Nixonland. Part 38

The AFL-CIO revealed a poll it had taken in Wisconsin: McGovern was in the lead. It seemed the vindication not only of the new populism, but also of a year and a half's work.

The McGovern campaign had begun just after the 1970 election. Gary Hart, McGovern's campaign manager, recruited a twenty-four-year-old named Gene Pokorny off a feed-grain farm who'd been a legendary McCarthy organizer in Nebraska. By then he was contemptuous of McCarthy-for not having McGovern's hunger to win. Hart sent Pokorny to Wisconsin to make their stand in the state that had driven Lyndon Johnson from office, the home to 1920s progressive hero Fighting Bob La Follette and Tailgunner Joe McCarthy-two very different politicians whose commonality was a gra.s.sroots following contemptuous of the Washington Establishment.

Pokorny was met, seventeen months before the primary, with no little bafflement. But the jump-start was key to Hart's national strategy. By locking up the left-wing activist base early, McGovern denied it to the other New Politics aspirants. (The sentimental candidate himself, in a memo to strategists, was excited for the early start for another reason: "to have an opportunity to educate an entire nation and to learn from an entire nation over the period of the next two years. That is its own reward.") McGovern wrote ingratiating letters to anonymous activists in 1971 as a.s.siduously as Richard Nixon had written to newspaper publishers and J. Edgar Hoover in 1965. Flattered, they gladly advanced his visits, of which McGovern kept up a wall-to-wall schedule. (The campaign always announced its events as "receptions," not "rallies," in case only a dozen showed up.) While Nixon operatives were taking meetings with ITT lobbyists and hitting up executives for $100,000 checks, Hart had field men organizing rummage sales, pet.i.tion drives, and workshops on how to canva.s.s and set up storefronts. At McGovern's Washington headquarters-it was next to the liquor store, in a neighborhood so dangerous cabbies wouldn't drive there-supporters worked through the night. Just like Nixon's Plumbers, McGovern's students were convinced they were fighting to save civilization.

Winning Wisconsin was key. They would never be able to afford to organize so thoroughly again. At Pokorny's insistence, McGovern had spent seventy-two hours in the Badger State at least once every three months, beginning early in '71. Many towns had never before seen a presidential candidate. And even on the radio, they'd rarely heard one who could speak so authoritatively and sympathetically on agriculture. ("The fact is that over the past twenty years livestock prices have remained the same while the meat marketing margins have doubled," the editor of the scholarly volume Agricultural Thought in the 20th Century Agricultural Thought in the 20th Century would say; "the farmer's share of the consumer's food dollar has fallen from forty-seven cents in 1952 to thirty-eight cents today.") would say; "the farmer's share of the consumer's food dollar has fallen from forty-seven cents in 1952 to thirty-eight cents today.") A squad of professionals arrived two weeks before the balloting, bivouacking in an out-of-the-way motor lodge in Milwaukee, inheriting volunteer organizations in every one of the state's seventy-two counties, ten thousand volunteers in Milwaukee alone. In the Fourth District-the South Side of Milwaukee, where the voters were Polish just as Edmund Muskie was Polish and had beaten civil rights marchers nearly to death in 1967 and had gone for Wallace in '68 and '64-McGovern volunteers from twenty states, as young as thirteen years old, slept on the linoleum floor of a toy warehouse. Headquarters wouldn't waste b.u.mper stickers on such inhospitable soil. The volunteers canva.s.sed past dark all the same, in a Milwaukee "spring" when the average daytime high was thirty-four degrees. Teddy White compared them to the forces of North Vietnam's General Giap, "living off the land, tapping veins of frustration everywhere; raising money locally as they rolled...stirring to action hearts. .h.i.therto unstirred by politics." Timothy Crouse in Rolling Stone Rolling Stone invoked "the guys who were in the hills with Castro." invoked "the guys who were in the hills with Castro."

It wouldn't have worked if the peasantry and proletariat weren't willing to be stirred. McGovern held a press conference in the home of a Polish family squeezed by property taxes that was featured in the New York Times. New York Times. "You get more money but it just don't do nothing," Richard Wysocki, a car mechanic, said, gesturing thankfully to his South Dakotan protector. McGovern started dropping in on bowling alleys on league nights. "Word spread like wildfire," his earnest young traveling aide, Gordon Weil, recalled. It "turned into a triumphal tour." McGovern's favor among blue-collar voters became the key to his campaign's strategy. "You get more money but it just don't do nothing," Richard Wysocki, a car mechanic, said, gesturing thankfully to his South Dakotan protector. McGovern started dropping in on bowling alleys on league nights. "Word spread like wildfire," his earnest young traveling aide, Gordon Weil, recalled. It "turned into a triumphal tour." McGovern's favor among blue-collar voters became the key to his campaign's strategy.

George Wallace called a press conference the day after the Florida primary to announce he was coming to Milwaukee. He was armed with a poll showing he had just won 50 percent of the Democrats who had voted for Nixon in 1968 and one-third of Florida's new under-twenty-one votes: "What has happened here in Florida just makes it more clear to me-and ought to make it clear to anybody with good sense-that I am a serious candidate for the nomination." McGovern welcomed the test. He called Wallace's Florida showing "an angry cry from the guts of ordinary Americans against a system which doesn't give a d.a.m.n about what's really bothering the people of this country today." Busing, he said, was merely a "symbol of all these grievances rolled into one." Wallace, Nixon, Jackson, and Humphrey were using it "to take people's minds off the problems which really concern them."

The Wednesday before the election the kind of late-season blizzard fell on southern Wisconsin that people printed up T-shirts to commemorate. Muskie was speaking, gutsily, in Kimberly, Wisconsin, a company town, for his proposal to ban the nation's biggest two hundred companies from further expansion in size (Kimberly-Clark was No. 141) and was stranded. Jackson-shifting his appeal from busing to hitting Nixon for his "elaborate machinery on wage controls, but virtually nothing on price controls," defending himself from charges his campaign was being financed illegally by Boeing executives' traveler's checks-got stuck in the spa.r.s.ely inhabited north. Humphrey and Lindsay were socked in, too, and it seemed as if a sign: only McGovern plowed through to his next event. A POW's wife standing loyally by the candidate's side, he cried that "the truth is that only by ending the war can we get our prisoners of war released," that Richard Nixon's continued bombing "insures that American prisoners will remain in their cells."

The issue would become more pressing within days. South Vietnam had dodged a Tet-season attack by keeping ARVN troops in their barracks until the end of the holiday. Strategists presumed the Communists would save their final offensive for 1973, by which time many more U.S. troops would have been withdrawn. Instead, they staged a 1972 spring offensive. Some 120,000 North Vietnamese regular troops poured over the seventeenth parallel accompanied by the Communists' most intense rocket and artillery bombardment of the war. By the first day of April the entire South Vietnamese Third Division was in retreat. The next day one of its regiments stripped off their military insignia and joined the civilian refugees streaming south. The day after that another regiment bartered for their lives by turning over their artillery cannons-another spectacular failure for Vietnamization, exactly one month before American forces were scheduled to draw down to sixty-nine thousand troops.

Richard Nixon half-welcomed the news. It was, in a way, his Gulf of Tonkin incident, his excuse to move all in with the h.e.l.lfire knockout punch he'd been dreaming about since planning Operation Duck Hook.

The mission was christened Operation Freedom Train. The president ordered a fleet of B-52s to carpet bomb the demilitarized zone. But in Quang Tri, as in Wisconsin, foul weather clouded the skies. Air force bra.s.s told their men not to fly. So Kissinger brought in a new air force general, named him air commander, and gave him a fourth star, bypa.s.sing Admiral Moorer. Nixon delivered a Pattonesque speech to Bob Haldeman, and started bombing with savage intensity.

The bombs started falling on primary day, which the Today Today show observed with a half hour live from Milwaukee. Jackson, Wallace, and Humphrey ma.s.sed in anyone-but-McGovern chorus in favor of the bombing-the government "should take whatever action is necessary to protect the remaining residual troops." Since Muskie didn't mention the matter in his segment, the president told Haldeman to get to work attacking him for showing "no concern for the POWs or the protection for the seventy thousand GIs." show observed with a half hour live from Milwaukee. Jackson, Wallace, and Humphrey ma.s.sed in anyone-but-McGovern chorus in favor of the bombing-the government "should take whatever action is necessary to protect the remaining residual troops." Since Muskie didn't mention the matter in his segment, the president told Haldeman to get to work attacking him for showing "no concern for the POWs or the protection for the seventy thousand GIs."

Bad weather favors insurgents. At 9:40 Frank Mankiewicz announced McGovern had taken seven of Milwaukee's nine congressional districts-including the Fourth, where the residents had beaten the civil rights marchers in 1967, and the Fifth, which an organizer described as "Archie Bunker's street drawn out to infinity." McGovern called his victory a "vote of protest and hope." Reporters, having missed the story of McGovern's awesome organization, began typing phrases such as "stunning victory," and noting that the third-place finisher, Humphrey, who had the full endors.e.m.e.nt of the state AFL-CIO and was supposed to be so beloved in the Badger State that they called him "Wisconsin's third senator," edged out Muskie, but that Muskie was edged out in turn by George Wallace. "Senator Muskie, are you finished?" a reporter asked. More or less, he was.

Senator Henry "Scoop" Jackson tied for the b.o.o.by prize with the matinee-idol mayor of New York. Lindsay's press secretary lost $102, having bet his man would pull 10 percent. Lindsay only ended up with 7, and quit. George Wallace held strong in second place.

The next day McGovern people started laughing at the Establishment that had been laughing at them. His janissaries made calls to incredulous reporters claiming that despite his being in fourth place in national polls, despite his having earned only 95 of the 1,508 delegates required to win, McGovern had just about sewn it up, thanks to his strength among activists in caucus states. Time Time started planning a McGovern cover; Evans and Novak noted the emergence of an "Anybody But McGovern" movement. started planning a McGovern cover; Evans and Novak noted the emergence of an "Anybody But McGovern" movement.

Then, the day that Wisconsin helped clarify the confusing Democratic picture, the White House got to work on re-clouding it. "The P wanted to be sure that we get people to follow up on the line, that Kennedy is now the obvious Democratic candidate," Haldeman wrote in his diary. "He liked my idea of waiting a few days and then having Connally give Teddy Secret Service protection"-the Secret Service were under Connally's Department of the Treasury-"on the basis that there's general agreement that he's going to be the candidate."

On April 6, B-52 strikes pushed sixty miles farther north, accompanied by headlines like "A Big New Phase of War Is Opening." McGovern was now being called the stalking horse for Kennedy, as the Ma.s.sachusetts senator gave his most lacerating antiwar speech to date: "The simple truth is that this test of Vietnamization, with or without American support, is a wholly immoral and unjustifiable test, because it is a test that is being carried out with the lives of men, women, and children. Those dead and dying bodies stretched out beside the road across our television screens last night are the bodies of human beings. We do not have the right-no one has the right-to demand a test like that."

Ten-dollar, twenty-dollar, fifty-dollar checks, with angry notes attached about ending the slaughter, started flooding McGovern headquarters. Nixon campaign headquarters, a block from the White House, was even more the maelstrom. The Federal Elections Campaign Act went into effect the next day, and the suitcases full of cash and negotiable securities were flying in in a frenzy. Rose Mary Woods scribbled out a makeshift list of all the money they were scrambling to process, to keep track of their chits. (Later that list was entered into evidence in a congressional investigation, and earned the nickname "Rose Mary's Baby.") The next big day for the Democrats was April 25, with primaries in Ma.s.sachusetts and Pennsylvania. On April 10, the president sent the B-52s another ninety miles north. He also made a carefully coded diplomatic utterance at a signing ceremony for the Biological Weapons Convention: "Every great power must follow the principle that it should not encourage directly or indirectly any other nation to use forms of armed aggression against one of its neighbors." Henry Kissinger was due in Moscow in nine days to cement the details for a presidential visit, scheduled for the last week in May-for final talks, and perhaps the signing, of a Strategic Arms Limitation Treaty, under negotiation since November of 1969. Decoded, Nixon's message meant: We've noticed that the North Vietnamese are fighting with better weapons, provided by you. Desist, Desist, or lose your summit, your treaty, and your chance to increase your influence with the United States to balance out your rival China's influence with the United States; or lose your summit, your treaty, and your chance to increase your influence with the United States to balance out your rival China's influence with the United States; desist, desist, or the South Vietnamese government might fall before the U.S. presidential elections, whence-forth Richard Nixon would be very, very angry. But Russia hardly wanted to seem a pushover on the eve of a summit. The diplomatic task was complex. or the South Vietnamese government might fall before the U.S. presidential elections, whence-forth Richard Nixon would be very, very angry. But Russia hardly wanted to seem a pushover on the eve of a summit. The diplomatic task was complex.

Domestic politics, too, were difficult to juggle. On April 12, Nixon and Kissinger explained to the Republican congressional leadership why they were sending them into an election season while increasing the number of active B-52 bombers in the Vietnam theater from 45 to 130, ships from 22 to 40, and fighter-bombers from 150 to 275. "What the enemy seeks," said their president, "is to inflict such a defeat on the ARVN" that the government of South Vietnam would collapse and "create so much turmoil in this this country that we will collapse. Then they will go into negotiations." The enemy attacked now, the president said, because they couldn't hold out for another year. Decoded, that meant: I am about to finish the job, and those who object will have stabbed their country in the back. country that we will collapse. Then they will go into negotiations." The enemy attacked now, the president said, because they couldn't hold out for another year. Decoded, that meant: I am about to finish the job, and those who object will have stabbed their country in the back.

On April 16, five behemoth B-52s pounded Hanoi and North Vietnam's lifeline port, Haiphong Harbor. Fighters strafed down below. Among the casualties were four Russian ships. Nonetheless, three days later, Kissinger proceeded to Moscow without Politburo objection. The summit was on; Richard Nixon had won the diplomatic battle.

He still had a political test ahead: keeping his credibility with the public. He embarked on a series of photo ops: flying up to Ottawa, signing a Great Lakes Water Quality Agreement with Canada to mark the third annual observance of Earth Day; meeting the table tennis team from the People's Republic of China; commending the District of Columbia police for a decline in the crime rate; signing an executive order for a National Center for Housing Management. Then, the night of April 26, he went on TV to make his latest Vietnam pitch: "Our draft calls now average fewer than five thousand men per month...we have offered the most generous peace terms.... The South Vietnamese are fighting courageously and well in their self-defense." Twenty thousand more American troops would come home by July 1. We would return to Paris to negotiate, thanks to the effectiveness of the air and naval strikes. "We are not trying to conquer North Vietnam or any other territory in the world....

"That is why I say to you tonight, let us bring our men home from Vietnam; let us end the war in Vietnam. But let us end it in such a way that the younger brothers and the sons of the brave men who have fought in Vietnam will not have to fight again in some other Vietnam at some time in the future....

"My fellow Americans, let us therefore unite as a nation in a firm and wise policy of real peace-not the peace of surrender, but peace with honor, not just peace in our time, but peace for generations to come. Thank you and good night."

It marked a profound chasm between the public and private transcripts. The previous day Henry Kissinger had outlined their next options: hitting power plants, docks, mining Haiphong Harbor, bombing civilians.

"I still think we ought to take the dikes out now," Nixon offered. "I think-will that drown people?"

"Zhat will drown about two hundred thousand people." will drown about two hundred thousand people."

"Oh, well, no, no. I'd rather use a nuclear bomb. Have you got that ready?"

"Zhat, I think, would be too much. Too much." I think, would be too much. Too much."

"The nuclear bomb. Does that bother you? I just want you to think big, big, Henry, for Christ's sakes!" Henry, for Christ's sakes!"

Kissinger paused, taken aback. He collected himself, eventually responding with the one thing he knew would talk the president down from his flight of fantasy: "I think we're going to make it." Until Election Day, he probably meant; Saigon would hold on at least until then.

Democrats voted in Pennsylvania and Ma.s.sachusetts. It was a split decision: the New Politics took the Bay State. The Old Politics took the Keystone State.

Ma.s.sachusetts was more or less preordained: Ma.s.sachusetts's plentiful antiwar Democrats had held a January caucus in which they agreed to unite behind a candidate who got more than 60 percent. McGovern, in the first public flexing of his organization's depth, did so comfortably. That he couldn't afford a campaign plane during the days of the New Hampshire primary had also helped. He would instead take commercial flights from Boston-campaigning there before boarding his campaign bus for Manchester, while Endors.e.m.e.nt Ed soared overhead at thirty thousand feet. The tortoise won Ma.s.sachusetts virtually unopposed. The next day the hare, New England's own Edmund Muskie, finally dropped out of the presidential race.

Pennsylvania was more interesting. Muskie, Wallace, and McGovern tied for second at about 21 percent. McGovern did reasonably well. The plurality, however, went to Hubert Horatio Humphrey. A story lay behind that. The Keystone State was where old-line labor, whose former commanding influence in brokering Democratic presidential nominations had been eviscerated by the reformed nominating process, staged its revenge. The AFL-CIO's president, George Meany, was a dyed-in-the-wool war supporter: "If we don't fight them there, we'll have to fight them in San Francisco," he'd said in 1965, before engineering a 2,0006 vote against an antiwar resolution at a labor convention. Having surrendered their kingmaking role to ordinary primary voters, who were proving to be alarmingly amenable to the candidate of the antiwar hippies, old-line labor now made its move to take McGovern out. Its vehicle was old reliable Hubert Humphrey.

It had first been tried in Wisconsin. Badger State labor leaders told their memberships not to vote for McGovern because he hadn't voted to end a right-wing filibuster against an antilabor right-to-work law in 1966. This was nasty politics: actually McGovern's labor voting record was just about flawless, better than John F. Kennedy's in 1960-so good, in fact, that he feared for his reelection in 1968 in a conservative state like South Dakota. Upon which George Meany, like some labor pope, had granted McGovern an absolution to vote against right-to-work in 1966. In 1971, Meany had explicitly signed off on McGovern as an acceptable Democratic nominee. Now, in 1972, the pope ordered his Wisconsin bishops to use that vote to call McGovern a traitor to labor, and turn out their machine for Humphrey. They had been no match for McGovern's Badger State army. But McGovern had no army in Pennsylvania: he had spent all his forces in Wisconsin. But Big Labor always had an army at the ready.

Pennsylvania was Humphrey's first primary win in three presidential campaigns. Muskie and Jackson had been rebuked by the voters. Evans and Novak were reporting that any chances Ted Kennedy would enter the race were done for good. That left anybody-but-McGovern with a name and a face. A smiling, exuberant face. Which was the soul of the divided Democrats' misfortune in the spring of 1972: Hubert Humphrey personified, for New Politics voters, the forces who'd stood by when kids were beat up in the streets of Chicago in 1968. At the University of Pennsylvania he was heckled as "America's number two war criminal." As he strolled down Chestnut Street in Philadelphia, a long-haired youth screamed in his face, "I don't see how you can smile when all these bombs are dropping on innocent civilians in Vietnam! You have no right no right to smile!" The nomination had come down to this: the purest possible "Old Politics versus New Politics" showdown. A Democratic civil war. to smile!" The nomination had come down to this: the purest possible "Old Politics versus New Politics" showdown. A Democratic civil war.

The neatness of the Democrats' divisions was almost...suspicious. "The only logical explanation of the Democratic Presidential campaign so far," Scotty Reston wrote in his New York Times New York Times column at the end of April, "is that it must have been planned by the Republicans." Little did he know his joke was literally true. The White House was delighted at George McGovern's ascendancy; he was the one serious contender they never rat-f.u.c.ked. They loved the combustion between the kind of people who loved Humphrey and the kind of people who liked McGovern; they themselves had helped set the fuse. column at the end of April, "is that it must have been planned by the Republicans." Little did he know his joke was literally true. The White House was delighted at George McGovern's ascendancy; he was the one serious contender they never rat-f.u.c.ked. They loved the combustion between the kind of people who loved Humphrey and the kind of people who liked McGovern; they themselves had helped set the fuse.

"The sudden surge in Senator Hubert Humphrey's prospects for another bout with Richard M. Nixon," Evans and Novak wrote in their April 27 column, the day after the Ma.s.sachusetts and Pennsylvania primaries, "is more the product of Senator George McGovern's spectacular landslide in Ma.s.sachusetts." Despite his apparent success in the bowling alleys of Beer Town, he'd only won 10 percent of the blue-collar wards in the Bay State. "McGovern is now being taken with infinitely more seriousness," the columnizing duo wrote. "Since Wisconsin, his eager and talented volunteers have flooded precinct conventions in such non-primary states as Kansas, Missouri, Vermont, and Idaho to ambush the regulars." And now those regulars "fear McGovern as the Democratic Party's Barry Goldwater."

They were ready now to fight back-for instance, by wielding not-for-attribution quotes like daggers in Evans and Novak columns.

One "liberal senator, whose voting record differs little from McGovern's," they wrote, "feels McGovern's surging popularity depends on public ignorance of his acknowledged public positions. 'The people don't know McGovern is for amnesty, abortion, and legalization of pot,' he told us. 'Once Middle America-Catholic Middle America, in particular-finds this out, he's dead.'"

The phraseology was repeated almost identically by Scotty Reston three days later: "George McGovern has run an intelligent and determined campaign and has now got to the top of the greasy pole, but with a heavy load of promises: to slash the defense budget steeply, legalize pot and abortion, and grant amnesty to the Vietnam expatriates. Selling this to George Meany and the labor organization, which is about the only effective political organization the Democrats have, will not be easy, and it will not be very popular with many other Democratic candidates who think pot, abortion, and amnesty are explosively dangerous issues."

The formulation was about one-half libel. Some prominent figures in American public life did indeed favor "legalization of pot"; they included William F. Buckley. But that wasn't McGovern's position. His agreed with the recommendation of the President's National Commission on Marijuana and Drug Abuse: "decriminalization," or lessening penalties, because statutes that defined at least 20 million Americans as criminals created "a crushing burden for law enforcement agencies." He favored prioritizing in its place $1.5 billion for treatment of addiction to drugs such as heroin-not far off from a program the Nixon administration actually initiated (Nixon hoped it would help them announce reduced crime rates in time for the presidential election). "Legalize abortion"? McGovern was actively hostile to it, to his feminist supporters' chagrin: "You can't just let anybody walk in and request an abortion," he told Time. Time. Pat Nixon, in one of her rare press conferences, noted, "I really am not for abortion...on demand-wholesale," adding that this was a question "for the individual states, not as a national issue." Which was precisely McGovern's position. Pat Nixon, in one of her rare press conferences, noted, "I really am not for abortion...on demand-wholesale," adding that this was a question "for the individual states, not as a national issue." Which was precisely McGovern's position.

But the invention that McGovern was pushing abortion and drug legalization took hold. The story contained a certain poetic truth: not about the policy issues specifically, but about the nation's polarization. The Chicago 7 trial had been a microcosm of that polarization, and McGovern had pleaded with Mayor Daley to dismiss the case. It was something hardheaded observers grasped better than either McGovern strategists in their twenties or the middle-aged men that worshipped "youth": that success built by locking up the left-wing youth-activist base might bear seeds of future defeat. McGovernites had discounted the signs.

Like the man on the South Side of Milwaukee who, asked by the young canva.s.ser what he thought of McGovern, said, "I'd vote for him if he'd turn Christian." Or the Milwaukeean who answered the same question, long before Evans and Novak's prompt (perhaps he'd heard it from his union), "McGovern? He's for dope." He wasn't. But his canva.s.sers were. Four years earlier young Eugene McCarthy workers bunked segregated by s.e.x and voluntarily banned alcohol. That wouldn't fly now. "Jesus, we won the f.u.c.king city of Fond du Lac with thirty high school kids, three-fourths of whom are drug freaks," a Dartmouth grad proudly told Rolling Stone Rolling Stone-whose political reporter, Hunter S. Thompson, was a proud drug freak, too.

On April 23, "in a spontaneous act of love for his honesty and Vietnam stand," the Yippies endorsed George McGovern. Once they became convinced that Abbie Hoffman and Jerry Rubin weren't out to sabotage McGovern and elect Humphrey in order to heighten the revolutionary contradictions, the McGovern team welcomed their help to register new under-twenty-one voters. A twenty-eight-year-old McGovern strategist set up a meeting with Abbie and Jerry in Washington. It fit their campaign theme: "McGovern can unite the country from a steelworker in Gary, Indiana, to a Yippie in Boston."

The campaign team was hoping to channel the anti-Establishment energy they believed was driving voters to Wallace. They turned a blind eye to the Wallaceites who identified McGovernites with the Establishment they were insurging against. They ignored the extent to which Evans and Novak were right right-that if these voters got to know McGovern better, they might like him less. Like the fellow who eagerly shook the hand of George McGovern at the U.S. Envelope factory in Ma.s.sachusetts. He explained to a reporter, "We feel the colored element is just getting way too much welfare, and McGovern might just be tough enough to crack down."

Instead McGovernites pointed to Nixon's escalation of the bombing in the face of an obviously war-weary public. But Evans and Novak reported something else in that April 27 column: that according to White House pollster Albert Sindlinger, the number who wanted to "go all out to win" the war rose from 23.3 percent to 29.7 percent after the Communists began their latest offensive, then another two points after Nixon started bombing. Those willing to "admit defeat and give up" hung steady at about 20 percent. Those agreeing "President Nixon is doing all he can to settle the war"-at a low of 46.8 percent after Cambodia-was now at 63.3 percent.

"Is this Wallace Country?" the emcee cried in a field house in Indiana, which had its primary the first Tuesday in May, along with Tennessee and Ohio.

"Yes!!!"

"I can't hear you. Is this Wallace Country?"

"YES!!!!"

The emcee introduced Billy Grammer and the Travel On Boys of the Grand Ole Opry. George Wallace's eleven-year-old daughter was introduced; then his thirty-year-old second wife. Then the man himself stepped behind his special bulletproof podium, covered in red, white, and blue bunting.

He sported more fashionable suits than in 1968, and more fashionable rhetoric: nothing about shooting rioters through the head or running down protesters with limousines. The racism was only between the lines-such as in his proposals to make child abandonment a crime to decrease the welfare rolls, and to reconfirm Supreme Court justices every six or eight years. His main appeal was "tax relief to stimulate consumer spending and bring more employment," and "a twelve-hundred-dollar tax credit for every working person and dependent." He said he was a populist, working for an America where "the average men are the kings and the average women are the queens." He said he had been all along-"and now they are taking the same stand. What does that make them? It makes them copycats."

Across the border the chief copycat was Scoop Jackson, campaigning full-time in Ohio for one final desperate last stand. He didn't have a single elected delegate. The Washington Post Washington Post featured him on May 1 as a curiosity who threw parties where no one showed up. He called himself a "progressive Democrat"-and hit every burg with a military base, saying it would become a ghost town if George McGovern became president, scowlingly pointing out that the South Dakotan was supported by Jerry Rubin and Abbie Hoffman. His aides, who'd thought of him as a conciliatory figure, cringed in embarra.s.sment. He defended himself to the featured him on May 1 as a curiosity who threw parties where no one showed up. He called himself a "progressive Democrat"-and hit every burg with a military base, saying it would become a ghost town if George McGovern became president, scowlingly pointing out that the South Dakotan was supported by Jerry Rubin and Abbie Hoffman. His aides, who'd thought of him as a conciliatory figure, cringed in embarra.s.sment. He defended himself to the Post: Post: "I'm not trying to get into a McCarthy-type thing"; but in 1948, "why, [McGovern] practically supported the Communist Party." He hammered the South Dakotan so hard, in fact, and with such futility for his own political fortunes, people wondered if Hubert Humphrey had put him up to it. The man who'd been offered two cabinet posts by Richard Nixon explicitly denied the charge. Then, the day before the Ohio primary, Jackson withdrew, renewing suspicions. "I'm not trying to get into a McCarthy-type thing"; but in 1948, "why, [McGovern] practically supported the Communist Party." He hammered the South Dakotan so hard, in fact, and with such futility for his own political fortunes, people wondered if Hubert Humphrey had put him up to it. The man who'd been offered two cabinet posts by Richard Nixon explicitly denied the charge. Then, the day before the Ohio primary, Jackson withdrew, renewing suspicions.

In Vietnam the ARVN was floundering. Back home, an annoyance cleared up for Richard Nixon. J. Edgar Hoover, the man who wished to claim all power of intimidation in Washington for his very own, who began compiling his files on five hundred thousand "subversives" during the 1919 Red Scare, the director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation since its founding, who kept columnist Joseph Alsop on a string by retaining photographs of him in flagrante delicto with male KGB agents in Moscow, was dead.

"Jesus Christ! That old c.o.c.ksucker!" was the president's private response.

Publicly, Nixon arranged for Hoover's half-ton, lead-lined coffin to lie in state in the Capitol Rotunda as if he'd been a president and said at his funeral, "The good J. Edgar Hoover has done will not die. The profound principles a.s.sociated with his name will not fade away. Rather, I would predict that in the time ahead those principles of respect for law, order, and justice will come to govern our nation more completely than ever before. Because the trend of permissiveness in this country, a trend which Edgar Hoover fought against all his life, a trend which was dangerously eroding our national heritage as a law-abiding people, is now being reversed."

And, as if on cue, the president's men amped up their lawlessness.

A squad of Cuban operatives, led by Bernard Barker, huddled near the Capitol steps where Daniel Ellsberg was among a group reading the names of dead servicemen. "Hippies, traitors, and Communists," Barker told his men, planned to "perpetrate an outrage on Hoover." He pointed out Ellsberg: "Our mission is to hit him, to call him a traitor, and punch him in the nose. Hit him and run." (It was, like the Fielding burglary, a botched effort: his men started punching hippies at random and were chased off by police.) The Committee to Re-Elect the President's head of security, a former FBI and CIA operative named James McCord, made a long-term reservation at a Howard Johnson's out past George Washington University, by the Kennedy Center, a mile away from the Committee's 1701 Pennsylvania Avenue office.

The big story from the Tuesday primaries was Ohio: they were still counting votes. Humphrey edged out a win; McGovernites charged election fraud in the black precincts of Cleveland. "McGovern and Humphrey Running Even," the Times Times headlined; in the headlined; in the Post Post David Broder pointed out that with George Wallace's wins in Tennessee and Indiana, Democratic sources said the Alabaman was on his way to enough delegates-perhaps 10 percent-to deny Humphrey or McGovern the nomination "unless one of them agrees to bargain on Wallace's terms." David Broder pointed out that with George Wallace's wins in Tennessee and Indiana, Democratic sources said the Alabaman was on his way to enough delegates-perhaps 10 percent-to deny Humphrey or McGovern the nomination "unless one of them agrees to bargain on Wallace's terms."

The next contest was in South Dakota's neighbor Nebraska, where Humphrey hadn't been bothering to campaign in the face of an expected McGovern romp. Three thousand McGovern volunteers were eager to confirm what seemed to them obvious: that McGovern appealed to conservative farm states.

But then, all of a sudden, it was as if Scoop Jackson were speaking from beyond the political grave.

McGovern rolled across the heavily Catholic Cornhusker State for a whistle-stop tour, following the same route as RFK in 1968. But everywhere he went, everyone just suddenly seemed to know know that their neighbor George McGovern was a fan of "abortion on demand." A group called Citizens Concerned for the Preservation of Life had taken out a half-page ad in that their neighbor George McGovern was a fan of "abortion on demand." A group called Citizens Concerned for the Preservation of Life had taken out a half-page ad in The True Voice, The True Voice, the paper of the Omaha diocese, quoting from Evans and Novak: "The people don't know McGovern is for amnesty, abortion, and legalization of pot." the paper of the Omaha diocese, quoting from Evans and Novak: "The people don't know McGovern is for amnesty, abortion, and legalization of pot."

The panicked campaign distributed flyers at parish churches after Sunday ma.s.s: "The McGovern Record," on one side, reb.u.t.ted the claim; a photo of the candidate with one of RFK's daughters and newspaper headlines such as "Ethel Kennedy Plans Picnic for McGovern" were on the other. The campaign pulled in a big gun: Charlie Guggenheim, the Kennedy family's favorite doc.u.mentarian, who sat the senator down in front of eight ordinary Nebraskans, including a nun, Roger Ailesstyle. McGovern told them and the cameras he deplored "the last-minute smear campaign," favored no federal law on abortion, hit "the scarecrows that have been trotted out in the closing days of this campaign by a political opposition that is cowardly and does not want to address the real issues," and a.s.sured Nebraska TV viewers he wouldn't legalize pot, though it "ought to be treated as a misdemeanor...punishable by fines rather than jail sentences."

It was the same answer Humphrey gave on pot when asked. Humphrey's position on abortion was identical to McGovern's, too. His position on amnesty was only slightly different: Humphrey favored it coupled with national service. The Washington Post Washington Post patiently explained all this in a long article about the controversy. But the patiently explained all this in a long article about the controversy. But the Washington Post Washington Post wasn't much read in Nebraska, and it wasn't Humphrey who'd been placed on the defensive. There is a saying in politics: if you're explaining, you're losing. The Republican National Committee's monthly magazine wasn't much read in Nebraska, and it wasn't Humphrey who'd been placed on the defensive. There is a saying in politics: if you're explaining, you're losing. The Republican National Committee's monthly magazine First Monday First Monday catapulted the propaganda: "While South Dakota Sen. George McGovern may give the impression of being a mild-mannered milquetoast...he is in reality a dedicated radical extremist who as President would unilaterally disarm the United States of America and open the White House to riotous street mobs." catapulted the propaganda: "While South Dakota Sen. George McGovern may give the impression of being a mild-mannered milquetoast...he is in reality a dedicated radical extremist who as President would unilaterally disarm the United States of America and open the White House to riotous street mobs."

On May 8, amid this latest flurry of Democratic disarray, the president went on TV to sell another escalation in the air campaign. Connally urged him, "Don't worry about killing civilians. Go ahead and kill 'em. People think you are now. So go ahead and give 'em some."

"That's right," concurred the president.

"There's pictures on the news of dead bodies every night," chimed in Haldeman. "A dead body is a dead body. n.o.body knows whose bodies they are or who killed them."

They code-named it Operation Linebacker; the president did love his football. Its centerpiece was mining Haiphong Harbor, which was filled with Soviet ships; not since 1962 had two nuclear powers seemed to have tangled so dangerously. Some feared it might end in mushroom clouds.

Mining the port of Haiphong was the sort of gamble the Joint Chiefs of Staff were always proposing and Lyndon Johnson was refusing, and not just for the nuclear risk. Johnson also refused the idea for its cruelty: weapons arrived there, but also food, infrastructure needs, medical supplies. Ron Ziegler observed in Nixon that ruddy glow; doing what Johnson refused to do made Nixon giddy. Still high from his speech, in the middle of the night he dictated a memo to Kissinger: "I cannot emphasize too strongly that I have determined that we should go for broke.... Now that I have made this tough watershed decision I intend to stop at nothing to bring the enemy to his knees.... if the target is important enough, I will approve a plan that goes after it even if there is a risk of some civilian casualties. We have the power. The only question is whether we have the will to use that power. What distinguishes me from Johnson is that I have the will in spades."

He had confidence in the politics. George Wallace's line on Vietnam elucidated why it worked: "Get it over with, and if you can't get it over with, get out now." Wallace followed that utterance by placing the blame other than with the commander in chief and the people who voted for him. "We face a Vietnam Dunkirk," Wallace would say, "because these liberals liberals listen to a bunch of people who jumped around in the street while you folks are working hard, paying taxes." It was one of his best applause lines. Americans hated the war. They hated the antiwarriors more. listen to a bunch of people who jumped around in the street while you folks are working hard, paying taxes." It was one of his best applause lines. Americans hated the war. They hated the antiwarriors more.

Nixon announced the harbor mining as a "decisive military action to end the war." (It wasn't decisive enough for the general counsel of the Committee to Re-Elect the President. When General Alexander Haig of the NSC traveled to 1701 Pennsylvania Avenue to brief the campaign staff on the operation, G. Gordon Liddy responded, "General, why haven't we bombed the Red River dikes? If we did that, we'd drown half the country and starve the other half.") On May 9 the Senate Democratic caucus condemned the move 2914, endorsed a cutoff of funding for the Vietnam War 358, voting 440 against postponing a Senate floor vote on the subject until Nixon returned from his planned trip to Moscow late in the month. The caucus was now speaking with George McGovern's voice. Two Democratic war supporters, Senators Sam Ervin and Gale McGee of Wyoming, argued manfully to give the president the chance, as McGee put it, to "luck out." Republican conservatives gave similar arguments. But David Broder spoke to a Republican campaign consultant who said his clients were "in shock" from Nixon's speech and "not much enthused about crawling out on a limb with him." Broder also cited an unnamed "labor politician" who agreed with the president's message "and counseled Democrats to be cautious in condemning" it. The New York Times, New York Times, for its part, now endorsed a cutoff in funding "to save the President from himself." Chuck Colson spent $4,400 from his slush funds for an ad signed by ten "independent citizens" rebuking the for its part, now endorsed a cutoff in funding "to save the President from himself." Chuck Colson spent $4,400 from his slush funds for an ad signed by ten "independent citizens" rebuking the Times Times for usurping the popular will. for usurping the popular will.

The campuses once more exploded, as Richard Nixon knew they would. Police, sheriff's deputies, and highway patrolmen staged an a.s.sault on five thousand violent University of Florida demonstrators. The student union in Madison was closed by trash fires and battles with club-wielding police. In College Park, Maryland, students tried to burn down an armory. The University of Minnesota suffered its worst violence in history. Spiro Agnew's limousine's rear window was smashed in Hawaii. Another hippie was shot in Albuquerque. Four hundred protesters were arrested sitting in at Westover Air Force Base in Ma.s.sachusetts (the president of Amherst announced he would join them). Dozens more staged a lie-in in front of the White House. ("This is to advise you that I am planning tomorrow night to drive my Pontiac Station Wagon up onto the curb of Pennsylvania Avenue," Colson wrote to Haldeman, "and run over all of the hippies who are lying there.") Nebraska Democrats voted. McGovern barely edged out Humphrey. Wallace was winning huge crowds in the states hosting primaries May 16: Michigan, where they liked to burn school buses; Maryland, where half the state thought like the South. The question every political a.n.a.lyst was now asking was whether labor boss George Meany would sit on his hands if George McGovern became the nominee.

Meany was hardly friends with d.i.c.k Nixon; in fact, they were in the middle of a simmering feud. In the fall of 1971 Nixon announced "Phase II" of his wage-and-price controls. The details-plenty of wage controls; few price controls-enraged Meany; when the president spoke at the AFL-CIO convention on November 19, the labor chieftain forbade the band from playing "Hail to the Chief." Nixon had played to his audience's cultural grievances, reminiscing about May 1970 and Cambodia, when they had battled the hippies together. ("Some wrote in those days that the president stood alone. I was not alone. One hundred and fifty thousand workers walked down Wall Street.") Then he turned to a brief discussion of Phase II, and the workers laughed in his face. The January convention p.r.o.nounced defeating him labor's "primary goal" for 1972. In March, Meany resigned defiantly from the White House commission advising Phase II's wage policies, taking three labor chiefs with him. On April 20 he testified before Congress that the price controls were "a fraud": "Food prices are going up. So the GNP is going up. Goody, goody. But what does that do for my people?"

Then, along came McGovern-Meany's lone political ally, remember, in the battle against Nixon's economic policies in 1971. But McGovern was also the living symbol of reform's usurpation of labor's leverage within the Democratic Party. The timing of the Haiphong mining forced the issue. Everyone knew where George McGovern stood. Everyone knew where Nixon stood. Where, though, would George Meany stand?

The answer was: with Nixon. Meany said all Americans should close ranks behind the president's brave stand to end the war in Vietnam. Meany had his deputies give blind quotes to a Washington Post Washington Post reporter for a May 14 article, "Leaders of Organized Labor Remain Largely Hostile to McGovern": "A number of labor leaders declared they were 'turned off' by some of the young staff people surrounding Senator McGovern, describing them as 'elitist' and 'zealots.'...Mr. Meany and other leaders were reported as virtually 'climbing the walls with rage' after reading an interview in which Mr. McGovern was quoted as saying that just as he had conceded he had made a mistake on the 14(b) vote, so Mr. Meany should acknowledge that he had made a mistake in supporting the Vietnam War.... Mr. McGovern, they say, is 'cold' and 'preachy.'" reporter for a May 14 article, "Leaders of Organized Labor Remain Largely Hostile to McGovern": "A number of labor leaders declared they were 'turned off' by some of the young staff people surrounding Senator McGovern, describing them as 'elitist' and 'zealots.'...Mr. Meany and other leaders were reported as virtually 'climbing the walls with rage' after reading an interview in which Mr. McGovern was quoted as saying that just as he had conceded he had made a mistake on the 14(b) vote, so Mr. Meany should acknowledge that he had made a mistake in supporting the Vietnam War.... Mr. McGovern, they say, is 'cold' and 'preachy.'"

Mr. McGovern, Big Labor was saying, was just not a regular guy. regular guy. And that this might be enough to earn Big Labor's veto. And that this might be enough to earn Big Labor's veto.

The guy who used to get elected by shaking every wheat farmer's hand in South Dakota was spending a lot more time with fancy liberals of questionable patriotism. You could see it, some noticed, in his clothes. One of his canva.s.sers back in Wisconsin had remarked upon it with satisfaction: at last "he knew how to tie his tie right. Gloria Steinem showed him how to tie it. You should have seen how he tied it before that."

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO.

Celebrities ARTHUR B BREMER WANTED TO BE FAMOUS. IN THIS, HE WAS NOT ALONE. It was one the by-products of the 1960s: the currency of celebrity appreciated considerably. "In the future," Andy Warhol said in 1968, "everyone will be world-famous for fifteen minutes." The aspiration, at least, seemed universal. It was one the by-products of the 1960s: the currency of celebrity appreciated considerably. "In the future," Andy Warhol said in 1968, "everyone will be world-famous for fifteen minutes." The aspiration, at least, seemed universal.

Bremer was a twenty-year-old Milwaukeean who followed politics closely. Which meant, in 1972, that he also followed celebrities closely. They were everywhere during the Wisconsin primary: the hillbilly singers for Wallace; Lorne Greene for Humphrey; Muskie's Rosey Grier-and the "Mighty McGovern Art Players," as the South Dakotan's staff began calling the ever-expanding entourage: Leonard Nimoy, Marlo Thomas, John Kenneth Galbraith, a half dozen athletes-and first and second among equals, Shirley MacLaine and her luminous brother, Warren Beatty. The star of Bonnie and Clyde Bonnie and Clyde was organizing five celebrity rock-concert fund-raisers for McGovern. He was so close to the campaign's inner circle that Gary Hart started wearing his hair and clothes like him. was organizing five celebrity rock-concert fund-raisers for McGovern. He was so close to the campaign's inner circle that Gary Hart started wearing his hair and clothes like him.

Bremer was an unemployed busboy whose only extended conversation with another friendly human in months was with a girl in a ma.s.sage parlor whom he was disappointed to learn wasn't a prost.i.tute. He had a plan, however, to get noticed: he would shoot the president of the United States and go out in a blaze of glory. He wrote it all down in a diary, comparing himself to Melville's Ishmael and Solzhenitsyn's Ivan Denisovich: This will be one of the most closely read pages since the scrolls in those caves. This will be one of the most closely read pages since the scrolls in those caves.

But everything was going awry. He started his hunt in New York. You had to be twenty-five to rent a car there, so he wouldn't be able to tail the president. On his way back to Milwaukee he left the suitcase with his guns on the plane (he was impressed with himself to hear his name called over the airport loudspeaker). His '67 Rambler Rebel was decrepit, which at least provided him a rusted cavity beneath the floor mat in which to hide a .38. But then he pushed it too deeply into the floorboards and lost access to the gun.

Bremer headed toward Canada to meet Nixon on his preEarth Day trip to Ottawa. Then he worried he wouldn't be able to cross the border without his car registration-so he called U.S. customs and asked. Then, at his motel on the way, he accidentally discharged his Browning 9mm.

He got rid of his excess ammunition (except for one bullet he later found in his pocket) and threw his gun cases into a pond (and thereupon discovered they floated). He'd cut his hair to look respectable for the border guard. Then he worried he would look like an army deserter (his diary recorded almost as much semiconscious desire to fail as fantasies about succeeding). He could only find a hotel fifty-eight miles outside of Ottawa, didn't know Nixon's schedule, blamed antiwar demonstrators for the "beefed up" security that kept him from getting close enough to the motorcade, disguised in his $70 suit and VOTE REPUBLICAN! VOTE REPUBLICAN! b.u.t.ton. b.u.t.ton. (Let security slacken & I'll show you something really effective. Tons of leaflets have been handed out all over the world for years & what did they get done.) (Let security slacken & I'll show you something really effective. Tons of leaflets have been handed out all over the world for years & what did they get done.) The next blown chance he chalked up to fastidiousness: he was busy grooming himself when the president's party egressed. I will give very little if ANY thought to these things on any future attempts. After all, does the world remember if Sirhan's tie was on straight? I will give very little if ANY thought to these things on any future attempts. After all, does the world remember if Sirhan's tie was on straight? Then he heard Richard Nixon would be attending a formal concert and changed his mind: Then he heard Richard Nixon would be attending a formal concert and changed his mind: To wear white tie & tails & get Nixon-boy, WOW! If I killed him while wearing a sweatty tee-shirt, some of the fun and Glamore would defionently be worn off. To wear white tie & tails & get Nixon-boy, WOW! If I killed him while wearing a sweatty tee-shirt, some of the fun and Glamore would defionently be worn off. It occurred to him his bullets might not be able to penetrate the limousine's bulletproof gla.s.s. He considered downgrading his ambitions: It occurred to him his bullets might not be able to penetrate the limousine's bulletproof gla.s.s. He considered downgrading his ambitions: killing 5 or 6 secret Service agents would get me in the papers SOMETHING to show for my effort. killing 5 or 6 secret Service agents would get me in the papers SOMETHING to show for my effort.

By the end of April he was enraged with himself: I was sopposed to be dead a week & a day ago. Or at least infamous. f.u.c.kING tens-of-1,000s of people & tens-of-millions of $. I'd just like to take some of them with me & Nixy. I was sopposed to be dead a week & a day ago. Or at least infamous. f.u.c.kING tens-of-1,000s of people & tens-of-millions of $. I'd just like to take some of them with me & Nixy. Back in Milwaukee he visited the zoo, walked by the lakefront, took in Back in Milwaukee he visited the zoo, walked by the lakefront, took in Clockwork Orange, Clockwork Orange, meditated upon an easier target. The prospect, however, worried him. meditated upon an easier target. The prospect, however, worried him. s.h.i.t! I won't even rate a T.V. enteroption in Russia or Europe when the news breaks-they never heard of Wallace.... I don't expect anybody to get a big throbbing erection from the news. s.h.i.t! I won't even rate a T.V. enteroption in Russia or Europe when the news breaks-they never heard of Wallace.... I don't expect anybody to get a big throbbing erection from the news.

Or maybe everybody would. Wallace's campaign was exploding. In March, Pontiac housewife Irene McCabe led antibusing activists in a forty-four-day march to Washington. "Our cause is to retain freedom, just like George Washington," she said, as one thousand supporters rallied her arrival on the steps of the U.S. Capitol, met by Senator Griffin and House minority leader Ford. Back in Michigan, citizens expressed their antibusing solidarity by flocking to Wallace's banner. He drew over six thousand in Dearborn; Arthur Bremer was there. He became a fixture around the campaign. He even offered to be a volunteer.

The problem was that Michigan didn't have the death penalty. It bothers me that there are about 30 guys in prison now who threatened the Pres & we never heard a thing about them. Except that they're in prison. It bothers me that there are about 30 guys in prison now who threatened the Pres & we never heard a thing about them. Except that they're in prison. He bought another plane ticket: why not Maryland? They had a primary on the sixteenth, too. He bought another plane ticket: why not Maryland? They had a primary on the sixteenth, too.

George Wallace gave his rap in Wheaton, Maryland, on Monday, May 15: "It's a sad day in our country when you go to Washington, D.C., and can't go one hundred feet from your hotel. It's not even safe in the shadow of the White House." He was heckled and pelted with tomatoes. His response was calmer than in 1968. He just said, "Your vocabulary is mighty limited if that's all you can say is nasty words like that."

On to the next stop. As usual, his caravan of admirers followed. By their b.u.mper stickers, you could know them: I FIGHT POVERTY. I WORK I FIGHT POVERTY. I WORK; G.o.d BLESS AMERICA G.o.d BLESS AMERICA; POW'S NEVER HAVE A NICE DAY POW'S NEVER HAVE A NICE DAY; REGISTER COMMUNISTS, NOT FIREARMS. REGISTER COMMUNISTS, NOT FIREARMS. His people were relieved to find a friendly crowd. Laurel was an overwhelmingly white town halfway between Washington and Baltimore in mixed-race Prince George's County-a perfect spot for a Wallace appeal. Five nights earlier, busing dominated the Fourth District congressional primary debates-and not one of the fifteen candidates was pro-busing. His people were relieved to find a friendly crowd. Laurel was an overwhelmingly white town halfway between Washington and Baltimore in mixed-race Prince George's County-a perfect spot for a Wallace appeal. Five nights earlier, busing dominated the Fourth District congressional primary debates-and not one of the fifteen candidates was pro-busing.

The setting was one of those identical U-shaped shopping centers built in profusion around the country in the 1950s and '60s. The Secret Service said it was too open for a rally. The owners of the Sunoco station at the mouth of the parking lot were afraid, too: they were from Africa and feared they'd be attacked.

Billy Grammer's band played "Dixie." Buckets circulated in the crowd for contributions. Their size was variously estimated at one thousand, twelve hundred, and two thousand.

Wallace spoke for almost an hour, until about four o'clock. "You can give 'em a case of St. Vitus' dance and you know how to do it," he wound up to the usual roars. "Vote for George Wallace tomorrow!"

Blew kisses, snapped off a smart salute. Came down from the platform to shake hands. The sun broke from behind a cloud bank.

The kid from Milwaukee in the Wallace b.u.t.ton pushed through the crowd, slipped past the seventy-five police officers and knot of Secret Service men: "Hey, George! Hey, George!" He was dressed "in red, white, and blue," the Post Post reported the next morning; and that he was "a loner with a penchant for p.o.r.nography." reported the next morning; and that he was "a loner with a penchant for p.o.r.nography."

Eighteen inches away, he took five shots to the beat of Billy Grammer's band.

"I thought it was firecrackers": a familiar phrase from the sixties.

Secret Service, bystanders, police, wrestled Arthur Bremer to the ground. Wallace was shot in the lower-right chest. A Secret Service agent, a bystander, and Wallace's personal Alabama trooper bodyguard ("Take care of the governor, take care of the governor first!") caught bullets, too. A black teenager pushed through the crowd to try to congratulate the a.s.sa.s.sin. The Laurel rescue squad transported the casualties twenty-five miles away to Holy Cross Hospital in Silver Spring. Wallace supporters crowded the entrance. "They'll keep shooting us down until our innocent blood runs red," one said.

The governor was conscious the whole time. The reports were that he was paralyzed. Several hundred showed up at his scheduled event in Annapolis. "I asked them to pray for three things," his Maryland campaign chairman said. "Quick recovery, the soul of the fellow who did such a thing, and a tremendous victory tomorrow."