RN

by Richard Nixon

  An important result of his stroke was the procedure that Eisenhower established in case of any future debilitating illness during his term. When Congress took no action to fill the constitutional void with regard to presidential disability, Bill Rogers, Foster Dulles, and I worked with Eisenhower to develop a plan that would suffice at least for the balance of his administration. Eisenhower personally drafted and sent to me a letter setting forth the procedures to be followed. The entire determination of fitness was to be made by the President and Vice President. If during some future illness Eisenhower concluded that he could no longer perform his duties, he would tell me and I would then become acting President with full authority until he decided he was able to resume his duties. If he were incapable of making or expressing a decision, I was to act on my own authority after appropriate consultation and serve as acting President until such time as he decided he was sufficiently recovered to resume. This plan was no substitute for a permanent constitutional solution, but it was a workable arrangement, which, fortunately, never had to be put to the test. Kennedy wrote a similar letter to Lyndon Johnson before his inauguration.

  This issue was formally settled by the adoption in 1967 of the Twenty-fifth Amendment to the Constitution.

  SOUTH AMERICA: 1958

  In the spring of 1958 I could already see the November elections shaping up as a disaster. Secretary of Labor Jim Mitchell and I were desperately—and unsuccessfully—trying to talk our colleagues in the Cabinet into a job-stimulating tax cut that would get the economy moving again and possibly help Republican chances. Therefore I was not enthusiastic when Assistant Secretary of State Roy Rubottom, Jr., asked me in early March if I would consider heading our official delegation to the inauguration of the new President of Argentina, Arturo Frondizi. The dictator Juan Perón had been overthrown in 1955, and Frondizi was the winner of Argentina’s first free elections in twenty years.

  I said that I could not take on another foreign trip at that time, but in the next few days both Dulles and Eisenhower made it clear that they felt it was important for me to go, and I had little choice but to agree. Rubottom immediately began lobbying for one or two extra stops, and by the end of the week, the itinerary included every country in South America except Brazil, where I had represented Eisenhower at the inauguration of President Kubitschek in 1956, and Chile, whose President was to have been in Washington on a state visit at the time I would have been in Chile.

  The CIA had warned that although the Communist Party had been officially suppressed in most South American countries, I might have to face occasional demonstrators; but I expected the trip to be so uneventful that I advised several reporters not to bother coming with us.

  In Montevideo, Uruguay, our first stop, the crowds were warm and friendly; only a few hecklers displayed signs as we drove past the University of the Republic. Later in the visit I arranged an unscheduled stop at the University. I walked through the campus, shaking hands and answering questions. When several communist students tried to interrupt me, they were shouted down by the rest, and I left amid cheers.

  Ambassador Robert Woodward told me that this brief stop had been a tremendous success. He said that South Americans above all have contempt for fear or timidity and admire courage and the dramatic gesture.

  We received warm receptions from the people in Argentina, Paraguay, and Bolivia. By the time we reached Peru, it was clear that the communists would have to resort to more extreme tactics if they were to succeed in spoiling the trip.

  They did. When we got back to our Lima hotel after lunch with President Manuel Prado, there was a large crowd in front, obviously less than friendly and more than curious. The whistles and catcalls were loud and menacing. It was clear that the demonstrations were entering a more dangerous phase.

  The next day’s schedule included a visit to the old and distinguished San Marcos University. The communists had openly boasted that they would prevent me from going there, and both the rector of the university and the chief of police had let it be known that they hoped we would cancel the visit. Most of our embassy officials felt that I should cancel rather than risk an incident that might have a serious effect on our relations with Peru.

  I said that I would call it off only if the rector or the chief of police issued a statement requesting me to do so. An embassy staff member made some phone calls and returned to inform us that the rector was afraid the communist students might blame him for depriving them of the incident they were hoping to provoke, and the chief of police did not want to run the risk of being charged with inability to maintain order. We consulted with several Peruvian government leaders. Each wanted the visit canceled, but none would take the responsibility for canceling it.

  My administrative assistant, Bill Key, proposed an alternate solution. He suggested that, instead of going to San Marcos, I visit Lima’s Catholic University, where the students were much more responsible and disciplined, and where the rector had said he would welcome a visit.

  I asked Ambassador Ted Achilles what he thought I should do. He took a long time before he answered me. Finally he said, “I believe from a personal standpoint you should make a decision not to go. But from the standpoint of the United States, I will have to say that your failing to go may lead to some very detrimental publicity reactions throughout the hemisphere.”

  I slept very little that night. The crowd outside the hotel had grown large and ugly, and around midnight it started chanting anti-American and anti-Nixon slogans.

  In the morning, the first thing everyone wanted to know was what I had decided. I said I had not yet made a final decision.

  I asked Pat to stay behind at the hotel when I left for my first activity that morning, a wreath-laying ceremony at the statue of José de San Martín, the liberator of Peru. The custom is to place the wreath and then stand at attention for about thirty seconds in silence. That morning, however, I must have stood there for at least two minutes. I knew that as soon as I returned to the car I would have to give the order that would take us either to San Marcos or to Catholic University.

  After laying the wreath, I turned and walked over to one of my three Secret Service agents, Jack Sherwood, and said, “San Marcos.” Then I walked quickly to my car.

  For two blocks before we reached the gates of San Marcos, we could hear the thousands of demonstrators chanting, “Fuera Nixon! Fuera Nixon!”—“Go Home Nixon!” Sometimes the chant became “Muera Nixon! Muera Nixon!”—“Death to Nixon!” I did not want a provocative retinue of embassy officials or policemen to accompany me onto the campus. Only my interpreter, Colonel Vernon Walters, and Jack Sherwood were with me as I walked toward the solid wall of screaming demonstrators that blocked the gate. I shouted, “I want to talk to you. Why are you afraid of the truth?” Walters shouted the translation.

  I shouted a few more sentences, hoping to get them to listen. Suddenly a rock hit Sherwood in the face, breaking a tooth. A shower of rocks rained down on us. I realized that we had no choice but to leave. As we drove away, I stood up in the convertible and shouted, “You are cowards, you are afraid of the truth!” Sherwood held my legs as the car swerved into the street.

  We drove directly to Catholic University, and as I entered the auditorium everyone rose in a tremendous ovation. After about thirty minutes, as I was answering a question, Sherwood came over and whispered, “We’d better get out of here; the gang from San Marcos is on its way.”

  We left just in time. When we got near our hotel, however, we could see that a great part of the San Marcos mob had preceded us. I assumed that the ringleaders were expecting us at the front entrance, so I had the driver let us out a short distance away. We walked as quickly as we could, and we were only about fifty feet from the entrance when the crowd realized who we were, and a shrill, savage cry went up. But surprise was on our side, and, in wedge formation, we were able to cover the rest of the distance in just a few moments.

  I was about to go through the door of the hotel when one of the d
emonstrators blocked my way. I thought he was going to speak to me or shout at me; instead, he spit in my face. When I got upstairs, Pat rushed over and embraced me. She had been watching the mob from our hotel room, and she said, “It wasn’t just hate those people had in their eyes. It was a sort of frenzy that frightened me.”

  For the rest of the day, wherever I went I was hailed as a hero by the citizens of Lima. The incident at San Marcos had shocked and shamed patriotic Peruvians, and cheering crowds tried to erase the memory of the jeering students. Late in the afternoon I held a press conference.

  I told the reporters that the greatest danger a non-Communist nation faced was from the handful of activists and infiltrators who could impose their will on the whole society. I said that the story of the San Marcos incident was the story of how some 200 trained agitators had led a demonstration of 2,000 students, bringing disgrace to the whole of Peru.

  On the flight from Lima to Quito, Ecuador, we tried to call Tricia and Julie on the plane’s radio telephone in order to reassure them that we were all right, but it was impossible to make a connection. We received a message from Eisenhower: “Dear Dick. Your courage, patience, and calmness in the demonstration directed against you by radical agitators have brought you a new respect and admiration in our country.” And Clare Boothe Luce sent a one-word wire: “Bully.”

  In Bogotá, Colombia, we received a disturbing message from the chief of the Secret Service in Washington: “The Central Intelligence Agency advises the Secret Service in Washington that information has been received relating to rumors of a plot to assassinate the Vice President in Venezuela.” I cabled ahead to have our ambassador tell the Venezuelan government that if it wanted to cancel my visit I would understand. Right up until our arrival, however, the Venezuelan officials reported that everything was completely under control.

  We landed at Maiquetía Airport, just outside Caracas, on the morning of May 13. We could hear yelling and whistling even before the plane’s engines had cut off. Pat and I stood at attention at the top of the ramp while the honor guard fired a nineteen-gun salute and a band played the Venezuelan and American national anthems. The landing strip had been cleared except for the official welcoming party. The large crowd of demonstrators stood behind the fences at the edge of the runways and on the observation deck on the roof of the terminal building. A red carpet ran from the foot of the stairs to the terminal building where the motorcade was assembled to take us the twelve miles into Caracas.

  As we started to descend the stairs, Walters whispered in my ear, “They aren’t friendly.” That much was clear from the whistles and catcalls that had kept up a raucous counterpoint to both anthems. As I shook hands, the welcoming party seemed determined to ignore the screams of the crowd. The Venezuelan chief of security assured me, “Oh, they are just kids. They are harmless.”

  I took Pat’s arm and started walking along the red carpet toward the terminal. The others fell in quickly behind us. We had almost reached the terminal door when the band leader suddenly began playing the Venezuelan anthem again. We stopped and stood at attention. For a second it seemed as if it had begun to rain, and then I realized that the crowd on the observation deck just above our heads was showering us with spit. It fell on our faces and our hair. I saw Pat’s bright red suit grow dark with tobacco-brown splotches. After we passed through the terminal and walked out in front, we were surrounded by the demonstrators. While we waited for Sherwood and our other agents to clear the way to the car they continued to pelt us. Pat leaned over the barricade toward a young girl who had just spit at her. The girl’s face was contorted with hate. When Pat put her hand on the girl’s shoulder and smiled at her, it was as if something snapped inside the girl, and she turned her head away and broke into sobs.

  Finally our agents were able to clear a path. I got into the first car, along with the Foreign Minister. Pat and the Foreign Minister’s wife were in the second car. The embarrassed Foreign Minister kept offering me his handkerchief to wipe some of the spit off my clothes. Finally I snapped at him, “Don’t bother. I am going to burn these clothes as soon as I can get out of them.”

  He tried to explain what had happened. “The Venezuelan people have been without freedom so long that they tend now to express themselves more vigorously perhaps than they should,” he said. “In our new government we do not want to do anything which would be interpreted as a suppression of freedom.”

  “If your new government doesn’t have the guts and good sense to control a mob like the one at the airport, there soon will be no freedom for anyone in Venezuela,” I replied.

  As we entered Caracas, a barrage of rocks flew toward us, and a mob ran out from the side streets and alleys. Our driver pushed the accelerator to the floor and we got through.

  About four blocks from the Panteón Nacional a solid wall of vehicles was strung across the street from the sidewalk to the traffic island in the center. A steady flow of cars in the opposite direction made it impossible to drive over the island. We pulled to a stop. For a moment everything seemed suspended. Then Sherwood said, “Here they come.” Hundreds of people suddenly appeared from the streets and alleys, running toward our car. Our Venezuelan motorcycle escort evaporated. Our only protection was our augmented detail of twelve courageous Secret Service agents who did a superhuman job in trying to fend off the mob.

  We realized that we were completely alone as the first rock hit the car window, lodging itself in the glass and spraying us with tiny slivers. One sliver hit the Foreign Minister in the eye, and he started to bleed heavily. He tried to stop the blood, moaning over and over, “This is terrible. This is terrible.”

  I saw a thug with an iron pipe work his way up to the car. He was looking right at me as he began trying to break the window. Once again the glass held, but flying slivers hit Walters in the mouth. Both Sherwood and I caught some in the face. Suddenly the car began to move, and the idea that we had somehow broken free gave me a surge of relief. Then I realized that the crowd was rocking the car back and forth—slower and higher each time. I remembered that it was a common tactic for mobs to turn a car over and then set it on fire.

  I believe that at that moment, for the first time, each of us in the car realized we might actually be killed. My first thought was of Pat. I looked through the rear window and was relieved to see that the mob was concentrating on us and ignoring her car.

  Suddenly Sherwood pulled out his revolver and said, “Let’s get some of these sons of bitches.” I told him to hold his fire. Once a gun went off the crowd would go berserk and that would be the end of us.

  Finally the press truck in front of us managed to break out of the jam and swerve over the traffic island and into the lane of traffic coming from the opposite direction. Like a blocker leading a running back, the truck cleared a path for us. Our driver gunned the engine and shot around the truck, picking up speed. I was greatly relieved to see Pat’s car right behind us.

  We had been trapped for only twelve minutes, but it seemed like a lifetime. Our police motorcycle escort suddenly appeared again and started signaling our driver to follow. The Foreign Minister began talking about getting back on schedule, and it dawned on me that the escort was leading us to the Panteón for the wreath-laying ceremony. As we reached the next intersection I called out to the driver to turn quickly, and as he did the motorcycles rode on. The Foreign Minister looked panic-stricken. He cried, “We cannot leave our protection. We’ve got to follow the police escort!” I looked at him and said, “If that’s the kind of protection we are going to get, we are better off going it alone.”

  I told the driver that the important thing was not to go anyplace where we would be expected. There would certainly be another mob waiting at the Panteón and also at the government guesthouse where we were scheduled to stay. By some miracle Pat’s car and the truck carrying the reporters and photographers were following right behind. I asked the driver to pull over, and I walked back to make sure that she was all right. Several repor
ters ran up. I gave them a brief rundown of the situation and told them that I had decided to go directly to the embassy.

  It was an immense relief to drive through the embassy gate and see the American flag flying from the roof. Pat and I showered and changed. By the time I came back downstairs, word had arrived that a bloodthirsty mob of several thousand had been waiting for us at the Panteón plaza, and later investigation revealed a cache of Molotov cocktails ready to be thrown at us during the ceremony. I also learned that the members of the ruling military junta were on their way to the embassy to make an official apology. One of the ambassador’s aides wanted to have our battered limousine taken around to the back of the building so that it would not embarrass them. I said, “Leave it where it is. It’s time that they see some graphic evidence of what communism really is.”

  I held a press conference late in the afternoon and made the same point that I had made in Lima: that the men and women who had led the riots could not claim to be loyal to their country because their first loyalty was to the international Communist conspiracy. I said that it would be very dangerous to ascribe the riots to the fact that after ten years of repressive dictatorship the people did not know how to exercise restraint in enjoying their new freedom. Those mobs were communists led by Communists, and they had no devotion to freedom at all.

  That night Pat and I had dinner alone in our room at the embassy. Around nine o’clock there was a knock on the door and Rubottom and the ambassador asked if they could have a word with me. I didn’t see how I could take another meeting at this point and started to tell them so when Rubottom said that a new crisis had arisen because of a news report that had just been received from Washington. Eisenhower had dispatched two companies of airborne infantry and two companies of Marines to the Caribbean to be “in a position to cooperate with the Venezuelan government if assistance is requested.” The Venezuelan radio was apparently reporting this precautionary measure as a full-scale invasion.