The Redhunter (36 page)

Dwight Eisenhower was prepared to make critical concessions in return for securing the nomination. He had cleared the choice
of Senator Richard Nixon of California as running mate. Richard Nixon’s identification with the party faithful was as: the
man who flushed out Alger Hiss. As such he had been the premier anti-Communist in Congress, until Joe McCarthy came in. Eisenhower
could hope, with Nixon on the ticket, to carry California and the mighty Midwestern states so much alive to the Communist
issue.

The keynote speaker was to be General Douglas MacArthur, the august hero of World War II and the Korean war, dismissed by
President Truman in April of 1951, an act of enormous political consequence. MacArthur was the greatest living American orator,
and his
speech was greatly anticipated. “The Democrats want to see how he’s going to play the Communist question,” Adams told Ike,
who, as a major, had served as personal assistant to MacArthur in Manila in 1939.

MacArthur was not ambiguous in his keynote address on the matter of U.S. diplomacy. He denounced “those reckless men who,
yielding to international intrigue, set the stage for Soviet ascendancy as a world power and our own relative decline.”

Eisenhower, in his hotel suite with a half dozen of his staff, watched intently the following day when time came for McCarthy
to address the convention. He was introduced by temporary convention chairman Walter Hallanan of West Virginia.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the convention,” Hallanan said, “the Truman-Acheson administration, the Communist press, and the
fellow travelers have all joined hands in a gigantic propaganda campaign to discredit and destroy an able and patriotic United
States senator because he had the courage to expose the traitors in our government.” Applause. “Let us make it clear to the
country here today and now that we turn our backs on Alger Hiss but that we will not turn our backs on any man such as that
fighting marine from Wisconsin whom I now present to this convention, the Honorable Joseph McCarthy.” Great applause.

Eisenhower turned to Adams. “You say Taft controls the convention. Looks like McCarthy controls it.”

The Eisenhower contingent watched the big television screen as McCarthy entered the convention hall, walking slowly to take
and shake proffered hands. The band played “On Wisconsin” and the marine corps hymn.

On the platform, Senator McCarthy lost little time in hitting his theme. The Truman administration, he told the convention,
was trying to hold back Communism “in the Acheson-Lattimore fashion of hitting them with a perfumed silk handkerchief at the
front door while they batter our friends with brass knuckles and blackjacks at the back door.” The crowd cheered and yelled.
It was a minute and more before McCarthy could resume his tongue-lashing of the administration.

“Wait till you hear his closing lines,” Adams warned General Eisenhower, an advance text of the speech on his lap. “They’re
powerful.”

McCarthy preceded his peroration by introducing on the floor Robert Vogeler, who as an executive of the International Telephone
and Telegraph Company had been arrested by the Communist government in Hungary on bogus charges of spying and kept in jail
for seventeen months. Mrs. Vogeler, who had been a beauty queen in Belgium, had petitioned for intervention by the secretary
of state. She arrived at Mr. Acheson’s office, but was not given a hearing. She coped with this bureaucratic intransigence
by reappearing every morning at nine
A.M.,
filing her petition with the receptionist, and staying until the office closed. She did this for several consecutive months
until her visitation became a news event. The great diplomatic machinery began finally to clank, and Vogeler was let out of
jail. But there were other Americans detained by Communist governments.

“Mr. Truman says there is nothing wrong in the State Department,” McCarthy went on. “He says everything is just fine; he has
actually said that if anyone hears of anything wrong, just call him collect and he personally will take care of things.”

The pause was dramatic. Where was Senator McCarthy going to take that opening?

McCarthy’s voice was suddenly thunderous, demanding, frustrated. “Mr. Truman, your telephone is ringing tonight. Five thousand
Americans are calling, calling from prison cells deep inside Russia and her satellite nations. They are homesick, Mr. Truman.
They are lonely and maybe a little afraid. Answer your telephone, Mr. Truman. It will be interesting to hear what you have
to say. Some of them haven’t heard an American speak for years.

“But, Mr. Truman, they are getting a busy signal on your line. They will call Washington again; they will call again when
the American people are through with you, Mr. Truman, and through with the Achesons, the Jessups, and the Lattimores.”

This brought on an eruption from delegates transfixed by what they heard, their great resources of indignation over Communist
practices tapped. McCarthy’s closing had, word for word, been heard by everyone who had heard him speak in the past two years.
It was his standard closing. It began, “My good friends, I say one Communist in a defense plant is one Communist too many.”
And ended, “And even if there were only one Communist in the State Department, that would still be one Communist too many.”

McCarthy received a standing ovation.

Everyone in the suite looked at Eisenhower for his response.

“That was a pretty good speech, in my judgment.” He turned to Hagerty, his press aide. “Jim, what’s the scoop on those Americans
detained by Communists? Get that researched and let me have it.”

“Yes, General.”

“Oh, and let me have a briefing on my breakfast tomorrow with the Texas delegates.” Their support for Eisenhower was critical.

On Wednesday they came over to Ike’s rolling bandwagon, and the next day Dwight David Eisenhower was nominated for president.

JULY 4, 1953

Lincoln McNair, his seersucker jacket loose to let in what comfort he could in the heavy summer heat, leaned on the branch
of the birch tree, his long arm outstretched. He’d have taken off his jacket anywhere else.
Anywhere
else, but not here, not at a White House party. He was chatting with Andrew Ely, administrative assistant to Republican majority
leader Senator Robert Taft.

“I swear to you it’s true, Andrew, the day after the Korean war began—June 25, 1950—I looked down at the schedule for the
next week and thought, Oh, my God, we’ve got to do something about
that.
A White House party while we’re at war? I put a note on President Truman’s desk and stayed in the room. He liked that—I know,
I know, the guard has changed, but I can still say it was great back then. Mr. Truman liked to have a note summarizing your
message, where that was possible. What I wrote was, ‘Sir, should we off-load the Fourth of July party on account of Korea?’
He raised his head and snapped out,
‘Don’t anybody here suggest eliminating the Fourth of July celebration. Pass that word out.’
So here we are, three years later under another administration, and I still get invited even though I work now for a lowly
senator. Speaking of lowly senators, Andrew, why in the hell don’t you people curb that madman from Wisconsin? I mean, he’s
been driving everybody crazy the whole time.”

“I accept that you people are crazy, Linc. Then you accept that
our people drove you people out of the White House. What’s wrong with that? … What did you get to eat with Mr. Truman?” He
swigged on his beer bottle.

Lincoln McNair was also drinking beer. “If FDR could serve hot dogs to the king and queen, Mr. Truman said in 1945 at his
first
Fourth of July party for congressional staff, I can serve beer in bottles. Now nobody thinks about champagne anymore.”

Andrew Ely accepted the challenge, if belatedly. “McCarthy has an, uh, emphatic way of putting things. But, Linc, if you will
forgive me, you people screwed things up something awful, and it’s almost a relief to think that maybe some of that screwup
was intentional. When cuckoo things happen, and under your ex-boss, at Fourth of July time, the North Koreans had all but
swallowed up South Korea. The Red Chinese were egging them on—our European partners are all but ignoring us—Stalin’s successors
are continuing to provision North Korea, in case the war resumes, using a lot of hardware
we
gave
Stalin
to fight a very different war with—. As I say, it would almost be a relief if we could figure out that somebody
wanted
it that way.”

“Good thing I’ve known you since Andover, Andrew. I might otherwise take offense. You’ve been reading too many of McCarthy’s
speeches, is my guess. They seem to encourage Americans to believe that when things get bad it’s because we Democrats want
them to get bad. But—to change the subject sharply: How’s Alice doing?”

“She really appreciated your note. Oh, Linc, have you met Senator McCarthy’s star aide, Harry Bontecou?” They hadn’t met.
Harry extended a hand.

“Lincoln McNair, former administrative assistant to the president, administrative assistant to Senator Kennedy—Harry Bontecou,
administrative assistant to the junior senator from Wisconsin.” McNair drew himself up from his slouch against the tree and
extended his hand.

“How you doing, Harry? Better, I hope, than your boss.”

“My boss is okay; he isn’t so busy.” Harry grinned. “He hasn’t had to mobilize an army to cover for his mistakes.” The Korean
war had quieted down, though peace negotiations continued.

“Hey, hey, kids, cut it out,” Ely interrupted. He spotted a friend.
“Robin.”
He signaled to the girl in yellow with the light brown hair.
“Robin, you beautiful thing with the light brown hair, come here for a bit and keep these two brawlers separated.”

She was introduced, and her smile lit up the players, and soon they were talking and laughing together. Harry observed Robin
with wonder. The sheer freshness, he thought—how to manage that in such heat! She didn’t have a beer bottle in her hand. Somehow
such a combination was unimaginable. She had a Dixie cup with something dark in it. Coke, probably. “Let’s sit down for the
fireworks,” she suggested. Lincoln McNair wandered off, looking for his wife at the far end of the Rose Garden.

“I got to get back to Alice,” Ely said. He blew a kiss at Robin, and nodded at Harry.

“Guess it’s you and me.” She smiled. “Okay?”

“Very okay.”

They sat down on two of the four hundred garden seats and saw the fireworks light up on the South Lawn, a twenty-minute display,
the marine band playing Sousa music, rounds of applause as the firework sequence reached more and more exuberant heights and
splendors. And at the end of it, sudden momentary dark. Quiet. Peace.

“Are you free for dinner?”

“Yes,” Robin said. “I feel very, wonderfully free.”

Jean Kerr opened the door to Joe’s office. It was seven-thirty and he was conferring, collar open, tie askew, with Don Surine
and Harry. The whole of five-foot-ten Jean Kerr, made even taller by her six inches of upswept bouffant hair, came into the
room. She strode to Joe’s desk, slammed her folder of papers down, reared back, placed her hands on her waist, and hissed,
“That’s
it,
Joe McCarthy. I told you what,
ten
times?
Fifteen
times that we had to be at Bazy’s at seven? But you can’t be there at seven because you have to find one more Communist in
the Department of—of—Weights and Measures. I’ll call Bazy, tell her we’re not coming. While I’m at it I’ll tell her never
mind being a bridesmaid at our wedding because
there will be no wedding!”

She turned to Harry. “Hear that, Harry? Hear that, Don?
There will be no wedding!
Don’t you smile at me, Joe McCarthy. Go marry the Statue of Liberty, or whoever was your last informant. Go marry Freda Utley.
Go marry—Mother Bloor!” She left the office, slamming the door.

“Oh, dear,” McCarthy said. He leaned over, picked up the phone, and roused the stand-in office operator.