How He Did It

(See Cover)

The year was 1925. In a Manhattan office a very young lawyer, who had only recently abandoned his ambition to become an opera star, looked up from a brief he was studying and inquired of a colleague: "How do you get into politics?" On that day, at that hour, Thomas E. Dewey's campaign for the presidency began.

Early last week Tom Dewey found himself in Philadelphia for his most critical battle. He had already been beaten once before.* If he lost this time, he was through. He had no intention of losing.

After his defeat in 1944, he told friends that he would never again seek the office; the office could seek him if it wanted to. But his staff had carried on an assiduous underground operation, their eyes always on 1948. They cultivated contacts in key states, formed alliances which would be useful later, collected intelligence reports on local problems, local people. The Wisconsin and Nebraska primaries almost made all this work useless. Tom Dewey looked like a gone goose. He was told that if he wanted the nomination, he would have to go after it--and hard. He did. In Oregon's rainy spring he made 92 speeches in 20 days, made obeisance to every traditional ritual of the successful campaigner. He won the primary. That was the turning point.

When he came to Philadelphia last week, he had in his pocket the almost certain votes of some 350 delegates. To win, he needed 200 more. That was the last salient. He was ready to take it.

Nerve Center. The Dewey machine was a complex affair. The front which it turned to the public in Philadelphia was the Bellevue-Stratford ballroom. There on the stage a gigantic photograph of the candidate, tinted somewhat too vividly, gazed steadily out over the throngs. Around the balcony hung other photographs: the Dewey family playing with their Great Dane; the Dewey family at the circus; Dewey on the farm. Dewey infantrymen passed out soft drinks and small favors to gawking visitors and gave every 200th visitor a door prize. William Horne, a Philadelphia bank employee, was clocked in as the 45,000th visitor and got a sterling silver carving aid.

But the nerve center was on the hotel's eighth floor. There Dewey's large and highly competent staff operated. There were John Foster Dulles, adviser on foreign affairs, and Elliott Bell, state superintendent of banks and adviser on national policies. In charge of campaign fund-raising was Harold E. Talbott, onetime polo player, director of the Chrysler Corp.

In charge of influencing fellow Senators: Senator Irving Ives. In charge of intelligence and publicity: Paul Lockwood, Dewey's secretary, and James C. Hagerty, onetime political reporter on the New York Times, now Dewey's press secretary. In charge of practical politics and the panzer divisions: three of New York's smartest politicians--Lawyer Herbert Brownell Jr., National Committeeman J. Russel Sprague and Edwin F. Jaeckle, onetime state chairman. All of his staff had one thing in common: complete loyalty to Tom Dewey.

The Blitz. The blitz, which got under way as soon as the first delegate hit the city, would go down in political history. It was as quiet as a snowfall and, like a snowfall, it covered everything. On Monday, a handful of reporters on Dewey's eighth floor saw little to report except serenity. But if they had listened carefully they might have heard the hum of wheels.

The panzer divisions were moving through the hotels. Typical of the way they operated was the story of Ohio's Delegate Chester Gillespie, who had been sent to the convention to vote for Stassen. Delegate Gillespie is a Cleveland Negro and an old friend of New York's most prominent Negro Republican, City Judge Francis E. Rivers. This information was on file.

On opening day, Judge Rivers called on Gillespie. They talked. It was pointed out to Gillespie that Tom Dewey had put an anti-discrimination law--a sort of state FEPC--through New York's legislature. Gillespie was flattered to be invited to meet the governor, who granted him a midnight audience. It lasted a full half hour. Gillespie recalled later: "I told him he had done more for Negroes than any other public figure in America. Mr. Dewey asked me, 'More than Lincoln?' I told him, 'Yes, Lincoln did his part in another way.' " Gillespie departed, pledged to support Tom Dewey on the second ballot. Every day after that, Judge Rivers met Gillespie at breakfast and stayed with him all day.

The War of Nerves. Even less audibly, a rumor machine began to grind. Rumor is an ancient contrivance of political conventions, but it had seldom been used more efficiently. Whispering stories of rebellions in opposition camps cropped up, stories of desertions, stories of growing Dewey strength. Newsmen, picking each other's brains, sped the rumors along. Philadelphia hotel lobbies, rooms and bars were suddenly filled with startling and unverified stories:

Governor Dwight Green was going to deliver a wad of Illinois' 56 votes to Dewey in return for the vice-presidency. Governor Alfred Driscoll, who was originally for Vandenberg, was going to deliver himself and at least a part of New Jersey to Dewey for the same reward. Congressman Charlie Halleck was going to deliver Indiana for the same reason. The effect of the stories was always the same. Delegates were assailed with doubts about their candidates and growing panicky over their own political hides. Were they missing a bandwagon? Would they go unrewarded when the patronage was dealt out?

First Blow. On Tuesday, the Dewey machine stepped up its power. It jolted the opposition with the first real blow. Pennsylvania's Senator Ed Martin announced that he had withdrawn as a favorite-son candidate and would not only vote for Dewey on the first ballot but make the nominating speech for him.

Martin's support of Dewey was well known. But he had agreed in open caucus with his Pennsylvania rival, Governor Jim Duff, who was an anti-Dewey and pro-Vandenberg man, to hold the state's delegates together indefinitely and wait for some strategic moment to make their bargain. Now Ed Martin posed, sitting on a sofa, with his arm snugly around a smiling Tom Dewey. Dewey aides announced a press conference for later in the day; the rumor spread that not only Ed Martin but New Jersey's Governor Driscoll would be there. The wise guys said: "There goes the ball game."

Downstairs in the ballroom, the Dewey camp continued to present its bland and beckoning front to the world. While the opposition gnashed its teeth, the Dewey camp staged a fashion show. Delegates' wives sat on gilt chairs, an orchestra played lively airs and a squad of models paraded summer and fall clothes. Crooned Mrs. Edward J. MacMullan, arbiter of Philadelphia society and mistress of ceremonies: "Here you may feast your eyes on the world of fashion . . . Her bathing suit is white Lastex which fits like a second skin . . . This delectable creature is wearing the sort of dress of which we ask, 'Do we have a good time in it?' Get it?"

"No Deals." Sixteen floors up in the Rose Room, some 400 photographers, radiomen, television men and newsmen assembled for the Dewey press conference. Dewey walked in--a small, compact, aggressive man. For the space of five solid minutes, while photographers shot him, radiomen adjusted microphones, moviemen flapped their arms around his head in signals, he held his mouth in a radiant, frozen smile. "How do you feel, Governor Dewey?" In an emphatic baritone, pausing after each word, he said: "I feel swell."

Dewey told newsmen little they wanted to know. He used the moment for its psychological effect on the enemy. He exuded victory. Delegations had been calling on him all day. He rolled off a list: Oklahoma, Maine, Alabama, Indiana, Nebraska, South Dakota, North Dakota, Oregon, Wyoming, Rhode Island. It was probably the high point of the war of nerves. "I have no understandings, arrangements, bargains or deals with anyone in the United States for anything," he said.

On Wednesday four more blows fell on the bewildered opposition. Halleck announced that he would indeed deliver Indiana. Driscoll announced for Dewey, although his delegation was split. Senator James P. Kem came out of the Missouri woods, rushing for the Dewey camp. And right at his heels was Governor Robert Bradford of Massachusetts.

That night, having done all he could, Tom Dewey and his handsome wife, the former Frances Hutt of Sapulpa, Okla., settled down in their dignified hotel room, with its mulberry walls and rose drapes, to listen to the nominating speeches on television. The Governor was quite composed.

Companions in Distress. What, through all this, was happening to the opposition? As early as Monday, Candidate Robert Taft had phoned Jim Duff--who was trying to hold the fort for Arthur Vandenberg--and invited him to a conference. They met at the Drake Hotel, in the penthouse apartment of John D. M. Hamilton, who was national chairman of the G.O.P. when Alf Landon was its candidate.

Taft and Duff agreed that something had to be done. They decided to call in Harold Stassen and meet again the following night at Hamilton's other apartment at 2031 Locust Street. That night Stassen and Taft--old political enemies--confronted each other and sat down as allies. With Duff they reviewed the whole situation. In anguish they reported to each other that the Dewey camp was spreading stories so fast that by the time one was checked another had cropped up. Delegates were being stampeded. They compared notes. Taft's and Stassen's figures on the estimated strength of each were amazingly similar. Taft and Stassen, companions in distress, began to warm toward each other. But there was no talk of agreeing on a coalition candidate. They were merely appraising their positions. They decided to meet again.

Rooted in Concrete. Next morning, they did, and agreed to expand the coalition. At a meeting the next afternoon (again at 2031 Locust), Duff, Taft and Stassen sat down with Connecticut's national committeeman, Harold Mitchell (representing favorite son Ray Baldwin), and Kim Sigler, governor of Michigan, leader of the Vandenberg forces. California's Earl Warren was represented by a close friend, Preston Hotchkiss. They figured that the coalition could count on 630 votes--more than enough to stop Dewey.

When the meeting broke up, Taft rushed to a press conference at the Benjamin Franklin hotel. His stride was determined ; his face bore a look of hope. In confident tones he said: "The Dewey blitz has been stopped."

But it should have been obvious by now that the only way they could stop the Dewey stampede was with another candidate. Who? Taft was willing to compromise--on Taft. Vandenberg's Sigler was willing to compromise--on Vandenberg. Stassen wanted--Stassen. Earlier, Stassen had been willing to throw his strength to Vandenberg. But now the coalition strategy was for each man to stand firm. Each maintained that he could never hold certain states pledged to him if he threw his support to some other man. What about Warren? Said Duff, who was living in a suite at the Hotel Warwick across from Warren: "The governor of California seems to be rooted in concrete."

"The Greatest Honor." This was the state of things that night as Tom Dewey watched his television set, as the perspiring delegates streamed out to Convention Hall to hear the candidates placed in nomination. Just before the session opened, Pennsylvania caucused. The vote: Dewey, 41; Taft, 27; Vandenberg, 1; Stassen, 1; three not voting. Jim Duff, now backing Taft, had lost some of his strength.

Some time after 9 o'clock, Ed Martin, in white suit and white shoes, rose in the great hall. He was drowned out by boos, some of which came from Pennsylvania's split delegation. But he went doggedly on to his conclusion: "It is the greatest honor of my life to present to this convention . . . Thomas Edmund Dewey."

New York's delegation started the symbolic march along the aisles, blowing tin whistles. It took a long time working up steam, but it was not until 32 minutes later that Joe Martin, barking like the neighbor's old dog to whom no one ever pays any attention, restored order. The seconding speeches began.

The other nominating speeches, the other demonstrations, the other seconding calls lasted far into the morning--until 4:03 a.m. Back at his hotel, Tom Dewey had long since gone to bed.

First Ballot. He was up early for his big day, ate some bacon & eggs and began seeing the people who were already streaming up to the eighth floor. Charlie Halleck dropped by to see Herb Brownell. News came that Senator Leverett Saltonstall was releasing the Massachusetts votes which he controlled.

The report was being spread that Michigan was about to break up and desert Vandenberg. The story, under an eight-column headline in the Philadelphia Evening Bulletin, confronted delegates hurrying out to Convention Hall. Walter Hallanan, national committeeman from West Virginia and a staunch Taft man, announced that he would vote for Dewey instead.

Dewey had a chicken sandwich and a glass of milk and sat down again before the television set. Across the land, listening at radios, people sat with their score cards, waiting to play the game of Presidential Bingo.

There was a short delay. An angry Sigler, in shirtsleeves and plastic suspenders, got up to deny the truth of the Michigan rumor. Michigan had not deserted Vandenberg, he said. The voting began. The score on the first ballot: Dewey, 434; Taft, 224; Stassen, 157; Vandenberg, 62; Warren, 59. Dewey had not made it. Bingo was 548.

Second Ballot. The second ballot began. This was when favorite sons would drop out and the real business of voting would begin. Taft got 50 of the 56 Illinois votes which had gone to Favorite Son Green. Dewey got 24 of the 35 New Jersey votes which had gone to Driscoll. Most of Dewey's gain was in dribs & drabs--a vote here, a vote there, demonstrating the value of the Dewey camp's attention to details.

Before the count was announced by the chair the convention knew full well what had happened. Dewey had 515 votes, 33 short of the nomination. But the coalitionists, desperate as they were, would not give in yet. They had agreed to ask for a recess after the second ballot. But now, while the official count was being tallied, there was confusion on the floor. Restless delegates from the coalition states saw the Dewey bandwagon rolling right past their door. Should they switch now?

The blitz continued to work right on the floor. It manifested itself in a hundred hurried, private conferences--New Jersey's Driscoll arguing with Delegate Horace Tantum, Charlie Halleck bending an ear to Kansas Chairman Harry Darby, Ed Jaeckle giving friendly advice to Connecticut's Governor James C. Shannon (see cuts).

Ordeal of Mr. Sigler. The Michigan delegation sat in indecision and suspense, looking to Sigler and National Committeeman Arthur Summerfield for advice. They began waving their hands at Sigler, who stood like a man transfixed. He had only minutes to make up his mind. Connecticut was ready to break for Dewey. Where the hell was Baldwin, so Sigler could talk to him? Trapped in a pack of sweating pages, newsmen, photographers and delegates crowding the aisles, Sigler could not move. James Powers, a Michigan delegate and Detroit auto dealer, grabbed Sigler's arm and shouted: "Go on, go on, don't be a fool."

Pennsylvania's beefy Jim Duff heaved his bulk through the crowd. In all loyalty, Sigler wanted Duff and the rest of the coalition boys to give their O.K. before he released Michigan. He tried to explain to Duff, who stood stony-faced, fanning himself in the heat. Taft's campaign manager, Clarence Brown, oozed through the crowd. New York's Senator Irving Ives came up to underline the futility of further resistance. "What's the point?" he said amiably. "There's no sense to it."

Suddenly, Sigler seemed to make up his mind. He fought his way toward the platform. Connecticut's Baldwin finally showed up from somewhere in the pack around the Michigan delegation. "I don't want to do it," he was saying. "But there's a strong feeling in my delegation for Dewey." The floor was in a minor uproar.

Up on the platform Sigler had grabbed a telephone and was talking to Vandenberg, getting the final word to jump. Other coalition bosses looked for California's Bill Knowland, who in all conscience should also be given the chance to say aye or nay. But Knowland could not be found. Then the chair announced the count, which formally closed the second ballot. It was too late to make any changes.

But obviously it was all over. Jim Duff moved for the recess, seconded by Bill Knowland. The coalition could pull itself together and, if not stave off defeat, arrange things for an orderly surrender.

Bingo! That was what happened some three hours later, although the surrender was more disorderly than planned. Knowland had hoped to put Dewey over when California was called. He called the delegation into a floor caucus, which looked like a football huddle, and told them that Warren had released them. But before the balloting began, Knowland saw John Bricker lumbering up to the rostrum. With none of his usual forensics, John Bricker announced simply that he had a statement from Taft. "I release my delegates," he read from notes, "and ask them to vote for Dewey." Knowland was right behind Bricker, pushing aside Stassen, who wanted to be next. Knowland surrendered for Warren. Stassen got his chance, stepped forward and surrendered for himself. He got a great cheer. The weary and unhappy Sigler finally got to the rostrum and surrendered for Vandenberg.

The third ballot was a mere formality. The result: unanimous nomination of Thomas E. Dewey.

"If Dewey Gets Elected." Governor Dewey had spent a very pleasant afternoon, wandering around in shirtsleeves, whistling airs from Oklahoma!. Since early afternoon his limousine had been parked across from his hotel, ready to take him to the hall the moment the word came.

The word came, at last. Dewey opened his door and faced the throng of newsmen in the hall. They asked him what he had to say. "I am humbly grateful for the confidence of the elected representatives of the Republican Party," he said solemnly, "and hope God gives me the strength to merit it." The blitz was over.

Outside, a summer thunderstorm had drenched Philadelphia. A rainbow had appeared. But it was still raining when the Deweys went down to their limousine. Through cheering crowds, the Dewey motorcade swept to Convention Hall.

Awaiting him was the Republican Party which had quoted a challenging phrase from Lincoln in its platform: "We must think anew and act anew."

In the hall for the first time since the convention opened, Tom Dewey declared: "I come to you unfettered by a single obligation or promise to any living person." He referred to the convention as "an honorable contest" and warmly praised his adversaries. "We are a united party," he said. "Our nation stands tragically in need of that same unity."

* Dewey is a comeback man. He was beaten for governor in 1938, won in 1942 and 1946. He was beaten for the presidential nomination in 1940, won it in 1944. He was beaten in the presidential election in 1944. Coming up: 1948.

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