Six Crises

by Richard Nixon

  Dictating all these letters took many hours of time and thought. But my effort was nothing compared to what my small vice presidential staff did during this period. Without a break—except for Christmas Day itself—right on up to January 20, they worked at a back-breaking 80-hour-week pace. And for the two days before January 20, Rose Woods, Loie Gaunt, Marilyn Matthews, Don Hughes, and Bob Cushman worked literally around the clock.

  Despite the fact that we got out a tremendous volume of mail, a few of the names of those who had contributed to and supported our campaign did get overlooked in the shuffle—but they were the exceptions. I had always been proud of my staff’s reputation for being one of the hardest working groups on Capitol Hill. But this time they broke even their own records for dedication, efficiency, and sheer productivity—and in a difficult period after defeat when it was so hard to maintain spirit and morale.

  During the Christmas holidays, Pat and I had a brief respite from the killing pace when we took Tricia and Julie up to New York. For months they had been wearing out their recordings of the scores of some of the top Broadway musicals on our stereo-phonograph. We had promised that after the campaign we would go to New York and see some of the shows “live.” It turned out to be one of the most pleasant trips we had ever taken—not least because of the warm hospitality of such people as Walter and Jeanne Thayer whose guests we were at a performance of Fiorello! The show on-stage exceeded even the high expectations we had built up from hearing it on records. But an incident occurred which made it mean even more. As we entered the Broadhurst Theatre just before curtain time, several people recognized us and started to applaud. Before we could find our seats, the entire audience rose and joined in. This was as unexpected for a typically blasé New York audience as it was heartwarming. It obviously meant a great deal to Pat and me. But what we appreciated most was that it meant so much to Tricia and Julie. As we rode back to our hotel from the theater, Tricia said to us: “You see—the people still like you.”

  • • •

  Back in the Capital, we had before us a particularly heavy social and official schedule. There were two White House dinners over which Mrs. Eisenhower presided with all her friendly graciousness and poise. The President, on each occasion, proposed toasts in which he spoke warmly of the contributions Pat and I had made to his Administration and of our efforts during the last campaign.

  Pat and I hosted a number of receptions and dinners for friends in Washington and for those who had been most closely associated with us during the campaign in other parts of the country. Governor and Mrs. James Byrnes paid us the high compliment of coming from South Carolina to Washington for one such dinner. In his toast, the Governor said: “If the Vice President had won this election, I would not be here tonight. But because he lost, Mrs. Byrnes and I wanted to come to Washington to assure him and Mrs. Nixon of our continued friendship and support.” Afterward, he told me that he well recalled his own feelings when he lost his first election campaign. “Only a man who has suffered a close defeat,” he said, “can possibly know how someone else feels under the same circumstances.”

  I had only one more test as far as my official duties were concerned before January 20, and it was a minor one. On January 6, as Vice President and President of the Senate, I was to preside with Speaker Rayburn over a Joint Session of Congress for the now obsolete but still constitutionally required ceremony of counting the electoral votes. Earl Mazo, an hour before the session was to begin, called my office to suggest that in view of some comments in the press gallery that this would be an embarrassing moment for me, I might well make some statement at the time I announced the official outcome. This was, in fact, a most unusual occasion. Only once before had the defeated candidate had the responsibility of presiding over his own “funeral” by announcing his defeat in a Joint Session, and this had occurred exactly one hundred years before when John C. Breckinridge announced the election of Abraham Lincoln. I thought the idea was a good one and made a few mental notes as to what I might appropriately say.

  When the counting had been concluded and announced—to no one’s very great surprise it came out 303 to 219, with the balance of 15 cast for Harry Byrd—I added these remarks:

  Mr. Speaker, since this is an unprecedented situation I would like to ask permission to impose upon the time of the members of this Congress to make a statement—which in itself is somewhat unprecedented. I promise to be brief. I shall be guided by the one-minute time rule of the House rather than the unlimited rule that prevails in the Senate.

  This is the first time in 100 years that a candidate for the presidency announced the result of an election in which he was defeated and announced the victory of his opponent. I do not think we could have a more striking and eloquent example of the stability of our constitutional system and of the proud tradition of the American people of developing, respecting, and honoring institutions of self-government.

  In our campaigns, no matter how hard fought they may be, no matter how close the election may turn out to be, those who lose accept the verdict, and support those who win. And I would like to add that, having served now in Government for 14 years . . . as I complete that period it is indeed a very great honor to me to extend to my colleagues in the House and Senate on both sides of the aisle who have been elected—to extend to John F. Kennedy and Lyndon Johnson, who have been elected President and Vice President of the United States, my heartfelt best wishes, as all of you work in a cause that is bigger than any man’s ambition, greater than any party. It is the cause of freedom, of justice, and peace for all mankind.

  It is in that spirit that I now declare that John F. Kennedy has been elected President of the United States, and Lyndon B. Johnson, Vice President of the United States.

  The effect was electrifying and, to me, unexpected. The ovations from both Democrats and Republicans lasted so long that I had to stand and acknowledge it again. Sam Rayburn, at whose side I had often sat as he presided over Joint Sessions of the Congress during the past eight years, broke personal precedent and joined in the applause himself. He grasped my hand warmly as I left the Speaker’s Rostrum and said: “That was a fine speech, Dick. I will miss you here. Good luck.” We had been political opponents for years, but he had always been one who had great respect for fellow practitioners of the art of politics—even when they were in the other party. Neither of us knew at that moment that these were to be our last personal words together.

  Two weeks later, at just a few minutes past noon, John F. Kennedy took the oath of office as the 35th President of the United States. As he repeated after the Chief Justice the words required by the Constitution—I do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the office of President of the United States, and will, to the best of my ability, preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of the United States— my own period of fourteen years service in Washington came to an end.

  • • •

  There was a brief afterglow which lasted through the balance of the day. Admiral Lewis Strauss gave a luncheon immediately after the inaugural ceremony which we attended at the F Street Club along with the President and Mrs. Eisenhower and the members of the Cabinet. John Wardlaw then drove us home and, as we got out of the official car, told us that it would continue to be at our disposal as long as we wanted it through the evening. After dinner, I asked him to drive me one last time down to the Capitol. The gay crowds attending the inaugural balls crowded the streets but we were able to drive by unnoticed. When we arrived at the Capitol, I got out of the car and looked once again down what I believe is the most magnificent vista in the world—the Mall, now completely snow-covered, with the Washington Monument and the Lincoln Memorial in the distance.

  John then drove me home and I said good-by to him for the last time. As I went into the house, I recalled something that Alben Barkley had said to Pat and me shortly after inauguration day, eight years before: “The hardest part about leaving the vice presidency was losing my car. One day—I’m met by a car,
a chauffeur, and a Secret Service man. The next day I’m completely on my own—and it takes time to get adjusted to it!”

  For us, too, the next day was different. Don Hughes thoughtfully came to the house to pick us up in his station wagon for the trip to the airport. Pat and I finally were going to get that month’s vacation we had been planning so long. My entire office staff and many from the campaign staff were there to see us off. Earl Blaik had generously offered us a ride in the AVCO company plane which was scheduled for a flight to Florida. While I was Vice President, I had always declined similar offers to use private planes because of the possible criticism that the corporation or individual owning the plane might thereby be trying to get special favors from the government. We were learning already that there were some benefits, after all, to being just plain “private citizens.”

  We could not have asked for more hospitality and consideration than were lavished on us during our stay in Nassau. Lindsey Hopkins made his house available to us at Coral Harbour, and Perkins McGuire did so at Eleuthera. We could go golfing, swimming, yachting, fishing—do anything we wanted, or nothing at all. Elmer Bobst brought his luxurious yacht, the Elisa V, to Nassau so that we could get relaxation cruising among the picturesque Caribbean islands. Our close friends, Roger and Louise Johnson, were with us, and Bebe Rebozo flew over from Miami to join the party. In the past fourteen years it seemed we could never find time enough for a real vacation—our longest, in all those years, had been limited to ten days. But now we could make up for lost time and opportunity.

  • • •

  As I soaked up the sun on those warm and peaceful Caribbean days, my thoughts turned back time after time to the campaign.

  What could I have done differently—what were the things that would have brought victory rather than hairline defeat?

  The Christmas season “of good cheer” had scarcely ended before the sniping and the second-guessing had begun. I understood this and, indeed, expected it. The election had been virtually a dead-heat. It was to Kennedy’s advantage—as well as in the interests of those who might want the Republican nomination in 1964—to discredit my campaign. And, ironically, their task was made easier by the very reason that the election was so close. Had I lost by two million votes, or more, no one could say “if you had just done this or that you would have won.” But when a shift of ten or twelve thousand votes in three or four key states would have overturned the result, anyone could make a pretty good case for the proposition—“if only you had taken my advice, you would have won.”

  Among the claims—“sure roads to victory”—that were most commonly made were these:

  I should have refused to debate Kennedy.

  I should have used Eisenhower more in the campaign.

  I should have been more “liberal” (particularly on civil rights), as Rockefeller supporters wanted.

  I should have been more “conservative” (again, particularly on civil rights), as Goldwater people argued.

  I should have personally repudiated Norman Vincent Peale, so as to win more Catholic votes.

  I should have made a speech at the end of the campaign attacking Kennedy for his systematic exploitation of the religious issue, so as to win more Protestant votes.

  I should have catered more to the working press.

  I should have complained directly to the Republican publishers, as Kennedy did, whenever the reporters appeared to be biased against me.

  Lodge should not have promised that there would be a Negro in the Cabinet, and should have been slapped down hard for saying so.

  I should have called the Judge, or done something similarly “grandstand,” in the Martin Luther King case.

  I should have campaigned only as a “regular Republican” and not tried to appeal, as I did, to independent and Democratic voters.

  I should not have campaigned for and been associated with weaker Republican candidates in states like Illinois and Texas.

  I should have asked the Justice Department to appoint special U. S. Marshals to police the polls in Cook County, as Senator Dirksen had requested a few days before the election.

  I should have requested the Justice Department to impound, the day after election, all the ballots in Cook County and other areas where there was evidence of fraud.

  My campaign was “me too”—I had not attacked Kennedy hard enough.

  I should have exposed and exploited Joe Kennedy’s background.

  Anyone who holds to one or another of these views no doubt believes that if only I had followed his advice, the election would have been in the bag. Each could be right. Who can say, after all, what would have effected a change in a few thousand votes in just a few states?

  The one claim to which I take real exception, though, is that I waged a “me-too” campaign and failed to attack Kennedy. I did not attack him or members of his family personally. But on the issues, I drew the line between us coldly and clearly and could not have hit him harder than I did, with any sense of responsibility.

  Perhaps part of the reason for the growth of this campaign myth is explained in a letter I received after the election from Willard Edwards. He wrote me:

  This letter represents the startled and indignant reactions of a reporter who came back to normal life in Washington to discover some unexpected reactions to your campaign.

  The first thing that aroused my anger was to hear the statement that you had lost because you conducted a “me-too” campaign. I’d expected some such thing from the extremists who would be satisfied only with a Republican candidate who called for abolition of the income tax and social security. But I was dumbfounded to hear this sentiment from sensible moderates until the facts dawned upon me. They had never read an accurate report in the press reflecting the strength and depth of your attacks upon Kennedy and his program. . . .

  When I first heard this remark, I indulged in a tirade. How could anyone, with a glimmer of common sense, make such a statement, I raged, in view of your continual slashing at Kennedy as reckless, irresponsible, dangerously impulsive, immature, obsessed with fear, a breast-beating imitator of Adlai Stevenson, a distorter of facts helpful to communist propagandists, putting politics above relief of misery, a downgrader of America, confused, uncertain, imperiling the cause of peace, a planner of inflation, a blundering advocate of retreat and defeat, etc., etc., etc.

  The impression of “not much difference” between two candidates was fostered by the press coverage of your campaign. The staggering extent of that slanted reporting was not brought home to me until I began consulting newspaper files to check up on how the campaign was reported.

  I think this is one of the most, if not the most, shameful chapters of the American press in history. The literal truth, and it can be documented, is that your strongest attacks on Kennedy were soft-pedaled by the pro-Kennedy press attached to your campaign. Why blame the voters for thinking that it didn’t matter too much who was elected when they read, day after day, dispatches subordinating your strongest points and playing up frivolous details? . . .13

  The decision not to drag Kennedy’s father and other members of his family into the campaign was one for which I take sole responsibility and for which I have no regrets. Throughout my political career, I have always held that a candidate’s public record should be exposed and attacked in as hard-hitting a fashion as possible. But his personal life and that of his family are not fair subjects for discussion unless they somehow bear directly on his qualifications for office.

  I put this policy into practice at the time of the Republican National Convention, and I stuck to it throughout the campaign. At the time of the Convention, some of my Chicago supporters reported to me that the Merchandise Mart—which is owned by Kennedy’s father and his brother-in-law Sargent Shriver, now head of the Peace Corps—hired no Negroes at anything above the very lowest, most menial level. They reported that there was great resentment over this policy in the Negro community of Chicago. And they suggested that this issue be dramatize
d during the Convention by means of a mass-picketing demonstration at the Mart. I rejected the proposal on the ground that I was running against Jack Kennedy, not against his father and brother-in-law.

  As far as the religious issue is concerned, I must admit that I am at a loss to know how I could have treated it differently. Gallup, Roper, and the other pollsters reported after the election that I got the lowest percentage of the Catholic vote of any Republican presidential candidate in history (22 per cent) and that there was not a corresponding and balancing shift of Protestants away from Kennedy. But I still believe my decision was right, and I can take some satisfaction from the fact that this was probably the last national election in which the religious issue will be raised at all. One of the most gratifying postelection comments on this score, as far as I was concerned, was made by Cardinal Cushing of Boston when, in a speech in Baltimore on January 13, 1961, he nominated me “good will man of the year.” He said: “During the recent campaign which tested and taxed all his powers, physical and mental, he never exploited the religious or any other issue that would tend to divide the American people.”14

  Except in these three instances, I do not intend what I have written to be a justification for every decision I made during the campaign. All I have tried to do is to set forth the reasons for those decisions, with the thought that others can look at the record more objectively than I and perhaps can avoid making the same “mistakes” in the future.

  It may be, of course, that what both Kennedy and I said and did during the campaign had, in the end, very little effect on the outcome of the election. David Lawrence has often expounded the theory that people have pretty much made up their minds several months before an election and that, unless some great national or international event occurs, what the candidates say and do merely tends to confirm opinions previously reached. There is some support for this theory in the polls taken last year. On September 14, Gallup reported the split at Kennedy 51 per cent, Nixon 49 (actually 48–47, with 5 per cent undecided and then redistributed). This was just before each of us began two months of intensive campaigning. Two months and several million words later—not to mention the back-breaking, nerve-racking travel schedules—the vote on Election Day came out in approximately the same proportion.