BEFORE JOHNSON HAD ENTERED the race, he had asked the Governor if he was going to run, and O’Daniel had assured him that he wasn’t. The news that he actually was came on the heels of a Belden Poll that said if he ran, he would crush any opponent; according to this forecast, the Governor would get 33 percent of the vote to 9 percent for Johnson. Discounting those figures, Johnson’s advisors assured him that the next poll would reflect the rapid increase in his popularity (as in fact, it did), but their Chief was beyond reassurance. He took to his bed. He himself was to recall that the shock “made me feel mighty bad. … I know that my throat got bad on me, and I had to spend a few days in the hospital.” In fact, he was in the hospital for almost two weeks. Although the illness was described by John Connally as “pneumonia,” another Johnson aide called it “nervous exhaustion,” and Lady Bird, unknowingly echoing a phrase used by other women who had known Lyndon Johnson when his ambitions were threatened, says, “He was depressed, and it was bad.” When doctors told Johnson he would have to be hospitalized, a violent scene erupted at his Happy Hollow Lane house. He insisted to Connally and Gordon Fulcher, an American-Statesman reporter working in his campaign, that his illness be kept secret—an insistence that the two aides considered irrational since he wouldn’t be able to make scores of public appearances that had already been scheduled; in Connally’s words, “He just threw a fit, went into a tirade, ordered us out of the house, said he never wanted to talk to us again.” (His hospitalization—not in Austin, but, for reasons of secrecy, at the private Scott and White Clinic in Temple, fifty-seven miles away—was in fact kept quiet for almost a week; fiery stump speaker Everett Looney substituted for Johnson at speaking engagements, saying that the candidate was “busy with organizational work”—an excuse echoed by Marsh’s cooperative American-Statesman. When, in the second week, the candidate’s whereabouts became public knowledge, the American-Statesman explained that “the young congressman is getting a much-needed rest from congressional and campaign worries.”) The situation became so serious that Wirtz abruptly resigned his Interior Department post and rushed back to Texas to run the campaign on the spot. There may even have been some doubt that Johnson would resume the campaign; there was quiet talk that if he didn’t get out of the hospital soon, he might withdraw, using his illness as an excuse. “But,” Lady Bird says, “he did get out.”
He came out—on May 26—much thinner than he had gone in. Whatever had put him in the hospital had melted away most of the fat; although he still had a round little pot belly, he had lost so much weight that the shoulders of his suits slumped down, and his pants bagged away from his body. He came out changed in demeanor, too—as humble with voters now that he feared he was losing as he had been arrogant when he had felt sure he was winning.
And he came out fighting.
In election campaigns in college and for the Little Congress, he had demonstrated a pragmatism that had shaded into the morality of the ballot box, a morality in which any maneuver that leads to victory is justified. Now he displayed the same morality on a larger stage.
There was a ruthlessness to it. Federal loans and grants could give communities and community leaders projects they needed; previously, Johnson had been offering to help communities obtain such grants. Now he changed tactics, using not only the promise but the threat—naked and direct. Communities were told that if they didn’t help him, he would see that they didn’t get such grants. The threat was used on the leaders of small communities and of large cities alike. Because electricity could transform the lives of farmers, Johnson’s influence with the Rural Electrification Administration was a powerful weapon in dealing with rural leaders. His liaison men were told to take off the kid gloves with these leaders. Two Johnson liaison men met, for example, with an influential farmer who was for Mann but whose community was desperate for electricity. Says one of the Johnson men: “We told him straight: ‘If your box comes in for Johnson, you’ll get the lines.’” If the box didn’t come in for Johnson, they made clear, the electric lines that meant so much to the community’s people would not be built. (The box came in for Johnson, and the community got electricity.) Fort Worth’s leading booster, Amon Carter, publisher of the Fort Worth Star-Telegram, wanted a number of federal projects. Stephen Early quoted him the price: support for Lyndon Johnson. (The Star-Telegram supported him in a front-page editorial, and Fort Worth got its projects.)
And there was a cynicism. He proclaimed himself the New Deal candidate, running under “the banner of Roosevelt.” Few political organizations in the United States hated that banner more than San Antonio’s “City Machine,” the organization that had been Jack Garner’s and that now was dominated by P. L. Anderson, the city’s police and fire chief, who wore in his necktie a diamond as big as a peanut, and by the Kilday brothers (Paul, the Congressman, and Owen, the Sheriff), to whom the New Deal was “radicalism” and “Communism.” The City Machine’s bitter enemy in San Antonio was Mayor Maury Maverick. Maverick was, moreover, one of Johnson’s oldest allies; he considered himself Johnson’s friend. The day after Johnson emerged from the hospital, however, Maverick was defeated in his bid for reelection as Mayor by the City Machine candidate, C. K. Quin, and abruptly ousted from power in San Antonio. Before the week was out, Johnson had entered into a secret but firm alliance with the City Machine.
Anderson, Quin and the Kildays were not the only Roosevelt-haters with whom the Roosevelt candidate now allied himself. Roy Miller, who as Garner’s campaign chief had led the “Stop Roosevelt” movement, is a convenient symbol; the great money-raiser was now quietly raising money for Lyndon Johnson. But at least Roy Miller was an old friend. Needing the power that they could put behind him in their cities and towns, Johnson made new friends. Telling them that in truth he believed as they did, that his campaign rhetoric had little relation to his real feelings, this “liberal” candidate enlisted, while continuing to wage a public campaign based entirely on support for Roosevelt, the private help of some of the most conservative men in Texas, reactionaries such as Dallas millionaire movie magnate Karl Hoblitzelle, who was shortly to organize an anti-labor crusade in Texas; when University of Texas economics instructors sought to speak in support of unions, Hoblitzelle played a leading role in having them fired.
THE CYNICISM was to be demonstrated also in his rallies.
Before O’Daniel had entered the race, Johnson and his advisors had loudly sneered—as did most educated Texans—at the Governor’s style of campaigning, with his hillbilly band, his cheap theatrics and his refusal to discuss the issues; O’Daniel’s rallies, they said—and Johnson was one of those who said it—were designed to appeal to the lowest common denominator among voters. Now Pass-the-Biscuits-Pappy was in the race, and Johnson no longer sneered at Pappy’s rallies. He copied them.
There was one major difference. If the candidate was the centerpiece at an O’Daniel rally, he was not at Johnson’s rallies. They were no longer even called “Johnson Rallies.” As one newspaper put it, Johnson and his strategists “have at last tumbled to the fact that they can’t get anywhere if they don’t … do something to offset their lack of speaking abilities.” The way to offset the candidate’s lack of personal appeal, his strategists had decided, was to de-emphasize the candidate. The emphasis was shifted to his issue—Roosevelt—and to a tie-in theme, equally as popular as war grew closer: patriotism. His appearances were called “Patriotic Rallies.” Most advertisements for them featured an “All-Out Patriotic Revue”; “a patriotic address by Congressman Lyndon Johnson” was generally in smaller type. And to minimize the candidate’s “lack of speaking ability” he was surrounded with pageantry. If Johnson had earlier seemed to be equating Senatorial with “stuffy,” that charge could certainly not be made about his rallies once O’Daniel had entered the race.
O’Daniel had made good use of a band. For Johnson’s rallies, a six-man swing ensemble was chosen, by audition, from the best musicians in Houston, and named The Patriots. To offset the app
eal of O’Daniel’s Texas Rose, two-hundred-eighty-five-pound Sophie Parker, “The Kate Smith of the South,” was hired, along with a thinner, notably shapely, country and western alto. Blackface comedians were hired, as were dancing girls, Pete Smith and His Accordion, a fifteen-year-old champion harmonica player and the best master of ceremonies in Texas, handsome, golden-voiced Harfield Weedin. These performers—together with a second musical organization, a twenty-four-man “big band” which was used at the largest rallies—were dressed in red, white and blue.
Johnson’s rallies were held in civic auditoriums in the larger cities, and outdoors, in the courthouse square or on the bandstand in a park, in smaller towns. No matter what the location, the backdrop was the same: the painting of Franklin D and Lyndon B, larger than life, shaking hands. In a small county seat, the stage and that canvas backdrop would be set up in the square in front of the columns and portico of the old courthouse. As twilight fell, a pair of giant revolving searchlights would be switched on, their circling beams shooting up into the night as a beacon to the surrounding countryside, whose anticipation of the rally would have been honed by radio and newspaper ads. The old Model A’s and Model T’s would pull into the square, and line up against the far side, and farm families would get out, men in overalls, women in gingham dresses holding babies. By dark, the square would be full. Suddenly spotlights would be switched on, and looming over the people in their glare, framed by big American flags, would be the two huge figures, one, taller and thinner than the other, unfamiliar, but the other, with its heavy head and uptilted jaw, a part of their lives by now, the two figures dark and big against the red, white and blue stripes of the background. Beneath the figures were the words: ROOSEVELT AND UNITY—ELECT LYNDON JOHNSON UNITED STATES SENATOR. A blare of trumpets, and another spotlight would pick out the Patriots, patriotically resplendent in red carnations, white dinner jackets and blue trousers, and the band would swing into “Hail, Hail, the Gang’s All Here.” And before the dazzled audience would unfold a show such as most of the audience had never seen. The Kate Smith of the South would emerge, all 285 pounds of her, clad in a snow-white evening gown that looked like a great white tent (decorated with red, white and blue ribbons), to sing “I Am an American.”
With the patriotism of the evening thus established, it was time for the “jest folks” aspect, which was introduced by the more shapely vocalist, Mary Lou Behn, who would sing “I Want to Be a Cowboy’s Sweetheart.” Then it was time to bring in the South (“Dixie” by Ms. Parker) and of course Texas (“The Eyes of Texas” and “New San Antonio Rose” by Ms. Behn, “Rancho Grande” by Johnnie Lansy on his harmonica), and a touch of sex in the dancing girls. With these bases covered, the main part of the pageant began.
It was called “The Spirit of ’41,” and it was narrated by Weedin, who, he recalls, gave “my best imitation of Westbrook Van Voorhis narrating a ‘March of Time’ newscast.” At first, Weedin’s wonderfully evocative voice was sad, as he gave a grim recital of America’s plight during the Depression. Then it turned dramatic: “On March 4, 1933, we, the American people, inaugurated our thirty-second President, Franklin D. Roosevelt!” (Music: HAPPY DAYS ARE HERE AGAIN—UP TO FULL—THEN SEGUE TO STARS AND STRIPES FOREVER—ESTABLISH AND FADE TO BACKGROUND) “People Were eating chicken and ice cream again. We Americans had again found faith, courage and peace of mind under the leadership of a great Democrat and his loyal supporters. … We can thank God today that there were enough far-sighted men in Congress, loyal men, to see that these social reforms became the law of the land. … But [sad music, sad voice] things started to slip again. What did the people do? They reelected Roosevelt!” (STARS AND STRIPES—SWELL TO FULL) Weedin’s voice was happy: “There was more prosperity, more jobs! America was saved! Then [SEGUE TO OMINOUS DRUM ROLL] shadows began to gather over Europe. … War clouds gathered—clouds, however, that never hid the monster that raised itself up to gaze with covetous and fiendish eyes upon the democracies of nearby France and England. That same monster now searches out the democracy of the Western Hemisphere! The country needed someone it could trust. What did it do? It reelected Roosevelt again!”
By this time, Weedin recalls, the audience was cheering and weeping with emotion. “Never have I seen anything other than a religious meeting get an audience so worked up.” They were ready for the climax. Roosevelt cannot save Democracy all by himself. He needs “loyal supporters in Washington.” In particular, he needs a loyal supporter from Texas—Texas, which gives America oil, sulphur, metals, wheat and vegetables, the soil for camps and landing fields, and is therefore vital to America’s defense. “And, Mr. Roosevelt, on June 28, Texas will make one more contribution to national unity when we show undeniably that we want our President to have a man whose loyalty and cooperation has never been—and will never be—questioned. To you, the President, and to the Nation, we give your choice for Senator from Texas—Lyndon Baines Johnson!” Another large flag was unfurled on stage, to ripple dramatically in the currents from a small wind machine, the Patriots broke into “God Bless America,” the Kate Smith of the South emerged on stage to sing it; as she entered the second chorus, Weedin and the rest of the cast lined up beside her and sang along, hands over their hearts; as they sang, they began marching in place, Weedin’s knees enthusiastically pumping up almost to his chest, Sophie Parker’s knees rising as high as they could go—and then Weedin introduced “that dynamic young, native Texan, six-foot-three, that high-riding Texan from the hills of Blanco County …,” and as the claque and the rest of the audience roared, out onto the stage bounded the candidate, his arms outstretched high over his head in a useless attempt to stop the cheering, to stand—his chin uptilted as much like Roosevelt’s as possible—waving his right arm in an awkward imitation of a Roosevelt wave.
NO LONGER was Lyndon Johnson trying to look Senatorial. Now he was trying to win. Except at a few big city rallies, the vest and the carnation were gone; the dark suits of Washington had been replaced by Texas white; the jackets of the suits hung open, or were taken off, exposing sweat-stained, rumpled shirts; his neckties were the ties of the Hill Country again, not of Capitol Hill; they were the ties of his first campaign, the unfashionably short mail-order neckwear of the countryman; their knots, loosened in the heat of campaigning, dangled from an open, sweat-wilted collar.
Unfortunately, however, Johnson’s own speeches were usually more anti-than climax. Their theme was the right one before crowds who loved FDR: “I stand for all-out aid to President Roosevelt and his program on every front.” Their prose was in keeping with the evening’s ambience. Pledging to stand behind the President’s efforts to prepare the nation for war, he said:
We must stop the beast of Berlin before he reaches America. Now if you want your Senator to go up there to Washington to snoop and sneak and snipe at your Commander-in-Chief, don’t vote for Lyndon Johnson. Because he’ll always support your Commander-in-Chief…
The most important job today in our nation is all-out American preparation. We must beat Hitler. We must keep aggressors from American shores. If not, we shall writhe under the dictator’s heel as more than a dozen formerly free European nations now are writhing.
All other considerations must bow to the need for preparedness, Johnson said. Strikes by defense workers must be banned, he said; all too often, they were inspired by foreign agitators. “Every fifth-columnist, Communism, Nazism, all proponents of every ‘ism’ except Americanism must be wiped out.” His words were punctuated by shouts from his claque—in the right places. “Do you want another ‘no’ man like Wheeler or Lindbergh?” (No! No!) “Or do you want a man who can say ‘yes’ to the President, and to whom President Roosevelt can say ‘yes’?” (Yes! Yes!) “I am proud to be a ‘yes man’ now, and my critics can make the most of it! I am a ‘yes’ man because I have placed my flag with the flag of Roosevelt and unity!” (Applause. Cheers.) After half an hour or so of speaking, when the candidate would ostentatiously throw aside his prepared speech (w
hich he had finished) and say, “Now let’s get down to my country-boy style of talking,” the claque would applaud and cheer some more. But the candidate’s appearance diminished the effect of his words. Without the concealment of a suit jacket, his little pot belly and his big rear end made him a somewhat comical figure. He had always been very awkward when he ran, and now that awkwardness was on display when he ran out onto the stage as Weedin whipped up the applause. When he had to run up steps to reach the stage, his rear end jutted out so far that small boys in the audience audibly snickered. He practiced endlessly trying to wave his right arm as Roosevelt did, but the gesture emerged so rigid as to be more Hitlerian than Rooseveltian. When speaking, he still jabbed his finger at the audience, and bellowed at them, and when he wasn’t bellowing, he delivered his text in a harsh, very loud monotone so that his demeanor was not only awkward but aggressive. During his congressional campaign, he had been able to effect a marvelous empathy with an audience, as long as it was only a few handfuls to whom he could relate individually, but utterly unable to do so when the crowd was larger, and in this Senate campaign all crowds were larger. His problems were especially marked during his “country-boy style of talking.” Lyndon Johnson’s real country-boy style was emotional and forceful; the “country-boy” talking he did before these larger crowds was stilted and rehearsed; even the stories about his father’s homilies emerged flat and insincere. Night after night, the enthusiasm of the crowd—whipped up to fever pitch for the candidate’s appearance—crested as he ran out on stage and drained away, moment by moment, thereafter. In fact, not long after Johnson began speaking, the audience began leaving; farm families started drifting back to their cars; small boys started playing tag among the automobiles that remained in the square.
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