to right and back again, keeping sharp eye contact with section after section of the audience.
“Now you know and I know that we’ve got to get rid of that bunch in Washington—and we’ve got to do it soon. This November, in fact.” There was a sharp round of applause.
As Willkie paced up and down the stage, he attacked the New Deal; the President’s Machiavelli, Harry Hopkins; the arrogance of bureaucrats. One by one he struck at everyone and everything that this audience most hated. But on the one great issue, war or peace, he was both blunt and sly.
“Every time Mr. Roosevelt damns Hitler and says we ought to help the democracies in every way we can short of war, we ought to say: ‘Mr. Roosevelt, we
double-damn
Hitler and we are all for helpingthe Allies, but what about the sixty billion dollars you’ve spent and the ten million persons that are still unemployed?’ ”
The hall erupted. Shouts. Rebel yells. Cheering. Even Tim felt the force of the man’s … character? Or was it art?
Willkie had now pulled the unreluctant Boy Governor from the wings. He thanked him for his introduction. Congratulated him on his potential greatness, so plain to all. He laid it on. Then, sweat streaming into his eyes, the deceptive lock of hair plastered to his right eyebrow, he declared in a voice that needed no amplifier: “I can think of no one better than you for the job you’ve just been given, which is to make the keynote address at our convention in Philadelphia next month. You speak for our country’s youth, which means you speak for tomorrow as well as for today. But I warn you, if you attempt to put the party on record as saying that what is going on in Europe is none of our business, then we might as well fold up!”
A huge breaking sound wave from the applause caused both men to step backward. Then Willkie, with a wave to the crowd, marched offstage, hands upheld, like a winning boxer after a knockout. Safe in the wings, he croaked to Davenport, “Bottle of whiskey.”
In Willkie’s suite a contented postmortem was taking place. The hero was reducing his adrenaline level with alcohol while the Cowles brothers, Lamont, and Davenport discussed the coming schedule, which, Tim could see, was being expanded to take in the whole country “with,” as Mike Cowles said, “no written speeches.”
“Swell.” Willkie’s voice was coming back. He drank bourbon neat.
Davenport reminded the brains trust that there would have to be written speeches to give to the press, otherwise the candidate’s progress would go unnoticed by the public.
Willkie agreed. “You write them and you hand them out to everyone except me. All I need to know is the general drift of what you’ll be handing out.”
Davenport was clearly not happy but he was outvoted.
Lamont turned to Tim. “You …?
“I plan to intercut him with FDR.”
Lamont smiled a very thin smile. “Why not? The new champ and the old. Would the studio … is it MGM?”
Tim nodded.
“… Object if I got Harry Luce to use some of this film from tonight in his newsreels? You know, those
March of Time
things that he does?”
Tim told Lamont to whom he must apply for footage. Lamont made a note.
Willkie waved to Tim. “We can do an interview now,” he said.
“No.” Davenport was abrupt. “It’s too late.”
“I’m afraid my crew’s gone,” said Tim. “Union hours.” He had now remembered where he had seen Willkie before. At Laurel House on the Potomac River, somewhat the worse for what he had drunk, while a woman—his wife?—tended to him.
“You said I could get nominated if I got out and fought for it.” Willkie addressed the brothers. “Well, this is the first round.”
“You won it,” said John Cowles.
“But it’s a big country,” said Mike. “A lot more rounds.”
“Roosevelt’s too nervous.” Willkie was still caught up in his recent performance. “That Minnesota crowd tonight is about as isolationist as you can get,
“Now you know and I know that we’ve got to get rid of that bunch in Washington—and we’ve got to do it soon. This November, in fact.” There was a sharp round of applause.
As Willkie paced up and down the stage, he attacked the New Deal; the President’s Machiavelli, Harry Hopkins; the arrogance of bureaucrats. One by one he struck at everyone and everything that this audience most hated. But on the one great issue, war or peace, he was both blunt and sly.
“Every time Mr. Roosevelt damns Hitler and says we ought to help the democracies in every way we can short of war, we ought to say: ‘Mr. Roosevelt, we
double-damn
Hitler and we are all for helpingthe Allies, but what about the sixty billion dollars you’ve spent and the ten million persons that are still unemployed?’ ”
The hall erupted. Shouts. Rebel yells. Cheering. Even Tim felt the force of the man’s … character? Or was it art?
Willkie had now pulled the unreluctant Boy Governor from the wings. He thanked him for his introduction. Congratulated him on his potential greatness, so plain to all. He laid it on. Then, sweat streaming into his eyes, the deceptive lock of hair plastered to his right eyebrow, he declared in a voice that needed no amplifier: “I can think of no one better than you for the job you’ve just been given, which is to make the keynote address at our convention in Philadelphia next month. You speak for our country’s youth, which means you speak for tomorrow as well as for today. But I warn you, if you attempt to put the party on record as saying that what is going on in Europe is none of our business, then we might as well fold up!”
A huge breaking sound wave from the applause caused both men to step backward. Then Willkie, with a wave to the crowd, marched offstage, hands upheld, like a winning boxer after a knockout. Safe in the wings, he croaked to Davenport, “Bottle of whiskey.”
In Willkie’s suite a contented postmortem was taking place. The hero was reducing his adrenaline level with alcohol while the Cowles brothers, Lamont, and Davenport discussed the coming schedule, which, Tim could see, was being expanded to take in the whole country “with,” as Mike Cowles said, “no written speeches.”
“Swell.” Willkie’s voice was coming back. He drank bourbon neat.
Davenport reminded the brains trust that there would have to be written speeches to give to the press, otherwise the candidate’s progress would go unnoticed by the public.
Willkie agreed. “You write them and you hand them out to everyone except me. All I need to know is the general drift of what you’ll be handing out.”
Davenport was clearly not happy but he was outvoted.
Lamont turned to Tim. “You …?
“I plan to intercut him with FDR.”
Lamont smiled a very thin smile. “Why not? The new champ and the old. Would the studio … is it MGM?”
Tim nodded.
“… Object if I got Harry Luce to use some of this film from tonight in his newsreels? You know, those
March of Time
things that he does?”
Tim told Lamont to whom he must apply for footage. Lamont made a note.
Willkie waved to Tim. “We can do an interview now,” he said.
“No.” Davenport was abrupt. “It’s too late.”
“I’m afraid my crew’s gone,” said Tim. “Union hours.” He had now remembered where he had seen Willkie before. At Laurel House on the Potomac River, somewhat the worse for what he had drunk, while a woman—his wife?—tended to him.
“You said I could get nominated if I got out and fought for it.” Willkie addressed the brothers. “Well, this is the first round.”
“You won it,” said John Cowles.
“But it’s a big country,” said Mike. “A lot more rounds.”
“Roosevelt’s too nervous.” Willkie was still caught up in his recent performance. “That Minnesota crowd tonight is about as isolationist as you can get,
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