RN

by Richard Nixon

  I emerged from this meeting with Thurmond’s pledge of support, which would become a valuable element in my ability to thwart any moves by Reagan on my right.

  I watched the California primary returns on television in our New York apartment with Pat, Tricia, Julie, and David Eisenhower. Because of the time difference, I stayed up only long enough to get a sense of the trend. It was clear that Bobby Kennedy was gaining back the initiative he had lost to McCarthy in Oregon. I believed that Hubert Humphrey had waited too long before declaring his candidacy, and I saw no way a Kennedy juggernaut could be stopped once it had acquired the momentum of a California victory. As I went to bed, I said, “It sure looks like we’ll be going against Bobby.” David and Julie said they would stay up watching and give me a report in the morning.

  It was not long before I dimly heard David’s voice calling my name over and over. “Mr. Nixon. Excuse me, sir. Mr. Nixon.” I finally opened my eyes and saw David standing in my room. “What is it?” I asked. “They shot Kennedy,” he said. “He’s still alive, but he’s unconscious. He was shot right after his victory speech.”

  With millions of other Americans I thought, how could such ghastly tragedy be revisited on the Kennedy family? Who had done it, and why? When would this madness come to an end?

  The next day I was working in my study when Pat came in, tears in her eyes. She said, “Dick, that poor boy just died. It’s on the radio.”

  Bobby Kennedy and I were political antagonists, representing wholly different constituencies and philosophies. There was nothing similar about our beliefs or styles. But we shared, as all politicians do, membership in an unchartered club of those who devote their energies and themselves to public life and public service. I was, as I had always been, fatalistic about danger. But I was saddened and appalled by such tragic human waste.

  Pat and I attended the funeral mass at St. Patrick’s Cathedral in New York, and we were deeply moved by the eloquent eulogy delivered by his brother, Teddy.

  All the candidates observed a moratorium on campaigning in the weeks following the funeral. President Johnson ordered round-the-clock Secret Service protection for all presidential candidates and their families.

  I renewed my campaigning at the end of June, and except for occasional periods of rest there was no stopping until Election Day, November 5.

  As the convention neared, I kept my lead despite formidable efforts by the Rockefeller and Reagan forces to dislodge and attract delegates. Because Rockefeller had declined to fight me in the primaries, he had only one card left to play: the “loser” issue. He would try to demonstrate that he had a better chance to win in November than I did.

  To this end he launched a ludicrous “battle of the polls.” In a formal telegram sent to me and made public on July 9, Rockefeller proposed, first, that I meet him in a debate, and second, that I join him in commissioning a poll to test our relative strengths in areas of large electoral votes. The results of these polls would be given to the delegates at the convention, who could use them to decide upon their nominee. I had never heard of such a ridiculous way to determine a party’s nominee. This was clearly a last-ditch effort, born of desperation.

  Although I rejected the offer of a joint poll, Rockefeller went ahead on his own. He hired a polling firm—and then spent millions of dollars on a massive national advertising campaign in an obvious attempt to affect public opinion at the time his polls were being made. Just before the convention, Rockefeller began releasing the results of the polls, which showed him ahead of me in the key electoral states.

  My strategy was to wait it out. My own polls showed me doing as well as, or even better than, Rockefeller in the same key states. I was sorely tempted to fire back, but I didn’t. I felt certain of defeating Rockefeller, and I didn’t want to let him draw me into internecine warfare that could only hurt my chances in the fall.

  While Rockefeller continued his charade of the polls, I maintained a heavy schedule aimed at solidifying the delegate support I already had and at collecting additional delegates to ensure a first-ballot victory. To this end, I felt it was essential to obtain Eisenhower’s endorsement.

  Eisenhower was reluctant to become involved in a pre-convention fight. I knew that he would prefer to bestow his endorsement after the convention, when it would have a symbolic unifying effect on the party. But I knew that he wanted me to get the nomination, and I asked Bryce Harlow, one of his former top aides now supporting me, to write to Eisenhower urging him to endorse me before the convention.

  I visited Eisenhower at Walter Reed Hospital in Washington on July 15. His smile had not dimmed, but the deep wrinkles in his face showed that age and illness had taken their toll. After some small talk, he brought up the question of the endorsement. Our importunings had apparently been effective; without any hesitation or qualifications he said, “Dick, I don’t want there to be any more question about this. You’re my choice, period.” He agreed to release his endorsement on July 18. His statement was strong and straightforward, and it meant a great deal to me:

  The issues are so great, the times so confusing, that I have decided to break personal precedent and speak out to endorse a presidential candidate prior to the national convention. . . .

  I support Richard M. Nixon as my party’s nominee for the presidency of the United States. I do so not only because of my appreciation of the distinguished services he performed for this nation during my own administration but even more because of my admiration of his personal qualities: his intellect, acuity, decisiveness, warmth, and above all, his integrity. I feel that the security, prosperity, and solvency of the United States and the cause of world peace will best be served by placing Dick Nixon in the White House in January 1969.

  After the announcement was released, he sent me a copy with a handwritten note across the top: “Dear Dick—This was something I truly enjoyed doing—DE.”

  On July 26 I went to Washington for the intelligence briefing President Johnson had offered to all presidential candidates. He had briefed George Wallace earlier that day, and when I got to the White House, Johnson, Secretary of State Dean Rusk, and Walt Rostow, the President’s National Security Adviser, were waiting for me.

  The central issue of the briefing was Vietnam. On the question of whether we should unilaterally stop the bombing in North Vietnam, Johnson spoke feelingly of the men who were serving in South Vietnam and the letters he had to write to the next of kin of those who had died. “Do I tell that boy that we’ll stop bombing and let 30 percent more trucks filled with ammunition and guns come south so that they will have a better chance to kill him?” he asked.

  Rusk, one of the ablest and most honorable men ever to serve as Secretary of State, made the point that the rest of Asia would be in a “panic” if the United States were to withdraw from Vietnam without an honorable peace settlement. He said that he held this view completely apart from the domino theory, which he considered simplistic. He believed that American withdrawal from Vietnam would leave the Chinese Communists as the only major power on the Asian mainland, thus creating the panic.

  The critical part of the briefing concerned the bombing halt. Johnson returned to this point several times. He said he had, in fact, made an offer involving a halt, which both the Soviets and the North Vietnamese were seriously considering. He said bitterly that, as far as we were concerned, previous halts had produced nothing. He was also firm that he would insist on a quid pro quo: “We must get something from them if we halt the bombing,” he said. He assured me that no halt was planned at that moment. He was prepared to wait as long as the North Vietnamese and their Soviet sponsors took to come to reasonable terms. I said that I would continue to support our goals in Vietnam even though I would be critical of some of the tactics that had been used. I also pledged not to undercut our negotiating position just in case the Communists came around and agreed to the conditions Johnson would insist upon in return for a bombing halt.

  When the briefing was over and the others h
ad left, Johnson seemed almost to deflate before my eyes. He looked old and terribly tired. His voice sounded hollow as he detailed at considerable length his decision not to run again. He gave many reasons and explained the many clues that he said he had been dropping since August 1967. At no point, however, did he mention Eugene McCarthy or Bobby Kennedy, or the pressures their candidacies were causing.

  By the time he walked me to the door, he was his old self again, fully in command. He praised J. Edgar Hoover; he told me of his gratitude for Eisenhower’s support; he complimented me on my family; he said that he had just received a letter from David Eisenhower supporting his position on Vietnam.

  As we shook hands he said, “You know, Dick, all the talk about me being obsessed with power is just hogwash. I never cared about having any goddamn power. The only thing that appeals to me about being President is the opportunity it provides to do some good for the country. That’s all.”

  While Johnson was telling me about his use of power, I was thinking of ways to keep power out of the hands of Nelson Rockefeller. He was far from giving up. He continued his frantic polling up to the eve of the convention, and he arrived in Miami Beach with armloads of statistics to distribute to the delegates. His efforts seemed to have minimal effect.

  While Rockefeller was working openly, Reagan continued to be coy about his candidacy. But there was no doubt about his intentions. Before the convention Reagan had been flying Southern delegates to California to meet with him, making ideological appeals that were difficult for them to resist. Three weeks before the convention he had set off on a tour of the South with Clifton White, his chief delegate-hunter, in tow.

  When Reagan arrived at the convention, he immediately began “dropping in” at delegation meetings, charming the delegates with his personality and speaking ability. Finally, on Monday, August 5, he moved into the open. Bill Knowland emerged from a California delegation caucus to announce it had passed a resolution recognizing that “Governor Reagan in fact is a leading and bona fide candidate for President.”

  It was not long before a new catchword began making the rounds in Miami Beach: erosion. Both Rockefeller and Reagan had an interest in convincing delegates that I had not yet sewn up the nomination, and they joined forces to attempt to show that my strength was eroding and that I was losing delegates.

  Lieutenants of both candidates buttonholed delegates arriving in Miami, begging them to believe that I had not yet locked up the nomination. While this frantic activity was going on in Miami, I spent the last few days before the convention at Montauk Point on the eastern tip of Long Island working on my acceptance speech.

  On the day Reagan’s candidacy was announced, Pat and I flew to Miami Beach. We were welcomed by large and enthusiastic crowds. As soon as we reached the penthouse suite of the Hilton Plaza Hotel, I called John Mitchell.

  “John, what’s the count?” I asked. He chuckled and answered with characteristic coolness and confidence, “I told you that you didn’t need to worry, Dick. We’ve got everything under control.” When I put the same question to Dick Kleindienst, who with Mitchell had responsibility for our delegate operation, he was equally confident. Still, the marriage of convenience between Rockefeller and Reagan was now operating at full force. Rockefeller worked on the Northern and Midwestern states while Reagan tried to breach my Southern flank.

  But the months of arduous labor were paying off. Strom Thurmond and Senator John Tower of Texas went to work, visiting or telephoning each delegation personally. Tirelessly they shored the Southern dike against Reagan’s rising waters. Tower called it “the thin gray line which never broke.”

  Holding the South was not our only problem; there were other trouble spots. Governor James Rhodes of Ohio, for example, insisted on remaining a favorite son, thus tying up all the Ohio votes, most of which would have gone to me, on the crucial first ballot. George Romney also refused to cede his favorite son status, although the majority of his delegates supported me.

  But by Wednesday night, August 7, I was satisfied that I had the votes to win. After checking and double-checking I saw no way that Reagan or Rockefeller could pull it off. Their talk of “erosion” was pure political gamesmanship, and nothing short of a miracle could bring either of them a victory even on a later ballot.

  Some observers claimed that I was smug and complacent about winning the nomination. Any idea that the convention was a boring coronation ceremony ignored the months of backbreaking work that had laid the foundation for my success. What truly galled the critics and commentators who did not favor my candidacy was that they could not honestly maintain that the party bosses had arranged my victory. As the only candidate who ran the primary gauntlet from beginning to end, it could hardly be argued that I was not the choice of the people of my party.

  As the nominations began, I invited a small group of friends and staff to join my family in our suite. Pat, Tricia and her guest Ed Cox, and Julie and David were there, as well as Rose Woods, Bob Haldeman, Pat Buchanan, Dwight Chapin, Ray Price, and Len Garment. John Mitchell was in constant touch from his communications trailer command post outside the convention hall. Rogers Morton was my floor manager, helping put out fires and giving last-minute pep talks to wavering delegates. Dick Kleindienst roamed the convention floor, keeping a close watch on his charges until the last vote was counted.

  Ted Agnew placed my name in nomination. Mitchell had asked him if he would like to have the assignment and had suggested that, if he did a good job, he would be among those considered for the second spot on the ticket. To that extent, at least, Agnew’s speech was an audition.

  The balloting began. First, Alabama. We had been able to hold the line against the Reagan inroads, and I won 14 votes to his 12. Wally Hickel delivered all but 1 of Alaska’s 12 votes, and Barry Goldwater kept all Arizona’s votes in the Nixon column. The first problem state on the roll call was Florida. When I got 32 out of the state’s 34 votes, the initial danger point had passed.

  In Illinois, despite Chuck Percy’s last-minute switch to Rockefeller, I won 50 of the 58 delegates.

  There were no surprises in any of the states from Massachusetts through Nevada. The second critical point was coming: New Jersey. Just before the balloting reached that state, John Mitchell called me from his command post trailer. “Dick,” he said, “I think you’re going to have a pleasant surprise in New Jersey. But Cliff Case may never let you cross the Hudson River again.” To counter liberal Senator Clifford Case’s recalcitrance, Mitchell had enlisted the help of Frank “Hap” Farley, a Republican stalwart from Atlantic City, and broken open the New Jersey delegation. Case’s ego was involved, since he had decided at the last minute to run as a favorite son. But his candidacy was patently a front for Rockefeller, and we had to try to persuade the Nixon supporters in the delegation to assert their independence. Outflanked and defeated, Case did not give up easily or gracefully. The internal fight was bitter, and he finally demanded that the delegation be polled. Each member was thus called upon to declare his choice publicly. The strategy failed; as each name was read, and as each delegate called out, “Nixon,” the television screen showed Case sulking in his chair, humiliated and hurt. As I watched him on the screen, I thought of the work we had done together in the House and how my campaigning for him in 1954 had helped to win him his Senate seat by a bare 3,000 votes. Those bonds were loosened that night, and our relationship would never again be the same. I had 18 of New Jersey’s 40 delegates.

  When the roll call reached New York, I managed to pick up four votes on Rockefeller’s home ground. I was a little surprised when Jim Rhodes refused to yield his favorite son status and held the Ohio delegation. Pennsylvania Governor Ray Shafer, like Chuck Percy, had gone over to Rockefeller at the last minute. By breaking his neutrality he made his delegation fair game, however, and we raided it with considerable success: I got 22 of the state’s 64 votes.

  There were no surprises left. Wisconsin put me over the top. I was pleased that the deciding vot
e came from a primary state.

  The final count gave me 692 votes, 25 more than needed. Ronald Reagan, in a unifying gesture in keeping with his posture of being a strong party man, moved that the nomination be made unanimous by acclamation.

  We had come halfway up the mountain. I knew from the experiences of 1960 and 1962 that the next half would be by far the more difficult to climb.

  Rockefeller called a few minutes later to congratulate me. When I told him that I understood his disappointment, he laughed and said, “Ronnie didn’t come through for us as well as we expected.” He complimented me on my successful strategy and pledged his total support for the final drive in November.

  Now I had to make my decision on a running mate. Two weeks earlier John Mitchell and I had tentatively—and very privately—concluded that the nod should go to Agnew. But like most important decisions, this one would not be final until it was announced. I still wanted to test it, to weigh alternatives, to hear other views. It was a tentative choice, and still reversible.

  In talking with Agnew I had been impressed by him as a man who seemed to have a great deal of inner strength. Though he had no foreign policy experience, his instincts in this area appeared to parallel mine. He had a good record as a moderate, progressive, effective governor. He took a forward-looking stance on civil rights, but he had firmly opposed those who resorted to violence in promoting their cause. As a former county executive of Baltimore County, he had a keen interest in local as well as state government. He expressed deep concern about the plight of the nation’s urban areas. He appeared to have presence, poise, and dignity, which would contribute greatly to his effectiveness both as a candidate and, if we should win, as Vice President.