The Sun Also Rises

Black rainy clouds hung low over Philadelphia; Sunday afternoon was one long twilight that deepened steadily into gloomy night. In the gathering dusk, over the city's brick-paved streets jounced cabs from the three-day-old airport, from the dismal cavern of old Broad Street Station. Packed in the cabs were thousands of men whose minds were as wind-tossed and gloomy as the night.

They were men of all sorts: lean and broad of beam; men of integrity and men like rats; obscure men and famous; of fixed prejudices, and fixed ideals. They filled Philadelphia like a flood, jamming hotels, squeezing into elevators, pounding on restaurant tables for quicker service. Wherever they were, they argued, worried, plotted. Some were wise guys, some were simpletons. All were Americans.

And mostly they worried. From Sunday night, when they sought out restaurants where Scotch-&-sodas were served in coffee-cups, the 1,000 delegates, 1,000 alternates, the thousands on thousands of heelers, promoters, wives, newshawks, tag-along citizens worried steadily, through the five days and four nights of the Convention. What they worried about, or what they told themselves they worried about, was the Man who would be born from this political travail.

Unbossed, Unled. From the moment they came to town, Republicans of all stripes agreed wholeheartedly that this was "the damnedest convention that ever was." Nothing went the way things had always gone. This was the fault of the people, said the professional politicos.

It was the fault too, of another interloper, a big, shambling bear of a man with tousled dark hair, great beefy shoulders, a long, determined upper lip, a fast, tough mind. Wendell Lewis Willkie, 48, product of an Indiana Main Street and New York's Wall Street, was in town. The Convention had not invited him; the Convention wished he were anywhere else. On that dark Sunday afternoon Wendell Willkie was already a political phenomenon without parallel or precedent, a new face, a new force, something powerful and strange cast up out of the sea.

The situation was so simple that it confused the politicians hopelessly. Well they knew the ancient political doctrine: find out what the people want, promise it to them, then lead them in that direction--but not too fast, for good leadership keeps but a half step ahead. But now the people seemed to want only one thing: a leader.

The politicos found that desire a perplexing simplification of the traditional problem. It was true that Wendell Willkie seemed to be a leader. Even now, after six short weeks of campaigning, he was marked with the indelible stamp of leadership: fanatical friends, fanatical foes.

And to town with Wendell Willkie came the three original members of the For-Willkie-Before-May-11-1940-club : 1) Russell ("Mitch") Davenport, gaunt, earnest journalist-philosopher who quit his job as managing editor of FORTUNE to devote himself to this man; 2) Oren Root Jr., young New York law clerk, who formed a Willkie-For-President club on his own hook and $150; 3) Charlton MacVeagh, a G.0.P. contact man who drafted himself.

These had been Mr. Willkie's Farley, Moley, Frankfurter, Rosenman, Howe, Hull, Wallace, Woodin and Tugwell; his braintrust and his backers, working for him--at least at first--against his will. Neither Davenport nor Root knew anything practical about winning votes and influencing people, but they did have faith, and it nearly burned them up.

Willkie was not a leader in any sense that was politically recognizable. In fact, the delegates told each other, he was politically impossible, an amateur whose rankness you could smell. Nevertheless, they went to see him, and get a nearer sniff. His small 16th floor suite at a corridor's end in the Benjamin Franklin hotel became a crazy-house, a stifling welter of political amateurs and well-wishers (bond salesmen, debutantes, business bigwigs), gawkers (clubwomen, tourists, thrill-collectors), and disgusted professionals, indignant at their offhand treatment by people who had never heard of them and who even now regarded politicos as casual, unimportant, irrelevant vermin.

In this cramped hot-house every political mistake that could be made was made. Nevertheless, somehow, the boom grew: it could be seen growing.

Nearly a Flop. Monday and Tuesday the Convention's first two days, were black days for the bosses. Their delegates roamed like rambunctious mavericks, uttering mating calls, nickering for sympathy, stampeding in any direction, unbossed and unled. At first they liked it. But Joe Martin's gavel raps were deadlines as well as calls to order; choices had to be made. Everywhere were men waiting only to be really convinced that here was the man, in him the only issues.

But in the almost austere convention hall (no bunting, no parading brass bands) the convention had opened: strapping young Harold Stassen, the Minnesota boy Governor too young (33) to be President, had delivered the keynote speech. No orator, using gestures out of the book, huge Mr. Stassen handled his problem well, but only well: from him no hearer got any sense of a collapsing world.

And after the keynote that wasn't quite the keynote came Herbert Hoover. Even now the delegates came with solemn hope they would get a chance to tear up their chairs and set fire to their hats. They were more than willing to give him the benefit of all their doubts; they were eager to hear him demolish the New Deal; they were even more eager to cheer some challenging declaration of faith. But inflexible Mr. Hoover mushmouthed his delivery; the clear, hot words of his finest address got lost (as always) deep in his bulldog chops. He stood there awkwardly, a near-great man whose fate has been to cast his mother-of-pearl words before mobs who, whether friendly or bitter, always yell "Louder!" No honest Republican denied to himself that the convention until now had laid the biggest egg since the roc.

Crisis. With the third day came something like panic. Suddenly the newspapers, even their home-town papers, were black with tall headlines, homemade advertisements, home-grown editorials, all shrieking "We Want Willkie!" The delegates couldn't understand it. The big bear-man's face, life, family swiftly became oppressively familiar. Most of the delegates wanted to be let alone, to go about their ancient business in the ancient way. But rabid strangers, unlike any political heelers they had ever seen, surrounded them on the street, gripped their lapels, argued bitterly, demanded (not begged) their vote for this man Willkie. In this urgent, crusading atmosphere the delegates were increasingly uncomfortable. They could no longer read the newspapers with any enjoyment for all the important political columnists were daily comparing the nomination of anyone but Willkie to the Fall of France--Ray Clapper, Mark Sullivan, Arthur Krock, Dorothy Thompson, Walter Lippmann, Westbrook Pegler, Hugh Johnson. Even the coldest, toughest of all, nail-hard Frank Kent told them flatly in his old-shrew style that, while Herbert Hoover was the best man, Wendell Willkie was the only winning candidate.

From the first night the galleries had shouted "We Want Willkie" over & over like a college yell. Delegates could hardly get into their rooms past the bundles of pro-Willkie telegrams from back home. Their suits came back from the hotel valet with Willkie buttons pinned on. Long-distance calls came from their wives, pastors, bankers, luncheon clubs, saying with one voice: "Willkie!"

A rising suspense hung over Philadelphia. The pall spoiled the ordinary political gaieties. Uneasily, defiantly, the delegates debated with their consciences and each other; uneasily they tramped around to see Willkie again & again, catching fleeting glimpses of a shaggy man, haggard, hoarse, sweating, strange, standing on a hotel dressing-chair exhorting: "Vote for me early. It's better to come to grace early than late."

The delegates felt other pressures too. The platform committee, meeting a week early, with the heavy foundation of the Glenn Frank Committee report to build on, still had come to no conclusion: after days of tortuous debate, they still fought over the crucial foreign policy plank.

Collapse. All of them--delegates, newsmen, wise guys--understood politics thoroughly. The question was: Did they understand a political movement? They shied off like wise guys, sneering: "Willkie, the Nine-Minute Wonder," "Hopson's Choice." They gave themselves comforting reasons for his upsurge--Eastern seaboard hysteria, Wall Street propaganda, utilities propaganda--explained away the galleryites as paid Wall Street stooges, explained away the telegrams by knowing references to utility tactics in fighting the Wheeler-Rayburn Holding Company Act.

Their own freedom frightened them: it began to look like inescapable responsibility. The delegates scuttled back to the bosses' comforting shelter. The wandering lines reformed. For this moment two men, David S. Ingalls of Cleveland, and Charles P. Taft of Cincinnati, had planned well.

In all the dull, careful campaign, when New York's Thomas E. Dewey was the glamor boy and public darling, these Taft managers had quietly, soothingly circulated word that theirs, after all, was the real, regular Republican organization. So skillful, exactly calculated, expertly handled was this Ohio campaign that it almost prevailed against the tidal wave.

The platform had come out, hailed with feeble cheers, fated to be forgotten. Prudently ambiguous on every controversial domestic matter, but less long-winded than most, the platform had a foreign policy plank based on a somersaulting weasel: "The Republican Party stands for Americanism, preparedness and peace. We accordingly fasten upon the New Deal full responsibility for our unpreparedness and for the consequent danger of involvement in war."

The New York Times barely avoided calling this plank a lie, denounced the G. 0. P. claim for preparedness "when a majority of its spokesmen in the Senate have opposed within the last two years measures which proposed to provide 6,000 new planes for the Army, an increase in the battleship strength of the Navy and the acquisition by both services of strategic war materials.

"Nor is the Republican Party entitled ... to call itself the exclusive 'peace party' of the United States, or even to claim that it has worked very well or done very much for the cause of peace. . . ."

But no one really cared; the expedient, weasel words faded out of mind as fast as ink dried on the newsprint. Something bigger was afoot than mean, dishonest words. The trend that Willkie was in front of spread like floodwater. ("TAFT AHEAD," wrote political pundits.) Willkiemen and Willkiewomen surged around Philadelphia like a lynch mob, carrying the torches of their faith.

The professionals now were angry. With the dreadful patience of men irked to the limit, they once more pointed out all the things that made Wendell Willkie politically impossible.

Yes, said the Willkie Zealots, but this is no ordinary year, this is no ordinary man. The U. S. has only one standard now--strength of leadership--and here is a strong man. To win in 1940, they shouted, the G. O. P. must snatch 10,000,000 Democratic or independent votes.

The cumulative impact of these answers cut deep into the delegates' convictions. The 22nd Republican Convention was a comparatively young man's gathering: most of the delegates were about 50 years old, at least vulnerable to new ideas.

Some of the younger ones had already succumbed. In early June Connecticut's burly, bass-voiced Governor Raymond A. Baldwin and State Boss Sam Pryor, had been converted, had committed the State's 16 votes to Mr. Willkie. Before that, in April, New York's Kenneth Simpson, tweedy, pipe-puffing, silk-stocking liberal, had begun to see how he might wreak a beautiful revenge on his bitter foe, Tom Dewey, by boring in among New York's 92 votes for the Willkie cause. With Simpson came Representative Bruce Barton.

The word came: Watch Stassen. The huge, young Minnesotan held off until his keynote speech was over, then plumped for Willkie. This was disturbing, but the pros winked wisely, said "Boy Scouts."

The missionaries were everywhere, spreading the gospel: in the Kansas delegation, James A. Allen of Chanute; in West Virginia's, Walter S. Hallanan of Charleston; in Massachusetts', Sinclair Weeks of Newton; in New Jersey's, Lloyd Marsh of Passaic County; in Illinois', James Douglas; in Missouri's, Edgar Queeny of St. Louis. And Wyoming's millionaire dude-rancher, Frank O. Horton, supposedly Hooverite till death, swung over with the others.

By Wednesday afternoon the Convention was tense as a drumhead. The Dewey camp privately despaired. Only Taft headquarters was really confident.

With the nominating speeches the chips were down. Lawyer John Lord O'Brian nominated Dewey, the organ played, hands pounded, State delegations grabbed standards and tramped theatrically around the hall. There was a brief interlude of exquisite boredom while New York's Frank Gannett was nominated by Representative James W. Wadsworth. A few hand-claps echoed in the deep apathy into which the publisher had poured his $500,000 candidacy. The galleries were unmoved, and stayed that way through the speech of Toledo Blade Editor Grove Patterson nominating Senator Taft, when a lustier demonstration came off.

Then came the moment everyone awaited. Indiana's dark, slight Representative Charles Halleck was brought forward by the Convention's chairman, wily little Irish-tongued Joe Martin of Massachusetts. Halleck hit hard. Directly and flatfootedly he slugged it out, slamming breadbasket-blows. From Wall Street to reciprocal tariffs he went down the line, swinging all the way.

As he spoke, the real line of cleavage in the Convention came clear for the first time. The delegates booed him, the people cheered. ". . . No campaign fund," cried the Indianan--and the floor hissed and booed in cynical unbelief. The galleries caught up and drowned the boos in a crescendo of applause.

The delegates looked suspiciously at the galleries. Up there sat the people, and the people should be against this man. As the galleries' applause broke out, again, again, again, the people up there began to seem more important than the men on the Convention floor.

As Halleck finished, the press stood up, then the galleries, then the delegates: 20,000 people on their feet. The demonstration for Wendell Willkie began, not much of a parade--a few shouting delegates, a few Eastern State standards. Fights broke out; the Virginia standard tottered, waved, came down and started off in a pull-haul fight. Police dove along the aisles, smashing up little melees around one standard after another. But the big States stood fast. Relieved, the pros told each other, "Well, there goes your Willkie boom!"

The demonstration subsided; then came the seconding speeches by Representative Bruce Barton, Colorado's Governor Ralph L. Carr, Anne Stuart of Minnesota, Connecticut's Governor Raymond Baldwin (best voice at the convention). Into the June night the crowds shoved. They were gloomy. As of that minute, Ohio's Taft seemed to be the nominee. The crowd had nothing against good Mr. Taft ; but it had nothing for him, either. The crowd knew that Mr. Taft would play clean, hard politics; they found nothing blameworthy in that. A vote for Taft was a vote for the Republican Party; a vote for Willkie was a vote for the best man the Party had to lead the country in a crisis.

Next morning more nominations droned on: Iowa's Hanford MacNider, Michigan's Senator Arthur H. Vandenberg, New Hampshire's Senator Styles Bridges, Oregon's Senator Charles McNary, Pennsylvania's Governor Arthur H. James, South Dakota's Harlan J. Bushfield. At 2:50 p.m. Chairman Martin rapped his new translucent plexiglas gavel, adjourned the Convention until 4:30 p.m.

At 4:50 o'clock the fight began. Alabama cast seven votes for Dewey, six for Taft. As yet, word had not gotten to the Convention of a lunchtime deal between Messrs. Taft and Dewey. "Understanding" was a more accurate word; all that passed between headquarters was an agreement that, if Dewey failed, as was long since certain, such delegates as he controlled would thereafter go first to Taft. The unanswerable question was: Do the two G. H. Q.'s control 501 votes (the number required to nominate)?

The experts knew how the first ballot would go, and they had a fairly accurate idea of the second. On Ballot I Dewey was to get 377 votes, Taft 250, Willkie 100. Ballot II: Dewey to slip a little, Taft 300, Willkie 150. After that they figured it would be anybody's battle, but probably Taft's; Willkie 's maximum strength, 190; if a deadlock, Joe Martin.

But right away something happened. Dewey had counted on New Jersey's full 32 votes. He got 20, Willkie 12. Passaic's pugnacious Lloyd Marsh had delivered on the nail, had two more votes in his pocket when needed. Bob Taft was far below his set quota: 189 votes was a tortoise-like start indeed.

Ballot I: Dewey 360, Taft 189, Willkie 105, Vandenberg 76, James 74, Martin 44, Gannett 35, MacNider 34, Hoover 17.

Taftmen, shocked, began to tighten the screws. But the delegations were stubborn. Now there was no doubt about the galleries; every Willkie vote was cheered, every swing-over hailed with screams and roars. Gains for other candidates were received politely but suspiciously; dark rumors of deals and sellouts, coursed the balconies.

On the second ballot, Dewey fell a little--a sure sign to the experts*--Willkie zoomed, and Bob Taft gained only 14 votes.

Ballot II: Dewey 338, Taft 203, Willkie 171.

Willkie had cracked a few votes out of Boss Pew's hoard in Pennsylvania, now had votes scattered over 26 States. The first ballots had been slow, as a Georgia delegate insisted his delegation be polled, so that every delegate's vote be put on record. Accepted reason was that at least one delegate had sold his vote to several candidates. At 6:50 p.m. Joe Martin adjourned the session until 8:30 p.m.

On Ballot III Willkie picked up steadily all along the line. New Hampshire's Bridges, green at a missed opportunity to join the ''Boy Scouts," released his delegates too late to Willkie (six of New Hampshire's eight had already gone over). Massachusetts cracked wide; Joe Martin released his men and they plunked for Willkie--the first big State to do so. The galleries went crazy. Then New York split (27 of 92 followed Simpson over to Willkie); Pennsylvania broke open (15 would stand no longer with Boss Pew's forlorn belief in James). And still Bob Taft only crawled, gained only nine votes.

Ballot III. Dewey 315, Willkie 259, Taft 212.

The fourth ballot was crucial. Everything depended on it, perhaps even the G. 0. P.'s future. For this time Dewey's men would be released; now would come the test of Taft's fast-working ball club; this vote would determine whether Willkie had reached his maximum strength.

The hall alternately screamed and sat tensely silent. Dewey's last forts crumbled. Willkie's floor organization (Halleck, Simpson, Stassen, Baldwin, et al.} worked like beavers. Taft gained 42 votes. Willkie 47

Ballot IV. Willkie 306, Taft 254, Dewey 250.

Now that Willkie had shown he could hold his own, the problem became: Can he go on to win? And Ballot V screwed the tension to a point with few equals in U. S. politics. The pros were in a last-ditch battle and knew it. They closed ranks and moved together. Again the gains were level: Taft up 123, Willkie up 123. On his rubber-soled shoes Charley Taft fled up & down the aisles, engineering, devising, attacking, feeding in every vote he could marshal. But everywhere, at every turn, bulked Boy Scout Stassen, blond, imperturbable; Boy Scout Simpson, sweating, a dead cigar or dead pipe alternately gripped in his mouth; and innumerable other Boy Scouts, amateurish, in the way, bungling yet effective. And then New York went over almost wholly, a moment that the crowd yelled at more hoarsely than a more significant triumph a few minutes before: the unemotional Kansas twang of small, grey Alf Landon announcing: "Kansas gives all of its 18 votes to Wendell L. Willkie."

Ballot V. Willkie 429, Taft 377, James 59, Dewey 57.

There remained only two phalanxes to break, but it was vital to break both of them. One was Michigan, the other Pennsylvania. After the fourth ballot, John Hamilton and Joe Martin had agreed that any move to adjourn the convention would be regarded as a Taft deal to gain time. The clock crept on, and the sixth ballot: Pennsylvania reserved its vote to the end of the list. The thirsty, hungry, sweating galleryites booed and whispered "Deal, Deal." But Willkie's total crept on, Taft's dropped slightly but surely: anything might still happen.

Then a grey, spectacled man took the platform: Howard C. Lawrence (Senator Vandenberg's campaign manager), to announce release of the Michigan delegates and a poll result: Willkie 35, Taft 2, Hoover 1. The crowd shouted. Then Pennsylvania asked for recognition. Willkie's total was now 499, with 501 needed. The people booed--meaning they were in no mood to give any thanks to Boss Pew for so belated a conversion. Ex-Senator David A. Reed seized the microphone to shout a loud untruth: "Pennsylvania casts 72 votes for Wendell Willkie!'' (Later newshawks learned that 29 Pennsylvanians had just then voted to stick fast to James.) But the story was over, the people had won. Hats sailed in the air and handkerchiefs were shredded. For the first time since Teddy Roosevelt, the Republicans had a man they could yell for and mean it.

* In U. S. political history no candidate who lost ground on any ballot has ever been nominated by either party.

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