old age.
Not that very many died of old age that generation!
But I was the newly appointed secretary to a freshman congressman; I had
been his campaign manager and my former job had left me. By profession, I
was a high school teacher of economics and sociology—school boards don’t
like teachers of social subjects actually to deal with social problems—and
my contract was not renewed. I jumped at the chance to go to Washington.
My congressman was named Manning. Yes, the Manning, Colonel Clyde C.
Manning. U.S. Army retired—Mr. Commissioner Manning. What you may not know
about him is that he was one of the army’s No. 1 experts in chemical
warfare before a leaky heart put him on the shelf. I had picked him, with
the help of a group of my political associates, to run against the two-bit
chiseler who was the incumbent in our district. We needed a strong liberal
candidate and Manning was tailor-made for the job. He had served one term
in the grand jury, which cut his political eye teeth, and had stayed active
in civic matters there after.
Being a retired army officer was a political advantage in vote-getting
among the more conservative and well-to-do citizens, and his record was O.
K. for the other side of the fence. I’m not primarily concerned with
vote-getting; what I liked about him was that, though he was liberal, he
was tough-minded, which most liberals aren’t. Most liberals believe that
water runs downhill, but, praise God, it’ll never reach the bottom.
Manning was not like that. He could see a logical necessity and act on it,
no matter how unpleasant it might be.
We were in Manning’s suite in the House Office Building, taking a little
blow from that stormy first session of the Seventy-eighth Congress and
trying to catch up on a mountain of correspondence, when the war department
called. Manning answered it himself.
I had to overhear, but then I was his secretary. “Yes,” he said, “speaking.
Very well, put him on. Oh . . . hello, General. . . . Fine, thanks.
Yourself?” Then there was a long silence. Presently, Manning said, “But I
can’t do that, General, I’ve got this job to take care of. . . . What’s
that? . . . Yes, who is to do my committee work and represent my district?
. . . I think so.” He glanced at his wrist watch. “I’ll be right over.”
He put down the phone, turned to me, and said, “Get your hat, John. We are
going over to the war department.”
“So?” I said, complying.
“Yes,” he said with a worried look, “the Chief of Staff thinks I ought to
go back to duty.” He set off at a brisk walk, with me hanging back to try
to force him not to strain his bum heart. “It’s impossible, of course,” we
grabbed a taxi from the stand in front of the office building, swung around
the Capitol, and started down Constitution Boulevard.
But it was possible, and Manning agreed to it, after the Chief of Staff
presented his case. Manning had to be convinced, for there is no way on
earth for anyone, even the President himself, to order a congressman to
leave his post, even though he happens to be a member of the military
service, too.
The Chief of Staff had anticipated the political difficulty and had been
forehanded enough to have already dug up an opposition congressman with
whom to pair Manning’s vote for the duration of the emergency. This other
congressman, the Honorable Joseph T. Brigham, was a reserve officer who
wanted to go to duty himself—or was willing to; I never found out which.
Being from the opposite political party, his vote in the House of
Representatives could be permanently paired against Mannings and neither
party would lose by the arrangement.
There was talk of leaving me in Washington to handle the political details
of Manning’s office, but Manning decided against it, judging that his other
secretary could do that, and announced that I must go along as his
adjutant. The Chief of Staff demurred, but Manning was in a position to
insist, and the Chief had to give in.