Part 8 (1/2)

Symington worried Kennedy as a potential compromise candidate. A former air force secretary with strong liberal credentials and Harry Truman's support, Symington was acceptable to all wings of the party. Should the convention reach a deadlock over the nomination, Jack thought that Symington could emerge as the party's choice. He told his father and brothers: ”[Symington] comes from the right state, the right background, the right religion, age and appearance, with a noncontroversial voting record and speaking largely on matters of defense which offend no one. His appeal is largely to the older-line professional politicians, rallying under former President Truman ... and their hope is that the convention will find objections with each of the other candidates and agree on Symington.” Jack also feared that the other candidates would b.l.o.o.d.y one another in the primaries while Symington stood on the sidelines. ”I wish I could get Stu into a primary,” Jack privately told a reporter, ”any primary, anywhere.” Barring that, the best strategy against Symington was to win the nomination on the first ballot or before a standoff could make him a viable choice. In the meantime, however, Joe Kennedy tried to find dirt on Symington. In particular, he asked investigators to look into why President Roosevelt had asked Harry Truman to find out whether the Emerson Electric Company, which Symington had headed in the forties, had shortchanged the war effort.

But it was Stevenson's ”sleeping candidacy” that impressed Kennedy as his greatest threat. Jack never trusted his avowed noncandidacy. He accepted that Stevenson disliked the thought of another campaign and would not go after the nomination directly. ”But he still has powerful friends-so his name belongs on the list of candidates,” the Kennedys concluded. Joe, however, was less worried about Stevenson than Jack was. ”He is not a threat,” Joe told a journalist. ”The Democratic party is through in the East if he is nominated. The leaders realize that it would be disastrous... . To elect their State ticket they need Jack... . The nomination is a cinch. I'm not a bit worried about the nomination.”

Joe's remarks were a brave show of public confidence, which was a good campaign tactic. But at the start of 1960, Jack knew that nothing was settled. ”Look,” he told a reporter, ”when someone says to you, 'You're doing fine,' it doesn't mean a thing, and when someone says, 'Just call any time you need anything,' that doesn't mean a thing, and when someone says, 'You've got a lot of friends out here,' that doesn't mean a thing ... but when they say, 'I'm for you,' that is the only thing that means something.”

Most discouraging to Jack was the persistence of the country's irrational anti-Catholicism. Fourteen years had pa.s.sed since he entered politics, and still Jack was being asked the same offensive questions. Antagonism to the Church and fear of its influence over him were discussed openly. Katie Louchheim's friends and relatives, for example, who were ”definitely and categorically anti,” told her, ”After all, this is still a Protestant country.” One of them said, ”How would you like it if the country were run the way the Catholics run Conn[ecticut] and Ma.s.s[achusetts]?” When Schlesinger saw Jack on the evening of January 2, Kennedy ”conveyed an intangible feeling of depression. I had the sense that he feels himself increasingly hemmed in as a result of a circ.u.mstance over which he has no control-his religion; and he inevitably tends toward gloom and irritation when he considers how the circ.u.mstance may deny him what he thinks his talent and efforts have earned.”

THE FIRST PRIMARY contest in New Hamps.h.i.+re on March 6 would be a chance to show that Kennedy could attract a decisive number of Protestant votes, but New Hamps.h.i.+re was not seen as a significant test of Jack's national appeal, since as a New England native son with no other serious contender, he seemed certain to win. To a.s.sure as big a margin as possible, however, the campaign sent Rose and Jack to speak across the state, which both did with great effectiveness. The outcome-85 percent of the vote against a smattering of write-ins for Stevenson and Symington-was all the Kennedys could have hoped for. contest in New Hamps.h.i.+re on March 6 would be a chance to show that Kennedy could attract a decisive number of Protestant votes, but New Hamps.h.i.+re was not seen as a significant test of Jack's national appeal, since as a New England native son with no other serious contender, he seemed certain to win. To a.s.sure as big a margin as possible, however, the campaign sent Rose and Jack to speak across the state, which both did with great effectiveness. The outcome-85 percent of the vote against a smattering of write-ins for Stevenson and Symington-was all the Kennedys could have hoped for.

Kennedy's unopposed candidacy in Indiana and Nebraska would give him those states' delegates. Polls in California had showed that Jack could beat Governor Pat Brown in a primary, and as a trade-off for not running, Jack got a promise from Brown that if he won primaries in New Hamps.h.i.+re, Wisconsin, and West Virginia, ran second behind Senator Wayne Morse in Oregon, and was leading for the nomination in the Gallup polls, Brown would support him at the convention.

Ohio required some especially tough negotiations with Governor Mike DiSalle, who wanted to run as a favorite son and then barter his state's delegates at the convention. But the Kennedys, threatening to back Cleveland Democratic leader Ray Miller, DiSalle's chief rival, as the head of the Ohio delegation, forced Disalle into a public endors.e.m.e.nt of Kennedy in January. At a meeting between Jack and DiSalle in an airport motel in Pittsburgh, Jack told him, ”Mike, it's time to s.h.i.+t or get off the pot... . You're either going to come out for me or we are going to run a delegation against you in Ohio and we'll beat you.” When Jack's threat did not settle matters, Bobby Kennedy, accompanied by party chairman John Bailey, went to Ohio to force the issue. Bailey, ”a veteran politician who does not shock easily,” told Ken O'Donnell later that ”he was startled by the going-over that Bobby had given DiSalle.” The conversation added to Bobby's growing reputation as Jack's hatchet man, but it forced DiSalle into a commitment like Brown's that gave Jack valuable momentum.

Deals and promises were not enough, though. Jack had to win a truly contested primary to show that it wasn't all back-room dealings that qualified him for the nomination. (He thought that Johnson and Symington were making a serious mistake by staying out of all the primaries. Indeed, the day after announcing his candidacy, Kennedy had said that any aspiring nominee who avoided these contests did not deserve to have his candidacy taken seriously.) To meet the challenge, he reluctantly decided to run against Humphrey in Wisconsin. It meant risking the nomination. Wisconsin had a large Protestant population, so a defeat by Humphrey would increase doubts about a Catholic nominee. Joe Kennedy wrote a friend in Italy, ”If we do not do very well there ... we should get out of the fight.” He believed Wisconsin was ”the crisis of the campaign.”

In addition to the possible religious split, Humphrey had the advantage of being a next-door neighbor-the ”third senator from Wisconsin,” as supporters called him. His rapport with Wisconsin farmers and liberals cl.u.s.tered in the university community in Madison made him a formidable opponent. Moreover, because Wisconsin was essential to his hopes of a nomination, Hubert seemed certain to make an all-out fight for a majority of the popular vote and the state's thirty-one delegates.

Yet Jack had some reason for optimism. Between May 1958 and November 1959, he had laid the groundwork for a possible statewide campaign. He had spent sixteen days in Wisconsin giving speeches and meeting Democrats in cities and towns he had never heard of before-Appleton, Ashland, Darlington, La Crosse, Lancaster, Platteville, Rhinelander, Rice Lake, Sparta, and Viroqua joined Green Bay, Milwaukee, and Sheboygan as vital to his political future. Leaving nothing to chance, he also chose a ”full-time advance man and organizer of Kennedy clubs,” and enlisted the support of Pat Lucey, the state's party chairman, and Ivan Nestingen, the mayor of Madison, both of whom were now convinced of Kennedy's liberal credentials. Private polls in January 1960 showing Kennedy ahead of Humphrey helped ease the difficult but, in Jack's mind, unavoidable decision to make the race.

The six-week Wisconsin campaign running from mid-February to early April tested Jack's endurance and commitment to winning the presidency. O'Donnell and Powers remembered it as a ”winter of cold winds, cold towns and many cold people. Campaigning in rural areas of the state where n.o.body seemed to care about the presidential election was a strange and frustrating experience.” In a tavern, where Jack introduced himself to a couple of beer drinkers, saying, ”I'm John Kennedy and I'm running for President,” one of them asked, ”President of what?” On a freezing cold morning, as Jack stood for hours in the dark shaking hands with workers arriving at a meat packing plant, Powers whispered to O'Donnell, ”G.o.d, if I had his money, I'd be down there on the patio at Palm Beach.” Powers might have added, ”G.o.d, if I had his medical problems and all the physical discomfort campaigning added to them ...” But Jack was determined to see his commitment through. When an elderly woman stopped him on the street to say, ”You're too soon, my boy, too soon,” Jack replied, ”No, this is my time. My time is now.” Despite his youthful and robust appearance, he knew that in eight years-a.s.suming the victor would serve two terms-his deteriorating back and chronic colitis might make running even more of a problem than it was in 1960.

The battle was against more than wind chill and back pain. The abuse leveled at him by Humphrey's campaign and a hostile press were enough alone to discourage him from competing. Sorensen said later that ”vicious falsehoods were whispered about Kennedy's father, Kennedy's religion and Kennedy's personal life.” Humphrey pilloried him as a Democratic Nixon who had recently joined the liberal ranks to win the nomination. Appealing to populist antagonism to Kennedy's wealth, Humphrey declared, ”Thank G.o.d, thank G.o.d” for his own ”disorderly” campaign. ”Beware of these orderly campaigns. They are ordered, bought and paid for. We are not selling corn flakes or some Hollywood production.” Voters had to make their choice, the balding Humphrey said, ”on more than ... how we cut our hair or how we look.” He complained of a Republican-inspired press buildup for Kennedy as a way to run Nixon against a weak opponent. Echoing the charge that Jack had ”little emotional commitment to liberalism,” Humphrey said, ”You have to learn to have the emotions of a human being when you are charged with the responsibilities of leaders.h.i.+p.” Humphrey also attacked Jack as a recent convert to helping farmers, echoed criticism of Kennedy's cautious response to Joe McCarthy, and before a Milwaukee Jewish audience implicitly compared Kennedy's ”organized campaign” to n.a.z.i Germany, ”one of the best-organized societies of our time.”

Humphrey saw his attacks as a response to ”an element of ruthlessness and toughness” in Kennedy's campaign. Though he couldn't prove it, he believed that Bobby Kennedy had started and helped circulate a rumor that the corrupt Teamsters union was working for Humphrey's election. Moreover, he thought that the Kennedys were stimulating Catholics to vote for Jack by sending anonymous anti-Catholic materials to Catholic households.

Kennedy largely ignored Humphrey's a.s.saults. James Reston noted that Jack ”remained remarkably self-possessed... . He has shown not the slightest trace of anger. He has made no claims of victory. He has made no charges against Humphrey on the local shows or from the stump.” Instead, he ran a largely positive campaign, giving full rein to his charm and intelligence. Riding in a car with Kennedy for an appearance at a shopping center, Peter Lisagor asked, ”'Do you like these crowds and this sort of thing?' [Kennedy] turned back and said, 'I hate it.'” But the moment he stepped out of the car, ”he lit up and smiled. He signed autographs on the brown shopping bags of these ladies who came pouring to him... . He went along as if he'd been doing this all of his life and loved it.”

The Kennedy campaign was, for a very large part, Pat Lucey said, ”just an effective presentation of a celebrity... . The family was an a.s.set ... genuinely glamorous as well as glamorized, so the people were anxious to meet them wherever they went.” As a result, Humphrey felt like a ”corner grocer running against a chain store.” With Jack, Bobby, Rose, and the Kennedy sisters all campaigning in Wisconsin, Humphrey was outmanned. The Kennedys are ”all over the state,” he complained, ”and they look alike and sound alike. Teddy or Eunice talks to a crowd, wearing a racc.o.o.n coat and a stocking cap, and people think they're listening to Jack. I get reports that Jack is appearing in three or four different places at the same time.”

On April 5, Kennedy won a substantial victory, taking 56.5 percent of the vote. The 476,024 Kennedy ballots were the most votes ever received by a candidate in the fifty-seven-year history of Wisconsin primaries, and Kennedy's majorities in six out of ten districts ent.i.tled him to 60 percent of the state's convention delegates. But Jack saw his success as raising more questions about his candidacy than it answered. Because the six districts he won included large numbers of Catholic voters and Humphrey's districts were princ.i.p.ally Protestant enclaves, including Madison, the center of liberal sentiment, Kennedy could not convince party chiefs that he would command broad backing in a national election. When Ted Sorensen heard the first returns showing Humphrey ahead in the western, rural areas of the state, he turned ”ashen.” These numbers made him ”mighty uneasy.” Dave Powers tried to put a positive face on the result: ”A s.h.i.+ft of ... less than 3/10 of 1% of the vote ... would have given Kennedy 8 districts to 2.” Powers also listed thirteen counties where 70 percent or more of non-Catholic votes were for Jack and six with substantial numbers of Catholics he lost. None of this, however, could change the initial perception of Kennedy as a candidate whose religion made a difference. When Jack heard the returns, he jumped from his seat and paced the room, muttering, ”d.a.m.n religious thing.”

Noticing the glum expression on Jack's face as he studied the returns, Eunice Kennedy asked him, ”What does it all mean?” He replied, ”It means that we've got to go to West Virginia in the morning and do it all over again. And then we've got to go on to Maryland and Indiana and Oregon and win all of them.” Only then might the press stop publis.h.i.+ng photos of Kennedy shaking hands with nuns and church officials and continually referring to Jack's Catholicism. Kennedy kept track of how often newspaper accounts mentioned his religion, and he had not missed the fact that two days before the primary, the Milwaukee Journal Milwaukee Journal had listed the number of voters in each county under three headings: Democrats, Republicans, and Catholics. ”The religious issue became prominent because the newspapers said it was prominent,” Lucey a.s.serted. When CBS newsman Walter Cronkite asked Jack after his Wisconsin victory whether being a Catholic had hurt him, Jack's annoyance with Cronkite was unmistakable. Afterward, Bobby exploded at Cronkite and his staff, shouting that they had violated an agreement not to ask about religion and that his brother would never give them another interview. Cronkite was unaware of such a promise, and there would be many future interviews with both brothers. But Bobby's outburst ill.u.s.trated how angry he and Jack were at the implicit questions being raised about their loyalty to the country. had listed the number of voters in each county under three headings: Democrats, Republicans, and Catholics. ”The religious issue became prominent because the newspapers said it was prominent,” Lucey a.s.serted. When CBS newsman Walter Cronkite asked Jack after his Wisconsin victory whether being a Catholic had hurt him, Jack's annoyance with Cronkite was unmistakable. Afterward, Bobby exploded at Cronkite and his staff, shouting that they had violated an agreement not to ask about religion and that his brother would never give them another interview. Cronkite was unaware of such a promise, and there would be many future interviews with both brothers. But Bobby's outburst ill.u.s.trated how angry he and Jack were at the implicit questions being raised about their loyalty to the country.

If Wisconsin left the overall situation unsettled, Jack's victory did accomplish something real and important. The outcome in Wisconsin essentially ended Humphrey's bid for the nomination. If he could not win in a neighboring state with so many Protestants, farmers, and liberals, he was unlikely to win anywhere. But, stung by his defeat and confident that he could beat Jack in West Virginia, a state only 4 percent Catholic, Humphrey decided to continue his campaign. A Harris poll showed Jack ahead of Humphrey in West Virginia by 70 to 30 percent, but even if Humphrey closed some of that gap, Harris predicted, Jack would have ”a comfortable margin of victory.” Harris saw West Virginia as ”a powerful weapon against those who raise the 'Catholic can't win' bit.”

After Wisconsin, however, Jack and his advisers were not so sure. The Wisconsin race had made West Virginia voters more aware of Kennedy's religion, and his lead over Humphrey disappeared. A poll of Kanawha county, the seat of the state capital, Charleston, showed Humphrey with 60 percent to Kennedy's 40 percent. A report coming in to Dave Powers in April concluded that ”public opinion had s.h.i.+fted and [Kennedy] would be lucky to get 40 per cent of the vote.” On April 6, the day after Wisconsin, Bobby, O'Donnell, and O'Brien went to Charleston, where they met with Kennedy organizers. ”Well, what are our problems?” Bobby asked the gathering in a crowded hotel room. ”There's only one problem,” one man shouted. ”He's a Catholic. That's our G.o.d-d.a.m.ned problem!” A Kennedy supporter in the state wrote Franklin D. Roosevelt Jr. that ”[U.S. Senator] Bob Byrd is getting out his Bible and fiddle to make the rounds of the country churches. These people weren't thinking much of the religious issue, one way or another. But now every hate-monger, radio preacher and backwoods evangelist is being stirred up for an a.s.sault which will make 1928 look pale by comparison.”

The state's labor unions would also be a problem for Kennedy. A member of the United Steel Workers reported that Kennedy had been relying on ”the reactionary element of the Democratic party ... to head his state organization. He would be weak in ... the Democratic stronghold in southern W. Va. In a race between Kennedy and Humphrey, we believe that Humphrey would win, even though the Kennedy forces would be better financed.”

Though some of Jack's advisers suggested that he skip West Virginia and concentrate instead on Indiana, Nebraska, and Maryland, he felt compelled to take up Humphrey's challenge and show that a Catholic could win in a Protestant state. Robert McDonough, who ran Jack's West Virginia office, believed that a victory there might allow Kennedy to ”bury the religious issue.” At a planning meeting on April 8, Bobby stated their intention ”to meet the religious issue head on.” The goal was to give rational answers to questions about Jack's Catholicism and then move on to ”something more important to those people.” Bobby consulted with Frank Fischer, West Virginia's Junior Chamber of Commerce president, who knew the state as well as anyone. Fischer urged Bobby to talk about the ”Four F's ... food, Franklin [Roosevelt], family, and the flag.”

Jack set this strategy in motion on the first day of his West Virginia campaign. Before a crowd of three or four hundred people gathered on the steps of the Charleston post office, Jack, microphone in hand, aggressively fielded a question about his religion, ”I am a Catholic, but the fact that I was born a Catholic, does that mean that I can't be the President of the United States? I'm able to serve in Congress, and my brother was able to give his life, but we can't be president?” McDonough ”could just feel the crowd respond to and accept his answer.” With Humphrey making his campaign theme song ”Give Me That Old Time Religion” and Baptists warning that a Catholic would owe allegiance to the pope, Jack continuously reminded voters that he had risked his life for the country. ”n.o.body asked me if I was a Catholic when I joined the United States Navy,” he declared. ”n.o.body asked my brother if he was a Catholic or Protestant before he climbed into an American bomber plane to fly his last mission.” The message was clear: How can you doubt my primary loyalty to America?

Kennedy spent two intense weeks in the state between April 5 and May 10. ”He was the most attractive candidate imaginable,” Bob McDonough said. ”He just went up every valley in the state, down every road, and over every hill, and he shook hands by the thousands.” ”I am the only Presidential candidate since 1924, when a West Virginian ran for the presidency,” Kennedy told audiences, ”who knows where Slab Fork is and has been there.” He spoke so often and so loudly that he lost his voice and had to have his brother Ted and Sorensen speak for him. ”Over and over again,” journalist Theodore White recorded, ”there was the handsome, open-faced candidate on the TV screen, showing himself, proving that a Catholic wears no horns.” As important, a skillfully crafted TV doc.u.mentary, which the campaign put on local stations around the state, displayed his winning manner and his achievements as a war hero, a Pulitzer Prize-winning author, and the father of a beautiful two-year-old daughter. A compelling sincerity about his devotion to American freedoms dissolved most objections to his Catholicism.

Jackie Kennedy, despite concern among Jack's advisers that her stylish dress and manners might alienate voters, effectively connected with audiences in West Virginia. Word of her considerateness spread after ”a nice old man said he would love to meet Jackie but could not leave his invalid wife.” After Jackie visited their home, the man said, ”Now I believe in Santa Claus. She looks like a real queen.” She endeared herself to audiences when introducing Jack. ”I have to confess, I was born a Republican,” she said, ”but you have to have been a Republican to realize how nice it is to be a Democrat.” Her two-year-old daughter Caroline's vocabulary was increasing with each primary, she reported. Her ”first words were 'plane,' 'goodbye,' and 'New Hamps.h.i.+re,' and just this morning she said 'Wisconsin' and 'West Virginia.'” Already a month pregnant in April, Jackie, at risk of another miscarriage, would largely disappear from the rest of the 1960 campaign, but in West Virginia she worked aggressively on behalf of her husband.

She was not alone. Understanding how crucial the state was to his chances, Kennedy enlisted all his relatives and friends in the campaign. ”The Senator is still in West Virginia,” Evelyn Lincoln recorded on April 26. ”Things do not look very good for him... . The Senator has brought all the people he can think of into the campaign. He has Lem Billings, Chuck Spalding, Ben Smith, Grant Stockdale, Bob Troutman, Sarge Shriver and many others down there working for him. Bobby is going all over making speeches and Teddy is too. Larry O'Brien is in charge of the organization and Kenny O'Donnell arranges his speaking schedule. Ralph Dungan is handling the labor setup. Chuck Roche and Pierre Salinger handle the press releases, TV, etc. Ted Reardon is in Wheeling.”

Winning votes for Jack also meant taking them from Humphrey by neutralizing his advantage as a pa.s.sionate advocate of liberal programs. If this began as cynical campaign politics, Kennedy's visits to the state transformed it into a genuine concern. ”Kennedy's shock at the suffering he saw in West Virginia was so fresh,” Teddy White thought, ”that it communicated itself with the emotion of original discovery.” Ted Sorensen remembered how appalled Kennedy was ”by the pitiful conditions he saw, by the children of poverty, by the families living on surplus lard and cornmeal, by the waste of human resources.” He gained a fuller understanding of the unemployed workers, the pensioners, and the relief recipients demoralized by their poverty but eager for a chance to improve their lives. ”I a.s.sure you that after five weeks living among you here in West Virginia,” Kennedy declared, ”I shall never forget what I have seen. I have seen men, proud men, looking for work who cannot find it. I have seen people over 40 who are told that their services are no longer needed-too old. I have seen young people who want to live in the state, forced to leave the state for opportunities elsewhere... . I have seen older people who seek medical care that is too expensive for them to afford. I have seen unemployed miners and their families eating a diet of dry rations.” Attacking the indifference of the Eisenhower administration, Jack laid out a ten-point program to relieve suffering and expand economic opportunity. He promised to increase unemployment benefits, modernize Social Security, expand food distribution, establish a national fuels program, stimulate the coal industry, and increase defense spending in the state. ”Much more can and should be done,” he announced in a letter to fellow Democrats. ”That is why West Virginia will be on the top of my agenda at the White House.”

On April 12, the fifteenth anniversary of Franklin Roosevelt's death, Kennedy reminded an audience that Roosevelt had accomplished more in a hundred days than Eisenhower and Nixon had in eight years. ”And now it is time for another 'New Deal'-a New Deal for West Virginia,” Jack declared. To hammer home the point, Joe Kennedy suggested that they ask FDR Jr., a Kennedy supporter, to join the campaign, which he did with great success, drawing wors.h.i.+pful crowds wherever he went. A West Virginia journalist said it was like ”G.o.d's son coming down and saying it was all right to vote for this Catholic, it was permissible, it wasn't something terrible to do.” Joe also shrewdly convinced FDR Jr. to send letters praising Jack from Hyde Park, New York, the site of FDR's home and resting place, to West Virginia Democrats.

To undercut Humphrey's stronger liberal identification, the Kennedys argued that a vote for Humphrey, who could not possibly get the nomination, would destroy prospects for the welfare reforms Jack proposed. Jack also described Humphrey as the tool of a ”stop-Kennedy gang-up” backed by Lyndon Johnson and Stuart Symington. Senator Byrd publicly acknowledged the accuracy of Jack's a.s.sertion. ”If you are for Adlai Stevenson, Senator Stuart Symington, Senator Johnson or John Doe, this primary may be your last chance to stop Kennedy,” he declared. Seizing on Byrd's candid statement, Jack responded: ”Hubert Humphrey has no chance to win the Democratic nomination for President, and he knows it, so why is he running against me in this primary? To stop me and give the nomination to Johnson or Stevenson or Symington. If Johnson and the other candidates want your vote in the November election, why don't they have enough respect for you to come here and ask for your vote in the primary?” It was a compelling argument that appealed to the self-interest and sense of fair play of West Virginia Democrats. At the same time Kennedy challenged Johnson publicly, he confronted him privately, complaining that Johnson was using Humphrey as a stalking-horse. According to Johnson, when he denied he was running, Jack pressured him to ”get Senator Byrd 'out of West Virginia.'” Johnson defended himself by telling Kennedy that he could not get Byrd out of his own state and reminded Jack that he had supported his vice presidential bid in 1956 and given him choice committee a.s.signments.

With so much at stake in the election, the contest turned ugly. Humphrey attacked his ”rivals” for the nomination as ”millionaire 'money' candidates backed by political machines.” Specifically, he went after Kennedy's free spending: ”I don't think elections should be bought... . American politics are far too important to belong to the money men... . Kennedy is the spoiled candidate and he and that young, emotional, juvenile Bobby are spending with wild abandon... . Anyone who gets in the way of papa's pet is going to be destroyed... . I don't seem to recall anybody giving the Kennedy family-father, mother, sons or daughters-the privilege of deciding who should ... be our party's nominee.”

When Kennedy complained about the ”personal abuse” and ”gutter politics,” Humphrey shot back, ”Poor little Jack. That is a shame. And you can quote me on that.” Humphrey also ridiculed his complaint of an anti-Kennedy coalition: ”I wish he would grow up and stop acting like a boy. What does he want, all the votes?” Humphrey a.s.serted that Kennedy was ”attempting to set up an alibi should he lose.”

Although Humphrey was never proud of his negative attacks, which did more to hurt him than Kennedy, he had reason for complaint. ”I would suggest that brother Bobby examine his own conscience about innuendoes and smears,” he said. ”If he has trouble knowing what I mean, I can refresh his memory very easily.” An FDR Jr. a.s.sertion that Humphrey had been a draft dodger, which Humphrey believed was approved by Bobby, if not Jack, particularly incensed him. In possession of information that Humphrey may have sought military deferments during World War II, Bobby had pressed Roosevelt to use this in retaliation for Humphrey's harsh words. In fact, having tried and failed to get into the service because of physical disabilities, Humphrey corrected the record with the Kennedys. ”They believed me,” he wrote later, ”but never shut F.D.R. Jr., up, as they easily could have.” Jack publicly announced, ”Any discussion of the war record of Senator Humphrey was done without my knowledge and consent, as I strongly disagree with the injection of this issue into the campaign.” His statement, however, did not challenge the accuracy of what Roosevelt had said. Having addressed issues of food, Franklin, and family in the campaign, the Kennedys were now taking care of the flag.

But it was Kennedy spending that Humphrey knew was his biggest problem. In West Virginia politics, money was king. ”As I told you last time you were down here,” a state political veteran wrote FDR Jr. in April, ”most of these coal-field counties are for sale. It is a matter of who gets there first with the most money.” Teddy White wrote, ”Politics in West Virginia involves money-hot money, under-the-table money, open money.”

The payoffs involved a system of slating, which was a form of legalized bribery. To sort through dense ballots with long lists of names, voters relied on ”slates” given to them by county political bosses, usually the county sheriff. Voters would then vote for those candidates on the slate. It was all very simple: The candidate who paid the most to the county Democratic boss (under the conceit of subsidizing ”printing” costs) would have his list of backers identified as the ”approved slate.” When one county sheriff told a Humphrey campaign organizer what each name on a slate would cost in his county and the man pa.s.sed the word to Humphrey, the response was, ”We would pay it, but we don't have the money.” Where Humphrey's total expenditures on the campaign amounted to $25,000, the Kennedys spent $34,000 on TV programming alone. With the Kennedys' approval, Larry O'Brien independently negotiated the payments for the slates. ”Our highest possible contribution was peanuts compared to what they [county leaders] had received from the Kennedy organization,” Humphrey complained. Such payments did not, O'Donnell noted, bother ”the earthy and realistic people of West Virginia, who were accustomed to seeing the local candidate for sheriff carrying a little black bag that contained something other than a few bottles of Bourbon whiskey.”

On May 10, Kennedy won a landslide, 60.8 to 39.2 percent. As Joe Tumulty, Woodrow Wilson's secretary, said of the 1920 Harding victory, ”It wasn't a landslide, it was an earthquake.” It did not matter that the vote was not binding on the state's twenty-five convention delegates. Kennedy had proved that he could ama.s.s a big majority among Protestants. Kennedy opponents tried to downplay the result with accusations of vote buying. An investigation by Eisenhower's attorney general William P. Rogers turned up no significant wrongdoing. The editor of the Charleston Gazette Charleston Gazette ”sent two of our best men out. They spent three to four weeks checking. Kennedy did not buy that election,” he concluded. ”He sold himself to the voters.” It was a fair a.s.sessment. The Kennedy expenditures financing the slates were technically legal. The combination of Jack's personal appeal, lavish Kennedy campaign spending, an emphasis on economic uplift, a.s.surances about Jack's commitment to separation of church and state, and Humphrey's pointless candidacy after Wisconsin gave Jack the decisive victory. When ”sent two of our best men out. They spent three to four weeks checking. Kennedy did not buy that election,” he concluded. ”He sold himself to the voters.” It was a fair a.s.sessment. The Kennedy expenditures financing the slates were technically legal. The combination of Jack's personal appeal, lavish Kennedy campaign spending, an emphasis on economic uplift, a.s.surances about Jack's commitment to separation of church and state, and Humphrey's pointless candidacy after Wisconsin gave Jack the decisive victory. When Newsweek Newsweek quoted Humphrey as believing that the election was stolen from him, he wrote the editor, ”I have no complaints about the election-Senator Kennedy won it and I lost it.” quoted Humphrey as believing that the election was stolen from him, he wrote the editor, ”I have no complaints about the election-Senator Kennedy won it and I lost it.”

Within ten days after West Virginia, Jack had beaten Wayne Morse in Maryland by 70 to 17 percent and then defeated him in Oregon, his home state, by 51 to 32 percent. It was Kennedy's seventh straight primary victory and convinced Jack's advisers that he was on his way to the nomination.