Manchester, New Hampshire
ONE OF THE REASONS Howard Dean and Dick Gephardt both fared so poorly in the Iowa caucuses, everybody seems to agree, is that voters in that state--who are, I can confirm, the nicest people in the universe--were turned off by the relentlessly bitter campaign each man ran against the other, especially at the end. Dean's closing-week anti-Gephardt attack ad, in particular, is thought to have blown up in his face, not least because no Iowan with a television could escape it: $240,000 worth of air time over just three days, a truly phenomenal amount of money in a state where a typical heavy-rotation broadcast purchase might be only half as much money spread over twice as many evenings.
So in New Hampshire, "negativity" is out, at least for public consumption. Which is rather inconvenient for Dean, since it's an iron law of campaign strategy that a man in his suddenly desperate position has to--among other things--"take down" the frontrunner just a bit. Or more than just a bit. How's Dean supposed to do that without the voters noticing? Beats me, and beats Dean, too, apparently: All the Dean people have so far managed to come up with is a not-particularly-imaginative program of "oppo" press-release dumps to reporters (about John Kerry's purportedly grubby, career-long relationships with "special interests" and their Washington-lobby henchmen). And reporters aren't biting.
During Thursday night's St. Anselm College debate in the Goffstown suburbs west of here, the very first piece of paper distributed throughout the press filing center by the handout kids was a Dean campaign document headlined "John Kerry, Fighting Special Interests?" That headline had a little number "1" after it. Over the course of the evening, we also got parts 2, 3, and 4, each of them a little sub-thematic scrapbook of quoted old clippings about Kerry's past campaign fundraising techniques. If a single newspaper has since run a single story based on this stuff, I haven't seen it.
The Kerry people, by contrast, aren't saying anything about Howard Dean--I mean nothing--even on paper. This, too, is an iron law of campaign strategy, and Kerry's strategists are iron-law men all the way. In the post-debate spin room Thursday night, Bill Shaheen, the senator's New Hampshire campaign manager, was repeatedly asked to "diagnose the state of Dr. Dean's campaign." And he repeatedly refused: "No, that's up to the people to do that, I have my own--I have enough of my own--listen, I'm running the Kerry campaign, that's more than I can handle." Shaheen is an engaging, funny guy, an old-school pro, and you can tease him about stuff like this, so I did: I expect you Kerry folks never think about Howard Dean hardly at all, right? Shaheen laughed: "I think about it all of the time," sure. But that didn't mean he was prepared to think about it out loud. "I can't diagnose it, I'm not qualified for that."
A few minutes later, having just been pushed backwards into his wheelchair by the crowd, I made my apologies to former Senator and Kerry surrogate Max Cleland, and then further embarrassed myself--that being my job--by segueing straight into horserace vulgarity. At one point during the debate, Dean had made allusion to the 500-some-odd U.S. servicemen and women who've lost their lives in Iraq, noting that "those soldiers were sent there by the vote of Senator Lieberman and Senator Kerry and Senator Edwards." Gov. Dean appeared to be suggesting that Cleland's friend John Kerry had blood on his hands. What did Cleland make of that?
"No, that's not correct," he told me. What really happened was . . . well, it had something to do with President Bush's "insane" Middle East policies and "oil wells" and "Cheney getting income from Halliburton." Okay, but what about Howard Dean suggesting that John Kerry had sent American GIs to their deaths for no good reason, I wondered? Was Cleland irked by that? "I disagree with it. I don't think it's true. Excuse me," the honorable gentleman cordially replied, rolling himself away.
This was the same Max Cleland whose view it was not long ago that "We cannot afford to have a leader who weaseled out of going to Vietnam on a medical deferment for a bad back and wound up on the ski slopes of Aspen like Howard Dean."
YESTERDAY here in Manchester Sen. Cleland was once again on location for his buddy John. And once again nobody mentioned anything about weaseling out of Vietnam. But Vietnam itself came up plenty, especially at the Kerry campaign noontime "veterans" event in a half-court gymnasium attached to the Jewish community center on the north side of town. It was a quite extraordinary scene, really: six or seven hundred wildly enthusiastic, chanting locals ("KERRY! KERRY! KERRY! KERRY!"), most of whom had arrived as much as an hour before the scheduled start. On a raised platform in the center of this crowd, Cleland was seated next to a casually dressed, beaming, relaxed-to-the-point-of-transformation Kerry. And a dozen or so of Kerry's Vietnam gunboat brothers were arranged like a choir at their feet.
Retiring Senator Fritz Hollings of South Carolina got things started. Hollings is . . . um, a dotty old fool and an infamously mean-spirited crypto-racist, actually. A short-circuited speaker wire produced a startlingly loud, explosive sound while Hollings was free-associating about the overseas export of furniture manufacturing jobs. "Some Chinaman got mad at me," Hollings remarked, 'cause that's how 'ol Fritz refers to 'em, see? And then 'ol Fritz got to talking about "Little George W." and Little George's puppetmaster, "that fella Cheney," who probably have conversations together where Little George says "Haven't we already given the rich a tax cut?"--and then Cheney says "no, we want more, we want more." Why, Cheney is "the Jesse Jackson of the Republican party," Hollings roared, mimicking an African-American accent: "He wants it allll! His tiiime has coooome!"
Presidential primary campaigns that feel like they're on the verge of final triumph can get away with stuff like this, apparently. Nobody seemed to mind.
Then it was the candidate's turn, and--general-election-season style--the candidate said hardly a single word of substantive note. But he did tell an eloquent, deeply moving story at the start: about visiting the Omaha Beach cemeteries in Normandy and finding the still personally-tended-to gravestone of an American soldier killed on D-Day. And Kerry did tell an eloquent, deeply moving story at the close: about Iwo Jima flag-raising hero Ira Hayes--"drunken Ira Hayes," for those familiar with the Johnny Cash song. One of the other marines in that famous Iwo Jima photo had been killed in action the very next day, Kerry explained. And somehow, no one ever told this young man's grieving mother that her son, Hayes's friend, was also one of the men in that iconic image, the one leaning over and planting the pole on the top of Mt. Suribachi. So one day years and years after the war, unable to stop thinking about his dead buddy, the troubled and unhappy Ira Hayes shook himself upright, hitchhiked all the way from Arizona to Texas, found his buddy's mother, and informed her that her son was a great man who'd never be forgotten.
John Kerry wants to think "that every American would say to himself, 'I'd have done that.'" Thank you and God bless.
Go ahead and roll your eyes if you want. I had a lump in my throat. Little George W. better watch his butt if he knows what's good for him.
David Tell is opinion editor of The Weekly Standard.