by Allen Drury
“If this makes the ticket,” Cullee went on, and again the sarcasm came into his voice, “just a matter of Tweedledum and Tweedledee, then so be it. I don’t think myself that it does, because I have had some differences with the Secretary in the past, and I expect I’ll have some in the future.”
(“But not on foreign policy or defense,” Justice Davis murmured to Patsy Labaiya, holding herself ostentatiously rigid with disapproval of the speaker. “Not on anything that really counts.” “I know,” she responded. “It’s frightful. Simply FRIGHTFUL.”)
“So there will be divergences,” Cullee said, “and I expect I’ll not hesitate to tell the President about them. And I expect he’ll hear my advice”—he paused and turned deliberately to Orrin, who nodded (after all, what else could he do? CBS inquired of ABC)—“because that’s the kind of frank understanding we have always had, and that’s the kind of man he is.”
He paused, lifted his head, stared straight out; a thoughtful, almost wondering expression crossed his face.
“This is quite a day,” he said with a sudden childlike candor that was most disarming to all but his harshest critics, “for a little black boy from Greenville, South Carolina. There are two people I wish could see me now. One is my mother, bless her heart. And the other is that old curmudgeon Senator from my native state who isn’t with us any more, Seabright B. Cooley. I think maybe they’d both be proud. I think so.
“Anyway”—and suddenly he grinned, for a moment unashamedly and openly delighted, before the realities of the world closed down and his expression turned somber again—“I am, and that’s for sure.…
“So,” he concluded solemnly, “I accept your nomination. I pledge you everything I have in me. I say with our candidate for President—let us move forward together. We have a big job to do. Let’s get started!”
And he turned, as the applause, now disposed to be generous, rolled up from the room, and from NAWAC’s distant hordes the booing answered back, to shake hands with the President, with Orrin, Hal and Crystal, with Lathia Talbot Jennings, who gave him a sudden impulsive kiss and then turned bright pink. Then he and Orrin were standing together at the lectern, hands linked and raised high, posing for the cameras; a reminiscent moment suddenly tense for everyone, but passing this time, of course, without incident in the tightly guarded room.
“This special emergency meeting of the National Committee,” the President said, stepping forward to bring down the gavel with a final decisive crack!, “stands adjourned sine die. Goodbye, and God bless you all.”
And Orrin had the running mate he wanted, and the savage campaign, as of that moment, was begun.
5
There followed the seemingly endless, always exhausting succession of conferences, speeches, journeys, statements, appearances, charges, countercharges, challenges and responses which every four years provide the American electorate with some final, fundamental judgment on the man they wish to have as their President.
For the better part of three months, feeling steadily stronger and more like himself, he conducted a grueling campaign—not so much against Warren Strickland, who accepted, with an amiable irony he made known only to a few old friends, including Orrin, his party’s Presidential nomination—but against all the enemies, foreign and domestic, who were bitterly opposed to the idea of Orrin Knox in the White House.
These were many, and most were highly vocal. They had begun their outcries immediately upon Cullee’s nomination, and their attacks had ranged the spectrum from patronizing comments on the Congressman’s youth and general inexperience to bitter attacks upon his record as an advocate of the Hudson-Knox foreign policy.
“It is not only in the specific instances of Gorotoland and Panama that this policy is disastrous”—the Post had summed it up at the end of a three-part editorial series entitled “Compounding the Knox Mistake: The Hamilton Nomination”—“but in its general tone and thrust as well. In fact, tone and thrust are its major, and, we feel, most dangerous aspects.
“Tone and thrust are abysmally clear. There is one basic purpose: to oppose, and if possible thwart, the policies of the Soviet Union. And this with a sort of automatic knee-jerk hostility that is based on hysteria, fear, unthinking opposition, inability to accept the facts of our world as they exist—inability to perceive that only by working out a peaceable agreement with the Russians can we possibly hope to save the world—inability, in essence, to live and let live.”
Walter Dobius, the Times, the networks, Frankly Unctuous and all the busy gaggle of commentators, editorial writers and columnists who customarily tell Americans how to think, agreed.
“Orrin Knox ran his railroad through the National Committee and came out with the yes man he wanted—Cullee Hamilton,” Walter wrote. “The country will have a heavy reckoning to make if this prize pair is elected and given a mandate to pursue their unconscionable war policies.”
Overseas, too, there were grave doubts expressed, harsh criticisms voiced, deep misgivings murmured at diplomatic receptions and off-the-record talks with foreign leaders, which speedily found their way back to America.
At first the Secretary had been worried that this incessant barrage, which had characterized so much of his own public career, might seriously affect the poise and stability of his youthful running mate. He need not have feared. Their first private talk, a week after the Committee adjourned, found Cullee unimpressed, undeterred and undaunted.
“I gather,” he said with a wry smile when they were safely alone in the study of the house in Spring Valley, “that you and I are no damned good.”
“You are no damned good,” Orrin said cheerfully. “I am no damned goodest. How does it feel to be on the ticket with such a scoundrel—and to be such a scoundrel yourself?”
“Mr. Secretary,” Cullee said, his smile broadening to a grin, “I couldn’t be more pleased.” Then his expression abruptly changed, his tone became unaffectedly serious and humble. “I really don’t know,” he said quietly, “how I can ever express to you my gratitude for your having given me this opportunity. It is more than I ever dreamed—more than I ever had any right to dream. I didn’t mean to get so corny in my acceptance speech, I got carried away, I guess, but it is true: it’s more than a little black boy from Greenville, South Carolina, could ever have expected. Even though some of my so-called friends”—he scowled, his handsome face suddenly uneasy and unhappy—“seem to think it’s a shame and disgrace to my race for me to have accepted such an awful, demeaning, patronizing gesture on your part.”
“How is LeGage?” Orrin asked, and Cullee’s expression, always perturbed when he thought of LeGage Shelby, his brilliant former roommate at Howard University, now head of the Defenders of Equality for You (DEFY), became if anything more somber.
“That no-good lightweight is going to do everything he can to ruin us, that’s for sure—him and his other buddies in NAWAC. What a crew! They aren’t going to forgive you for Ted Jason’s not being here—not,” he added hastily, “that you had anything to do with that. But you know it’s a factor.”
“Yes,” Orrin agreed somberly, “it’s a factor. Walter Dobius and his friends keep reviving the suspicion every other day. I’d like to think nobody believed them, but I’m afraid some do.”
“Walter and his friends on one side, and NAWAC and that bunch on the other,” Cullee said with a grimly humorous smile. “We’ve got us quite a cross-ruff going, haven’t we, Mr. Secretary? If the ghosts don’t get you, the goblins will.”
“Well,” Orrin said, a characteristic tartness entering his tone, “I trust you and I, by running a good, honest, hard-hitting campaign, can take care of them both.”
Cullee nodded.
“I think so. I really do. I still think the majority in this country is fair-minded, and I think if we rely on that and state things honestly as we see them, we’ll come through all right.…So,” he added matter-of-factly, “do you want me to attack NAWAC and the media while you take the high road?”
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Orrin gave a startled little laugh and shook his head.
“No, you don’t need to do that.”
“Isn’t that the function of Vice Presidents?” Cullee inquired, quite seriously. “I want to do whatever you want me to do, to help.”
Orrin smiled and realized anew how fond he was of this direct and uncomplicated heart he had raised to share his problems, and, if November brought its hoped-for reward, his power.
“We’ll handle it together. If we have to reply, we’ll coordinate and we’ll both do our part. But I’m hopeful we can keep it on a plane where we won’t have to. Certainly Warren isn’t going to lower it. I know that.”
“There are those who will,” Cullee said. “This isn’t going to be an easy campaign, Mr. Secretary.”
“I’ve never expected it to be,” Orrin said gravely. “But I think you and I can stand the gaff.”
“You can count on me,” Cullee said, his face for a second as stubborn as Orrin’s could be. “If they think they’re going to push little Cullee around, they have another think coming.”
And although the campaign almost immediately became marred by violence and by increasing media attacks upon their general probity, character and competence, Orrin had been pleased to find that he had remained true to that pledge. And this in spite of provocations that grew increasingly difficult to take as the weeks hurried on.
NAWAC, at first seemingly stunned by Cullee’s nomination, had for several days issued no official comment. Then Fred Van Ackerman, speaking, as he said, for his own Committee on Making Further Offers for a Russian Truce (COMFORT), LeGage Shelby of DEFY, and Rufus Kleinfert, Knight Kommander of the Konference on Efforts to Encourage Patriotism (KEEP), gave the media a position paper which would, he said, form the basis for NAWAC’s approach to the campaign.
“The nomination of Congressman Hamilton to run for Vice President with Secretary of State Knox,” it read in part, “indicates not only the Secretary’s desperate paucity of new ideas to offer the country, but it throws into glaring light the helplessness with which the American voter must face his choices in November.
“Senator Warren Strickland and his running mate are as pro-war as Secretary Knox and Congressman Hamilton. There is no solace in either camp for all those Americans who genuinely desire a world in which Soviet Russia and the United States can live in harmony with one another.
“Senator Strickland and his running mate have no desire to provide such a world. Secretary Knox and Congressman Hamilton have no desire to provide it.
“The American people must therefore return, as in all times of past danger, to a patriotic reliance upon their own efforts to make their feelings known.
“In this effort, the National Anti-War Activities Congress expects to be, throughout the campaign, constantly vigilant and on the alert for any activities or statements by any candidate, or any spokesman for any candidate, which seek to subvert peace. It intends to make its opposition to such anti-peace attempts vigorous and effective.
“All Americans who agree are invited to join us and help conduct this great battle for a sane and peaceful world.”
And daily, as the press faithfully reported, new thousands answered the appeal and received their memberships in NAWAC. And daily NAWAC’s black-leather-jacketed representatives, increasingly and openly paramilitary, appeared in ever more ominous numbers at campaign rallies, parades, speeches by the candidates, political gatherings of every kind.
For all of them, this was hard to take—for Warren Strickland and his running mate, the amiable Governor of Pennsylvania—for Orrin—for Cullee—for Lafe Smith in Iowa—for Hal, who was running for the House in Illinois—for Ceil Jason, who had suggested that she introduce Orrin at each of his major campaign appearances. Starting with his opening speech in Chicago on Labor Day, she had done so with gracious efficiency and a genuine enthusiasm that added greatly to his campaign. And starting with that day and running right on through, on each occasion the demonstrators and the rioters and the black-suited cadres were there, like a spigot turned on and off by—whom? Perhaps by Fred Van Ackerman, perhaps by some hand more sophisticated than his.
No one knew, and the media treatment of the disturbances was in general so tolerant, good-natured and determinedly unalarmed that it was, at first, difficult to get much attention for warnings about them.
“We note,” the Post editorialized almost jovially after five or six outbreaks of violence, fortunately not fatal but deeply disturbing in their bitterness, had marred the appearances of the Secretary of State, Senator Strickland and their running mates, “that the peace-loving elements in America seem to be arousing some concern in the camps of the various pro-war candidates who are running for election in November. We cannot find ourselves moved by their expressions of alarm. We think they deserve whatever they get in the way of protest which, while perhaps a little vigorous at times, nonetheless represents the opinion of the overwhelming majority of Americans.
“It may be, as spokesmen for both Secretary Knox and Senator Strickland contend, that there have been threats, possibly even minor examples of actual violence, in opposition to their views. Surely such episodes have been entirely accidental. In any event, we suggest that the candidates have only themselves to blame. Harsh and oppressive policies bring harsh and oppressive responses.
“Basically, the message of NAWAC and other anti-war groups is clear: America wants peace and friendship with the Soviet Union. Is that such a crime?”
Similar opinions appeared in all the usual places. No one of any prominence in the media was in the least concerned. It appeared that violence was about to become a joke. Some counterattack appeared to be necessary, and in a speech in St. Louis in the third week of September, Orrin launched it.
“We have just witnessed,” he said, as his upset and excited audience quieted down after the first few hectic minutes of his appearance, “a scene disgraceful to America and ominous for all who believe in the preservation of our free society. Armed demonstrators carrying the banners of a paramilitary, un-American organization have attempted to stop this meeting. They have attempted to stop free American citizens from attending. They have threatened the lives of Mrs. Jason, myself and Congressman Hamilton. They have threatened your lives.
“How much longer will America tolerate such tactics?
“I do not know the limits of America’s patience, but I do know mine. I have asked the President of the United States for increased Secret Service protection for Mrs. Jason, myself and Congressman Hamilton. He has agreed. He has also offered to assign Federal troops to any major campaign rallies where Senator Strickland or myself feel their presence to be necessary.
“I do not know whether I will avail myself of this offer or whether Senator Strickland will. But I thank the President for it, because things have passed dangerously far beyond the point of normal political debate in this country when armed elements can threaten, disrupt and disorganize the political gatherings of a free people.”
The response had been prompt and outraged.
Knox, President seek to impose military control of political meetings. Use pretext of minor anti-war disturbances to threaten federal intervention in election process. Major figures of church, theater, legal professions join NAWAC in denunciation of “outrageous, unconstitutional attempt to substitute dictatorship for democracy.” President unmoved. White house spokesman says offer stands.
And although neither Orrin nor Warren Strickland availed themselves of it, things quieted down for a brief period and there was a noticeable restraint apparent in the protests staged by NAWAC and others.
The lull lasted roughly two weeks.
Then both candidates received an urgent call from the White House, events suddenly raced into high gear and the campaign became, abruptly, much more hectic than before.
“Let’s sit over there by the window,” William Abbott suggested in the Oval Office. “I want to get away from that damned desk.”
“That’
s odd,” Warren Strickland said with his pleasant smile. “Here Orrin and I are breaking our necks to try to get to it. Is there something wrong with it?”
“He won’t tell us,” Orrin said. “He doesn’t want to discourage us.”
“Oh, yes,” the President said, “I’ll tell you. If it’s discouraging, so be it. All I know is, one of you is going to have to take it next January. I won’t be here, thank God.”
“As bad as that,” Senator Strickland said.
“As bad as that,” Bill Abbott agreed somberly. “Look at this.”
And he handed each of them a long manila folder marked “Ajax Only.”
“Ajax?” Orrin inquired quizzically. The President nodded.
“That’s me. You’ll find that all intelligence types around here love to play games with names. Anyway, Ajax is breaking the rules by letting you see this. But I thought you’d better know, because I may have to take action that will arouse some public comment, and I want you both supporting me. That is, if you see fit.”
“I’m sure we shall,” Warren Strickland said, putting on his glasses, opening the folder and beginning to read. “What is this?”
“‘Hammerlock and Time Bomb: Plans for New Offensives in Panama and Gorotoland,’” Orrin read. “I suppose ‘Hammerlock’ and ‘Time Bomb’ are—”
“You guessed it,” the President said. “Moscow and Peking. Hammerlock is what the Pentagon thinks the Russians have on us, and Time Bomb is what they think the Chinese are. They hope it’s a time bomb against Russia, but nobody’s sure at the moment.” He gestured to the folders. “Right now, it doesn’t look that way.”
“No,” Warren Strickland said as his eyes sped down the first page. “It certainly does not.…”
“So,” Orrin said five minutes later as they closed the folders and turned to the President, staring moodily out at the Rose Garden as it lay listless in the last heat of Indian summer. “What now?”
