Six Crises

by Richard Nixon

  “People in political life have to live in a fish bowl,” I replied.

  “But aren’t we entitled to have at least some privacy?”

  I explained that under normal circumstances she would be right. But this situation was far from normal. I had no choice but to use every possible weapon to assure the success of the broadcast.

  And so it went—thinking, dozing, scribbling, until the plane arrived at 2:45 P.M. on Monday at Los Angeles International Airport. As we stepped out on the ramp, we were heartened by a banner-waving, shouting crowd of several hundred Young Republicans who were there to greet us. “Don’t Give Up,” “Keep Fighting,” “We’re for you all the way,” their placards read. No party bigwigs were there. Since there was no platform, I made an impromptu speech from the hood of a car and promised them, “We will not let you down.”

  • • •

  An hour later we were in our suite at the Ambassador Hotel and I went to work in earnest preparing my notes for the broadcast. I had only twenty-four hours left in which to finish preparations for the most important speech I had ever made up to that time.

  Some of my staff were worried for fear that I was working too hard and not getting enough sleep. They urged me to take Monday night off so that I would be fresh when I started to work again on the speech Tuesday morning.

  I realize that in such situations, no two individuals react the same. But it has been my experience that once the final period of intense preparation for battle begins, it is not wise to break it. It always takes me a certain period of time to “warm up” to the point where my mind is working clearly and quickly in tackling a tough problem. This is especially true where creative activity like writing a speech is concerned. The natural tendency is to procrastinate, because the body and the mind rebel at being driven at a faster pace than usual over any long period of time. When one is working at this pace, it is always a temptation to take the pressure off—to leave the task for a while because the body needs rest. A man tries to rationalize such a course on the ground that “relaxation and change” will improve his efficiency when he gets back to the task.

  This is true, of course, where the period of intense concentration and preparation stretches into months rather than days and, in the case of some individuals, it may be true at all times. But it has been my experience that, more often than not, “taking a break” is actually an escape from the tough, grinding discipline that is absolutely necessary for superior performance. Many times I have found that my best ideas have come when I thought I could not work for another minute and when I literally had to drive myself to finish the task before a deadline. Sleepless nights, to the extent the body can take them, can stimulate creative mental activity. For me, it is often harder to be away from the job than to be working at it.

  Sometimes a brief change of pace—a brisk walk, a breath of fresh air—can recharge a mind that has become sluggish from overwork. I think perhaps the best analogy is that it may be necessary and helpful to take the machine out of gear once in a while, but it is never wise to turn the engine off and let the motor get completely cold.

  This, incidentally, is one of the reasons I have never become a regular “twice a week” golfer. When I am in the middle of a period of intense study or work, leaving the problem for the five or six hours required for a pleasant day on the golf course simply means that I have to spend most of the next day getting myself charged up again—to the point of efficiency I had reached before leaving the task in the first place.

  For most of Monday afternoon and all day Tuesday, I outlined the speech and gathered facts for it. The first section, explaining the fund, presented no difficulty. I already had it pretty well in mind, having covered the subject in my whistle-stops on my way to Portland. The second section, in which I was planning to disclose my financial status, could not be completed until all the facts were gathered together by my office staff in Washington and telephoned to Rose Mary Woods so that she could type up the information and have it available for me the day of the broadcast.

  The problem of launching a counterattack solved itself that Monday when the Chicago Tribune reported a Stevenson fund which had been solicited from businessmen doing business with the state while he was Governor of Illinois. The national press gave the Stevenson fund relatively little play compared to the Nixon fund. But now we knew why Stevenson had been so reluctant to join in the attack on my fund. As Murray Chotiner put it: “He was hiding something—otherwise he would have been at your throat like the rest of them.”

  There were several differences between the two funds. Stevenson’s had been secret while mine was not. The money had been paid directly to him and he had disbursed it, while mine had been disbursed by a trustee. There had been no accounting to the contributors to his fund, whereas mine had been fully accounted. The money in his fund had gone for the personal use of members of his Administration in Illinois, while the money in my fund had been used solely for mailing, printing, travel, and other political expenses and not for my personal use.

  I decided to resist the temptation to attack Stevenson in my broadcast the way his associates had attacked me. But I thought I had the right to insist that there not be a double standard of conduct—one for a Republican candidate, and another for a Democratic candidate. Stevenson’s fund might be absolutely proper and above suspicion. But he had an obligation to give an accounting of the fund and to indicate what favors, if any, had been accorded those who had contributed to it.

  But the counterattack, I knew, must not stop there. What time I had left at the end of the broadcast I intended to use to set forth effectively and concisely the major reasons I thought Eisenhower, rather than Stevenson, should be elected President.

  Late that night I took a long walk with Rogers up and down the side streets near the hotel to get some fresh air and exercise and to test out the first outline of my speech on him. He encouraged me to go forward with the plan I had adopted. I came back to the hotel and worked until after midnight and then, after four hours’ sleep, got up early in the morning to continue my preparations.

  Normally, I would have allotted a week’s time for reflection and writing on a speech of far less importance. I was hoping that I would be able to get my thoughts well enough in mind that I would not have to use notes at all. This had been my usual technique over the years. My practice was to make a first general outline and throw it away; then make a second, tighter-reasoned outline without referring to the first one; and finally to make a third even shorter one which I would then read over several times. I then would be able to deliver the speech without any notes at all. Particularly on television, I always tried to avoid reading a speech. I never memorized a speech or practiced it before delivery. Only when I could deliver a speech without memorizing it, and if possible without notes, did it have the spark of spontaneity so essential for a television audience.

  This does not mean that the speech would not be well prepared. More preparation and concentration is required to deliver a speech in this manner than in writing one out and reading it to the audience. But I had an acute problem in preparing this particular speech—there just were not enough hours in the day for me to get the ideas firmly enough in my mind so that I could deliver it entirely without notes.

  From all reports, I knew that I would be speaking to the largest television and radio audience of the entire campaign. The suspense engendered by conflicting press reports over whether I would resign or be kept on the ticket had centered the attention of the entire nation on this one telecast.

  One of my major problems was that a number of the “top name” reporters from the Eisenhower train had come to Los Angeles to cover the speech. “They are here so as to have front-row seats for the hanging,” Bassett quipped. Broadcast time was 6:30 P.M., Los Angeles, or 9:30 P.M. on the East Coast. This coincided with the deadlines of most of the morning newspapers. Bassett reported the intense pressures on him as press secretary to give out something in advance. Most of my staff urged tha
t I do so in order to assure better press coverage. But on this issue, I overruled them all. I knew that any advance notice of what I was going to say would cut down the size of my television audience. This time I was determined to tell my story directly to the people rather than to funnel it to them through a press account. Consequently, Bassett made arrangements for the reporters to see my speech at television monitors in a separate room, with no advance text and with no notice of what I would say.

  All day Tuesday I continued to work on my outline. By four o’clock, I had completed the second draft and had begun work on the third and final one. The loose ends had for the most part been filled in. Dr. Paul Smith, my history professor at Whittier College, had confirmed the accuracy of the Lincoln quote.

  I had all the facts of my financial history—going back to 1945 when I came out of the Navy, with a net worth of $10,000 in government bonds, and became a candidate for Congress.

  To make the case as airtight as possible, Price Waterhouse & Co. had audited my accounts in Washington, and Gibson, Dunn and Crutcher, one of the most respected of Los Angeles’ law firms, had prepared a legal opinion stating that there was no law violation involved either in the collection of the fund or in its disbursement. Paul Hoffman, incidentally, had suggested both these reports because of his belief that they would have great weight, not only with the television audience but also with Eisenhower’s associates from the world of finance and business on whose judgment the General placed such great reliance.

  As I kept driving myself harder and harder with broadcast time approaching, my concern was not with my ability to speak at least fairly well. I had enough experience in speaking on television to be confident that with any reasonable amount of preparation I would not fall on my face. But I kept reminding myself, “It isn’t enough for this just to be good. It must be the best you have ever done. It must be even better than you think you can possibly do. Because only a smashing success will win.”

  By this time, I was no longer thinking of the effect this broadcast might have on my own career. The attacks from my former Republican friends and from press and radio commentators had taken their toll. Personally, I now wanted to get the whole business over with as soon as possible, one way or the other.

  This attitude served me well. Selflessness is by far the most helpful attribute an individual can have at such a time. A man is at his best in a crisis when he is thinking not of himself but of the problem at hand. Then he forgets, or at least is not bothered by, how he “feels” physically.

  In such periods of intense preparation for battle, most individuals experience all the physical symptoms of tension—they become edgy and short-tempered, some can’t eat, others can’t sleep. I had experienced all these symptoms in the days since our train left Pomona. I had had a similar experience during the Hiss case. But what I had learned was that feeling this way before a battle was not something to worry about—on the contrary, failing to feel this way would mean that I was not adequately keyed up, mentally and emotionally, for the conflict ahead. It is only when the individual worries about how he feels that such physical factors become signs of self-destruction rather than of creativity. Two of the most important lessons I have learned from going through the fire of decision is that one must know himself, be able to recognize his physical reactions under stress for what they are, and that he must never worry about the necessary and even healthy symptoms incident to creative activity.

  With personal considerations subordinated, I could concentrate on the issue which was far more important than my own political career. That was the election of Eisenhower. To me, Stevenson just wasn’t in the same league and I had to do everything I could to see that Eisenhower was elected President. Eisenhower could not match Stevenson for elegance of language or eloquence of delivery. But Eisenhower was a man of decision. As General Walter Bedell Smith had pointed out in his book, Eisenhower’s Six Great Decisions, he never did anything rashly. Sometimes he took more time to decide an issue than some of his eager lieutenants thought necessary, but invariably, when the line was drawn and the lonely responsibility for making the right decision rested solely with him, he came up with the right answer. The idea of putting Stevenson in the ring with a man like Stalin simply petrified me. On the other hand, I had faith that Eisenhower not only could hold his own but could gain the initiative for the cause of peace and freedom.

  At four-thirty, with only a little over an hour left before I was scheduled to leave for the television studio, I asked Rogers and Chotiner to come in to discuss the one important section of the speech on which I had not made a decision. I had adopted Dewey’s suggestion of asking the television audience to express their opinions by wire or letter. But to whom? To Eisenhower? To me? Or to the Republican National Committee?

  We were still discussing this point when a call came through to my suite from “Mr. Chapman” in New York. That was the code name Tom Dewey used when telephoning so as to confuse anyone who might be listening in. I knew that Dewey would not have called at this hour unless a matter of the highest urgency was involved. I left Rogers and Chotiner to continue their discussion and went into the next room and picked up the telephone.

  From the tone of his voice, I could sense immediately that Dewey did not have his heart in what he had to tell me. “There has just been a meeting of all of Eisenhower’s top advisers,” he said. “They have asked me to tell you that it is their opinion that at the conclusion of the broadcast tonight you should submit your resignation to Eisenhower. As you know, I have not shared this point of view, but it is my responsibility to pass this recommendation on to you.”

  I was so shocked by what he said that I could not say a word for several seconds.

  Dewey jiggled the receiver and said, “Hello, can you hear me?”

  Finally I collected my thoughts and said, “What does Eisenhower want me to do?”

  Dewey hedged at this point. He said he did not want to give the impression that he had spoken directly to Eisenhower or that this decision had been approved by Eisenhower. But he went on to say he was sure that, in view of the close relationship between those with whom he had talked and Eisenhower, they would not have asked him to call unless this represented Eisenhower’s view as well as their own.

  “It’s kind of late for them to pass on this kind of recommendation to me now,” I told him. I added that I had already prepared my remarks and it would be most difficult for me to change them.

  He replied that he thought I should go ahead and explain the fund as I had originally planned. And then I should say that, although I felt I had done no wrong, I did not want my presence on the ticket to be in any way a liability to the Eisenhower Crusade and, therefore, was submitting my resignation to him and insisting that he accept it.

  As he continued to talk along these lines, I looked at my watch and realized that I had only a half-hour left to get cleaned up and to read over my notes before I had to leave for the studio.

  “What shall I tell them you are going to do?” he asked.

  My nerves were frayed to a fine edge by this time and I exploded, “Just tell them that I haven’t the slightest idea as to what I am going to do and if they want to find out they’d better listen to the broadcast. And tell them I know something about politics too!” I slammed the receiver down and went back into the next room to continue my conversation with Rogers and Chotiner.

  They were as shocked as I was when I told them of the call. “You certainly aren’t going to do what he suggests, are you?” demanded Chotiner.

  “I just don’t know,” I replied. “You two had better get out of here and give me a chance to think.” For the next half-hour, I moved around almost in a daze. I shaved, took a shower, put on the suit I was to wear for the telecast, and then went back to my notes. I had only had a chance to begin a third outline. I read the second one over again and decided to use it. I didn’t have time to make another draft. Dewey’s telephone call had not only shaken my equilibrium but had robbed me of
time enough to get the whole outline in my head. I decided to speak from notes rather than from memory.

  With only a few minutes remaining, I made the decision as to how I should conclude the broadcast. The more I thought of it, the more I became convinced that the wires should go to the Republican National Committee.

  There were several reasons for my decision. Under the bylaws of the party, the National Committee selects the candidate in the event of resignation or death between nomination and election. If the broadcast were a success and the wires were to come to me, our opponents would inevitably charge that it was all a staged frame-up. If the wires were sent to Eisenhower and he decided to ask for my resignation, those who supported me might never forgive him, and his action could lead to loss of the election. If, on the other hand, the broadcast were not successful and a majority of listeners indicated their disapproval to the National Committee, it would be the politicians rather than Eisenhower who would take the responsibility for removing me from the ticket.

  Then there was a fourth possibility. The broadcast might after all be a success and, if so, Eisenhower would need and welcome the backing of the National Committee for retaining me on the ticket. This would be much better than if he, personally, were to assume full responsibility for that decision.

  I was just starting to write out what I intended to say with regard to the National Committee when Murray Chotiner stuck his head in the door. I looked up, irritated that even he would interrupt me at such a time.

  Bluntly, he plunged right in: “Dick,” he said, “a good campaign manager must never be seen or heard. But if you’re kicked off this ticket, I’m going to break that rule. I’m going to call the biggest damn press conference that’s ever been held. I’m going to have television present. And I’m going to tell everybody who called who, what was said—names and everything.”

  “Would you really do that?” I asked.

  “Sure I’d do it,” he answered. “Hell, we’d be through with politics anyway. It wouldn’t make any difference then.”