All the Best, George Bush: My Life in Letters and Other Writings

by George H. W. Bush

  My own military experience honed my respect for “Duty, Honor, Country.”

  5. I am convinced that my own military experience was of enormous benefit to me when I became President. I knew first hand the horrors of combat. I had respect for the way the military operates, for what, if unfettered, our military could do. As President I knew it was my responsibility to do the diplomacy and the politics. But I was certain that once the battle began the politicians should not get in the way of letting the military do their job.

  And yes I can think of times when my own experience way back in the 1940’s “played a role in my thinking, my decision making.” Certainly when I had to decide to use force in Panama and in Desert Storm and even in Somalia, a more benign environment, I was better able to make those decisions having served myself.

  I still believe that the toughest decision a President ever has to make is when he has to send someone’s son or daughter into combat—put their lives in harm’s way. No one else can make this decision—only the President; and I am absolutely certain that my having been in the military, albeit years before, helped me make the right decisions regarding the use of force.

  6. I do not think much about my WW II experiences. Until this experience became better known because of my entry into national politics I seldom reflected on it. I did think about the day I was shot down. Two friends flying with me were killed. I still think about that, wondering what else I might have done to help save their lives.

  7. When I look back at my life I put my experience as a “combat Navy flier” right up at the top of the list of experiences that truly shaped my life.

  I learned so much from my squadron mates, from our tough, quiet courageous skipper, Lt. Cmdr. Melvin. I learned that a wing man does not pull away from his leader. That was true in combat. That should be true in politics—I learned that courage is hard to define, but I saw it in fine young men almost on a daily basis.

  Once having just landed on our carrier and standing next to the “island” on the carrier deck I saw the next plane to land make a bad landing. The pilot, trying to get back in the air and go around again, put the throttle to the fighter aircraft. The plane, in a stall, veered crazily to its right, crashed across the deck and plunged over the side. In the process the plane’s propeller cut a deck hand in half. I was standing but a few feet from a severed leg. And than I saw a Chief Petty Officer, working the deck crew, swing into action. He rallied the shocked sailors. “God damn it, get back to work. Swab down the deck, clear the deck, get ready for the next plane.” I will never forget how under great adversity this Chief took complete charge, rallied his men, kept on doing his job, doing his duty.

  On San Jacinto the officers had to take turns censoring the enlisted men’s mail to be sure no sensitive military information was inadvertently passed along through the mails. This experience gave me an insight into the lives of a wide array of men in our ships company. I learned a lot about being scared, missing loved ones, anticipating coming home. Heck I was only 19 or 20 and I learned a lot about people’s sexual drives. We censors were not voyeurs, but as I did my duty and read the other guys’ mail I learned a lot about life—about true love, about heartbreak, about fear and courage, about the diversity of our great country. The sailors would write their loved ones inquiring about the harvests, or fishing in the streams, or wondering if it was hot in the cities. When I would see a man whose letter I had censored I would look at him differently, look at him with much more understanding. I gained an insight into the lives of my ship mates and I felt richer.

  8. In conclusion, Tom, you mention “what this nation owes the WW II generation.” Perhaps there is a debt. But I don’t look at it this way. I never will. I have never been sympathetic to those who feel they are owed something for having served. For me it was an honor to serve—a duty, yes—but truly an honor. I am afraid that some who go into the military feel that from the day they leave the service their country owes them something special. Let me put it this way—when this country is at war, certainly in a war as all encompassing as WW II, people should serve out of love of country, out of patriotism; and they ought not expect special treatment for ever more. Perhaps peace time service is different. There is a package of benefits to attract and keep good people. Fine. That is proper, but what is not proper in my view is the constant demand for more benefits by certain veteran organizations.

  This is our great free country and everyone should feel some obligation to serve in some way at some time. That doesn’t mean only military service—it means more broadly service to others. Everyone should feel some obligation to give something back. Everyone should find a time to do just that. My time was WW II. Serving was an honor, a privilege. I was a tiny part of something noble.

  And then years later I was President—also a privilege—an honor. What are we “owed” those of us who have served. Nothing, not one damn thing. . . .

  Tom, pardon the rambling nature of this letter. I will, of course, be glad to answer any further questions.

  GB

  My journalist friend Vic Gold, after seeing an antimedia quote from me in the paper, wrote and told me it was “beneath me” to criticize the press so much.

  May 18, 1998

  Dear Vic,

  It’s tough. Withdrawal is very tough.

  When I received your admonition last week about my criticism of the press I joined “Press Bashers Anonymous” (PBA), founded along the lines of Alcoholics Anonymous. I must confess that the withdrawal pains have been terrible, but so far I am clean.

  I admit I was tempted to unleash a new blast against the media in my two graduation speeches at U. Conn—but I controlled myself.

  In the meantime I received a letter from Sheila Tate saying “Rise above it. Don’t bash the press”. She had read the same beltway clipping you sent me.

  I thought about writing Sheila back telling her that I liked bashing. That it felt good. That I loved the roar of the crowds when I criticized the unaccountable, overly intrusive, opinionated, self appointed stars of TV. I felt like telling Sheila that after years of saying “Thanks for that important question” when some bubble headed reporter tried to stick it in my ear, I now felt free, unconstrained, released and triumphant when I’d bash the media—better than the adrenaline rush from the parachute jump . . .

  But I didn’t do that. Instead I told her I had joined Press Bashers Anonymous; and that I was struggling to resist temptation.

  But, Vic I have given several speeches since your letter—two at U. Conn, one at Duke, one at the Coast Guard Academy. No mention of the Press—none at all. But it’s really hard. I miss the crowd reaction, frankly. I miss hearing Mr. and Mrs. Average American cheer as I attacked. No more wimp, no more nice guy—I was out there in the raw meat department stirring the passions of the crowd and old Average Joe is nodding and clapping. I was settling old scores. Dumping on those who rejoiced in dumping on me. Oh how I loved it.

  But that’s in the past. I think I can make it now. . . .

  At our last meeting one member of PBA told me that Zen Buddhism is helping him get through withdrawal. Another got over her bashing days by going for more sex, ironically with a local newspaper man. An older man came to the last meeting and confessed that he has slipped off the wagon. At his Rotary Club meeting he called Mary McGrory an “Old ______” and he said he wasn’t sorry he did. He has been dropped from the PBA roles. We all can’t make it, Vic. . . .

  I think I can make it.

  Sincerely,

  GB

  August 1, 1998

  Dear George and Jeb,

  . . . Your Mother tells me that both of you have mentioned to her your concerns about some of the political stories—the ones that seem to put me down and make me seem irrelevant—that contrast you favorably to a father who had no vision and who was but a place holder in the broader scheme of things.

  I have been reluctant to pass along advice. Both of your are charting your own course, spelling out what direction y
ou want to take your State, in George’s case running on a record of accomplishment.

  But the advice is this. Do not worry when you see the stories that compare you favorably to a Dad for whom English was a second language and for whom the word destiny meant nothing.

  First, I am content with how historians will judge my administration—even on the economy. I hope and think they will say we helped change the world in a positive sense . . .

  It is inevitable that the new breed journalists will have to find a hook in stories, will have to write not only on your plans and your dreams but will have to compare those with what, in their view, I failed to accomplish.

  That can be hurtful to a family that loves each other. That can hurt you boys who have been wonderful to me, you two of whom I am so very proud. But the advice is don’t worry about it. At some point both of you may want to say “Well, I don’t agree with my Dad on that point” or “Frankly I think Dad was wrong on that.” Do it. Chart your own course, not just on the issues but on defining yourselves. No one will ever question your love of family—your devotion to your parents. We have all lived long enough and lived in a way that demonstrates our closeness; so do not worry when the comparisons might be hurtful to your Dad for nothing can ever be written that will drive a wedge between us—nothing at all. . . .

  And it’s not just the journalists. There is the Washington Establishment. The far right will continue to accuse me of “Betraying the Reagan Revolution”—something Ronald Reagan would never do. Then they feed the press giving them the anti Bush quote of the day. I saw one the other day “No new Bushes” an obvious reference to no new taxes. . . .

  Nothing that crowd can ever say or those journalists can ever write will diminish my pride in you both, so worry not. These comparisons are inevitable and they will inevitably be hurtful to all of us, but not hurtful enough to divide, not hurtful enough to really mean anything. So when the next one surfaces just say “Dad understands. He is at my side. He understands that I would never say anything much less do anything to hurt any member of our family”.

  So read my lips—no more worrying. Go on out there and, as they say in the oil fields, “Show ‘em a clean one.”

  This from your very proud and devoted,

  Dad

  Occasionally my friend and former speechwriter the very funny Chris Buckley asks me to write an essay for FYI magazine, a publication of Forbes. I wrote this one on a subject near and dear to my heart.

  September 10, 1998

  Dear Chris,

  You asked me about fishing. Well, OK, here goes. I love it. . . .

  Let me tell you about fishing for the little tinker mackerel right here in the bay by our house in Kennebunkport.

  The mackerel was the first fish I ever went out for. Oh we caught pollock and cunners and I jigged some smelt, but my love of fishing started right about 1930 when I trolled for mackerel.

  We used a silver jig tied to the end of a hand held hunk of green cord line. We put piece of white cloth on the jig and trolled behind the “Tomboy”, my granddad’s 33’ boat that looked just like the Maine lobster boats of today.

  Mackerel fishing is easy. When the fish are running you cannot miss. You can get five at once on a mackerel jig. They hit hard.

  People on the ranches of Wyoming or Montana would kill to catch trout the size of our larger mackerel. But no one talks about mackerel back at the Links club—it’s always rainbows, or browns, or cut throats.

  Barbara likes to eat mackerel. I don’t. They are too oily for me. They are beautiful fish. Caught on a fly they are really pretty good fighters.

  The tinker mackerel, the smallest of the small, make great live bait for striped bass or blue fish. I catch them, put them in my live well, drive my boat in close to the rocks and then throw a mackerel, hooked through the back, in close to the rocks.

  I like cleaning mackerel. I like seeing what they have been eating. It helps me predict when the bigger fish will be in. The blue fish chase the mackerel away, sometimes driving them right up on to our beach where they lay helplessly flopping around. The bad news is the blues have been very scarce recently.

  The best mackerel fishing for me is when I take a couple of grandkids out in my new very fast boat. It is a 31’, center console, Fountain fishing boat named Fidelity II.

  I gave the old Fidelity, a 28’ Cigarette, to my Presidential Library this year. It was exactly 25 years old. A lot of fascinating calls were made from that great boat—some on secure voice during Desert Storm. The press accused me of all things of vacationing”. No, no. I was laboring away out on Fidelity. OK, so I did catch some fish at the same time.

  Anyway my new Fountain flies and handles big Maine seas with ease. My grandkids love it when we speed to our fishing waters. They get restless if the mackerel don’t bite. “C’mon, Gampy, let’s go fast”. They need to learn to calm down and to relax when we troll or cast. They need to learn the joy of just being out on the sea, watching the gulls, seeing the waves crash against the rocks, watching for a fish to break the water. They need to grow up, but I don’t want them to do that.

  When my grandson Walker pulls in 4 squirming mackerel and starts yelling “I got four—look at what I caught, Gampy,” that is heaven for me. When this happens I remember exactly how I felt 68 years ago. I remember it so clearly. I can even see the smile on my grandfather’s face.

  I’m 74 now but I don’t feel old. I meditate a lot when I am out fishing. I wonder how many more years I will have to fish with my sons, my grandkids.

  I count my blessings of health and family. I want to keep on fishing.

  I want to teach Gigi, our youngest grand child,31 now 21/2 years old, how to fish. When the fish aren’t biting I want to listen to her tell me what makes her happy and what makes her cry. Maybe I can start next year.

  I won’t tell her I was President. I’ll just try to tell her about the wonders of life and have her understand that our family is what matters. Out on the boat she is a captive. She can squirm but she can’t hide.

  I will tell her I love her.

  And when she says “Are you crying”? I’ll say “Yes but these are tears of joy. Older guys do that, Gigi.”

  See, you can do that kind of thing when you go fishing.

  Though you are too young for the tears, Chris, be sure to take Conor and Caitlin out fishing.

  Sincerely,

  George Bush

  On election day, 1998, I wrote this note to my friend Hugh Sidey, who has had a long and distinguished career at Time magazine:

  November 3, 1998

  Dear Hugh,

  It is 10:30 a.m. Within two hours the deadly exit polls will start rolling in. I should have the first cut on Florida at 12:30.

  How does it feel? Well, I am nervous and I am proud.

  My mind goes back to 6 years ago. I honestly thought I was going to win. No one else did. The polls had gone south after Mr. Walsh’s indictment of Weinberger was handed down on the Friday before the election. But I still thought I’d win. I lost big time. And I hurt a lot. And I don’t want either of my boys to hurt that much ever.

  Now six years later I am here in my office—a different pace and tempo in my own life. I have nothing personally at stake, but then again I have everything.

  Should Jeb lose in Florida I will be heartbroken—not because I want to be the former President with two Governor sons. No, heartbroken because I know how hurt Jeb will be.

  Yesterday we attended George’s final Houston rally. He was the rock star—Mr. Charisma. The rest of the ticket and some congressmen were all on stage when George entered. Then came Laura and Jenna, then Bar and me. The rest of the ticket became mere strap hangers. George was in command.

  He is good, this boy of ours. He’s uptight at time, feisty at other times—but who wouldn’t be after months of grueling campaigning.

  He includes people. He has no sharp edges on issues. He is no ideologue, no divider. He brings people together and he knows how to get thi
ngs done. He has principles to which he adheres but he knows how to give a little to get a lot. He doesn’t hog the credit. He’s low on ego, high on drive.

  All the talk about his wild youth days is pure nuts. His character will pass muster with flying colors.

  Yesterday I told him—“George on November 4th things will be very different.” He knew exactly what I meant. And, Hugh, it will be different. Though the national press has already focused on his potential and though the polls look good he will be in a different league come tomorrow. He is strong though—tough enough, too, to withstand the pressure.

  As for Jeb, should he win today there is no question in my mind that he will become a major political figure in the country. He is passionate in his caring and in his beliefs. He speaks well and at 6’4” he is an impressive man. Take it from his proud Dad.

  His opponent has tirelessly tried to tear down Jeb’s character. Tried to make him into a shady business man. This is what has really hurt both Bar and me. It is so unfair, so untrue. Jeb is squeaky clean honest. . . .

  So sad, so ugly, but that’s how the game is played these days.

  Anyway, as I type, it’s nervous wreck time here at 10,000 Memorial Drive.

  I didn’t sleep a wink last night. I tossed and turned and got up and back down and took a Tylenol PM and nothing helped and I am very tired. When 5 a.m. rolled around I was ready to put Sadie32 on her leash and walk down the block. The Secret Service guy said “How are you, sir?” I said “I am one pathetic nervous wreck.”

  If the early exit polls look even fairly good Barbara and I accompanied by Jean Becker will fly to Miami on a Westwind jet that I have chartered to surprise Jeb. The plan is to show up at his hotel rooms unannounced, unadvanced—just a mother and dad wanting to be with their boy. I love the thought.

  Sally [Bradshaw], Jeb’s campaign manager is all for it. So as not to hurt feelings I called both George and Laura about this. Both said “You must go.” . . .