With our father at sea, my mother, like so many wives whose husbands were off at war, had to manage the family by herself. She learned to drive for the first time after Pearl Harbor, and wasn't particularly comfortable with it. Heading south from Oregon, we drove through San Francisco. Mom was so nervous about driving up and down that city's famous hills in our green 1937 Oldsmobile that she made Joan and me get out of the car and walk in case she lost control of the vehicle trying to work the clutch and floor stick shift.

Without having a chance to consult Dad, she bought a tiny house on C Avenue in Coronado, California, not too far from the naval air station. It was a big decision for her to make, with little money and less experience in such matters. Throughout the war, she was careful with purchases. Mom once wrote to my father that out of the $190 she had for the month, the family's expenses totaled $186.37.*

We were fortunate to be in Coronado with so many other military families in roughly the same circ.u.mstances. Mom became good friends with the wives of others in the crew of the Hollandia Hollandia. They shared their worries and their news with one another. Many of the kids I went to school with had fathers or older brothers deployed, so we shared a special bond.

We followed the news of the war by poring over maps in newspapers, listening to radio reports, and watching the short newsreels that played in movie theaters before the feature presentations. Everyone I knew in Coronado supported the war effort with a sense of common purpose. We planted Victory Gardens, where we grew our own vegetables. With earnings from odd jobs, I bought coupons or stamps for war bonds. I collected paper, rubber, and metal hangers to be recycled into war materials. My mother saved frying oil to be used for munitions. No one could buy new car tires, because rubber was being used for military vehicles, so old tires were retreaded. The government rationed such staples as gasoline, sugar, b.u.t.ter, and nylon. There were few complaints-there was a sense we were all in it together.

As the war went on, we would spot small flags in people's windows with a star that signified someone in that house was in military service. When a serviceman was killed, those flags would be replaced with ones that had gold stars.

My parents were not accustomed to being apart, and it wore on both of them. Mom wrote letters almost every day. Dad would respond on the thin, onion-skin paper known as V-mail, the "V" standing for victory. Sometimes letters would fall apart as they came out of the envelope, because parts had been cut out by the censors aboard the ship to avoid giving the enemy intelligence if the mail was intercepted. As a result, we never knew where Dad was or what he was doing, but we were happy to receive his letters because that way we knew he was safe.

Letter from Jeannette Rumsfeld to George Rumsfeld, November 14, 1944.

"Well Darling, so long for now," Dad wrote to my mother in August of 1944. "I love you and don't think I'll ever want to leave you or the kids again when this war business is over."7 Around my father's birthday, Mom wrote, "We didn't have cake on your birthday-I didn't want it without you. We just thought of you all day and talked about you and thought you many birthday wishes.... I want more time with you-all I can have-and as soon as possible."8 Mom updated Dad on Joan and me. "[Don] is the type of person who needs to keep busy and he does keep busy," she wrote in one letter. "Don said this evening at dinner that he has three ambitions. He would like to become a 'band leader' like Harry James [at the time I played the cornet in the junior high school band]-an 'architect' and a 'flying Naval Officer.'"9 As it turned out, I would only fulfill one out of three. As it turned out, I would only fulfill one out of three.

In one of my letters to Dad, I updated him on what I was sure he needed to know. Softball was in season and I was going out for right or center field. Even though Dad was at sea in the Pacific Ocean, I did have my priorities. "Would you please try to get me a...fielder's mitt if you can?" I asked. "I miss you a lot," I added. "Take good care of yourself."10 I couldn't wait for him to come home. I couldn't wait for him to come home.

A dramatic moment for me came quite unexpectedly when I was working on a school play in the courtyard of Coronado Junior High School. An urgent announcement came over the loudspeaker: President Franklin Roosevelt had died.

I had become accustomed to thinking of the President as indomitable. He was the person we listened to on the radio and saw on newsreels, the one who I believed would lead us to victory and keep my father safe. As shocked as I was by the news of his death, I was surprised by the reaction of a few of the kids in the school. When they heard about his death, some of them seemed cheered.

In my young mind, FDR was tied to my father, his ship, our country, and the war. Now that monumental figure was gone. I cried.

The conduct of the war now fell to someone the country knew almost nothing about, Vice President Harry S. Truman. Within a few months of taking office, Truman ordered the dropping of two atomic bombs on j.a.pan. None of us knew what an atomic bomb was other than that it was a powerful explosive, and there was something called fallout from the ma.s.sive detonation. For many Americans, including our family, the bombings meant that the long b.l.o.o.d.y war, a war that had cost sixty million lives, might soon be near its end.

After the second bomb was dropped on the j.a.panese city of Nagasaki, Dad wrote my mother a letter. "There is much conversation among the crew about the possibility of a j.a.p surrender, based on nothing concrete of course, as we have no information other than that from the radio," Dad told her. "All of us think, however, that there is a good likelihood of it happening not far in the future. It is wonderful to contemplate."11 His hope was fulfilled a few days later. On August 15, 1945, newspapers carried variations on the headline: "j.a.pAN SURRENDERS, END OF WAR!" I was selling the San Diego newspaper at the Coronado ferry dock with that message emblazoned on the front page. I sold out every copy of the paper that day, though in retrospect I wish I'd kept one. V-J Day meant my father would be coming home.

At first the USS Hollandia Hollandia was scheduled to go to j.a.pan as part of the occupation force. But the ship was a.s.signed instead to bring back to the United States the survivors of the USS was scheduled to go to j.a.pan as part of the occupation force. But the ship was a.s.signed instead to bring back to the United States the survivors of the USS Indianapolis, Indianapolis, which had been sunk in the Pacific by a j.a.panese submarine. It was a terrible disaster. Approximately three hundred U.S. naval personnel went down with the ship. Of the nine hundred or so men who had made it into the water, only about three hundred were rescued after nearly five days with no food or water, facing exposure and shark attacks. So the USS which had been sunk in the Pacific by a j.a.panese submarine. It was a terrible disaster. Approximately three hundred U.S. naval personnel went down with the ship. Of the nine hundred or so men who had made it into the water, only about three hundred were rescued after nearly five days with no food or water, facing exposure and shark attacks. So the USS Hollandia Hollandia returned to the United States on September 26, 1945-stopping first to drop off the wounded survivors of the returned to the United States on September 26, 1945-stopping first to drop off the wounded survivors of the Indianapolis, Indianapolis, then coming into port the following day to disembark the then coming into port the following day to disembark the Hollandia Hollandia's crew.

When we received word that the ship was coming in, my mother drove us up to meet Dad. Mom, Joan, and I watched the ship disembark the pa.s.sengers and crew. Finally, my father came off the ship. For this thirteen-year-old boy, all was suddenly right with the world.

After my father died in 1974, I found a wrinkled letter among his papers that seemed to sum up as eloquently as anyone could what his service and the service of so many others had meant to the country. The letter was signed by Secretary of the Navy James Forrestal, who later became our country's first secretary of defense. I a.s.sume it was sent to wartime personnel when they left the Navy for civilian life. Forrestal wrote that he had timed the letter to arrive after Dad was formally discharged from service "because, without formality but as clearly as I know how to say it, I want the Navy's pride in you, which it is my privilege to express, to reach into your civil life and remain with you always."12 Decades later, when I served as one of Forrestal's successors as secretary of defense, I framed that letter, hung it in my office, and thought of it often when other young men and women were sent off to war in distant lands. Decades later, when I served as one of Forrestal's successors as secretary of defense, I framed that letter, hung it in my office, and thought of it often when other young men and women were sent off to war in distant lands.

With my father officially discharged, we drove back to Illinois. Dad went right back to work at the same real estate firm he had started with at age twelve. He spent his days as a residential real estate salesman and then made extra money by buying houses in areas with good school districts, fixing them up, and then selling them for a profit. As a result, we lived in six or seven different houses over the next few years, including three houses on the same street in Winnetka. Because we were constantly refurbishing our homes, many nights when I came home from school I would help steam, soak, and sc.r.a.pe off the old wallpaper and put up new wallpaper in its place. After our work was done, Dad would put the house on the market to sell it, and he'd start over again in a new place.

I liked high school and studied hard. I played as many sports as I could. In my freshman year I entered the intramural wrestling tournament, and made it to the finals. By my senior year, I was co-captain of the varsity wrestling team with my friend Lenny Vyskocil, and our team won the Illinois state t.i.tle for the first time in our school's history.

Over the years people have asked me about my many years as a wrestler, and even tried to make it a metaphor for my approach to life. The fact is that wrestling happened to be a sport I was suited for. As with most activities, I found that the harder I worked at wrestling, the better I got, and I began to understand the direct link between effort and results.

In high school, I met Marion Joyce Pierson. Our friendship developed in a larger group of our friends, who would gather at the local diner. Hamburgers, fries, milk shakes, and the jukebox seemed a way of life on Friday and Sat.u.r.day nights. Joyce and I were both elected cla.s.s officers in our junior year. Through that year, I became increasingly aware of her spirited but una.s.suming style. Her eyes had a certain twinkle, as if they were concealing a wise insight or a humorous thought. We started dating when we were seniors, and it was an on-again, off-again relationship for most of the year.

As I considered college, I received proposals for wrestling scholarships from a number of the Big Ten universities, which I weighed carefully. But the dean at my high school, Fred Kahler, suggested that I go to Princeton. He had gone there, and Princeton, in his mind as a proud alumnus, was the best place for me. Until that moment, I had thought of the Ivy League as a place for the wealthy or connected, and I didn't know which of those categories I fit into less.

When I learned that Princeton did not give athletic scholarships, I told the Dean I couldn't afford to go there. Undeterred, he told me to fill out the application forms and take whatever tests were needed, and he promised to speak to the scholarship committee to get me aid based on need. I almost certainly would not have attended Princeton without his dogged encouragement.

The cla.s.s of 1954 was not only all male, but all white. Well over half of our cla.s.smates in college had gone to prep school and had already taken a number of the required first-year courses. Those of us who came from public schools had a tougher road. Nearly every day I would go from cla.s.ses straight to the library, then to football or wrestling practice, and then back to the library to study late into the evening.

My Princeton scholarship covered tuition and fees but not books, or the cost of the dorm, food, or transportation. I soon learned about a naval ROTC program that paid for almost all expenses and also provided fifty dollars a month in spending money. Along with it came a commitment to serve a minimum of three years upon being commissioned an ensign in the regular Navy at graduation.

As part of that NROTC program, I spent six weeks every summer on training duty. In 1952, after completing my Navy training aboard the USS Wisconsin Wisconsin, my roommate, Sid Wentz, and I caught a s.p.a.ce available on a free military flight to Frankfurt, Germany, and traveled around Europe for two weeks. These were countries I had read about as a youngster during the war. Seven years after World War II had ended, I was struck by its lingering impact. Some bombed areas hadn't been repaired. Even the stalwart British were still contending with rationing.

Meanwhile, the world had entered a new war-the Cold War. It featured clashes between surrogates and espionage rather than outright military confrontation between the two superpowers. Then war broke out on the Korean peninsula. In 1953, when I was again on a summer Navy training cruise, I received a letter from my folks telling me that my close friend and wrestling teammate from high school, d.i.c.k O'Keefe, had been killed in the conflict. Even more painful was the knowledge that d.i.c.k died when the war was all but over. Some seventeen thousand UN casualties, mostly American, occurred during the final twenty days of the conflict, as each side made every effort to advance their positions while a cease-fire was being negotiated.

One of the major fears during the Cold War's early days was that Communists would infiltrate Western governments. Indeed, one of the reasons the Truman administration stepped up to a.s.sist Western Europe economically through the Marshall Plan was out of concern that desperate countries might be ripe for a communist takeover. There were reports of Communists in high-ranking posts in the U.S. government. By far the most engrossing, even transformative, episode during this period involved an admitted former Communist named Whittaker Chambers. Chambers had decided to defect to the American side and was cooperating with our government. It must not have been an easy choice for him, because he still believed that the Soviets would ultimately prevail in the Cold War.

As part of Chambers' effort to supply information to the United States government, he volunteered the information that Alger Hiss, a high-ranking State Department official, was a Communist spy. Hiss angrily denied the charges, and nearly everyone in the correct circles supported him. Polished, well dressed, and articulate, Hiss had clerked for Supreme Court Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes and attended the Yalta Conference with President Roosevelt as part of the State Department delegation. Chambers did not compare well to Alger Hiss in newspaper photographs or newsreels: He was an overweight, unkempt figure with bad teeth who admitted to having aided the Soviet cause. Far fewer people seemed to believe him than Hiss.

In congressional hearings, Hiss contended he had never known Chambers. He was convincing. It seemed that if Chambers turned out to be telling the truth, Hiss would have to be the best liar in the world. Apparently he was. The connection between them seemed to be confirmed when Chambers testified in a secret session that Hiss had once mentioned to him about seeing a rare bird called a prothonotary warbler, which Hiss later independently acknowledged, completely unaware of the implication of his admission. To the surprise-and continued disbelief-of some, Hiss was eventually convicted of perjury.

I was fascinated by the case for many reasons, and its lessons stuck with me. When Hiss was convicted, I saw how completely wrong the conventional wisdom-as well as first impressions-could be. I also observed how determined many people, some thought to be the wisest among us, were to discount all evidence of Hiss' guilt, even after he was shown to be deceptive. I also learned the name of a Californian serving on the congressional subcommittee who supported Chambers' cause, and who helped break the case. He was a tenacious young member of Congress named Richard M. Nixon.

The Hiss case gave a new level of legitimacy to the concerns about Soviet espionage expressed by many conservatives. That cause was taken up by Senator Joseph McCarthy, a Republican from Wisconsin. The tension between McCarthy's aggressive tactics and others in the government came to a head during the famous Army-McCarthy hearings, as a Senate committee looked at potential Communist infiltration into the armed forces. Once again I was riveted.

A lawyer for the Army named Joseph Welch called McCarthy to account after the Senator verbally attacked one of Welch's young a.s.sociates during a hearing. Welch then famously asked, "Have you no sense of decency, sir?" It was a good question-or, more accurately, a statement of fact. For the first time I observed the ugly sight of members of Congress unfairly browbeating a witness to advance their political interests.

The events had particular interest for me, because I was studying politics and government. In hindsight, I wish I had majored in history. A few members of the faculty in the political science department were far to the left. I was struck by the way one professor in particular seemed to disdain the private sector as rife with corruption and unethical behavior. The business world was an abstraction to him. He seemed to have little concept of what hardworking, ethical people like my father did every day.

Students at Princeton were required to write a senior thesis for graduation. I chose as my subject President Truman's seizure of the steel industry two years earlier, during the Korean War. In Youngstown Sheet & Tube Co. v. Sawyer Youngstown Sheet & Tube Co. v. Sawyer, Sawyer being Truman's secretary of commerce, the Supreme Court ruled that Truman's wartime seizure of the industry had been unconst.i.tutional. I argued in my thesis that the Court's decision was "timely and rea.s.suring."13 It hadn't provoked much discussion outside legal circles at the time, but the 1952 case would become an important decision about the limits of executive power in wartime. It hadn't provoked much discussion outside legal circles at the time, but the 1952 case would become an important decision about the limits of executive power in wartime.

As we prepared for our graduation in March 1954, I attended our senior cla.s.s banquet. The speaker was a Princeton alumnus and the former governor of Illinois, Adlai Stevenson. He was best known for being the unfortunate Democrat to run for the presidency against the popular Republican, Dwight D. Eisenhower, two years earlier. Stevenson was frequently considered an aloof intellectual-an "egghead" in the parlance of the 1950s. "Egg-heads of the world, unite," Stevenson once replied in a play on Karl Marx's famous quote, "You have nothing to lose but your yolks!" I couldn't help but admire his good humor and perspective.

Stevenson's speech that evening had more influence on me than any I had heard before. I knew I would next be serving in the Navy, but I was not certain whether I would stay in it and if not, what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. It might seem strange considering my later career that the one who so strongly sparked the idea of public service for me was a liberal Democrat and self-proclaimed egghead. But his comments came to me at a formative time in my life and a turning point for the country. With an armistice reached in Korea in 1953, America had just ended its involvement in a second war in a decade. Mounting concerns about communism, nuclear exchanges, and the possibility of more armed conflict were intensified by the first test of the hydrogen bomb, a weapon one thousand times more powerful than the atomic bombs of World War II.

Stevenson put the future into an important and new context for me. He talked about the responsibility of citizenship in whatever path we might choose, and the stark consequences awaiting us all if we failed in our responsibilities. "If those young Americans who have the advantage of education, perspective, and self-discipline do not partic.i.p.ate to the fullest extent of their ability," he warned, "America will stumble, and if America stumbles the world falls."14 He reflected on the weighty responsibility of the American people in our democracy to be involved in helping to guide and direct their government. He said, "For the power, for good or evil, of this American political organization is virtually beyond measurement. The decisions which it makes, the uses to which it devotes its immense resources, the leadership which it provides on moral as well as material questions, all appear likely to determine the fate of the modern world.

"Your days are short here," he added in closing, "this is the last of your springs. And now in the serenity and quiet of this lovely place, touch the depths of truth, feel the hem. You will go away with old, good friends. Don't forget when you leave why you came." Stevenson's eloquent and inspiring words opened my mind to the need to look squarely and thoughtfully at each new experience, and to know I'd have to answer to myself at each leave-taking.

CHAPTER 4

The Longest of Long Shots.

I tended at a still young age to be deliberative when it came to important decisions. I was one who tried to weigh the pros and cons, to look at things from different points of view, and then to make a careful choice. A woman can have a wonderful way of changing all that. tended at a still young age to be deliberative when it came to important decisions. I was one who tried to weigh the pros and cons, to look at things from different points of view, and then to make a careful choice. A woman can have a wonderful way of changing all that.

Upon graduating from college, I was ready for the Navy. Having been entranced with the idea of flying at an early age, I requested and was a.s.signed to the naval flight school in Pensacola, Florida. Since there were no female students at Princeton in those days, and I studied or worked most of the time, and with little money, I had had practically no dates. So I thought it would be a fine thing to go off to the Navy unattached. But then there was Joyce.

We had kept in touch since high school, and I had seen her briefly on holidays when we both happened to be home. She was attending the University of Colorado and had an active social life there, with many friends and suitors. And my idea of going off to the Navy and hoping Joyce might wait around ran straight up against the news that she was having romances out West. So I invited her to come out to Princeton during her spring vacation and then again for my graduation.

The morning after I arrived back home in Illinois from graduation, while having breakfast with my parents, I thought about my immediate future. On the one hand was the prospect of being a happy bachelor in the Navy, young and unattached. But then a moment of total clarity presented itself. Without discussing it with anyone, I rose from the table. "I'll be back in a bit," I told my parents.

I went to find Joyce and asked her to marry me. There was little buildup, little suspense, and at ten o'clock in the morning, it wasn't very romantic. But it felt right. I didn't know who was more surprised when I proposed-Joyce, me, or her parents. When she told her folks the news, Joyce's dad summed up the prevailing mood. "I'll be d.a.m.ned," he said, shaking his head.

Getting engaged the day after you got home from college may seem almost quaint now. Even in the 1950s things were starting to change. I Love Lucy I Love Lucy hovered at the top of the Nielsen ratings for its six seasons, starting in 1951, but tensions burbled under the surface of Lucy and Ricky's happy home life. Back then, their interracial relationship was unusual, as was Lucille Ball's performing while pregnant. The word "pregnant" was not considered appropriate for use on television. The stars themselves divorced when the show ended. Rock and roll was viewed with suspicion by the establishment-Elvis Presley was threatened with arrest for obscenity by the San Diego police if he moved his body during his performances. Marilyn Monroe emerged as a new, modern movie star whose s.e.x appeal and real-life dramas threatened to overshadow her acting. But it would take some years before these changes were brought home to Joyce and me. Our experiences were far removed from the glitter and glamour of popular music and films. hovered at the top of the Nielsen ratings for its six seasons, starting in 1951, but tensions burbled under the surface of Lucy and Ricky's happy home life. Back then, their interracial relationship was unusual, as was Lucille Ball's performing while pregnant. The word "pregnant" was not considered appropriate for use on television. The stars themselves divorced when the show ended. Rock and roll was viewed with suspicion by the establishment-Elvis Presley was threatened with arrest for obscenity by the San Diego police if he moved his body during his performances. Marilyn Monroe emerged as a new, modern movie star whose s.e.x appeal and real-life dramas threatened to overshadow her acting. But it would take some years before these changes were brought home to Joyce and me. Our experiences were far removed from the glitter and glamour of popular music and films.

I did have one brush with the spotlight, however. While I waited for my flight-training cla.s.s to begin in Pensacola, I was a.s.signed to the Naval Air Station in Atlantic City, New Jersey-now as a newly engaged twenty-one-year-old. Soon after I arrived, Atlantic City was hosting the 1954 Miss America Pageant. These lovely young contestants were in need of escorts to the pageant ball. The pageant's sponsors looked to the men of the United States Navy for help. When a call went out for forty-eight young officers to serve as escorts for the Miss America contestants, I felt it was my patriotic duty to volunteer. I was a.s.signed to that year's Miss Indiana.

As it happened, 1954 was the first year that they televised the Miss America Pageant, so it received a good deal of publicity across the country. The big news was that the actress Grace Kelly would appear. Joyce's friends were among the viewers that night. Watching their television sets, more than one of them was heard to inquire, "Isn't that Don Rumsfeld dancing with that beauty contestant?" As one might imagine, it was not long before that news made its way to Joyce. Thankfully she took it all in stride-as she has been able to take a great many things in stride over the many decades that followed.

Marion Joyce Pierson and I were married on December 27, 1954. As of this writing, I have spent more than 80 percent of my life with the pretty girl with twinkling eyes I first met at the age of fourteen. Newly married, Joyce and I would tackle Navy life together. Our first of many houses was a standard-issue cinder-block box at the end of the runway at NAS Whiting Field-a tiny place with a kitchen and bathroom on one side of a small sitting area and a bedroom on the other.

During flight training, I flew SNJs, the kind of single engine propeller aircraft now found only in air museums. My father was concerned about my flying, having seen a number of aircraft crash during the war. He had a point. Sadly, we lost several friends over those years. Still, I loved everything about flying-the freedom, the speed, the excitement. "More than anything else the sensation [of flying]," Wilbur Wright reportedly said, "is one of perfect peace mingled with an excitement that strains every nerve to the utmost, if you can conceive of such a combination." I knew what he meant. I felt like I could have continued on as a naval aviator for the rest of my life.

My strong hope had been that I would be a.s.signed to single-engine aircraft, preferably as part of an aircraft carrierbased fighter squadron. But the month I completed my carrier qualification and was headed to advanced training, the Navy had not met its quota of multiengine seaplane pilots, so that is where I was slotted. It was the bad luck of the draw. I tried to get my a.s.signment changed, but the Navy needed multiengine patrol-plane pilots, and that was that. It was an early lesson in the reality of dealing with a large bureaucracy.

I then asked to be transferred back to Pensacola to serve as a flight instructor, since that was the only way I could get back into single-engine aircraft, even if it was the training command. My request was granted, but just as Joyce and I were preparing to leave, my orders were changed. I was sent to Norfolk, Virginia, where one of my a.s.signments was to train for the 1956 Olympics in wrestling. After winning the All-Navy Wrestling t.i.tle and qualifying for the final Olympic tryouts, however, my shoulder separated while wrestling at the Naval Academy. My Olympics hopes, such as they were, were over.

My disappointment was overtaken by a much more important event. On March 3, 1956, at Portsmouth Naval Hospital, our first child, Valerie Jeanne, was born, and our small family soon moved to Florida, where I began my a.s.signment as a naval flight instructor. Later I was selected to be an instructor of flight instructors. At the age of twenty-four I was the youngest in the group and the most junior in rank. It was an excellent a.s.signment and an honor, but it wasn't the carrier duty I wanted.

Toward the end of my three-and-a-half-year commitment, I requested a transfer from the regular Navy to the Naval Reserve, where I would be able to keep flying as a "weekend warrior" but would also be able to pursue a career in the private sector. I loved flying, so much so that I probably would have been happy if I could have found a civilian job as a crop duster or a bush pilot in Alaska. But I also had responsibilities, and they were brought home to me almost immediately when Joyce came down with hepat.i.tis from a flu shot with a dirty metal needle before the days of disposables. It took the better part of a year for her to get well. With a very sick wife, no job, no health insurance, and an infant child, we went back to Chicago and moved in with Joyce's parents, and later with my parents, while I looked for work.

With the help of the Princeton alumni job placement office, I started interviewing. I was offered several starting jobs with corporations in Chicago. Then I heard that a first-term U.S. congressman from northeastern Ohio, David Dennison, was looking for an administrative a.s.sistant.

My earlier impression of Washington, D.C., had not been a good one. After my college graduation, Joyce and I had traveled there to attend a wedding. While there we went to a session of the U.S. Senate. Both of us, with our interest in politics and government, were expecting to witness great matters of state being debated. As it turned out, there was almost no one in the U.S. Senate chamber. The aged Senator Carl Hayden-who had been the last territorial sheriff of Arizona before it became a state-was presiding, and from time to time was dozing off. Only one other senator was on the floor: Wayne Morse of Oregon, who was talking about music. Henry Clay and Daniel Webster they were not that day.

I had never met a congressman before I met Dave Dennison, and he was exactly what I'd hoped a congressman would be. He was a thoroughly decent human being-honorable, intelligent, sincere, and hardworking. Though I had no legislative experience, I think he identified with me. We had both been wrestlers, and his brother also had served as an instructor of naval flight instructors. After my interview, I excitedly told Joyce, "I would pay to be able to work for this man." had never met a congressman before I met Dave Dennison, and he was exactly what I'd hoped a congressman would be. He was a thoroughly decent human being-honorable, intelligent, sincere, and hardworking. Though I had no legislative experience, I think he identified with me. We had both been wrestlers, and his brother also had served as an instructor of naval flight instructors. After my interview, I excitedly told Joyce, "I would pay to be able to work for this man."

From the start, Dennison and I had a good working relationship. I was called on to organize and follow up on meetings with const.i.tuents, write legislative briefs, newsletters, press releases, and scripts for his radio program. Though he seemed content with my performance, I found the job difficult. I had not written anything since college, except for an occasional letter home. I had spent the previous three-and-a-half years flying airplanes and had literally never worked in an office in my life. The closest I had come was when I mopped the floors of a dress shop every week to make money while I was in high school. During those first challenging months I felt like I was scrambling every day. Almost every night I would go home with my stomach in knots.

In 1958, Dennison was up for his first reelection. He asked me to move my family to Ohio to help. It was a tough year for Republicans. A nasty recession was underway, and with President Eisenhower in the White House, Republicans were getting most of the blame. On top of that, Dennison's opponent accused him of unethical practices. He criticized the Congressman for having had his wife temporarily on his congressional payroll (for a brief period, performing responsibilities for which she was fully qualified) and for leasing a portion of his law office as his congressional district office. Each was legal, but Dennison's opponent made it sound like corruption. He fought against the allegations, but in a bad year those charges tipped the scale. All through election night we agonized, watching the down-to-the-wire contest. In the end, the congressman lost the election by 967 votes, about one switch vote per precinct. Seeing an able, honorable congressman lose his seat by such a narrow margin for what was unfair criticism was crushing.

After Dennison lost, I went to work for Congressman Robert Griffin, a Republican from Michigan. I also enrolled in Georgetown Law School. But Dave Dennison called me back to Ohio to help him try to win back his congressional seat. Joyce was pregnant again at the time, but she was also a tough battler for causes and people she believed in. When I asked her about going back to Ohio and getting involved in another tough political race, she quickly replied, "Let's do it." She gave birth to our second daughter, Marcy, while we were on the campaign trail in Warren, Ohio, in March 1960.

Once again, Dennison's dedication wasn't enough to turn the tide, and he lost by a narrow margin, while Ma.s.sachusetts senator John F. Kennedy edged out Richard Nixon in the race for president. I was now 0 for 2 in political campaigns. I felt like I'd had enough of politics for the time being, so we returned home to Illinois, ready to start doing something else, or so I thought.

I had been settled at the Chicago-based investment banking house A. G. Becker for about a year when a rare opportunity presented itself. In late 1961, the inc.u.mbent Republican congresswoman in our district, Marguerite St.i.tt Church, announced that she was not going to seek reelection. Her husband, Ralph, was first elected to Congress in 1934, when I was two years old, and when he died in 1950, his wife was elected to the seat and held it subsequently.

Since the seat was open for the first time in almost three decades, it was seen as an opportunity for both parties that was not likely to be open again for the foreseeable future. The Republican candidate had an advantage because the district, while fairly diverse, had been Republican for a long time. Twelve or thirteen candidates announced they would run for the GOP nomination. Among them were several prominent local figures, each with a decent chance of winning.

I had toyed with the idea of running for Congress now and again. One of the people who encouraged the idea was New Jersey Congressman Peter Frelinghuysen, who represented the Princeton area. When I worked on Capitol Hill, he asked me to lunch. While we were talking, he asked when I was going back home. He did not think I should spend my career as a congressional staffer, but instead suggested that I might return to Washington one day as an elected official. It seemed unusual that a senior member of Congress would take such an active interest in a young staffer's career. His suggestion stuck in my head.

If I wanted to run in my home district, this might be the only chance I'd have in several decades. I was twenty-nine years old. I had never held elected office. I had been away from my home district for ten years, since 1950, when I left for college. I did not seem to have anything that could even remotely be considered a political base.

My parents thought the idea of running for Congress was almost unbelievable. Having lived most of his life in Chicago, Dad had the impression that politicians were crooks. My mother didn't see how someone my age could possibly succeed Mrs. Church, who was forty years older. I was the longest of long shots. The savvy political reporter for the Chicago Sun-Times Chicago Sun-Times predicted I would run seventh out of seven. predicted I would run seventh out of seven.

I did have a few things going for me, however, the most important of which was our many friends from school in the area. The campaign team we put together was like a reunion. But it was not, to be sure, in any sense a finely honed operation. In our initial meeting around a table in our kitchen, we had a long discussion about strategy and position papers. Then, just as the meeting broke up, someone asked, almost as an afterthought, "Won't we be needing some money?" Laughing at how inexperienced we were, we each put in fifty dollars and managed to sc.r.a.pe together the formidable sum of four hundred dollars.

Ned Jannotta, a friend from New Trier High School and Princeton, became the campaign manager. He had also been away for many years in college, the Navy, and business school and was not even registered to vote. Brad Gla.s.s, another friend from high school and college, became our campaign treasurer. As a former All-American tackle on Princeton's football team and a national intercollegiate heavyweight wrestling champion, he could be persuasive.

Another friend from high school, Hall "Cap" Adams, agreed to handle our advertising. He had printed up pocket-sized campaign cards designed for me to hand out to voters. I thought carefully about what my positions should be and managed to condense what I believed at age twenty-nine and what I believe today into twenty-three words onto the card. The policy portion read: "firm foreign policy, strong defense and a freer trade policy, effective civil rights measures, reduction of the debt, incentives for increasing economic growth."

My parents, despite initial skepticism, quickly became enthusiastic supporters. Dad let us use a vacant house he was in the process of fixing up as our temporary campaign headquarters. My mother even spoke on my behalf. "I have heard many comments about your performance on behalf of your wayward son. I'm sure it was not a pleasant task, but the victory was well worth the many hours you spent working toward it. I am delighted with your stamina," I wrote my mother after she gave a talk supporting me at the Women's Republican Club of New Trier Township.1 Joyce and our friends went to work on making the candidate more presentable. For one thing, it was clear early on that I wasn't a very good public speaker. Ned Jannotta and Joyce arranged to use an empty hall one evening so I could practice and they could critique me. I went up on the stage and gave my stump speech to the almost empty hall, over and over, while they would yell, "Stand up straight!" and "Get your hands out of your pockets!" and "Quit popping the microphone!" until I started doing a bit better. I found public speaking was like anything else: Unless you have some remarkable natural talent-which I didn't-when you're starting out, you don't do it very well. But if you work on it and work on it, you can get better. I used to say it is like training an ape. If you do it right you get a banana and if you do it poorly you don't. And pretty soon you start doing it right.

I had to deal with the impression that at twenty-nine I simply was too young to be a congressman. It was a particular problem since the inc.u.mbent, Mrs. Church, was so much older. So I traveled around the district as often as possible with Joyce so voters would see that I was married. As it happened, the election two years earlier of the young President Kennedy proved helpful to me. Kennedy had successfully overcome questions about his age and inexperience. The youthful image he and his family projected proved to be a winning a.s.set.

To get my name out, Jannotta and I decided to meet with prominent local leaders and ask for their public endors.e.m.e.nts. The idea was that their endors.e.m.e.nt would create a ripple effect, so their friends and colleagues would learn they had endorsed me, which might encourage them at least to hear me out as well. We decided to think big and looked for one of the most prominent business leaders in the district. Donold Lourie, the chief executive officer of Quaker Oats, became an early target. My mother again was helpful; she had known Lourie's mother years before. Another stroke of luck was that Lourie had been an All-American football star at Princeton. The meeting was of pivotal importance to my campaign, and I was going to use every possible advantage I could. So I gathered together my friends Ned Jannotta, Brad Gla.s.s, and Jim Otis-all of whom had been on Princeton's varsity football team-and brought them with me.

Lourie was delighted to meet his fellow Princeton football alums-maybe too delighted. All he wanted to talk about was Princeton football. But I did manage to pry in a request for his help. Lourie graciously said he would give it some thought. I figured I had little to lose by indicating my sense of urgency. "Let me explain our situation," I said. "The primary election is the second Tuesday in April. I need your support now, so I can use your support to get others to step up."

I told him I wanted to publish his name in a local newspaper advertis.e.m.e.nt with the names of some other prominent citizens who were endorsing me. Then I said that when people asked him why he was for Rumsfeld, he had to be ready to make my case. It was a lot for me to ask a major businessman who had met me only a half hour earlier, but we needed his help and we needed it then, not later.

As I continued to press-maybe press my luck-Lourie again said he would get back to me. Not long after, he contacted us and said he'd sign on. It was, as expected, a major boost-one of the area's most prominent citizens had put his backing behind a young unknown who was not the favored candidate of the Republican organizations in the district. It caused others to wonder why, and take a look. Soon community leaders in the district indicated they were backing me. Among them was Dan Searle, the CEO of the pharmaceutical company G. D. Searle & Co. He came on as our finance chairman and helped open the door to contributors and community leaders. Chuck Percy, the head of Bell + Howell, came onboard and led me to Arthur Nielsen, Jr., who signed on as chairman of the Rumsfeld for Congress Committee. By the election in early April, we had recruited some fifteen hundred volunteers and mounted a gra.s.sroots effort with everything from "Rumsfeld for Congress" earrings to cartops and b.u.mper stickers to help to get the word out.

In those days newspaper endors.e.m.e.nts were important. The biggest paper in the district, the Chicago Tribune Chicago Tribune, already had a candidate. They had endorsed the front-runner in the GOP primary, a prominent state legislator named Marion Burks. But the Tribune' Tribune's major rival, the Chicago Sun-Times Chicago Sun-Times, had not endorsed anyone yet. We knew that the Sun-Times Sun-Times was not likely to back the same candidate as the was not likely to back the same candidate as the Tribune Tribune, so I took a gamble that I might be able to persuade that paper to throw its support behind me.

The paper was owned by the legendary Chicagoan Marshall Field. As it happened, the father of a close friend of Joyce's and mine from high school, Carolyn Anderson, had a business connection to Field, and he arranged for me to meet him. Field made himself available for about three minutes. He was on his way out of town but said he would ask the editors of both of his papers, the Sun-Times Sun-Times and the and the Daily News Daily News, to meet with me, and then it was up to me to persuade them to support me. The editor of the Sun-Times Sun-Times was a well-known, crusty, old-time journalist named Milburn "Pete" Akers. He agreed to see me that morning and at least give me a hearing. was a well-known, crusty, old-time journalist named Milburn "Pete" Akers. He agreed to see me that morning and at least give me a hearing.

I found my way to Akers' office and faced a large, somewhat disheveled man sitting behind a desk piled with papers. Akers started peppering me with questions right away: Who was I? What had I done? Who had I met in the congressional district? What places had I visited? Who was supporting me? Why was I running? And so on. It was all done in a courteous but penetrating way. I answered the questions as best I could. But I had never done anything like this before and was somewhat dazed by the encounter. I left our meeting without any idea what Akers might decide.

In fact, he got on the phone the moment I left and started checking out my answers. Not surprisingly, Akers wanted to talk to his numerous contacts to see what they thought of me. The political editor of the Sun-Times Sun-Times, who had predicted I would run seventh in a field of seven in the GOP primary, had to change his prediction when a month later, to his certain amazement, his paper, thanks to Akers, endorsed me for Congress. And the battle was on between Chicago's two morning papers-the Sun-Times Sun-Times and the and the Tribune Tribune.

From there on out, whenever my name was mentioned in the Sun-Times' Sun-Times' editorials, it said that I was thirty years old, which was not yet the case. editorials, it said that I was thirty years old, which was not yet the case.2 "Mr. Akers, I'm grateful for the mention," I told him on the phone, "but there's a problem. You keep writing that I'm thirty, but I'm only twenty-nine."

"I know that," Akers replied, matter-of-factly. "But you will be. And thirty sounds better."

After the Sun-Times Sun-Times endors.e.m.e.nt, a number of the original candidates in the Republican primary dropped out. By late March it came down to a four-man race between the two who were by then the front-runners with strong newspaper support-Burks and me-and two other candidates. Burks was the favored candidate, having garnered the endors.e.m.e.nt of a number of the big Republican Party township organizations. He used what he saw as his strengths in the race against what he saw as my weaknesses, homing in particularly on the charge that I wasn't a hard-right conservative. In one of his campaign ads he repeatedly labeled himself as a conservative and noted that he was "the only candidate qualified by experience, maturity, and political philosophy to represent the citizens of the 13th Congressional District." endors.e.m.e.nt, a number of the original candidates in the Republican primary dropped out. By late March it came down to a four-man race between the two who were by then the front-runners with strong newspaper support-Burks and me-and two other candidates. Burks was the favored candidate, having garnered the endors.e.m.e.nt of a number of the big Republican Party township organizations. He used what he saw as his strengths in the race against what he saw as my weaknesses, homing in particularly on the charge that I wasn't a hard-right conservative. In one of his campaign ads he repeatedly labeled himself as a conservative and noted that he was "the only candidate qualified by experience, maturity, and political philosophy to represent the citizens of the 13th Congressional District."3 Burks, however, also had to deal with unproven allegations involving financial management issues at an insurance company that he had chaired. Burks, however, also had to deal with unproven allegations involving financial management issues at an insurance company that he had chaired.

By the day of the primary election it was looking like I might actually win. We were mobilizing an army of volunteers, finally raising some campaign funds, and had important endors.e.m.e.nts.* It was a surprising showing for a group of young people who started the campaign in a kitchen sc.r.a.ping together four hundred dollars. Because I'd managed two losing campaigns for Dave Dennison, failing by the thinnest of margins, however, we weren't going to take anything for granted until all the votes came in. I won with 67 percent of the vote on April 10, 1962. It was a surprising showing for a group of young people who started the campaign in a kitchen sc.r.a.ping together four hundred dollars. Because I'd managed two losing campaigns for Dave Dennison, failing by the thinnest of margins, however, we weren't going to take anything for granted until all the votes came in. I won with 67 percent of the vote on April 10, 1962. "RECENT POLITICAL UNKNOWN IN SWEEPING WIN," "RECENT POLITICAL UNKNOWN IN SWEEPING WIN," reported the reported the Chicago Daily News Chicago Daily News.4 Joyce and I were still amazed at the thought that we had actually won. We knew we had little time for celebrating as we quickly turned our attention to the November general election. Joyce and I were still amazed at the thought that we had actually won. We knew we had little time for celebrating as we quickly turned our attention to the November general election.

Since the district was Republican leaning, I felt we had a good chance. Our campaign team was energized and enthusiastic, and I could feel traction as we went into the fall. But then historic events intruded. In late October, Adlai Stevenson, by then America's amba.s.sador to the United Nations, gave a dramatic presentation to the UN Security Council. Complete with fresh aerial photographs to prove the Kennedy administration's case, he a.s.serted that the Soviet Union had been secretly planning to install nuclear weapons on the island of Cuba, ninety miles from the United States. For many days, as American forces imposed a blockade against the Soviet ships en route to Cuba, the world stood closer to the brink of nuclear confrontation than at any time yet in the Cold War. Politics didn't matter anymore. Americans stopped thinking about an election that was but a few weeks away and focused on the Cuban missile crisis.

When the confrontation ended and the Soviet ships turned around, President Kennedy received a sizable boost in popularity. I thought it might propel Democrats to victory in races around the country, even where they weren't favored to win. I was also running against a man with a good name for a Democrat in 1962: John A. Kennedy. He was not related to the President, though it probably didn't bother him all that much if some voters thought otherwise.

In the final days of my 1962 general election campaign I had no sense of what would happen. We kept working and worrying. On election night, when I prepared for a close vote, I was stunned again. We had won by a sizable margin. I was thirty years old and headed to the United States Congress. It was quite a night for our entire family. But most of all I remember the expression of amazement on the faces of my parents. Something had happened in the life of their son and in their lives that was beyond anything they had imagined.