Six Crises

by Richard Nixon

  As the car pulled up, I opened the door for him and we shook hands for the photographers. Then we walked together through the hotel grounds to a private detached villa where I had often stayed before on my visits to the Key Biscayne and which Bob Neale had made available for our conference. I insisted that Kennedy walk on my right as his new rank now entitled him to do. As former naval officers, we joked about the protocol involved.

  When we reached the villa, we decided to sit on the porch so that we could get the benefit of the balmy air. There were some soft drinks in the refrigerator and I fixed one for each of us.

  He started the conversation by saying, “Well, it’s hard to tell who won the election at this point.” I agreed that the verdict had been close but that the result was pretty well determined, despite the fact that California would end up on my side. He asked what, for me, had been the biggest surprise of the election and I answered, “Probably Texas. I really thought we would win there.” He said that Ohio was the most surprising result as far as he was concerned. His polls had indicated that he would carry the state decisively, he had been in the state more than I had, and his crowds had been big on every occasion. He asked me how I evaluated Claude Robinson—who had done my private polling. I told him that “Robinson called the election even from the beginning, right after the national conventions, and his polls in individual states were almost miraculously accurate.”

  He went on to say that, for him, the farm problem had been the most difficult of the domestic issues. His polls indicated, as ours had, that two weeks after our speeches at the Plowing Contest the farmers were leaning my way. “It is terribly difficult to develop a farm program that is both politically appealing and economically sound,” was his comment.

  I asked him whether he was getting any rest after the hard campaign, and he replied that for the first time he was feeling real fatigue. “During the campaign, some way or other, you are sustained and inspired by the crowds. But now that the campaign is over I find that even driving from the airport to the hotel today, standing and waving to the crowd was tiring.” I told him that that had been exactly my own reaction after each of the national campaigns in which I had participated.

  Another aspect of the campaign about which we found ourselves in agreement was the great difficulty of adequately tapping and then making good use of the scholars’ groups that each of us had set up for preparing basic research and speech material. We had had the same trouble: the material prepared by Washington staffs, with whom we could not have day-to-day contact, proved less and less useful as the campaign proceeded. “In the end,” he said, “I found myself relying more and more on Sorensen, who was with me on the campaign tour and who therefore could react to and reflect up-to-the-minute tactical shifts in our basic strategy.” I told him I had run into the same difficulty, and that one of my major regrets was that I had not been able to make better use of the fine group of scholars who prepared material for my speeches and statements.

  Then we turned to more current issues. He asked for my opinion of the career people in CIA, USIA, and the State Department. I told him very candidly the conviction I had reached after my very first trip abroad in 1953, and from which I had not deviated—that our careerists in these agencies are for the most part devoted, loyal, and efficient public servants. But many times they lack imagination, or are fearful of using it. All too often they are more concerned with keeping a good job than with doing one. I made two recommendations.

  As far as CIA was concerned, I felt that its assignment was presently too broad. It should continue to have primary responsibility for gathering and evaluating intelligence, in which it was doing a good job. But I said it had been my plan, had I been elected, to set up a new and independent organization for carrying out covert para-military operations.

  I also expressed my strong opinion that under no circumstances should he follow the line of appointing only career people to top ambassadorial posts. “The foreign service,” I said, “needs a leavening of top-notch, hard-driving, non-career people who will not be completely controlled by the more rigid, even stodgy, career officers. It needs an element with no vested interests.”

  I then brought up an issue which I told him was one on which I had particularly strong views—the recognition of Red China and its admission to the UN. I did so because just the day before, Senator George Smathers had told me that Chester Bowles and some of Kennedy’s other foreign policy advisers were urging him to reappraise our position on that issue. Kennedy said that he was opposed to recognition of Red China. He indicated, however, that strong arguments had been presented to him in favor of the so-called “two Chinas policy.” Under this policy, Nationalist China would retain its seat on the Security Council, and Red China would have only a seat in the Assembly. This would mean that Red China would have only one vote out of about a hundred in the Assembly and would not be able to block UN action by veto. Kennedy said that proponents of this policy were contending that Red China could not do any damage in the UN under such circumstances.

  In expressing my strong opposition to this policy, I pointed out that the issue wasn’t whether Red China had one vote in the Assembly, or even the veto power. What was really at stake was that admitting Red China to the United Nations would be a mockery of the provision of the Charter which limits its membership to “peace-loving nations.” And what was most disturbing was that it would give respectability to the Communist regime which would immensely increase its power and prestige in Asia, and probably irreparably weaken the non-Communist governments in that area.

  Kennedy expressed some concern about the probable fate of his domestic programs, in view of the makeup of the new Congress. His observation, I thought, was acutely perceptive on this score. He said: “A Republican President can probably get more out of a Congress where his domestic policies are concerned because of his ability to get support from the natural coalition of conservative southern Democrats and most of the Republicans, who also have conservative views. On the other hand, a Democratic President, unless northern and western Democrats make up a clear majority of the House and Senate—which, of course, will not be the case in the new Congress—will find that his more liberal programs will fall short because of the strength of the conservative coalition arrayed against him.”

  Finally, Kennedy touched briefly on the subject I had expected might be a major topic of conversation during our visit. He said: “In view of the closeness of the election, there have been several suggestions that it might be well for me to appoint some Republicans to positions in the Administration. I am not thinking at this time of appointing Republicans to Cabinet posts, because I realize that there cannot be divided responsibility as far as major policy decisions are concerned. What I had in mind were appointments to posts abroad which would create an impression of unity and bipartisanship as far as our allies and potential enemies are concerned.”

  He indicated that Lodge and Dillon were among those he had considered for such posts and then added, “I wondered, in fact, if after a few months you yourself might want to undertake an assignment abroad on a temporary basis.”

  I thought I could sense that he was making this suggestion mainly because he thought it was expected of him—“the thing to do”—and not because he had become convinced in his own mind that the idea was a useful one. In any event, I replied: “I appreciate very much your thinking of me in this connection, but it seems to me the very fact that the election was so close makes it all the more imperative for me not to accept an assignment in the new Administration, even on a temporary basis, unless there should be a real national emergency. Any other course of action would be widely misinterpreted and could be a very damaging blow to the concept of a two-party system and party responsibility.” I sensed that he was considerably relieved when I answered his suggestion in this way; he readily dropped the subject.

  We had talked by this time for almost an hour and, as he got up to leave, our conversation again turned to a lighter vein. I told h
im that he wouldn’t have to bother about making news in the next few weeks because the new baby they were expecting in December would probably turn out to be a bigger story than anything that had happened in the campaign. He laughed and said that while he had a great deal of work to do in selecting his Cabinet, he did hope to get some rest before undertaking what he knew would be the very arduous duties that would be his after January 20.

  As a parting comment, I urged that he take off whatever time he felt was necessary for relaxation after he became President. I told him how enjoyable I thought he would find Camp David and recounted the fact that I had written my acceptance speech there. And I said: “In the months ahead, I will from time to time try to offer constructive criticism of policies you may be following. But of one thing I can assure you: I shall never join in any criticism of you, expressed or implied, for taking time off for relaxation. There is nothing more important than that a President be physically, mentally, and emotionally in the best possible shape to confront the immensely difficult decisions he has to make.” Kennedy seemed to be deeply appreciative of this comment and, with that, we asked Pierre Salinger and Herb Klein to come to the villa so that we could find out what arrangements had been made for his meeting with the press. I escorted him back to the hotel, to the room where the press and TV reporters were waiting, and we parted on cordial terms.

  After two more days in Florida and then three in Nassau, I returned to Washington. We had planned to make this a longer holiday. But we had found that it was too soon after the campaign to unwind.

  This had been my experience in previous campaigns. My layman’s analysis of what happens is that an individual gears up his mind, body, and emotions to run at double or triple speed during a campaign. Once the job is done, the system just won’t slow down to a walk instantly. A runner at the end of a race jogs a few more yards to taper off, and I find that the same therapy is called for after a campaign or any major crisis. That is why a vacation immediately after a battle is not nearly so enjoyable as one taken a week or a month later, when one has had time to adjust to a more normal pace of activity.

  In addition, daily calls to my Washington office made me realize that this was no time to take a vacation. In just two more months, on January 20, 1961, and for the first time in fourteen years, I would be without an office, a staff, or a job. And there was what looked like a solid year’s work still to be done in those two months.

  I had to close my office and dispose of a fourteen-year accumulation of files. There were now over 100,000 letters and wires in the office which had to be answered. Most important, I felt a personal responsibility to see that all these post-campaign details were handled properly. This meant the preparation of letters to those who had contributed to and worked in the campaign. It meant helping to find jobs for members of my own staff and of the campaign staff who, like myself, would shortly be “at liberty.”

  When I got back to Washington I was faced with the immediate necessity of making one vital decision. What should I do with regard to the mounting charges of voting frauds and the demands that I ask for a recount in Illinois and other states where the outcome had been particularly close? In order to make this decision, I spent a day with my staff analyzing the final election returns.

  The popular vote margin had now been whittled down to 113,000, out of 68,800,000 votes cast. A change of half-a-vote per precinct, nationwide, would have shifted that margin to me. One enterprising statistically minded commentator even pointed out that if the votes for Alabama’s six uncommitted electors were subtracted from Kennedy’s total, I would have led in the popular vote count.

  I had received 49.6 per cent of the total vote, while Republican candidates for Congress had received 44.8 per cent. One gratifying aspect of the returns was that we had gained a net of 22 seats in the House and two in the Senate. We had made substantial gains in the state legislatures. And my staff pointed out that I could, perhaps, take some credit for this achievement in view of this fact: of the 27 Congressional Districts that returned a newly elected Republican, I had run ahead of the successful congressional candidate in all but four.

  The electoral vote count was 303 to 219 (there were 15 votes pledged to neither Kennedy nor me). But a shift, for example, of 4000 votes each in Illinois and Missouri, and of a total of 3000 to 5000 votes in any two such states as New Mexico, Nevada, or Hawaii, would have changed the electoral result as well. Thus, a swing of between 11,000 and 13,000 votes—properly distributed in a few states—and the election results would have been reversed.

  We then turned to the fraud charges. From the evidence I examined, there was no question but that there was real substance to many of these charges. To cite just a few of them—each one sworn to and widely published:

  (1) Fannin County, Texas (which went 3 to 1 for Kennedy): there were 4895 voters on the official “poll tax list” but 6138 votes were counted.

  (2) Angelia County, Texas, 27th Precinct: 86 individuals were officially recorded as having voted—but the final tally was Kennedy, 147–Nixon, 24.

  (3) Fort Bend County, Texas, two adjoining precincts: in one, which voted Nixon over Kennedy, 458 to 350, 182 ballots were declared void at the “discretion of the judges.” But in the other, 68 to 1 for Kennedy, not a single ballot was declared void.

  (4) Chicago, 6th Ward, 38th Precinct: after 43 voters had cast ballots (by machine), the machine tally read 121 total votes. This precinct returned a final count for Kennedy, 408 to 79.

  (5) In another Chicago precinct, one that voted for Kennedy by 451 to 67, the initial registration of a husband and wife was challenged on grounds of “false address.” On Election Day, both voted. On re-canvass, it was found that there were no such persons at the address listed.

  (6) Chicago, 2nd Ward, 50th Precinct: there were only 22 voters on the official list but 77 individuals voted. At this polling place there were three judges present, all Democrats, although the law prescribes that there be five judges, at least two of whom must be Republicans.

  (7) A Chicago Tribune reporter and her husband found on Election Day that their names had been removed from the voting list despite the fact that both had legal residence in the precinct and both had voted from that address in 1956.

  But substance or not, when I looked into the legal aspects of the situation, I found that it would take at least a year and a half to get a recount in Cook County, and that there was no procedure whatever for a losing candidate to get a recount in Texas.

  Many of my close friends and associates urged, nevertheless, that I demand a recount. They felt it was important for me to continue fighting so long as there was any hope whatever of winning. They also thought that, even should the effort fail, the publicity which would result from my taking the lead in demanding a recount would carry over and be most helpful to Republican candidates in the 1962 and 1964 elections. This was a compelling appeal in view of my responsibilities as a party leader.

  But I finally made the decision against demanding a recount for what appeared to me, on balance, to be several overriding considerations. If I were to demand a recount, the organization of the new Administration and the orderly transfer of responsibility from the old to the new might be delayed for months. The situation within the entire Federal Government would be chaotic. Those in the old Administration would not know how to act—or with what clear powers and responsibilities—and those being appointed by Kennedy to positions in the new Administration would have the same difficulty making any plans.

  Then too, the bitterness that would be engendered by such a maneuver on my part would, in my opinion, have done incalculable and lasting damage throughout the country. And finally, I could think of no worse example for nations abroad, who for the first time were trying to put free electoral procedures into effect, than that of the United States wrangling over the results of our presidential election, and even suggesting that the presidency itself could be stolen by thievery at the ballot box. It is difficult enough to get defeated candidates i
n some of the newly independent countries to abide by the verdict of the electorate. If we could not continue to set a good example in this respect in the United States, I could see that there would be open-season for shooting at the validity of free elections throughout the world.

  Consequently, I made the decision not to support the contest and recount charges. I know that this greatly disappointed many of my best friends and most ardent supporters—but I could see for myself no other responsible course of action.

  With this question decided, I turned to the mountain of correspondence that had to be answered before January 20. This is perhaps the most difficult of all the tasks a defeated candidate has to face. Writing notes of thanks and appreciation to friends and supporters after a successful campaign is, of course, a thoroughly enjoyable assignment. This same assignment for a losing candidate is like burying a dead horse. But I considered it far more important in defeat than in victory. Literally thousands of people across the nation had worked as hard as I had in this campaign. Their disappointment was just as great. The least they should have, then, was some recognition from the candidate that their efforts were appreciated. In the eight weeks between November 20 and January 20, my small office staff did a herculean job. We got out more than 160,000 letters—individually typed and signed—acknowledging messages we had received and thanking key workers for what they had done in the campaign. And my staff addressed and mailed over 500,000 cards, containing a personal message from Pat and me, to our volunteer workers and contributors.

  As I worked through this mountain of mail, I found some real satisfactions in reading and answering it. And the thousands who wrote us will never know how much their letters and messages meant, not only to me but even more to Pat and the girls, the members of my staff, and others with whom I shared the sentiments expressed.