AN ADMINISTRATION DIES

By Henry Kissinger

In the early summer of 1974, Washington was a city awaiting the catharsis of the Watergate obsession. No one knew when the climax would come; but there was no longer any doubt of its imminence or inevitability. On July 19, the majority and minority counsels of the House Judiciary Committee joined in urging a Senate trial on one or more of four central impeachment charges. "Reasonable men acting reasonably," they maintained, "would find the President guilty."

Nixon was in San Clemente awaiting the unfolding of events he could no longer control. I flew to California for two brief stretches to be with him. He rarely spoke about Watergate; when he did, it was not about the substance but about the arithmetic of the impeachment vote. He was a man awake during his own nightmare. His vaunted self-discipline had not prevented the debacle and may even have caused it. He had suppressed the instincts that would normally have alerted him to his peril; he had been sustained on the fatal course by associates who subordinated policy to procedure and who were at a loss as to how to react when the procedures miscarried.

Those of us who had worked with Nixon found it impossible to join in the wave of outrage sweeping through the media. We did not condone the shabby practices revealed by Watergate; we were as appalled as anyone--perhaps more so considering that it was our efforts to build a better world that were being wrecked. Nor did we have any illusions about the evasions and untruths unearthed. But we had a different perspective. We could see how these actions had helped to turn a serious error into a national disaster. We knew Nixon had not so much lied as convinced himself of an expedient account.

Yet even when Nixon was reduced to impotence, when every minor-league American bureaucrat dared to challenge him with impunity, foreign leaders almost without exception remained respectful. The majority did so because they had been drawn into the orbit of our design. Almost all thought that they were better off with the international system as it existed than with any alternative that they could imagine. The Soviets wanted to preserve detente as a counterweight to China; the Chinese needed us as a counterweight to the Soviets; the industrial democracies harassed us when it was safe but relied on us for security and progress; the nations of the Middle East had no alternative to the peace process under our aegis. We had built better than we perhaps knew; the greatest tribute Nixon received was the quiescence of the nations of the world while he lay mortally wounded. But it was clear that we were losing control over events. Sooner or later something would get out of hand. The unspoken corollary was that our own constitutional crisis had to be brought to an end if the nation was to avoid catastrophe.

The climax was heralded by the U.S. Supreme Court. On July 24, it ruled 8 to 0 that Executive privilege, though a valid doctrine, could not prevail over the impartial administration of justice. The President must turn over to Judge John Sirica the 64 tapes subpoenaed for the cover-up trial of six former Administration officials. For those of us who knew Nixon's way of talking, the ruling spelled the end; if the tapes did not prove fatal legally, they would politically.

Senator Jacob Javits told me that he did not expect the Senate impeachment trial to start before November; the outcome would not be certain until late January. It was a horrendous prospect. Worse, Javits predicted that Nixon would be forced to be "in court" for the greater part of the trial.

Two days after the Supreme Court ruling, on July 26, I introduced West German Foreign Minister Hans-Dietrich Genscher to Nixon at San Clemente. I was shocked by the ravages just a week had wrought on Nixon's appearance. His coloring was pallid. It clearly took every ounce of his energy to conduct a serious conversation. What he said was intelligent enough, yet was put forth as if it no longer mattered. Later, Genscher and I walked along the cliff overlooking the Pacific. "How long can this go on?" he asked. What would happen to our allies if the presidency remained paralyzed? What about the structure of peace?

That afternoon I broke an unspoken rule between Haig and myself. We had both shied away from mentioning the possibility of Nixon's resignation; it would not do to show doubt even to each other; it was our duty to keep the Government going. But things had gone too far; a catastrophe was clearly imminent. I had begun to feel as survivors sometimes do toward the terminally ill. I hoped that since the end was unavoidable, it would, for the sake of our country, be quick; and that if it had to happen it would, for the sake of the President, be merciful. So I asked Haig: "How long can this go on?" Haig seemed tired. He did not know how it would end, he said. He was unfamiliar with the tapes. But, like me, he was convinced that a "smoking gun" would emerge. Nixon said too many things that he did not really mean to be able to withstand this kind of scrutiny.

I said that since the end of Nixon's presidency was now inevitable, it was in the national interest that it occur as rapidly as possible. An impeachment trial had to be avoided. But Nixon's fall must not occur as the result of a push by his closest associates. If possible, he had to resign because his own judgment of the national interest dictated it. Or else he should be brought to this realization by elected officials. Haig said he agreed. When the critical point arrived, he added, he counted on me to stand shoulder to shoulder with him as we had so often in the past.

Only those who lived through the fervid atmosphere of those months can fully appreciate the debt the nation owes Al Haig. By sheer will power, dedication and selfdiscipline, he succeeded in conveying the impression of a functioning White House. To be sure, only a man of colossal self-confidence could have sustained such a role. His methods were sometimes rough; his insistence on formal status could be grating. But the role assigned to Haig was not one that could be filled by choirboys. Without him. I doubt that a catastrophe could have been avoided.

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