There were no objections.
I placed calls to Ted Agnew and Nelson Rockefeller. They agreed that victory was just a matter of time. Then I called in my senior staff. We sat and talked for almost two hours while we waited for the reported results to confirm our predictions. Several times I asked Mitchell or Haldeman to call our people in the key states to break loose better information than the TV commentators seemed able to supply. They always came back with the same message: Don’t worry—things are going well—we’re almost there. Almost. I had been almost there in 1960. Finally, around five o’clock, Mitchell and Haldeman persuaded me to try to nap. It was clear that the outcome would not be definite until the morning, and at this point I had been up for almost twenty-two hours. I couldn’t get to sleep, and after half an hour I got up again.
Just before 8 A.M. Haldeman brought in word that both NBC and ABC had declared me the winner in California and Ohio. But there was still no movement in Illinois, and that was what I needed to confirm victory. One more state. At 8:30 the door burst open and Dwight Chapin rushed in. “ABC just declared you the winner!” he shouted. “They’ve projected Illinois. You got it. You’ve won.”
We hurried into the sitting room where the television set was on, and we watched as ABC continued to survey the electoral vote count. After we had watched for a few moments, I put a hand on John Mitchell’s shoulder and said, “Well, John, we had better get down to Florida and get this thing planned out.” Before Mitchell could respond, tears welled up in his eyes. He said very quietly, “Mr. President, I think I’d better go up to be with Martha.” This was a doubly moving moment for us both. It was the first time that anyone addressed me by the title I had just won. It was also the first time that Mitchell had directly referred to his wife’s problems, which I knew had been an immense emotional strain on him. Martha had been in a rest home during the last weeks of the campaign, and I fully understood his desire to be with her now.
I went down the hall to the suite where Pat and the girls were waiting. They were so physically and emotionally exhausted that there wasn’t the elation one would normally expect. We all kissed and embraced. Julie went to her room and then called me in. She opened her briefcase and pulled out a piece of crewelwork she had done during campaign flights around the country. It was the Great Seal of the United States, with the inscription “To RN—JN” stitched at the bottom. “Daddy, I never had any doubt you would win,” she said as she hugged me. “I just wanted something to be ready right away to prove it.”
I sat alone with Pat, and she told me that it had been a terribly difficult night for her. The speculation by the commentators about Illinois had driven her to tears. Waves of nausea had swept over her as she feared that we would have to experience a repeat of the outrageous frauds of 1960. When I told her it was all over, she asked emotionally, “But Dick, are we sure of Illinois? Are we completely sure?” I answered, very firmly, “Absolutely. The votes are in, and there is no way that it can be turned around at this point.” Then I held her, and she burst into tears of relief and joy.
I returned to my room and took an hour’s nap. I got up at ten o’clock and shaved and dressed. There was still no word from Humphrey, and I could not do anything until he conceded. At 10:35 Haldeman came in with the news that NBC had finally projected my victory. A few minutes later CBS did the same.
At about 11:30 Hubert Humphrey called. His voice, usually so cheerful and confident, was full of fatigue and disappointment. But he was as gracious in defeat as he had been tenacious in combat. When I saw his wife Muriel and the other members of his family standing with him when he appeared on television a little while later, I felt sorrier for them than for him. After all, politics was his chosen profession. But I knew from experience how bitter and crushing defeat is for the people one loves.
As soon as Humphrey had finished his concession, Pat, Tricia, Julie, David, and I went down to the ballroom of the Waldorf-Astoria, where hundreds of supporters had remained, keeping the all-night vigil with us. The applause was thunderous. Although I had often thought about what I would say if this occasion came, what I finally said was spontaneous.
I told about receiving Humphrey’s phone call, and of how I had told him I knew what it was like to lose a close one. The audience erupted in cheers when I said: “Having lost a close one eight years ago and having won a close one this year, I can say this—winning’s a lot more fun.”
I philosophized a moment about defeat: “A great philosophy is never one without defeat. It is always one without fear. What is important is that a man or a woman engage in battle, be in the arena.”
I referred to an incident during our whistle-stop trip through Ohio:
I saw many signs in this campaign. Some of them were not friendly and some were very friendly. But the one that touched me the most was the one that I saw in Deshler, Ohio, at the end of a long day of whistle-stopping. A little town, I suppose five times the population was there in the dusk, almost impossible to see—but a teenager held up a sign, “Bring Us Together.”
And that will be the great objective of this administration at the outset, to bring the American people together.
When we arrived back at our Fifth Avenue apartment, early in the afternoon, Manolo and Fina were not there, so I suggested to Pat that we all go out for lunch. Then I realized that we could no longer just casually “go out for lunch.” She and the girls went into the kitchen and fixed bacon and eggs, and we all sat in my library for this postelection feast.
When Manolo and Fina came back a little later, they reminded me of the reason for their absence. Never imagining that the election would spill over into the following day, they had arranged to take their oaths of citizenship that afternoon. Manolo said, “Mr. President, next time we will be able to vote for you. We are now United States citizens.”
When the others had left the library, I went to the record player and selected one of my favorites, the musical score from Victory at Sea by Richard Rodgers. I put it on and turned the volume up high. My thoughts meshed with the music. The battle had been long and arduous. We had suffered reverses and won victories. The struggle had been hard fought. But now we had won the final victory. The music captured the moment for me better than anything I could say or think or write.
PRESIDENT-ELECT
On November 6 we flew aboard an Air Force jet to Key Biscayne for a postelection rest. On the way we stopped in Washington so that I could visit Eisenhower at Walter Reed Hospital. Few moments in my life have been more satisfying than entering his room as the President-elect. When he saw me, his face brightened and he said, “Congratulations, Mr. President!”
I think Eisenhower had wanted me to win the election as much as I did. He urged me to describe for him every detail of the long election night and morning, and he beamed with pleasure all the while.
Our flight south was happy. Election night had been too draining for celebration, and this was the first time we were really able to relax and savor the joy of having finally reached the top of the mountain after a long and arduous journey.
I drove from Key Biscayne to Opa-Locka Airport to meet with Humphrey and Muskie and their families, who were on their way to a vacation in the Virgin Islands. I asked Humphrey if he would consider becoming ambassador to the United Nations. He asked for time to think about the offer. At the end of the meeting, Humphrey told reporters that the election was over and the national interest must prevail over partisan interest. “He’s going to be our President,” Humphrey said, “and I’m going to be one of his fellow citizens.”
Thus, on the sunny tarmac in Florida, a familiar and moving moment in American political tradition took place: a symbolic message of non-partisan reassurance was sent to our countrymen and to a watching world.
After a five-day rest in Key Biscayne we returned to New York to begin putting together an administration. Once again we stopped in Washington, this time for luncheon at the White House with President and Mrs. Johnson.
A
fter a gracious meal Lady Bird and Pat began a room-by-room inspection of the entire mansion while Johnson had scheduled a series of briefings for me. On our way to the West Wing we stopped in his bedroom. The room was dominated by a canopied four-poster bed. There were a large closet and dressing room, in addition to a white-tiled bathroom. “I wanted you to know about this,” Johnson said as he showed me how to open a small safe concealed in the wall.
When we entered the Cabinet Room, the briefers were already waiting for us: Secretary of State Dean Rusk, Secretary of Defense Clark Clifford, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff General Earle Wheeler, Director of Central Intelligence Richard Helms, and National Security Adviser Walt Rostow.
The main subject was Vietnam. The travail of the long war was etched on the faces around me. These were all able and intelligent men. They had wanted desperately to end the war before leaving office, but they had not succeeded. They seemed very nearly worn out. They had no new approaches to recommend to me. I sensed that, despite the disappointment of defeat, they were relieved to be able to turn this morass over to someone else.
They all emphasized that the United States must see the war through to a successful conclusion—with negotiations if possible, but with continued fighting if necessary. They agreed that an American bug-out, or a negotiated settlement that could be interpreted as a defeat, would have a devastatingly detrimental effect on our allies and friends in Asia and around the world. Clark Clifford, who during my administration became one of the most outspoken critics of the war, was an ardent supporter of Johnson’s policies that afternoon.
When Johnson and I returned to the Oval Office after the briefing, he talked with a sense of urgency. “There may be times when we disagree, and, if such time comes, I will let you know privately,” he said. “But you can be sure that I won’t criticize you publicly. Eisenhower did the same for me. I know what an enormous burden you will be carrying.” He said that he wanted to do everything he could to help me succeed. “The problems at home and abroad are probably greater than any President has ever confronted since the time of Lincoln,” he said. Johnson and I had been adversaries for many years, but on that day our political and personal differences melted away. As we stood together in the Oval Office, he welcomed me into a club of very exclusive membership, and he made a promise to adhere to the cardinal rule of that membership: stand behind those who succeed you.
My first staff appointment was Rose Mary Woods as my personal secretary. Rose had been part of my political life since 1951. She combined professional skill with unexcelled personal charm. And she had total dedication. Her faith about my future had never wavered, even when my own sometimes did.
I asked Bob Haldeman to be my Chief of Staff. His role, as we envisaged it, would be administrative rather than substantive. He would examine the paperwork to ensure that opposing views were included and then bring the material to me for my decision; he would be a funnel rather than a filter. His intelligence and his capacity for detaching his personal prejudices from the examination of issues made him the ideal man for the job. He would also be the gatekeeper of the Oval Office. This would place him in the unenviable position of having to say no to a lot of people who felt they needed to see me personally and often, but I knew that his strong ego would be able to handle the jealousy and unpopularity such a role inevitably engenders.
I had strong opinions, many of them derived from my experiences and observations during the Eisenhower years, about the way a President should work. In my view, then and now, the key to a successful presidency is in the decision-making process. I felt that the matters brought before a President for decisions should be only those that cannot or should not be made at a lower level on the White House staff, or by the Cabinet member responsible for them. This was a lesson I had learned directly from Eisenhower, whose staff had too often cluttered his schedule with unimportant events and bothered him with minor problems that drained his time and energy. I knew that I could absorb far more material by reading it than by talking about it, and I have invariably found that staff members will present problems more concisely and incisively in writing than they will in meetings.
I had attended hundreds of Cabinet meetings as Vice President, and I felt that most of them were unnecessary and boring. On the few issues that cut across all departments, such as the economy, group discussions would sometimes be informative. But the day had long since passed when it was useful to take an hour and a half to have the Secretary of Defense and the Secretary of State discuss the Secretary of Transportation’s new highway proposal. Therefore I wanted to keep the Cabinet meetings in my administration to a minimum. I felt that the better each Cabinet member performed his job, the less time I should have to spend discussing it with him except for major questions of politics or policy. If we were going to run government with a clear eye for efficiency and a tough approach to wastefulness, we would have to have good managers who could immerse themselves in detail and learn the job. I was willing to trade flamboyance for competence. I had also seen the hazards of appointing Cabinet members who were too strong-willed to act as part of a team. I wanted people who would fight to the finish in private for what they thought was right but would support my decision once it was made.
I was fully conscious that I had won the presidency with a narrow plurality of the popular vote. I knew that some of my choices for Cabinet posts would have to serve, even if only symbolically, to unite the country, and “bring us together.” I wanted to have some Democrats in the Cabinet or in Cabinet-level posts, but Humphrey turned down the UN ambassadorship, and Senator Henry Jackson of Washington turned down an offer to be Secretary of Defense.
For the UN post we approached President Kennedy’s brother-in-law Sargent Shriver, whom Johnson had appointed ambassador to France. Shriver expressed great interest and sent me a message stating the conditions for his acceptance. Among other things he required a pledge that the federal poverty programs would not be cut. It was intolerable to have a prospective ambassadorial appointee making demands relating to domestic policy, so I told Bill Rogers to inform Shriver that I had decided against him and to let him know why. Rogers reported that Shriver realized that he had overstepped himself and had tried to backpedal, claiming that he had not meant his message to set forth conditions but to make suggestions. I told Rogers to say that my decision remained unchanged.
In addition to some Democrats, I had hoped to bring some black leaders into my Cabinet. I offered the UN post to Ed Brooke, but he felt he could make a greater contribution by staying in the Senate. I urged the Executive Director of the Urban League, Whitney Young, to be Secretary of Housing and Urban Development, but he declined, saying that he felt he could do more for his cause working outside the government. What he meant, of course, was that serving in a Republican Cabinet would be the political kiss of death for anyone who wanted a role of real leadership in the black community.
In this respect I was reaping the harvest of the Goldwater campaign. In 1960 I had received 32 percent of the black vote; in 1964 Goldwater received only 6 percent. I was able to increase the Republican share of the black vote to 12 percent in 1968, but the false impression that Goldwater was a racist was still too prevalent for an easy relationship to exist between the black community and a Republican administration. I regretted this fact, but I knew that there was nothing I could say that would change it. I would have to show by my actions in office that I was indeed President of all the American people.
The Cabinet gradually began to take shape. As a group, its members were less conservative than Eisenhower’s Cabinet, and in fact somewhat to the left of my own centrist positions. But each man knew his subject and each brought both competence and imagination to his job.
Bill Rogers, a strong administrator, would have the formidable job of managing the recalcitrant bureaucracy of the State Department. He was a resourceful negotiator, and as a personal friend I knew that I could trust him to work with me on the most sensitive assignments in domestic as
well as foreign policy. During his service as Attorney General in the Eisenhower years he had demonstrated that he could get along with Congress. I felt that the almost institutionalized enmity between Senator Fulbright’s Foreign Relations Committee and the White House had become damaging to the national interest, and I thought Rogers could thaw that freeze.
For the Defense Department I chose Melvin Laird of Wisconsin, a veteran of seventeen years in the House of Representatives and an expert on defense appropriations. Mel Laird was respected by his congressional colleagues as a strong man and a shrewd politician.
Even as John Mitchell was helping me develop a list of candidates for Attorney General, I decided that I would try to persuade him to accept the position himself. I wanted someone who shared my concern about permissiveness in the courts and even in many law enforcement agencies. Mitchell was tough, intelligent, and fair. Moreover, I counted him my most trusted friend and adviser and I wanted to have his advice available, not just on legal matters but on the whole range of presidential decision-making.
David Kennedy, head of the Continental Illinois National Bank and Trust Company in Chicago, brought to the Treasury Department his experience and expertise in international finance. He also met my requirement that my Secretary of the Treasury not be part of the New York–Boston banking establishment that had dominated the department for too long. Winton “Red” Blount for Postmaster General, Walter Hickel for Interior, Clifford Hardin for Agriculture, Maurice Stans for Commerce, George Shultz for Labor, Bob Finch for Health, Education, and Welfare, George Romney for Housing and Urban Development, and John Volpe for Transportation rounded out the Cabinet.
I had invited Ted Agnew and his wife, Judy, to Key Biscayne right after the election to begin making plans for his role in the administration. I told Agnew that I wanted him to assume policy-making responsibilities, and I suggested that he have an office in the West Wing of the White House, the first time in history that a Vice President would do so. I asked him to draw on his experience as a state official by taking the major responsibility for federal-state relations. I urged him to start immediately to use his role as President of the Senate to get to know Congress and its members, to work with them, and to serve as their primary liaison with the White House.
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