What It Takes

by Richard Ben Cramer

  Then ... Bub produced the cigar box—the relic of the passion play!

  But this time, the box contained one hundred and thirty-five thousand dollars ... from Russell, Kansas ... for Bob’s campaign.

  The band played “God Bless America,” an up-tempo rendition—fast, in fact—it was still cold as hell. Nancy Kassebaum, Dole’s Senate colleague from Kansas (and daughter of the icon Alf Landon), had the honor of introducing Bob. “In a real sense ...” she noted (no flies on Nancy!), “... Russell is what this campaign is about.”

  And when she said the name, kids screamed “Dole! Dole! Dole! Eeeeeeeeeeeeee!” and the band let loose with “Step to the Rear (and Let a Winner Lead the Way)” ... and there was the Bobster, in front now, with a smile of fierce elation, bouncing to the music, swinging his arm—bringing on the action!

  Lord, what a story! An American Everyman drama for our age! And not done yet—no! Bob had a speech to make ... but first, his part in the drama:

  There was a woman who’d traveled with him to Russell, Sophie Vavlety, a strange Park Avenue New Yorker who was in love with Bob Dole, and everything he touched. She gave her fur coat to the Mayor’s wife at the airport. She gave Kenny a lambswool Italian scarf, and Anita a silk kimono. She gave two dresses to Doris Henderson, the owner of Russell’s Country Squire Motel. Sophie was an emblem of Bob Dole’s new world, which he’d brought back to Russell. Now Bob called the Mayor to the stage and presented, from Sophie Vavlety:

  A $10,000 check for the poor of Russell, Kansas.

  Well ...

  Bob still had to speak ... but what was left to say?

  What were words about opportunity, compared to this allegory-in-life of righteous GOP redemption? ... What were prosy visions for the nation’s next four years, compared to the miraculous fact of Dole’s life—his future—sun-sharp and solid as the bricks on Main Street?

  82

  No Future at All

  IT DAWNED ON DOLE only slowly that he’d have to fight for his life—when Watergate burst open like a bad cantaloupe, when everything around him turned foul, all at once.

  It wasn’t that Watergate snuck up on him. He didn’t try to wish it away, or deny its import ... not anymore. Once he’d left the Party chair, there was no Republican more vocal, more candid about the scandal. Dole saw the cover-up killing Nixon’s Presidency, and he knew Republicans would suffer, at the polls. Still, it was a stomach-turning shock to him—an affront—when they came at him, in Kansas!

  It started with Norbert Dreiling, “Mr. Democrat,” from Hays. Dole showed up in Kansas, around the turn of the year, 1974, for the first quiet ta-rappa-tap-tap of his reelection soft-shoe ... and Norb was already slamming him with the portentous question:

  What did Dole know, and when did he know it?

  Either Dole was culpable of knowing (and was, therefore, like his President, an unindicted coconspirator) ... or Dole (the National Chairman!) was unaware, out of the loop (therefore, impotent, imbecilic) ... which would Bob have us believe?

  Dole was so enraged by this line of inquiry that he threatened to sue ... at which point Norb, a lawyer by trade and a brawler by temperament, replied in every Kansas paper: “Let him file his damn suit! Then he can answer the question under oath!”

  Only the mildest stuff made it into the papers. As usual, in Kansas, the real poison spread by word of mouth. People would take Dole aside, after events—these were supporters!—and quietly, half-ashamed, ask if it was true, what they heard:

  “Bob, they say the burglars kept their tools at your apartment!”

  Sure, that one was easy to knock down—Dole wasn’t renting at the Watergate until the year after the burglary. But how could he tell that to the thousands who didn’t ask? ... As usual, Dole feared the things people would not say.

  For instance, the divorce: no one brought it up with Dole. But everybody knew, of course, how Bob dumped that gal, Phyllis—you know, when he went fancy-pants, with Nixon ... just as they knew that Phyllis was his nurse ... nursed him back from the dead ... now he didn’t need her anymore, he ... well, people knew how that went, with men. (Prob’ly got some chippy in that Watergate—everybody knew about that place!)

  There was no way Dole could silence the whispers.

  No more than he could shut down the standard Kansas whine: Bob Dole had been National Chairman—must not care about Kansas anymore. (Maybe that Dole’s gettin’ too big for his britches!)

  He couldn’t stop the cover-up from ruining his patron-President ... any more than he could stop Jerry Ford from issuing his pardon. (Someone asked Dole, after the pardon, whether he’d get campaign help from Ford. “I think Ford’s given me ’bout all the help I can stand,” Dole said.)

  There was no way he could stop the Democratic Senatorial Campaign Committee from naming Kansas—him!—as a “vulnerable target” ... sending money to fuel his opponent—his respected opponent, the Topeka physician and two-term Congressman, Bill Roy ... any more than Dole could forestall Dr. Roy from stumping the state (to increasing approbation) for “integrity in government” and an “independent Senator for Kansas.”

  What could Dole do?

  Well, he could use his new national connections to raise hundreds of thousands of dollars ... which he could spend for professional help—high-tech consultants! He hired a Campaign-Manager-guru named Herb Williams (“Agh! Pretty good—guy worked for Dann-forth!”) ... Dole got a fast-talking pollster, Tully Plesser; a top-notch adman, Jack Connors, from Boston. ... Dole had airplanes to fly him around the state—or choppers! ... He would spare no effort, or expense.

  Which made it all the more depressing, through that long summer of ’74, as Dole’s high-tech campaign ground to a bitter standstill in Kansas. The consultants couldn’t get along with the Kansans. Herb Williams proved he could handle a flowchart, rent offices, hire staff; he could denounce everyone else’s ideas as bullshit, rend the air with a blue streak of oaths, work everyone around him to a frazzle, and spend a fortune—for nothing—or at least without benefit to Dole. (And Dole, of course, couldn’t fire him—never fired anybody!) The highly creative admen in Boston had yet to produce a single ad. (They did design a handsome tabloid—printed tens of thousands—but they spelled Wichita Witchita, so those landed in the trash.) And Dr. Bill Roy (who began as an unknown in four-fifths of the state) drew even in the polls, and then pulled ahead, by five points, ten ... by thirteen points (in Dole’s own pricey polls!).

  Dole knew, by that time, he was in a fight for his life. But he seemed like a boxer who’d been punched woozy in the ring. He wasn’t quite sure how he’d got there ... or what the hell to do to get out ... he didn’t seem to have any plan, any will, to pull out of his swoon tomorrow, next week ... at any point in the future!

  Dole couldn’t convince himself that he had any future at all.

  George Bush thought he deserved some consideration, some future. God knows, he’d paid his dues. Everywhere he went, there were people who thought he was mixed up in that mess—people couldn’t keep all the names straight—Haldeman, Colson ... Ehrlichman, Dean, Stans, Butterfield ... Bush! ... But that was over, thank God.

  Ford was President now. Ford was a friend.

  Gerald Ford had to pick a Vice President.

  This wasn’t something Bush dreamed up. He was encouraged to consider the job. People who were close to the President—very close—told him ... no guarantees, but everyone agreed it made sense. George Bush had friends in a hundred nations, from his days at the UN ... friends all over the country from his term at the RNC—State Committeemen, County Chairmen ... friends in Congress, strength in Texas—he could help Ford all across the South ... he was a seasoned pol, but just a month or two out of his forties—Bush was the future of the Party. He’d make a hell of a Veep!

  In fact, this wasn’t the first time Bush had been considered. Back in ’68 his name had come up, when Nixon got the nomination in Miami. Bush’s friend, Dick Moore, brought the name up at a meeting ... but Bush
was only a first-term Rep; Nixon thought he needed seasoning.

  In ’73, when Agnew copped a plea in a Baltimore courtroom, Dick Moore was once again at Nixon’s side. ... What about George Bush? Hell of a guy! Hell of a résumé! ... Nixon thought Bush wasn’t tough enough. Nice fellow—Nixon always liked his dad—but George was, maybe, too nice (not “one of us” to Nixon and his crowd), an Ivy Leaguer, through and through. Nixon was so surprised to hear that Bush was captain of the Yale ball team! ... Really? Bush?

  Anyway, Nixon took Jerry Ford ... but things worked out for Bush. Now ... his time had come. Good things happen to good people. Loyalty and patience could not fail to bring rewards.

  Not that Bush was going to lie back, let nature run its course ... no. He did what he could:

  From the chairmanship of the RNC, it was an easy matter to poll the National Committee (just for the President’s information, understand).

  Behold! The favorite, nationwide, of Republican Committeemen and women was ... George Bush!

  Then he arranged for a poll of Republican members of Congress. Who would they choose for Veep?

  George Bush!

  From the Oval Office, it had to look like a groundswell: all those people, letters, telegrams—Republicans, all over the country, talking up Bush! ... Actually, Bush had a friend, a Committeeman from Omaha, Dick Herman, who moved into Washington’s Statler Hilton, whence he ran a telephone boiler room, beating the tom-toms for Bush.

  At last, in Kennebunkport, Bush got the call: White House on the line! The President had made his decision. ... The new Vice President of the United States would be ... Nelson Rockefeller.

  Bush was hurt, then angry. What did a guy have to do? He’d stood up—taken heat, put his own good name on the line—through the worst shit-storm his Party ever faced.

  What did it get him?

  Ford said they’d have to get together soon “to discuss the future.”

  Goddammit, there’d better be some discussion—because George Bush was through with the RNC.

  Well, Ford couldn’t have been nicer, more solicitous—after the fact, of course. He said there were two top-notch diplomatic posts (Ambassador was still the title Bush used in Washington)—Paris or London ... Bush could have his pick.

  Bush had another idea—China.

  China?

  It wasn’t even an embassy! Just a “listening post.” Anyway, China policy was mapped and made by one man—Henry Kissinger. The Liaison Office in Peking had nothing to do. It was there simply to be there. “You’ll be bored beyond belief,” Kissinger said.

  No, Bush was sure it would be a wonderful adventure (he and Bar had decided). China was exotic. China was important!

  China was ... his choice.

  See, you had to look at it as Bush did—that is, through the woeful misadventures of four years.

  Here was a young up-and-comer who’d given up his safe House seat to run for the Senate. The President had asked him—and Bush so much wanted into the big game ... but he caught that bad break with Bentsen ... and that dream was dashed.

  So he went to the UN—but not before he made sure he’d have a seat at the table, Cabinet rank, and the President’s ear. “No problem!” the President’s men assured him. ... But in New York, he found he wasn’t in the game at all. Nixon and Kissinger were the whole team.

  So, loyally, he took the RNC job—making sure he’d keep his seat at the Cabinet table, and this time (for sure!) he’d be a player on the President’s team ... But by that time, the captain was about to be drummed out of the league, and the badge of team membership was a public shame.

  The loss of the Vice Presidency was just the last straw.

  So, China was important ... enough. China was intriguing ... enough. China, best of all, was seven thousand miles away.

  When he got established in Peking, he wrote to a friend: the warnings were true—there wasn’t any work. “So I’m trying to do this job, and meanwhile figure out what I’m going to do with my life.”

  Bush felt he’d played the game—as hard as he could.

  Maybe it wasn’t the game for him.

  83

  A Fight for His Life

  THIS WASN’T ANY GAME to Dole. This was the only part of his life that meant anything, that was left to him. But everything ended up looking wrong—he couldn’t make people see. ...

  The buzz in Congress that year, ’74, was inflation: Whip Inflation Now! ... That was the first time Dole put forth his instinctive notion that Congress (that he) could cut the budget fairly. But every finger of government, every program, would pay the price—say, five percent ... just tighten up the belt! On the floor of the Senate, Dole proved his bona fides when he offered an amendment to cut five percent from the agriculture appropriation. “I offer this amendment,” he said, “because every Senator’s got to take the hit.”

  By the time Dole got back to Kansas, Bill Roy had the state half convinced that Dole was taking money from the farmers—stealing the sneakers off their children’s feet! Why would Bob Dole vote against his farmers?

  Well, to serve his President, and Party ... just as he opted for President and Party when he took the RNC chair ... and forgot about Kansas, spent his time all over the country, making “hatchet-man speeches for Nixon.” ... Bob was a caustic fellow, anyway, and partisan, with those nasty jokes—not a caring man, like Bill Roy, who was a doctor, a healer (delivered five thousand babies!) bringing life ... and then, in concern for the public weal, decided that he must study law, as well ... which he did, at night, with his wife (who also became a lawyer) ... Dr. Bill Roy was a man of concern, credentials, family, faith ...

  Bill Roy was about to bury Bob Dole.

  At the start of September, Lieutenant Governor Dave Owen (he’d decided not to run for another term) became the working chairman of the Dole reelection campaign. In D.C., Dole’s top Senate staffers quit the federal payroll to volunteer in Kansas. They found a campaign in ruins:

  There were no ads, no money to run ads. (Dole had raised half a million dollars, but Herb Williams spent it. Dave Owen would find eighty thousand dollars in unpaid bills in Williams’s credenza.) There were true Dole-folk all over the state, but they’d almost given up. The campaign was flirting with the fatal affliction: it was ridiculous. Williams and his high-tech campaigners had managed to contract for billboards ... but no one had come up with art or copy—Dole was renting empty billboards.

  Somehow, they had to get rid of Williams ... but the campaign could not take another bad-news story. Somehow, they had to make some good news—some ads! ... but where was the money?

  Owen and friends called some guys together at the Petroleum Club—twenty or thirty good fellows—and walked out that same day with $130,000.

  Then Owen called the ad agency in Boston and threatened to start making ads himself. He did, in fact, hire a local announcer to sit on a stool, with a smoke in his hand, and stare straight into the camera while he took the hide off Bill Roy. (That was an old format used by Governor Bob Docking—it was ugly, but it’d worked before.) Jack Connors called from Boston, to protest: just hold on forty-eight hours! ... Sure enough, on day two, Owen got tapes, air express.

  The ads showed a standard campaign poster of Bob Dole, and off-camera, a narrator said:

  “Bill Roy says Bob Dole is against the Kansas farmer.” (FWAP ... a big glob of slimy mud hit the poster, and slid down Dole’s face.)

  “Roy says Bob Dole voted to cut school lunches.” (FWAP ... another glob of mud.)

  “Roy says Bob Dole voted against cuts in the federal budget.” (FWAP ...)

  Then the announcer rebutted all the charges, and said Dole was for budget-cutting, school lunches, and the Kansas farmer. ... Meanwhile, the film was reversed, the mud started flying off the poster, leaving a handsome and smiling Bob Dole.

  “All of which makes Bob Dole look pretty good,” the narrator said. “... And makes Bill Roy look like just another mudslinger.”

  The ads caused an u
proar. Kansans had never seen their politics played out so graphically. Half the voters thought these were Bill Roy’s ads—they were furious: How could he fling that slime at Dole? The other half understood they were Dole ads—they were mad at Dole for throwing mud at his own face! ... Voters called the TV stations, wrote letters to the papers, they denounced dirty campaigning and candidates who sullied the airwaves—and Kansas!

  Dole thought he had to pull the ads. (Of course, he wouldn’t say that. He had Huck Boyd call Dave Owen to suggest that Owen ought to pull the ads.) But how could anyone pull the ads? Dole would look like a waffler! He’d look ridiculous!

  Owen and the boys thought up the play:

  First, Dole quietly reserved for Herb Williams a soft landing pad with the RNC in Washington. Next, Williams held a press conference—in Kansas—and quit Dole’s campaign ... because Dole would not permit him to run any more mudslinger ads.

  Eureka! The ads came off the air, and Dole got rid of his Campaign Manager, six weeks before the vote. ... But instead of two killer stories—DOLE CAMPAIGN IN DISARRAY—Dole got one plump creampuff: Bob was too nice, too honorable, for dirty politics.

  In the end, it was Bill Roy who couldn’t pull the trigger. The Democrats had prepared ads on Watergate—Dole as Dick Nixon’s political twin and alter ego ... but the state chairman didn’t want to take the low road. So Roy held back the ads—despite warnings from Norb Dreiling, who knew Dole well. “You let Bob Dole get his head off the mat,” Norb said, “and you’ll never hold him down.”

  Then, too, the Roy campaign decided not to answer the antiabortion nuts. They were after Roy as an obstetrician who had performed abortions when the health of his patients required them. In fact, Roy had hated abortion since his residency in Detroit, when he watched a teenage girl die in his emergency room because a back-alley abortionist had perforated her uterus. But the Roy campaign decided not to “dignify” the issue. Abortion was a matter of medical ethics—and Roy was, first and foremost, a doctor. He’d jumped from medicine to Congress, in 1970, in a three-month campaign—politics was not his life.