Monday, Jan. 18, 1988
Why Is This Man Running?
By Alessandra Stanley
This is the last in a series of profiles published over the past year in which TIME has explored the backgrounds, personalities and political outlooks of the 1988 Democratic and Republican presidential candidates.
Alexander Haig picked the wrong 15 minutes to be famous. Shortly after President Reagan was shot in 1981, Haig went on television to reassure a frightened world that someone at the White House was in charge. Sweating, a crack in his voice, he uttered the immortal words, "I am in control here." He came off like a character from Dr. Strangelove, and has never been allowed to forget it. Bumper stickers were recently spotted bearing a mushroom cloud with the slogan HAIG FOR PRESIDENT. LET'S GET IT OVER WITH.
This week Haig will begin airing TV and radio ads in New Hampshire that try to put the episode in a more positive light. Titled "Take Charge," the TV spot opens on a serene Haig, casually dressed in a suede jacket and orange shirt, seated before a roaring fireplace. Chariots of Fire-style music swells in the background as Haig calmly recalls how, in a "dangerous atmosphere," when the Pentagon was on nuclear alert and Moscow was confused, he had come forward and "said what had to be said." He leans into the camera and confides, "I'd do it again."
The retired four-star general has been an actor in some of the most important crises of the postwar era. On paper, he seems an ideal Chief Executive. Yet Haig has trouble being taken seriously. It is not just that his chances are so slim, that he has no political base, money or organization. Haig has a flaw that is far more fatal: he simply cannot gauge his effect on an audience. His campaign is based in part on proving that "I'm not the ogre people thought." But he is having a tough time doing it.
Campaigning late one evening in an American Legion hall in Portsmouth, N.H., Haig made a point about the Persian Gulf, then slapped a veteran at the bar on the back and demanded, "Right?" The man mumbled his allegiance to Democrat Michael Dukakis. "You mean you're Greek?" Haig bellowed. Wagging a finger playfully, Haig continued, "Beware of Greeks bearing gifts." No answer. Haig walked away, then turned back. "I'll tell you something about Greek sailors," he said, adding a locker-room comment about the danger of turning one's back on them. Startled, the Dukakis supporter at last looked up, as Haig filled the stunned silence with a hearty guffaw.
His old boss Henry Kissinger labeled Haig "colossally self-confident." On the campaign trail, only Jesse Jackson has as much panache. Genial one moment, Haig can then lower his voice, narrow his eyes in what an aide once described as a "laser blue death ray" and deliver a bitter, blistering attack on George Bush. Often hailed as a hero, Haig also has a sinister mystique: while a deputy in the White House, he helped manage the secret wiretapping program ordered by Nixon and Kissinger, and he made regular trips to the FBI to read the transcripts. In Europe, where he performed masterfully as commander of NATO, Haig is revered. He may be the only American besides Jerry Lewis the French truly like. But in America, according to the TIME poll taken last week, 46% of Republicans said they had a "generally unfavorable" impression of him, compared with only 27% who gave him a favorable rating.
Haig's intensity and quicksilver mood shifts fueled a silly rumor that circulated when he was an angry and embattled Secretary of State. Haig, it was whispered, became mentally unstable after his 1980 double-bypass operation. Haig still pins the story on his old nemesis Richard Allen, Reagan's first National Security Adviser, who, Haig claims, kept a report on the psychological effects of bypass surgery in his White House office. Haig, laughing mirthlessly, says Allen even showed it to Nixon, who rang Haig for an explanation.
! If nothing else, the 1988 campaign gives Haig a chance to vindicate himself: he is not crazy, he is in control, and he feels he was right in his losing battle against his small-minded colleagues in the Reagan White House. Critics who accuse him of merely trying to boost future lecture fees are missing the point. Haig means it when he asserts that he would be a good President, tough and clear-minded on issues ranging from the deficit to arms control. His ideas are, in fact, sophisticated and sensible. Haig knows his chances are dim. He blames the system and the Republican Party "apparatchik" for locking him out. But he believes in himself, and has nothing to lose and much satisfaction to gain by selling that belief to the public.
There is an unmistakable I-told-you-so relish to his voice as he belittles Reagan's foreign policy mistakes. His contempt for George Bush is genuine. Haig's most important effect on the 1988 campaign may come from his search- and-destroy missions against Bush during the debates. Even if Haig's barbs don't cost Bush the nomination, they will serve as ammunition for a Democratic challenger in the fall.
Raised in a middle-class Catholic family in a Philadelphia suburb, Haig was energetic and determined even as a boy, with his sights set on being a soldier. His older sister Regina recalls young Alec at age four, in a little cap, blowing his toy bugle until his lips were raw and swollen. His father, a lawyer, died when Alec was ten, and his mother raised three children alone, aided financially by a prosperous uncle. Haig had his heart set on West Point, but had to apply twice and use his uncle's political connections to get in. Haig was not a model cadet. He amassed some 158 hours of punishment in his first two years for, among other things, "gross public displays of affection" (kissing). Haig roguishly explains, "I had a lot of fun." He graduated 214th in his class of 310 in 1947. His yearbook tweaks him for "strong convictions and even stronger ambitions."
He met his wife Patricia in occupied Japan, where he was assigned to the 1st Cavalry Division. He played football and drove a Kaiser; she was very pretty, conventtrained and a general's daughter. They were married under crossed swords in 1950, then Haig went off to the Korean front as an aide-de- camp to General Edward Almond.
Haig, thrice decorated, now hates being asked about one legendary war story. As the U.S. Army evacuated Hungnam, he went back and blew up General Almond's sunken bathtub so that Chinese generals couldn't soak in it. Haig says what he did was "routine" and thinks some accounts make him sound like "some kind of martinet fanatic." Exasperated, his feet tapping nervously, Haig laments, "The whole thing was told as a joke." Haig often complains that people can't tell when he is kidding. Sometimes they can't understand what he's saying. Haigspeak was a term invented to explain such neologisms as "vortex of cruciality" and "contexted."
Haig saw combat again in Viet Nam as a lieutenant colonel in 1966. He won the Distinguished Service Cross at the battle of Ap Gu, displaying the kind of hard-driving leadership that later drove some of his civilian subordinates crazy. There it saved lives. After the first attack subsided, Haig drove his exhausted men to keep digging trenches late into the night. When the Viet Cong launched a second massive attack at 4 a.m., Haig's men were protected and ready.
After Viet Nam, Haig was assigned to West Point as a regimental commander. He soon tangled with a rebellious cadet, Lucian Truscott IV, who partly modeled the villain of his West Point novel, Dress Gray, after Haig. Haig remembers Truscott as a troublemaker ("he had a proclivity for challenging authority"), but says he holds no grudge. He confides, "Norman Mailer -- he's a friend of mine -- told me that Truscott now respects and admires me greatly." Truscott disagrees.
Though other cadets do not remember him as Truscott's devious nitpicker, Haig is defensive about the caricature. He was particularly annoyed that Truscott accused him of making decisions without consulting his West Point superior, a charge Haig vehemently denies. But Armed Forces Journal Editor Benjamin Schemmer obtained a 1967 report about Haig by Bernard Rogers, then West Point commandant, who later succeeded Haig at NATO. "I have complete confidence in his ability to handle serious matters," Rogers wrote, "whether or not they fall within his purview."
He went to Kissinger's National Security Council in 1969 as a military adviser. Haig shone in the Nixon White House, cheerfully outdoing other workaholics. He became indispensable as "Kissinger's Kissinger." He advised Nixon on the covert war in Cambodia and also helped negotiate the secret Vietnamese peace talks. Once he returned in disgust from a Saigon meeting with South Vietnamese President Nguyen Van Thieu and told a colleague, "I should have shot the son of a bitch."
Haig proved to be a tough bureaucratic infighter in a notoriously rough-and- tumble White House. Kissinger grew to resent the way Haig insinuated himself with Nixon. The two once fought over who would have the room closest to Nixon's on a trip to the Kremlin in 1974. Haig got the room, but now says that his aides -- "the maniacs down the line" -- led the charge. "It didn't make a bit of difference to me," Haig insists, adding with a chuckle, "It might have made a difference to Mr. Nixon, though." Haig and Nixon remain close, talking by phone about politics and world affairs at least once a week.
Haig had left the White House and was back at the Pentagon when the Watergate scandal broke. Nixon appointed him White House chief of staff after John Ehrlichman and H.R. Haldeman resigned. Unswervingly loyal to Nixon, Haig nevertheless established a good relationship with Watergate Special Prosecutor Leon Jaworski. Many credit Haig with running the country while Nixon fought impeachment.
By the time he left NATO in 1979, Haig had won praise from initially skeptical allies for restoring the morale and readiness of allied troops. Upon his return to the U.S., he briefly contemplated a run for the White House, then settled down to make money as president of United Technologies Corp. for a year before becoming Secretary of State.
He had run a White House and a business, formulated policy and fought wars, and he wanted to run Reagan's foreign policy without interference. But his aggressive manner alienated Reagan's laid-back Californians. David Stockman called him a "bully." The ruling troika of James Baker, Edwin Meese and Michael Deaver, which Haig later took to calling the "three-headed hydra- monster," never trusted him. Haig hotly denies that his disputes with the White House staff were based on personality. "My problems were substantive from day one." After several threats of resignation, Haig's offer was accepted by Reagan in June 1982.
Haig has become wealthy since he left public office. His international consulting firm, Worldwide Associates Inc., has done so well that he paid himself $2.7 million over the past two years. He advises such companies as Boeing and Amway Corp. and serves on the boards of half a dozen major companies. Early on, some of his advisers and aides expected him to take a leave from his business and focus solely on campaigning. "I had hoped he'd make a 110% commitment," said one former staffer.
Haig insists he has cut back on his private endeavors while running for President, and he estimates that he has given up $500,000 in speaking fees alone. But he sees no reason to curtail other business activities, including acting as a paid consultant to a South Korean conglomerate. "It's ludicrous to say that because you're running for President you can't eat," Haig retorts, eyes smoldering.
Long accustomed to deference and heavy staff support, Haig campaigns more like a front runner than a financially strapped dark horse. He careers through the South behind police motorcades. His staff tries to rent official-looking black limousines. In New Hampshire, Haig prefers suites in cozy inns to more practical, less costly motels. His aides refer to him as "the general."
Haig rarely misses his Sunday game of doubles tennis, and refuses to skip a board meeting. He is too proud to prostrate himself to politics. In a way, his business activities are a hedge against embarrassment. Whenever Haig is asked about losing, he defiantly retorts, "I'll smile all the way to the bank."