Grand Expectations: The United States, 1945-1974 (36 page)

Rhetoric such as this tapped into the persisting undercurrent of regional, class, and ethnic resentments that raged beneath the surface of American society in the postwar era. Like McCarthy and his allies, the
Chicago Tribune
regularly assailed liberal eastern intellectuals, on one occasion carrying the headline
HARVARD TELLS INDIANA HOW TO VOTE
. Its columns regularly associated virile masculinity with anti-Communism and implied that Stevenson was something less than a "real man." The
New York Daily News
, a bitterly reactionary paper, referred to Adlai as "Adelaide" and said that he "trilled" his speeches in a "fruity" voice, using "teacup words" that were reminiscent of a "genteel spinster who can never forget that she got an A in elocution at Miss Smith's finishing school."
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Eisenhower was uncomfortable around rabid Red-baiting such as this and avoided it himself. Most of his speeches were bland and unmemorable. When Senator Jenner, who had called Marshall "a front man for traitors," embraced him on a platform in Indianapolis, Eisenhower winced and hurried away. He told an aide that he "felt dirty from the touch of the man." But the "soft on Communism" issue dominated GOP strategy in 1952, and Eisenhower did nothing to curb the partisan zeal of other Republicans, including his running mate. Traveling into McCarthyite Wisconsin, Ike went so far as to delete from a prepared speech a paragraph that paid tribute to Marshall, who had mentored his military career. In so doing he kowtowed to McCarthy, who pumped his hand in Milwaukee when Ike gave the now sanitized speech. Reporters who had seen the original version assailed Ike for his cravenness. Eisenhower himself felt ashamed. But he did not apologize for what he had done, and Red Scare rhetoric swelled throughout the campaign.
³⁸

Nothing fed anti-Communist feelings more than the still stalemated struggle in Korea. GOP leaders coined a symbol that stuck: K
₁
C
₂
—for "Korea, Communism, Corruption." Eisenhower himself made much of such feelings. Conceding that Stevenson could be witty, he told people that he did not find much to smile about. "Is it amusing," he asked, "that we have stumbled into a war in Korea; that we have already lost in casualties 117,000 of our Americans killed and wounded; is it amusing that the war seems to be no nearer to a real solution than ever; that we have no real plan for stopping it? Is it funny when evidence was discovered that there are Communists in government and we get the cold comfort of the reply, 'red herring'?"
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With polls showing Eisenhower well ahead, it seemed that nothing could derail his campaign. In mid-September, however, occurred the one great controversy of the contest: revelations in the press that Nixon had a private political "fund" donated by wealthy California supporters. This need not have been a big issue, for the fund was small (around $16,000) and legal. Many politicians, including Stevenson, had similar sources of cash. But accusatory editorials in the press unnerved Ike, who was said to have remarked at the time, "Of what use is it for us to carry on this crusade against this business of what is going on in Washington if we ourselves are not clean as a hound's tooth?"
⁴⁰
Eisenhower then dawdled, refusing to offer a public defense of his running mate. Nixon grew increasingly furious as the controversy threatened to destroy his political career. Phoning Ike, he went so far as to assert, "There comes a time in matters like this when you've either got to shit or get off the the pot." Eisenhower professed to be appalled by such language and kept Nixon hanging. Nixon later complained that Eisenhower's attitude made him feel like "the little boy caught with jam on his face."
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With the problem dumped in his lap Nixon went on national television to defend himself. He spoke for thirty minutes, during which time he described his family's far from sizeable financial assets in detail. His wife, Pat, was deeply upset and later complained, "Why do we have to tell people how little we have and how much we owe?" But Nixon marched to his own drummer. Pat, he said, did not have a mink coat (unlike the wife of a Democratic influence-peddler who was part of the "mess in Washington"), but "she does have a perfectly respectable Republican cloth coat." Nixon then told his huge audience about "the little cocker spaniel dog . . . black and white spotted" that had been sent to them in Washington "all the way from Texas" at the start of the campaign. "Our little girl—Tricia, the six-year-old—named it Checkers. And you know the kids love that dog and I just want to say this right now, that regardless of what they say about it, we're going to keep it."
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The Checkers speech, as it became known, was maudlin and tasteless, and many contemporaries said so. But it was also a brave performance by a determined and aggressive man who had been abandoned by many of his so-called friends. Popular reaction to his effort was overwhelmingly favorable. Many people broke into tears. Eisenhower, who had nervously watched the speech, soon recognized the favorable reaction and concluded that Nixon had saved himself. He summoned Nixon from the West to Wheeling, West Virginia, and told him, "You're my boy." This comment neatly captured the condescension that characterized Ike's feelings about his much younger running mate. Nixon was proud of what he had done, convincing himself that he was a master of television and could best anyone who tried to confront him on the screen. But he also felt bitter. He never forgot how badly he had been treated and correctly called the controversy, which could have killed his political ambitions, the "most searing personal crisis of my life."
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Nixon's remarkable performance had another effect: it demonstrated more than any event to that time the potential power of television in politics. This should have been apparent by then to political professionals, for TV was booming like almost nothing else in the nation. In 1951, 9 million people had watched the signing of a peace treaty with Japan. The number of households with TV sets had soared from around 172,000 in the 1948 campaign to 15.3 million in 1952. This was about one-third of American households. But the politicians had been slow to appreciate the potential for change. Stevenson was contemptuous of television, maintaining that he never watched it. He used it during the campaign, but only as a medium to display his oratorical skills. Although these were impressive, viewers did not get excited watching him reading speeches from a studio, usually from 10:30 to 11:00
P.M.
at night. Worse, Stevenson went on live, frequently speaking for more than the thirty minutes he had paid for. On several occasions, including election night, he was cut off before he finished.
⁴⁴

Eisenhower, too, started by displaying little interest in television, regarding it as a commercial medium that was for the most part beneath his dignity. He was wise enough, moreover, not to give speeches on TV: he knew that Stevenson was much the abler public speaker. But aides pressed him, especially after the Checkers speech, to let himself be televised in action. Increasingly he relented, and many of his rallies and campaign appearances were carefully scripted to convey the "I Like Ike" fervor of crowds who cheered him on. His TV advisers would cut to brief portions of his speech, but then focus again on the enthusiasm of his admirers. These were effective productions that promised to make television a force in politics for the first time.

Eisenhower also agreed to spend one evening in New York City taping "spots," as they became known. This was an amazing event. Surrounded by advertising men, Eisenhower sat in the studio and was taped giving short "answers" to questions. These "answers," mostly from phrases he had already used during the campaign, were hand-lettered on cue cards that were held before him. The lettering was big and bold so that Ike, who was near-sighted, would not have to be televised wearing glasses. After Eisenhower left the studio, having taped forty spots of twenty seconds each, the advertising experts went to Radio City Music Hall to get "everyday Americans" and bring them to the studio. There they were taped asking the questions to which Eisenhower had already given the answers. Technicians then spliced the answers to the questions.
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Eisenhower was at first edgy and unhappy during the process. Although he gradually warmed to the project—even writing an "answer" himself—he grumbled at one point, "To think that an old soldier should come to this." A few television executives, too, were uneasy about using them. Complicated issues, they thought, could not be boiled down to twenty seconds or a minute. And Democrats were outraged when the spots began appearing. George Ball, a young Stevenson speechwriter, accused the Republicans of selling out to the "high-powered hucksters of Madison Avenue." Stevenson added, "I think the American people will be shocked by such contempt for their intelligence; this isn't Ivory Soap versus Palmolive."
Reporters
executive editor explained why his magazine was so critical of the spots: they were "selling the President like toothpaste."
⁴⁶

Criticisms like these in no way deterred those engaged in the operation. The GOP invested an estimated $1.5 million in the project, and the TV networks happily took the money. In all, twenty-eight different spots appeared on the air, many of them more than once, usually during intervals between highly popular programs. They conveyed no new information about the issues and often oversimplified them. "What about the high cost of living?" one spot asked. "My wife, Mamie," Ike answered, "worries about the same thing. I tell her it's our job to change that on November fourth." But virtually all analysts were convinced that the spots, which brought Eisenhower's luminous smile into millions of American homes, were effective. Use of spots—and of television coverage in general—henceforth became an indispensable tool in American politics.
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It would be too much to say, as some have, that television efforts such as Eisenhower's revolutionized campaigns and elections in the United States. Seriously contested issues, especially the Cold War, the state of the economy, and (increasingly) race relations, continued to be presented in speeches, news columns, and editorials. But the importance of TV in politics nonetheless became enormous. Other things being equal, television coverage could give a big edge to telegenic campaigners. Candidates without bundles of money—television was very expensive—operated at great disadvantage. The need for such money made politicians ever more careful about offending wealthy contributors and important special interests. Even more than in the past, money talked loudly in national politics.

The rise of television also weakened the political parties, both locally and on the national level. These were challenged by highly personal organizations of individual candidates, many of whom virtually ignored party lines and relied instead on TV to reach people directly. Voters tended increasingly to support individual candidates instead of party tickets. Others, abandoning party identifications, called themselves independents. These trends were by no means new—partisanship had been declining in the United States since the 1890s—nor were they the result of TV alone: rapidly rising educational levels, substantial geographical mobility, and advancing prosperity—which altered the ways that voters perceived socio-economic issues—were among the many forces that underlay the growing unpredictability and independence of the electorate. Nor was the rise of independent voting necessarily a bad thing: the highly partisan political universe of earlier years had drawbacks of its own. Still, the decomposition of parties—and with it the stability and reliability of governing coalitions—became pronounced as early as the 1960s, and television had much to do with it.
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By mid-October, with Nixon cleared of misconduct and the GOP TV campaign in high gear, the election was hardly in doubt. But candidates can never be too sure, and Eisenhower took one more arrow from his quiver. In Detroit on October 24 he returned to the problem of Korea, where a new Communist offensive was underway. Eisenhower proclaimed that the first task of a new administration would be "to bring the Korean war to an early and honorable end." That task, he added, "requires a personal trip to Korea. . . . I shall make that trip. . . . I shall go to Korea."
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His pronouncement was a shot in the dark, for he did not know what he would do once he got there. Would he escalate the war or use nuclear weapons? But everyone seemed to agree that his proclamation was a master stroke. Eisenhower, after all, was a war hero and a five-star general. If anyone could end the awful stalemate, it was Ike.

The results of the election surprised few analysts. Stevenson took nine southern and border states and, thanks in part to much increased turnout, got 3.14 million more votes in a losing cause than Truman had received while winning in 1948. But the election was a striking personal triumph for Eisenhower, who attracted a huge following. He captured 33.9 million votes (55.4 percent of the total) to 27.3 million for Stevenson. His total vote was nearly 12 million more than Dewey had received in 1948. Sweeping the electoral college, 442 to 89, he even cracked the so-called Solid South by winning Florida, Tennessee, Texas, and Virginia. Although lesser Republicans did not do so well—widespread split-ticket voting was a sign of the decomposition of parties—they gained majorities in both houses of Congress, 48 to 47 in the Senate and 221 to 211 in the House. Republicans were in control of the White House and Capitol Hill for the first time since the election of 1930. The once dominant Democratic electoral coalition, struggling to survive amid the return of good times in the postwar era, had obviously taken a battering.