The Replacement

With the departure of Walter Jenkins, the White House staffer who emerges as most important is Billy Don Moyers, 30, who, in addition to his own duties, now takes over those of Jenkins.

Bill Moyers (he was christened Billy but dislikes the diminutive) is a slim, pallidly handsome Baptist lay preacher who has directed the intellectual side of L.B.J.'s shop with quiet efficiency since Johnson moved into the White House. He supervises such speechwriters as Richard Goodwin, Douglass Cater and Horace Busby, tosses in the scriptural citations of which Lyndon is so fond. Better than any other staffer, he knows Johnson's mercurial moods, manages to assuage the boss with well-reasoned argument, never shouts or panics. Yet such self-control comes at a price: Moyers suffers from a chronic ulcer.

Against Moral Monopolies. The son of an odd-jobs man (truck driver, candy salesman, cotton picker), Moyers was a top student at high school in Marshall, Texas. At North Texas State College he was twice elected class president, twice named the college's outstanding student. His record came to the attention of Senate Democratic Leader Lyndon Johnson, who hired him as a summertime hand in his Washington office in 1954, later gave him a job as a news editor at Lady Bird's KTBC radio and television stations in Austin. At the same time--getting only six hours of sleep a night --Moyers also attended the University of Texas' Journalism School, racked up one of the best scholastic records in its history. He won a fellowship to study church-state history at Scotland's Edinburgh University. There he developed a lingering aversion to "moral absolutism," once explained: "No one has a monopoly on virtue or truth. Those who peddle this line, under whatever label, subvert the very thing they want to obtain."

Moyers later enrolled at Southwestern Baptist Theological Seminary in Fort Worth, also worked fulltime as its information director. He preached in rural churches, was ordained as a Baptist teacher but not a minister, intended to teach ethics at Baylor University, but changed his plans in 1959 when Johnson asked him to join his Senate staff. In a matter of months, Johnson hiked Moyers' salary from $10,000 to $15,000, made him executive assistant during his 1960 vice-presidential campaign.

A Matter of Age. After the election, Moyers left Lyndon and struck out as a New Frontier bureaucrat on his own. He helped Sargent Shriver set up the Peace Corps, became its director of public affairs at 27 and a deputy Peace Corps director at 28--one of the youngest officials ever to require Senate confirmation.

His age is one of the few things that Moyers gets emotional about. Said he in a speech: "This is a nation of youth --45% of the population of America is under 25 years of age. God save us from that day when we must say to the young men and women of America: 'We cannot trust you. We cannot depend upon you. We cannot use you --except for fodder in the flames of war.'" Moyers also feels strongly about Texas. A television interviewer, noting Moyers' soft twang, asked: "Do I detect a Texas accent?" Replied Moyers quickly: "Not only in my speech, sir, but in my heart."

Moyers willingly responded to Johnson's call for help at the White House last November, served as a bridge between the Johnson and Kennedy men. But he still speaks wistfully of breaking away from the L.BJ. pace and of spending more time with his wife Judy and their three children.

In Pursuit of Details. The only White House staffer who now rivals Moyers in influence with Johnson on administrative and social matters is the omnipresent Jack Valenti, former Houston adman who married one of Johnson's secretaries in 1962, became his "special consultant" when he moved into the White House. Valenti was completely unknown to Washington a year ago. His power lies in the fact that he dogs Lyndon's every step, amiably complies with his every wish. He tirelessly pursues the sort of details that anyone except Johnson might consider trivia. When Johnson appears in public, Valenti acts as a combined prompter, prop man and scriptwriter, even counts the bursts of applause during a Johnson speech. Like most of the Texans around Johnson, Valenti is more of a technician than a thinker, remains eternally pleasant--and worshipful.

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