by Ted Sorensen
Johnson encountered some opposition and considerable reluctance from those in his own camp who disliked Kennedy, the platform and the idea of second place. “Some changed their minds and some didn’t,” he said later. Some of his friends angrily refused to speak to him for weeks. But Speaker Rayburn, after talking with both Johnson and Kennedy, expressed a willingness to back LBJ’s own decision to accept this new challenge and experience. So, ultimately, did Johnson’s wife. “I felt,” he said later, “that it offered opportunities that I had really never had before in either…the House or the Senate…. I had no right to say that I would refuse to serve in any capacity.”
Kennedy, meanwhile, was encountering disappointment among the backers of Symington, Freeman and Henry “Scoop” Jackson—who were the most likely alternatives considered for the post—but found general support in the party, with one major exception. Several labor and liberal delegates were outraged at what seemed to be a concession to the defeated “bosses” and Southerners. They threatened a convention floor fight. Leaders of New York’s Liberal Party threatened to nominate a ticket of their own. Bob Kennedy had the unpleasant task (not, as some have speculated, on his own initiative but at his brother’s request) of conveying their views to Johnson, and mentioned the National Committee chairmanship as an alternative. Johnson’s supporters—many of whom were not enthusiastic about second spot anyway—were angry at what they thought was a change in signals by Bob; but the Majority Leader said he would risk a floor fight if Senator Kennedy would.
By this time both principals had made up their minds, and both stuck by their initial view. The announcement was made, the emotional outbursts of many delegates were weathered or moderated, all possibilities of a floor revolt were quelled, and no alternative candidate was available. By a voice vote the rules were suspended, a roll call was avoided and Johnson’s nomination was voted by acclamation.
Another precedent had been broken: it was the first ticket in history composed of two incumbent Senators.
There remained only the matter of the acceptance address. The nominee and I had received many suggested drafts but had hammered out the final text in the course of the convention week. Our final session was held at the private residence borrowed by his father, on the evening of the Vice Presidential race. Some elements of the speech were clearly needed:
Acceptance of the nomination and platform.
An olive branch of praise to Johnson, Symington, Stevenson and Truman in order to rebuild party unity (“I feel a lot safer now that they are on my side again”).
An effort to allay anti-Catholic suspicions (“The Democratic Party has…placed its confidence in the American people and in their ability to render a free, fair judgment—and in my ability to render a free, fair judgment”).
An attack on Nixon, which some advised against, and which later proved to be the one part of the speech most vulnerable to criticism, but which Kennedy felt, considering the size of his television audience, should be included (“His speeches are generalities from Poor Richard’s Almanac”).2
A nonpartisan appeal to independents (“We are not here to curse the darkness but to light a candle…. My call is to the young in heart, regardless of age, to the stout in spirit, regardless of party”).
An account of the mounting problems this nation faced at home and abroad (“Seven lean years of drought and famine have withered the field of ideas…. More energy is released by the awakening of these new nations than by the fission of the atom itself”).
But the highlight of the speech was a summation of the Kennedy philosophy: the New Frontier. Many of the ideas and much of the language in this speech came from the drafts of other writers as well as earlier Kennedy speeches, including the televised reply to Truman. But the basic concept of the New Frontier—and the term itself—were new to this speech. I know of no outsider who suggested that expression, although the theme of the Frontier was contained in more than one draft. Kennedy generally shrank from slogans, and would use this one sparingly, but he liked the idea of a successor to the New Deal and Fair Deal. The New Frontier, he said,
sums up not what I intend to offer the American people but what I intend to ask of them. It appeals to their pride, not to their pocketbook; it holds out the promise of more sacrifice instead of more security.
But I tell you the New Frontier is here whether we seek it or not…uncharted areas of science and space, unsolved problems of peace and war, unconquered pockets of ignorance and prejudice, unanswered questions of poverty and surplus….
The American people stood, he said, “at a turning point in history,” facing a choice
not merely between two men or two parties, but between the public interest and private comfort, between national greatness and national decline, between the fresh air of progress and the stale, dank atmosphere of “normalcy.”
Speaking outdoors in a coliseum too vast for the occasion, speaking as the sun went down on what was once the last frontier, the Democratic nominee for President delivered his address with an air of conviction and determination:
All mankind waits upon our decision. A whole world looks to see what we will do. We cannot fail their trust. We cannot fail to try…. Give me your help and your hand and your voice and your vote.
Earlier, as he had finished dressing for the occasion, his long-time aide Ted Reardon had asked him to autograph for Reardon’s son a press release copy of the speech, and the Senator had written: “To Timmy, with best personal regards from your old friend, John Kennedy.” Beneath his signature, he scratched initials which Ted thought were “N.D.” for Notre Dame as a potential future school for Timmy. Was that it? he asked. “Hell, no,” said John Kennedy. “That’s N.P.—Next President. Let’s go.”
1 It should be noted that powerful Kennedy supporters are referred to in this book as “political leaders,” those in the opposition camp are called “bosses.” By convention time, recognizing their inability to defeat him, most of the “bosses” had become “political leaders.”
2 Unfortunately my lack of English history showed in a reference, while listing unfit heirs to power, to Richard Cromwell as the nephew of Oliver. Some Massachusetts elders, moreover, were astonished that Kennedy would mention Cromwell at all.
CHAPTER VII
THE CAMPAIGN
THE 1960 PRESIDENTIAL ELECTION CAMPAIGN OPENED On a low note for John Kennedy. The Democrats were divided and fatigued. His nomination had angered the party’s already shaky Southern wing. His selection of Johnson had angered the already suspicious liberals. Skepticism marked the attitude of farmers toward Kennedy, labor toward Johnson and Negroes toward both candidates. Stevenson die-hards complained about Kennedy’s ambition, wealth, father, brother and refusal to commit himself on Stevenson for Secretary of State. Republican nominee Nixon, on the other hand, supported by Rockefeller and Goldwater and certain he had a helpful running mate in Lodge, had effectively rallied his followers with a brilliant acceptance address.
The polls showed Nixon was far better known than Kennedy on the basis of his national office and four nationwide campaigns; that Nixon was considered the more experienced; and that Kennedy was known primarily as a wealthy, inexperienced, youthful Catholic. Immediately after the two conventions the polls showed Nixon ahead by a comfortable margin, 50-44, with 6 percent undecided. The supposed “normal” Democratic majority comprised a large majority in the South—now uncertain over religion and civil rights—and a seesaw split in the rest of the country where the election would be decided. Eisenhower had given the Democratic strongholds of the North the habit of voting Republican at the Presidential level. Many of the key states, such as New York, New Jersey, Michigan and Pennsylvania, had not been carried by the Democrats in a national election since Roosevelt in 1944. Democrats, moreover, were more inclined to be ticket-splitters, party defectors and nonvoters than were Republicans. Their party covered a far wider spectrum of divergent viewpoints that enabled individual Congressmen to win in individual districts bu
t posed serious problems for a national ticket.
The Republicans, by way of contrast, were sitting pretty. They controlled the Executive Branch, with all its powers of patronage, publicity and public fund allocations. They had the larger share of the big financial contributors. Eisenhower’s popularity and moderation had blurred the traditional Democratic issues, his prestige was a formidable Nixon asset, and his eight years had been marked by apparent peace and prosperity. In fact, observers could recall no instance of the electorate’s switching parties in power under such generally contented conditions. By any historical test, even apart from his unprecedented religion and youth, Kennedy seemed likely to be defeated. His stern warnings about the superficial nature of this peace and prosperity seemed to some only to guarantee his rejection by a complacent electorate, much as Kennedy had seen Churchill rejected in the thirties.
Nixon, on the other hand, was more popular than his party and more able and likable than his enemies portrayed him. He had a quick and cool mind, a fluent tongue, vast campaign experience and intimate knowledge of television. To lead his united and well-financed party, he had an efficient organization and personal staff and could draw on the entire Executive Branch for research and ideas. His running mate, Lodge, was far better known nationally than Johnson and may well have been better known at that stage than Kennedy.
Although Kennedy in time won more editorial support than any Democratic Presidential nominee since Franklin Roosevelt, the nation’s newspaper editors and publishers (in sharp contrast with the reporters covering the campaign) were overwhelmingly pro-Republican and pro-Nixon. Of the less than one out of six who supported Kennedy editorially, many had originally preferred Stevenson or some other Democrat and gave only lukewarm or belated endorsement to the ticket. The most noted example was the New York Times. But Kennedy, mindful of the fact that the influential Times had not endorsed a Democrat for President since 1944, was pleased that its editors had on balance favored him. (“I’m one of those,” he later said, referring to a well-known Times advertisement, “who can truthfully say, ‘I got my job through the New York Times’“)
The late summer and early fall of 1960 were also marked by Soviet Chairman Khrushchev’s visit to the United Nations, highlighting Nixon’s claim of superior experience in “standing up to Khrushchev,” reminding voters of the Vice President’s much-publicized argument with the Soviet Chairman at an American kitchen exhibition in Moscow, and occupying the front pages at a time when the lesser-known Kennedy needed the nation’s attention. Demonstrating its toughness, the Republican administration announced that Khrushchev—and Castro, too, when he also arrived at the UN—would be confined to Manhattan (“But they have not confined them,” said Kennedy on the campaign circuit, “in Latin America or around the world”).
A mixed liability and asset was the determined and well-financed effort of Teamster boss Jimmy Hoffa to rally his large and powerful union against the Kennedys. He was joined in that effort by Longshoreman boss Harry Bridges and a few other leaders. (Brooklyn gangster Joey Gallo, asking Bob Kennedy if his influence could be helpful, was told, “Just tell everybody you’re voting for Nixon.”)
But the most frustrating handicap to the Democrats that summer had been self-imposed. Johnson and Rayburn had decided, prior to the Democratic Convention, to recess the Congress and reconvene it after the convention.
Whatever their motive, the reconvened session only embittered Kennedy. It embarrassed both him and Johnson because of their inability to push legislation past the Republican-Southern Democratic coalition, particularly in the House Rules Committee. The results offered fresh evidence of Democratic disarray in the South, where Nixon’s initial forays were well received, and where he sent Senator Barry Gold-water to campaign extensively. The opposition of powerful Southern Democratic Senators and Congressmen to their party’s legislative program, aided by the threat of Eisenhower’s veto, rendered the Democratic majorities in both houses uncomfortably impotent, and encouraged the Republicans to disrupt Democratic plans still further through political and parliamentary maneuvers on civil rights. The increasingly vituperative and unproductive session also tied Kennedy and Johnson, far more than Nixon, down in Washington—where there were no votes to be won—until the Labor Day weekend.
ORGANIZING THE CAMPAIGN
Kennedy was not, however, wholly idle in the interval between the convention and Labor Day. After two days of rest with his wife and daughter at Hyannis Port (he had promised her a week), he plunged into a series of planning meetings with his brother and staff, strategy meetings with Johnson, unity meetings with disappointed Democrats, policy meetings with Stevenson and Bowles and quick trips about the country. He visited Eleanor Roosevelt in Hyde Park and Harry Truman in Independence, soliciting and securing their support. Feuding factions were coordinated, if not united, from New York to Florida to California. Despite the summer lull, a large, comprehensive nationwide registration drive was launched, emphasizing personal contact with millions of unregistered voters and securing in many states more new Democratic voters than Kennedy’s ultimate margin. “Each of you go out and register one person between now and November,” said the Senator, “and you are in effect voting twice.”
From his summer cottage, now shielded from a stream of sightseers by a new fence as well as police, came a series of manifestoes identifying Nixon with Benson, Eisenhower’s unpopular Secretary of Agriculture. Nationality spokesmen, minority spokesmen, farm spokesmen, labor leaders and liberal leaders all paraded to Hyannis Port as the old Democratic coalition was rebuilt, the new convention wounds were patched up and the Kennedy campaign organization was made ready.
After three Congressional, two Senatorial and seven Presidential primary campaigns, all successful, John Kennedy knew how to campaign. He knew how best to use all the modern tools—air travel, television, advance men, a brain trust and polls (but not, as reported, computers). He knew how to create crowds and crowd appeal in a highly personal campaign that nevertheless focused on issues. The basic approach employed in Massachusetts had been applied and improved in the primaries, and it was further broadened for the election campaign.
One of the candidate’s first, wisest and boldest moves was to refuse to be his own campaign manager. He recognized that all his own time and energy should be devoted to public and television appearances, mostly away from Washington, and that the administrative work of scheduling, fund-raising and organizing the fifty states (which he had supervised prior to the convention) should be directed by others. “All I have to do is show up,” he said in admiring the handiwork of his team.
He insisted that the two-headed monstrosity of 1956, when Stevenson and the National Chairman had directed separate operations, be avoided by integrating his team with the Democratic National Committee. The entire operation was headed by the tireless Bob Kennedy as campaign manager, assisted by O’Brien as chief organizer, O’Donnell as chief schedule coordinator, John Bailey as chief contact with the professionals, Stephen Smith as chief administrator and moneyman, Pierre Salinger as chief press aide (with the help of Donald Wilson and Andrew Hatcher) and other preconvention regulars. Old campaign aides from Massachusetts were recruited, including Richard Maguire, who handled scheduling when O’Donnell left with the candidate, and Richard Donahue, who assisted O’Brien on organization.
Byron “Whizzer” White headed Citizens for Kennedy, a network of local volunteer organizations whose efforts were combined with the regular party organization in some communities, “coordinated” by an out-of-state Kennedy man in others, and resisted or ignored by local party leaders in still others. New Jersey Congressman Frank Thompson led the successful registration drive. Senator Henry “Scoop” Jackson of Washington was interim chairman of the Democratic National Committee. Luther Hodges served as chairman of the business and professional men’s group. Teddy Kennedy was in charge of operations in the Western states. Sargent Shriver and Harris Wofford worked with Negro leaders—including, after some hig
h-level negotiations, the flamboyant but effective Adam Clayton Powell—attempting to improve a normally Democratic vote among Negroes that was clearly in doubt in 1960 owing to their cynicism on civil rights in general, Kennedy’s voting record and running mate in particular, and the influence of prejudiced Protestant Negro preachers. A host of lawyers, legislative aides, Kennedy family friends and old National Committee hands volunteered or were drafted to serve as “advance men” for every Kennedy appearance and as “coordinators” for every state.
Advance men were the unsung heroes of the campaign. Arriving several days before the candidate, they worked with local party leaders to plan the schedule, determine the motorcade route, decide on platform sites and seating, turn out the crowds, work with the police and local press, and distribute flags, press kits and buttons. They arranged for most of the “spontaneous” hand-lettered signs, usually hoisted by the children of local party workers and volunteers, which impressed the press with such messages as “Baptists for Kennedy” and “Kennedy Sí, Nixon No!” (Some, of course—such as “Let’s put a new John in the White House”—actually were spontaneous.)
Upon the Caroline’s arrival in each major city, the advance man came on board first to brief the Senator on names, faces and local color, and to distribute copies of a detailed schedule which included all room assignments, telephone numbers, press accommodations and baggage arrangements. If our hotel rooms were inadequate or our baggage late, we could blame the advance men. If there were enough cars and buses at the airport for the group of fifty aides and reporters with the candidate, and a band at the rally and a table for the press, we could thank the advance men. Some, such as Vince Gaughan of New York and Jerry Bruno of Wisconsin, often mastered a million details with remarkable precision. Others constantly encountered and contributed obstacles and delays. “I wonder,” said the candidate to Mike DiSalle, as they waited patiently for an advance man outside of Youngstown, Ohio, to straighten out and start the order of procession, “how Napoleon ever got his army to Austerlitz.” “It was easy,” replied the Governor. “He didn’t have any advance men.”