Waiting: One Wife's Year of the Vietnam War

Chapter 20

{Chapter 20} While reading the newspapers for more information about the Tate murders , I could not miss the headlines that announced President Nixon was coming to San Francisco. I had never lived in a place accorded a presidential visit. I found it exciting that I could get a firsthand look at Lee’s commander -in-chief when I read that his first stop would be at the Presidio. Susan, of course, thought I was crazy, declaring that she wouldn’t walk across the street to see Nixon. Were she to involve herself in any way with the President’s visit, it would be to join the protests during his downtown stop. No way would I have put my body and baby in jeopardy by being part of the throng in the streets, because the protests against the war were growing uglier at a frightening rate. However, I knew I could count on the military to control the situation at the Presidio. Anyone who looked at all suspicious, especially those with long hair, would be kept outside the installation gates. The Nixon visit to the Presidio would be as safe and sedate as Sunday morning church. I arrived at the post three hours before Nixon was scheduled to land, determined to get a close-range view. I was so early, in fact, that the troops were still roping off a plot of the asphalt runway as the designated area for the crowd. Selecting what I deemed to be front row center, I took my place as the lone welcoming committee—feeling conspicuous and foolish but also resolved. A few gray-suited men with walkie-talkies shot darting looks at me, determining if my midriff bulge was a baby or a bomb. During the second hour of my vigil, the ranks of the waiting grew, but not dramatically. The sun was bright and warm; it was a really beautiful day in the Bay area. In fact it was getting downright hot, I realized as I took off my jacket and shifted my weight from one leg to another. I should [146] chapter 20 have eaten breakfast, I thought, as a tingling wave of cool swept over me. I took several deep breaths. I could not, would not, faint here. I threw my jacket onto the asphalt and lowered myself into a sitting position. By the time the helicopter came into view, the crowd to greet Nixon had grown to a respectable but still conservative size. With the thrill of the President’s arrival, I felt revived and stood up. The crowd cheered as the large helicopter touched down and the door slipped open. I found myself smiling and cheering, too. A day to remember, I told myself. Then Nixon, arms extended overhead and fingers forked into Vs, stepped out and bestowed a toothy grin upon us. I frowned at how much he resembled the caricatures in the editorial pages, but still, I reminded myself, he was Lee’s ultimate boss, so I would remain open-minded. Nixon joined his entourage on the asphalt. My heart sank, and the last of my patriotism vanished. The President of the United States was the smallest man on the tarmac, strutting like a king while his uniformed military greeters stooped to compensate for his lack of stature as they shook his hand. Nixon paraded before the crowd, passing less than ten feet from me. The top of his head would not have reached my chin. To know from newspapers that he was short and to see it for myself was two different pieces of information. I was appalled. Then I caught sight of Pat Nixon. Much prettier in person, she carried an aura of serenity—and everlasting sadness. Although she smiled on cue, her expression conveyed no joy, only more sorrow. And even she was taller than her husband. Nixon performed a token review of the troops, made a short speech, and then prissed his way through the remaining protocol before reboarding his helicopter. The only other detail that stood out was the sight of NBC reporter Herb Caplow walking by in a madras shirt and khaki pants. I was surprised to see that he limped—another television distortion. Not that it mattered. Anyway, Caplow was more impressive than Nixon, and taller, too. ...