Buzz's Bedtime Stories

1) Buzz Cut: Bedtime Stories – Golf and Dereliction of Duty On my X (Twitter) account, @BuzzPatterson, I frequently post “war stories” from my years flying in the Air Force and carrying the “nuclear football” for PresidentBill Clinton. I tongue-in-cheek call them “Buzz’s Bedtime Stories.” Originally, they were intended for lighthearted storytelling and a sanity break from the hourly onslaught of negativity and politics on social media, but the response has been tremendous. So, let’s continue! Gather around. Grab a blanket and get cozy. Tonight, we talk about Bill Clinton, golf, and the murder of thousands of Kurds in Northern Iraq. Portions are excerpted from https://t.co/mLc3nWRlvx. “Eagle departing, South Lawn,” crackled in radio in my van. The motorcade wound its way out the White House South Gate, and into the streets of Washington, D.C., and onto the George Washington Parkway. This was the scaled-down procession normally used for “unofficial” events. It included a lead police car, the presidential limousine, the Counter Assault Team truck, the Control vehicle, which I normally occupied, and the black communication’s van “Roadrunner.” The obligatory press corps van, or the “Death Watch,” brought up the rear. On this rainy Friday afternoon, we were on our way to watch the Presidents Cup golf tournament in Lake Manassas, Virginia. It was September 13, 1996 and I’d only been working for Clinton for three months. Clinton loved his golf and having just returned from three days of campaigning on the West Coast and an early-morning cross country flight on Air Force One, we were up and at it again. This was the Presidents Cup, the team from the US versus the world, and President Clinton wasn’t going to miss it. Shortly before three in the afternoon, we arrived at the course. I walked him to the VIP tent, just outside the clubhouse back door, on a deck overlooking the eighteenth green. The president was seated under a protective tarpaulin with other distinguished guests and surround by food and drink. During events like these. I kept close enough to the president to always be within sight and on call, but far enough away to be unobtrusive. If this had been an official event, I would have been in full uniform, Air Force blue, with the traditional silver aiguillette hanging from my right shoulder, signifying the military aide to the president. Today, I was much less obvious, wearing a sport shirt and khakis, with my White House ID hanging around my neck and a Secret Service pin on my lapel. The obligatory large black satchel, the “nuclear football,” was alway at my side. Almost immediately after we arrived, I was summoned to Roadrunner, the black communications van manned by members of the White House Communication Agency. On the phone was Sandy Berger, the White House National Security Advisor. Berger wanted me to approach the president. He needed a decision quickly. “Major, we’re poised to launch air strikes on Iraq and I need the president’s nod.” These were busy days on the domestic and national security fronts. Just two weeks earlier, Saddam Hussein had sent three tank divisions, composed of between thirty and forty thousand of the elite Republican Guard, to capture the northern Kurdish city of Irbil, forcing the mass exodus of up to three hundred thousand refugees. We, the US, had pledged our support to the Kurds, the Pentagon had pilots and warships armed and ready to go. Berger simply needed a decision. I approached President Clinton, trying to attract his eye as respectfully as I could without interfering with his conversations. He looked at me with a perturbed sigh and frowning eyebrows. Nonetheless, he asked, “What do you need, Buzz? “ “Sir, Mr. Berger is on the line and needs a decision about the proposed attack on Iraq.” “Tell him, I’ll get back to him later.” I returned to the communications van and the waiting phone. “Mr. Berger, the president said he’d get back to you later.” Berger groused and hung up.