Sally Austin-Dahler - Pas de Deux

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secretaries and aides sitting in the outer office naturally heard
the outburst and it was clear my name was specifically mentioned.
All eyes turned toward me as I bounded into his office. He was
standing behind his desk, trying desperately to hold his temper,
but the storm was ready to blow. He asked, "What is the pas de
deux?"

I thought that was a dumb question since the note was clearly
typed and it said "Pas de Deux". I indicated that that was the
extent of the information given to me by the box office. He
quietly, but with range (if you can picture that), said every
ballet has a pas de deux, he wanted to know WHICH and WHO. Getting
a bit annoyed with his impatience, I said, "I've never been to a
ballet, so how should I know," and marched out of his office. I
went directly to my desk to call the box office for more complete
information. It was no big deal, but I was sure relieved when he
finally left that evening.

Mr. Kissinger had no further comment on the incident and ten
minutes later was off to enjoy his ballet being fully informed on
the evening's program. About two weeks later, there was an
envelope on my desk with two tickets to the ballet in my name.
Another man, another mind, would have been frustrated by my naivete.
Maybe he was, but I didn't take his outburst personally -- he had
much on his mind at the time. He didn't expect or want gushing
thank yous, he knew how much the gesture was appreciated, and there
seemed to be a silent understanding between us that any further
discussion was unnecessary. In a way, we lived a sort of silent
"pas de deux".

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During this same period of heaviness at the White House due to U.S. increased involvement in Vietnam, I had another occasion to see a side of Mr. Kissinger no one could ever know existed.

It was a Saturday, and there I was behind my desk as usual. Several of the staff were continually following the invisible track between the West Basement and the EOB, making changes to papers being prepared for the President. Mr. Kissinger was on the phone with the President all day long. He was attentive to the President's dissertations about how to handle the protesters, the press, etc., and at the same time was correcting a staff paper for the third time. It was only a matter of time before the President would summon Kissinger to his office to review the positions they spoke about during the day.

The call came at about 4:00, but before Kissinger could leave the office, one of the staff wanted his two small boys to meet him. Folders in hand, and with an anxious look on his face for only a brief moment, he graciously said hello. The smallest boy was shy and ducked behind his father, clutching his pant leg. He peaked around to get a better view, but made quite sure his father's leg stayed between them. Mr. Kissinger leaned over to whisper something in the boy's ear. In a matter of minutes, the boy was sitting on one of the desks with Kissinger whispering and the boy giggling.

This went on for what seemed like five minutes. The boy gave Kissinger a hug and was lifted gingerly down to the floor. This time, he didn't run behind his father, but stood there as if he

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was just let in on how the President was going to end the war and wouldn't tell a soul if his life depended on it. Then Kissinger said his goodbys and quickly proceeded to the President's office.

I was amazed at how he could be so gentle, take precious moments from his hectic day, keep the President waiting, and do all of this without taking anything away from either encounter. Anyone else would have made excuses for not taking the time to spend a few important moments with the children, but Kissinger took the time. It brought tears to my eyes and I wished there was some way the American people could have seen him that day or could know how gentle he could be when all around him seemed to be blowing up.

I'm convinced the gentleness in his personality is what attracted so many women to him. If you were carrying on a conversation, you never felt he would rather be somewhere else -- for that moment, you were the most important person in his life. On a couple occasions, I had the honor of dining with him and Nancy and other staff members. He was always happy, attentive, but a bit shy when it came to getting on the dance floor. Nancy was the only person he would dance with because she didn't mind that he wasn't an Arthur Murray graduate and they simply enjoyed each other's company.

Many ask me about his love life -- what they really wanted to ask is, "tell me about his sex life, you _must_ know something!" Frankly, neither his sex life nor his love life interested me. But I must say, with his schedule and with Secret Service agents

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insistent on doing a good job, it crossed my mind that a little advice from Houdini would have served him well. According to confused news reports as to his whereabouts on many occasions, maybe he gave Houdini lessons. I do know that Nancy McGinnis, now Mrs. Kissinger, was always number one -- that was a given fact, so there is no need to go into their relationship.

Jill St. John, Za Za Gabor, Marlow Thomas (this list is not intended to be all inclusive) were movie stars. There has always been an attraction between politicians and movie stars -- for some reason they share the same kind of driving ambition. Politicians need to be actors and actors need to be politicians. This commonality makes them perfect soulmates. The attention given to them by you and me is much the same -- there is a certain awe showered upon them, so why should they not be attracted to one another.

The women Kissinger dated, were intellectually on a par, and being in their company wasn't bad duty for Kissinger. Not that it was a duty, he enjoyed every minute of it. His power, his unmatched sense of humor (although not everyone could appreciate it), the fact that he was single, and delightful to be with, added to his attractiveness.

The only woman I ever had the slightest indirect contact with (aside from Nancy) was Za Za. She wrote little notes to him and once he forgot to remove the note from his suit pocket. When I collected his laundry, this forgotten message fell out of the pocket. The temptation to read it was great, but no greater than

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any Top Secret-Eyes Only memo that crossed my desk. If I stopped to read everything that wasn't meant for me, I would never have gotten my work done. Sorry to disappoint you on this one folks! Za Za called a few times between shows. The calls were usually short (when there was a connection) and Kissinger would emerge from his office with that childlike smirk on his face -- part serious saying to all of us in the outer office, "You had better not say a word," and the fun, coy part of him say, "Guess who just called me?"

Many evenings I would be in the office while he was entertaining someone for dinner or attending a Washington social event by himself or with one of the local unmarried ladies. He always returned to the office before going home and always found General Haig and myself impatiently waiting. You could usually tell he enjoyed himself, except when an unexpected disturbing phone call interrupted his evening which usually meant his immediate return to the White House. Power does have it's drawbacks.

More important to me than all the Marlow Thomases, Za Za Gabors or Jill St. Johns was Kirk Douglass. He and Mr. Kissinger went around and around trying to find a time when both of them were at least in the same State or city so they could meet. Appointments were cancelled several times at the last minute, but finally one day, Kissinger suddenly had a block of free time so instructed me to see if Douglass was available.

I knew Kirk was in New York and it was only 9:00 a.m., so I took a chance and called him. Expecting his calls to be screened

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it surprised me that the hotel operator put me straight through.
I caught him still sleeping and in an early morning sexy voice
he said, "We have to stop meeting like this. Why don't we get
married?" What a wonderful thing to say. I was flattered and
fantacized being rescued from my drugery and swept off my feet
by Kirk Douglass. Two phones ringing off the hook brought me
back to reality very quickly, so I told Mr. Douglass that if he
wanted to see Kissinger, he would have to take the next plane to
D.C.; it was now or never.

He arrived and was the sweetest, shyest person I ever met.
Of course, Kissinger's entire staff knew he was coming, but only
the girls were interested in getting his autograph. While waiting
for Kissinger to return from a short meeting, we sat in the lobby
of the West Basement while he signed his name to dozens of pieces
of paper. Later I distributed them to very happy girls. He
seemed to enjoy the attention and was not at all annoyed.

On the other side of Kissinger's personality, there has been
much talk about how difficult it was to work for him. Frankly,
no one before or after presented so many challenges to me. If I
could second guess his needs possibly once or twice a month, I
felt I earned my pay.

He demanded a certain perfection from those around him. A
staff member would be instructed to rewrite an option paper
several times before it could be accepted. No one got away with
doing less than he or she was capable of doing. It is human
nature to try shortcuts. Not with Kissinger -- he knew before

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looking at a paper it wasn't the best and would send it back for
as many rewrites as it took for perfection.

When Kissinger first began his job in January, he compiled
a list of questions to be answered in a very short time frame.
Questionnaires were sent to Defense, State, CIA, AEC, and other
agencies regarding our foreign relations status with China, Soviet
Union, Vietnam, etc. Because of the short deadlines required on
the questions that weren't all that easy to answer, many times you
could hear staff mutter, "What does he want, blood?" Someone
always obliged by supplying a definite, "Yes!" to that question.
"He wants blood" thus became a standing comment indicating that
he wanted the paper yesterday.

People say Kissinger is a negotiator. I unfortunately never
had the opportunity to sit at a table with him while he was doing
"his thing", but from working with him at my level, and with the
help of my trusty dictionary, to me he was a master negotiator.
A person who is very skilled and able in some work, one who rules
others or has control, authority, or power in order to confer,
bargain, or discuss *with a view to reaching agreement*. The
colloquial definition says it this way -- someone who succeeds in
crossing, surmounting or accomplishing something. Only history
will remind us of what all of Kissinger's "somethings" were.

He always knew what needed to be done and generally knew
what the best decision should be, or the correct option. He was
skillful in leading others to his conclusions yet making them
think they created the solution. He was just as aware of other's

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egos as they were aware of his, and I thought more willing to
let them have their day than most were willing to let him have
his. He didn't always win, but when he lost, was a good looser
after blowing off a little steam amongst his close staff. With
his enormous ego, he was still human.

Marvin and Bernard Kalb said that "Kissinger wielded more
power than any other presidential adviser or Secretary of State
in the history of the Republic." He is not the conventional
American diplomat. He is a professor who has been given the
unique opportunity to put his theories into practice and to
shape history."

The fact that he was not a conventional American diplomat
made it more difficult for some to accept and understand him.
The wheeler-dealer characteristic attributed to some politicians
wasn't a part of his nature. He had no constituency -- only the
desire to reach peaceful solutions for everyone.

Kissinger once quoted Metternich as saying, "Because I
know what I want and what the others are capable of, I am com-
pletely prepared." Perhaps, Kissinger, unintentionally was
talking about himself.

It certainly wasn't unintentional -- Kissinger was telling
us something about himself. He knew his opponents and his subject
matter. His perceptions of the people he negotiated with were
acutely close to their reality, whether or not they were aware of
it. Because of this perceptiveness and ability to make decisions
quickly, he sometimes lost his patience waiting for others to move
their thinking along to logical conclusions.

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To many, his over-developed ego was a threat. I had no fear of his temper or his ego. There was no competition between us. He was one of the few men I could take criticism from -- as a matter of fact, I looked forward to it and hoped not to miss his point.

Everyone who has ever known Kissinger personally or through the press, can draw their own conclusions as to the kind of man he is or isn't. There is a secret part of him none of us will ever know, nor would he reveal it; he is a very private person in many ways. The smile that comes on his face when he reads something about himself, says, "They're warm, but, there is still more." Or the frown that appears says, "They've missed the entire point."

There were few days when I could complete the piles of typing, telephone transcriptions, calls to arrange for appointments, and personal matters before 11:00 p.m. By the time I reached my apartment in Marlow Heights (I moved there very soon after my furniture arrived to be closer to Andrews Air Force Base), my body was so completely drained, it was an effort to change into my night clothes. I was asleep long before my head hit the pillow.

The long hours didn't do much for my social life. Any dates were scheduled when I knew Kissinger was at a three-hour dinner party and I could make it back to the "Basement" before he returned to check out for the night himself. My dates were limited to Secret Service agents and military personnel -- anyone I could

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feel comfortable having them know for whom I worked. Politics
and the state of the world invaded our conversations, but the
general rule was not to talk shop. Other than exchanging stories
about general goings on, I made it a rule never to discuss
specifics; there was no point and besides, living with the trauma
of the world all day, didn't make for pleasant conversation at
night. It was very apparent that Mr. Kissinger's social life far
exceeded mine. That was to be expected and I knew he didn't
always enjoy the appearances he was required to make.

After nearly two years of working six and sometimes seven
long, hard days, my reasons for leaving weren't to find something
more challenging, but more to live my own life with free weekends,
see my friends more often and become more a part of the social
scene myself. Most important was a much needed rest for body and
mind.

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## Chapter Nine

NEXT TO THE WEST BASEMENT, I SPENT a considerable part of my life at military bases catching planes to go here and there and everywhere.

Air Force One was an Intercontinental 707 painted Air Force silver and blue. Actually, it was only called Air Force One when the President was aboard, otherwise, it was referred to as 26000 (two, six thousand). I defy anyone to find a spot of dust on the exterior or the interior other than the usual smattering of bugs after a flight which was unavoidable. But the bugs didn't stay long as the first order of business was to clean the ship after the last person departed.

There were two entrances: the front used by the President, Mrs. Nixon, any Cabinet members traveling with the President, and the President's immediate staff, etc.; the rear entrance was

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used by lesser staff assistants and myself. The red carpet
always led the way to the bottom step of the front entrance, so
there was no mistaking which one I should use.

Directly to the left of the front entrance was the cockpit
that held a crew of four. The most important part of that crew
was the pilot, Colonel Ralph Albertazzie whose bright smile
greeted each passenger entering his domain. Aside from being
one of the most handsome men I have ever met, he was unmatched
in his field. The crew was handpicked by the Colonel for its
knowledge and absolute perfection in what they did.

Passing the entrance heading toward the rear of the plane,
the communications console appeared to the left, operated by two
men. (Opposite the console was the forward galley which served
the President and his family and the crew). The President could
call anywhere in the world and messages could be sent and received
in code if the situation demanded it. The intricate board
included so many buttons, lights and switches, it seemed a mystery
beyond my comprehension. Next came a small compartment for the
Secret Service Agents.

Walking down a long narrow corridor on the right side of the
plane, not much was to be seen. The corridor was constructed to
give privacy to the President and Mrs. Nixon while allowing
passengers to walk freely to the forward section of the plane.
The President's quarters were divided into several separate com-
partments. Even though the configuration was on a small scale,
it was very comfortable and planned to take advantage of every

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inch of available space. There was an upholstered bench in the
bathroom to rest on, and underneath the bench was hidden your
everyday water closet. Next to the bathroom was a room for
sleeping with two adequate bunks on either side serving as seating
during the day. A desk for Mrs. Nixon occupied one corner. It
was always stocked with pens, pencils, note paper, cigarettes and
matches, etc. Air Force One appeared on each napkin, matchbook,
and note paper. These were great moments for visitors.

Next came the President's office which included a large desk,
fitted with the same necessities Mrs. Nixon had, only more. One
addition was the yellow legal pad Mr. Nixon always used.

There was a large meeting room that held nine people including
the President. This allowed for large meetings of the staff and
if the President didn't want to attend, he still had his private
retreat.

At the end of the long corridor was the Executive Staff com-
partment. First on either side of the plane were two large con-
ference tables with two seats facing each other giving a total of
eight spaces. Occupying the left side was Mr. Kissinger, his staff
assistants and Ron Ziegler the Press Secretary. The right side
was reserved for Haldeman, Ehrlichman, Dwight Chapin and the
Military Aide who always travelled with the President. Behind
Kissinger was the trusty copy machine and behind that (moving
toward the rear of the plane) was my desk.

My space was "L" shaped. I had my typewriter, several
drawers to hold paper, pencils, paper clips, etc., all of which

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were safely tucked away on takeoff and landing except when urgent
work needed to be done. At first, it was impossible to type on
takeoff because the law of gravity just wouldn't allow the type-
writer carriage to move with the force. To solve the problem,
the crew easily moved my typewriter so it faced the rear of the
plane. It became evident I was not going to get much free time
even while in the air.

To my right, across the aisle, was an identical station
occupied by the Military Aide's assistant (a man). He handled
all the work initiated from the left side of the plane, and I
managed Kissinger's work with both of us vying for time with the
copy machine.

The next compartment looked like any First Class section of
a commercial airline (although a bit poshier), and seated about
twelve people. Rose Mary Woods generally sat there unless she
had work to do for the President or was visiting Mrs. Nixon. The
other passengers were either Congressional members involved in the
particular trip we were on, special staff members who didn't fit
in the Executive compartment and usually several empty seats.
The faces changed regularly depending on which leg of the trip
we were on.

Another door led to the press area. This area, usually
crowded and noisey, had a specific seating arrangement depending
on the newspapers represented. Ollie Atkins, the White House
Photographer, had the seat of honor -- it was the most comfor-
table, most accessible and in view of the entire press compartment.

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[c]

Someone was always playing cards, writing, or just competing for conversation time. (There was a second plane that accompanied the President that carried more staff, more press -- basically the overflow from 26000).

Last, but not least, was the best part of the plane which I frequented as often as I could -- the galley. Every morsel of food was prepared from scratch down to the last delicately carved radish in the salad. The food was the best quality and specifically planned for each trip by the Chief Steward. Unless I was desperate and could manage to get by Mr. Haldeman, I usually didn't frequent the forward galley.

Franciscian China with the Presidential Seal made an attractive setting for each meal. Specially built racks housed the china to prevent breakage. Linen napkins, fine crystal and silver also adorned each place setting. My prized possession is one complete place setting of the china which was used by Presidents Kennedy, Johnson and Nixon. & Ford,

The crew often prepared fabulous hors d'oeuvres for the passengers and staff. Either I wasn't fast enough, or the staff was extremely hungry, because it seemed I never had the opportunity to taste the little tidbits and rarely managed to get my meals. I mentioned the situation casually to Colonel Albertazzie one day and discovered that the "Haldeman Doctrine" was established to ensure that the staff was always served before the "help". The extent to which the "Doctrine" was carried out perturbed the Colonel (not to mention me), so he instructed the Stewards to see

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to it that I, too, had my share. The only way this could be done
without drawing attention from Mr. Haldeman, was for the stewards
to signal me when the meals were ready. I would slip back to the
galley, indulge myself, and return with a smile on my face, having
fooled Mr. Haldeman into believing his ridiculous rule was being
followed to the letter. He would have been pompously upset had
he known about our little game.

The entire crew of enlisted military men couldn't have been
more pleasant. They were sometimes just as exhausted as the rest
of us, but their smiles and concern for our comfort never
diminished.

I'll never forget my first Air Force One flight. Air travel
for me had been restricted to occasional short domestic flights
and I'm not embarrassed to say I was never very comfortable up
there among the clouds -- airplanes just don't fly!

Colonel Albertazzie created me on the ramp and immediately
noticed my trembling hands. To ease my fears, he took me on a
grand tour of the underside of the plane showing me various com-
partments, equipment and assuring me that this plane was main-
tained exceptionally well by his own personal crew.

Bags were loaded and staff notified to board since the
President's chopper could be seen in the distance. The President
wasn't on board more than two minutes before I heard the engines
begin to roar. The seat belt sign lit up, and to my surprise,
several of the staff ignored it and continued their conversations
in the aisles as if they were at a cocktail party in someone's

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home. I expected the stewards to appear requesting everyone to take their seats and give us the emergency exit procedures as well as pointing out where our oxygen masks would pop out. But, no, the conversations continued and the stewards began to inquire whether there was anything we needed to make our trip more comfortable. The whole takeoff was mighty casual for my taste.

The plane lifted off the ground, glided into the sky like a feather, and not a drop was spilled nor a balance lost. It was simply amazing. Landing was even smoother. The staff and guests took bets on whether the pilot would arrive at our destination on time (which he always did no matter how late the departure). As the plane came to a halt, blocks were placed on the front wheels. There was a yellow stripe painted on the wheel and whoever came closest to the stripe won the bet. More times than not, the entire cabin would clap their hands to acknowledge another fine landing by the pilot.

Colonel Albertazzie has been described as "a trim six-footer with iron-gray hair and the rugged good looks of a movie star; a real live Steve Canyon, square jaw, a quick smile," etc., etc. All of this was true, and in addition, he was a good friend who made sure my meals were served, my car was taken care of when I traveled, instructed the crew to help with my bags, and gave uplifting support when I was exhausted. These things he didn't have to do, but since I was the absolute low man on the totem pole while travelling with the President, there wasn't anyone else who took the time to see to it that I was still in one piece.

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Military bases were a surprise to my Midwestern upbringing.
Without my White House pass, I was an intruder; with it, came
priveleges denied other citizens. But some of the guards,
particularly from the Marine Corps, didn't impress me very much.
They seemed to be preoccupied with keeping their chins up and
their gaze straight ahead and even my White House pass didn't
cut the ice. It annoyed me to have to hustle with them for
entrance to the ramp so I could board the plane.

Hoards of people usually gathered anytime the President
appeared and I will admit to feeling very important watching the
activity from the other side of the fence, so to speak. The staff
wandered around the plane until we got the signal the President
was on his way and would then board. Until then, it was us
watching the crowd and the crowd watching us.

Sitting at my desk on the plane, I often thought of how it
would have been working with President Johnson. Where each com-
partment was now divided with decorative panels, President
Johnson had clear plastic so he could see everyone on the plane
from one end to the other. Certainly didn't give one a feeling
of any privacy whatsoever. President Johnson's quarters were at
the rear of the plane, and for the sake of comfort, the plane was
reconfigured to place President Nixon in front of the wings
where the ride was considerably more comfortable and quieter.

Another strange thing, sitting at my desk, was the telephone.
Being away from the White House didn't mean the lack of any
service, and the telephone was one that intrigued me. If I wanted

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to call my mother while flying from Paris to Rome, all I had to
do was pick up the phone and tell the operator (who sat in front
at the communications console) the number I wanted. Not that I
did this, but the capability was there. I did use the phone to
talk to the stewards, or the pilot to find out how much time I
had to finish my current project before landing. My phone tech-
nique improved considerably from the time I was at the Pierre
Hotel in New York where I would say "over" at the beginning of the
conversation rather than at the end.

Sleeping on Air Force One was a chore. There were bunks
that pulled down from above the seats, but it was never worth the
effort just to catch a few winks. If there happened to be an
empty seat in the guest cabin, and if all my work was done and
we were on the down stretch of a trip, I would curl up in one of
the comfortable seats. Otherwise, it was a matter of putting my
head on my desk (and it was hard) and resting my feet on the waste-
basket. Keeping my balance and sleeping soundly were impossible
but I learned to catch a quick rest and was ready to type at a
moment's notice. I should say there weren't very many times
available to sleep. We worked very hard on the plane preparing
for the next arrival, or picking up the pieces of the last
departure.

Flying on commercial planes after my experience with Air
Force One has been quite a letdown. My nerves have improved, but
I know there is a different pilot and I also know the maintenance
of the commercial plane would never meet the standards set by the

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Air Force or the Navy who were responsible for flying the President.
The sweat doesn't appear as often on my hands.

Another mode of transportation I enjoyed was the small Lockheed Jet Star. This plane comfortably held six to eight passengers, pilot, co-pilot and one steward. There was only one entrance and I had to duck my head while in the plane or be willing to live with goose-eggs here and there. As one boarded, you passed through a combination galley and bathroom. The "john" was tucked under a bench and if you had to use it during the flight, you hoped it wasn't when meals were being prepared. The routine was that everything on top of the bench had to find a new temporary home (which wasn't easy when preparing a five-course meal), the door to the cockpit closed as well as the door to the main cabin and everyone could plainly hear the sounds of nature.

One absolutely fascinating trip was from Washington to Johnson City, Texas. Mr. Kissinger, Bryce Harlow (a Congressional Assistant to the President) and his assistant were to meet with President Johnson to brief him on Nixon's forthcoming trip around the world. Bryce Harlow had a sense of humor second only to Mr. Kissinger and in some ways maybe a bit more spontaneous and light. I suppose the trip lasted a little over two hours and during that time, I never stopped laughing -- and I mean never! The two men swapped one funny story after another, each one daring the other to "top that one." I don't remember the stories and was too engrossed in laughing to take any of them down on my pad.

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I was considerably less comfortable flying with the Military Aide to the President than with Colonel Albertazzie since he (the Aide) wanted to fly this trip to build up his hours and get in a little practice. I wanted to say, "Not on my time!", but was in no position to say what was on my mind. Mr. Kissinger also had his preference for the Colonel (he was more afraid of flying than I), but it was necessary for the Colonel to keep himself available for the President.

The airport at the Johnson Ranch was no more than a simple landing strip with no runway lights. President Johnson had certain limits when it came to altering the land he loved. Air traffic was sparse and controlled around the Ranch, so there wasn't much danger, but even that didn't quiet my nerves.

President Johnson had a favorite trick he played on new pilots using his runway. It seems that when the runway was constructed, there was a gradual increase in elevation (a hill to some) which crested along about the middle. Not until you reached the crest, could you see the end of the runway. It was like flying off the end of a cliff hoping there was enough updraft to keep you from crashing.

Johnson would dress in casual ranch clothes, greet his visitors at the plane in his station wagon, and then take them on a tour of his spread. One stop was the end of the runway! As the plane took off, building speed, and going full bore because of the incline, it reached the top of the crest and whamo, right before your eyes was

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the President and his station wagon. It was absolutely impossible to put on the brakes of the small jet and Johnson would be holding his belly, getting the biggest kick out of the panic he visualized on the pilot's face. He gave everyone a thrill (if you got off on that kind of humor) and pulled off the runway before causing a serious accident. His timing was perfect.

Kissinger and Harlow needed to spend several hours at the Ranch, so we were headed for the nearest military base to refuel and would return later to pick them up. Having been warned of Johnson's prank, the pilot decided we should wait until we saw the station wagon parked back at the house. Johnson wasn't easily fooled. He made his rounds with this guests and returned to the house, but parked the car in an area where we couldn't see it. The hot, Texas sun beat down upon us for nearly an hour before the pilot decided to take a chance. We managed an easy takeoff with no confrontation, and later learned from Mr. Kissinger that Johnson was amused by his hide and seek game.

One other vehicle I travelled on was a "Hewey"; the name of a specific type of military helicopter. It was at the opposite end of the pole from Air Force One or the Jet Star for comfort.

The time and distance to town from the military base we used outside Bonn, Germany, restricted travel by motorcade along the Autoban. The speeds at which cars travelled along this "freeway" were no less than suicidal. I wasn't convinced that the trip in the Hewey was anything different. This contraption held very few people and flew at a 45 degree angle -- pointing down! I

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had the feeling that if my seat belt came unfastened, I would
slide right out of the plastic windshield. Technically, no one
could convince me that airplanes flew, much less a Hewey. Thank
goodness, I had only one exposure to that chilling experience.

Ground travel was limited to my very own VW Bug or a White
House car around Washington. When accompanying the President
and Mr. Kissinger, I often had the opportunity to be chauffered
in big, black limosines or my favorite in France, a very classy
Citroen. With my background, a limo was generally associated
with funerals. It was nice, I won't deny it, but I reminded
myself that my Cinderella world was only temporary and that my
"Bug" awaited me back home and would be terribly hurt if my
affections for it were misplaced.

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## Chapter Ten

WHEN PEOPLE ASK, "DID YOU EVER MEET the President while you were with Mr. Kissinger?" I clearly recall the three close encounters and always marvelled that I was still on the payroll after each one.

The first episode occurred on Air Force One, several hours after leaving Andrews Air Force Base for the President's first trip to Europe in February of 1969.

Mr. Kissinger was frantically refining arrival speeches, preparing notes for meetings with heads of states, etc. The energy level in the staff cabin was incredibly tense. It wasn't easy to be organized, but considering the number of people in the cabin, everyone managed to claim their space without much trauma.

My fingers were flying. I typed, retyped, copied and then repeated the process several more times before we landed. Just at

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the height of all the confusion of trying to keep the arrival
statement separate from the departure speech (can you imagine the
horror of the President giving bits and pieces of both speeches
at the same time? Would anyone understand?!), the damn copy
machine decided to take a much needed rest and before breathing
a final note, spit out hundreds of pages on the floor of the
cabin.

Without showing my own frustration for fear the machine
would collapse completely for the duration of the trip, I placed
myself on the floor under the machine and tried desperately to
find the papers that were jamming the machine. Now how could I
possibly look professional crawling on my hands and knees. I
tried -- I honestly tried! I felt like a doctor delivering a
baby, or a garage mechanic changing the oil in his Sunday best.
There was absolutely no way I could keep a ladylike composure
during my trial with this machine that all of a sudden was against
me.

As I whispered several Finnish swear words (under my breath),
I spotted a pair of shiney patent leather shoes next to my left
hand. They were so shiney, I could see my own troubled reflection.
Hoping it was one of the stewards wanting to pass, my gaze turned
slowly upward to the finely creased slacks, then to the impecibly
designed maroon jacket with the Presidential seal on the pocket,
I began to shake, visibly, and thought, "No, it can't be him,
please let it be the steward." But it wasn't a steward -- it was

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the President of the United States of American standing there
with a very slight hint of a smile -- I hoped.

Panic struck another blow to my already weak heart (my
heart murmur lingered on since childhood). Why at this particular
moment, did the President have to visit the Press cabin. There
I was, on the floor with ink all over my face, papers carpeting
the aisle, with the machine continuing its rhythmic coughing and
spitting. There was no time to clean up the papers, so I stood
up as gracefully and casually as possible under the circumstances
and allowed the President to pass. Actually, it occurred to me
that this was probably the first time he ever had a white carpet
layed for him and for a fleeting moment, was proud of my
creativity. I proceeded very quietly to the restroom where I
shook for about 15 minutes. I'm sure everyone on the plane thought
we were going through some mild turbulence, but I knew better.

The good cry, I found, was one way of releasing the tension
caused by the pressure of having to produce faster than humanly
possible. This was one of many occasions I resorted to finding
a private corner to let go in order to continue. I screamed as loud
as I could into a pillow.

Upon our return from Europe, the President and close staff
planned to spend some time in San Clemente to reconstruct the
various meetings that took place with world leaders. Since it
was still very early in his Administration, the complex at San
Clemente wasn't completely ready. We flew to the West Coast via
Air Force One, landed at El Toro Marine Base, and transferred
to helicopters for the short flight to the compound.

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The landing pad was an open wheat field that, at least, had been stripped of the tall grain, but in its place were deep furrows made by the heavy tractors. This was certainly adequate for a helicopter, but not at all easy for me to navigate in my high heels and NSC briefcases that always weighed a ton. It annoyed me that most of the staff were more interested in capturing the President's arrival on their movie cameras rather than assisting me across the field.

As usual, I was the last to depart and by the time I began my trek across the field, the President's chopper was already turning its engines in preparation for the return flight to the Marine base. One limosine drove directly on to the field to pick up the President and his family and was also ready to leave. Behind me was my chopper with its engines whirring.

There I was, struggling with my briefcases, straining to find a spot large enough to plant my foot safely. Seeing no traffic light indicating "walk" or "don't walk", my dilemma was whether to get hit by a helicopter or the President's limo. Both drivers saw me trying to stiffen my weak ankles and I could hear the President's thoughts very clearly. "Who is that girl (knowing full well it wasn't Marlow Thomas) and what is she doing in the middle of this field." None of the vehicles could depart with me still on the landing pad so I decided to make a mad dash for the sidelines as gracefully as possible and hoped everyone would understand there wasn't much I could do.

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Having safely negotiated the wheatfield, my angry stare in the direction of the less-than-helpful staff, went unnoticed.

The third meeting took place at the Kahala Hilton in Honolulu on the first leg of the President's trip around the world. It was a short layover -- arriving early afternoon and departing the next morning. The President had one major meeting the day of our arrival, but before the meeting, he made a short visit to Pearl Harbor. Mr. Kissinger accompanied the President as usual.

When I arrived at the hotel, someone handed me the keys to Mr. Kissinger's room and asked that I make certain they were delivered to him immediately.

The Presidential Suite and the meeting room happened to be on the same floor, which was inaccessible to the general public for obvious security reasons. Always having my White House Pass handy, it wasn't difficult making my way past the Secret Service guards, up the secured elevator to the top floor. It was extremely quiet, since the usual hustle and bustle of tourists coming and going from their rooms had been eliminated. I found myself very alone and it took me some time to get use to the total silence; something very rare since moving to Washington.

Proceeding down the long, lonely hall with its occasional alcove leading to a set of rooms, I began to hear soft voices. I recognized part of the NSC staff mingling outside the large conference room, passed Mr. Kissinger's key on to his aide, and retraced my steps toward the elevator, which was at least a city block away.

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Coming toward me, I noticed one of the Secret Service agents who was a close friend of mine. It disturbed me that his acknowledgement of my presence was very strained, as if he didn't know me. There wasn't anyone else around except three gentlemen walking several yards behind him. I shrugged it off, thinking that he, like most of us at times, was preoccupied with his mission.

My guess was right. The three gentlemen pacing step for step behind, happened to be two military aides and the President. My agent friend was running interference, one might say. When I recognized the President, I was at a loss as to what my proper behavior should be. Should I duck into the first alcove? That seemed awfully suspicious to me, so I passed on that choice. Should I bow (or I guess a curtsy would have been more appropriate), lowering my eyes as he passed, not speaking? I wasn't really sure how to curtsy so I opted to continue walking and take my chances.

As the President passed, I politely nodded and weakly smiled, wanting to say, "Hello, Mr. President," but it wouldn't come out of my constricted voice box. I couldn't really tell whether he nodded back, or was just lowering his eyes to avoid mine.

I was uncomfortable because I knew the President was expecting the halls to be clear. My presence meant the Secret Service Agents hadn't done their job, or so it seemed. The halls were rather dark, and from a distance, none of us could tell that we were all family. All the more reason for my friend's avoidance, for it was his responsibility to have cleared the halls. So for

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a brief moment, everyone was on their toes until they realized
there was nothing to fear.

When I returned to the ground floor and related my experience
to the agents on duty, they seemed to enjoy hearing about my
latest Presidential encounter.

When General Haig was presented with his first star, the
President held a special meeting in the Oval Office to which he
invited all of the staff working with the General. I thought I
detected a slight question in his eyes when I appeared in the
group. Where had he seen this girl before, why did she keep
appearing in the most unusual places? Possibly, I was allowing
my imagination to run away with me.

On that particular occasion and another when we again gathered
in the Oval Office after one of the President's television appear-
ances where he elaborated on the Vietnam situation, I was always
impressed with his easy manner and friendliness to those of us
who invaded his office. He chatted casually and freely with the
staff and was very personable.

I'm not sure what I expected our President to be or not to
be, but at least I felt it was okay for me to be there. The
telegrams that arrived at the White House after his speech, were
very much in his favor. It seemed to encourage him to continue
his quest for peace the way he felt would be a lasting peace for
all concerned. It was good to see him so uplifted.

I monitored many phone calls between him and Mr. Kissinger
at all hours of the day and night. I could detect his disappoint-

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ment at the way the trend seemed to be going during those first
several months, but there was a constant determination in his
voice, no matter how late at night, that he was doing the right
thing for the American people.

Seeing him deliver the speeches I feverishly worked on,
hearing his doubts and convictions on the phone, and just being
a small part of world events, drew me closer to the President
and the Presidency, in a way that could never be possible outside
Washington.

The week after Secretary's Week, when the higher echelon
closest to the Oval Office decided it might be a good idea to
have the President pose with all of the secretaries, I was
extremely proud to be standing less than five feet away from
The Man.

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## Chapter Eleven

THERE WERE MANY DIFFERENT TYPES OF SECURITY, some I took completely for granted as a way of life. At times it was annoying, sometimes exciting, and sometimes frightening. My first introduction to the type of security that would become a way of life was my own personal security clearance. I anticipated someone would tell me what I needed to know, but was not prepared for all the focus-pocus. Most of my being accepted the seriousness of it all, but a part of me wanted to say, "Are you kidding me?" (This became a standard phrase of mine).

For instance. I was told to report to a room in the basement of an office building on Park Avenue shortly after I began working in New York before moving to Wash at the Pierre Hotel, for a security briefing. Why they couldn't come to me, I never knew. I was met at the door by a man with glasses in an extremely well cut business suit. (No, it wasn't

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grey flannel). He led me through a big heavy door, down a hall and through another heavy door.

There was a room with one large conference table, three chairs, absolutely blank walls, and another man, dressed identically to the first. There were two briefcases on the table. At this point, both men showed me some identification (which was a little late considering I could not find my way out of the maze of halls and doors if my life depended on it). Speaking of my life, this was the first of many occasions where I actually thought on the one hand very seriously about my safety, and on the other hand, chuckled at the intrigue that would run a close second to Casa Blanca. I believed the men to be who they said they were -- what else could I do.

Slowly, each of the men opened their briefcases with the lids toward me so I couldn't see what was soon to appear. Fortunately it was only a 3" black binder. They began to solemnly show me pictures of certain aircraft and other military apparatus along with code words that were used to describe them. They talked about different levels of security clearances that would be filed with my records and that I wasn't under any circumstances, to divulge to anyone what my *particular* clearances were. I couldn't even admit that I knew anything about the aircraft or the fact that any of them existed. The punishment, if caught, was something like $5,000 and/or five years in prison. I even had to sign a piece of paper saying I understood exactly what the punishment was.

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The signature on the dotted line indicated an end to our discussion. I was escorted to the door, given a hearty handshake and a wish of good luck from my CIA friends whom I never saw again.

I can't describe how I felt walking outside amongst all those people on the sidewalks of New York. Every step of the way, I wondered if they could tell I had just digested some of our Nation's secrets -- did it show on my face? Did I walk differently? I felt creepy, nervous and powerful. Not that I could do a thing with my newfound power, but I had it tucked away in the tiniest corner of my Midwestern brain.

I arrived back at the hotel, still feeling a bit heavy, but there was also a feeling of belonging to this strange group of workers, many of whom I didn't even know by name. At the elevator, I met a young man who evidently recognized me as part of the staff and it surprised me when he asked if I had my security clearance yet. He could have asked me anything, I thought suspiciously, why did he pick that question? My too quick response was, "Yes, but its only a "Q" clearance," in a tone that sounded very defensive as soon as I spit it out. I remembered immediately the $5,000 and/or five years in prison and would have given anything to take back what I had just said. The man happened to be Egil "Bud" Krogh (who was unfortunate to have served time for his involvement in the Ellsburg break-in).

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That night I didn't get any sleep. All I could think about was what it would be like in jail for five years and for such a stupid, thoughtless remark. I wondered if the man at the elevator was a CIA agent purposefully stationed there to catch me and test whether my loyalty was intact. I certainly failed that one and knew there was no way to tell my family that after all my hard work, I would be doing some "time". It was awful. I was sick to my stomach and fantasized about them dragging me away from my typewriter, kicking and screaming that I didn't mean to spill the beans.

The next few days were hell. No one confronted me. I saw the young man several more times at the hotel and we exchanged glances and went about our business. My hope was that they decided to give me another chance. I vowed never to tell anyone anything no matter how innocent or unimportant it might seem to me. Actually, admitting to the "Q" clearance was safe -- it was the designations above "Q" that were taboo to discuss.

It was enlightening to talk to my friends back in Michigan who were interviewed by the FBI. They had to verify every move I made during my adult life. What the FBI got and what was actually true, sometimes were worlds apart. My friends had me living in New York two years before I ever thought about the possibility.

Later in Washington, the significance of my CIA briefing was tested. Working late one eveing, a message arrived in the Situation Room and neither the President nor Mr. Kissinger were

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available to accept the specially coded message. The Sit Room checked the records as to who, in fact, could receive it. Within the confines of the White House, my name came up next on the list. It seems the CIA issued to me, the same clearances that Kissinger, the President and John Mitchel (the Attorney General) received. We were the first to be cleared in New York and no one informed the CIA that I was just Kissinger's secretary. The message wasn't delivered to me, but to the next official down the list at State Department. Admittedly, it was exciting. It wasn't the one I was looking for.

Routine types of security had mostly to do with entering the White House grounds, the White House itself, and the Old Executive Office Building since there was immediate access to the White House once inside the EOB. Guards were stationed everywhere and weren't bashful about asking for my White House Pass if they didn't recognize me. They were always friendly and courteous and it never annoyed me when asked to prove who I was and my purpose for being in a particular place.

Any guests of Mr. Kissinger's were cleared through the South Gate normally. A list of his appointments was given to the guards so they knew whom and at what time appointments would arrive. A very simple routine that was easy to get use to.

Option papers and daily memoranda were often classified as "Confidential", "Secret", "Top Secret", and occasionally carried an additional tag of "Eyes Only." The degree of confidentiality between each of the designations was small, and "Eyes Only" meant just that -- for the eyes of the receiver or receivers only. To

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me, it didn't matter much what the designation said, the content of what I was typing was no one's business but the sender and the receiver. That way, I didn't worry about getting my "secrets" mixed up with my "top secrets".

The possibility existed that our desk phones in the White House were taped but that was never confirmed by me or anyone I knew. Someone started the rumor and it was like having my mother around all the time. As children, my sister and I felt she had eyes in the back of her head because she could always tell when we were doing something out of line -- even when we were out of her sight.

There was only one incident that happened that led me to believe my hunch was right. During the heat of the Vietnam War (that first year I can't remember a time the heat wasn't on), we were all frantically working on a very important speech to be given by the President on television. During that time, I received a phone call from an old friend of mine who lived in Boston. He was always interested in world events and called occasionally to see how everything was going with me. I told him we were working on a speech and that it would be very exciting so he should plan not to miss it. The speech wasn't finished and I said something like, "I can't tell you what's in it now, but you'll be very pleased. I'll let you know more about it later." Something like that. To anyone listening to my phone conversation (and no one in the room was paying any attention at all), I admit it sounded like I was ready, willing and able to give him an advance education.

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The word power again seems to be important here for me. I was typing one of the most dynamic speeches given by the President to date and if I was inclined to pass it on before release, I guess I was in a very good position to do so. The thought never crossed my mind -- or I should say, it crossed my mind that it was something I could never do, but it seemed important to make my friend believe I could or would -- a bit sadistic I would say, like passing water before a thirsty man.

I hung up the phone knowing full well the first time he would hear or see the speech was on television or in the newspapers. The incident passed quickly, not taking more than a few minutes of my time. The next week, Laura, was given a job that had been my assignment -- a highly sensitive one. Nothing was said to me as to why, but for some strange reason, my mind flashed back to the Boston phone call and I always wondered whether there was a connection. If my conversation was overheard, I deserved more than just reducing my workload of very private information. It was a slap in the face, and at the same time, a humbling experience. It brought me back to earth and never again did I feel the urge to impress anyone with my position.

I felt I had proved my loyalty to Kissinger and the President, but seeing my conversation in black and white would be hard to convince someone otherwise.

While away from Washington, security was tightened and everyone followed the rules layed out by the Secret Service. The

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President's plane was guarded by the Air Force 24 hours a day (this was, in fact, true while at Andrews AFB as well). Hotels occupied by the President and staff were guarded 24 hours a day and "swept" with a fine-toothed comb before our arrival. Cars used for transportation to and from the airport were driven by men cleared by the Secret Service. Hotel rooms and telephones were thoroughly checked prior to our arrival.

Depending upon the countries we visited, security briefings were general in nature. Before leaving for the trip around the world in the late Summer of 1969, and since we would be visiting Rumania, the briefings were quite specific. Some of the information covered, I thought, came right out of "007". We were told that it was a custom in Europe to leave shoes outside the hotel room door to be shined during the night. This was a no-no! Suppose "someone" put a microphone in the heel, every conversation would be monitored. We were not to talk to each other regarding business in the space provided to us for offices. We wrote notes or whispered in each other's ear. Offices were never to be left unattended for one minute.

There will be more on Rumania later, but one security item that I recall was pretty funny. As usual, upon arrival there were many things to be done; papers to be typed, transcription of notes from Presidential meetings, copies to be made, etc. A copy machine was provided which I needed to use almost immediately. It was located all by itself in a small room a short distance from our office. I organized my papers, ran to the room, lifted

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the lid to the machine, and there staring at me was the lens of
the camera. It was the spookiest sight I ever saw. My first
thought was, of course, *that* there was another camera hidden in
the machine that would take pictures of everything I copied and
be relayed somewhere else for all to see. I slammed the lid
shut, gathered my papers and ran as fast as I could back to the
office. Totally out of breath, and white as a sheet, I tried to
explain to Kissinger's aide what had just happened. He laughed
at my hysteria (just how hysterical can one be when all you can
do is whisper) and said the machine had already been checked and
that nothing was found. The machine was safe to use and under
guard. Each time I made copies, I just couldn't look directly at
that camera -- it was still like a huge, piercing eye and it gave
me goosebumps.

On July 23, 1969, the President stopped on Johnston Island
in the South Pacific for an overnight stay. The following
morning, he traveled to the aircraft carrier _Hornet_ by helicopter
to greet the Apollo XI astronauts immediately after their
historical splashdown. There was really nothing for me to do but
wait, relax and enjoy the beautiful island inhabited by hundreds
of men -- men who hadn't seen a woman for a long time. Since
there were only about three women in the entire entourage,
the Secret Service had their hands full keeping the natives
from getting restless. (That wasn't their only job, but
it did make for an interesting diversion for them). We had a

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delightful cabin whose occupant cheerfully moved out during our stay. The weather was hot and dry, but absolutely heavenly.

We were anxious to visit the Olympic sized swimming pool, but our driver tried to discourage us. Not understanding what could possibly be the problem, we pleaded our case -- it was hot, there was nothing else to do, it was going to be a long trip, so why not slip some recreation into our schedule. He gave in but insisted on driving us the two blocks. We thought that was silly since we were perfectly capable of walking and felt he was being over protective. Under the circumstances, he was at our disposal, but we also were instructed to follow any rules established for our safety. So off we went.

We weren't in the pool more than five minutes, when we looked around and saw approximately 500 men grinning at us. What a sight it was for them, and how uncomfortable it was for us. Now I know how a monkey in the zoo feels. It took five more minutes for us to decide it wasn't such a good idea to stay at the pool so we called our driver (who was less than 10 feet away and expected we would need him) and asked him to drive us home. The men on the island were briefed on our arrival and were all very polite and gentlemenly, but at the same time, we all understood that 500 to 3 made for very uncomfortable odds. So we stayed in our cabin the whole night not wanting to cause a riot. All that attention was most flattering.

After my first experience with my CIA briefing, I was always careful whom I talked to and about what. It wasn't so much as

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who they were -- it was who I was. I didn't make it a practice,
when out socially, to tell people I worked for Henry Kissinger
or that I reported to the White House every day. I simply said
I worked for the government. It seems people were much more
impressed with what I did *than* the barrage of questions
about what really went on behind those iron gates were absurd.
It has been to my disadvantage at times in seeking employment
since leaving the government. No one can understand that their
particular job would be interesting for me after spending four
years at the White House -- they hint that I am overqualified.

One thing they will always be able to say about me -- I can
keep a secret.