that will take place tonight, as well as the demonstration tomorrow. A second car takes Jeanne and me to Patrick Air Force Base, where we board NASA One with Dr. and Mrs. Paine and our children. Having seen very little of the rocket liftoff, the children are upset. Shortly after takeoff, their complaints go quiet when a violent thunderstorm surrounds our Gulfstream turbo-prop. There is silence as wild gusts of wind, rain, and hail buffet us on all sides. When one of the children asks for a throw-up bag, Jeanne and I try to reassure everyone by reciting The Lord’s Prayer out loud. Unfortunately, this has the opposite effect and only conveys a greater sense of doom.
The skies clear on our approach to Washington. Looking down, I can easily identify the Capitol and many government buildings. It’s a beautiful sight, made even more spectacular by a long procession of twinkling lights. The serpentine line stretches all the way from Arlington Cemetery to the White House.
“It’s the march,” Tom Ehrlichman says, with his head glued to the window. “They’re carrying candles.”
NASA One lands at Andrews Air Force Base, where two White House cars wait for the Haldeman and Ehrlichman families. Our driver asks if the children and I would like to drive past the Arlington Memorial Bridge on the way home.
“You’ll be able to see the peace march up close, ma’am,” he says. “It’s quite a sight.”
Thinking of Bob in the bomb shelter last night, I ask if we will be safe. Our driver assures us that there won’t be a problem.
As we draw near the single-file procession coming across the bridge, our car slows down to keep pace with the demonstrators. I expect to see angry hippies with clenched fists, shouting obscenities. Instead, I observe a great variety of people. There are peace symbols and crosses, colored beads and gold jewelry, tie-dyed T-shirts and button-down oxford cloth shirts, beards and shaved faces, long hair and clipped haircuts. Each face is lit by a flickering candle representing the loss of an American life in Vietnam. The line moves in silence, and all I hear is the muffled sound of shuffling feet.
