We flew back North late that night and on Wednesday evening, October 19, Kennedy and I were co-speakers at Cardinal Spellman’s annual Alfred E. Smith Memorial Dinner. Kennedy spoke first and read a speech which delighted this distinguished audience with its wit but also irritated them with an incredible display of bad judgment. At this strictly non-political, non-partisan affair, he proceeded to raise what were obviously partisan political overtones. When I then spoke extemporaneously, all I had to do to top his performance was to avoid any statement that smacked of partisanship. The effect was easily predictable. He had received polite applause. I received a prolonged ovation.
Kennedy himself referred ruefully to this incident when we met in Miami immediately after the election. He was discussing voting patterns among Catholics and he pointed out that economics rather than religion primarily determined how people voted. And then he added with a smile, “You saw how those wealthy Catholics reacted at the Al Smith Dinner in New York.”
I had reserved Thursday for preparations for the fourth and final television debate. Foreign policy was to be the sole subject for discussion, and I knew that this was a major opportunity for me to move ahead—not only in the debate series but in the campaign itself. But Kennedy, recognizing that my Miami speech had taken most of the wind out of his sails on the Cuba issue, chose this day before the fourth debate for a major counterattack of his own. Huge black headlines in all the afternoon papers put it succinctly:
KENNEDY ADVOCATES U.S. INTERVENTION IN CUBA
CALLS FOR AID TO REBEL FORCES IN CUBA
I could hardly believe my eyes. As early as September 23, Kennedy had given an exclusive statement to the Scripps-Howard papers in which he said, “The forces fighting for freedom in exile and in the mountains of Cuba should be sustained and assisted.” But he had not followed up by advocating what was, in effect, direct intervention in Cuba in violation of our treaties with other Latin American countries—until now. Now, on October 20, he said:
We must attempt to strengthen the non-Batista democratic anti-Castro forces in exile, and in Cuba itself, who offer eventual hope of overthrowing Castro. Thus far, these fighters for freedom have had virtually no support from our government.
As soon as I saw the story and read the statement I asked Fred Seaton to come to my hotel room. I knew that President Eisenhower had arranged for Kennedy to receive regular briefings by Allen Dulles, Director of the CIA, on all covert operations around the world, as well as on the latest intelligence estimates—precisely so he would be as well aware as I of what our policies and programs were. I asked Seaton to call the White House at once on the security line and find out whether or not Dulles had briefed Kennedy on the fact that for months the CIA had not only been supporting and assisting but actually training Cuban exiles for the eventual purpose of supporting an invasion of Cuba itself.*
Seaton reported back to me in half an hour. His answer: Kennedy had been briefed on this operation.
For the first and only time in the campaign, I got mad at Kennedy—personally. I understand and expect hard-hitting attacks in a campaign. But in this instance I thought that Kennedy, with full knowledge of the facts, was jeopardizing the security of a United States foreign policy operation. And my rage was greater because I could do nothing about it.
I was faced with what was probably the most difficult decision of the campaign. Kennedy had me at a terrible disadvantage. He knew, as I did, that public sentiment in the United States was overwhelmingly in favor of a tougher line against Castro. I had long favored and fought for this line within the Administration, and the covert training of Cuban exiles as well as the new overt quarantine policy were programs due, in substantial part at least, to my efforts. Kennedy was now publicly advocating what was already the policy of the American Government—covertly—and Kennedy had been so informed. But by stating such a position publicly, he obviously stood to gain the support of all those who wanted a stronger policy against Castro but who, of course, did not know of our covert programs already under way.
What could I do? One course would be simply to state that what Kennedy was advocating as a new policy was already being done, had been adopted as a policy as a result of my direct support, and that Kennedy was endangering the security of the whole operation by his public statement. But this would be, for me, an utterly irresponsible act: it would disclose a secret operation and completely destroy its effectiveness.
There was only one thing I could do. The covert operation had to be protected at all costs. I must not even suggest by implication that the United States was rendering aid to rebel forces in and out of Cuba. In fact, I must go to the other extreme: I must attack the Kennedy proposal to provide such aid as wrong and irresponsible because it would violate our treaty commitments.
This then was the background for the fourth debate. Predictably, the Cuba issue was raised almost at once—and was frequently returned to, both by the panel of questioners and by the candidates. This is what I said:
I think that Senator Kennedy’s policies and recommendations for the handling of the Castro regime are probably the most dangerously irresponsible recommendations that he’s made during the course of this campaign.
But I could not say why. Instead, I took this tack:
. . . if we were to follow that recommendation . . . we would lose all of our friends in Latin America, we would probably be condemned in the United Nations, and we would not accomplish our objective . . . It would be an open invitation for Mr. Khrushchev . . . to come into Latin America and to engage us in what would be a civil war and possibly even worse than that.
I concluded by returning to my previous recommendation for a policy of strict quarantine—on every diplomatic and economic front. Kennedy suggested, in turn, that a policy of quarantine would be too little, too late, and in every way short of the need for vigorous action.
When the debate was over, I felt that I had made as good a case as possible for my point of view, but I had no illusion about the effect on the public generally. I was in the ironic position of appearing to be “softer” on Castro than Kennedy—which was exactly the opposite of the truth, if only the whole record could be disclosed.
My attack was effective but with the wrong audience. Doug Dillon called from Washington immediately after we went off the air and said he thought it was my best effort yet and that I had handled the Cuban situation particularly well. He knew the handicaps under which I had had to operate on this issue.
Another touch of irony was that the columnists and editorial writers who leaned to Kennedy, for the one and only time in the campaign, gave me the better of the argument because they thought Kennedy had been off-base with his new “tough” line on Cuba. James Reston said, “The Vice President’s criticism of Senator Kennedy’s program for assisting the anti-Castro forces to regain power in Cuba was approved by well-informed people here tonight.” The Washington Post said: “Mr. Nixon accused Mr. Kennedy of recklessness and there is a good deal of point to this observation. Mr. Kennedy has been rather extravagant in his criticisms and rather unsatisfying as to just what to do. Mr. Nixon made a sound point about avoiding unilateral intervention.”
But I knew that editorial reaction was one thing and that of people around the country would be something else again. The polls taken after the fourth debate for the most part rated it even or gave me a slight advantage. But I was sure then, and am now, that the position I had to take on Cuba hurt rather than helped me. The average voter is not interested in the technicalities of treaty obligations. He thinks, quite properly, that Castro is a menace, and he favors the candidate who wants to do something about it—something positive and dramatic and forceful—and not the one who takes the “statesmanlike” and the “legalistic” view.
My attack registered in another quarter as well. The vehemence of the editorial criticism, particularly from columnists and papers generally friendly to him, was so great that two days after the debate Kennedy changed his position again. This was his
new line: “I have never advocated and I do not advocate intervention in Cuba in violation of our treaty obligations. We must use all available communications, and the moral power of the American Government, to let the forces of freedom in Cuba know that we are on their side.” This was, of course, a far cry from his original statement that “the forces fighting for freedom in exile and in the mountains of Cuba should be sustained and assisted.”
The New York Times noted his new statement with approval: “The use of propaganda and diplomacy is immensely different from force of arms. Mr. Kennedy was . . . well-advised to clarify his position.”
I got little comfort, politically, out of his change of position. At least 60 million people had seen and heard him on television demanding a tougher stand against Castro than the Administration and I were advocating publicly. Only a very small percentage of that number would note Kennedy’s change of position, which was reported in the press on the basis of a formal statement and not even a public speech, much less a national television debate. The general “image” to the end of the campaign was to be one of Kennedy stronger and tougher than I against Castro and Communism.
Nevertheless, despite the Cuban episode, I had come out of the fourth debate at least on even terms, in the opinion of most observers.
Looking back now on all four of them, there can be no question but that Kennedy had gained more from the debates than I. While many observers gave me the edge in the last three, he definitely had the advantage in the first—and especially with the television audience. And as I have pointed out, 20 million people saw the first debate who did not bother to tune in the others.
Charles Lucey and Jack Steele of Scripps-Howard probably summarized the total effect of the debates as objectively as anyone: “Nixon started slow and finished fast in the four debates . . . He thus wiped out Mr. Kennedy’s advantage in their first contest. But on balance, the four debates also left Mr. Kennedy with a big political plus. He slugged it out on fairly even terms and gained exposure before vast audiences.”
Looking to the future, the incumbent—or whoever represents an incumbent Administration—will generally be at a disadvantage in debate because his opponent can attack while he must defend. But joint TV appearances of candidates at the presidential level are here to stay, mainly because people want them and the candidates have a responsibility to inform the public on their views before the widest possible audience.
In future campaigns, however, I would suggest that debates would be more interesting and would serve a more useful purpose if they were limited to specific subjects with only the candidates participating, and if the time allowed for discussion were two hours rather than one so that a subject could be discussed in adequate depth. This was the pattern of the Lincoln-Douglas debates of 1858, to which the 1960 series was often and quite erroneously compared. Every possible effort should be made from the standpoint of makeup, lighting, and other technical factors, to see that the candidates are on even terms. This last objective is easier said than accomplished. As my television adviser, Ted Rogers, commented after the campaign, “It is almost impossible to get a bad picture of Kennedy because of his coloring. On the other hand, it is difficult to get a good picture of Nixon.”
I have no complaints and am doing no second-guessing on that score, incidentally, but one possible improvement would be to have debates in future campaigns conducted as was our third round, with the candidates in separate studios, allowing for the special kind of lighting that is needed and appropriate for each. In essence, what ought to be decisive in selecting a President is what is in a man’s head rather than the type of beard he may have on his face. Anything that gets in the way of communicating this mental content ought, if possible, to be eliminated.
• • •
With the debates over, we moved our campaign into high gear. Back in Washington on Sunday—another one of those days labeled “rest”—we prepared for our week of whistle-stopping. But that afternoon, I called an emergency strategy conference. In New York I had seen evidences of the use by Kennedy and his associates of a time-worn but highly effective campaign technique—the victory blitz. Kennedy and all of his associates were now talking in terms not just of victory but of a landslide. Lou Harris, his private pollster, was predicting a four-to-five million vote popular margin. Too many Republican leaders and campaign workers, on the other hand, were talking—probably with complete honesty but still with political naïveté—of a “close election.” Some evidence of defeatism (with suitable quotes) was creeping into the “dope stories” being written by leading columnists and editorialists. I asked Len Hall, Bob Finch, and our National Committee Headquarters under Thruston Morton’s direction, to get the word out to the field to counteract Kennedy’s tactics with an affirmative optimism campaign of our own. In fact, we were not just talking. Claude Robinson’s polls still showed the race even, with no evidence whatever of Kennedy pulling away in key areas. Gallup and Roper were making the same forecasts: 50–50, take your pick. I recalled to my associates what Jim Farley had been saying at the Al Smith Dinner—that Kennedy was going to carry forty states. Farley as an experienced pro couldn’t possibly have reached so ridiculous a conclusion; but he knew that in a close election, those who tend always to “play the winner” might determine the outcome, and he was doing his bit to see to it that everybody he could reach would think that Kennedy was a “sure thing.”
Despite our best efforts, however, we were unable to make much impression on the press and radio commentators who were now spearheading the blitz. In the two weeks before Election Day, the newspapers and airwaves were full of predictions of everything from a close Kennedy victory to a Kennedy landslide. NBC’s “Election Countdown,” on October 20, showed Kennedy having increased his lead during the three preceding weeks. “Three weeks ago,” said emcee Leon Pearson, “Kennedy was leading in states representing 180 [electoral votes] and now the figure is 326, according to our boys. Three weeks ago Nixon was leading in states representing 162, and now it is 105.” Again on October 27, Elmer Peterson, reporting on trends in the Western states, said, “The tendency has changed rather dramatically to Kennedy.” On Election Eve pollster Sam Lubell said: “Kennedy will win in an uneven sweep across the country.”
In the press, Rowland Evans’ October 31 report in the New York Herald Tribune said, “Kennedy’s private polls show an increasingly upward trend. Ohio, tipping toward the Senator at better than 52 to 48. California—moving his way.” The New York Times for October 24: “The reports based on a study of polls and interviews with voters in 50 states suggest that the Kennedy tide, if unchecked, would be enough to elect him.” On the same day, Joe Alsop reported “a surge toward the Democrats that may well be strong enough to produce a fairly dramatic vote on Election Day.” David Lawrence, commenting on a Gallup forecast of a possible 50 per cent shift in the Catholic vote from Eisenhower in ’56 to Kennedy in ’60, wrote on November 1 in his widely syndicated column: “This is such a sensational shift that, if corroborated by election returns, it could mean not only a landslide for Kennedy but possibly one of the largest popular vote totals ever given to a presidential candidate in American history.” James Reston didn’t go quite that far—but in his November 2 column in the Times he entered the “sinking ship” note: “Eisenhower is engaged in a rescue operation but it is very late in the game to reverse the forces now moving with Senator Kennedy.”
The three mass-circulation news weeklies also followed the same general line. U.S. News & World Report predicted “Kennedy-Johnson, with electoral votes to spare.” Newsweek reported that “forty of the fifty Washington correspondents and political writers predict that Senator Kennedy would win, most by substantial margins. Only ten thought that Nixon would win, most by narrow margins.” Newsweek also predicted that Kennedy would carry 21 states with 278 electoral votes as against 159 for Nixon, with 100 electoral votes undecided—still enough to win—and Ernest K. Lindley said flatly: “Kennedy will be elected by a substantial m
argin.” Time saw a two-to-one Kennedy margin in electoral votes and said “the likeliest forecasts seem to run from a close Nixon victory to a Kennedy electoral landslide.” I would say, incidentally, that at least fifteen million Americans read one of these three magazines every week—and usually swear by it as a political authority.
All these reports were brought to my attention. I did my best to counteract them, and I urged my campaign associates to do likewise, but we learned that political reporters often predict with their hearts rather than with their heads. Back in 1952, I recalled, the Washington correspondents covering the Eisenhower-Stevenson campaign had confidently predicted a Stevenson victory (4 out of 5 of them also declared their personal preference for Stevenson). I jokingly told my staff that Sunday afternoon that I knew how Harry Truman must have felt in 1948.
But, like Truman, I was not going to let the Kennedy bandwagon discourage me. I was tremendously buoyed up and encouraged by the enthusiasm of our campaign crowds. As our campaign train moved through Pennsylvania and Ohio during the week of October 23, I stepped up the attack on Kennedy’s rash campaign statements and his inexperience:
You have the choice between two men—one who has had the opportunity of dealing with the problems of keeping the peace, and another man who, on occasion after occasion, has indicated that when the chips are down he would have made the mistake which could have led, in my opinion, either to war or to surrender of territory. Let me give you three examples.
In 1955 President Eisenhower had to meet the threat of Communism in the Formosa Straits. He asked for the right to defend that area. Senator Kennedy opposed this policy, he opposed it again in 1958, and he opposed it in our second and third debates. He was wrong. The President was right.
We find that he disagreed with the President in his conduct at the Paris Conference. Senator Kennedy said the President could have apologized to Khrushchev, he could have expressed regrets. The President was right; again Senator Kennedy was wrong.
Six Crises Page 47