REPUBLICANS: Fighting Bob

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The machine functions smoothly, but it functions best when Bob Taft himself is on hand: then it whirs like a new Cadillac. Each day has its schedule—breakfast meeting, press conference, meetings with party leaders and prospective delegates, a big luncheon rally, more conferences and appearances in the afternoon, a major speech in the evening. This high-pressure efficiency leaves little time for Kefauver-style, hand-to-hand campaigning—and sometimes it leaves a chill.

The candidate himself is always absorbed in his schedule, and cannot be bothered with unscheduled trivia. In Baltimore last week, when a scheduled car broke down, Taft was finally transferred to a police cruiser. In the midst of these hot happenings, Taft sat quietly, saying nothing, paying no attention to what was going on, studying the contents of a thick Manila folder marked "Delegates—Count."

Five & Ten. Bob Taft's campaign has taken five pounds off his six-foot frame (present weight: 196), and has added about ten strokes to his golf game (most recent score: 95). But otherwise, the candidate shows no wear & tear. After having his tonsils out last Christmas, he has had fewer colds than usual. He sleeps for seven solid hours every night, wherever he happens to be, and wakes up as if he had a built-in alarm clock.

When he started this campaign, Taft thought he could make it a weekend affair. But the groundswell for Ike forced him to change his plans. Now he thinks he should have planned from the first to make it a full-time campaign, with a budget of $2,500,000 to $3,000,000. Though no figures are available, presumably his expenses will be considerably less.

Taft is his own chief strategist, but he has hard-working and able lieutenants. His key men:

¶ David Sinton Ingalls, Taft's cousin, a likable, wealthy, aggressive Cleveland lawyer, campaign manager. His chief duties now: contacts, to see the right people at the right time, for the maximum influence on delegates. He is also responsible for lining up delegates in California and the territories.

¶ Ben Tate, a ball-faced Cincinnati coal operator, campaign treasurer. He collects the money, a job which has been no great problem, and is responsible for delegate strength in four scattered states, including Ohio.

¶ B. Carroll Reece, Tennessee Congressman and former Republican national chairman, since 1949 Taft's Southern expert, now in charge of "delegate relationships." Recce's four assistants are compiling a list with addresses, telephone numbers and personal information on each one of the 1,206 delegates to the national convention, so the Taft organization will be able to make the right approach at the right time.

¶ John D. M. Hamilton, Republican national chairman the year Alf Landon carried Maine and Vermont, in charge of the East, by far Taft's most difficult territory. Hamilton was a top adviser on the New Hampshire and New Jersey primaries, in which the Taft machine stripped some gears.

¶ Tom Coleman, Republican boss of Wisconsin, the Taft Midwestern specialist. He is the likeliest prospect for Taft's floor manager in Chicago.

¶ Vernon Romney, former Republican chairman of Utah, overseer of the Northwest and most of the mountain states.