George Bush - Decision Points

I saw a contradiction. The “clear, hold, and build” strategy was troop-intensive. But our generals wanted to reduce our footprint. He picked up on my doubts. “I need to do a better job explaining it to you,” General Casey said.

“You do,” I replied.

The summer of 2006 was the worst period of my presidency. I thought about the war constantly. While I was heartened by the determination of the Maliki government and the death of Zarqawi, I was deeply concerned that the violence was overtaking all else. An average of 120 Iraqis a day were dying. The war had stretched to more than three years and we had lost more than 2,500 Americans. By a margin of almost two to one, Americans said they disapproved of the way I was handling Iraq.

For the first time, I worried we might not succeed. If Iraq split along sectarian lines, our mission would be doomed. We could be looking at a repeat of Vietnam—a humiliating loss for the country, a shattering blow to the military, and a dramatic setback for our interests. If anything, the consequences of defeat in Iraq would be even worse than in Vietnam. We would leave al Qaeda with a safe haven in a country with vast oil reserves. We would embolden a hostile Iran in its pursuit of nuclear weapons. We would shatter the hopes of people taking risks for freedom across the Middle East. Ultimately, our enemies could use their sanctuary to attack our homeland. We had to stop that from happening.

I made a conscious decision to show resolve, not doubt, in public. I wanted the American people to understand that I believed wholeheartedly in our cause. The Iraqis needed to know we would not abandon them. Our enemies needed to know we were determined to defeat them. Most of all, I thought about our troops. I tried to imagine how it would feel to be a twenty-year-old on the front lines, or a military mom worrying about her son or daughter. The last thing they needed to hear was the commander in chief whining about how conflicted he felt. If I had concerns about the direction of the war, I needed to make changes in the policy, not wallow in public.

I drew strength from family, friends, and faith. When we visited Camp David, Laura and I loved to worship with military families at the base’s chapel. The chaplain in 2006, forty-eight-year-old Navy Lieutenant Commander Stan Fornea, was one of the best preachers I’ve ever heard. “Evil is real, biblical, and prevalent,” he said in one sermon. “Some say ignore it, some say it doesn’t exist. But evil must not be ignored, it must be restrained.” He quoted Sir Edmund Burke, the eighteenth-century British leader: “The only thing needed for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.”

Stan believed that the answer to evil was freedom. He also knew there would be a cost. “There has never been a noble cause devoid of sacrifice,” he said in one sermon. “If freedom is worthy of defense only to the point it costs us nothing then we are in desperate need as a nation.”

Above all, Stan was an optimist, and his sense of hope lifted my spirits. “The Scriptures put great premiums on faithfulness, perseverance, and overcoming,” he said. “We do not quit or give up. We always believe there is no such thing as a hopeless situation.”

I also found solace in history. In August, I read Lincoln: A Life of Purpose and Power, by Richard Carwardine, one of fourteen Lincoln biographies I read during my presidency. They brought to life the devastation Lincoln felt as he read telegrams describing Union defeats at places like Chancellorsville, where the Union suffered seventeen thousand casualties, or Chickamauga, where sixteen thousand were wounded or killed.

The casualties were not his only struggle. Lincoln had to cycle through one commander after another until he found one who would fight. He watched his son Willie die in the White House and his wife, Mary Todd, sink into depression. Yet thanks to his faith in God and his deep belief that he was waging war for a just cause, Lincoln persisted.

One hallmark of Lincoln’s leadership was that he established an affectionate bond with rank-and-file soldiers. In the darkest days of the war, he spent long hours with the wounded at the Soldiers’ Home in Washington. His empathy taught a powerful lesson and served as a model for other war presidents to follow.

One of the most moving parts of my presidency was reading letters from the families of fallen service members. I received hundreds, and they spanned the full spectrum of reactions. Many of the letters expressed a common sentiment: Finish the job. The parents of a fallen soldier from Georgia wrote, “Our greatest heartache would be to see the mission in Iraq abandoned.” A grieving grandmother in Arizona emailed, “We need to finish what we started before pulling out.”

In December 2005, I received a letter from a man in Pensacola, Florida: Dear President Bush,My name is Bud Clay. My son, SSgt Daniel Clay [United States Marine Corps] was killed last week 12/01/05 in Iraq. He was one of the ten Marines killed by the IED in Falluja.Dan was a Christian—he knew Jesus as Lord and Savior—so we know where he is. In his final letter (one left with me for the family—to be read in case of his death) he says, “If you are reading this, it means my race is over.” He’s home now—his and our real home.I am writing to you to tell you how proud we (his parents and family) are of you and what you are trying to do to protect us all. This was Dan’s second tour in Iraq—he knew and said that his being there was to protect us. Many do not see it that way.I want to encourage you. I hear in your speeches about “staying the course.” I also know that many are against you in this “war on Terror” and that you must get weary in the fight to do what is right. We and many others are praying for you to see this through—as Lincoln said “that these might not have died in vain.”You have a heavy load—we are praying for you.God bless you,Bud Clay

I invited Bud; his wife, Sara Jo; and Daniel’s widow, Lisa, to my State of the Union address the next month. Before the speech, I met the Clays in the Oval Office. We hugged, and they reiterated that I was in their prayers. I was inspired by their strength. God had worked an amazing deed, turning their hearts from grief to compassion. Their faith was so evident and real that it reconfirmed my own. I was hoping to lift the Clays’ spirits, but they lifted mine.

They weren’t the only ones. On New Year’s Day 2006, Laura and I traveled to Brooke Army Medical Center in San Antonio. We visited fifty-one wounded service members and their families. In one room, we met Staff Sergeant Christian Bagge of the Oregon National Guard, along with his wife, Melissa. Christian had been on patrol in Iraq when his Humvee hit a roadside bomb. He was pinned in the vehicle for forty-five minutes and lost both legs.

Christian told me he used to be a runner and planned to run again someday. That was hard to imagine. I hoped to buoy his spirits. “When you’re ready, just call me,” I said. “I will run with you.”

On June 27, 2006, I met Christian on the South Lawn. He had two prosthetic legs made of carbon fiber. We took a couple of laps around the jogging track Bill Clinton had installed. I marveled at Christian’s strength and spirit. I could barely believe this was the same man who had been confined to a hospital bed less than six months earlier. He did not look at himself as a victim. He was proud of what he had done in Iraq, and he hoped his example might inspire others.