By Jesse Marx
By Chris Parker
By Jake Rossen
By Jesse Marx
By Michelle LeBow
By Alleen Brown
By Maggie LaMaack
By CP Staff
In strictly political terms, the week of February 8 proved the roughest yet at Bunker 1600. It began with an hour-long appearance on Meet the Press in which the president ducked and mumbled like a punch-drunk, rope-hugging fighter waiting for the bell. The public mostly missed it, but the chattering classes were shocked--archconservatives most of all. Author and radio host Laura Ingraham (think Ann Coulter, without the personality disorder) declared that this was not the George W. Bush "we" elected. Republican columnist Bob Novak, a soldier so loyal he last year outed an undercover CIA agent at the behest of the White House, harrumphed that the interview was Strike Two on Bush's reelection effort. (The State of the Union was Strike One.) And op-ed diva Peggy Noonan deserves some sort of award for finding ponies in piles of horseshit. The Bush I speechwriter and grande dame of Republican letters explained Bush's Rain Man demeanor this way: Democrats, you see, are all about "talking points," while Republicans are all about philosophy of governance, which does not yield talking points, which is why the president found himself unable to say anything.
To make matters worse, reporters began showing up bright and early Monday morning to see the National Guard service records that Bush had categorically and perhaps unintentionally promised Tim Russert he would provide. (When Bush made the pledge, he added that he had already made the records public during the 2000 campaign, which he patently had not done--raising some doubt as to what Bush thought he was promising, and lending credence to the widespread suspicion that, for whatever reason, the president was even less than usual the master of his own words that morning.) In any event, the White House reacted as though caught by surprise. At first it released very limited records that indicated Bush received pay, sporadically, during part of the time he stands accused of going AWOL from his Alabama National Guard unit. For Wednesday's late news cycle their sole release recorded a Bush dental exam at the Alabama base in 1973, demonstrating conclusively that the president had done the right thing with respect to--his teeth.
After that stinker, the clamor rose to such levels that on Thursday, Team W finally assented to "full" release of his military file. No one has entirely digested the resulting document dump yet, but here are a few salient points raised or left hanging by the disclosures so far:
It's clear enough that Bush passed his time in Alabama as he had spent his days at Yale, in full-time pursuit of a career as the prodigal son. No one seems to have noticed that one of the most notorious of Bush's reported "youthful indiscretions" occurred during the period when he was assigned to the Alabama Guard. During the 1972 Christmas holiday, Bush was visiting his parents in Washington when he and 15-year-old brother Marvin got crocked at a party and wound up dragging a neighbor's metal garbage can home under their car. According to a 2000 Time campaign profile, Bush Senior summoned his son to the family den: "'I hear you're looking for me,' the son told the father. 'You wanna go mano a mano right here?' It was Jeb who tried to ease the tension by announcing to the Bush parents that W had just been accepted at Harvard Business School. They hadn't even known he had applied, but they leaped at the idea until he told them, 'Oh, I'm not going. I just wanted to let you know I could get into it.'"
He was 26 then, by Barbara Bush's own account a "late bloomer," which is what better mothers everywhere call sons who are chronic fuck-ups. If you're Uncle Sam, do you want this character flying your expensive fighter jets?
But it's a mistake to suppose the real question is what Bush did in the National Guard. As ever, the cover-up outstrips the crime. A former Guard official named Bill Burkett has gone public with the claim that he saw 20 to 40 pages of documents from Bush's service file in a wastebasket, where they had been tossed by campaign operatives during a 1997 purge of the then-governor's records. Burkett's account has been publicly denied by one of the Guard officials he says he spoke to at the time, George Conn. One problem: Two years ago, Conn told USA Today reporter Dave Moniz that Burkett had indeed discussed the Bush file cleansing with him when it happened.
Conn isn't the only one who's changed his tune. William Leon, a freedom of information officer in the Texas Guard, confirmed to USA Today in 2002 that there had been meetings regarding Bush's file. Contacted by the paper again last week, Leon spat: "Don't ever call me again at home. I'll call your publisher and sue you." On the face of it, the president's men appear to be leaning on people.
There may be more to conceal than meets the eye. What the press corps is really after at this point has not been laid on the table: a persistent buzz that during the period in question, Bush was either in treatment or doing community service to expunge a criminal offense from his record, or both. Helen Thomas hinted at it in an extraordinary exchange with press secretary Scott McClellan last week in which she repeatedly raised the question of Bush's "community service." I can't reproduce it here, but I'll link to the transcript at my CP blog, Bush Wars. The Guard issue is hardly over, though Democrats would do well to turn the focus from the matter of Bush's service--about which two-thirds of the public does not care, according to a Washington Post poll--to the abiding cover-up, which speaks volumes about the way the Bushmen do business. Ask Paul O'Neill.