Eisenhower (38 page)

By the time the Republicans met in San Francisco for their convention, there was little mystery left in the race. Although Stassen stumped for Governor Christian Herter of Massachusetts to replace Nixon, Herter was uncomfortable being a divisive figure within the party. And yet Ike himself, just days before the convention, remained halfheartedly committed to his vice president. As late as August 19, he was jotting names of those Republicans whom he would consider acceptable replacements: Brownell as well as Dewey, Governor Goodwin Knight of California, or even the California senator Bill Knowland, who so annoyed Ike as a legislative leader but who could help carry California if Nixon were not on the ticket. Nixon’s name appeared on that list, too, but as one of many, not as Eisenhower’s singular choice. As the convention drew near, Herter found a way out of the controversy: he agreed to deliver the speech nominating Nixon for the vice presidency. With that, the air rushed out of Stassen’s balloon.

Eisenhower did his best to skirt that episode but involved himself much more heavily in the more mundane business of drafting the party platform. He did so partly to avoid saddling his second term with unreasonable demands or expectations but also to give vent to his frustrations over civil rights. Reading the proposed Republican platform, Eisenhower tripped over a phrase stating that the “Eisenhower Administration and the Republican Party have supported the Supreme Court” in its efforts to desegregate schools. Ike vehemently protested to Brownell that he wanted the reference to his administration deleted. The president insisted that the administration never “took a stand in the matter.” That must have puzzled his attorney general, who filed a brief in support of school desegregation personally edited by Ike. But Eisenhower, who had deferred to Brownell despite his misgivings over the pace of change in civil rights, now maintained that the Justice Department’s brief and argument in
Brown
did not reflect an administration view of the case; instead, Ike argued, Brownell had appeared “as a lawyer, not as a member of the Eisenhower Administration.” That, of course, begged the question of whom Brownell was representing, if not the administration, but Eisenhower insisted that the cabinet had never debated the case, and thus Brownell could not have appeared on behalf of that body. Eisenhower was emphatically wrong but in no mood to compromise on the question: unless he got his way and the party agreed to drop any suggestion that the administration supported the
Brown
decision, Ike said he would refuse to attend the convention.

Why was Eisenhower so determined to distance himself from a ruling that was written by his appointee, that had strengthened America’s position in the Cold War, and that had ennobled the nation’s commitment to perfecting itself as a constitutional democracy? He was, Ike said, torn: he understood his duty to obey the Court on constitutional matters, but he also felt that
Brown
had so antagonized Southerners that it had set back civil rights. In San Francisco, floor managers secured a compromise, agreeing that the platform would read that the administration “concurred” in the ruling. Even that wasn’t good enough for Eisenhower. He eventually signed off on language saying that the administration “accepts”
Brown—
a phrase so reserved that it suggested acquiescence rather than approval. For those who would later maintain that Eisenhower welcomed
Brown
, his role in crafting the 1956 party platform offers powerful evidence to the contrary. Far from appreciating or endorsing
Brown
, Ike, at every turn, attempted to minimize his role in fashioning it and to insulate his administration from its political ramifications. As a result, Eisenhower’s record in that area reflected a triumph of leadership style over personal conviction: he trusted Brownell to lead where he himself had reservations, and though he balked occasionally, the administration made progress despite Ike’s own reservations.

Once he secured the platform language he could accept, Eisenhower joined the celebration of his first term. He arrived at 6:53 p.m. on August 21 and bounded from the plane, “his face ruddy with returned strength and alight with expectation,” as
Time
magazine put it. Ike exuded ease and health. Explaining why he decided to come to the convention earlier than expected, he said: “I suddenly discovered this was too interesting a place to stay away from. I just read the names of too many friends in the paper, and I wanted to see them.” Thousands lined the route from the airport to his hotel; two thousand more awaited his arrival in Union Square, where bands played “We Love the Sunshine of His Smile.”

San Francisco, thrilled to be the first California city to host a Republican convention, warmed to the event in bipartisan spirit—crowds milled in Union Square in front of the St. Francis Hotel and lined the streets. Eisenhower occupied the hotel’s seventh floor; Pete Jones took a room one floor above, while other members of the Gang stayed at the nearby Fairmont. The city,
Time
reported, “was like wine to Ike.” The president ordered that speakers maintain a high tone of inclusiveness, urging organizers to avoid personal attacks on the Democratic ticket and to avoid “excessive partisanship.” Only one speaker defied that directive. It came on the first day, when Arthur Langlie, governor of Washington and a favorite of Ike’s, argued that Democrats “are now addicted to the principle that loyalty to a political party comes ahead of devotion to our beloved country.” Eisenhower was sitting next to Sherman Adams at the time, and he turned crossly to his aide. “Whoever let him say that?” the president demanded.

Even at this late date, Eisenhower announced himself willing to consider any challenge to Nixon’s place on the ticket. None came forward. Up at 6:00 the next morning, Eisenhower met with Stassen, and Stassen—“phlegmatically,” as the
New York Times
described It—gave up his crusade to replace the vice president. Eisenhower accepted Stassen’s statement and released it himself. The two were photographed smiling. Nixon pronounced himself “deeply appreciative.”

Langlie’s sharp critique of the Democrats at the convention’s outset was soon forgotten. In general, the convention was devoted to praising its nominee, which Eisenhower could hardly help but enjoy. Charles Halleck, in his nomination speech, described Eisenhower as “the most widely beloved, the most universally respected, the most profoundly dedicated man of our times.” Politics, where hyperbole is the coin of the realm, encourages such grandiosity, but Halleck’s description was, in this case, refreshingly accurate. Ike ran in 1956 as a beloved incumbent as well as a revered general and champion of peace. Against such praise, squabbling over Nixon or the occasional indulgence of partisanship seemed small. Surrounded by friends and family, Ike good-naturedly allowed himself to be adored. For Nixon, as always, life was more complicated: his father fell gravely ill during the convention and died before Election Day.

When it came time for him to address the convention, Ike did so with vigor. The speech was meticulous in Ike’s style: there was a careful listing of the five reasons why the Republican Party was the party of the future and an equally systematic enumeration of the “three imperatives of peace.” On the topic of social justice, Eisenhower was mildly defensive, claiming a record “not [of] words and promise, but [of] accomplishment.” He cited elimination of discrimination in the District of Columbia, the armed services, and government contractors as the administration’s great achievements; technically true, but none of those institutions had reached anything close to racial equality. The address included the requisite acclamation of the Republican Party and its principles—it was, after all, a national convention speech. But the most enduring passages echoed the grand oratory of his “The Chance for Peace” or “Atoms for Peace” addresses, those in which he wrestled with the dominant issue of his presidency: the balance between national security and the securing of an international peace. Before a loving convention and a deeply appreciative American people, Eisenhower once again reflected on the existential challenge of the Cold War, the paradox of armed strength and terrifying vulnerability.

“No one is more aware than I that it is the young who fight the wars,” Eisenhower said. “It is not enough that their elders promise ‘Peace in our time’; it must be peace in their time too, and in their children’s time; indeed, my friends, there is only one real peace now, and that is peace for all time.”

Under Eisenhower’s leadership—with Dulles in foreign affairs, Wilson in Defense, Humphrey guiding economic policy, Weeks anchoring Commerce—“our military strength has been constantly augmented,” but that buildup was neither headlong nor precipitous. It was, Eisenhower reminded his audience, done “soberly and intelligently,” aimed not at aggression or intimidation but as part of a conscientious devotion to collective security, one that rejected isolationism in favor of a coalition of nations in search of safety from a dangerous foe. “We live in a shrunken world, a world in which oceans are crossed in hours, a world in which a single-minded despotism menaces the scattered freedoms of scores of struggling independent nations.” Victory would not be won by military might alone, he emphasized. “There can be no enduring peace for any nation while other nations suffer privation, oppression, and a sense of injustice and despair. In our modern world, it is madness to suppose that there could be an island of tranquility and prosperity in a sea of wretchedness and frustration.”

All of that underlined Eisenhower’s determination to create a world of alliances, to lead by aid and example, not merely to cow America’s enemies within their borders. Still, he knew, too, that nuclear weapons, so essential to his New Look for American security, formed their own, independent threat, that they recalibrated the moral considerations of war itself. Once a force for freedom and liberation, America’s military strength now carried the potential of human annihilation, as did its enemy’s. “With such weapons,” Eisenhower told the suddenly sobered audience, “war has become, not just tragic, but preposterous. With such weapons, there can be no victory for anyone. Plainly, the objective now must be to see that such a war does not occur at all.”

Eisenhower’s phrasing was elegant and memorable: “not just tragic, but preposterous,” “a sea of wretchedness and frustration,” “a single-minded despotism” menacing “scattered freedoms.” But even more striking was the substance of his speech. Here was an American president able and willing to warn his people that they would not win a war for which he was asking them to arm. Only Eisenhower, the world’s most revered public statesman, could sound such an alarm and yet confidently carry the warm affection of his nation. “My friends,” he concluded, “in firm faith, and in the conviction that the Republican purposes and principles are ‘in league’ with this kind of future, the nomination that you have tendered me for the Presidency of the United States I now—humbly but confidently—accept.” Sinny Weeks was among those deeply moved. It was, he thought, the best speech Ike had given as president.

His address over, the balloons released, the crowds energized, Ike then “was given a reward,” as Adams put it. He and the Gang headed for one of the president’s favorite courses, Cypress Point, in Pebble Beach, California, for a long weekend of golf and bridge.

Ike promised a gentler campaign and delivered it. He knew Stevenson had no way to beat him, so he campaigned mostly from the White House, shunning the exhausting regimen of train travel that had marked the 1952 effort, instead favoring a strategy more heavily reliant on advertising than personal appearances. Stevenson lashed out now and again and occasionally drew a reply—Eisenhower was particularly dismissive of Stevenson’s proposal for a ban on atmospheric testing of nuclear weapons—but the president largely ignored the campaign to unseat him. The
New York Times
, which backed Ike in 1952, did so even more enthusiastically in 1956. With Election Day approaching, Ike was the heavy favorite to win.

That is not to say that he took victory for granted. In September, the Supreme Court justice Sherman Minton, a capable if undistinguished member of the Court, announced his plans to retire on October 15, when the Court resumed its fall term. Eisenhower was mildly miffed—Minton had declared his support for Stevenson, and his announcement gave Ike little time to react—but the president had his third vacancy: Warren was his first appointment, and in 1955 he had replaced the eloquent Robert Jackson with an elegant, estimable conservative, John Marshall Harlan II, who would follow in his grandfather’s footsteps as one of history’s most distinguished justices.

With the 1956 election so close, Eisenhower approached this nomination with political thoughts in mind. He had few areas of weakness, but among them was his relatively mediocre standing among Catholic Democrats. Discussing the appointment with Brownell, Eisenhower specifically suggested that the attorney general look for a conservative judge, preferably a Democrat and definitely a Catholic.

Brownell delivered on a Catholic Democrat but either misjudged or misled Eisenhower on the appointee’s politics. William J. Brennan Jr. was the son of an immigrant labor organizer. He grew up in New Jersey and went on to graduate from Harvard Law School. He was charming, brilliant, and impish, a distinguished member of the New Jersey Supreme Court, highly recommended by that court’s chief justice. All of which inarguably qualified him for the Supreme Court. But Brennan was hardly a conservative. The
Washington Post
described him as a “moderate liberal,” and others noted his party affiliation and working-class upbringing. Still, Eisenhower liked him—most men did—and announced his appointment on September 29.

Ike would come to regret Brennan’s appointment as the years passed, privately expressing disappointment in him as well as in Warren. In Warren’s case, Eisenhower could perhaps be forgiven for misgauging the California Republican’s true political convictions. He had less of an excuse with Brennan. Eisenhower misunderstood him, and that miscalculation had lasting consequences. Brennan took his seat on October 15, 1956; he was easily confirmed the following spring, with only Senator McCarthy voting no. Brennan did not leave the Court until July 1990.