by John McCain
My 2008 primary win was not as heady as our victory in 2000. But I was deeply touched by it, and have had ever since a special affection for the proud voters in the first-in-the-nation primary. “These people have been so good to us,” I told Cindy that night. “I owe them so much.”
The next day, somewhere in Iraq’s Anbar Province, my son Jimmy helped dig an MRAP, a heavily armored personnel carrier, out of the mud in a wadi that had flooded in a downpour. He was knee-deep in the muck working a shovel, and sweating in the oppressive heat, when his sergeant walked over to him.
“McCain.”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
“Your dad won New Hampshire.”
“Did he?”
“Yeah, keep digging.”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
I laughed when Jimmy recounted the exchange for me when we were reunited some months later, and I laugh every time I retell it to friends. But as I have remembered it in the years that followed, and remembered, too, my worry then that my ambitions had exposed my youngest son to even greater danger, I’m moved to tears.
CHAPTER TWO
* * *
Country First
I RECEIVED A DECENT BUMP in the national polls following my New Hampshire win, and our fund-raising picked up, although we still had to pay off the bank loan we borrowed in the summer to keep the campaign running. National polling leads can create a false impression that someone is a front-runner. We don’t have national primaries. The next contest was in Michigan on January 15, and Mitt and I were running neck and neck there. Michigan wasn’t do-or-die for me, but it was for Mitt. Huckabee and I had split the first two contests. Mitt had to get into the picture now or risk being written off by reporters and donors. South Carolina was four days after Michigan, and Mitt wasn’t competing there. I saw the chance to finish him off and secure a nearly invincible position by winning Michigan and beating Huckabee and Fred Thompson in South Carolina. I had upset George Bush in the 2000 Michigan primary, and believed I had a good feel for campaigning there. It’s obviously a lot more populous and urban than New Hampshire, and I had spent a lot more time in New Hampshire than we could spend in Michigan. But I felt Michigan voters in 2000 had responded as well as New Hampshire voters had to my candor, which occasionally offered uncomfortable truths to an audience that might disagree. The Straight Talk Express, our boasting motto in 2000, mostly avoided being sanctimonious because now and again I had to pay a real price for it. I would say something in the name of straight talk that got me in trouble.
We both fought hard for Michigan, and threw punches that aggravated our campaigns’ already healthy game-day animosity for the other. I took a shot at Mitt’s record on taxes as Massachusetts governor. He accused me of being that most odious of characters, the “Washington insider.” Most polls had us less than a percentage point apart. Then I offered Michigan voters a little dose of straight talk. It was true, but hard to hear, and I have to watch myself and not appear smug when I’m offering a hard truth. I can seem to enjoy being impolitic.
Michigan was in the throes of a deep recession and had the highest unemployment in the nation. Technology-driven productivity gains in the automobile industry and foreign competition had cost the state tens if not hundreds of thousands of high-wage manufacturing jobs. I campaigned on ideas to help people whose lives were disrupted by the global economy, getting workers into improved retraining programs, and having the government make up some of the difference between the wages they had lost and the lower pay they were now earning in service industry jobs. But I wanted to acknowledge that work was permanently changing in the U.S. in ways that would put a premium on education reform and highly skilled training to achieve the same standard of living that had been common for manufacturing workers in the last century. In a debate, I blurted out that “there are some jobs that aren’t coming back to Michigan.”
Mitt jumped on it instantly, grabbing the opportunity to portray me as unsympathetic to dislocated workers and underscore his credentials as a successful businessman, who specialized in turning around failing companies. In addition to having been governor of Michigan, Mitt’s father, George, had been president of American Motors. “I’ve got the automobile industry in my veins,” Mitt reminded voters, promising to turn Washington inside out to turn Michigan’s economy around, and accusing me of undue pessimism. It was the smart play. It emphasized his connections to the state, and offered voters that most potent of political appeals—hope. I had offered grim reality, which made a negative impression on Michigan voters that overshadowed the policies I proposed to improve it.
Mitt won the Michigan primary. It wasn’t close, 39 to 30 percent. I had missed the chance to land a knockout blow on my most dangerous opponent. Good thing for me Mitt had effectively abandoned South Carolina. A win there could offset the damage that losing Michigan had done, and give me back the advantage going into Florida. I had to beat Mike Huckabee, who was gaining ground in South Carolina with his strength in the Upstate evangelical communities. But Mitt’s absence in South Carolina wasn’t my only piece of good luck. Fred Thompson had decided to stay in the race after losing the first three major contests. He was popular with the base, and he and Huckabee divided voters who were unlikely to support me. My strength was in South Carolina’s Lowcountry, from Myrtle Beach to Charleston to Hilton Head, where social conservatives aren’t as prominent as they are Upstate. But I had found out in 2000 that I couldn’t win the primary with Lowcountry voters alone if one opponent won everywhere else.
The Associated Press had called the race earlier in the evening when the exit polls and early returns were indicating a five- or six-point McCain win. But the wire service had to retract the projection a short while later when the count unexpectedly tightened, my stomach with it. The next couple hours were agonizing. I wanted badly to win South Carolina not just for the advantage it would give me in upcoming contests, but because South Carolina had been a bitter defeat in 2000. I had something to prove. To myself, if no one else. As it turned out, Fred won enough votes to dilute Huckabee’s strength, and I did better than expected in the Upstate, even winning Greenville, where I’d been clobbered eight years before. Still, it was a narrow victory, only three points, and Huckabee did well enough to be encouraged.
He would win quite a few more primaries and caucuses, mostly in the South, before it was over. But I was the recognized front-runner going into Florida, which was setting up to be the decisive contest. Rudy Giuliani had bet everything on the state. He had mostly avoided Iowa because his positions on abortion and other issues made him unacceptable to social conservatives. He hadn’t campaigned much in New Hampshire, either, which I thought was a mistake on his part that redounded to my benefit. He’s the kind of candidate who appeals to New Hampshire Republicans and independents, outspoken, authentic, and confrontational. He chose to save his resources for a last-stand fight in Florida, where quite a few retired New Yorkers reside. But by then the press narrative was firmly fixed and voters were only hearing about a three-person race, McCain, Romney, and Huckabee. I don’t think a lot of Floridians even knew Rudy was still running. He and I were friends, and in the days between the South Carolina primary and Florida’s, as Rudy sensed his gambit had failed, we stayed on good terms, even hinting that he would encourage his organization and endorsements to support me in the primaries that followed.
Mitt had a good organization in Florida, and was managing to keep the debate focused on economic issues rather than national security, where I was stronger. He reminded voters that in another burst of straight talk I had publicly acknowledged I knew less about the economy than national security. He assured them he could do both jobs competently. He hadn’t finished taking advantage of my Michigan jobs remark, either.
I was also on the receiving end of daily attacks from talk radio blowhards. They had some effect, but they aren’t as influential as they like their listeners to believe. They make quite a living from promoting polarization in the country, and scaring
politicians who can only win races in gerrymandered districts. And when they’re in high dudgeon they can be amusing in an over-the-top, vaudevillian kind of way. They had been after me episodically for years, pounding my positions on campaign finance reform and immigration and other apostasies. I had learned to laugh it off. They could tie up our front-office phones for an hour or so by exhorting their listeners to give the traitor McCain a piece of their mind. But they had a negligible impact on my national popularity. In Florida, their antipathy toward me was frenzied. Even Mitt, the moderate former governor of Massachusetts, whom they would disparage four years later, was an acceptable alternative as long as I was in the race.
We feared that as long as Mitt stuck with his disciplined message on the economy and emphasized his business skills, the race would stay too close for comfort. Our last debate just five days before the primary had focused on economic policy, and Mitt was far outspending us on television and radio ads. I needed to change the subject. Our research guys dug up a quote by Mitt about Iraq, which interpreted very literally could be portrayed as advocating a schedule for withdrawing our troops based on dates rather than conditions on the ground. I accused him of wanting to cut and run before victory was achieved. It was a stretch, according to the fact-checkers, and I caught flak for it. I don’t think we took any more liberties with the quote than Mitt had taken with my jobs remark or my immigration views, but the attack angered him, and he wouldn’t let it go for three days, which played to my advantage since it kept the debate focused on Iraq and not the economy.
I knew from personal experience how he felt. I’d gotten angry over attacks in South Carolina eight years before, and strayed from my reform message to air my grievances. Mitt called our tactics in Florida Nixonian, but he kept talking about them, which is probably a reaction that would have pleased Richard Nixon. He had a point, though, and as I said, getting pissed off by an opponent’s attack is something I could relate to empathetically. But the comeback phase of my campaign was over. I had made my point about the surge and proved that I was resilient. Now I was running to win the thing.
An endorsement by Charlie Crist, Florida’s Republican governor, the night before the primary gave us a last burst of speed across the finish line. According to Rudy, Crist had promised his endorsement to him. Mitt thought he had received encouragement, too. Rudy was angered by the betrayal, but not at me. He knew his candidacy was finished. That night he and I talked on the phone, and our staffs conferred about working together after Florida. I won the Florida primary by a little more than I thought we would, five points, and with it all fifty-seven of its delegates. Mitt wasn’t going anywhere yet, but I would be hard to stop now. Super Tuesday with its twenty-one primaries and caucuses, and California the biggest prize, was a week away. Rudy endorsed me the day after the Florida primary, and helped us get his supporter Texas governor Rick Perry’s endorsement the same day that California governor Arnold Schwarzenegger endorsed me, giving our campaign the appearance of the train to ride as it was leaving the station. We had a debate that night at the Reagan Library with Nancy Reagan in attendance. All the remaining candidates were tired and aware that the contest would soon be over. It might have been a comparatively sedate event, but Mitt and I mixed it up anyway, too heatedly, irritability being fatigue’s main effect on me.
We were in Phoenix for Super Tuesday. Arizona held its primary that day. I won my home state and eight other primaries, including the biggest ones, California and New York, as well as Illinois, New Jersey, Missouri, and others. Mitt won seven primaries and caucuses and Mike Huckabee won five southern contests that night. But my delegate take was three times the size of Mitt’s and four times larger than Huckabee’s. I was the presumptive nominee. Two days later in a speech in Washington, Mitt ended his campaign. He endorsed me a week after that. Our antagonism quickly cooled as our competitive natures found other outlets, and developed into a genuine friendship, which, I’m privileged to say, continues to this day. He was an indefatigable and effective surrogate in the general election, who never refused to help. I enjoyed reciprocating in 2012, endorsing him before the New Hampshire primary.
Huckabee remained in the race, as did libertarian Ron Paul. Huckabee won a few more southern contests but formally withdrew in March after I had accumulated enough delegates to secure the nomination. Paul stayed in until June, when he suspended his campaign having never won a single primary or caucus, but having made a point of some kind to his passionate followers.
• • •
I had the advantage of being able to prepare for the general election while Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton were still in a dogfight. Hillary was proving to be a tough, resilient competitor. But Obama had something special going on. His crowds were enormous. His appeal for a campaign that aspired to more than the usual smash-and-grab tactics tapped into a yearning in people alienated from contemporary politics. Much of the press was infatuated with him. I didn’t underestimate him. I was impressed by him, and I knew I would be the underdog in the race were he to be my opponent. I had to present myself as a different kind of politician, too, if I was to have a fighting chance. And I had to start right away.
I received President Bush’s endorsement at the White House the day after Mike Huckabee had withdrawn. I appreciated it, and the gracious consideration that he extended me throughout the campaign. The President’s approval rating was at its lowest due to widespread unhappiness with the Iraq War and the federal response to Hurricane Katrina. To state the obvious, the image conveyed by his endorsement wasn’t likely to reinforce the idea that I was a different kind of Republican. Rather it would be interpreted as a ritual anointing of an heir apparent to a then unpopular President, an interpretation Democrats were quick to publicize. Neither did the trip to Iraq I took later that month with Lindsey Graham and Joe Lieberman have the appearance of change, either. The progress we had made there since our last trip was noticeable and encouraging, and I said so, which might have sounded to many voters as the same old empty assurances they’d been hearing for five years.
I had been a U.S. senator for over twenty years, and a nationally known politician for almost a decade. But while Obama and Clinton were slugging it out, and consuming most of the public’s appetite for politics, my advisors thought I should reintroduce myself to voters who might still be paying attention. We decided I would give several speeches in locations that had been important in my life. The subjects of each speech would be mostly biographical, emphasizing my service to the nation. We started at Episcopal High School. The Naval Academy was the second stop. By the third speech, in Pensacola where I had trained as a naval aviator, I started getting bored with the story. I expect voters were, too, and likely returned their attention to the close race for the Democratic nomination, while I regaled a few more audiences with favorite tales from my colorful past.
I was more enthusiastic about the series of campaign stops that followed my biography tour. Most were in hard-pressed communities that wouldn’t vote for me, places that hadn’t shared in the prosperity of the previous quarter century. We went to a shuttered steel mill in Youngstown, Ohio, a coal-mining hollow in Eastern Kentucky, and to New Orleans’s Ninth Ward. We began the tour in Alabama’s “Black Belt,” named for the richness of its soil. It’s a mostly rural, economically distressed section of the state, where the majority of voters are African American and Democrat. It was a politically inhospitable section of a state that would vote overwhelmingly for the Republican nominee for President, whether he campaigned there or not. Campaigning anywhere in Alabama wouldn’t gain or cost a single vote. But that was sort of the point. I wanted to stress that ours wasn’t like Republican campaigns of the past. I wasn’t interested in sharpening old divisions, emphasizing partisan differences, and trying to run up the score with the base without scaring off too many moderates and independents. I wanted to show I cared about every American community, that all Americans are my responsibility, and would be my concern were I to become their Pre
sident.
We kicked off the tour on an April morning in Selma, Alabama, at the foot of the Edmund Pettis Bridge, where forty-three years earlier Alabama state troopers and local police had savagely beaten peaceful civil rights marchers, men, women, and children, including John Lewis, a man I greatly admired. “There must be no forgotten places in America,” I said to the 150 or so Selma residents who gathered to listen, “whether they have been ignored for long years by the sins of indifference and injustice or have been left behind as the world grew smaller and more economically interdependent.” I recounted John Lewis’s story, how he had bravely stood to take the expected blows from the troopers’ batons, and collapsed unconscious in his bloodstained raincoat.
In America, we have always believed that if the day was a disappointment, we would win tomorrow. That’s what John Lewis believed when he marched across this bridge.
The audience was mostly white. Selma is mostly black. After my remarks, reporters were quick to point out the difference as if I hadn’t been aware of it myself. “I’m aware the African American vote has been very small in favor of the Republican Party,” I responded. “I am aware of the challenges, and I am aware of the fact that there will be many people who will not vote for me. But I’m going to be the president of all the people.”
We traveled from Selma to other stops in the Black Belt, Camden and Thomasville, where I held a town hall at a packed junior college auditorium, and to Gee’s Bend on the Alabama River, where lived a remote but somewhat famous community of quilters, whose work had been nationally and internationally recognized. There I received what is probably the most effusive reception I have ever received in my political career. The women of Gee’s Bend all turned out to welcome us as our bus pulled to a stop. They shouted, sang, and danced—and tried to get me to dance, as ungainly a sight as any they had seen before—as they escorted Cindy and me around their little community, and to see and admire their quilts. They recalled how the local ferry service had been terminated in 1962 to prevent them from crossing the river to register to vote in the county seat. It hadn’t stopped them. The ferry wouldn’t be restored until 2006. They thanked us for coming, and wished us good luck in the election. And they meant it, even though they were surely going to vote for my opponent. They were the warmest and most genuine people I have ever met.