National Affairs: The Acquittal

Fifteen thousand people jammed Cleveland's Public Auditorium to hear Ike Eisenhower on the night of Dick Nixon's radio & television speech. Here too, emotions were wound tight, for Ike was deep in Taft country and, with Taft's help, had been charming the suspicious and captivating the hostile at whistle stops all along the way. Ike stayed out of sight while the Cleveland audience listened transfixed to the voice of Dick Nixon, piped into the auditorium's public-address system. When Nixon finished, the audience came to its feet cheering the empty rostrum. The band burst into the Battle Hymn of the Republic, and the crowd chanted, "We want Nixon!"

Ohio's Congressman George Bender, Bob Taft's braying cheerleader of last June's Republican Convention, took over as master of ceremonies. He introduced Ohio's Senator John Bricker, then went down the list to introduce every big-and little-wig in sight. He called for a voice vote on Nixon, got a roar of ayes and a few scattered noes. Then he called for another and got a floor-quaking, indisputable aye. He called for singing and bellowed his way through the band's repertoire. By this time the atmosphere was electric: the crowd sensed that Bender was playing for time, and that some big change of plans—probably the Nixon speech—was detaining Ike Eisenhower.

The Next Corner. Ike and Mamie watched Nixon on television in the auditorium-manager's office upstairs. By the time Nixon's telecast ended, Mamie was dabbing at her eyes and Ike was jumping with fight. He strode into an adjoining room with four members of his staff, threw aside his prepared speech on inflation and began scribbling notes for a new speech. At 10:30 p.m., to Bender's enormous relief, Ike came into the auditorium. ("Here we go, boys," he said over his shoulder. "You never know what's around the next corner.") The crowd roared its welcome.

"Tonight," said Ike, "I saw an example of courage. I have seen many brave men in tough situations. I have never seen any come through in better fashion than Senator Nixon did tonight." He recalled a dramatic parallel. "In [my World War II] command, I had a singularly brave and skillful leader. He was my lifelong friend. We were intimate. He committed an error. It was a definite error; there was no question about it. I believed that the work of that man was too great to sacrifice . . . He has gone before the highest judge of all, but . . . certainly George Patton justified my faith."

Gradually, as Ike went on, it came to his audience that he was once again the commander, still reserving decision on Nixon until he could talk with him face to face. He was sending Nixon a telegram, said Ike. ". . . To complete the formulation of ... [my] personal decision, I feel the need of talking to you, and would be most appreciative if you could fly to see me at once. Tomorrow night I shall be at Wheeling, West Virginia . . . Whatever personal admiration and affection I have for you (and they are very great) are un-diminished." When Ike was through talking, he ducked his head and walked, grim-faced and squarejawed, from the rostrum. Bob Taft jumped up and shook his hand. The crowd streamed out; it was obviously shaken and affected by a great emotional experience.