Taft urged his listeners to go to the polls. “The only way this fundamental difference can be resolved is by the vote of the people at the November election.”
Governor Dewey chose to remain above the fray. “The Special Session is a nuisance [and] no more,” he wrote his mother. His strategy was to divert attention from the special session, by reaching out to the one man who could do his campaign the most good. Reporters were notified by Dewey’s staff that on July 24, the Republican nominee was expecting a special guest at his dairy farm in Pawling, New York. Members of the press took note.
Dwight and Mamie Eisenhower arrived at the Dewey farm in Pawling after a two-and-a-half-hour drive from New York City. The Eisenhowers and the Deweys lunched together on the side terrace of the candidate’s white farmhouse. Afterward, the two men spoke privately about the face-off with the Russians in Berlin.
When reporters who had traveled to Pawling were invited to join in the conversation, Dewey faulted the Democrats for instigating the Berlin emergency. Democratic leadership had failed to ensure that Americans in western Germany would have legal rights to travel through Soviet-occupied Germany. A Republican administration could be relied upon to handle the situation in the future, Dewey argued, and the way to do that was with strength and firmness. It was time for the United States to stand up to the Kremlin, Dewey said.
“In Berlin we must not surrender our rights under duress,” the candidate said, with Ike sitting beside him. “We stay in Berlin in defense of our rights and insist on every peaceable means of defending our rights.”
Eisenhower added backbone to the candidate’s sentiments. Here was “Iron Ike,” World War II’s greatest hero. His mere presence inspired confidence, dependability, patriotism. It also raised a scintillating question: If Ike was to enter politics, what party would he represent? Democrat or Republican? When asked, Eisenhower answered, “I have not identified myself with any political party. I think I reflect the Governor’s views when I say we talked as two Americans.” When asked if Eisenhower’s visit was an endorsement of Dewey, the general remained coy.
“Let’s not fool ourselves,” he said. “Governor Dewey is a very significant person in the body politic.”
Dewey and Ike sat closely enough that their elbows touched, the scene carefully choreographed so news photographers could capture their smiling faces up close in a single camera frame. Eisenhower appeared elated, his expression revealing his belief that he was sitting next to the man who would be the first Republican president since 1932.
Meanwhile, three days after the Democratic National Convention, six thousand rebel Democrats gathered in a redbrick armory in Birmingham, Alabama. They aimed high: to chart a new course for the political future of a vast section of the United States. This crowd was aroused and thirsty for vengeance. White men pumped Confederate flags in the air. A band thumped out “Camptown Races.” Red, white, and blue bunting lined the walls. Delegates who had bolted the Democratic convention in Philadelphia now had their own convention, and a new political party: the Dixiecrats.
Not everyone was happy with the moniker; this group’s emerging leader—Governor Strom Thurmond of South Carolina—particularly did not like it. But the name stuck. A Charlotte, North Carolina, newspaper editor had come up with the term for the breakaway Democrats as a play on words. Dixie, after all, was the nickname for southern states that had made up the Confederacy during the Civil War. Dixiecrat was also the name of a favorite breakfast dish at Cogburn’s Grill in the capital city of Columbia, South Carolina—a greasy brown link sausage tucked into a folded slice of white bread.
The Dixiecrats’ platform would focus on “racial integrity”; among the six thousand people in the Birmingham armory, there were no blacks. It was not just a southern affair, but it was southern-dominated. Delegations were gathered on the armory floor in clusters holding signs from their states: Florida, Georgia, Alabama, Louisiana, Texas, South Carolina, North Carolina, Oklahoma, Arkansas, Mississippi, Virginia, and Tennessee. Delegations came from as far away as Iowa.
All the major radio networks plus newsreel cameras were on hand for the keynote speaker—Governor Thurmond—who was escorted to the podium by men waving American and Confederate flags. The South Carolina governor wore a black suit and a thin black tie over a white shirt. He shook a pen in his right hand rhythmically while he spoke.
“I want to tell you, ladies and gentlemen, that there’s not enough troops in the Army to force the Southern people to break down segregation and admit the Negro race into our theaters, into our swimming pools, into our homes, and into our churches,” Thurmond snapped. “If the South should vote for Truman this year, we might as well petition the Government for colonial status . . . I can think of nothing worse for the South than to tuck its tail and vote for Truman. If we did we would be nothing worse than cowards. We are not going to do it.”
As Thurmond spoke, he grew visibly angrier until his voice began to crack and his volume peaked. “These uncalled for and these damnable proposals he has recommended under the guise of so-called civil rights . . . I’ll tell you . . . the American people . . . had better wake up and oppose such a program because the next thing will be a totalitarian state in these United States!”
The crowd responded. Thurmond was saying in plain words exactly what they wanted to hear. The governor then revealed the Dixiecrats’ campaign strategy: If they could win enough electoral votes to prevent any candidate from achieving a majority needed
