Six Crises

by Richard Nixon

  It was after two o’clock on Thursday morning, November 3, when my disappointed campaign associates filed out and I quite literally closed the door, once and for all, on any further discussion of the religious issue. As I look back on the campaign now, I can think of many things I should have done or might have done differently. But on this key decision, I have never had a moment’s regret.

  • • •

  As we completed our last day in New York, there were but five days to go until November 8—the target we had been working toward for almost two years. In those five days we were to cram the most back-breaking traveling and speaking schedule in the history of American political campaigning. This was also the week of President Eisenhower’s maximum effort. His wind-up in Cleveland and Pittsburgh, from every report, was a day to remember.

  For all his reputation for finding politics distasteful, Eisenhower is a man of irresistible magnetism with great crowds and they, in turn, seem to trigger his own irrepressible vigor—especially when he has his dander up. And “up” it was on Friday, November 4, as a result of Kennedy’s recklessly irresponsible charges about America’s second-rate military posture, its second-class power status, and all the various “gaps”—from carbines to missiles.

  Kennedy, as President, has had to retreat from these campaign charges—has, in fact, been eager to do so because now, with the responsibility on his own shoulders, he can begin to realize how damaging it is to America’s negotiating position and to clear thinking about the world balance of power to so downgrade America. But in October and November of 1960, he seemed less concerned with responsibility than with campaign strategy and political advantage. Eisenhower took out after him with no holds barred.

  He described Kennedy as “a player who knocks the team all season and then wants to become coach.” He referred to him scathingly as “this young genius” who thinks he knows more about defense and weaponry than “the joint chiefs of staff and the dedicated men, military and civilian, who have given their lives to this work.” “The White House,” he pointed out to a Cleveland luncheon audience, “is one place where we should not depend on on-the-job training of the occupant.” By contrast, he said he was “completely committed to the election of Dick Nixon. For eight years he has been immersed in the responsibilities of leadership. He is now prepared to take over national leadership in January.”

  In Pittsburgh, Eisenhower attacked Kennedy’s whole campaign:

  The juggling of promises by the inexperienced, the appeal to immediate gain and selfishness, the distortion of fact, the quick changes from fantastic charge to covert retreat—all these are intended to confuse the voter, not to enlighten him.

  And he called, in simple contrast, for “woodshed honesty” with the American people. All we could do was wait and see what effect this would have. We knew at any rate that these were the most hard-hitting political speeches that Eisenhower had ever made.

  As for my own schedule, after three hours sleep following our important strategy session, I was up again on Thursday morning at six-thirty for a flight to Columbia, South Carolina. I met there with the leaders of our campaign from all over the South and then was eloquently introduced by Governor James F. Byrnes for a televised address from the steps of the State House. A cheering crowd of 30,000 crammed every inch of the space that had been roped off for our meeting. From Columbia, we flew to San Antonio, Texas, for another TV address, in the Plaza of the historic Alamo. We left the Alamo just in time to arrive at the television studio for a 15-minute nationally televised talk on national defense.

  Fron San Antonio, our next stop was Houston, where Senate candidate John Tower introduced me to a crowd of 40,000 in Herman Park. Thad Hutcheson, the Republican State Chairman, and Mrs. Oveta Culp Hobby, former Secretary of Health, Education and Welfare, told me after this meeting that Texas was close but they were sure this tremendous turnout had shifted the tide in our direction and that we would carry Texas on Election Day.

  It was the same story the next day when record crowds cheered us along our way in Fort Worth; Cheyenne, Wyoming; Spokane, Washington; and Fresno, California. I stepped up the tempo of my attack. I pointed out that Kennedy was a “Pied Piper,” saying “give me your money, and I will solve all your problems.” I struck hard at his “switch-hit” tactics: he was a “jumping Jack” who promised vast new spending programs but no new taxes and no deficits; who first will not defend Quemoy and Matsu and then will; who sometimes will and sometimes won’t “apologize” to Khrushchev over the U-2 incident; who urges “intervention” in Cuba but then says he meant only “moral” influence. I compared him with the old-time medicine man who got out of town just before the people caught up with his quack remedies. Judging from the crowd response, these points were hitting home.

  We knew our campaign was going well in my home state when the next day not even a dose of California’s “unusual weather”—in the form of drenching rains—dampened the size or the enthusiasm of turnouts in San Jose, Hayward, Oakland, and Van Nuys. After our nationally televised evening rally, before an overflow crowd at the Pan Pacific Auditorium in Los Angeles, some of the reporters traveling with us, who had been conceding California to Kennedy, began to hedge their predictions.

  • • •

  The Saturday night rally traditionally marks the end of intensive campaigning. But I woke up on the Sunday before election to begin what was to be the longest “day” of my life—a stretch of 72 hours during which I was able to manage less than five hours of sleep. Most political professionals say that no votes are changed on the Sunday and Monday before election, but as the candidate, I could take no such chances. Truman fought to the last in 1948. This election, I felt, was going to be just as close as ’48 and perhaps more so. I was tired after a campaign that had already probably been too long and too strenuous. But the stakes were high and I was determined to do everything I could, right up until voting began on Tuesday, to swing our way any last-minute deciders.

  We attended church services at Immanuel Presbyterian, within walking distance of the Ambassador, and then returned to the hotel where I got down to final preparatory work on a half-hour telecast which I was to tape that afternoon for national broadcast at ten Sunday night. In that talk, which some observers—Frank Holeman of the New York Daily News was one—rated the best of my campaign telecasts, I returned to the theme of my acceptance speech at Chicago. I did this deliberately, to complete the circle of three months’ effort. I restated the one great and overriding issue of the campaign: how to keep the peace without surrender of territory or principle, and how to preserve and extend freedom everywhere in the world. This, I said, was the supreme challenge to our national purpose and our leadership. And the key was to be found in the moral and spiritual strength of a free people, and in the American idea—the one truly revolutionary idea still abroad in all nations. This idea is a simple one: we believe that all peoples should be free to rule themselves as they see fit and to seek their own destiny. It was to the fulfillment of this promise, for nations and peoples everywhere, that I pledged myself in the Office of President.

  At 4:30 Sunday afternoon, we took off for Alaska, a trip which was to mark the fulfillment of the pledge, made in my acceptance speech, to carry the campaign into every one of the fifty states. Not even our most optimistic supporters thought we had a chance to carry Alaska. They urged me to cancel our scheduled trip to Anchorage and instead to cut a television tape which could be played at the Sunday night rally at which I was slated to appear. But for reasons I have already discussed, I was determined to keep my commitment. The warmth of the crowd that greeted us at that rally made the trip worthwhile as far as I was concerned, whether we carried the state or not.

  At ten P.M. we left Anchorage for Madison, Wisconsin. Our reports indicated that Wisconsin was close and beginning to lean our way. At eight o’clock Monday morning, with the thermometer at about 5 degrees above, the airport hangar was jam-packed. My talk was put on film, for later telecast througho
ut the state. And then we flew on to Detroit. I was returning to Michigan because, here again, our latest reports indicated that our chances were improving and I thought that another appearance might tip the scales in our favor.

  From a rally before an overflow audience at the Ford Auditorium, we went directly to the studios of WXYZ-TV for a four-hour afternoon nation-wide telethon. I had wanted to have several telethons in the last days of the campaign but funds had not been available. Only three days before air-time were we able to obtain enough contributions to finance this one show.

  For four hours I answered questions that were phoned or wired in from all over the country. John Payne, Robert Young, and Lloyd Nolan had come to Detroit to act as questioners-by-proxy and to fill in a few intervals when I was off-screen. Cabot Lodge, by means of split-screen remote techniques, took part from Boston. Thruston Morton, who had been one of our most effective campaigners, flew to Detroit for a five-minute appearance. When we were off the air, I asked him for his prediction about the election outcome and he reflected the feeling that had become unanimous among staff members who had been traveling with me—that our campaign had “caught fire” in the last two weeks and that we would reach our peak just when we needed to, on Election Day itself.

  The candidate himself is usually the poorest judge of his performance during the last grueling hours of a long campaign. I knew that I was tired physically, but despite lack of sleep, I had never felt more alert mentally and none of the questions gave me any trouble. Frances Dewey (Mrs. Tom Dewey) was to tell me weeks later that the telethon was my best appearance of the entire campaign. Here again, therefore, was an example of something I had learned from long experience—that in times of stress and crisis, an individual can be at his best mentally even though he is physically exhausted. I had been through a similar experience in a very different situation three years before, when I had my first and last White House press conference after the President had suffered his stroke. I was so tired at the time, for sheer lack of sleep, that I was concerned as to whether my handling of the conference had been anything close to par. Frank Stanton, president of CBS, called me later that night and said he was sending me a recording of the conference because he thought it the very best I had ever had up to that time. I told him of my concern and he observed that it had been his experience, often as not, that an individual is at his best on radio or TV when he is physically tired. Because of his very awareness of fatigue, he raises the level of his mental and emotional concentration even higher, to compensate for the physical factor and thus to meet the challenge.

  At six, Eastern Time, the telethon came to an end. I had barely enough time to drop by the switchboard to thank the hundreds of women who had rendered such fine service at the phones before driving to the airport for our flight to Chicago and our final telecast of the campaign, the traditional Election Eve show.

  We were scheduled to go on the air at 9:30 Central Time, and we arrived at the studio only an hour before. I wanted to use this period for preparing notes and hoped for some relaxation before making my final nation-wide appeal. But as a campaign nears its end the candidate is permitted no such luxury. A telephone call came in from New York. Nelson Rockefeller, hoarse from a speaking tour which he had just completed, reported that he had just checked with all of his county leaders and that, in their view, the tide in New York had finally turned. He knew that New York had been conceded to Kennedy by virtually all the experts, but he was genuinely hopeful that our last minute campaigning might have moved it into our column.

  Then Don Hughes came by and reported that our Volunteers for Nixon-Lodge Committee had whipped up an impromptu rally outside the studio where over 5000 supporters, many of them from colleges and universities in the area, wanted to wish me well before the voting began. I had not been scheduled to appear. But Illinois was close. I could overlook no possible opportunity to do or say something that might be decisive in winning this pivotal state. Because the television time was fast approaching, I could make only a brief appearance. But the ten minutes or so in which I thanked this group of loyal and enthusiastic volunteers was one of the most heartening experiences of the entire campaign.

  By the time I got back inside the studio, only fifteen minutes remained before air-time. Eisenhower spoke first from Washington, then Lodge from Boston. This allowed me another few minutes which I needed and used for preparation of my final remarks. I emphasized again, as I had throughout the campaign, my concept of the presidency and the challenge it presented. I urged everyone to vote with but one thought in mind: “Put America first, rather than party or any other consideration.” And I concluded this way:

  Vote for the man that you think America and the world needs in this critical period. Whatever that decision is, it is one that I know will be best for America. It is one that we will all abide by; one that we will all support. And my prayer and my hope . . . is very simply this: that the next President of this country . . . will be a worthy successor of Dwight D. Eisenhower and that he will be worthy of the high ideals and the great purpose of the American people.

  With that, the campaign had reached its final stages. The program was over at ten and we left immediately for the airport and our flight back to California.

  I had planned to sleep on the flight from Chicago to Los Angeles. Tricia and Julie, who had joined Pat and me for the last day of campaigning, dropped off almost at once on bunks that we had had made up for them. But the tension of the last forty-eight hours had taken its toll and I spent the flight reliving the campaign which was now drawing to an end. I did not try to second-guess any of the decisions I had made during its course—all that came later. My thoughts now turned primarily to those who had given so much of themselves for our cause.

  Pat fell asleep in her seat across the aisle from me. She had once said that someday she would write a book and call it I Also Ran. This was no less than the truth: beginning with my 1946 campaign for Congress, she had been at my side in all the years of campaigning. She had never once lost her dignity or her poise in the face of even the greatest provocation. She had had to go through the indignity of being spit on in Caracas and splattered with rotten eggs in Muskegon, Michigan, just two weeks before. Her physical stamina had been even greater than mine. In the long hand-shaking sessions, it was I, rather than she, who would first have to ask for a break in the line. Roy Howard was to tell me after the election that he had seen the wives of all the presidential candidates for fifty years—and never had he seen one to surpass Pat Nixon as a campaigner and a gracious lady throughout.

  I thought of my top campaign associates who had been with me through so many battles before and had rendered service above and beyond the call of duty in this one. (Here was a cliché that for me had been given new luster.) I thought of Bryce Harlow, Gabe Hauge, Jim Shepley, and George Grassmuck who had been working around the clock helping to prepare the key speeches and statements for the campaign. I thought of my own personal staff: Don Hughes, who was officially designated as my aide but had been, in effect, my personal assistant from the time he first joined the staff right after the 1956 elections; Rose Mary Woods, who had been tried in battle during the ’52 fund episode and who has that rare and unique characteristic that marks the difference between a good secretary and a great one—she is always at her best when the pressures are greatest. There were literally scores of others—secretaries like Rita Dannenhauer to whom the clock meant nothing when there was work to be done; Bob Cushman, back in Washington, my superbly qualified adviser in the field of national security affairs who had also taken on the assignment of administering my office staff; and Loie Gaunt who, though she lived in California, had turned down the chance to fly to Los Angeles to hear the election returns because “there was too much last minute work to be done in Washington.”

  I thought of Thruston Morton and all the party workers in state and local organizations; of Charlie Rhyne and his dedicated Volunteers for Nixon-Lodge; of the gifted Voices for Nixon, under the le
adership of Ralph Hunter who organized great choruses of volunteer singers—numbering sometimes as many as a thousand—who gave such spirit and lift to our campaign; and of the Nixonettes—1500 of these teenagers had provided us with a guard of honor at our airport reception in Burbank. I thought of those unsung heroes, the advance men and the rally men who, under Bob Haldeman’s direction, had done such a superb job that never once during the campaign did we fail to fill an auditorium—one indispensable ingredient of a successful rally.

  People like this—from Len Hall to the last anonymous doorbell-ringer—make a candidate proud and humble at the same time: proud that the cause he represents can attract such devoted and competent people, humble because they have placed so much confidence in him.

  Why does a candidate add to a schedule that is already too full? Why does he exert himself to the outermost limits of mental, physical, and emotional tension? Certainly he is greatly motivated by his natural competitive instinct—by his desire and will to win. But in a presidential campaign, even more than in others, he wants to win not just for himself but for the literally thousands of people, many of whom he will never know or meet, who have given him their loyal support.

  And so, as the plane flew on to Los Angeles that night, I wished I could have done even more than I had done during those last two months of intensive campaigning. I felt that way even though I could look back on a campaign which, from the standpoint of number of states visited, miles traveled, speeches made, and people seen either in live audiences or on television, had exceeded in intensity any in American history up to that time. From the time of the Chicago Convention, I had traveled over 65,000 miles and visited all the fifty states, made 180 major scheduled speeches and as many more impromptu ones—not to mention press conferences, spot interviews, radio and TV appearances. I had shaken uncounted thousands of hands, signed as many autographs; and an estimated five million people had seen Pat and me in person.