Alger tries the same tactics, tries being reasonable, but just as clear and as insistent: Everyone knows that LBJ’s protégé John Connally is going to win. Why doesn’t Walker wait and take on liberal Texas Senator Ralph Yarborough in 1964? The right is already salivating at the prospect of Barry Goldwater running against Kennedy in 1964, and with Goldwater’s coattails lifting Walker there is a real chance to give Texas two Republican senators.
Walker tells him that people from Dallas are calling him and forming “Win with Walker” committees around the state. He has women in Dallas rising to their feet and soaking in his unbridled emotion. If he can reach them, if they are still cheering an old soldier overcome with tears, then he can win votes in Texas. He is speaking the truth about Kennedy, and people in Dallas are responding to it.
By the time they are through talking, Alger is teetering on anger. But he knows that blowing up at Walker won’t do any good. He is beginning to realize that Walker will chart his own path, that he is immune to advice.
Walker packs a bag for his trip to Austin, walks outside and bows his head as he ducks into a car. An aide drives him a few minutes north to Dallas’s Love Field, where a supporter has a private plane fueled and waiting on the runway.
After a forty-five-minute flight, the plane touches down in Austin, where another supporter, a wealthy Texas stockbroker, is waiting to whisk Walker straight to the Democratic Party offices not far from the towering Texas Capitol on Congress Avenue. As they drive, Walker can see the massive granite statehouse and the Confederate memorial out front.
At party headquarters, Walker posts the $1,000 filing fee to enter the gubernatorial race. When asked for his occupation, he writes, simply: “Soldier.”
Looking out at the five thousand people waiting for him to speak in Chicago two weeks later, it almost feels more like a national religious crusade than any kind of political event.
He has accepted an invitation to speak to a nascent Pro-Blue group. It is his first speech since he announced he would run for governor of Texas. He doesn’t care if it seems odd that a gubernatorial candidate in Texas would kick off his campaign in Illinois.
From Dallas, Bruce Alger is watching Walker’s tour around the nation. He is dumbstruck: Not only has Walker rejected his advice, he’s entered the race as a Democrat. If he’d filed as a Republican, Walker could have at least won the nomination and been the party’s standard-bearer against Connally in the fall election.
Alger shakes his head in disbelief as he tells a Dallas Morning News reporter: “I am very disappointed—more than I can tell you—that General Walker is running as a Democrat.”1
In Chicago, Walker is not thinking about Alger. Or even Texas. He is drilling harder and harder into Kennedy. He is worse than a traitor. Kennedy has essentially exiled Americans to doom. The crowd shouts its approval. It is, says Walker in his speech, as if the Russians have taken control of Kennedy’s mind and essentially put every American at risk of being annihilated in a nuclear attack:
“If we are not to survive, it will be because our national administration does not plan for us to survive. We are not only in dire peril, but the course of national leadership has involved deception and misrepresentation.
“It is impossible to tell what strange drug has bewitched this nation in recent years—especially at the top.”2
Later the same day, Lyndon Johnson holds a secret meeting in his office with NAACP Executive Director Roy Wilkins. They are agreeing on the things that Johnson and his staffers have been conveying to Dallas—and to the preacher Rhett James, who has embarked on an aggressive campaign to convince Johnson that the only way to crush segregation is by providing jobs and appointments to black people. By demanding that the white businessmen who run the city offer better pay, equal pay, to black people. By demanding that they do a hell of a lot more than allow a few little children into white schools—or black people into movie theaters downtown.
Johnson promises the NAACP leaders that his next major initiative in Washington is going to be the final desegregation of the American workforce. And the news is instantly shared with James, who is still thinking of how far he can push the NAACP into confronting Dallas.
Johnson wants to like James, in large part because he delivered votes to him and Kennedy—even when the powerful black leaders in Dallas still wondered if Johnson had some deep-rooted Southern bigotries. James had been one of the first people to sign up for a JFK-LBJ steering committee in Dallas. And James had been dutifully pushing to help LBJ get John Connally elected governor of Texas—and Connally was another figure held in great suspicion by black leaders and white liberals in Texas. James clearly had his own mind, his own fortitude when it came to the climate in Dallas.
Johnson decides to send a private message to James: He will fly him to Washington so the Dallas minister can deliver the invocation for the U.S. Senate and become the first Negro in America to serve as the acting chaplain.
It is a dance, of course. Johnson’s people know that James is someone who can still handily serve Kennedy and Johnson—and maybe pivot some black votes when the reelection wars commence. They know damned well how close, how tightly tied to Dallas, the presidential election was last time—and how tight it will be the next time. Texas still won’t come easy.
The Kennedy-Johnson machine can use every bit of help in the city, whether it is from an influential figure like Stanley Marcus, or an indefatigable widow named Juanita Craft, or a studious-looking but unafraid preacher like Rhett James.
As James prepares his Sunday sermons at New Hope, he understands the stakes in Dallas have gotten more dangerous and outsize than ever before. Running for the local school board was one thing. But, now, presuming to vault over the Dallas Citizens Council—which still has no blacks, Hispanics, or women as members—and right to the White House is another thing entirely.
James writes to the vice president of the United States: “I was the first Baptist minister to issue a national news release defending the right of a Catholic to run for president. This was done during the time when several Baptist ministers in the Dallas area were issuing statements, in my opinion, contrary to our Democratic ideals.”3
In Washington, Johnson appears before Kennedy’s committee on equal employment and delivers a stern speech about how integrating business in America is the key to ending racism:
“If at all possible, we are going to try to find some long range recommendations to make up for many years of neglect. The real problem is to break down old habits of thinking and old ways of doing things so we can end the injustice and the discrimination.”4
In Dallas, as he learns what Johnson has to say, Reverend James is no doubt pleased. It is as if LBJ is on the top floor of the Magnolia Building, the First RepublicBank, the Dallas Morning News, or the Mercantile Building in downtown Dallas, speaking to the few dozen white businessmen who effectively run the entire city.
By now, it has to almost be too much to bear for Dealey, Criswell, Alger, Walker, and Hunt: Integrating schools is one thing, but Kennedy must be ordering LBJ to broker new rules that will force changes in industry and employment. There may be room for a handful of black children in the first-grade classrooms. But now, there is this smothering sense of uncertainty about what Kennedy has planned in terms of federal regulations, bills, and appointments—things that are all about business, about the bottom line. And what will happen next?
MARCH
Frank McGehee has been basking in the heady, cash-swept days of the National Indignation Convention. He’s now ready to expand, to franchise his idea. He has traveled to Washington, DC, and called a press conference to announce his plans: He is forming the “National National Indignation Convention.”
Reporters are confused: “Don’t you have too many ‘nationals’ in that name?”
McGehee responds: “No, it will be the National National Indignation Convention. It speaks for itself, logically and clearly.”1
The chairman is anxious to distingui
sh his organization from all competitors: “We’re far to the right of the John Birch Society. We think the John Birchers are far to the left. The National Indignation Convention denounces the liberal taint of the John Birch Society.”2
McGehee is planning to stage a huge rally in Washington, DC, and he brashly decides to invite some very special guests. He sends a letter to President Kennedy: “The National Indignation Convention hereby extends an invitation to you, the Vice President, all members of the Cabinet and National Security Council to listen to our Convention Program.”
McGehee suggests that he is sympathetic to the fact that the nation’s leadership may have pressing time demands—and so he suggests a solution in case President Kennedy cannot attend his rally: “For your convenience and comfort, we will make all necessary arrangements to have this program broadcast within the confines of the White House. Please let us know if you desire to accept.”3
Kennedy’s aides in the White House receive his invitation and ignore it. The proposed rally in Washington fizzles out due to a lack of interest. But McGehee does win enough financing from donors to tape a one-hour radio broadcast of his thoughts on the communist menace.
He quickly makes his remarks available to radio stations nationwide. Several of them accept. The broadcast begins: “The ultimate aim of the militant communist is to prove that there is no God.”
After a pause, McGehee commands: “Never forget that statement.”
He is in rhythm now, pointing out the differences between communism and Americanism:
“One is the envoy of Satan… the other the disciple of Christ.”
He closes the program by reading a patriotic poem, calling for men on horseback to join his cause:
“Tall men, sun-crowned, who live above the fog in public duty.”4
General Walker’s campaign for governor of Texas—and hopefully higher office—is off to a rousing start. H. L. Hunt has heartily endorsed him and has written out a personal check that he grandly presented to Walker along with his blessing. Hunt has also sent one of his former employees, a Yale PhD named Medford Evans, to help the general plot his election strategy. Evans, an arch-conservative writer and intellectual, was once associated with William F. Buckley Jr., and now has close ties to extremist pro-segregation groups across the South. He tells others that Walker is not just an old war hero, he is a savior: “The most important individual in the United States is General Edwin A. Walker.”5
Another Walker supporter has gifted the general with a catchy campaign song, “Win with Walker,” sung to the tune of “Put on Your Old Gray Bonnet”:
Put on your Pro-Blue Bonnet
With the Lone Star upon it
And we’ll put Ted Walker on the way
For when he’s in Austin
From LA to Boston
Texas leads the USA6
Walker’s opponents for governor are barnstorming the state, giving speeches on the lawns of rural county courthouses and passing the hat at barbecue fund-raisers.
The general, however, is continuing his national speaking tour, enthralled by the thousands of people lining up to hear him, many waving WALKER FOR PRESIDENT signs. He gives them what they’ve come for, roaring about Kennedy submitting to the Russian bear.
In Dallas, his efforts are increasingly aided by an unflaggingly passionate pair of new volunteers: a thirty-six-year-old printing salesman named Robert Surrey and his twenty-three-year-old wife, Mary.
The Surreys were among the group of ten John Birch Society members who picketed at Perrin Air Force Base last October, helping to launch the National Indignation Convention. Born in Oak Park, Illinois, Surrey graduated from Northwestern University and moved to Dallas in the 1950s. He works for Johnson Printing Company, one of the city’s major printing firms. Surrey also owns some stock in the company, and he and his wife reside in fashionable Highland Park, not far from General Walker.
Surrey has become very active in political groups, including the Committee for the Retention of the Poll Tax. The Surreys are so conservative that they even regard the Dallas Morning News with suspicion. A few months earlier, Mary Surrey sent the paper an angry letter for printing what she termed a “blasphemous” article about General Walker:
“It appears that the News has been taken over by the left-wingers. It is so disappointing to find that a paper you have always considered on the side of America has suddenly capitulated to the enemy… Shall we run up the white flag now?”7
As Walker launches his campaign, Mary Surrey quickly becomes his personal secretary. Meanwhile, her husband offers Walker his considerable experience in printing and publishing. The men form American Eagle Publishing Company, which operates out of Walker’s home, selling and distributing “patriotic” material across the nation: from General Walker’s speeches to booklets denouncing JFK, Earl Warren, and the United Nations.
Some people who unexpectedly receive American Eagle literature are shocked by what they deem to be violently anti-Jewish and anti-Negro content—and when they call the local police or FBI to complain, they’re told that the publishers are protected under the First Amendment.
The police are perhaps unaware that Robert Surrey—Walker’s business partner—is also becoming secretly active within the upper reaches of the American Nazi Party.
There is a frisson of celebrity by now, a proximity to power, just by being at General Walker’s home. He is shoulder-to-shoulder in terms of name recognition with Dallas’s most famous residents—Hunt, Criswell, and Marcus. Being here with Walker, being at his home, is a window into something bigger than anything most of them had ever experienced in Dallas.
Yet at the end of the day, when Walker’s supporters finally leave his home headquarters and walk down the pathway from his towering front door, one young man will often linger and wait for him in the upstairs bedroom. No one knows—or admits it if they do. No one in the media asks why Walker has never married.
Walker has secret lovers, and if word ever emerges, it will rip his credibility—certainly in Dallas where Reverend Criswell preaches that homosexuality is a perversion of God’s will.
Somehow Walker’s lovers remain discreet.
Walker’s crusade is carrying him to Washington, and the general has made arrangements to stay with one of his relatives, an elderly widow who lives near the Capitol. Walker and several members of his campaign team take over the woman’s home, staying for several days, smoking cigars and drinking bourbon and beer, plotting how to get Kennedy out of office.
Walker’s relative secretly listens to the fiery conversations. It’s beyond the pale, beyond the normal political complaints. The men seem powerful, scary, spurred on by something that is alarming her. She places a call to a close friend and asks her to please come for a visit—and to stay with her for protection.
On the morning that Walker leaves, she wishes him and his comrades good luck, and closes the door behind them. Once they are out of sight, she immediately goes to a local FBI office to tell them that she has been terrified, that she has heard Walker and his men plotting and planning. She tells them that Walker poses a real danger to the president.8
The FBI agent dutifully takes down her report, which is added to the growing file the FBI began building on Walker from the minute he resigned from the military and his associations with the John Birch Society became known.
At the Justice Department, Walker’s case is being reviewed. One FBI agent who is doing reconnaissance at Walker’s speeches tells his superiors that Walker has to be a paper tiger. He is a plodding public speaker. He seems loony. The agent shares his field reports: “Walker was decidedly unimpressive in this appearance… He appeared to be sincere but completely out of his element.”9
If the man knows that Walker is homosexual, it is not in his report. Any good agent knows that J. Edgar Hoover is homosexual… and hates communists. It might not be wise to write a report noting that Walker has gay lovers.
Even if the FBI agent wasn’t riveted by Walker’s spea
king style or his sexual proclivities, there is now a very long line of radio stations—ones inspired by the anti-communist programming invented and paid for by H. L. Hunt—that are jumping to carry Walker’s speeches. All thirty-five radio stations in Mississippi are suspending regular programming to carry Walker’s remarks: “There will be no rock and roll heard over Mississippi radio stations for at least an hour Saturday night.”10
In radio broadcasts and speeches, Walker is identified as a citizen of the intensely patriotic city of Dallas, Texas. During the previous decade, if some outsiders thought about Dallas at all, it was as some distant metropolis crammed with benign, tumbleweed hicks who punched holes in the ground and became oil millionaires and billionaires. Or in kinder moments, as the place where the sophisticated and urbane Stanley Marcus has tried to import culture—and cleverly gotten fabulously wealthy by catering to those yahoos from the oil patch.
In a short time, really in a year or two, the national image of the often overlooked, even forgettable city has radically changed: Alger, Hunt, Criswell, and Dealey are making coast-to-coast news for either anti-Kennedy, anti-Catholic, or anti-communist attacks. Too, the welling national fascination with the specter of organized crime occasionally turns toward Dallas and men like Joe Civello.
But now Walker’s flamboyant presence in the city, and his constant, direct identification with Dallas, is hurtling the reputation to yet another level. And more than a few people in Dallas feel that a handful of strident men have almost commandeered the city. Men who don’t speak for everyone—not even the majority. There is a sense that Dallas is being hijacked—and being branded a city of hate.
As Walker travels from Dallas to spread his call to arms, his mother is never far from his mind. Back in Texas, the seventy-six-year-old Charlotte Walker is still vigorous, and still combatively protective of her bachelor son. Walker’s associates quietly confide that she is his best political asset.
Dallas 1963 Page 15
