Six Crises

by Richard Nixon

  Discarding his speech on inflation, he told the rally extemporaneously, “I happen to be one of those people who, when I get into a fight, would rather have a courageous and honest man by my side than a whole boxcar of pussyfooters. I have seen brave men in tough situations. I have never seen anyone come through in better fashion than Senator Nixon did tonight.”

  The crowd roared and then Eisenhower went on to say what his advisers before my telecast had recommended he do. A thirty-minute speech was too short a presentation to be complete, and so he was sending me a telegram to meet with him the next morning in Wheeling, West Virginia, so that he could talk to me and reach his personal decision, which he would then pass on to the National Committee.

  But I knew nothing of this on Tuesday night in Los Angeles. His telegram got lost in the avalanche of wires which reached the hotel. My information came from the wire service bulletin which stressed only the “hot” news, and all the bulletin said was that Eisenhower had declared he could not make a personal decision until he saw me face-to-face—that a half-hour presentation was not enough.

  For the first time in almost a week of tremendous tension, I really blew my stack. “What more can he possibly want from me?” I asked. Not yet having a full report of his Cleveland speech, my reaction was that he was being completely unreasonable. I had been prepared for a verdict. I was expecting a decisive answer. I didn’t believe I could take any more of the suspense and tension of the past week.

  I announced to everyone in the room that if the broadcast had not satisfied the General, there was nothing more I could or would do. I would simply resign, rather than go through the stress of explaining the whole thing again. To demonstrate that I meant exactly what I said, I called in Rose Woods and dictated a telegram of resignation to the Republican National Chairman. She, of course, did not send it, and Chotiner took the copy and tore it up. The next day when I learned the whole story—and the accurate one—of Eisenhower’s reaction, it was quite clear to me that I should have waited for all the facts before going off half-cocked.

  This was another demonstration of the lesson I had first learned in the Hiss case. The point of greatest danger for an individual confronted with a crisis is not during the period of preparation for battle, nor fighting the battle itself, but in the period immediately after the battle is over. Then, completely exhausted and drained emotionally, he must watch his decisions most carefully. Then there is an increased possibility of error because he may lack the necessary cushion of emotional and mental reserve which is essential for good judgment.

  In any event, that night I decided that I had to go on with my campaign schedule until Eisenhower made a decision. Chotiner, particularly, insisted that I not allow myself to be put in the position of going to Eisenhower like a little boy to be taken to the woodshed, properly punished, and then restored to a place of dignity. We agreed that Eisenhower would have to make a decision before I went to see him. Consequently, we made plans to fly that night to Missoula, Montana, to pick up our campaign schedule at that point.

  Finally, the first telephone call came through from the Eisenhower train. As irony would have it, the caller was Art Summerfield, the National Chairman, who had been my strongest supporter all along. Unfortunately, he had to take the brunt of my reaction. His conversation with Murray Chotiner went something like this:

  “Well, Murray, how are things out there?”

  “Not so good.”

  “What in hell do you mean, not so good?”

  “Dick just wrote out a telegram of resignation to the General.”

  “What! My God, Murray, you tore it up, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, I tore it up, but I’m not so sure how long it’s going to stay torn.”

  “Well, Dick is flying to Wheeling to see the General, isn’t he?”

  “No, we’re flying tonight to Missoula.”

  “What? My God, Murray, you’ve got to persuade him to come to Wheeling.”

  “Arthur, we trust you. If you can give us your personal assurance direct from the General that Dick will stay on the ticket with the General’s blessing, I think I can persuade him. I know I can’t otherwise.”

  • • •

  Had I not been through the stress of the broadcast and the long hard days before it, I am sure I would have reacted differently to the news story of Eisenhower’s reaction.

  Even before we took off for Missoula, I was able to appraise the situation more calmly and to appreciate the pressures under which Eisenhower had been operating. I think he had personal confidence in my integrity, but most of his knowledge of me was secondhand, not based on personal association. And, new as he was to politics, the overwhelmingly hostile reaction of the press must have raised some very grave questions in his mind. The further fact that the majority of his friends from the business, professional, and military worlds were urging him to put me off the ticket could not have had anything but a considerable effect on his thinking.

  In addition, Eisenhower had developed a real crusader’s zeal with regard to the necessity to clean up the mess in Washington, and to tolerate no corruption, either legal or ethical. He had been berating Truman for blindly condoning the actions of his friends and associates before checking the facts. Eisenhower felt strongly that he must not be guilty of the same error.

  Still, at a time like this, I needed the calm, objective advice of an outsider to help me keep some sense of perspective. Normally the members of my campaign team would have provided such advice. But they, like myself, were too close to the situation and were deeply hurt by the first reports from Cleveland. It was Bert Andrews who provided the leaven needed at this critical juncture. He reached me by phone from Cleveland just before we left for the airport to take off for Missoula. He asked me what I intended to do. I told him bluntly that under no circumstances would I meet Eisenhower under the conditions he apparently had laid down.

  Andrews then talked to me like a Dutch uncle. “You don’t have to be concerned about what will happen when you meet Eisenhower,” he said. “The broadcast decided that. Eisenhower knows it as well as anyone else. But you must remember who he is. He is the General who led the Allied armies to victory in Europe. He is the immensely popular candidate who is going to win this election. He is going to be President, and he is the boss of this outfit. He will make this decision, and he will make the right decision. But he has the right to make it in his own way, and you must come to Wheeling to meet with him and give him the opportunity to do exactly that.”

  Andrews’ words had the ring of truth and of good common sense. After a few more telephone calls, arrangements were in order for us to fly to Wheeling after our stop in Missoula.

  When we arrived in Missoula, we received scores of messages that had been forwarded to us from Los Angeles. And among them was the full text of the wire from Eisenhower in Cleveland. It read:

  Your presentation was magnificent. While technically no decision rests with me, you and I know the realities of the situation require a pronouncement which the public considers decisive.

  My personal decision is going to be based on personal conclusions. I would most appreciate it if you can fly to see me at once. Tomorrow I will be at Wheeling, W. Va. Whatever personal affection and admiration I had for you—and they are very great—are undiminished.

  The staff of the Republican National Committee in Washington wired that 107 of its 138 members had been reached up to that time and they had all voted enthusiastically to keep me on the ticket. Even Harold Stassen had wired: “Congratulations on a superb presentation, Dick.”

  The flight from Missoula to Wheeling to see Eisenhower thus turned into a sort of victory ride. The various members of my staff and the reporters who had covered the fund story from the beginning were in rollicking spirits, singing songs with familiar tunes but with improvised and somewhat pungent words.

  I fell asleep on the last leg of the flight. When the plane touched down, I had to rush to straighten my tie and put on my jacket. I was
helping Pat put on her coat when Chotiner hurried up and exclaimed, “The General is coming up the steps.” I was taken completely by surprise and hardly had time to turn around when I saw him walking toward me up the aisle of the plane, smiling, with his hand outstretched.

  “General, you didn’t need to come out to the airport,” was all I could think to say.

  “Why not?” he said with a broad grin, “you’re my boy.”

  We walked to the head of the ramp, posed for photographers, and then rode together to the Wheeling stadium. I was still so surprised by his unexpected gesture of coming to meet me that I found myself riding on his right as the car pulled away from the airport. I apologized for what I, with my Navy training, knew was an inexcusable breach of political as well as military protocol, and tried to change places with him. He put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Forget it. No one will know the difference with all the excitement out there.”

  In the stadium, Eisenhower spoke first to the cheering crowd. He opened his remarks by reading a wire from the Chairman of the National Committee, Arthur Summerfield, indicating that the members of the Committee unanimously favored my retention on the ticket. Then, unexpectedly, he read another wire—one which my mother, completely without my knowledge, had sent him from Washington where she was staying with our two girls. It read:

  Dear General: I am trusting that the absolute truth may come out concerning this attack on Richard, and when it does I am sure you will be guided right in your decision, to place implicit faith in his integrity and honesty. Best wishes from one who has known Richard longer than anyone else. His Mother.2

  Then Eisenhower stated his own conclusion that I had completely vindicated my position and that he was proud to have me as his running mate.

  After he concluded his talk, I told the crowd: “This is probably the greatest moment in my life.” I praised Eisenhower for the way he had made the decision with regard to the charges against me. I contrasted his attitude of carefully investigating the facts before acting with Truman’s policy of defending his cronies accused of wrongdoing without regard to the facts. We were back on the political campaign trail.

  Finally, the rally was over and hundreds swarmed to the stage to shake hands with Pat and me and to congratulate us. I spoke to each of them almost mechanically until Bill Knowland came up to me, grasped my hand, and said, “That was a great speech, Dick.” It was not so much what he said or the sincerity with which he said it, but at that moment I reached the point where I had exhausted all of my emotional reserve. Tears rushed into my eyes. Knowland put his arm around me and I hid my face on his shoulder. It was that scene that a news photographer caught in a picture which was forever to characterize the fund speech and my reaction to it.

  At last the week-long crisis of the Nixon fund was over. But Pat and I were to live with its consequences for the rest of our lives.

  • • •

  In one sense it could be said that I was victorious in meeting the crisis of the fund. I emerged with far greater political and personal stature than I had before the New York Post launched its attack on September 18. For the balance of the 1952 campaign, the crowds that came out to see and hear me were far larger than any vice presidential candidate had drawn before. In several cities I even outdrew Stevenson. More important, the crowds were full of fight and confidence. There was that unmistakable sense of victory in the air which a candidate can feel.

  At times the enthusiasm was so great that even the most seasoned political leaders presiding over our meetings were carried away by it. Two days after my meeting with Eisenhower in Wheeling, a stamping, cheering crowd of over five thousand welcomed us in the jam-packed Rainbow Ballroom in Salt Lake City. Ivy Baker Priest, who later was to be appointed Treasurer of the United States, gave Pat a glowing introduction. When she came to the key line, she said: “And now it is my great honor and privilege to present to you the next wife of the Vice President of the United States.” Senator Arthur Watkins introduced me as “Nick Dixon.”

  Going through the fire of crisis together had welded the members of my staff and several of the reporters who had covered the fund episode into a high-spirited, united team. Four days after we left Wheeling, Jim Bassett came up to me on a flight from Nashville to Washington and told me that the traveling press had a “profound proposal” to present to me. They suggested a new social organization—completely non-political: all of the press corps and my staff who had been with us on the long journey from Pomona to Portland and back to Los Angeles should be initiated as charter members of the Order of the Hound’s Tooth. We formed the organization on the spot, fourteen thousand feet above sea level. Checkers was our mascot, Pat was president, and I was vice president. After the campaign, I sent out membership cards along with a watch charm to which was attached a sliver of ivory, as a fitting symbol of the immaculate hound’s tooth.

  Checkers emerged from the campaign the best-known dog in the nation since Fala. By Election Day we had acquired for her from dog-lovers around the country a vast collection of dog collars, hand-woven dog blankets, a dog kennel, and quantities of dog food—enough to last a year.

  But there was a negative reaction to the fund broadcast, as well. As I had learned in the Hiss case, in politics there is never anything akin to “total victory.”

  The speech itself was smeared and labeled “a carefully rehearsed soap opera.” Ted Rogers’ statement of the truth—that there had been no rehearsal at all, and that I had not arrived at the studio until twenty-five minutes before broadcast time—received virtually no play in the press.

  It was labeled as the “Checkers speech,” as though the mention of my dog was the only thing that saved my career. Many of the critics glided over the fact that the fund was thoroughly explained, my personal finances laid bare, and an admittedly emotional but honest appeal made for public support.

  But the other and more important consequence of the fund episode was that, like almost every smear, when enough mud is thrown at a man in public life, some of it sticks—justified or not.

  For example, when I met General Eisenhower at Wheeling, he asked me in the privacy of his campaign train quarters about rumors that had been relayed to him by his staff—rumors that I had spent $10,000 with an interior decorator in furnishing our home in Washington. There was not a shred of truth to the charge and a very routine inquiry could have knocked it down before it was passed on to him.

  I told him that I had put absolutely every fact about my personal finances into the broadcast. “This is just like a war, General,” I said. “Our opponents are losing. They mounted a massive attack against me and have taken a bad beating. It will take them a little time to regroup, but when they start fighting back, they will be desperate and they will throw everything at us, including the kitchen sink. There will be other charges, but none of them will stand up. What we must avoid at all costs is to allow any of their attacks to get off the ground. The minute they start one of these rumors, we have to knock it down just as quickly as we can.”

  A week after the broadcast, the St. Louis Post-Dispatch printed a front-page story to the effect that I had been with Dana Smith, the trustee of the fund, in a gambling casino in Havana the previous April. The true story—that I was five thousand miles away from Havana at the time, making a series of speeches in Hawaii—was buried a few days later on the back pages of the papers that carried the original charge.

  A few weeks later, a syndicated Washington gossip columnist printed a story which is an excellent example of how a half-truth can be distorted into a smear. He charged that I had “borrowed” money in 1945 from an engineering firm with which I was negotiating a settlement in terminating a war contract, so that I could fly back to California to run for Congress. The truth was that an officer of the company offered to pick up my ticket for me at the airline office in downtown Baltimore with his credit card so that I would not have to leave the negotiations which were in progress at the time. When he received the bill for the ticket, I p
aid him that same day and I had my cancelled check for $128.05 to prove it. But again, the same papers that considered the charge “news” showed no interest in the true story.

  Five days before the election, the same writer sent out a syndicated column charging that Pat and I had made a sworn statement in California that our joint property did not exceed $10,000 in order to claim a State veterans’ tax deduction of $50. This was so demonstrably false that I demanded a retraction and threatened to sue. Two weeks after the election, the retraction was printed—at the bottom of a column. It had been another Richard and Patricia Nixon, complete strangers to us, who had made the application. And again, even the most routine inquiry by a reporter interested in the truth would have established this fact before the charge was printed.

  The smears did not stop on Election Day. Throughout my two terms as Vice President, I had to answer charges, some of which were printed, and many of which were not, reflecting on my personal integrity and honesty. In the 1956 campaign, for example, rumors spread like wildfire through the press corps that I had another “fund.” This one supposedly amounted to $52,000 paid by the oil industry for my “services” and was fully “documented.” I demanded that the rumor be investigated by a sub-committee of the Senate Elections Committee, which at that time was under the control of the Democrats. The sub-committee found that the rumor was based on a letter reputedly from a vice president of a large oil company to his public relations director, mentioning the $52,000 fund. The letter, when traced, turned out to be a complete forgery which had been instigated by some of my unscrupulous opponents on the far left.

  Even when I left Washington in 1961 and returned to California, the attacks were to continue. Nasty rumors were circulated, asking with raised eyebrows how I could get the money to buy a new home in Beverly Hills. The implication was that I must have stashed away some money when I was Vice President and now was able to put out the full purchase price of the house. The rumormongers ignore the fact that when I applied the eighty-hour week, to which I had become accustomed during my fourteen years in Washington, to private pursuits, my income from law practice, from a syndicated newspaper column, from magazine articles, and from this book I am writing, in just one year will be greater than my entire government salary for the fourteen years I was in Washington. Under these circumstances, it should be obvious that my credit would be rather good and that I could easily afford the down payment on any house I might want to buy. But again, the truth is not nearly as newsworthy as the charge.