RN

by Richard Nixon

  Haig looked for someone who might restore the credibility of the press office. Not surprisingly, there were few volunteers for the bloodletting that now accompanied the daily briefings in the White House press room. Ziegler’s deputy, Jerry Warren, began to take over the podium much of the time, and Ziegler became more of an adviser to me. Despite his youth and occasional brashness, Ziegler was tough-minded and could analyze problems with honesty and incisiveness.

  We had taken some hard blows, but slowly we were gathering strength and beginning to climb back on our feet again. Many friends and supporters at home and abroad offered their reflections and their assistance.

  I received a note from Harold Macmillan:

  Although I now live remote from current affairs, thinking more of the past than of the present, I feel impelled, in view of our long friendship, to send you a message of sympathy and good will.

  I trust that these clouds may soon roll away, and that you may be able to take up with enthusiasm the task of promoting the Peace and Prosperity of the world, to which you have already made such a notable contribution.

  Our ambassador to Italy, John Volpe, wrote to me after an audience with Pope Paul VI at the Vatican:

  His Holiness said that history will record that you have done more than anyone else to capture world respect as an effective peacemaker during the last four years . . . He told me that he simply cannot understand how Americans writing in the American press can so brutally tear down their own country and its institutions. He is confident, however, that you will be able to pass through this difficult period and continue your fine work for world peace. The Holy Father said he will offer his prayers and a mass for your intentions.

  I received a message from former Japanese Prime Minister Sato:

  With profound personal sympathy, today I heard you speak to the American people on the television. You are right when you said, “America is the hope of the world.” As an old personal friend of yours, I have firm and quiet confidence in you that you, as the great leader of this hope, will succeed in re-establishing the greater authority and integrity of your own office. Would you please accept my own prayer.

  And one afternoon a note arrived from my old friend Clare Boothe Luce:

  From “The Ballad of Sir Andrew Barton”: “Sir Andrew Barton said, ‘I am hurt, but I am not slain! I’ll lay me doun and bleed awhile, and I’ll rise and fight again!’ ”

  Through the months of May, June, and July I held meetings with eleven different foreign leaders, presided over fourteen congressional meetings covering major legislation, conducted four Cabinet meetings, chaired thirteen major sessions on the economy and energy, delivered four major public speeches, and prepared for the upcoming summit meeting with Brezhnev.

  During this period we also devised a new plan for election reform, moved to increase food production, and, in mid-June, reimposed a limited price freeze in order to steady the economy while we considered our post-Phase III moves. We set up a new Office of Energy Policy, and with Agnew standing by to cast the tie-breaking vote we pushed the vitally important Alaska pipeline bill through the Senate. We continued our efforts at budget reform and government reorganization; by June we had actually accomplished what our critics had said was impossible: we had kept federal spending for 1973 under $250 billion. And although the cost in terms of political abrasion was extremely high, every one of my vetoes of budget-busting legislation was sustained.

  Despite this visible and productive activity, we were haunted by the specter of “paralysis.” The threat was invoked constantly as the media monitored our pulse and judged that Watergate had sapped my ability to lead. For me, it was a no-win situation. If I had no officially announced schedule for a particular day, it was reported that I was secluded, brooding, paralyzed; if I had an active schedule, it was reported that I was contriving activity in order not to appear paralyzed.

  If I talked about Watergate, I was described as struggling to free myself from the morass. If I did not talk about Watergate, I was accused of being out of touch with reality. If I tried to summon the nation to consider economic or foreign policy problems, I was accused of trying to distract attention from Watergate. Watergate had become the center of the media’s universe, and during the remaining year of my presidency the media tried to force everything else to revolve around it.

  THE POWs RETURN

  The fighting in Vietnam took place far from Washington, but scarcely a day passed when the sacrifice and suffering of those who served there were not brought home to me in a very personal and agonizing way. In the letters sent to the next of kin of the men who had been killed in action, I could never find words adequate to express the grief I shared with them. The posthumous presentations of Medals of Honor, at which the families accepted the decoration, were always emotionally wrenching experiences for me. From time to time I made telephone calls to the wives or mothers of men who had been killed in action. It tore me up inside to do it.

  During the Christmas season of 1969 Pat and I met with twenty-six wives and mothers of POWs and MIAs. The women spoke respectfully but passionately of the urgent need to get their loved ones released as soon as possible. Tears filled Pat’s eyes, and mine as well, as we listened to them tell of the effect of the years of waiting on them and their children, and the terrible uncertainty of not knowing whether their men were alive or dead. From that time on, each POW was an individual to me, and obtaining their release became a burning cause. My long-time friend and chief military aide General Don Hughes did a superb job of handling White House liaison with the families of our POWs and MIAs.

  The most dramatic, and heartbreaking, attempt at their release came in November 1970. Late in the summer Mel Laird and the Pentagon presented me with a proposal that we make a daring swoop-and-seize rescue raid on a POW camp inside North Vietnam. They decided to make the raid on the large POW installation at Sontay, the same town outside Hanoi that Pat and I had visited in 1953, when it had served as a refugee camp. Complete secrecy and clockwork precision might allow us to surprise and overpower the camp’s guards and remove as many as ninety Americans before a counterattack could be mounted. When I received the plan, I immediately approved it. Early in the month I had received reports that as many as twenty-eight American POWs had recently died because of torture and ill-treatment. I said that I wanted the POWs to have Thanksgiving dinner at the White House.

  After two and half months of rigorous training and rehearsal, the raid took place on November 20. By midafternoon in Washington, we knew that it had failed. The raiding party had found the cells empty; the prisoners had been moved. Apparently all the intelligence reports used for planning the operation had been several weeks old. Even if I had known when the operation was being planned that the reports were out of date, I believe I would still have given my approval.

  Although the raid did not achieve its purpose, it was a significant psychological success. From intelligence sources we learned that it caused serious concern among the North Vietnamese military and political leaders, because it revealed their vulnerability to a kind of attack they had not experienced before. Later, when the POWs were home, I learned that the raid had also had a positive effect on their treatment as well as on their morale. Shortly after the raid the North Vietnamese moved most of the men from scattered camps throughout the country to a single prison in Hanoi, which became known as the Hanoi Hilton. The men were then able to organize themselves, and obtained more consistent—if not substantially better—treatment from their captors.

  Our POWs had been courageous in action; they were even more courageous in captivity. That was one of the reasons that as the war ended, I continued to oppose amnesty for draft dodgers and deserters. I said in one press conference, “I can think of no greater insult to the memories of those who have fought and died, to the memories of those who have served, and also to our POWs, to say to them that we are now going to provide amnesty for those who deserted the country or refused to serve.”

  The fir
st of the 591 POWs were released in Hanoi on February 12 and flown directly from Hanoi to Clark Air Force Base in the Philippines. I wanted the flag to be flying proud and high on the day the first prisoners returned to American soil. I called Lady Bird Johnson and asked her if we might cut short the official thirty-day period of national mourning during which all flags were flying at half-staff for President Johnson. She said she would like to think about it and call me back in a few minutes. When she called to give her approval, she said she was sure that this was what Lyndon would have wanted.

  The scene at Clark Air Force Base was tremendously moving as one by one the men came down the ramp, walking or hobbling on crutches, saluting the flag. Some made eloquent statements. Some fell to their knees to kiss the ground. I had been concerned that they might have been so scarred by what they had been through that they would be bitter and disillusioned, or broken and unable to adjust to the conditions they would find at home. But these were no ordinary men. These were true heroes.

  The first man off the first plane, Navy Captain Jeremiah P. Denton, stepped before the microphones and said, “We are honored to have had the opportunity to serve our country under difficult circumstances. We are profoundly grateful to our Commander in Chief, and to our nation for this day. God bless America.”

  As a token of the joy I felt at the return of the men, I personally bought more than 600 orchid corsages and had one sent to each of the wives or mothers. I was delighted when I heard that some of them had worn the flowers to greet their husbands and sons as they arrived home.

  Over the next few days the returning men talked to reporters. Air Force Colonel James Kasler said, “We went to Vietnam to do a job that had to be done. And we were willing to stay until that job was complete. We wanted to come home, but we wanted to come home with honor. President Nixon has brought us home with honor. God bless those Americans who supported our President during this long ordeal.”

  And Air Force Captain David Gray, Jr., spoke with warm simplicity. “A loving God made me an American, and to America I return. A loving President preserved my honor, and with honor I return. A loving wife waited with strong heart, and to her I return. Thank you, Heavenly Father. Thank you, President Nixon. Thank you, Lynda. Thank you, America.”

  On the morning of February 12, I received a call from Air Force Colonel Robinson Risner, the senior officer of the first POW group to return home. For seven and a half years he had been held captive in North Vietnam; for much of that time he had been kept in solitary confinement.

  When I picked up the phone, he said, “This is Colonel Risner, sir, reporting for duty.”

  We talked for just a few minutes, and I told him that I looked forward to seeing him and all the other men at the White House. At the end of our brief conversation he said that talking to me had been the greatest moment of his life.

  Diary

  Risner’s comment to the effect that this was the greatest moment in his life, of course, had a very sobering effect as far as I was concerned. It made me feel extremely humble, to hear this man who had suffered so long and had taken such great risks as far as his life was concerned, to speak in this way. He spoke at the very last by saying that he and the men with him would be supporting me as long as they lived.

  On March 6 Captain Jerry Singleton and Major Robert Jeffrey, both Air Force officers, came to meet me at the White House.

  Diary

  At ten o’clock I met the first POWs I have seen. It was a very moving experience to see their wives and the two of them—gaunt, lean, quiet, confident, with enormous faith in the country, in God, and in themselves.

  Apparently they had been exposed to enemy propaganda throughout and had never given in to it. For example, they were shown still photos of the big crowds demonstrating against the President. They, of course, heard tapes of messages from Ramsey Clark, Jane Fonda, and the other peacenik groups, but they had nothing but contempt for them.

  I only hope that these men do not have a terrible letdown now that they are back. I don’t think they will. I think after what they have been through they have become stronger as a result of being put through the fire of adversity. They are like fine steel rather than soft iron.

  It was not long before the returning men had confirmed the widespread use of torture in the prison camps. Some were tortured for refusing to pose in propaganda photos with touring antiwar groups. Miss Fonda said that the POWs were “liars” for making such claims; one POW had his arm and leg broken because he refused to meet with Miss Fonda. It was during her trip to North Vietnam in 1972 that she broadcast appeals over Radio Hanoi asking American pilots to quit flying bombing runs over North Vietnam. I met with other POWs whenever I could arrange time in my schedule. Among them was the ranking officer of the group, Air Force Brigadier General John P. Flynn, who had been a POW for five and a half years. When I escorted him to the door after our talk, I told him how deeply sad I was that he had been away from his home and family for so many years and had had to endure such terrible conditions.

  He said, “Mr. President, don’t give that a second thought; how else could John Peter Flynn be standing here in the office of the President of the United States?” He smartly snapped to attention, saluted, and left the room before I could respond. It was fortunate that he did. I was so choked up with emotion that I don’t believe I could have thought of anything to say worthy of the moment.

  On March 12 I had long meetings with Colonel Risner and Captain Denton.

  Diary

  I asked Risner about how he was able to take what he had been through. I had not realized that he had been four years in solitary confinement. At this point he said, “It isn’t easy for me to say this.” His voice broke, and he said, “It was faith in God and faith in my country.”

  He obviously was a man who had been through the tortures of the damned. He explained in detail some of the torture he had gone through but did not make a big thing out of it.

  He told me how he had gotten to the point that he was ready to break because his nerves had been shattered. He didn’t know what was happening to him. He had a hot flash on the back of his neck—he felt that he was coming apart but he would exercise and then finally fall asleep for a few hours.

  I asked about the effect of the bombing. They pointed out that as far as the other fighter planes were concerned, their captors would get out and make as if they were shooting at them and all that sort of thing. But when the B-52s came, they came out of the blue despite the bad weather and all the rest, with shattering effect.

  He said that they all cheered and hollered and hugged each other when the bombing was going on. He said their captors thought they were all crazy. Apparently some of the plaster fell down off of the walls as a result of the reverberations—one of their captors came in and said, “Aren’t you aware of the fact that they are trying to kill you or kill the civilians?” They answered that this was in no way what was involved, and that they knew the bombing was aimed at only military targets.

  Denton spoke movingly about his deep concern about the country. He is a deeply religious man. He, whenever I mentioned his suffering and the rest, came back to what I had been through. He was most generous in his respect—said that he could see the same suffering in my eyes that he could see in the eyes of his fellow POWs. I told him that after knowing what they had been through, what I had been through was nothing. But he realized, as he said, that I had been pretty much alone in the decisions that I had made.

  He pointed out that the North Vietnamese said that the trouble with Nixon is that he flip-flops. Of course, this was a compliment, not a condemnation. He said that the North Vietnamese knew that Nixon was a very tough fellow, and he was convinced that the recognition of that fact was what eventually brought them around to a settlement.

  He made an interesting analogy on the point that the North Vietnamese really thought that the President was off his rocker—was totally irrational. He said that it was absolutely essential for them to think that. He sa
id, as a matter of fact, that that is what saved the POWs because the North Vietnamese thought that they were so irrational that they could not break them and they could not take risks with them.

  In fact, Risner or Denton said (I think it was Denton) that he would be willing to stay eight, twelve, or sixteen years if necessary to see that the United States came out of Vietnam in the right way. They did not want to come back with their heads down.

  He said that the settlement that Harriman would agree to in ’68 would have been a shameful thing and that they could not possibly have felt proud if it had ended on that basis.

  Denton kept coming back to the fact that he didn’t know what was going to happen to the country after I left the office. He feels very strongly we must use this precious time—he said three years or so—for the purpose of seeing that America’s foreign policy role is played as well as it possibly can be.

  I said that the history of civilization showed that the leader class rather than the common people were those that first disintegrated. That here in our country the problem was not the common people who stood by us—they were the silent majority.

  It is now ten minutes until one on the 13th of March. As I sleep in this comfortable room with the blackout curtains, the air conditioning, a very comfortable bed, I think of how really easy we have it—I think of what they went through—and I realize how we could probably do far more than we do—take more physical punishment actually than we do—live certainly a much more austere life than we do.

  On March 3 we had one of our evenings at the White House, at which Sammy Davis, Jr., performed. Afterward he suggested that we organize a gala entertainment honoring the POWs. I discussed this with Pat, and she said that we should go all out and also give a formal dinner in honor of the men and their families.

  There were monumental problems involved. In the past the largest number ever served dinner at one time at the White House had been the 231 senior citizens we invited for Thanksgiving in 1969. Now we were considering having more than 1,300 people. Some of the staff members urged that we move the affair into one of the local hotel ballrooms that were properly equipped to deal with such a large number of people, but Pat and I felt that the whole point of the evening was to honor these men at the White House.