Rumsfeld helped deliver justice to 9/11 terrorists

With the passing of Donald Rumsfeld, our country has lost a great leader who helped liberate 50 million people from tyranny, deliver justice to the terrorists who attacked us on Sept. 11, 2001, and transform our military for the threats of a new century. And I lost a great boss and a dear friend who transformed my life in countless ways.

His work ethic was legendary. After the 9/11 attacks, we traveled 250,000 miles around the world, visiting combat zones and foreign capitals. His senior staff spent so much time in the plane with him, we called ourselves “Rummy’s tube dwellers.” He would often visit two or three countries in a single day. On a single trip, we’d stop in Afghanistan, Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Uzbekistan and Turkmenistan. (The reporters traveling with us had T-shirts made which read: “Rummy’s onenight stand tour.”)

One of my jobs was to write his memorandum to the president summarizing his impressions from his trip. This memo had to be completed (along with every cable and thank-you letter from his meetings) before the plane landed. So we would spend a day in, say, Baghdad, then board an overnight flight home during which we spent another 14-hour workday in the air, and then land at Andrews Air Force Base at 5 a.m. — at which point, Rumsfeld would walk into the staff cabin and say “See you in the office in two hours.” He meant it.

On one trip, his punchdrunk staff slipped a fake cable into his folder. We had just come back from a bizarre meeting with the leader of Turkmenistan, Saparmurat Niyazov, who had plastered seemingly every corner of his country with portraits and statues of himself. “Niyazov suggested U.S. consider having a giant neon portrait of President Bush displayed outside the Pentagon,” we wrote in the cable labeled STS (Super Top Secret). Rumsfeld must have been tired, too, as he edited a few sentences before he caught on and came out to have a laugh with us.

On another trip, he called me up to his cabin. He sat me down to explain the “Rule of 72.” On a cocktail napkin, he drew out an equation which showed how to determine the number of years it would take to double your money at an annual rate of return. He began calculating different sums, showing me how long it would take to turn a few thousand dollars saved now into a million. “That’s the miracle of compound interest,” he said. “It’s like having people working for you while you sleep.” He knew my first child had been born a few weeks after 9/11, and despite all the pressing matters on his mind, he was worried about the financial future of my young family.

In addition to conducting the nation’s business, he would offer up pearls of wisdom. He believed that the war on terror had given the United States a historic opportunity to cement new relationships with former Soviet states in Central

Asia. During one meeting, he explained to a Central Asian leader what he should expect from the United States. “It’s like getting into bed with a hippopotamus,” he said. “At first it feels all warm and fuzzy. But then, in the middle of the night, he rolls on top of you. And the worst part is, the son of a bitch doesn’t even know you’re there.”

Because he was a Princeton graduate, people trying to ingratiate themselves would often try to play the “Princeton card.” That was the kiss of death. He told me that he was a scholarship kid, and the only way he was able to afford Princeton was thanks to the ROTC and wrestling programs — both of which Princeton had eliminated.

His brilliance made it extremely frustrating to be his speechwriter. We would work tirelessly for weeks on a major address. Then during the Q&A, he would say something like “there are known-knowns, known-unknowns, and unknown-unknowns” and the prepared remarks would be forgotten in an instant.

I still find myself quoting him. When my kids do something dumb, I remind them of Rumsfeld’s First Rule of Holes: “When you’re in one, stop digging.” Most important, he taught me humility. “Remember, you are not all that important,” he would say, “your responsibilities are.” He was a remarkable man, whose lessons I will never forget.

RIP, D.R.