]Kissinger: The only consolation we have—but it won’t do us any good—is that the people who put us into this position are going to be destroyed by the right.
“A Nightmare of Recrimination”
On camera, the president chided anyone who shared the attitude he expressed in private: “I know there are those who honestly believe that I should move to end this war without regard to what happens to South Vietnam. This way would abandon our friends. But even more important, we would abandon ourselves. We would plunge from the anguish of war into a nightmare of recrimination.”1
He was trying to give the Democrats nightmares of recrimination. Briefing congressional leaders at the White House, he warned them not to set a withdrawal deadline unless they wanted to be blamed for Saigon’s fall. This was a serious threat to anyone who thought Vietnamization was a fraud and that South Vietnam wouldn’t survive without American troops. Later, on March 26, with Kissinger and other aides, Nixon relived this legislative extortion session, complete with dialogue: “I know the date that we’re going to be out of there. It’s a reasonable date. It’s one that I am convinced is the earliest possible date we can get out without risking a South Vietnamese debacle,” Nixon said. “If you, on the other hand, decide that you’re going to take over and set arbitrary dates,” he said, “then you will have to take the responsibility for an American defeat in Vietnam after all these deaths [and] for the Communization of South Vietnam.”
The way Nixon told it, he was the one taking all the risk by insisting that the date be left up to him. If he got out and Saigon fell afterward, Congress could lambaste him. “You can just kick the hell out of me. You can say, ‘He was wrong. He continued this war for four more years when we could have bugged—got out four years ago, and we still lost it.’ ” By saying “four years,” he tipped his hand a bit. “ ‘If I were a politician,’ I said, ‘I’d play that game.’ ”
On the other hand, congressional leaders could say, “We’ll support the commander in chief in his best judgment, because we know that he isn’t going to keep an American there any longer than he needs to.” That was one way they could play it. “But if you play it the other way, I just want you to clearly understand that if there is any arbitrary date set, then I will have no choice but to put the responsibility on the Democrats in the House and the Senate—on them—for losing everything that we fought for in Vietnam and for bringing on a Communist victory.”
It’s not as if Nixon said that Congress was a nice little branch of government and he’d hate to see anything bad happen to it. He wasn’t that subtle. “I said, ‘You think you want to fight it out on [an] end date, we’ll beat the hell out of you.’ Well, they understood it. Understand? They’re with us.”2
The opposition party, for its part, was not displaying great political courage on the subject. “The Democrats say withdraw by the end of the Congress, for Christ’s sake,” Nixon told Kissinger on February 24. The Senate Democratic Policy Committee had voted to work for total American withdrawal from Vietnam by the time that the Ninety-Third Congress replaced the Ninety-Second in January 1973—two months after the election. “What the hell does that prove?” asked the president. “They know damn well we’re going to get out by then.”3
On camera, the president talked about how he made decisions: “One American dying in combat is one too many. But our goal is no American fighting man dying anyplace in the world. Every decision I have made in the past and every decision I make in the future will have the purpose of achieving that goal.”
Before closing, Nixon pushed aside his written text. He looked into the camera’s eye: “I am often asked what I would like to accomplish more than anything else while serving as president of the United States. And I always give the same answer: to bring peace—peace abroad, peace at home for America.” His tone changed. A little less formal, more conversational. “The reason I am so deeply committed to peace goes far beyond political considerations or my concern about my place in history, or the other reasons that political scientists usually say are the motivations of presidents.
“Every time I talk to a brave wife of an American POW”—the camera slowly zoomed out; viewers could see that the president’s hands were folded, his text off to the side—“every time I write a letter to the mother of a boy who has been killed in Vietnam, I become more deeply committed to end this war, and to end it in a way that we can build a lasting peace.”
Now he spoke more slowly, more thoughtfully. “I think the hardest thing that a President has to do is to present posthumously the nation’s highest honor, the Medal of Honor, to mothers or fathers or widows of men who have lost their lives, but in the process have saved the lives of others.
“We had an award ceremony in the East Room of the White House just a few weeks ago. And at that ceremony I remember one of the recipients, Mrs. Karl Taylor, from Pennsylvania. Her husband was a marine sergeant, Sergeant Karl Taylor. He charged an enemy machine-gun single-handed and knocked it out. He lost his life. But in the process the lives of several wounded marines in the range of that machine-gun were saved.” It was an act of self-sacrificing heroism. Who could fail to be moved? Who could help but imagine what Sgt. Taylor’s family felt?
“After I presented her the medal, I shook hands with their two children, Karl, Jr.—he was eight years old—and Kevin, who was four. As I was about to move to the next recipient, Kevin suddenly stood at attention and saluted.” Nixon paused long enough for everyone to picture the scene clearly: a four-year-old who had lost his father in war saluting the commander in chief. “I found it rather difficult to get my thoughts together for the next presentation.
“My fellow Americans, I want to end this war in a way that is worthy of the sacrifice of Karl Taylor, and I think he would want me to end it in a way that would increase the chances that Kevin and Karl, and all those children like them here and around the world, could grow up in a world where none of them would have to die in war; that would increase the chance for America to have what it has not had in this century—a full generation of peace.”4
(Viewers did not hear what Nixon told Haldeman and Kissinger after rehearsing the conclusion: “If it doesn’t move them, screw them.”)5
The president walked from his office back to the residence at 9:25 p.m. Kissinger called at 9:26. Too soon. Nixon had to settle into his amply upholstered easy chair in the Lincoln Sitting Room, where he had an ottoman for his feet and a phone within reach and a fireplace he could use year-round (with the air-conditioning cranked in the warmer months). It was the smallest room in the residence and had just one comfortable chair. It was his favorite place in the White House.6
“Mr. President?”
“Yeah. Hi, Henry.”
“This was the best speech you’ve delivered since you’ve been in office.”
The president demurred.
“This one was really movingly delivered,” said Kissinger. “And I don’t know whether you saw the commentary afterwards.”
Nixon scoffed. He never watched television commentators or the evening news. Every morning the White House staff gave him a written summary of broadcast and print coverage tailored to an audience of him. The president said, “I don’t care what the bastards say.”
“Well, but this is so amazing,” said Kissinger. “No one was flyspecking it.” The coverage was favorable. “Everyone is saying ‘a strong man sticking to his guns.’ ”
“I’ll tell you one thing,” the president said. “This little speech was a work of art.” Particularly the conclusion. “It was no act, because no actor could do it.”7
This was a subtle jab at Ronald Reagan. The former movie and TV star spooked Nixon. Less than two years after California elected Reagan governor in 1966—his first run for public office—Reagan launched a last-minute challenge to Nixon for the Republican presidential nomination. By then, Nixon had his delegates sewn up, but Reagan exercised an uncanny pull on the hearts of conservatives, and they were the heart of the new GOP. Reagan had been on the president’s mind that afternoon when he and Kissinger were pondering what might happen if their plans for Vietnam didn’t work. Kissinger said America might replace Nixon with Gov. George Wallace, D-Alabama, the ardent segregationist turned all-purpose right-wing demagogue and third-party presidential candidate in 1968.
[]Kissinger: The only consolation we have—but it won’t do us any good—is that the people who put us into this position are going to be destroyed by the right.
President Nixon: Damn right.
Kissinger: They’re going to be destroyed. The liberals and radicals are going to be killed. This is a basically right-wing country.
President Nixon: I think it is.
Kissinger: You’d get a Wallace—
President Nixon: You’d probably get a Reagan or Wallace, couldn’t you? You’d get a Reagan.
Kissinger: I know, but a Wallace without a Southern accent. Or a Reagan with some [unclear] and education. All of our right-wingers have had some defect, but if we could get—if we get someone—
President Nixon: Reagan has enough; he has enough. [Kissinger attempts to interject.] They could go for Reagan. He’s desperately interested in it. And, too, with a Reagan in here, you could damn well almost get yourself into a nuclear war and get killed. He’s the kind with no—he has no judgment.
Kissinger: No judgment.
President Nixon: No—no finesse. No subtlety. It’s all—everything is simple. Thank God it’s simple on our side at the moment.8
Other politicians who were threatened by Reagan’s rise also chose to view him as a harbinger of nuclear Armageddon. This allowed them to see themselves as saving the world.
“No actor in Hollywood could have done that [conclusion] that well,” said Nixon.
“Mr. President, I had, after all, heard it before,” Kissinger said. Nevertheless, “I had a lump in my throat.” Haig, too, was “absolutely moved and overwhelmed.” The television commentary was the most favorable Kissinger had ever heard.
Nixon called congressional leaders “a miserable lot.” He had briefed them at the White House right before the speech. “After you left I stuck it to them,” said the president. “I said, ‘If Congress wants to take over, that’s fine, but then they take the responsibility for this going down the drain, and that is clear, gentlemen.’ ”
“Right,” said Kissinger. “You are saving this country.”
If the speech didn’t work, Nixon said, “I’m going to find out soon, and then I’m going to turn right so goddamn hard it’ll make your head spin. We’ll bomb those bastards right out of the—off the earth.” (Nixon often talked about bombing North Vietnam. He had an excellent, but secret, reason to think it would solve his political problems.) “I think you agree, don’t you?” Nixon asked.
“I think, Mr. President, we have to make fundamental decisions,” said Kissinger noncommittally. It was time to end the call. “Congratulations, Mr. President.”9 Not since Marilyn Monroe serenaded JFK in Madison Square Garden had anyone managed to pack as much awe into the words “Mr. President” as Kissinger did every day.