Chapter Two

REPORTING FOR DUTY

We’re moving to Camp David. It’s where the president goes on the weekends.

—CO Michael Giorgione to his daughters

MY FIRST DAY on the job at Camp David proved one of the truisms of working for the president: there are no absolutes. That said, as the Clintons demonstrated, some presidents are more unpredictable than others. Weeks earlier, my family had been uprooted from my last post in what many of us cheekily call sunny Mayberry—Coronado, California. My wife, Michele, and our daughters, Briana and Ryanne, were getting used to moving, but this was the biggest change of all. How to explain to a seven-and four-year-old that you’re moving to a cabin in the woods?

I’d first visited Camp David in 1992 when I was serving at the Bureau of Naval Personnel at the Pentagon as the rating assignment officer for the U.S. Navy Seabees. I was asked to go and talk to the troops at the camp. I remember coming away from that visit thinking, What a pain to work there! Everyone was so formal and polite, and everything had to be perfect, right down to the last blade of grass. Now, seven years later, I was preparing to take over as the commanding officer.

Reflecting on this, I saw that there were several times in my career when something I thought I didn’t want ended up being the best assignment or opportunity for me. Fortunately, I forgot all about my first impression of the camp!

Getting the position was a long journey. Just to reach the first interview, I had endured an intensive yearlong vetting process. My life had been scrutinized to the minutest degree. Not just my professional background and intellectual aptitude, but my financial history, my health history, my military performance, my personality and “fit.” One week when I was traveling, Michele noticed a car parked down the road from our house for a few days, and it followed her during her busy daily routine. My family, friends, neighbors, classmates, co-workers, former co-workers, former neighbors, former friends, and anyone else the adjudicating authority deemed relevant had all been interviewed to make sure I could be trusted with the highest level of security permission. Meanwhile, my family was happily situated in idyllic Coronado, where I was serving as the public works officer at the naval base. We were really enjoying our life. As a Navy family, we knew we wouldn’t live there forever, but we weren’t exactly angling for a move. My wife and I had both grown up in Pittsburgh and we were quite familiar with those winters. The idea of returning east to live on top of a mountain seemed like a challenge, even as the opportunity beckoned.

We were used to moving around and living in obscure places. We’d lived overseas twice before we had children, and we knew the drill: questionable housing, secondhand furniture, all the stuff military families face every day. Camp David would be a unique and special assignment—and yet.

I was called for an interview and a visit to Camp David in November 1998, and on the same trip I spent a day in the East Wing of the White House with the White House Military Office. There were three of us under consideration, but in meetings with the WHMO staff and as I sat and talked with the White House director, I sensed that I was going to get the job. I got the phone call two weeks later telling me that the assignment had finally come through, and I had to tell Michele we were moving back east the following summer. It was a little bit hard. If you can imagine it, there was a sense of excitement, but also some upset. I won’t deny there were tears shed.

One of Michele’s biggest concerns was work-life balance, which, fortunately, had always been very good for us. Coincidentally, our life in Coronado was the perfect example of Mrs. Clinton’s concept that it takes a village to raise kids; we actually called Coronado proper “the Village.” That’s what we had in that posting in California, where everyone—colleagues, friends, neighbors, teachers, and coaches—was invested in our family. The isolation of the Catoctin Mountains would be a challenge. But the opportunity and adventure were too great to pass up.

When I spoke to other Camp David commanders, I found that this combination of excitement and strong reservations was often shared by others, most of whom had had young children—even infants. The idea of moving your family to the woods at the top of a mountain can take your breath away. “I was a reluctant draft choice,” Bob McLean, who served during Bush 43’s presidency, told me. His reluctance wasn’t about going to Camp David; it was that he wanted to be an operational Seabee during a time of conflict. In addition, Bob and his wife, Lisa, had a one-month-old son and an eighteen-month-old daughter. But Lisa was pushing for him to say yes, and they actually found the experience easier with babies than it would have been with older children. They didn’t have to worry about school buses, and their family doctor was occasionally the White House physician when he or she was on board. In spite of any initial reservations, all the families who were admitted to the exclusive Camp David club were glad and grateful they’d had the opportunity.

But at the start, you don’t know what to expect, so I approached my first day, June 25, 1999, with some butterflies. Scheduling a change-of-command ceremony that Friday had seemed like a safe bet, and my immediate predecessor, Commander Bert Ramsay, knew this well. There was no indication of any presidential visit on the horizon, and the event was booked. So when the morning dawned temperate and sunny atop the Catoctin Mountains, my biggest concern was keeping my dress whites pristine for the ceremony. My only job that day was a simple one: Take command. It was someone else’s job to worry about all the planning for the event.

Surrounded by the camp’s lush green grounds, the modest WPA-era cabins just beyond the trees behind the dais, I felt a strong sense of history and promise in the air. I was about to accept responsibility for the day-to-day operations of a facility that had hosted some of the most important figures in modern times. But just as I was enjoying the chance to contemplate this, we received word that there had been a slight change of plans: The Clintons were coming. That very night. In military-speak, immediate pucker factor.

I would soon learn that unpredictability was a hallmark of the Clinton rhythm. Many visits went off without a hitch, but there were enough scheduled visits that were suddenly canceled and canceled visits that were suddenly on again that the staff was always speculating: Were they coming? Weren’t they?

This first visit, all I knew was that they most certainly were. And I didn’t actually yet know what a presidential visit entailed.

During the ceremony, my mind was buzzing with questions about the details that would need to be arranged before the Clintons’ arrival. A presidential visit is an intricately choreographed affair, and everything has to be just right. I had received an early glimpse of this preparation process and protocol when Ramsay invited me to camp to observe an actual presidential visit with Clinton before I took over, a practice done for many years between successive camp commanders. Now I was on my own, although there was a very capable and competent staff there to support and execute everything.

Normally, the preparation consists of a morning kickoff meeting, usually on the Monday before a weekend visit—if we know of the visit at least a week out. During my time, the Poplar conference room with the iconic Eisenhower photograph was used for this meeting, which was attended by a representative from each department of the camp plus the Marine Security Company and the White House Communications Agency. Now, owing to the expanded number of attendees, the kickoff meeting is conducted in another location.

At the meeting the CO typically shares what information he or she has about the nature and purpose of the visit, who is visiting, cabin assignments, desired activities, events, meals, and other minute details, plus the ever important arrival day and time. We then review any facility, weather, or security concerns for the days preceding the arrival and go over visit preps that have to be completed. We have scores of SOPs—standard operating procedures—for just about everything from firefighting to golfing off-camp at a local course.

Bob Reuning, the CO during part of George W. Bush’s and Obama’s administrations, likened the preparation to the scene in Apollo 13 when they’re getting ready to launch: “Booster!” “Go!” “Guidance!” “Go!” “Procedures!” “Go!”

During my time, I worked principally with the First Lady’s social secretary to receive information about the visit. If a head of state was involved or if there were other diplomatic or business purposes for the visit, the WHMO director and staff and sometimes the Department of State would also provide information.

The relationship with the social secretary was crucial during my time at camp and one that I continually had to develop. These loyal servants can take on the personalities and routines of their bosses, and I found that to be very true working with Capricia Marshall under Mrs. Clinton and Cathy Fenton under Mrs. Laura Bush. The Camp David COs learned quickly; speaking to them was the equivalent of speaking directly with the First Ladies themselves.

But on June 25, 1999, I didn’t know any of this and hadn’t talked to a social secretary that week, let alone that day. And even though I knew I could trust and rely on others, I hadn’t been to the race yet on my own, and it is a much different feeling once you’re in the driver’s seat.

I had planned to show my family and friends around the retreat after the ceremony and the reception, but that would have to wait. I curtailed hugs and good wishes, and Michele, our daughters, my parents, my father-in-law, and other family members, as well as fellow officers and friends, were all ushered “off the hill,” outside the gate of the Camp David compound. (Normally, Michele and the girls would remain, of course, but we hadn’t yet moved into Cedar.) I stayed behind alone, thrown into the thick of things before I’d barely been handed the keys. I had work to do, but the best decision I made that first day was to do nothing. Yes, I was the commanding officer now, completely in charge and accountable for everything that happened. But that first day, I was also there to learn, and what better way than to be thrown into it and let this exceptional crew do their thing?

During the hastily assembled kickoff meeting, I mostly listened, asking a seemingly smart question now and then but really just watching the crew in action. I was conscious of the need for calm; I communicated to the crew that I trusted them, which in turn bolstered my own self-confidence. This style of leadership, which I had used throughout my career, would serve me quite well at Camp David.

It was to be a night arrival, which has its own drama because of the surrounding inky darkness pierced by the landing-zone lights and then the sudden illumination from the approaching helicopter.

Arrival is always the most dramatic time of a visit. There are so many variables—timing, weather, getting everyone arranged. The fire crew and the crash crew must be positioned in case there’s an accident. The golf carts have to be standing by. Sometimes—though not on my first day—guests are invited to witness arrival, usually the families of crew members who live in Navy housing down the mountain. At those times we have to arrange for a bus to pick them up and bring them to the site at least an hour beforehand.

One interesting note: On every helicopter arrival, there is one reporter with a camera at the observation area. He or she is the press observer with a macabre duty—to be a witness in case there’s a crash.

We got an alert when the Clintons took off from the South Lawn, meaning they were thirty minutes away. I was in my dress uniform and drove over in my golf cart with the command duty officer. We took our places at the head of the path, far enough that the helicopter-prop blast wouldn’t knock us down or blow our uniform covers (hats) into the distant trees.

When we saw the lights in the sky we began to stiffen our backs, and as the helicopter, Marine One, was landing, we saluted. It was very ceremonial and strangely simple, yet poignant. We dropped our salutes once the helicopter landed and waited for the power to go off and the blades to stop turning. I walked down the pathway as the door popped open and Marines in dress uniform jumped out and took their posts. I walked right up to the bottom of the landing stairs to greet the president.

Out came Clinton, holding his nephew Zachary Rodham; followed by the Clintons’ chocolate Lab, Buddy; Mrs. Clinton; Chelsea, nineteen; and Chelsea’s friend Elizabeth. They looked perfectly relaxed and natural, despite the late hour, all dressed casually. I recognized from seeing him on TV the president’s familiar lope as he came down the stairs. Chelsea, her hair a wild, curly mass, looked at me standing there saluting and asked, “Who are you?” I told her I had just taken charge twelve hours earlier and she laughed in a nice way, as if recognizing my anxiety.

At Camp David we are mostly set apart from the political roar outside, but I had the impression that the Clintons had survived the horrible ordeal of impeachment only eight months earlier and that they’d already figured out how to move on, their family intact, and make the most of the last year and a half in office. What I didn’t know at that point was that Mrs. Clinton was already exploring making a bid for the Senate in 2000.

I shook hands and introduced myself for the first time as “the commanding officer of your presidential retreat.”

They welcomed me, and then I walked them back to where the golf carts were lined up. They got in Golf Cart One, and before I knew it they were heading toward Aspen. The helicopter was pushed into the hangar, and the pilots and the crew settled in at the camp in case the president had to move quickly.

When the evening was finally over, I breathed a sigh of relief. I had survived my first day, and it wasn’t at all the day I had expected.

There’s a saying in the Navy that command involves the highest highs and the lowest lows, separated by nanoseconds. I was certainly reminded of this frequently while serving at Camp David. It can be humbling, but it can also go to your head if you’re not careful. As a senior officer told me before I started, “Mike, make sure your hat size is the same when you come out of there.” Wise counsel.

The rest of my first weekend was relatively uneventful. The Clintons relaxed together, took walks; the president might have hit a few balls behind Aspen. On Sunday they went to services at Evergreen Chapel, and President Clinton sang in the choir, as he usually did. In the chapel, the president’s family sits in the front row on the right side, and the CO’s family sits in the front row on the left side. Navy chaplain Brad Ableson led the Protestant service. When he gave the sermon, I wondered for the first of many times what it felt like to be preaching to the president of the United States.

Ableson was the first of two chaplains I served with at Camp David. He departed just a few months after my arrival but was a tremendous adviser and supporter as I settled into the job. He had a pleasant and gregarious personality, and he really had a connection with President Clinton; even though I wasn’t the one preaching to the president from the altar a few feet away, I found his manner comforting. The next chaplain would have the same wonderful relationship with President Bush during some very trying times in our nation. (More about that later.)

Sunday afternoon, the Clintons departed, and the crew and I repeated the same process in reverse. I saluted and watched the helicopter lift off—and realized I was exhausted. I thought about it. I hadn’t really done all that much. But I was always up, walking around, observing and learning, onstage every minute. Even though nothing of particular consequence seemed to be happening, I was perpetually on edge, even as I conveyed a relaxed demeanor. It wears on you after a weekend, enjoyable as the visit is. With time I came to see that Camp David was a place of “high risk, high yield,” with the Sword of Damocles always hanging above my head. There’s not a lot of room for error. All of us who serve as commanders are aware that we can be relieved at any time. Sure, everything looks calm and cool from the outside, but it’s supposed to—inside there is often the constant unease that comes with command, the hyperalertness that something could go wrong. Much like being president, I suspect. It’s part of the deal of being a leader.

As a leadership challenge, Camp David is significant. Think about it. The crew that’s picked, the senior petty officers and officers, are top candidates throughout the Navy and Marine Corps. Everyone who works for you is like a gold-medal athlete, and now they’re all on your team—and that’s wonderful. But you take these Sailors and Marines and you tell them their jobs are to make beds, clean toilets, and plant flowers. You tell them to dress up, look nice, and salute the president. Be sociable and pleasant—but watch yourselves.

There are bound to be ego conflicts, people saying, in effect, Wait a minute. I was the top Sailor on my ship and now I’m doing menial labor much of the time. The Seabees, most of whom are on their very first assignments, are thinking, This isn’t why I joined the Navy! The commander’s job is to motivate the crew, to help them make sense of it, and to ensure they realize that what they’re doing is important and necessary. Don’t get me wrong; everyone is thrilled to get this plum assignment. But when the mundane crawl of daily life sets in—especially if the president doesn’t come very often—it can be grueling, particularly for the young servicemen and servicewomen. They all get the importance of the camp when you’re interviewing them and you’re vetting them and they’re going through security, because everyone is jazzed by it. They say, “Camp David. So cool.” Then they arrive. Marines walk the patrol in February at two a.m. and it’s freezing cold, shockingly quiet, and very lonely. The crew replants flowers because the deer got into them. After a while, a natural frustration sets in for many of them, and they ask themselves, What the hell am I doing? The leadership is ready for this; it’s perfectly normal. And most of the crew come away from Camp David feeling proud to have had the unique opportunity of serving there.

On that first weekend I tried to go with the flow and make sure there were no mistakes. Most successful leaders will tell you that when you’re new in command, you go in and observe for a while at first. In time you might find things that you think can be better, things you’re going to tweak or make substantial changes to.

For me, the first of those changes had to do with clothing. It had been a long-standing practice—at least fifteen years—that after the president and guests arrived, the crew would change into casual civilian clothes, referred to as “Camp David casual,” for most of the visit, and then change back into dress uniforms for departure honors. Typically, I would greet the president, First Family, and guests in summer whites in the spring and summer and navy blues in the fall and winter.

I noticed that the crew was following the practice very well when I arrived, but I also observed that individual definitions of what was casual and appropriate could vary. The problem was how to maintain the casual feel of this exclusive mountaintop retreat while also adding the kind of class a tourist would expect at a five-star resort.

I worked with the staff and our supply officer, Lieutenant Tim Jett, a wonderfully creative and dedicated officer, and we came up with the idea of issuing the crew three different-colored polo shirts (navy blue, maroon, forest green) with the Camp David seal on the front of each one. We would also issue gray polo shirts to the Sailors and Marines assigned to the galley to wear while they were working in the kitchen and on the serving line, and everyone would receive one navy blue sweater. Winter coats and rain gear would still be left to the discretion of the individual, and those on guard duty would continue to wear the military uniform of the day.

I was happy with this change. We looked good, and I think it added the right touch of class in a relaxed manner. The “uniform” also helped guests easily recognize who worked at the retreat. The shirt material has evolved since 1999, and only navy blue shirts are issued today, but the practice continues.

As commander, I knew that if there was one mixed signal, it all fell apart. On one visit I got word that President Clinton wanted to play golf when he arrived. When I met him at Marine One and walked him to Golf Cart One, I told him that the golf motorcade was prepared to leave whenever he was. You would have thought I’d called him a Republican from the look he gave me. At last he smiled. “There must have been a misunderstanding,” he said. There was no plan to play golf. I cringed.

This might seem like a silly incident, but the tiny details keep the CO on constant edge. When I look back on my whole time there, I remember the pressure and stress. My job was to be the director of everything; I had to make sure that my family was comfortable, that the atmosphere was casual but still perfect, that the crew felt trusted and empowered. And most of all, I had to make sure that the president was happy and had a great and relaxing visit. Thus the edginess.

It wasn’t just me. When Wendy Halsey assumed command in 2011, she was full of anxiety. Like all commanders, she wanted to be perfect, and she was very aware that as the first female commander, people might be watching her in a special way. Her wonderful and supportive husband, Mark, and their three kids were with her, and she was pretty tough on them in the early months. She was scared that one of them would step out of line, which would reflect badly on her. Looking back, she admitted she was perhaps overcautious, but I can understand her angst. It’s something we all feel. She isn’t the first CO to lecture her kids not to make a peep!

Initially, she wouldn’t even allow her family to go to the landing zone to watch an arrival. The first time she did, she was concerned about her seven-year-old son, Tucker. Knowing that President Obama liked to chat with the families after he landed, she felt Tucker required advance instructions. At the time, he was going through a phase of greeting people with “Wa’sup?” She told him, “If the president speaks to you, the only words I want coming out of your mouth are ‘Yes, sir,’ ‘No, sir,’ and ‘My name is Tucker.’”

Sure enough, when he arrived, Obama made a beeline for the families. Tucker had recently lost his front teeth, and the president teased him. “Do you know you don’t have any teeth?” he asked playfully.

Tucker looked up at him and replied, “No, sir. My name is Tucker.”

WE’RE PREPARED AT Camp David for the very worst to happen. But for the most part, the crises that occur are hardly matters of life and death. They only seem like it in the moment. When your mandate is perfection, you do sweat the small stuff.

Of course, some of the incidents are potentially catastrophic, like the time we almost set Aspen on fire. One winter day during a Clinton visit I was called to Aspen to talk to the military aide. The fireplace was roaring and there was a great feel and smell inside the cabin. I was standing inside the main living area when the president walked in and decided to go out to the Aspen patio through a door that was rarely used, especially in the winter months. As he was opening the door, someone came in the front door, and the rush of air stoked the fire and instantly filled the room with smoke. The president quickly shut the door, but time stood still as my eyes met his and we both wondered, What the hell just happened?

Quickly assessing the situation, which is something we all learn to do well at Camp David, the Aspen steward, the military aide, and I saw no random embers or damage to furnishings and no threat to any person. We apologized and calmly went into reaction mode. We asked others to leave the room, opened the Aspen patio door for airflow, brought in a fan to help dissipate the smoke, turned the fire alarm off, and notified the firefighting team to stand by. Then we left, thanking God it hadn’t been worse.

Fortunately, near-catastrophe is rare, although our mandate to make the First Family happy keeps us hopping. When I spoke to Chuck Howe, it had been fifty-two years since he was CO at Camp David, but he still had vivid memories of the tussles over Lyndon Johnson’s problems with water and temperature control. Many people have read about Johnson’s obsession with the force of his showerheads, colorfully recounted in Kate Andersen Brower’s book The Residence. Well, it turns out the same issue came up at Camp David. On Johnson’s first visit he immediately determined that the shower in the master bathroom at Aspen was completely inadequate. The pressure was too light and there weren’t enough showerheads. Johnson liked the shower water to assault his body from all sides. The White House crew would surely have commiserated with Howe when he got the call to fix the matter. At Camp David, the solution was a complete remodeling of the shower, and the crew even put in a booster pump so that water would hit the president’s body really hard. Thankfully, Johnson was satisfied.

It wasn’t so easy to solve the air-conditioning problem. In the summer of 1964, a month before a change-of-command was scheduled, Howe had his replacement, John Paul Jones, at the camp with him for a lengthy turnover-preparation stay. After one visit, President Johnson complained to the stewards that there was something wrong with the air-conditioning; he wasn’t getting enough cold air. Howe and Jones went to look at it with a mechanical crew, turned the thermostat down to its lowest setting, and were satisfied that everything was working properly. But on the second visit, Johnson once again complained. Howe’s crew investigated it and reported that the equipment was working beautifully.

The third weekend LBJ did not visit. The change-of-command ceremony was planned for the Monday after the fourth weekend, with several VIPs invited, and they were hoping for a peaceful weekend, but LBJ came up on Friday. On Saturday morning the stewards called to say that the president wondered why they hadn’t fixed the air-conditioning. Howe and Jones racked their brains and finally recognized simultaneously that it was not an air-conditioning problem; it was an airflow problem. Both JFK and LBJ liked to nap in a dark room. The crew had put up extra blackout drapes and put a shim under the carpet at the doorway so no light could leak in. However, the air-conditioning vent was in the bedroom and the return air duct was in the hallway. When the president shut his door, fresh air would come into the room until it became pressurized; after that, the air turned stuffy. Hallelujah; we had the answer! It could be fixed the following week.

But a few hours later, Howe received an ominous call from the president’s special assistant, Marvin Watson; LBJ wanted to see Howe in Aspen—in his bedroom. When Howe went in, the president was lying in bed with documents spread all around him. He said, “Commander, look at the thermostat. What’s wrong with the air-conditioning?”

Howe launched into the explanation about the dark room and the unintended consequences and told him how they planned to solve the problem. Johnson listened and then gave Howe a hard look. “Well, what am I going to do tonight?”

To which Howe replied, “Sleep with your door open, Mr. President.”

He nodded. “Okay.”

Howe left breathing a sigh of relief that they’d solved the problem. “If we hadn’t,” he said, “I think my change-of-command would have been Saturday afternoon instead of on Monday morning.” He wasn’t being melodramatic. The camp CO is always aware that any incident might end badly. One of the skills we all learn well during our time at Camp David is to be very adaptive and think quickly on our feet. After similar incidents, I often wrote in my journal, I’m still here.

Remember, Camp David is not a modern hotel; it’s meant to be rustic, and in spite of improvements, the setting and facilities are old—not unlike the White House’s. After George W. Bush’s first visit, he told the Aspen steward that his bed didn’t seem level. So we launched a full investigation. The staff surveyed the bed, used marbles on the floorboards to check for slope, examined the bedposts, shimmed one or two of them, measured the bed frame with a level, and so on. Finally, I lay down on top of the bed (wearing booties, which we always had on in Aspen and Laurel). I didn’t notice anything untoward. We ended up seemingly doing nothing—but on Bush’s next visit, he gave us a thumbs-up for fixing the bed.

George H. W. Bush had a habit of writing to-do lists on a Selectric typewriter at Laurel and giving them to the camp’s CO. The notes always had a touch of humor—one reason Commander Berry has kept them to this day. For example, one read: Mike—the toilet in the presidential bathroom is not responding to presidential commands. Could you do something to make it more obedient?

On another occasion, a congressman from Pennsylvania sent a letter to Berry asking if he could donate some wild turkeys to Camp David. Berry wasn’t overly enthusiastic about the idea, but he wrote to presidential aide Tim McBride about it, detailing the pros and cons. McBride forwarded the note to President Bush, and Berry received this response:

From the President

To: Cmdr. Mike Berry

Subj: Command Decision on the Turkeys (the feathered ones)

Let’s try it. If they fly away so be it—nothing ventured nothing gained.

If they stick around they should make it on their own.

Decision: Go forward with only one caveat. If it costs money forget the birds.

George Bush

The climate and the setting on top of the mountain is one of the greatest challenges. The fog can roll in and make helicopter landing impossible. In those cases, sometimes the visits are canceled; at other times, the presidential motorcade has to make the long trip up from Washington. Once when George and Barbara Bush were forced to drive up on a rainy, windy day, Mrs. Bush, who was known for her wicked sense of humor, greeted CO Joe Camp, who was waiting in front of Aspen, with “Didn’t your predecessor tell you that you’re in charge of weather?”

In the winter, keeping the paths salted and free of ice could be considered a matter of national security. None of us wanted to cause a presidential broken bone because we hadn’t performed our duty. But it wasn’t so easy to manage. I can well remember being pelted by ice at the landing zone as the helicopter arrived during a subzero afternoon.

CO John Dettbarn recalled a frigid day when Nixon was scheduled to arrive. The crew had cleaned all the snow and ice off the asphalt for the landing. As Marine One came down, the powerful prop downwash instantly turned the sheen of water to black ice.

Dettbarn warned the senior Secret Service agent stepping off the helicopter ramp about the slippery surface and received a knowing look. He also warned Nixon, and after the president stepped on the ground and they both turned to walk to the car, Dettbarn lost his footing and started to fall. He instinctively grabbed the person next to him—the president!—and Nixon clutched his arm and kept him from falling. It was a close call. Unfortunately, on another occasion, the ice got Nixon.

The president loved swimming in the beautiful pool he had built, which was heated year-round. At the time there was no pool cover, though there is one today. That created maintenance problems on the flagstone deck, as the cloud of water vapor in winter would condense, land on the flagstones, freeze, and crack the stones.

On a cold Sunday evening, after watching a movie at Aspen, Nixon went outside for a walk in the winter dark, which was unexpected, as he almost always went to bed after the movie. Further, he was due to fly from Andrews Air Force Base to Paris the next morning to attend peace talks on Vietnam. Descending the steps to the pool from the deck, he slipped and broke a toe. Fortunately, he was still able to wear a shoe and fly to Paris as planned, but Dettbarn felt terrible. As he put it, “My steps, my ice, my ass.”

In the time before Nixon built the Aspen pool, the presidents used the camp pool. Kennedy liked the pool to be at ninety degrees. One day prior to a visit, the crew checked the temperature and found it was elevated to one hundred and five degrees. The heat exchanger had malfunctioned, and it had continued to pump in hot steam. What to do? At first the crew considered dumping ice in the pool, but then they realized that there weren’t enough trucks in northern Maryland to bring in that much ice. So they decided to dump half the pool’s water and refill it with cold water. By the time Kennedy arrived, the temperature had been reduced to ninety.

Problem solved, right? Not exactly. After Kennedy went swimming, one of the crew received an urgent call from a steward wondering if he had anything that could remove tar from the president’s face. Apparently, the heat had melted some of the asphalt sealing, and there was an undetectable skim of asphalt floating on the pool. A couple of stewards raced down to clean up the president’s face, and they never told the commander. Neither did the president.

There is something about the pools that can produce special agita. At one point during my command, when George W. Bush was president, we had what can only be described as a madcap adventure with the pool. Most presidents used the private pool at Aspen, though Barbara Bush liked to swim laps in the staff pool. George W. Bush was never known to use the staff pool, however.

Heather Wishart was a young officer who served as the assistant public works officer during the week but was also the command duty officer that weekend. This meant she was basically coordinating and confirming everything for the visit and was constantly on call. When she heard the president was taking a nap, she jumped in the shower, but she was called midway through with the information that Bush wanted to swim some laps in the staff pool. What? she thought. The staff pool? The president doesn’t swim in the staff pool. Well, he can, but… She jumped out of the shower, and with her hair still wet and possibly soapy, she called Chestnut, the cabin where our quarterdeck and duty bunk rooms are located, to get some Sailors to the pool to make sure it was visit-ready. But when she arrived, she found the newly installed roll-up pool cover had filled with rain from showers the night before and was stuck in the closed position due to the weight of the water.

With the president due to arrive any minute, Wishart and the crew feverishly tried to clear the water off the cover, but they didn’t have much luck, their available tools being a broom and two small buckets from the horseshoe pit. Soon Bush’s golf cart pulled up. The president hopped out, surveyed the situation, and began offering suggestions. At one point, he said, “What we need is a frogman to jump in and push the cover up from the bottom, to clear the water that way.” The poor Marine corporal who had arrived to lifeguard got pressed into service, and he did his best to push as much of the leafy, dirty water off the cover from underneath while treading water in the deep end. Of course, some of the leafy, dirty water ended up in the pool.

After hearing the chatter over the radio, I approached in my golf cart, unseen by Wishart and the crew, and joined a Secret Service agent in his golf cart. We sat and watched the drama unfolding fifteen yards away. It occurred to me to go over and take charge of the situation, which seemed fairly out of hand, but I stopped myself. The mood seemed lighthearted, and Bush was in good spirits and laughing. I trusted Wishart and the others to handle things. I didn’t always have to intervene. I’m a big believer in the idea that leadership isn’t about doing it yourself all the time; it’s also about letting the people in your command practice problem-solving on their own. It helps to have a situational awareness, and in this instance it was calm enough that I could watch from a distance.

Just when it seemed nothing would work, the pool cover became unstuck, and they rolled it back. Wishart wished the president a good swim, he thanked them with a chuckle, and she and the troops turned to leave. And then they saw me sitting there watching. They gasped. I motioned Wishart over and asked her to ride with me after I bade farewell to the agent. I knew he would relate the incident to his boss—another example of having situational awareness. As Wishart recalled, “The troops later told me they were sure I was about to get my you-know-what handed to me.”

“Start to finish, tell me what happened,” I said calmly. She did. “What would you have done differently if you could?”

She mentioned she could have checked the pool cover earlier, and maybe the pool mechanical room should have buckets, but that was about it.

“It sounds like you handled it as well as you could,” I told her. “Good job.”

She was floored by my response, but to me it was perfectly reasonable. She had solved the problem, the president had gotten his swim in, the pool cover was not destroyed in the process, and she’d learned a valuable lesson about leadership. Eisenhower always used to say, “You don’t lead by beating people over the head.” I took that to heart.

Some problems are easier to solve than others. One day, sitting in his office, CO Howe got a call from Jackie Kennedy. “The television isn’t working and the president is speaking in Germany. I want to watch him.”

He told her he’d be right over. He arrived and saw that, indeed, the television wasn’t working. Jackie was very agitated. “What am I going to do?” she asked. “I want to watch the president.”

Howe pointed to the next room. “Why don’t you watch it on the set in the president’s bedroom?” She brightened. “That’s a good idea.” And she went in the bedroom to watch. Howe stayed and fiddled with the TV, and as he was working, John John came running across the room and jumped on his back. “Yay, soldier boy!” he cried. He repeated the process several times, with much laughter.

As the Kennedys and Johnsons discovered, living conditions were not always stellar, even at the president’s house. Although the Nixons undertook a major renovation project to upgrade the cabins, Aspen was still pretty downscale when Ronald Reagan became president in 1981. The bathrooms were old, with wheezing pipes and aging tile, and the rooms had a hodgepodge feeling. The furniture in the master bedroom and the First Lady’s sitting room was of several different types of wood, as if everything were purchased at a garage sale. The TV in the bedroom sat on a tubular metal stand with gold paint flaking off.

Nancy Reagan was very sensitive about proposing renovations, even outside the public eye, but the military office agreed to some improvements to the bathrooms and furniture. CO Jim Rispoli, who is color-blind, vividly recalled sitting on the floor with Nancy looking at tile samples for the bathrooms. When she asked his opinion, Rispoli stared at the tiles thoughtfully, waited for her to indicate which she favored, and then agreed enthusiastically. They also perused Ethan Allen catalogs for furniture, specifically a cherrywood TV stand. When a Seabee who was something of a craftsman saw the stand in the catalog, he told Rispoli he could make an exact duplicate, which he did. The Reagans were so delighted, they had the Seabee come to Aspen so they could give him a hearty thank-you, which turned into a fifteen-minute chat.

This is our job and we’re glad, even honored, to do it. And one thing all the commanders I’ve spoken to agree on is the positive feeling we have for the presidents we serve. At Camp David, it is rare to see rudeness or imperious behavior from the First Family. The presidents and First Ladies are on our side—mostly thoughtful, gracious, and appreciative of what we do. We in turn develop a fondness for “our” presidents—we’re rooting for them, we want them to do well leading our nation and get exactly what they need from Camp David. And amid all the petty crises, there are moments of pure, unadulterated bliss, when the cares and woes of maintenance take a backseat and we’re allowed inside.

CO Mike Berry was delighted when he and his senior officers received a standing invitation to watch movies with the Reagans on Friday and Saturday nights, an invitation his predecessor Jim Broaddus had told him to expect. They were instructed to be outside Aspen at seven forty-five sharp and wait for the president to invite them in. The president would usually come out right when they arrived and stand around with them, telling them stories, jokes, or a little of what was going on in the world. As everyone knows, he was a wonderful storyteller.

They’d visit this way until eight o’clock, when Mrs. Reagan would appear at the door and announce it was movie time. Even if he was in the middle of a joke, the president would stop and say, “Well, boys, I guess I’ll just have to finish that story next time.” And he usually would, the next night they were together.

Everyone had an assigned seat in the Aspen living room. Berry’s was against the back wall nearest to the projection-booth window. The projection booth was a small room accessible from the outside only. It was outfitted with two movie-theater-quality projectors and was operated by one of the camp crew members, usually Petty Officer First Class Shelborne. Inside the Aspen living area, behind a picture hung on the north wall, there was a window. When it was movie time, the picture was removed and the film was projected through the window. A motorized screen was located above the curtains on the opposite wall. The CO and XO sat near the projection-booth wall so they could slip out of the living room and go help the projectionist if there was ever a problem. Problems did occasionally crop up. “I can tell you one thing,” said Berry, “the last thing the projectionist needed if there was a problem was me ‘helping’ him. Usually what I’d do is stand outside the projection booth and make sure everyone left the projectionist alone as he was dealing with the problem. Being the duty projectionist was extremely stressful, and I remember many times seeing Shelborne absolutely soaked with sweat, especially if he was having some trouble with the equipment.”

The Reagans sat on the couch and the rest of the guests sat behind and to the sides of them. There was an actual protocol to the evenings. First, the president would stand up, introduce the movie, and tell a little of what he knew about it. (During Berry’s time, they were on a routine of watching an old movie, usually one in which Ronald or Nancy starred, on Friday night and then a new movie, sometimes pre-release, on Saturday. On Berry’s first night watching with them, the movie was This Is the Army, released in 1943, starring Ronald Reagan, Kate Smith, and George Murphy. The next night they watched Who Framed Roger Rabbit, a new movie starring Bob Hoskins and Christopher Lloyd.) Then the president would sit down, and Eddie Serrano, Reagan’s chief steward, would turn off the lights, which cued the projectionist to start the movie. Roughly halfway through, Serrano would, quietly and in the dark, deliver popcorn and drinks to everyone—beginning, of course, with the president and Mrs. Reagan. (Serrano, a delightful guy who got along well with the camp crew, had been with the president for a long time and called him “the Boss.” He stayed on with the Reagans when they returned to California after the presidency.)

As soon as the movie ended, Serrano would bring up the lights, and the president would ask what everyone thought about the film. It was a loaded question on oldies nights. When the movie starred Ronald or Nancy Reagan, what could you say?

After a few minutes of small talk, the evening would end. That first time Berry felt a sense of amazement as he headed out into the night. “As I was leaving, I had to remind myself that this was real,” he said. “I just watched a movie with the president of the United States and I had a standing invitation to do it every night that they were here.” That’s about as good as it gets.

There’s an addendum to this story provided by another CO who served under Reagan. Bill Waters had been in a river patrol division in Vietnam in 1969. One of his closest buddies was Joe Petro, who was then a special agent on Reagan’s Secret Service detail. The two men found themselves together at Aspen for movie night. “When I was in Vietnam my mom used to send popcorn,” Waters recalled. “Joe and I would pop it and watch movies. At Aspen, when Eddie Serrano passed out the popcorn, Joe and I looked at each other across the room and grinned. We were both thinking, Can you believe this? In ’69 we were hunkered down in the Mekong Delta eating popcorn. Now we’re with the president of the United States.”