Six Crises (20 page)

This does not mean that the speech would not be well prepared. More preparation and concentration is required to deliver a speech in this manner than in writing one out and reading it to the audience. But I had an acute problem in preparing this particular speech—there just were not enough hours in the day for me to get the ideas firmly enough in my mind so that I could deliver it entirely without notes.

From all reports, I knew that I would be speaking to the largest television and radio audience of the entire campaign. The suspense engendered by conflicting press reports over whether I would resign or be kept on the ticket had centered the attention of the entire nation on this one telecast.

One of my major problems was that a number of the “top name” reporters from the Eisenhower train had come to Los Angeles to cover the speech. “They are here so as to have front-row seats for the hanging,” Bassett quipped. Broadcast time was 6:30
P.M.
, Los Angeles, or 9:30
P.M.
on the East Coast. This coincided with the deadlines of most of the morning newspapers. Bassett reported the intense pressures on him as press secretary to give out something in advance. Most of my staff urged that I do so in order to assure better press coverage. But on this issue, I overruled them all. I knew that any advance notice of what I was going to say would cut down the size of my television audience. This time I was determined to tell my story directly to the people rather than to funnel it to them through a press account.
Consequently, Bassett made arrangements for the reporters to see my speech at television monitors in a separate room, with no advance text and with no notice of what I would say.

All day Tuesday I continued to work on my outline. By four o'clock, I had completed the second draft and had begun work on the third and final one. The loose ends had for the most part been filled in. Dr. Paul Smith, my history professor at Whittier College, had confirmed the accuracy of the Lincoln quote.

I had all the facts of my financial history—going back to 1945 when I came out of the Navy, with a net worth of $10,000 in government bonds, and became a candidate for Congress.

To make the case as airtight as possible, Price Waterhouse & Co. had audited my accounts in Washington, and Gibson, Dunn and Crutcher, one of the most respected of Los Angeles' law firms, had prepared a legal opinion stating that there was no law violation involved either in the collection of the fund or in its disbursement. Paul Hoffman, incidentally, had suggested both these reports because of his belief that they would have great weight, not only with the television audience but also with Eisenhower's associates from the world of finance and business on whose judgment the General placed such great reliance.

As I kept driving myself harder and harder with broadcast time approaching, my concern was not with my ability to speak at least fairly well. I had enough experience in speaking on television to be confident that with any reasonable amount of preparation I would not fall on my face. But I kept reminding myself, “It isn't enough for this just to be good. It must be the best you have ever done. It must be even better than you think you can possibly do. Because only a smashing success will win.”

By this time, I was no longer thinking of the effect this broadcast might have on my own career. The attacks from my former Republican friends and from press and radio commentators had taken their toll. Personally, I now wanted to get the whole business over with as soon as possible, one way or the other.

This attitude served me well. Selflessness is by far the most helpful attribute an individual can have at such a time. A man is at his best in a crisis when he is thinking not of himself but of the problem at hand. Then he forgets, or at least is not bothered by, how he “feels” physically.

In such periods of intense preparation for battle, most individuals
experience all the physical symptoms of tension—they become edgy and short-tempered, some can't eat, others can't sleep. I had experienced all these symptoms in the days since our train left Pomona. I had had a similar experience during the Hiss case. But what I had learned was that feeling this way before a battle was not something to worry about—on the contrary, failing to feel this way would mean that I was not adequately keyed up, mentally and emotionally, for the conflict ahead. It is only when the individual worries about how he feels that such physical factors become signs of self-destruction rather than of creativity. Two of the most important lessons I have learned from going through the fire of decision is that one must know himself, be able to recognize his physical reactions under stress for what they are, and that he must never worry about the necessary and even healthy symptoms incident to creative activity.

With personal considerations subordinated, I could concentrate on the issue which was far more important than my own political career. That was the election of Eisenhower. To me, Stevenson just wasn't in the same league and I had to do everything I could to see that Eisenhower was elected President. Eisenhower could not match Stevenson for elegance of language or eloquence of delivery. But Eisenhower was a man of decision. As General Walter Bedell Smith had pointed out in his book,
Eisenhower's Six Great Decisions,
he never did anything rashly. Sometimes he took more time to decide an issue than some of his eager lieutenants thought necessary, but invariably, when the line was drawn and the lonely responsibility for making the right decision rested solely with him, he came up with the right answer. The idea of putting Stevenson in the ring with a man like Stalin simply petrified me. On the other hand, I had faith that Eisenhower not only could hold his own but could gain the initiative for the cause of peace and freedom.

At four-thirty, with only a little over an hour left before I was scheduled to leave for the television studio, I asked Rogers and Chotiner to come in to discuss the one important section of the speech on which I had not made a decision. I had adopted Dewey's suggestion of asking the television audience to express their opinions by wire or letter. But to whom? To Eisenhower? To me? Or to the Republican National Committee?

We were still discussing this point when a call came through to my suite from “Mr. Chapman” in New York. That was the code name Tom
Dewey used when telephoning so as to confuse anyone who might be listening in. I knew that Dewey would not have called at this hour unless a matter of the highest urgency was involved. I left Rogers and Chotiner to continue their discussion and went into the next room and picked up the telephone.

From the tone of his voice, I could sense immediately that Dewey did not have his heart in what he had to tell me. “There has just been a meeting of all of Eisenhower's top advisers,” he said. “They have asked me to tell you that it is their opinion that at the conclusion of the broadcast tonight you should submit your resignation to Eisenhower. As you know, I have not shared this point of view, but it is my responsibility to pass this recommendation on to you.”

I was so shocked by what he said that I could not say a word for several seconds.

Dewey jiggled the receiver and said, “Hello, can you hear me?”

Finally I collected my thoughts and said, “What does Eisenhower want me to do?”

Dewey hedged at this point. He said he did not want to give the impression that he had spoken directly to Eisenhower or that this decision had been approved by Eisenhower. But he went on to say he was sure that, in view of the close relationship between those with whom he had talked and Eisenhower, they would not have asked him to call unless this represented Eisenhower's view as well as their own.

“It's kind of late for them to pass on this kind of recommendation to me now,” I told him. I added that I had already prepared my remarks and it would be most difficult for me to change them.

He replied that he thought I should go ahead and explain the fund as I had originally planned. And then I should say that, although I felt I had done no wrong, I did not want my presence on the ticket to be in any way a liability to the Eisenhower Crusade and, therefore, was submitting my resignation to him and insisting that he accept it.

As he continued to talk along these lines, I looked at my watch and realized that I had only a half-hour left to get cleaned up and to read over my notes before I had to leave for the studio.

“What shall I tell them you are going to do?” he asked.

My nerves were frayed to a fine edge by this time and I exploded, “Just tell them that I haven't the slightest idea as to what I am going to do and if they want to find out they'd better listen to the broadcast. And tell them I know something about politics too!” I slammed the
receiver down and went back into the next room to continue my conversation with Rogers and Chotiner.

They were as shocked as I was when I told them of the call. “You certainly aren't going to do what he suggests, are you?” demanded Chotiner.

“I just don't know,” I replied. “You two had better get out of here and give me a chance to think.” For the next half-hour, I moved around almost in a daze. I shaved, took a shower, put on the suit I was to wear for the telecast, and then went back to my notes. I had only had a chance to begin a third outline. I read the second one over again and decided to use it. I didn't have time to make another draft. Dewey's telephone call had not only shaken my equilibrium but had robbed me of time enough to get the whole outline in my head. I decided to speak from notes rather than from memory.

With only a few minutes remaining, I made the decision as to how I should conclude the broadcast. The more I thought of it, the more I became convinced that the wires should go to the Republican National Committee.

There were several reasons for my decision. Under the bylaws of the party, the National Committee selects the candidate in the event of resignation or death between nomination and election. If the broadcast were a success and the wires were to come to me, our opponents would inevitably charge that it was all a staged frame-up. If the wires were sent to Eisenhower and he decided to ask for my resignation, those who supported me might never forgive him, and his action could lead to loss of the election. If, on the other hand, the broadcast were not successful and a majority of listeners indicated their disapproval to the National Committee, it would be the politicians rather than Eisenhower who would take the responsibility for removing me from the ticket.

Then there was a fourth possibility. The broadcast might after all be a success and, if so, Eisenhower would need and welcome the backing of the National Committee for retaining me on the ticket. This would be much better than if he, personally, were to assume full responsibility for that decision.

I was just starting to write out what I intended to say with regard to the National Committee when Murray Chotiner stuck his head in the door. I looked up, irritated that even he would interrupt me at such a time.

Bluntly, he plunged right in: “Dick,” he said, “a good campaign manager must never be seen or heard. But if you're kicked off this ticket, I'm going to break that rule. I'm going to call the biggest damn press conference that's ever been held. I'm going to have television present. And I'm going to tell everybody who called who, what was said—names and everything.”

“Would you really do that?” I asked.

“Sure I'd do it,” he answered. “Hell, we'd be through with politics anyway. It wouldn't make any difference then.”

He ducked out and closed the door, without waiting for me to reply. I was glad that he had come in. His devil-may-care attitude, so uncharacteristic of him, had broken the tension and given me a needed lift.

I quickly jotted down the final notes, stuffed the five pages into my pocket, and went across the hall to pick up Pat. We walked down the hotel corridor to the elevator together. No one bothered us or spoke to us. It seemed like the last mile.

I rode in the front seat of the car on the way to the studio so that I could look over my notes again. No one spoke during the twenty-minute ride. We arrived at the stage of the El Capitan Theater in Hollywood just twenty-five minutes before broadcast time. Only the cameramen and electricians were onstage. As I had instructed, the 750-seat theater was empty. The newsmen were in another room with television sets and a battery of shorthand stenographers who would record the text as delivered. I even asked Chotiner, Bill Rogers, and Hillings to leave the studio so that I would have no possible distractions.

Ted Rogers, our television and radio producer, took me to a dressing room where a makeup man insisted on applying some beard-stick to cover my five-o'clock shadow even though I had shaved less than an hour before. Ted had wanted me to come to the studio earlier in the day for lighting tests but I told him that I simply couldn't spare the time from the preparation of my remarks. He consequently had taken full responsibility for selecting the set and preparing for the program. He used a salesman who resembled me as a camera stand-in when I had declined to come to the studio for rehearsal.

Ten minutes before air time he asked Pat and me to come to the set so that the lights could be adjusted. We sat onstage for less than five minutes while these last details were attended to. The director asked
what movements I would be making and I told him, “I don't have the slightest idea, just keep the camera on me.”

We moved back into the dressing room and Pat and I sat there alone for the six or seven minutes which remained before air time. I tried to read my notes again but by now the tension was too great. It had been a rugged six days since we left Pomona on September 17 and I think that if I had received one more jolt, like Dewey's phone call, in those few remaining minutes, I would have announced my resignation.

Three minutes before air time, Ted Rogers knocked on the door of the dressing room. I turned to Pat and said, “I just don't think I can go through with this one.”