Six Crises (18 page)

Chotiner, who had great respect for the working press, did not intend these remarks to be critical of the reporters covering us, but he pointed up hard realities as far as press coverage in general is concerned. Reporters temperamentally and traditionally are skeptical, and perhaps justifiably so, whenever the personal honesty of a public official is questioned.

Everyone present agreed that somehow I had to get an opportunity to tell my story to millions rather than to the thousands who were coming out to hear me at the whistle-stops. There was only one way to do this—through a national television broadcast. As our conference broke up after three in the morning, we agreed that the following day we would check out the possibilities for putting me on a nationwide TV hookup. The major question remaining unresolved was the type
of program and the timing of the broadcast. Several commercially sponsored programs, including “Meet the Press,” had offered me time for Sunday night. Chotiner thought that “Meet the Press” would be a bad format because he believed the program should give me an opportunity to state my case alone, without interruption by possibly unfriendly press questioners. Rogers objected on the ground that he thought Sunday was too early. “Let them shoot their wad first and then give it to them,” he said.

After the four of them had left the room, I sat alone for another two hours and reviewed the entire situation. I realized that although others could help direct my thinking, the final decision in a crisis of this magnitude must not represent the lowest common denominator of a collective judgment; it must be made alone by the individual primarily involved.

The range and scope of this crisis began to fall into a pattern. It was, of course, an acute personal crisis. I realized that my decision affected not only me and my future but also that of my wife, my daughters, my parents, and other members of my family. They, as well as I, would have to live with the consequences of my action.

What I did would also affect Eisenhower and his personal future in the same way.

But more important, I knew that what I decided would affect the Republican Party and the millions of its members who had put their faith in me by nominating me as candidate for Vice President.

And most important of all, I believed that what I did would affect the future of my country and the cause of peace and freedom for the world.

Stripped of all personal and collateral considerations, the real issue was: who would win the election, Eisenhower or Stevenson?

To me, this was not a choice between two equally able men who happened to be members of different parties. I will admit that I was not an objective observer; but to me Eisenhower was a great leader who could provide the inspiration needed by the United States and the Free World in so critical a time. Stevenson, on the other hand, impressed me as being all veneer and no substance—a man plagued with indecision who could speak beautifully but could not act decisively. If my crisis over an $18,000 political fund was to affect who would lead the United States in the next four or eight years, it was a crisis of unbelievably massive proportions.

What had happened during the past week had not shaken my faith in Eisenhower. If, as some of my associates thought, he appeared to be indecisive, I put the blame not on him but on his lack of experience in political warfare and on the fact that he was relying on several equally inexperienced associates. I could see his dilemma. He had been a winner all his life and now his task as a candidate was to win again in a new arena where, as inexperienced as he was, he had to judge the voters' mood to decide whether or not I should be asked to stay on the ticket or resign. He had to win the election before he could lead the country. And his friends and associates, whom he trusted, were telling him that he might lose unless he got rid of me.

I recognized, however, that my personal decision had to be based on my own analysis of the facts as I saw them and politics as I knew it to be. If I were to resign from the ticket it would be an admission of guilt, Eisenhower might well lose the election, and I would forever afterwards be blamed for it. I decided that I had to do everything within my power to stay on the ticket—with honor. Having made that basic decision, I finally went to bed at about five in the morning and slept better than I had since the night the train pulled out of Pomona four days before.

Now the most difficult phase of the crisis was over—that agonizing period when I had to make the decision to fight the battle or to run away. Ahead of me were still three days of almost superhuman effort: preparing for the battle and then the battle itself, a half-hour broadcast in which the slightest mistake might spell disaster for me, my family, and my party.

But as I had learned in the Hiss case, the period of indecision, of necessary soul-searching was the hardest. Now the emotions, the drive, the intense desire to act and speak decisively which I had kept bottled up inside myself could be released and directed to the single target of winning a victory.

That Sunday was scheduled as a day of rest, with only one non-political speaking engagement on the calendar. However, it turned out to be another long day of ordeal, capped by another key decision. At about ten o'clock, Pat Hillings brought in the latest accumulation of wires and letters. The overwhelming majority urged me to stay on the ticket. But Harold Stassen, in a three-hundred-word telegram, advised me to offer my withdrawal from the race. He even spelled out a suggested text for my withdrawal message and stated that if my offer was
accepted, Earl Warren should be named to step in. This, he said, “will also strengthen you and aid your career.” As I read the wire, I realized how fickle fortune can be in politics. It was just eight months before, when Stassen had been seeking the presidential nomination himself, that he had called on me in my office in the Senate Office Building and urged me to support him for the nomination. He suggested that, if I could swing part or all of the California delegation behind him, that might start a bandwagon rolling and, under the circumstances, I would be “an ideal running mate” on his ticket.

Stassen's influence in the country at that time was still considerable. I realized his opposition was a severe blow. Yet, at times like this when my situation was desperate, little things can have as much effect as big ones. Tom Bewley, my former law partner, and John Reilly, who, as a former director of Rotary International, was one of our home town's most prominent citizens, flew up from Whittier to Portland to see me. They came into the suite for only a minute. “We just flew up to tell you,” they said, “that all the folks back in Whittier are behind you 100 per cent.”

When they left the room, I had a lump in my throat. Whittier at that time had no more than about ten thousand registered voters. What the people there thought didn't mean too much when the votes of sixty million in the country would determine the election. But acts of such thoughtfulness are so rare in political life that they have a meaning far beyond their significance in the ballot box.
¹

All afternoon, I talked with my staff about the alternatives we had for a television program. By this time, several commercial sponsors had offered to put me on for a half-hour without interruption, but we still felt that commercial sponsorship was not proper. Late in the afternoon I received a telephone call from Governor Dewey which was to have great influence on the format of the program.

“I think you ought to go on television,” Dewey told me. “I don't think Eisenhower should make this decision. Make the American people do it. At the conclusion of the program, ask people to wire their verdict in to you in Los Angeles. You will probably get over a million replies, and that will give you three or four days to think it over. At the end of that time, if it is 60 per cent for you and 40 per cent against you, say you are getting out as that is not enough of a majority. If it
is 90 to 10, stay on. If you stay on, it isn't blamed on Ike, and if you get off it isn't blamed on Ike. All the fellows here in New York agree with me.”

The idea of leaving the decision to a vote of the television audience did not appeal to some of the members of my staff. They feared a concerted campaign might be put under way to “stack” the replies against me. But I had great respect for Dewey's political judgment, and I was trying to think of how his suggestion could be implemented when I left the hotel for my evening speaking engagement at the Portland Temple Club. There I put the fund furor out of mind and tried to lay to rest before a large and receptive audience one of the most malicious smears which had developed against me after my participation in the Hiss case: that I was anti-Semitic.

I arrived back at the hotel at around nine o'clock. We continued our discussion with regard to the broadcast. Chotiner insisted that the National Committee should sponsor the broadcast. He said, “They already have scheduled two nationwide broadcasts for the vice presidential candidate. What they have to realize is that this broadcast is just as important to the success of the campaign as the two they have regularly scheduled.” This proved to be the understatement of the 1952 campaign!

While we were discussing the broadcast, Rose Mary Woods, my private secretary, came into the room and said, “General Eisenhower is on the phone.” I was sitting on the couch with my legs propped up on the coffee table. I braced myself mentally for his decision and picked up the telephone. “Hello, General.”

“Hello, Dick.” His voice was warm and friendly. “You've been taking a lot of heat the last couple of days. I imagine it has been pretty rough.”

I replied that the last four days had indeed been rugged.

“You know, this is an awfully hard thing for me to decide,” he said. “I have come to the conclusion that you are the one who has to decide what to do. After all, you've got a big following in this country and if the impression got around that you got off the ticket because I forced you to get off, it is going to be very bad. On the other hand, if I issue a statement now backing you up, in effect people will accuse me of condoning wrongdoing.” He said he had had dinner with some of his friends that night, and they were in disagreement as to whether I should stay on or get off. But they all agreed that I ought to have a chance to tell my story to the country.

“I don't want to be in the position of condemning an innocent man,” he said. “I think you ought to go on a nationwide television program and tell them everything there is to tell, everything you can remember since the day you entered public life. Tell them about any money you have ever received.”

I asked him, “General, do you think after the television program that an announcement could then be made one way or the other?”

He replied, “I am hoping that no announcement would be necessary at all, but maybe after the program we could tell what ought to be done.”

“General,” I answered, “I just want you to know that I don't want you to give any consideration to my personal feelings. I know how difficult this problem is for you.” Then I added: “But there comes a time in matters like this when you've either got to fish or cut bait. I will get off the ticket if you think my staying on it would be harmful. You let me know and I will get off and I will take the heat, but this thing has got to be decided at the earliest possible time. After the television program, if you think I should stay on or get off, I think you should say so either way. The great trouble here is the indecision.”

But one of Eisenhower's most notable characteristics is that he is not a man to be rushed on important decisions. “We will have to wait three or four days after the television show to see what the effect of the program is,” he insisted.

We talked on about the campaign and the crowd reactions and he ended the fifteen-minute conversation, our first since the fund episode began, by saying, “Well, Dick, go on the television show. Good luck and keep your chin up.”

I informed the members of my staff who were in the room of the substance of the conversation and we went to work. In the next ninety minutes, we were in touch with Sherman Adams, Art Summerfield, and Bob Humphreys, of the National Committee staff. We finally got word that the National Committee and the Senatorial Congressional Campaign Committee had pledged the $75,000 necessary to buy a half-hour of prime evening time for Tuesday, just forty-eight hours away. We decided that the broadcast should originate from Los Angeles. While my staff worked out the broadcast arrangements, I sat alone in my room and, writing on the large lined yellow legal pads which I used for outlining my speeches, I reconstructed my conversation with Eisenhower and tried to evaluate it.

I could appreciate the terrible dilemma which confronted him. From a personal standpoint, he did not want to force me off the ticket. On the other hand, as the nominee of the party he had the responsibility to win the election. The way he had resolved the dilemma was to put the responsibility on me. I should go on television and present my side of the case, completely and accurately. But even then he might not make a decision one way or the other. It was up to me to decide whether I should stay on or get off the ticket.

I decided then and there to assume that responsibility completely and without any compromise. If I considered the broadcast a success, I would stay on the ticket. If I thought it was a failure, I would get off. Now everything was up to me, the challenge was clear, and I must prepare to meet it.

My first assignment was to inform the press of the decision. The newsmen covering my campaign were alerted at 11:00
P.M.
to stand by for a press conference, my first since the fund crisis started. Jim Bassett, who had handled a very difficult assignment in those last four days, made several trips to the press room telling the reporters to stand by, while in my suite we made final arrangements to cancel my campaign tour so that I could fly to Los Angeles to prepare for the broadcast.

It was after 1:00
A.M.
when I walked into the press room. I could sense the tension. The reporters must have expected a definite announcement—either that I was resigning or not resigning. I thought I might as well have a little fun on such a deadly serious occasion.