Page 2 THE BATTALION
WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 1, 1976
Cadet Slouch
by Jim Earle
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No good news for Mr. Ford
MADISON, Wis. — In the passage
of time and space from the noise and
excitement of Kemper Arena in Kan
sas City to the quiet and cool of this
university town, two scenes from the
extraordinary final hour of the Re
publican convention have grown
more vivid in this reporter’s mind.
One was the gesture with which
President Ford beckoned his de
feated rival, Ronald Reagan, to leave
the stands and join him on the
podium, from which Mr. Ford had
just delivered his acceptance
speech.
The physical emotion was so right
— and so natural — that, craning my
neck to see the President over the
heads of others in the press stand, I
was momentarily transfixed.
It was not a gesture of command,
summoning Reagan from his seat.
Neither was it an imploring gesture,
begging him for assistnce. It was a
terribly familiar gesture, but not
until a day later did I realize why. It
was a gesture from a Midwestern
boyhood — a memory this reporter
shares with Jerry Ford and Ronald
Reagan and Bob Dole.
If you grew up in Grand Rapids or
Tampico, Ill., or Russell, Kan., or
my hometown of Chicago Heights,
you could remember other August
evenings when, supper eaten, dis
hes done, you would be sitting on
the front porch, or tossing a ball to
your dog on the front lawn. A friend
would come strolling down the
sidewalk — headed for the movie, or
the drug store, or the baseball
diamond — and with a crook of his
arm invite you to come along. You
didn’t know what was up, but you
David S.
Broder
knew he was headed toward the ac
tion.
That was the way the President
beckoned Reagan. And the Gover
nor, who in his moment of defeat the
night before had finally let his pas
sion for the presidency show through
his actor’s veneer, could no more re
sist answering the gesture than he
could flub his big scene when he
reached the microphone.
It was great theater — and great
politics — because it symbolized
what is best about Jerry Ford. His
instincts in personal relations are so
natural, so genuine, his gestures so
unforced, that it is impossible to be
lieve him phony. And that belief is
what, if anything, will elect him.
But the other riveting memory of
the last night carried quite a differ
ent message. One prominent Re
publican did not see the scene just
described. John Connally was gone
before any of this happened.
He had been sitting in the VIP
section a few rows behind the Ford
family. His wife, Nellie, was on one
side, and Mary Scranton, wife of
Ambassador William Scranton, was
on the other.
I don’t know what kind of com
pany he provided for Mary Scranton,
but I imagine it may have been a
difficult evening. Every time I
glanced over in that direction, Con
nally looked like a thundercloud.
Maybe it was the thought of Dole —
his neighbor of the 17th floor of the
Meuhlebach hotel — getting the
phone call from the President that
Connally had wanted, or maybe it
was something else. But the scowl
was on Connally’s face every time I
looked.
Even when he was applauding
with big, exaggerated gestures — his
hands raised almost to the height of
his eyes — the expression never
changed. And that, too, stirred a
memory. It was the last previous
convention Connally had attended,
the Democratic convention in
Chicago in 1968.
During all the turmoil in the
streets and the hall, Connally had
played the role of the enforcer —
keeping relentless pressure on
Hubert H. Humphrey not to deviate
an inch from support of Lyndon
Johnson’s policies in Vietnam.
At various points, when Hum
phrey appeared to be wavering and
about to yield to advisers urging him
to accept the “peace plank,” Con
nally threatened to withthold the
Texas votes or even to place
Johnson’s name in nomination
against Humphrey. Finally, Hum
phrey caved in. He won the nomina
tion, tied irrevocably to the Johnson
record and doomed to defeat.
At that convention, too, there had
been talk that Connally hoped for
the vice-presidential nomination.
Maybe yes, maybe no. But I re
member him in the Chicago hall,
scowling just as fiercelyIH
Humphrey’s acceptance sJpres
he did through Mr. Ford's tlx Le s^=
night. In 1968, he hadbeensitj ck't «
the front row with the Texaux e i=» i
tion. But the look was the si! }th
I cannot recall what Connij j
when Humphrey finishedsps
hut I won’t soon forget wk
pened when Mr. Ford was
The instant the speech ended
as the cheering began, 1
grabbed his wife by the elk
headed for the exit. Onese® L ]
was there, the nexthewasie
That hasty exit said as imidi! |Thxo
Connally’s attitude towards le nu
vention, the ticket and the) e cL
dent’s chances as anyone nes tomi:
know. And it was not goodw pfore
Mr. Ford. [ce-
(c) 1976, The Washington Posl | For<
le N;
Th.
Grow deaf as we enjoy
advances of the SST
By EDWARD P. MORGAN
I can’t find the exact quotation,
unfortunately, but H. L. Mencken
once said, in effect, that nobody ever
lost a fortune underestimating the
intelligence of the body politic.
That thought, provocatively un
democratic as it is, came to mind
when I read a front page headline a
while back marking the inaugural of
supersonic jetliner service between
Europe and Washington.
“Thousands cheer arrival of Con
cordes,” the headline said.
It is quite understandable that
throngs of the curious would con
verge on Dulles airport to observe -
the landing of the most advanced
airborne contrivance since the
Wright brothers launched their
heavier-than-air contraption from
the North Carolina sand dunes at
Kitty Hawk in 1903. Besides, two
commercials SSTs. strangely re
sembling stratospheric sharks,
landed within minutes of each other
on that memorable day, one British,
the other French. The two nations
have plunged three billion dollars
into a 13-year joint effort to produce
the SST. And the Russians now have
one, too, developed on their own
and flying, though it is not clear
whether it is flying passengers.
There were approving murmurs
from the Dulles crowds about the
lack of roaring racket at the landings.
An official noise-monitoring station
said the sound from each Concorde
was less than that registered by a
Boeing 707. With engines at full
throttle, the noise on takeoff was
another matter.
years ago banned the production of
an American commercial supersonic
jetliner. But does nobody remember
the grounds for the Senate s deci
sion: not only the noise problem,
which the SST has not begun to
solve, but the damage caused by
sonic booms as the SST pierced the
sound harrier over land? (That is
partly why Transportation Secretary
Coleman limited SST flight to 16 ex
perimental months. New York offi
cials have already closed Kennedy
airport to the SSTs.) Then there is
the ozone factor, a problem still not
measured. One theory is that the
vapor created by an unspecified
number of SSTs, flying either over
land or water, would attack the
ozone shield which protects us from
lethal overdoses of ultraviolet rays
from the sun.
Finally only a wealthy few can af
ford to fly the SST. I 11 blunt my
complaints if just one of them uses
the time saved to figure out ways to
improve the transportation most of
us have to grapple with, in the air
and on the ground.
Morgan is a correspondent for In the Public
Interest, a press service of the Fund for Peace.
§0. CONCEDING THE SOUTH. TO CAKTER, AND ASSURING THE BIG INDUSTRIAL STATES
GO DEMOCRAT... THAT LEAVES US RUSSELL, KANSAS, AND DOWNTOWN GRAND RAPIDS."
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But the point which the crowd and
apparently most of the officials forgot
was that many environmentalists,
including some in the government,
consider most airport noise of
virtually all jetliners already too
high. Politics has prevented the
adoption of reasonable noise levels
not only for aircraft but for trucks on
the highways. Blind, as it were, to
the growing menaces of our mate
rialistic age, we may grow deaf as we
enjoy such “advances” as the SST.
Many cried calamity and a col
lapse of the U.S. world leadership in
aviation, when the Senate a few
ftipfnamka
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