I had been a newly elected member of the Republican freshman cla.s.s for about fifteen minutes before I was asked to make waves. Shortly after my victory, Congressman Bob Griffin elephoned. I a.s.sumed my old boss was calling me to offer his congratulations. Instead, he told me he was in the early stages of an effort to unseat the third-highest-ranking Republican in the House, Charles Hoeven of Iowa, as the chairman of the Republican conference. Griffin had put together a small group that thought the party needed fresh blood and new ideas if they were to stake a claim on becoming the majority party sometime in the future. Of course, as a member of the leadership, Hoeven had strong backing for reelection. But Griffin and his team had a candidate they thought might be able to beat Hoeven. Their candidate was his colleague and friend from Michigan, Gerald R. Ford. had been a newly elected member of the Republican freshman cla.s.s for about fifteen minutes before I was asked to make waves. Shortly after my victory, Congressman Bob Griffin elephoned. I a.s.sumed my old boss was calling me to offer his congratulations. Instead, he told me he was in the early stages of an effort to unseat the third-highest-ranking Republican in the House, Charles Hoeven of Iowa, as the chairman of the Republican conference. Griffin had put together a small group that thought the party needed fresh blood and new ideas if they were to stake a claim on becoming the majority party sometime in the future. Of course, as a member of the leadership, Hoeven had strong backing for reelection. But Griffin and his team had a candidate they thought might be able to beat Hoeven. Their candidate was his colleague and friend from Michigan, Gerald R. Ford.

I had met Ford briefly while I was working as a staff member in Griffin's office and had a positive impression of him. But as one might expect, opposing the entrenched party leadership was not something a newly elected, unknown freshman-not yet even sworn in-clamored to do. To make things even dicier, Griffin acknowledged that Ford hadn't yet agreed to run. He was waiting to determine how much backing he could expect. My a.s.signment, if I chose to accept it, would be to round up support from as many newly elected members for a man who wasn't even sure he would make the race.

This was unusual business for someone who hadn't yet set foot in his new office. But Griffin argued that the mission was worth the risk. The thought of having Republican leaders who seemed to accept, or at least not be uncomfortable with, a state of permanent minority status was discouraging. Republicans had made a lackl.u.s.ter showing in the 1962 midterm elections when historically the out-of-power party should have made reasonable gains. I knew from my experiences working for two Republican congressmen how frustrating it was to be in the minority, and particularly to feel that your leadership wasn't mustering the energy and determination to fight back.

So I told Griffin I was...o...b..ard and went to work urging other incoming Republican members to support Gerald Ford for conference chairman. With the showing of support we a.s.sembled, Ford decided to run for the post, which he eventually won by a vote of 8678.

As expected, our renegade effort left a lasting impression on the other members of the Republican leadership.

"I was picked as the lamb for the slaughter," Congressman Hoeven said after his loss to Ford. "This should serve as notice to [other party leaders] that something is brewing."5 As it turned out, Hoeven's warning proved prophetic. As it turned out, Hoeven's warning proved prophetic.

PART III

The U.S. Congress: From Camelot to Quagmire"[W]e stand today on the edge of a New Frontier-the frontier of the 1960s-a frontier of unknown opportunities and perils-a frontier of unfulfilled hopes and threats."-John F. Kennedy, 1960 acceptance speech

The White HouseFEBRUARY 25, 1966 For nearly ninety minutes, the President of the United States fired a barrage of confident-sounding words at us. He was up and down from his chair like an oversized yo-yo that had been wound too tight.

"Now I don't want to hear any of y'all leave here and say you haven't been briefed!" he insisted in his booming Southern drawl.1 The briefing Lyndon Baines Johnson was providing to members of Congress that frigid February morning was a last-minute affair. My office had received an invitation to the White House late the previous afternoon. It was on a Friday, a day when there were no votes scheduled in the House of Representatives, which meant that many members of Congress would be out of town. Yet because of the profound importance of the subject-the war underway in the country LBJ called "Veet-NAMM"-I was one of more than one hundred members of Congress who braved the snowy Washington roads to hear what the President had to say.

We were gathered in the East Room ostensibly to receive an update from Vice President Hubert Humphrey on his recent trip to Southeast Asia. But from the start this seemed more like a political presentation. The Vice President was a warm, lively person, filled with optimism, and his remarks held true to his character. Yet despite Humphrey's enthusiasm, the presentation was thin on new information and heavy on upbeat plat.i.tudes. "We no longer need to be afraid to speak of victory," Humphrey told us at one point, as LBJ looked on approvingly. "The tide has turned."2 Anyone following the media knew that casualties in Vietnam were mounting, which did not seem to mesh with the administration's a.s.sertions of impending victory. In fact, the war would go on for nine more years. Anyone following the media knew that casualties in Vietnam were mounting, which did not seem to mesh with the administration's a.s.sertions of impending victory. In fact, the war would go on for nine more years.

In addition to the Vice President, Johnson had his senior national security officials in attendance at the morning session, including the courtly southerner Secretary of State Dean Rusk, the cerebral Secretary of Defense Robert McNamara, Amba.s.sador Averell Harriman, and Deputy CIA Director Richard Helms. This was a command performance. And there was no doubt in anyone's mind as to who the commander was.3 Though LBJ was supposed to turn the briefing over to the Vice President, he never relinquished control. Humphrey spoke with almost continuous interruptions from the President. Throughout the meeting, Johnsongave the impression of a man sitting on the lid of a volcano that kept erupting. Overall, it did not seem like a presentation from a confident administration.

With only a small number of U.S. military advisers on the ground, the Vietnam War had not been an issue in my first campaign for Congress in 1962. After Johnson became president and the American war effort expanded, I was willing to support a more robust military campaign in Vietnam, as were many others in Congress. But it was becoming difficult to support the administration, since their policy was increasingly unclear. The President seemed to vacillate between the left flank of his party, which wanted concessions to the enemy-some were even beginning to talk of withdrawal-and those on the right who supported a more decisive military effort. LBJ would give a speech about negotiating and working things out with the North Vietnamese. Then the next month he'd give another speech a.s.serting that the road to peace was not the road of concession or retreat and criticizing those who disagreed as "nervous Nellies." The military would announce a bombing pause that could last for weeks. Then bombing suddenly would commence with ferocity. Even at this meeting, President Johnson's team again was offering up the word "victory" without providing their definition of the term.

Though the meeting was supposed to be a frank exchange between the executive and legislative branches, during the first half of the question-and-answer session I watched White House aides walk through the attendees, seeming to place questions with friendly members of Congress. I was thirty-three years old, in my second term in Congress, and far from an expert. But I had a question in my mind and decided to ask it. I began by mentioning some of the earlier questions raised by other members that I felt had not received adequate answers. I noted Congressman John Young of Texas had asked, "Why, in view of all of the power, the airplanes, the bombing, the manpower, the billions of dollars, have not the Viet Cong quit?" Humphrey's response had been that the Viet Cong still believed we might pull out. I then pointed out that Secretary of State Rusk had said much the same: The Viet Cong still thought they would win and America would fold up in defeat as the French had in Vietnam twelve years earlier.

"So my question is: Why are the Viet Cong not convinced of our national will?" I asked. "In what ways have we failed to convince them of this determination, and what is being done, or can be done, to convince them?"4 Since he was supposed to be leading the briefing, I addressed my question to Vice President Humphrey. But before he could answer, LBJ popped up from his chair and jabbed his big index finger toward me.

"I'll tell ya what'll convince 'em!" he almost shouted. "More of the same like we've given 'em!"5 "Like the bombing pause?" I asked skeptically.

"For the past thirty days, we've stepped up bombing!" Johnson raged. "The Reds have seen twenty thousand casualties!"

LBJ knew all the details of the bombings then underway. The press was reporting that he was personally selecting targets from the West Wing of the White House, and that a.s.sessment seemed correct. I a.s.sume the idea was to demonstrate the close involvement of the commander in chief in the war, but for me it was an enduring lesson about the perils of trying to micromanage a war from thousands of miles away. Long before this briefing, I noticed that LBJ tried to preempt any second-guessing of his Vietnam strategy by quoting then Speaker of the House Sam Rayburn's comment during World War II. "If General Marshall doesn't know more than I do in this area," Rayburn supposedly said, "then we've been wasting a whale of a lot of money at West Point all these years." In other words, Johnson was suggesting that the military knew best and others ought not to question the military bra.s.s. I understood that I knew far less about what was going on in the war than the President and his advisers, but I didn't think he had answered my question, so I followed up.

"Well, Mr. President, if we have been doing this since the conclusion of the pause," I continued, "is there any hint or indication that we are, in fact, being successful in convincing them? Is the message getting through?"

LBJ looked at me for a moment in silence. "No," he eventually conceded, "there isn't."

The President became more subdued-his moods could change rapidly-and his deep-pocketed eyes turned somber.

"Look, no man wants to end this war as badly as I do," he said. His softer tone might have garnered some sympathy. That was, until he quickly added, "I've got a lot riding on it."

Those words summarized the last hour of the briefing, which consisted of an elaborate and rambling effort to cast blame for the unhappy situation wherever President Johnson could. First, it was Congress' fault. He referred more than once to the Gulf of Tonkin Resolution, which had pa.s.sed the House of Representatives in August 1964 by a vote of 4160.6 Johnson clung to that vote like a life preserver. He carried a dog-eared copy of the resolution in his pocket, which he pulled out to recite some of its lines. He particularly liked to emphasize one phrase in the resolution: "approves and supports." Johnson clung to that vote like a life preserver. He carried a dog-eared copy of the resolution in his pocket, which he pulled out to recite some of its lines. He particularly liked to emphasize one phrase in the resolution: "approves and supports."

"That's two words," he said, "and they are both there."

Of course, it wasn't that simple. When I voted for the Gulf of Tonkin Resolution, I did have some concerns about its language-I worried it might be interpreted too broadly by LBJ-and in hindsight I should have considered the words more carefully.7 But even then I had not antic.i.p.ated it would be interpreted as a blanket justification for anything the President chose to do. LBJ clearly believed many of the people who voted for the Gulf of Tonkin Resolution now wanted to bail out on him, and he would have none of it. He seemed to be trying to convince the Democrats that they would be alright in the upcoming elections if they stuck with him. And he threatened Republicans who publicly opposed his policies that he would "land on them with both feet." But even then I had not antic.i.p.ated it would be interpreted as a blanket justification for anything the President chose to do. LBJ clearly believed many of the people who voted for the Gulf of Tonkin Resolution now wanted to bail out on him, and he would have none of it. He seemed to be trying to convince the Democrats that they would be alright in the upcoming elections if they stuck with him. And he threatened Republicans who publicly opposed his policies that he would "land on them with both feet."8 But according to LBJ, it wasn't just Congress that deserved blame for the situation in Vietnam. Johnson sought to tie the conflict to his predecessor, President Kennedy, who sent military advisers into Vietnam in the early 1960s, and to the Kennedy cabinet that Johnson had inherited. He pointedly noted that Secretaries Rusk and McNamara were both Kennedy appointees. I wondered if they felt ill at ease as the President spoke. LBJ then invoked former President Eisenhower, saying that "Ike" had supported his actions in Vietnam. Johnson even referenced consulting about the war with the Pope. I was half convinced he would have placed some of the blame on his wife, Lady Bird, if he could have thought of a way to do so. I watched in amazement-even embarra.s.sment-as LBJ went on with his "woe is me" harangue.

As I listened to him personalize the growing criticism of the war, I thought to myself that Vietnam wasn't LBJ's personal problem. It was our country's. A Johnsonian phrase, "a stuck pig squeals," came to mind.

Looking back on that encounter from different circ.u.mstances, I was probably too harsh in my a.s.sessment of LBJ. During the Cold War-only a few years after the Soviets tried to place nuclear missiles in Cuba-the Communists were testing American resolve on several continents. It was hard, if not impossible, to ignore the challenge the Communists were posing in Southeast Asia. But it was a tall order to explain that to the American people, and to try to convince them that it was worth fighting a long, costly war in a small country so many thousands of miles away.

In any event, the President did not make it easy to be sympathetic to him. Indeed, that memorable meeting in February 1966 marked in my mind the beginning of a downward path for Lyndon B. Johnson and his administration. It was certainly a moment of clarity for me in terms of how I saw Vietnam. The war in Southeast Asia would slowly poison the remainder of the 1960s, a decade that had started out with such promise.

CHAPTER 5

"Here, Sir, the People Govern".

-Alexander Hamilton After I had begun serving in the U.S. House of Representatives, I was sent a doctoral dissertation about the Congress. The thesis was that the representatives elected to Congress tended to reflect the kind of people who lived in their districts. At the time my district had the highest level of education and the highest annual earned income in the United States. From that one might have inferred that it said something about me to have been elected by such a bright, affluent population in one of the largest districts in the country. But, in fact, the dissertation a.s.serted that I was the one who broke the rule. The paper said something to the effect of "Rumsfeld is distinguished princ.i.p.ally by his total lack of social, financial, and political standing in the community."

As I read the pa.s.sage one night, I nudged Joyce, who was asleep.

"Listen to this," I said, and I read her the critical lines.

"Go to sleep, Don," Joyce responded. "It's tough to argue with."

Though the 1960s are commonly remembered for drug use, permissiveness, and the hippie counterculture-"if you can remember anything about the sixties," one wag joked, "you weren't really there"-that was not how the decade started. It was a time of energy and opportunity, with a dynamic leader who seemed to offer both in generous supply. Although I was a Republican, it was hard not to be caught up in the excitement and glamour that John F. Kennedy brought to the country. The young, seemingly vital president-he was elected at forty-three-implored Americans to "get this country moving again." And America responded.

The astronaut John Glenn circled the Earth. The Freedom Riders began their daring bus rides in the South. Judy Garland embarked on her legendary comeback tour at Carnegie Hall. The satirical novel Catch-22 Catch-22 was published. American women were gaining their voice, leading to the rise of the feminist movement. There was a sense that with this young, exciting president to lead them, Americans could go anywhere. was published. American women were gaining their voice, leading to the rise of the feminist movement. There was a sense that with this young, exciting president to lead them, Americans could go anywhere.

I was ready to serve in Washington, D.C. Early on I took a tour of the Capitol building-that exquisite monument to America's heritage; I walked along the rich marble floors and gazed up into the splendid dome of the rotunda and studied the large statues, two from each state in the Union. I felt fortunate every day to be a member of Congress. At the age of thirty, it was quite a privilege to be the human link between a million people and their federal government.

I found the 434 members I served with interesting as individuals. I soon came to believe that by knowing them, I was learning about our country. They varied in energy, integrity, and intelligence. But the important thing was that they did represent the people of their congressional districts, and each one was there for that reason. Some clung to the vestiges of an earlier era. There were still spittoons on the floor of the House chamber for those who chewed tobacco, and every member was issued one. There was a strong deference to seniority and paying one's dues. Indeed, the att.i.tude of many of the old bulls of Capitol Hill was that newly elected members should quietly stay in their place until we'd been around for a while-like a decade or two.* I gravitated toward a different group. I gravitated toward a different group.

Because I had decided to help Gerald Ford defeat one of the old bulls in a leadership contest, I had earned the enmity of another member of the leadership, the second-ranking Republican in the House, Congressman Les Arends. Arends was one of the oldest of the old bulls, having been in Congress since 1935. Making matters worse, Arends was also the chairman of the Illinois GOP delegation. Among other privileges, he played the deciding role in all committee a.s.signments for members from our state. I had been hoping for a spot on the Foreign Affairs, Armed Services, Appropriations, or Ways and Means committees. But helping Don Rumsfeld, a member of the GOP rebellion that threatened him, was at the bottom of Arends' agenda. He adopted the philosophy of "don't get mad, get even."

Instead, I was a.s.signed to what was considered one of the less important committees-the House Committee on Science and Astronautics, also known as the s.p.a.ce Committee. I was disappointed with the a.s.signment but never had any regrets about supporting Ford for the leadership. Because the s.p.a.ce race was heating up between the United States and the Soviet Union, the committee turned out to be more interesting than I had expected.

In 1957, the Soviets had launched Sputnik Sputnik, the first satellite to orbit the earth, and the American people were surprised to find our country having to catch up to the Russians in an area where we had presumed superiority. President Kennedy had proposed a sharp increase in America's investment in our s.p.a.ce program. He put forward an ambitious proposal-to have the United States "commit itself to achieving the goal, before this decade is out, of landing a man on the moon and returning him safely to the earth."1 The audacious promise captured the country's imagination. In a can-do era, Americans felt, why shouldn't we be able to go to the moon? The audacious promise captured the country's imagination. In a can-do era, Americans felt, why shouldn't we be able to go to the moon?

As a member of the subcommittee on manned s.p.a.ce flight, I spent time with the men selected to accomplish President Kennedy's bold pledge, including Neil Armstrong, years before he became the first person to take "one giant leap for mankind." I admired their professionalism and their courage.

I understood the appeal of having an American walk on the lunar surface. I also knew that the administration was attempting to blunt criticism from its left that s.p.a.ce would become the next frontier in the Cold War by making a point of emphasizing NASA's peaceful, civilian missions.2 But I looked at the idea of a lunar landing somewhat differently. Was that, I wondered, the best use of finite resources? The Soviets were not worried about demonstrating peaceful intentions. Indeed, they announced that they had no interest in putting a man on the moon and concentrated on less dramatic but more practical efforts, such as manned orbital missions and satellite technology. By making the possible military use of s.p.a.ce a lower priority, I was concerned America might allow the Soviets to gain superior capabilities in reconnaissance, intelligence, and communications, and in the process also develop the ability to destroy or neutralize other nations' capabilities. But I looked at the idea of a lunar landing somewhat differently. Was that, I wondered, the best use of finite resources? The Soviets were not worried about demonstrating peaceful intentions. Indeed, they announced that they had no interest in putting a man on the moon and concentrated on less dramatic but more practical efforts, such as manned orbital missions and satellite technology. By making the possible military use of s.p.a.ce a lower priority, I was concerned America might allow the Soviets to gain superior capabilities in reconnaissance, intelligence, and communications, and in the process also develop the ability to destroy or neutralize other nations' capabilities.

Another person shared that concern. Dr. Wernher von Braun was one of the brilliant scientific minds on our side. Two decades before I met him, he was Germany's leading rocket engineer. Hitler rallied his forces after their defeat at Stalingrad with the help of von Braun's V-2 rocket, called Hitler's "wonder weapon," that claimed thousands of lives. Thankfully, von Braun's achievement came too late to turn things around. After the war, while other German scientists defected to or were captured by the Soviet Union, von Braun arranged the surrender of hundreds of his top German scientists to our American troops. This action, too, stirred anger. "He behaved like a traitor," said one critic. "He smashed up half of London and other cities and he went crawling off to America with Germany's secrets and became a hero."3 Von Braun went to work for the U.S. Army, becoming in 1960 the first director of the Marshall s.p.a.ce Flight Center in Huntsville, Alabama, where I visited as a member of the s.p.a.ce Committee. It was ironic that only twenty years earlier Germany and the United States had been locked in a terrible world war and now von Braun and his team were working with America to master s.p.a.ce.* The charismatic and confident von Braun shared our conviction that the Soviets posed a threat to the world, and he committed himself to a.s.sisting our s.p.a.ce program. Through his work, the United States developed the Saturn V rocket-"the most powerful machine ever made by man," it was called-which propelled our astronauts into outer s.p.a.ce. The charismatic and confident von Braun shared our conviction that the Soviets posed a threat to the world, and he committed himself to a.s.sisting our s.p.a.ce program. Through his work, the United States developed the Saturn V rocket-"the most powerful machine ever made by man," it was called-which propelled our astronauts into outer s.p.a.ce.4

I never strayed far from the principles I had written on my first campaign card in 1962. I resisted expansions of the federal government and was supportive of tax relief. I didn't believe that either party had a monopoly on wisdom-or on any particular issue-and I still don't. For example, I supported the establishment of the Peace Corps as well as some environmental protection legislation. I also expressed reservations about the House Un-American Activities Committee's use of subpoena power. never strayed far from the principles I had written on my first campaign card in 1962. I resisted expansions of the federal government and was supportive of tax relief. I didn't believe that either party had a monopoly on wisdom-or on any particular issue-and I still don't. For example, I supported the establishment of the Peace Corps as well as some environmental protection legislation. I also expressed reservations about the House Un-American Activities Committee's use of subpoena power.

I found myself becoming friends with individuals with other points of view, such as John Dingell, a Democrat from Michigan, and the political activist Al Lowenstein, whom I had first gotten to know on Capitol Hill in the late 1950s. Lowenstein knew everyone in the liberal pantheon from Eleanor Roosevelt to Norman Thomas to Bobby Kennedy. He was an early critic of America's involvement in Vietnam, took part in protest marches, and led civil rights activities with a pa.s.sion. But unlike some on the far left, Al was a fierce anticommunist who steered away from those radical groups that were aligned with Soviet ideology.

We were an odd pairing-me with my crew cut and conservative suit and tie and Lowenstein with rumpled hair and untucked shirttails-but we forged a friendship. I found him humorous, pa.s.sionate, and interesting. We got together when we were both in Washington, which was not often, since Al was constantly traveling all over the globe. He had a habit of sending us postcards in his almost unreadable scrawl. And just before our third child, Nick, was born in 1967, Al was with us at home timing Joyce's contractions.

During his first uphill battle for a seat in Congress, against the Democratic establishment's preferred candidate, he sent me a letter joking about the repercussions if he won. "I intend to join you if not on the s.p.a.ce Committee, then wherever else they put people who defeat Manhattan congressmen in primaries," he wrote.

"Best of luck," I replied. "If you want me to come in and campaign against you, I will be happy to."5 In return for a contribution he had made to my first congressional primary, I sent him a fifty-dollar contribution-for the Democratic primary only. In return for a contribution he had made to my first congressional primary, I sent him a fifty-dollar contribution-for the Democratic primary only.6 I had no doubt he would be a lively addition to Congress if he won a seat, which he finally did in 1968. I had no doubt he would be a lively addition to Congress if he won a seat, which he finally did in 1968.

Shortly thereafter, and to my regret, our relationship soured. In 1970, Lowenstein ran for reelection against a tough Republican opponent. His campaign wanted to use our friendship to demonstrate that he was not as radical as his opponent suggested.7 Among other things, he was accused unfairly of being involved in the Black Panthers and of echoing the line of the enemy in Vietnam. Among other things, he was accused unfairly of being involved in the Black Panthers and of echoing the line of the enemy in Vietnam.

Wanting to help my friend, I gave an interview in which I made the point both that I wasn't endorsing Lowenstein but that some of the characterizations being pinned on him were not consistent with my knowledge of him. "I don't subscribe to the theory that an individual who raises questions about national issues, including war, is undermining support for the men in uniform who are executing that policy," I told a reporter.8 "I have never known him to advocate working outside the system and I certainly have never heard him advocate the use of violence." "I have never known him to advocate working outside the system and I certainly have never heard him advocate the use of violence."

If I had still been a member of Congress, that would have been one thing. But by then I was a senior aide in the Nixon administration and was referenced as such by the Long Island Press Long Island Press. The interview caused much more of a flap than I had antic.i.p.ated. Al's GOP opponent was furious and contacted the White House, demanding that I issue a retraction.

I was busy, so I asked my a.s.sistant, d.i.c.k Cheney, to handle the issue. Cheney was focused more on the need to elect Republicans to Congress than on my friendship with Al, and he drafted a strong statement of support for his opponent, who was then able to make it look as if Lowenstein had distorted his relationship with me for political gain.

I'd like to think that if I'd dealt with the matter personally I might have found a way to meet the needs of both friendship and politics. I've always regretted how the situation ended up. Al wound up losing the campaign. He was understandably unhappy with me, and it hurt our friendship. I learned that the political world sometimes made things difficult for friends.

Of all the presidents I've observed close up, John F. Kennedy was probably the most charismatic. He radiated warmth and good humor, and his televised press conferences usually offered glimpses of both qualities. The first time I had a conversation with him was at a House of Representatives' annual party in 1963. The privilege of escorting the President around and introducing him fell to Congressman Albert Thomas, a Democrat from Texas and a friend of Vice President Lyndon Johnson. A thirty-year veteran on Capitol Hill, Thomas was first elected just after I was born.

"Mr. President, this is the best young Republican that we have had around here in years," Thomas said, introducing me to President Kennedy. "He's not very good at paddleball, but he's a great guy."

Lean and smartly attired, President Kennedy reached out to shake my hand. "It's nice to meet you, Congressman," he said, with his distinctive Boston accent. "What district are you from?"

"The Thirteenth District of Illinois," I replied, "north of Chicago."

"That's Mrs. Church's old district, isn't it?"

"It is, Mr. President," I replied.

"They sure did beat me in that district," he said, smiling.

We chatted for a bit, and then he moved on. I was not surprised that Kennedy, with his acute political instincts, knew my district off the top of his head.

Joyce and I received our first invitation to the White House during the Kennedy administration. Joyce found me at one point and said she had had an interesting conversation with the nicest man. She knew he looked familiar, but she couldn't quite place him. She pointed to him across the room. It turned out to be Dean Rusk, the Secretary of State. We were not accustomed to meeting such people socially.

Later that evening I saw President Kennedy standing in the hall, close to the elevator that went up to his private quarters. He looked different from the athletic, handsome man I had met some months before. His face was a bit puffy. I would read later that it may have been caused by the medication he took for his back pain. Though he was the same engaging president, he seemed tired. I never spoke with him again.

Sometime after that visit to the White House, I was back home meeting with a group of Chicago-area businessmen. Even though Kennedy, unlike many of the Democrats who succeeded him, recognized the relationship between tax relief and economic growth, he was met with wariness by the business community.* Though Kennedy's victory over Richard M. Nixon three years earlier had been narrow, I felt he was going to be tougher to beat as an inc.u.mbent. He was already putting his political organization in place, which apparently was what had taken him to Dallas, Texas, that November morning. Though Kennedy's victory over Richard M. Nixon three years earlier had been narrow, I felt he was going to be tougher to beat as an inc.u.mbent. He was already putting his political organization in place, which apparently was what had taken him to Dallas, Texas, that November morning.

As I was speaking to the Chicago group, a waiter came into the room, walked up to my host, and whispered into his ear. The host looked at me. I could tell something was wrong.

"Excuse me, Congressman," he said, a look of disbelief crossing his face. "President Kennedy has just been shot." Our meeting promptly ended, as we sought out more information about what had happened.

At first, word was that Kennedy had been taken to Parkland Memorial Hospital, where he was receiving blood transfusions in a frantic effort to save his life. Reports also surfaced that Texas Governor John Connally was wounded, which was true, and that LBJ was shot, which turned out to be false. Finally, word reached newscasters that a Catholic priest was delivering last rites to the President. At 2:38 p.m. Eastern Time, CBS newsman Walter Cronkite, in one of the iconic moments of that day, pulled off his horn-rimmed gla.s.ses as he announced, with a catch in his voice, the news of Kennedy's death.

We like to believe our inst.i.tutions can survive great trials, but in the hours after a cataclysmic event like the a.s.sa.s.sination of a president, it was difficult to shake doubt. The fact that our young president-just forty-six years old-was suddenly gone left Americans feeling that time had stopped. Shops and banks closed. Trading on the stock market was halted. People were crying openly on the streets. Schools were let out with children walking out of their cla.s.srooms weeping. Special memorial services were planned for churches and synagogues across the country.

In sorrow, anger, and confusion, citizens started blaming right-wing hate groups, segregationists, and the South for the murder, even though the a.s.sa.s.sin proved to be an avowed leftist. I watched with grief as the scenes from the a.s.sa.s.sination played over and over on the television screen: the President slumping forward in the open-top car, clutching his neck; Mrs. Kennedy, in a pink dress, inexplicably climbing onto the back of the moving limousine, only to have the Secret Service jump onto the car and prod her back into the seat; Lyndon Johnson sworn in aboard Air Force One, with a shocked Mrs. Kennedy and my friend, Congressman Thomas, behind him. One scene after another took place as if in slow motion, as Americans came to terms with the reality that this had happened.

Along with other members of Congress, I attended the memorial service for the late President in the Capitol Rotunda on Sunday, November 24. That afternoon in the standing group of members of the House, Senate, cabinet, Supreme Court, and diplomatic corps, I watched as people walked by the President's casket to pay their respects. There was a solemnity to the moment, a peaceful quiet.

I was standing toward the back of the group when I heard static coming from a radio being held by a Capitol policeman.

I eased over to him and asked, "What's happening?"

"Oswald's been shot," he whispered. A Dallas nightclub owner, Jack Ruby, had gunned down Kennedy's alleged a.s.sa.s.sin, twenty-four-year-old Lee Harvey Oswald, in an underground parking area as Oswald was being moved from his holding cell to another facility. The shooting took place on live television before millions of viewers, another shock for a country already on edge.

Kennedy's death soon gave way to the birth of the Kennedy legend, more powerful and more lasting than his presidency. It started with a deeply moving memorial service, modeled after Abraham Lincoln's. So well crafted, it was almost like watching a movie, except, of course, that it was painfully real. It all added to a sense that something magical-Camelot-had been lost.

For all John Kennedy's personal charm, however, little had been accomplished in his all too short presidency. On the foreign policy front, the administration's record was thin. There were the talks with Soviet leader Nikita Khrushchev in Vienna, where Khrushchev came away with the impression that Kennedy was young and inexperienced. There was the failed Bay of Pigs invasion of Cuba that added to the impression of American weakness. Then followed the construction of the Berlin Wall and the Cuban Missile Crisis, both of which seemed to have been at least in part a result of an emboldened Khrushchev deciding to test America's new young leader.

On the domestic side, few legislative initiatives linger on in history. Kennedy wasn't in office long enough to build a substantive legacy, and he had been hampered by the powerful Southern, pro-segregation oligarchs who dominated congressional Democrats.

The nation felt a profound sense of loss. For some Americans, the sense of shock and grief we all shared turned to disillusionment and anger. Indeed, what I remember of the decade of the sixties-riots, demonstrations, marches, and angry protests-seemed to have its start in Dallas, Texas, on November 22, 1963. The hopes and the growing sense of grievance among millions of Americans who believed they had been cheated fell onto the shoulders of a man who seemed, in style and temperament, to be John F. Kennedy's near polar opposite.

During my first year in the House of Representatives, I was among a group of congressmen invited by then Vice President Johnson to his home in the Spring Valley area of the District of Columbia. While his wife, Lady Bird, was the picture of graciousness and dignity, LBJ a.s.sumed his hosting duties like he did most things-with intense, backslapping, slightly over-the-top behavior.

During our visit he corralled us up for a personal tour. As he led us through his house, pointing out this memento and that, a special moment was reserved for what seemed to be his favorite room: the master bathroom. It was admittedly an impressive sight-in fact, I'd never seen a bathroom quite like it. As I recall, there were a number of contraptions built around the toilet-a mirror and lights attached to arms that pulled out, along with a magazine rack and at least one telephone. Johnson showed a Texas-sized pride in his trappings-modesty tended to elude him. He clearly relished impressing visitors with his bathroom's operational capabilities. He also liked keeping people off balance, and suddenly being shepherded into the Vice President's bathroom command center certainly had that effect.

To join the Kennedy ticket-a marriage of political convenience-Lyndon Johnson had left his post as the powerful Senate Majority Leader, which had made him arguably the most influential man in Washington, and became vice president, where he was not only virtually powerless, but visibly so. Johnson never seemed to fit in with the Kennedy team, and the differences in style were sometimes striking. He was a bit like a loud, slightly out-of-tune banjo being plucked in Harvard Yard. His relationships with members of the Kennedy administration, particularly Bobby Kennedy, were p.r.i.c.kly. A proud man like Johnson must not have liked the feeling that he needed the members of the Kennedy team.

Despite his occasional coa.r.s.eness, LBJ had a gift for smooth talk when it suited him. It was part of the patented Johnson treatment-his good copbad cop routine-in which he sometimes played both roles simultaneously. I suppose this may have been what had made him such a formidable leader of the Senate, which he managed with a mix of patronage, forcefulness, and a generous helping of guile.* When his almost shameless flattery failed him, Johnson deployed a strong arm. He was a large man, in both size and personality, and was not shy about touching people. I'd see him physically grab the arms of members of Congress he was trying to persuade. He'd wrap his ma.s.sive hands around people's shoulders and lean into them until about all they could see was his oversized earlobe next to their faces. When his almost shameless flattery failed him, Johnson deployed a strong arm. He was a large man, in both size and personality, and was not shy about touching people. I'd see him physically grab the arms of members of Congress he was trying to persuade. He'd wrap his ma.s.sive hands around people's shoulders and lean into them until about all they could see was his oversized earlobe next to their faces.

Because LBJ had been such an effective Senate leader, I fully expected him to be a successful president. I hoped he would be. The country was in a difficult, dangerous place and needed him to succeed. Lady Bird later reflected that she believed her husband might have been better served if he had replaced the Kennedy team with a team of his own.9 But for the most part, LBJ probably would have been better off if he had never taken the vice presidency. He might have become known as the most effective Senate leader in history. However, his congressional experience did help him realize what had to have been his most important accomplishment as president-one that many Americans thought was all but impossible. And it was by far the most important vote I cast in the United States Congress. But for the most part, LBJ probably would have been better off if he had never taken the vice presidency. He might have become known as the most effective Senate leader in history. However, his congressional experience did help him realize what had to have been his most important accomplishment as president-one that many Americans thought was all but impossible. And it was by far the most important vote I cast in the United States Congress.

The issue of civil rights was not a priority for const.i.tuents in my congressional district, which had a modest minority population. But it was a priority for me. When my father was in the war and stationed briefly in North Carolina, segregation and racial tensions were facts of life, a situation vastly different from the suburbs of Chicago. In rural North Carolina, as a boy, I once watched from the other side of a fence while black and white students from different schools confronted one another by waving the sharp edges of broken gla.s.s bottles. An even worse situation broke out after some black citizens attempted to enter the segregated white movie theater. It was sad to see the hostility. When I worked for Congressman David Dennison of Ohio in the late 1950s, I learned more about civil rights issues. Dennison had been a supporter of the 1957 Civil Rights Act proposed by the Eisenhower administration, an admirable effort that unfortunately became much reduced in scope because of the opposition of Southern Democrats in the Senate.

Back in early 1962, I had included my support for "effective civil rights measures" in my original campaign platform because I wanted the voters to know that the issue was important to me, even if it weren't yet a major issue for them. But in the coming months and years, as protests and demonstrations increased, civil rights became an issue all across the country, except not in the way I had hoped. As a result of the violence seen on television, many in the country and some in my district began to equate civil rights with civil unrest.