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<text> <title> (56 Elect) Democrats:How Adlai Won </title> <history> TIME--The Weekly Newsmagazine--1956 Election </history> <article> <source>Time Magazine</source> <hdr> August 27, 1956 DEMOCRATS How Adlai Won </hdr> <body> The Road to November The U.S.'s two great political parties this week took off along the twisting, bumpy road that leads to November. Each claimed right-of-way in the middle, but anybody who thought that the new era of "moderation" meant a calm, courteous campaign had not been listening to the cries that came out of Chicago. There, the Democratic platform accused the Republicans of "betrayal" on natural-resources policy, called the farm program "a direct vote-buying scheme," attacked a foreign policy of "bluster and bluff." Democratic orators scored Republican "racketeers," branded Vice President Richard Nixon as a "vice-hatchet man" and a "pet midget." Driving the 1956 party models were Adlai Ewing Stevenson, 56, of Libertyville, Ill. and Dwight David Eisenhower, 65, of Gettysburg, Pa. Sitting in the front with Stevenson was Estes Kefauver, 53, of Chattanooga, Tenn., the Democrats' strongest possible (farm-vote) vice-presidential nominee. The man most favored to sit beside Ike was Richard Milhous Nixon, 43, of Whittier, Calif. But while both vehicles were styled to the fashionable 1956 moderation lines, they were powered by opposing convictions: the Democratic Party by a belief in more government to direct the people's affairs; the Republican Party by a belief that government should help the people manage their own affairs. Common Denominator. Stevenson emerged from convention fights within his own party as a tough-fibered winner who has bested Harry Truman and encumbered himself with no special alliances. His acceptance speech laid out his route and his intended destination. Starting from the New and Fair Deals, Stevenson looked for something beyond: an America where poverty is "abolished" and abundance is "used to enrich the lives of every family." The common denominator of most Stevenson plans: government action. In 1952 Dwight Eisenhower proved himself a rough, aggressive campaigner, and he has promised that he will be the same this time. Moreover, Ike has his own route and destination: by helping Republicans of like mind win offices in the Congress and the statehouses, he hopes to rebuild the G.O.P. into a party that will long remain dedicated to his ideas of partnership between the people and the Federal Government. General Good Will. This week the big wind from Chicago had eased to a zephyr while the Democrats rested up. But more than 15,000 Republican convention goers were trooping into San Francisco and the cavernous Cow Palace. All seemed serene on the Republican scene: the only faint hope of convention excitement lay in the windy efforts of Harold Stassen to dump Nixon just before the convention opened. Harold got a hand up from California's Nixon-hating Governor Goodwin J. ("Goodie") Knight, who fought a delaying action against a Nixon endorsement in the California caucus--but did little to ruffle the general serenity. But the fact that Republicans were getting along with each other did not mean that they intended to brake on the curves. Washington's Governor Arthur Langlie, the convention keynoter, spurned Democratic Keynoter Frank Clement's highballing forensics. But Langlie set a hard-hitting style for the Republican campaign when he charged the Democrats with "a naked admission that they are now addicted to the principle that loyalty to a political party comes ahead of loyalty to our beloved country." The Rebuttal Begins Flying to San Francisco to deliver the Republican Convention's keynote speech this week, Washington's Governor Arthur B. Langlie confided to a friend that he had watched the pyrotechnics of Democratic Keynoter Frank Clement, found them distasteful. Said Langlie: "I'll be passing up the Chicago brand of prejudicial fire and brimstone in favor of what I've tried to make a higher tone." To his wife Evelyn he fretted: "I want to be sure that nobody can say this speech has any unjustified name-calling." When balding, blue-eyed Arthur Langlie took the Cow Palace platform, there was virtually no name-calling at all. But in Langlie's G.O.P. eyes, a sharp indictment of the Democratic Party was justified: "They left us a staggering national debt, a greatly reduced value of the dollar, a colossal bureaucracy and vastly increased taxes...The Democratic party was responsible for the security of our country and of the free world precisely when Communist world aggression achieved its maximum success, when the nations of Eastern Europe were lost to freedom and when, on another continent, China became part of the Communist empire." Langlie, no flaming orator, had an oratorical flourish or two to rival a Clement. The Democrats, he said, have a heritage of "colossal mismanagement and corruption...For 20 years [they] subsisted only from one crisis to another--some real, some imaginary, some fabricated." But Art Langlie had come to San Francisco not so much for the fun of a counterattack as for a positive statement of achievements. Quickly he ticked off major areas in which the Administration had kept its promises: Foreign Policy. "We have done more than just talk about peace: we have worked for it. We have seen Communist aggression come to a complete halt. We have seen a halt in the world's drift toward nuclear war...We have seen dangers in their most awful forms lessen rather than grow...challenges met instead of evaded. We have seen, in great part as a result of our own conduct, the leaders of world Communism forced to renounce some of their old ways." Agriculture. "When this Republican administration took office the bottom was falling out [of farm prices]. Under the new Republican laws in the first six months of 1956 average farm prices steadied and then went up. They are still going up...The farmer today can once again look forward to raising his crops for his markets instead of Government warehouses." Employment. "Our policies have sustained over 66 million peacetime jobs for American men and women at the highest wages in our history." Civil Rights. "Through every agency in Government, except Congress, we have witnessed the greatest gains for civil rights over a period of 80 years. We have not given mere lip service. We have acted." The Economy. "We have checked the runaway inflation we inherited from the previous Administration. We have reduced taxes by seven and a half billion dollars a year." How had this come about? Langlie's answer was smooth, but there was a barb on every point: because "as President...we have a man who gives dignity to that high office...who knows how to respect those who disagree with him...how to enlist the help of some of the most able people in America to support his leadership and give freely of their talents to serve their country...how to win the respect of the people in other lands...and how to exemplify the qualities of character, leadership and citizenship that really make America strong. And above all else how to provide moral and spiritual leadership." Marshaling Republicans to continue to crusade, Langlie harked back to Democrat Clement, who had asked, "mournfully, again and again, how long, O America, will we keep our Republican Administration in office at Washington?" The G.O.P. spokesman ventured a prediction: "The American people will...throw the Republicans out of office the day when, if ever, they copy the Democrats and put the party first and America second." How Adlai Won Scurrying from caucus room to caucus room in search of his mislaid presidential nomination, Candidate Adlai Stevenson allowed himself to be poked, prodded, pushed and paraded until he felt, as he put it, like a prize Angus on display. Occasionally he asked one of his aides: "How am I doing?" The reply was invariably: "Fine, Governor." That was all Stevenson knew or needed to know while managers worked desperately behind the scenes last week to put out the flames that Harry Truman had torched by spurning Stevenson and declaring for Averell Harriman. The big question as Chicago's big week began: Could Adlai ride out the Truman crisis and protect the huge lead he had collected? The answers lay in the abacus mind and the horny fists of his campaign manager, Pennsylvania's Jim Finnegan. Come for the Ride. Finnegan's own Pennsylvania was the first hot spot. The day after Truman's flare-up, President David McDonald of the United Steelworkers went on network television and loudly announced that he too was for Harriman. McDonald's steelworkers are mighty in Pennsylvania, and some Philadelphia delegates were raring to go with him. The Pennsylvania delegation caucused, and Dave McDonald made a fiery pitch for Harriman support. But Finnegan's protege, Governor George Leader, laid out the political facts of life. Snapped he: if any delegate hoped to do any future business with Harrisburg, he had blamed well better stick with Stevenson. Result: a flame out for Harriman's chances in Pennsylvania. Stevenson "fire spotters" (including Adlai Stevenson III) fanned out among the other combustible delegations. Arizona started to burn; it was cooled after a perilously close call. Kansas seemed ready to go; the fire fighters won again. Even at midweek the faction-torn Maryland delegation began thinking about switching to Missouri's Senator Stuart Symington. Jim Finnegan got the word, made an emergency call. "Boys," said Finnegan, by that time on his third pack of Old Golds, "that's all right if it's the best you can do. You can come along later--just for the ride. But just think how good you'll look back home if you can help swing this thing by leading the way, not following." The Maryland boys caught on fast. A Hand from Eleanor. Adlai Stevenson meanwhile played the part of the candidate well. As he went from meeting to meeting, his pitch was low-keyed without personal resentment against Harry Truman. "My fight," he said, "is against the Republicans, not against any Democrat." Old friends rallied around him. Plowing through the crushing crowds with Stevenson was an especially devoted and notedly effective helper: Eleanor Roosevelt, 71, wearing an absurd little hat and carrying herself with gentle dignity. She spoke repeatedly of her concern for a better world, a better America, and a Democratic Party in which the old. e.g., herself and Harry Truman, must make way for the young, i.e., Adlai Stevenson. "My husband," said she meaningfully, "was a man of moderation." (When Eleanor went home, Adlai escorted her to the plane. Asked by photographers to kiss her cheek, he replied angrily, "Nonsense.") Gradually Finnegan & Co. discovered that there was very little left of the Truman-Harriman campaign but glowing embers. Clearly it was high time to light a few bright Stevenson torches to get the parade going again. The first bright glare came from Michigan. Early in the week the United Auto Workers' President Walter Reuther had seen that the Truman-Harriman bid threatened a deadlock from which Texas' Lyndon Johnson might emerge as the conservative Democratic kingmaker, with enormous bargaining power on civil rights. Now Liberal Reuther determined to take the play away from Lyndon. He announced his own strong support for Stevenson, then persuaded Michigan's governor and favorite son, G. Mennen ("Soapy") Williams, to go to work. Striding from hotel room to hotel room, his lanky form trademarked by his green polka-dot bow tie, Williams checked with leaders from Ohio, Minnesota, Kansas and New Jersey. "I checked the figures myself," said Soapy. "I couldn't see how Harriman could win." Late Tuesday night, Williams called his 44-vote delegation into a chokingly smoke-filled caucus room. The delegation's sentiment was plain. The decision: Michigan voted to cast a big majority for Stevenson. Absolute Cruncher. Even while Soapy was moving toward Adlai, tense, closely guarded negotiations were going on inside the 36-vote New Jersey delegation, which nominally favored Governor Robert Meyner but was actually split 26 for Stevenson to 10 (all from Jersey City) for Harriman. At a meeting on Tuesday of six New Jersey leaders, Bob Meyner flatly refused to stand as a favorite son, convinced Jersey City Leader John Kenny that Harriman was a sure loser. The six voted unanimously to back Stevenson. Kenny reported to New York's Tammany Hall Boss Carmine De Sapio, who passed on the bad news to Harry Truman. The old man refused to give up. He summoned Bob Meyner to his suite and went stronger than ever for Harriman--pleading, cajoling, crackling with emotion. But Meyner stood firm. The announcement of New Jersey's 36-vote break to Stevenson actually came eight hours after the Michigan switch--but New Jersey was the absolute cruncher. When it happened, a top Harriman aide silently drew his finger across his throat. Too Late with Too Little. By the time the delegates jammed into the convention hall Thursday afternoon to nominate a President, Stevenson was so far ahead that nothing could beat him. Thirteen delegations had intoned their votes before Harriman passed the 10 mark. Harriman's campaign adviser, Tammany Boss Carmine De Sapio, had known for a long while what was coming; he sat calm and cool among his red-faced, sweating New York delegation. After it was all over, he murmured wistfully: "If we had only had more time." On his way out he stepped over to Harry Truman's box. "Hi, boss," said Carmine De Sapio. "I'll see you tomorrow." High in an amphitheater office, Averell Harriman watched the roll call on television, saw his hopes fall into ashes, took defeat gracefully and with promises to support the Democratic nominee this fall. Perhaps the happiest man in the amphitheater was Governor Leader, whose face lit up with a small boy's Christmas morning ecstasy when he saw that Pennsylvania's vote would sew up the Stevenson victory. "Pennsylvania," cried Leader, "casts seven votes for Harriman!" He paused to savor the drama then continued: "And for Stevenson, enough to put him over the top--67!" The Painless Sock. Late Thursday night, after Stevenson's announcement that it was up to the convention to pick the vice- presidential candidate, victory was celebrated with Scotch, ham and cold chicken in Adlai's Sheraton-Blackstone Hotel suite. Vice-presidential candidates--Estes Kefauver, Hubert Humphrey, Jack Kennedy--descended on Stevenson with the single-minded purpose of tsetse flies. Sam Rayburn and Lyndon Johnson called to pay their respects--so did Pittsburgh's Mayor Dave Lawrence and Connecticut's Democratic Chairman John Bailey. Adlai Stevenson sat in a corner, enjoyed the goings on, contemplated his immediate past and his foreseeable future. Actually, he had a certain cause for gratitude toward Harry Truman; the old fighter had raised a ruckus and Stevenson had come out of it a stronger candidate. One of his advisers summed up the story of how Adlai Stevenson won the nomination: "We went into the convention with preponderant strength and worked like hell to add to it. And finally, we took a sock in the nose from Harry Truman and found out it didn't hurt at all." Harry's Bitter Week The emotional impact of Harry Truman's hurrah for Harriman had worn off, and it was time for the doughty old man to get down to the hard, cold business of politicking. His first serious move was to invite House Speaker Sam Rayburn and Senate Majority Leader Lyndon Johnson to dinner in his Sheraton-Blackstone Hotel suite to enlist their aid for Ave. With high hopes that a convivial evening and some earnest talk would do the job, Truman produced a bottle of bourbon and, in the long-established spirit of Capitol Hill, proposed that the three "strike a blow for liberty." (A phrase popularized in the capital and still used (in retirement at Uvalde, Tex.) by F.D.R.'s first Vice President, "Cactus Jack" Garner.) But the food was an unfortunately long time in arriving and, although the evening was mighty convivial, a top Truman aide confessed later: "They just never got down to any kind of conclusive talk." It was only the first of many inconclusive, frustrating experiences in Harry Truman's bitter week. Truman bought quite a bill of goods from the old cronies who had flocked to Harriman. As soon as Truman arrived in Chicago, such worthies as Indiana's Frank McKinney and New York's Judge Samuel Rosenman assured him that Ave had lined up 450 or more first-ballot votes. They reasoned that such favorite sons as Ohio's Frank Lausche, Michigan's G. Mennen Williams and New Jersey's Robert Meyner would hold their delegations for themselves, at the first sign of firm opposition to Stevenson. They reported that Stevenson's following was lukewarm ("Did you ever see an enthusiastic Stevenson man except for some of those right around him?") and that it would, if Harry said the word, switch from Adlai to Ave. A Vicious Turn. Disillusionment was swift and savage. In a full day of talking to "customers" in his suite, Harry Truman got only two half-vote delegates to switch. With the Democrats who really counted, Truman got nowhere. Even as he was going up to Truman's suite, New Jersey's Bob Meyner announced that he would have no part of a favorite-son candidacy. And Frank Lausche (who refused to campaign for Truman in 1948) did not visit Harry until after he had promised Stevenson's managers that he would throw his Ohio support to Adlai. When nobody would hop when he said frog, Harry Truman turned viciously on Stevenson. Interviewed by Publisher William Randolph Hearst Jr., Truman said Stevenson "should have been taken off the platform" when, in his 1952 acceptance speech, he mentioned the possibility of a Democratic defeat. "In politics," snapped Harry Truman, "the other fellow's wrong and you're right. You cannot have a defeatist attitude." Later that day, dictating a statement to newsmen, Truman said he was convinced Stevenson "could not carry a single state in addition to what he did carry" in 1952. (Arkansas, Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama, Georgia, South Carolina, North Carolina, Kentucky and West Virginia, with a total of 89 electoral votes.) At a press conference the next morning, Truman went all the way. Adlai Stevenson, he said, lacked fighting spirit and stood for a policy that was "a surrender of the basic principles of the Democratic Party." He accused Stevenson of aligning himself with "a conservative minority that would be content to act as caretakers under a Republican Administration." A Clear Surrender. Increasingly, Truman leaned toward the long-predicted Harriman campaign strategy of starting a party- splitting fight on the civil-rights issue as a way to hurt Stevenson. Sam Rayburn, already furious at Truman's personal attacks on Stevenson, heard about Truman's civil-rights plans, and began writing out a statement blasting Harry as a Democratic renegade. Then Compromiser Lyndon Johnson moved in, put in an emergency call to Truman's Donald Dawson, told him that Harry had better come over pronto to Mr. Sam's suite on the Hilton's 23rd floor. Truman did. Sam Rayburn found his fears justified: Harry Truman was all ready to push the panic button on civil rights. Over more bourbon and branch water, sulphurous Sam Rayburn told Truman what he thought of the scheme to blow up the convention--and Harry Truman gave in. "All right, gentlemen," he said. "I'll do whatever my old friend John McCormack wants me to do." Since John McCormack was the chairman of the platform committee that had written the civil-rights plank, Truman's move (skillfully kept from the press) was a clear surrender. That night, sputtering and stuttering from his box in the International Amphitheater, Truman did as he had been told, calling the 1956 civil-rights plank "the best we ever had." Down the Ramp. Thus Harry S. Truman helped remove the last roadblock from the nomination of Adlai Stevenson, for whom he had clearly shown his contempt. When the roll was finally called for the presidential nomination, Truman sat in his seat and turned on a stage grim while Stevenson's total moved past the magic 686 1/2. "I started for my man too late," he said. When newsmen pressured him for statements, he replied defiantly: "You just want to see if I'm gonna cry or not." Would he campaign for Stevenson this fall? Truman hesitated, his face hardening. "If he asks me," said Truman. "He thought I was a detriment last time. Now I'll find out." On the convention's final night, Harry Truman walked down the ramp to the platform, faced the delegates--and ate crow as though it were squab. Adlai Stevenson, he said to tumultuous applause, was indeed a fighter, because "he's given some of us here a pretty good licking." Then he turned to the Republicans and began giving 'em hell, calling the G.O.P. a "bunch of racketeers." When he sat down to hear the acceptance speeches of the younger men who have taken over his party, he wore the fixed smile and the faraway look of an old man, once the most powerful of Democrats, now able to influence only a handful of half-vote delegates. The Wide-Open Winner In his moment of triumph, Nominee Adlai Stevenson announced a decision that gave the 1956 Democratic Convention its highest, wildest moments: he left the nomination of a vice-presidential candidate entirely to the will and whim of the delegates without a word about his personal choice. The backers of Massachusetts' Senator John Kennedy, convinced that they could not get a flat endorsement from Adlai, had been trying for three days to persuade Stevenson to throw the nomination wide open. Stevenson finally gave in to their main argument: that the Democrats might be able to stir up more trouble for their favorite campaign target, Vice President Nixon, by inviting a sudden-death competition in their own ranks. Immediately after the convention nominated him, Stevenson went to a two-room suite (decorated with prints of American birds, e.g., the black-billed cuckoo and the boat-tailed grackle) in the Stock Yard Inn, next to the convention amphitheater, to talk over his decision with Democratic leaders. "If He Doesn't Pick..." Waiting at the inn were his campaign manager, Jim Finnegan, and his old political sponsor, Chicago's Jacob Arvey. Their private discussion of the pros and cons of Adlai's open-race plan floated over an open transom: FINNEGAN: They'll say he lacks decisiveness. ARVEY: It's a very courageous thing to do. FINNEGAN: It's the first time it's ever been done. I talked to Larry Spivak [Meet the Press], and he says we underrate the imaginativeness of the American people. ARVEY: Dave [presumably Pittsburgh's Mayor David Lawrence] doesn't like it. FINNEGAN: Well, suppose he doesn't pick Kennedy. Then the Catholics are against him. If he doesn't pick Kefauver, then he loses all of his people. If he doesn't pick Humphrey, it doesn't make too much difference. Brimstone Words. When Adlai arrived at the inn, he faced angry opposition in the formidable persons of House Speaker Sam Rayburn and Senate Majority Leader Lyndon Johnson--who share in the South's dislike of Estes Kefauver and thought a wide-open convention would give the nod to Estes and his primary-built organization. Rayburn and Johnson used brimstone words while protesting that, in giving the convention its choice, Stevenson would seem to be abdicating his responsibility. People might think that Adlai would have equal trouble making up his mind about "whether some night to use the Seventh Fleet." But Adlai was adamant (he specifically vetoed only Missouri's Senator Stuart Symington, who, he said, has yet to make a positive Senate record), and he went off to the amphitheater to launch the Democrats on a night of politicking. Within minutes after Stevenson made his announcement, no delegate could buy his own drink and no elderly lady could cross a Chicago street without help from an eager vice-presidential candidate. The once-foot-dragging Jack Kennedy, suddenly became a bounding ball of energy, stayed up most of the night looking for votes. Minnesota's Hubert Humphrey (the only avowed candidate when the convention opened), Tennessee's Albert Gore and New York's Bob Wagner all hurled themselves bodily into the struggle, but, predictably, it was Estes Kefauver who covered the most ground, shook the most hands and drawled "bless you" to the most speakers proclaiming him "the greatest man America has ever produced." It was 4 a.m. when Estes held his last press conference, described his chances in glowing terms. "Carmine Can Make This One." By the time the delegates streamed onto the floor Friday afternoon for the big votes, the lines were fairly well drawn. Estes Kefauver had the whooping support of delegates from the farm belt and the power-hungry West. The South and some big-state, big-city machines (with the notable exception of Jim Finnegan's labor-conscious Pennsylvania) were trying to settle on a stop-Kefauver candidate. The voting began. Illinois--whose Democratic leaders still blame the Kefauver committee investigations for the disastrous defeat of some machine candidates in 1950--went mostly to Kennedy. Missouri cast its lot with Hubert Humphrey. New York went to Mayor Wagner. Tennessee, where Estes is involved in a furious factional fight with Governor Frank Clement, voted for its other Senator, Albert Gore. (Arriving home in Nashville after the convention, Kefauver-hating Frank Clement waved to a small knot of Kefauver fans. "Hi, everybody," said he cheerily. "We got him in." From the crowd came a loud feminine voice: "You all did everything you could to stop him!" Replied Clement plaintively: "Listen, we did all we could. If it hadn't been for us, he wouldn't have gotten in." The lady: "You don't need to tell us anything. We saw.") But the first-ballot count stood: Kefauver 483 1/2. Kennedy 304. Gore 178. Wagner 162 1/2. Humphrey 134 1/2. The scramble became even madder. Connecticut State Chairman John Bailey, who had been using Governor Abraham Ribicoff as a Kennedy messenger boy, sent word to Carmine De Sapio: "Tell Carmine he can get out of this with something. He can make this one--if he'll go now." Carmine agreed (he has never forgotten that Estes and the Kefauver committee in 1950 made him out as old pal of Racketeer Frank Costello). The Texas delegation caucused. Albert Gore's Texas backers fought wildly, but the delegation was faced down by grim old Sam Rayburn. "Gentlemen," said Rayburn, "you can vote as you please--but Sam Rayburn is voting for Kennedy." Under the unit rule, Texas stood 56 for Kennedy. The Big Switch. The second ballot started, and Kennedy surged handily ahead of Kefauver. The Missouri delegation rushed away to caucus. Connecticut's Bailey grabbed Missouri's Senator Tom Hennings by the lapels and shouted a plea that he turn his Humphrey votes to Kennedy. But Hennings, aware that Kennedy had voted against rigid, 99%-of-parity farm supports, barked right back: "What about the farm vote?" There were angry stirrings in the Tennessee delegation, and Albert Gore grabbed a microphone to withdraw in favor of Kefauver. At the point Kennedy stood with 648 votes--just 38 1/2 short of nomination. Over at the Stock Yard Inn, Kennedy, lolling in a private room in his shorts, began dressing to make his triumphal convention appearance. But before he could get there, the Tennessee switch had changed the chemistry of the balloting. Kennedy's vote hung. Kefauver's began to surge. Oklahoma switched from Gore to Kefauver; Minnesota, which had been split between Kefauver and Humphrey, swung solidly behind Estes. Kennedy and Kefauver strained to go over the top, as, in a situation of total confusion, half a dozen standards waved high. Missouri's Hennings was seen whispering with Massachusetts' Representative John McCormack, who soon spun and came rushing through the crowd toward the chairman's platform. Yelled McCormack: "Sam! Sam! Missouri!" Sam Rayburn, who had been calmly watching the waving standards before deciding which state to recognize, called on Missouri. Tom Hennings announced a switch of 31 1/2 votes from Humphrey to Kefauver--Estes was so close that it was all over but the shouting. By directing Rayburn's attention to Missouri, John McCormack had settled a score with Jack Kennedy, the rising young politician who last spring took control of the Massachusetts state organization away from McCormack and his old-guard friends. The final count was 755 1/2 for Kefauver and 589 for Kennedy, who appeared in time to make the motion for Kefauver's nomination by acclamation. Estes Kefauver ambled onto the platform to express his gratitude. He was half dead from his strenuous exertions, but it made little difference in his appearance. Waving his hands and grinning broadly, he shone all over with delight at finally winning the place--or almost the place--on the national ticket that he had been working hard for lo those four long years. Acceptance Speech Days before the convention opened, the squire from Libertyville took up his pencil and began to scribble out a draft of his acceptance address. He got scores of unsolicited suggestions and memos. After reading them, he tossed them aside and continued on his own. All last week, and even during intervals in the hectic Truman crisis, he returned time and again to the isolation of his small, green-tinted law office on Chicago's south La Salle Street. There, shirtsleeved and with tie askew, he revised, updated, rephrased and polished. On the convention's last night Adlai Stevenson stood up before the Democratic delegates as their second-time standard bearer, accepted the nomination in a fighting speech studded with epigrams and clearly wrought phrases that brought applause from his audience 53 times. Stevenson's theme was the need of the Democratic Party to move beyond the New and Fair Deals and face up to the realities of a "new America"--a theme he frequently clouded with catchwords from his party's past. There was high praise for Eleanor Roosevelt, who "reminded us so movingly that this is 1956 and not 1932; not even 1952; that our problems alter as well as their solutions; that change is the law of life, and that political parties ignore it at their peril." There was also a nod to Harry Truman, the spirit of '48: "I am glad to have you on my side again, sir." Borrowed Thunderbolts. With thunderbolts from Carlyle and Woodrow Wilson he blasted the Republicans from stem to stern. He did not propose, he said, to make "political capital out of the President's illness." But he attacked Eisenhower as a weak President "cynically coveted [by the Republicans] as a candidate but ignored as a leader." In an oblique thrust at Nixon, he said that if he and Kefauver are elected "and it is God's will that I do not serve my full four years, the people will have a new President they can trust." The men surrounding Ike, said Stevenson, have dealt "the ultimate indignity to the democratic process": they seek to "merchandise candidates like breakfast cereal." The result: "No Administration has ever before enjoyed such uncritical and enthusiastic support." But has it used this opportunity "to elevate us? To enlighten us? To inspire us?" The delegates answered with thunderous "noes." The truth, he declared, is that not everybody at home is prosperous and that, despite what the President has said, our prestige abroad "has probably never been lower," and "we are losing the cold war." Borrowed Terms. For one thing he was grateful, he said with irony. By a "minor miracle" the Republicans, "after twenty years of incessant damnation of the New Deal," have finally "swallowed it, or most of it, and it looks as though they could keep it down at least until after election." What, if elected, would Stevenson do? He seemed to be of two minds, one of them wearing an oldtime hat. Under his leadership there would be stronger labor unions and more federal support for farmers, small businesses, power and water development, etc. The broader answer was contained in the "terms" on which he accepted the nomination. History, he said, "has brought us to the threshold of a new America--to the America of the great ideals and noble visions which are the stuff our future must be made of. I mean a new America where poverty is abolished and our abundance is used to enrich the lives of every family. I mean a new America where freedom is made real for all without regard to race or belief or economic condition. I mean a new America which everlastingly attacks the ancient idea that men can solve their differences by killing each other." Few could quarrel with that. If the Eisenhower Administration had swallowed the New Deal, the Adlai Stevenson of 1956, in stating his "terms," has also swallowed a lot of the Eisenhower Administration. <list> <l>PLATFORMS</l> <l>Something to Live With</l> </list> Room 115 of the Sheraton-Blackstone Hotel was air-conditioned, but the occupants were not: they were the 16 members of the Democratic Platform Committee's drafting subcommittee. Early in the morning, after more than four hours of wrangling, softened and moderated by Massachusetts' John W. McCormack, the Democrats' civil-rights plank was nailed down. The subcommittee had handled the blazing Supreme Court issue in the spirit of unity, compromise, and remarkable consideration for each others' regional problems. "Recent decisions of the Supreme Court relating to segregation," read the crucial paragraph, "have brought consequences of vast importance to our nation as a whole and especially to communities directly affected. We reject all proposals for the use of force to interfere with the orderly determination of these matters by the courts...[The Supreme Court's decisions] are part of the law of the land." Outside Pressure. For Mississippi's Governor James Plemon Coleman, who led the five-man Southern wing of the subcommittee over the rough flooring of the plank, the results were "palatable"; i.e., the plank was not shoved down his throat. His willingness to negotiate had kept the committee from blowing up altogether. But he and his fellow Southerners were sure of one thing: they would not countenance a change in the wording that would indicate any pledge to implement the Supreme Court's decision. This settled, John McCormack called for a vote at 2:45 a.m. For the record, the solid South dutifully voted against the plank, knowing full well that it would carry 11-5. It did. No sooner had Chairman McCormack solved his problems within the room than he ran into a violent and unexpected pressure buildup outside. A band of Northern civil-rights warriors, dogmatically certain that any compromise was bad, caught John McCormack before he got to bed. At the head of the band were Michigan's Governor G. Mennen ("Soapy") Williams (who comes up for re-election this year, must deal with powerful Negro and auto worker groups in Michigan), New York City's Mayor Bob Wagner, and lesser partisans of the N.A.A.C.P., A.D.A. and other civil-rights groups. They demanded to know what the plank said. McCormack politely refused to tell them. "Thank You, John." Far into the morning the unhappy warriors, bossed by A.F.L.-C.I.O.'s Walter Reuther, fanned out in a relentless search for a copy of the plank. At length they got it; when the subcommittee presented its plank to the full platform committee, a civil-rights agent smuggled out a penciled version of the wording. Now Reuther & Co. set earnestly to work. Nothing would suit the band except the insertion of a sentence in the plank reading, "We pledge to carry out these [Supreme Court] decisions," and the addition of a paragraph from the 1952 platform calling for federal civil-rights legislation, all poison to the South. (Reuther later was willing to concede that the McCormack plank was "something I could live with.") The Reuther group spent most of the day getting 14 (out of 108) members of the platform committee to sign a minority report. That night, as the minority report and the prospects of a party-shaking civil-rights fight loomed over the convention, the opposing forces gathered for spirited arguments in caucus rooms, back halls, finally behind the rostrum. When these sessions brought no peace, McCormack shrewdly allotted 30 minutes for debate: 20 minutes for his plank and only 10 minutes for the Reuther crowd. Georgia's Governor Marvin Griffin asked McCormack for permission to debate the South's point of view. "Hell no," retorted McCormack. "We need all our time to fight the boys who are trying to make the plank tougher." Griffin well understood. Said he affably: "Thank you, John. I'll just tell the boys that Yankee sonofabitch wouldn't give me any time." Others were not so amiable. Cried Virginia's ex-Governor John Battle: "Damn it. We made a bargain and we will stick to it, but we won't give another inch." Plaintively, North Carolina's Senator Sam Ervin complained, "I have surrendered four times...Now they want me to surrender a fifth time. Not even General Lee had to surrender more than once." "I Can Tell." There was no surrender. The insurgents pinned all their hopes on a roll-call vote, but they exhausted themselves trying to round up the necessary backing, threw in the towel when even Harry Truman spoke up against them. McCormack loyalists had pushed through the hall to soothe such rights-conscious states as New York, Illinois, Michigan, Pennsylvania, California. When he sensed that there was no more spirit for fight, Mister Sam cocked ear and gavel for a voice vote on the minority report, ruled correctly that the noes had it. As critics yelled from the floor, Sam flipped his gavel like a menacing Peter Lorre, declared: "I have taken the ayes and noes many times, and I think I can tell." That done, he got a quick vote on the whole platform, and John McCormack trudged wearily off to his first bed rest in 19 hours. Over the rest of their prolix, 12,000-word platform, the Democrats had little difficulty, called predictably for high, rigid farm price supports (aiming toward 100% of parity), increased tax exemptions, repeal of Taft-Hartley, etc., demanded arms for Israel, internationalization of the Suez. The unexpected sleeper: a strong hint that the Democratic Party looks favorably on protectionism, might like to abandon its historic support of free trade. Rock 'Em, Sock 'Em From the protected podium of their Chicago convention hall, a platoon of Democratic orators laid about them right and left. Samples: The Administration: "This bunch of racketeers" (Harry Truman); "twiddling thumbs while vast natural resources of America [are] being tinkled away like Christmas bells" (Tennessee's Governor Frank Clement); "a vast intellectual desert" (Truman); a "billion-dollar circus" with "the most bizarre political sideshows ever staged" (Oklahoma's Senator Robert Kerr); they have "forsaken the best interests of the people...sacrificed the natural-resource heritage of the public" (Oregon's Senator Wayne Morse). (Campaigning for governor in Texas, Democrat Price Daniel complained: "I don't know how many of you saw or heard Senator Wayne Morse when he spoke last night at the Democratic National Convention, but he sits right next to me in the Senate--and that's another good reason for my wanting to come home.") Eisenhower: A "genial, glamorous and affable general who had joined the Republican Party after he had reached the age of retirement from the Regular Army" (Clement); "he was born in the district that I represent, and everybody down there that remembers him says he was a good baby. Then he moved off to Kansas, and after he is 60 years of age, he decided he'd be a Republican" (Texas' Sam Rayburn); "he cannot Hagertize his way through this whole campaign" (Clement). Nixon: "The vice hatchetman" of the Republican Party (Clement); "the chief function of the Vice President should not be that of a political sharpshooter for his party. It should not be that of providing the smear under the protection of the President's smile" (Candidate Estes Kefauver); "the White House pet midget, Moby Dick Nixon and his whale of a pup, Checkers" (Kerr). (As every moviegoer knows, Moby Dick is the whale.) Dulles: "Unquestionably the greatest unguided missile in the history of American diplomacy" (Clement); "Daredevil John Foster Dulles--world-famous escape artist with his breathtaking, death-defying brink-of-war act" (Kerr). Circus-minded Robert Kerr of Oklahoma found a niche in his political side-show for others in the President's Cabinet and aides: "Bull Dog Charlie Wilson and his dog act--energetic bird dogs, howling kennel dogs"; "Nose-Dive Benson, the flexible man"; "Give-a-Million McKay, the give-away king"; "hapless Harold Stassen, the dying young man on the flying trapeze"; "the little strongman, Sherman Adams, the one Republican who won't run for Vice President. He declines to stop being President." Tearful Epilogue As the Democratic National Committee gathered in the grand ballroom of Chicago's Sheraton-Blackstone Hotel at week's end for the usual convention epilogue, Utah Committeeman Calvin Rawlings dutifully offered a resolution praising National Committee Chairman Paul M. Butler for the 1956 convention arrangements. Other committee members rose to add their praise. Suddenly, slender, intense Paul Butler was sobbing. When the white-haired Indianan had regained control of himself, he faced the committee. "I'm sure you do not realize," he said as his voice caught in his throat, "you are writing my political epitaph. In a moment, I shall submit my resignation, and I urge you to accept it." After 19 months as their chairman, Butler knew his Democrats well: at that moment, on Adlai Stevenson's decision, he was indeed on his way out. He had dismayed party professionals with his over-eager, often ill-judged partisanship, e.g., his television attack on the Columbia Broadcasting System for failing to carry the Democratic campaign movie, The Pursuit of Happiness, from the convention hall. Among his associates, his temper and taut nerves had earned him the nickname of "Mr. Bang." And worst of all, during the convention he had fallen out with such Stevenson advisers as Jim Finnegan and Dave Lawrence over the timing of Stevenson's acceptance speech. But soon after Butler had dried his eyes, Stevenson relented, reversed his decision, and passed the word that the committeemen could go ahead and elect Butler their chairman again. It was a hollow victory. In a private conference with Butler, Stevenson made it clear that Finnegan, not Butler, would be the "architect" of the campaign. Finnegan will set up headquarters in Washington, near those of the national committee, so that there will be no "two-headed monster" like that of 1952, when Stevenson campaign offices in Springfield frequently worked at cross purposes with capital leaders. Butler's only 1956 duties: those of an "administrator." Exactly what he will administer was never made clear. THE CHIEF ENGINEER The man who engineered Adlai Stevenson's campaign through the primaries and into the convention is now setting a course for the White House: James Aloysius Finnegan. Early Life: Born in Philadelphia, Dec. 20, 1906. Father (an oil-refinery worker) and mother came from County Mayo, Ireland. Graduated from West Philadelphia's Catholic High School for Boys, studied accounting at University of Pennsylvania's night school. Career: At 24 entered Depression politics, within a year was chairman of his ward's executive committee. In 1939 Philadelphia's Congressman (later Senator) Frank Myers made Finnegan his secretary. Enlisted in the Army Air Forces in 1942 (air combat intelligence), was discharged a lieutenant colonel in 1946. Thrusting once again into home-town politics, he was elected his party's city chairman, built his success by staying mostly in the background and pushing attractive candidates, e.g., Philadelphia Mayors Joe Clark (1951) and Richardson Dilworth (1955). In 1954 he helped persuade an unknown but respected chicken farmer named George Leader to run for governor. Leader won, appointed Finnegan Secretary of the Commonwealth. Early in 1952, he saw Illinois Governor Adlai Stevenson on TV, decided then that Adlai was a sure winner. At the 1952 convention, he helped run the draft-Stevenson movement on the floor, returned to Philadelphia to whip up enthusiasm for the national ticket. Result: Philadelphia gave Stevenson a majority of 160,000 votes. Techniques: Meticulous planner, canny strategist, he worked from file cards showing names, family and business connections, clubs, hobbies, likes, dislikes of all 1956 convention delegates and alternates. After Stevenson's California victory, Finnegan crossed Kefauver off his list, recognized Harriman as Stevenson's foremost opponent. He roused Stevenson (who was ready to take it easy), began shuttling him into the West. On a plane to Denver, Adlai complained: "Why do I have to make all these trips?" "Because," said Finnegan evenly, "Averell Harriman might beat you." Adlai stared at him hard, breathed: "Incredible." Personality & Politics: Silver-haired, trim and ruddy, Finnegan is a light eater, disdains cigars, watches his blood pressure like a campaign manager watching a wavering delegate. No jolly backslapper or jokesmith, he has only an ordinary memory for names and faces, seldom relaxes ("The only time I ever knew him to relax," says Campaign Executive Director Hy Raskin, "was when he took off a weekend in Atlantic City. And then all he did was to sit on someone's front porch and talk politics"). He has never married. He blends a good sense of practical politics with a fairly idealistic view of "good government." Typical Finneganisms: "Good government is good politics." "There should be a reward for those who make a consistent effort for the party. When men have an ability in their jobs and also are a potent political force and are really interested in it, why shouldn't they get a job? More often than not, they give better service than some nonpartisans." </body> </article> </text>