by Allen Drury
“What is this military spectacle?” the accompanying editorial has demanded in an anguished tone. “Is this how democracy chooses its candidates, or is this how dictatorship prepares to squash all opposition?” The President has been tempted to call the general director and say, “Oh, come on, now!” But a remark like that presupposes a sense of humor on both sides, so he abandons the idea.
He has not, however, abandoned the idea that his inspiration about the Playhouse, which occurred to him at breakfast the second morning at Tahoe, is a thoroughly sound and prudent one. NAWAC’s first statement, issued in the early morning hours after the Hilton meeting, promised a rally on the opening day of the Committee. At six p.m. last night a terse communique, militant and military, extended the program for the duration of the meeting. Immediately—so immediately that it was obvious the influx had actually been planned for several days—the advance thousands who had reached the city were increased with new multitudes who descended from every plane, train, bus and freeway. This morning they are still coming, and the President and Secretary of Defense have been advised just a few minutes ago that the crowds which press against the barricades on the land side of the Center and swarm in hastily erected tent-towns at the edge of the barred zone across the river now number close to 100,000.
At the moment their temper seems ostentatiously sullen but not actively disorderly. Obviously they are waiting, and it is clear from the walkie-talkie directions they are receiving—intercepted and reported by the shabbily dressed infiltrators sent in by military intelligence—that their leaders’ plan is to be tough enough to scare the country but not tough enough to bring reprisals. At this point they apparently feel that their candidate may need only the threat of violence to put him over. For that, at least, the President is thankful, though he has made up his mind that if they want martyrs, he will oblige.
So goes the morning and the mood in the command centers; what of the mood in the Committee? There is one sizable segment, perhaps best summed up by Mrs. Lathia Talbot Jennings, National Committeewoman from South Dakota, as she arrives at Checkpoint Alpha. “Good heavens!” she cries, her ample jowls aquiver with nervousness. “I wonder if any of us is going to get out of here alive!” But there is another segment whose attitude is epitomized by Pete Boissevain, National Committeeman from Vermont. Turning back to look for a moment at the encircling troops and the vast crowd beyond with its obscene banners and determined dirtiness, he snaps tartly, “Guess they don’t know Vermont if they think they can scare me!”
Fortunately it appears at the moment that more members are inclined to be defiant with Pete Boissevain than tremble with Lathia Jennings; or so it seems to the news-pool representatives who greet each new arrival with microphones, cameras and pencils poised. “An awful lot of members seem to have chips on their shoulders,” the St. Louis Post-Dispatch muses in a puzzled tone to CBS. “I can’t imagine why,” says the listening Chicago Tribune cheerfully, “but I think it’s just great.”
For the spokesmen of the opposing factions in the Committee, Checkpoint Alpha provides one final opportunity before the battle.
“It is obvious as we begin these historic deliberations,” says Roger P. Croy of Oregon, his stately white head erect and challenging in the already suffocating heat, his mellow voice confident and serene, “that Governor Edward M. Jason of California should and will be the nominee of this party for the office of President of the United States.”
“Will you be his running mate, Governor?” someone asks, as someone did at the convention when it appeared Ted was on the high road to victory; and now, as then, Roger P. Croy smiles a graceful deprecating smile and waves a graceful deprecating hand.
“One thing at a time, my friend,” he says with a comfortable smile that implies a rosy future. “One thing at a time, if you please.”
From Mary Buttner Baffleburg of Pennsylvania, who is singled out by the media as the Knox spokesman they want to feature, there comes, as expected, an indignant and nicely laughable blurt:
“Everything I’ve heard points to victory for the greatest Senator and Secretary of State this country has ever had, Orrin Knox of Illinois. And don’t think you people of the press and all your friends”—and she gestures wildly off in the general direction of the restless crowds—“can scare us out of it, either!”
“Mrs. Baffleburg, do you really think that the press—”
“Yes, I do!” she cries, her normally florid complexion turning even redder with indignation and heat. “You’ve been absolutely mean to Orrin!”
Too late, Lyle Strathmore of Michigan hurries up to Checkpoint Alpha and tries to interject a more calm and reasonable note for the Secretary of State, but of course the damage has been done. On television and radio the Croy-Baffleburg statements have been transmitted live, and one of the dominant public memories of the first session will be Roger Croy’s stately white-haired confidence and Mary Baffleburg’s red-faced, squawking indignation.
Very soon, however, the opportunity for such last-minute fun and games is over. It is now close to ten a.m., and over the Kennedy Center, the vast crowd around it, the city, the nation, and to a considerable degree the world, an almost palpable hush is beginning to fall.
Outside, the well-disciplined throngs are silent, listening attentively to the loud-speakers and television sets which have been set up by COMFORT, DEFY and KEEP to broadcast the proceedings. Inside, the members of the Committee—all 106 are now on hand, though Tobin Janson of Alaska, just out of Bethesda Naval Hospital after an emergency hernia operation a week ago, looks white and shaky—are settling at their desks with a subdued but nervous rustling that indicates how heavily the tensions of this moment are finally crushing in upon them. Behind them in the few rows of seats remaining, the 300 visitors, among them Bob and Dolly Munson, Beth Knox, Lafe Smith and Cullee Hamilton, Jawbone Swarthman and Senator Tom August of Minnesota, chairman of the Foreign Relations Committee; a handful from the diplomatic corps. Lord Maudulayne, Raoul Barre, Krishna Khaleel, (Vasily Tashikov, invited with a grave irony by the President, has declined), the Ambassadors of Guinea, Malawi and Tanzania, Patsy Labaiya and her aunt Valuela Jason Randall (Herbert and Selena are carrying banners outside). And behind them, and along the sides of the little room, little banked cameras and narrow, microphone-filled tables of the media, its members still grumbling and unhappy with their cramped and awkward working conditions, furious with the man who put them there but knowing they have met their match and cannot budge him.
Now it is two minutes to ten, then one minute; and suddenly they are aware that they have all stopped talking. The minute holds, seems to lengthen unbearably. The electric clock on the wall goes “Click!” distinctly into the silence: many jump. It is ten a.m.; and far off in the distance there begins the swelling chorus of sirens which this time herald, not disaster, but the heavily guarded approach, from the White House a mile away, of the President of the United States.
It is a swift approach, and the hostile crowds which stir and shake their angry banners—but, because they have been instructed not to, make no sound other than an instinctive, irrepressible murmur of hatred and hostility—do not even catch a glimpse of the old man they detest, sitting far back in the cushions of the armored limousine. Almost before they know he is upon them, he has passed, along the approach where armed servicemen stand side by side, facing out against their bitter countrymen. Then, abruptly, he is out of the limousine and quickly inside, and a great sigh of released tension seems to come from all over the watching world.
In the Playhouse, they turn and stare up the aisle, almost forgetting, in the impact of the moment, the courtesy due his office. Then Senator Munson rises and quickly they all follow suit as the President enters alone and comes with a steady stride, his face in sternly thoughtful lines, his eyes looking at the carpet before him, neither right nor left, down to the stage. He climbs the little access stair with the same deliberate gait, walks to the lectern, turns and faces them.
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nbsp; “Ladies and gentlemen,” he says, hardly raising his voice, for it is really a very small room, to hold such a weight of destiny, “please remain standing until the invocation has been delivered. It is my pleasure and privilege to request this kindness of our good friend and colleague, Luther W. Redfield, distinguished National Committeeman from the state of Washington.”
With a pleased if somewhat rusty air (for he has not been a practicing minister for twenty years, since he retired to become president of Walla Walla College) Luther Redfield says, “Let us pray …” and then delivers a wandering homily, filled with emotion and overlong, but concluding with an obvious, deep sincerity: “May You guide us, Your servants, dear Lord, to do the best we can for our beloved country.”
After he has concluded and they have resumed their seats, an intense silence falls. The President looks about him for a moment, studying the room, their waiting faces, the cameras, the microphones, the hot white lights. Then he lowers his gaze to some notes he has pulled from his pocket and placed upon the lectern, and begins to talk slowly and thoughtfully in a quiet, conversational voice.
“By virtue of the authority vested in me as chairman,” he says, raising a small ivory gavel without a handle and bringing it down with a sharp crack! upon the lectern, “I hereby declare this special emergency meeting of the National Committee to be now in session for the purpose of selecting a candidate for the office of President of the United States, and”—he uses again the phrase he used in his speech to the country after President Hudson’s funeral—“should events so develop, a candidate for the office of Vice President of the United States.”
(“And he’s going to make them develop that way if he can, all right,” the Denver Post whispers to the Los Angeles Times. “Reactionary old bastard,” the L.A. Times whispers back.)
“I came here just now, as did we all,” the President goes on, “through streets guarded by the armed forces of the United States whose mission, on my orders as Commander-in-Chief, is to restrain and, if necessary, shoot down, citizens of the United States of America.”
There is a gasp from somewhere in the room (and in the crowds outside, as he intended, a sudden hesitation). He lifts his head and stares at them.
“I hope that no one thinks it is my doing that this sort of precaution should be necessary. But I also hope that no one, at this particular point in our history, is so naïve as to think I should not take the precaution.
“Murder and civil disturbance stalk our streets. In this city alone, four deaths yesterday, sudden, mysterious, horrifying, attest to the fact that things are sadly amiss in America. Still another mysterious and horrifying death, eleven days ago, has brought us to this spot. Riots, terrorism, threats against the country and against some of us in this room, have occurred, are occurring, and in all probability will continue to occur.
“We meet, with a heavy responsibility, in a tragic and ominous time.
“It is not for me to say”—and he pauses and stares thoughtfully down upon Roger P. Croy, straight-backed and attentive at his desk—“where the loyalties lie of those who are behind these things. There are some”—Roger P. Croy stares impassively back—“who are perfectly loyal to the United States. I think this is probably true of the great majority of misguided citizens who let themselves be persuaded into a type of protest which is very far from decent, democratic dissent. It is probably also true of that sizable segment of the press”—and he pays no attention to the little stirring that runs along both sides of the room—“which consistently condemns and obstructs every attempt the United States makes to protect freedom by opposing Commufascist imperialism. It is probably also true of candidates who fail to make clear that they dissociate themselves from violence whose ultimate aim, I am convinced, is the destruction of the Republic.”
(“Probably true!” Esmé Stryke hisses to her fellow Committee member from California, Asa B. Attwood at his adjoining desk. “Oh! I could scream!”)
“But there are those,” the President goes on, “who are not loyal to the United States. There are those who have as their plan and final goal the conquest of America—first by destroying our society, and then by taking it over. Some of these are native-born. Some are not native-born, and come here, or are sent, to stir whatever disruption and destruction they can.
“Nearly all have been inflated by press and television to an influence out of all proportion to their personal value or their original weight in this land. They are creations of news story and tube, and those who created them, if they have a conscience, must have them on it.
“All of this little inner group who prey on the emotions and ideals of the naive, the innocent and the foolish,” the President said quietly, “I believe to be actively working in conjunction with a worldwide conspiracy to destroy this nation.”
(“Christ!” Newsweek murmurs to the National Observer. “How antiquated and reactionary can you get!” “No limits, apparently,” the National Observer smiles back. And from outside, coming faintly to the room like the distant howling of a fetid wind, 100,000 voices scream their derision in a prolonged and bitter, “Booooooo!”)
“We cannot, in this Committee,” the President continues calmly, “ignore the fact that what we do here will have a very direct bearing upon what happens to the stability and safety of the United States. At the moment, things are quiet outside”—a slight ironic line touches his lips—“relatively quiet, outside, and generally over the country today, they are quiet. But that is only because the cold-blooded strategists in charge think that it is in the best interests of the candidate they favor that it be quiet. They will be in the streets in an hour if we do something they don’t like.”
(“Honest to God!” the Post hisses with an infinite disgust to Walter Dobius. “He is senile,” Walter says flatly.)
“Does that frighten you?” the President asks quietly of the intent faces looking up at his, the faces plain, earnest, simple, clever, shrewd, honest, crafty, decent or corrupt, as America has sent them here out of all her diversities. “Does that mean that you are going to be afraid to do what is right? I hope not, because if that is the case, then the destroyers have won and America as we have known it is not going to be here much longer.
“If you honestly favor their candidate,” he says slowly, “and I am perfectly well aware that some of you honestly and sincerely do, then by all means vote for him. If he wins, it will be his problem to handle, and more power to him. But I beg of you, do not vote from fear, because if you do that, you might as well not vote at all.…And now, I have perhaps presumed too long on my advantage in being chairman, so I shall soon conclude. Perhaps I shouldn’t have spoken at all—”
(“You can say that again, you old fool!” Patsy whispers viciously to Valuela Jason Randall.)
“—but there are no precedents for this situation, so we have to feel our way. And I do have some responsibility now”—he smiles somewhat wryly—“to try to tell you what I think best for the country.
“In any event,” he remarks, and his tone becomes businesslike, “there are just a couple of things I want to place before you before I conclude. The first is a letter, addressed to me as chairman, from a lovely lady—”
(“Oh, oh,” Dolly whispers to Beth. “Here it comes.” In front of the television set in the den at Dumbarton Oaks, a wild, fantastic, sickening thought suddenly hits the Governor of California so hard he actually thinks for a second that he may be physically ill.)
“—whom many of us know, love and admire. She writes:
“‘Dear Mr. President:
“‘I have been giving a great deal of thought in recent days to the choice which confronts the National Committee. I thought at first I would not say anything, but then I decided that my husband would have wanted—’” (At Dumbarton Oaks the Governor sits back in his chair and expels, with a long, whistling sound, the breath he was not even aware he was holding) “‘—me to speak.
“‘I believe the issue to be simple: a continuation of
the policies of firmness and steadfastness that my husband always tried to uphold during his time in the White House, or a surrender to all the enemies who are attacking our beloved country abroad and at home.
“‘I have honestly tried to decide which of the two men you are going to consider is better equipped and more deserving to be President—which would be braver and more honest. Because I think America needs a brave and honest man in the White House more than she needs anything else.
“‘I do not believe Governor Jason to be this man. I think Orrin Knox is. I believe Secretary Knox would carry on firmly and with great integrity the policies my husband believed best for America.
“‘I hope he will be nominated.
“‘Sincerely and affectionately yours,
“‘Lucille (Mrs. Harley M.) Hudson.’”
For a moment, as the President quietly concludes his reading, there is such a stirring and movement in the room that it seems some Jason supporter must jump to his feet and shout an angry protest. But Roger P. Croy, the logical one to do it, the one to whom others quickly look for some indication of the course they should follow, is curiously silent, an oddly impassive, almost waiting, expression on his face. So the protest dies in dismayed rustles and murmurs, and the President briskly continues.
“One other thing, and then we will proceed, in any way the Committee deems best to bring the issues and candidates before it.
“I have been notified by the Secretary of State, who this morning has received official confirmation from General Kroner in Gorotoland of word we first began to receive yesterday, that the rebel government has collapsed and is suing for surrender—”
(“Oh, no!” the New York Post exclaims in an anguished tone to The New Yorker. “What can you do?” The New Yorker says with a sad shrug. And from the fetid wind outside comes a long, sighing groan.)