The 60s

by The New Yorker Magazine

  Before we left him to inspect the missile, he relieved us of our wristwatches; their straps, he explained, might snag on a piece of equipment or their movements might be damaged by a vagrant high-voltage current. In exchange, he gave us hard hats, and Wetzel and I clambered through a low fifty-foot tunnel that was closed off at each end by two more blastproof doors. The tunnel led to the vertical shaft that held the ICBM, and we were scarcely there when a young technical sergeant in white coveralls joined us unobtrusively. We were standing on a narrow ledge whose walls were stenciled “NO-LONE ZONE.” Below us were other levels, and below them were the base of the silo and the missile’s launching platform. One could descend into the silo by means of a spiral staircase or by means of an elevator that sounded a clanging, ambulancelike bell when it was in use. Around us were phones, fire alarms, fire-fighting equipment, oxygen masks, and emergency flashlights. Lining the cylindrical chamber were four sets of the most immense springs I have ever seen, their huge coils of steel extending down four levels below; they were designed to help absorb the shock of an earthquake or a near miss by an enemy weapon. The missile itself, at the center of the silo, was sheathed in an encircling wall of steel, called the crib, which was broken by apertures through which one could see the graceful stainless-steel body of the Atlas, eighty-four feet tall. My eye went to the warhead. It wasn’t sharp-nosed, as I had expected, but blunt, and it had been painted a drab grayish-white.

  “I can’t tell you its yield or its target,” Wetzel volunteered.

  “Is it loaded?” I asked.

  He replied pleasantly. “We’re on alert, and that weapon cost a million dollars.”

  We descended the steep, winding staircase to the next level, which, except for glimpses of the ever-present Atlas through the apertures, was solid with panels of contacts and relays. These were crucial in governing the sequence of the missile’s actions, Wetzel told me, and I could deduce their importance for myself by the open suspicion with which the sergeant eyed me. There was a constant loud, whirring noise, which Wetzel said was the sound of air being washed in a dust collector. The silo, Wetzel said, depended heavily on water; it was needed for air-conditioning, for cooling diesel generators, and for fighting the fires that might be started by diesel fumes and other hazards. As we walked to the elevator to make our next descent, Wetzel, hospitably making talk, spoke of his plans for his eventual retirement. He hadn’t yet decided how to spend it, he said, sounding as though his missile days were already behind him. He rather looked forward to a second career, he went on—not that he regretted for one minute the years he had put in with the Air Force. “It’s been a good way of life,” he said. “I may go into animal husbandry. I majored in that at Penn State, and it’s been of some use to me in my work with missiles. It helped bring out my mechanical skills, and it taught me about chemicals.”

  The elevator was freight-size and slow-moving, and we spent each of our downward rides listening to its clanging bell. A new sound, deep and thumping, took over as we approached Level 6, and Wetzel showed me where it was coming from—a gray diesel generator squatting massively in a corner. As we continued our inspection, I saw many other things: bottles of helium; small brass pipes, which detected noxious gases in the atmosphere; air-support cylinders, whose function, like that of the enormous springs above, was to help maintain the missile’s balance in the event of violent earth shocks; emergency showers, for washing burns that the men might suffer in changing the silo’s exotic fuels; and emergency eye showers—basins specially fitted out with spouts for cleansing eyes burned by acids. Here, also, was a large white cylindrical tank containing twenty-three thousand gallons of LOX (liquid oxygen), the missile’s primary fuel, whose normal temperature is -297° F. “Plenty of fire in there,” he said. “But when we fuel up, the LOX-loading lines get so cold you can’t even tap them without injuring your finger.”

  Eventually, the three of us stood at the very base of the silo, well below the missile’s tail. The launching platform was there—a rectangular gray metal slab—and, unaccountably, the sight of it brought back to me one of Blake’s “Proverbs of Hell”: “You never know what is enough unless you know what is more than enough.” Our view of the Atlas was now unimpeded, the bottom of its encircling wall being ten or fifteen feet above us. I looked up toward the warhead, but it was obscured by the missile’s gleaming bulk. I wondered whether the birches and dairy herds were still visible in the outdoors above, and looked at my wrist to check the time, only to be reminded that Major Carr had my watch. Wetzel smiled. “Relax,” he said easily. “There’s nothing to do down here but wait and hope for nothing to happen.”

  Richard H. Rovere

  DECEMBER 19, 1964 (THE GREAT SOCIETY)

  DECEMBER 10

  A PRESIDENT WITH MATCHLESS energy, manifold skills, and an enormous desire for posterity’s esteem sits in the White House preparing to exercise what he has every reason to regard as a clear and urgent mandate to get on with the building of the New Jerusalem, his vision of which he has described in almost cadenced rhetoric: “So here’s the Great Society. It’s the time—and it’s going to be soon—when nobody in this country is poor. It’s the time—and there’s no point in waiting—when every boy or girl can have all the education that boy or girl can put to good use. It’s the time when there is a job for everybody who wants to work. It’s the time when every slum is gone from every city in America, and America is beautiful. It’s the time when man gains full domination under God over his own destiny. It’s the time of peace on earth and good will among men.” Thus spoke the President on October 27th in Pittsburgh—an improbable but certainly an appropriate place for describing such dreams. He had little doubt then that he would be returned to office, but he could not have been certain that the electorate would give him a Congress eager to follow, and perhaps even to lead, him to the Holy City. What he did know was that throughout our present, less than great society there were hundreds of social architects and engineers working away at the design for the new order of things, and that when, or if, the opportunity he sought presented itself, he would be ready to make the most of it. Within a few weeks after he took office last year, he had instructed various aides to mobilize battalions of experts who could provide him with (as he put it in a letter to one whose cooperation he sought) “general thoughts and specific new proposals which you feel would be helpful in my efforts to give our nation the kind of vigorous and imaginative leadership which it deserves.” As he knew he would be, he has been deluged not only with “general thoughts and specific new proposals” but with the most elaborate and detailed blueprints, accompanied by ingenious financing schemes and drafts of legislation. And in three weeks there will come together a Congress that, if its Democratic leaders are correct in their appraisals, will enact just about any programs the President asks for and will appropriate funds in the amounts he requests.

  It might be supposed, then, that the atmosphere in this city today is one of excitement and anticipation. Here is a President who is bold enough, at least in speech, to strike out for Utopia and who has most of the basic provisions—popular support, governmental power, and money—thought to be necessary for such a journey. At his side is a brilliant team of advisers, and at their sides are the élite of the Utopian planners. How, in such extraordinary circumstances, can the air fail to be electric? It is necessary, however, to report that while excitement may break out at any moment, there is hardly a trace of it here now, nor has there been throughout the post-election period. It is entirely possible that things were livelier in this city in the middle years of the Pierce administration than they have been in the past few weeks. There is some desultory talk of whether Postmaster General Gronouski will remain in office, a bit of speculation about whether the President will junk the multilateral nuclear force, and occasional discussion of what the future holds for Robert F. Kennedy. But far more is heard of what Barry Goldwater is likely to do than of what Lyndon Johnson is likely to do. The future of Dean Burch an
d the past of Bobby Baker attract more attention than any fulfillment of the great expectations raised by the President.

  The explanation of this state of affairs is not that a lack of interest or curiosity exists. It is simply that, outside a small circle of Presidential advisers with zippered lips, there is no information. It is impossible to discuss the future of the administration, not only because no one knows what the President plans to do but because no one has much of a clue to what he is thinking of doing. No one knows what proposals are under discussion—or, for that matter, what proposals have been made, or by whom. It is known that bulky reports have been turned in by Presidential “task forces” and are being studied by various members of the administration. Some of these men acknowledge—often with considerable pride—the existence of the reports. They will remove them from desk drawers to show that they are hefty. But their contents are strictly classified. Proposals regarding the form and dimensions of federal aid to education are guarded as carefully as if they were war plans or diplomatic codes. Studies of the problems of mass transit are top secret, like reports from C.I.A. agents in East Germany or the findings of reconnaissance satellites. There is much generalized talk about the scores of planners, economists, and academic specialists of every conceivable sort who are mapping the Great Society, but beyond that nothing—not even the identity of the planners—has been revealed to anyone but a handful of White House staff members, who have been given to understand that the penalties will be swift and severe if they share any part of their knowledge with others. A few names found their way into the press last fall, and the President was as outraged as if the darkest of state secrets had been handed over to an enemy. From time to time, it has been reported that Eric F. Goldman, a Princeton historian who has been a special consultant to the President since early in the year, is the coordinator of this underground brain trust, but each report has been followed by a denial, and no one seems to know what Goldman does. No one, indeed, seems to know what anyone in the White House—apart from the President and a few domestics and secretaries—does. Only today, George Reedy, the President’s press secretary, provoked unrestrained hilarity when, upon announcing the appointment of Richard N. Goodwin as a special assistant to the President, he was asked what Goodwin’s duties would be. He answered by saying that Goodwin had “for the past few months been detailed to the White House, working in areas similar to those he now formally undertakes.” Reedy was unable to restrain himself from joining in the mirth.

  It is all part of Lyndon Johnson’s method. The lid is on. It will be raised from time to time by the President himself, it would seem, but rarely, if ever, by any lesser personage. And in the case of the President it is always hard to tell whether he is lifting the lid or merely playing with it. For example, at a press conference on his ranch a couple of weeks ago he said he was by no means sure that it would be possible to submit a budget of less than a hundred billion dollars for the coming fiscal year. If Dwight Eisenhower or John Kennedy had said this, correspondents would have taken it as tantamount to an announcement that he would request more than a hundred billion, and this may be what the President was trying to convey. On the other hand, many people who know him rather well were ready to bet that he would present a budget of under a hundred billion. He is a man who likes to say that the brook is far too broad for leaping, and then leap it. They recalled that he said last year he didn’t see how he could trim his requests below a hundred and three billion dollars, and then presented to the Congress a budget calling for expenditures of only ninety-eight billion. If a man can define the miraculous as something he knows to be within his capabilities, he can perform miracles every day. Johnson’s sleight of hand with the budget for the current fiscal year is thought to have helped greatly in persuading businessmen to subscribe to his “consensus.”

  Not only is the President running his own show, as Presidents are expected to do; he is his own show. This is all well and good, but the President cannot be onstage every minute. The Presidency, as Johnson’s predecessor demonstrated, need not be a one-man act. The Kennedy administration was interesting not only because the star was interesting but because he surrounded himself with a first-rate supporting cast. From the look of things at the moment, the White House during the next few years is likely to resemble the Eisenhower White House more than the Kennedy White House. During the Eisenhower years, the place—except in moments of crisis—seemed lifeless, not worth a visit except by those whom the lessee himself would receive. (For this, it was necessary to be a soft-drink tycoon, a successful football coach, or a newspaper publisher.) This was less because the President ordered his assistants to keep their mouths shut—though on occasion he did exactly that—than because not much was going on. In the Kennedy years, there was plenty going on, and the White House was a very lively place because the President saw some value, political and otherwise, in promoting interest, encouraging speculation, and even provoking controversy over his own schemes. There is probably more astir in Johnson’s White House than there was in Kennedy’s. Kennedy dreamed of a Great Society—or, at any rate, of a good civilization—but he wasn’t quite up to describing it, and he didn’t think that a man who had beaten Richard Nixon by a hundred and thirteen thousand votes could do more than get to its frontier. But his headquarters was a noisy, vibrant place, while Johnson’s is, at the moment, one from which nothing but silence issues except when the President himself speaks. When he is silent, so is most of the government that he heads.

  It is not altogether clear why President Johnson wishes it to be this way. His infrequent explanations have explained rather little. He has said, for instance, that he thinks it unwise to reveal the names of his advisers outside the government because they, in turn, would be bothered by people eager to advise them. He has said, too, that he thinks anonymity is conducive to objectivity. All that he knows of anonymity could easily be inscribed on the head of a pin. It is a condition of which he has had absolutely no first-hand experience, and unless the people advising him differ greatly from the majority of their predecessors, it is a condition they are not likely to appreciate. It seems probable that they would put up with unsolicited advice from others (they might even be happy to receive it) in exchange for having it known that they were laying some bricks and spreading some mortar for the Great Society. It has been said that the President is the Alfred Hitchcock of politics—that he is a master of suspense, and that suspense is an essential element of the Johnson style. If details of his program leaked out from time to time, the suspense would be lost, and there would be little interest in his Inaugural Address, his State of the Union Message, and his budget. The idea is to keep it all behind a curtain, which he will pull open next year, revealing splendid vistas not piecemeal but in their gorgeous entirety. His apologists recall that he succeeded in creating interest in what would otherwise have been a spiritless ceremony at Atlantic City last August by declining to make known his Vice-Presidential choice until the Convention had only a few hours to run and then putting Hubert Humphrey’s name in nomination himself. It is one thing, though, to make a cliff-hanger out of what appears to be a contest between ambitious men, and quite another to make one out of an item in a budget. (It is also easier to have an opinion about whether Senator Humphrey, of Minnesota, or Senator Dodd, of Connecticut, would make an acceptable Vice-President than it is to know how much money is required to find an acceptable solution to the problem of high-school dropouts.) In any case, a President who is as secretive as this one over matters of public policy denies himself and his programs the advantages—and they are thought by many politicians to be numerous—of widespread public discussion, examination, and criticism. And it would seem difficult to arouse much interest in programs that the public can only approve or disapprove. Johnson may have found a way of getting to the Great Society, but it is also a way of making the political process as tiresome a spectacle for onlookers as a friendly game of catch.

  It is possible, of course, that the Presiden
t will change his ways after he gets settled in a bit more. He has always played his cards close to his chest, but then he has always, in the past, been in a poker game of one sort or another. Now, except when outsiders like Harold Wilson and Andrei Gromyko stop by, he sits alone at the table, with no one to bluff, no one to outsmart, no one betting against him. In his present situation, the rewards of foxiness are few. He has only his “mandate” to interpret, and it is natural enough that he should wish to interpret it himself. “The people have spoken,” someone remarked after the election of 1936, “and in the fullness of time Franklin Roosevelt will tell us what they have said.” In a fairly short time, Johnson will do the same. He will explain what the “consensus” is that more than 60 percent of Americans subscribe to, and then, perhaps, he may come to feel a need for generating some interest in the means by which he will lead us to our noble ends. But right now, more than a month after the electorate decided to move ahead to the Great Society, about the only really definitive word we have had from the leader is that he proposes to begin the journey on January 20th in a plain business suit and that he will change, the first night out, into a dinner jacket.

  Charlayne Hunter

  NOVEMBER 11, 1967 (WALKING THROUGH HARLEM)

  EARLY ONE AFTERNOON last week, we set out to take a final look at perhaps the most famous block in Harlem—125th Street between Seventh and Lenox—before it is levelled to make way for the much discussed new New York State office building. It was a beautiful day, with a bright sun and a blue sky, and the air, because it was cool and crisp, felt, for a change, clean. Fall, it seemed, had at last established itself. At 110th Street and Seventh Avenue, it was an easy decision to get off the bus and walk. Young boys and girls carrying book satchels and, in some cases, empty lunch pails joined our walk at various intersections. The avenue was filled with the sound of young, high-pitched voices competing to be heard. Soon we became aware of a siren in the distance, and as the shrill sound drew nearer, we encountered other, larger groups—men and women, young and old. Two fire trucks arrived at a corner of Seventh Avenue, and, from the sound of things, others were on the way. When one of the firemen opened a hydrant, great gushes of a dark, oily-looking liquid came spewing forth, and a small boy, who had probably cooled off in the spray last summer, stood staring at the stuff incredulously. After a few minutes, there were five trucks on the scene, but it became apparent that there was no fire. In spite of this, most of the crowd lingered, watching the big, clumsy trucks maneuver their way out of the narrow street.