The Name of the Game

In any reasonably free election, the democratic process usually involves a spate of name calling, a flurry of charges by each side that the other is crooked, and no end of stories that those in power are using their position and patronage to buy the voters' loyalty. Rumors of corruption are the name of the game--whether they are repeated by big-city cynics in the U.S. or newly enfranchised voters in South Viet Nam.

Thus it was no surprise last week that loud cries of foul continued to punctuate South Viet Nam's presidential election campaign. The ten civilian candidates had obviously learned the primary lessons of practical politics. Trouble was, that was all they seemed to have learned. Instead of hitting the hustings, they preferred to stay at home in Saigon and accuse their military opponents, Premier Nguyen Cao Ky and Chief of State Nguyen Van Thieu, of sabotaging their every move. For a few days they professed to be so indignant that they were ready to quit campaigning entirely.

Clock & Bell. In Viet Nam the voters took it all with a yawn. It was in Washington that the tactic paid off. Even after many local campaign managers admitted that they could find no evidence of corruption, U.S. Senators and Congressmen continued to echo charges of fraud. New York's Jacob Javits went so far as to suggest that the election ought to be delayed for a month to give the civilians "a real chance." President Lyndon Johnson tried to put things back in perspective by pointing out that even though the election might not be "without blemish, we cannot impose impossible standards for a young nation at war."

Although some of the candidates allowed that Javits had a good idea, most of them finally realized that time was fast running out. They returned to active campaigning, but judging by the crowds that turned out to see them, they need hardly have bothered. At Bien Hoa, for example, where there are 174,000 registered voters, only a thousand showed up when the campaign caravan rolled into town, and fully half of them were soldiers or civil servants given the day off.

The proceedings were hardly inspiring. While a goateed town elder armed with a red clock and a large golden bell limited speeches to 15 minutes, the candidates stood up in turn and delivered their judgments on what was wrong with the government. They spoke in cliches and were greeted by silence --or by good old-fashioned doubt. When Vice-Presidential Aspirant Huynh Cong Duong conceded that he did not claim to be smart, a young man in the crowd asked him, "Then why are you running for Vice President?" The audience roared with delight. The laughter grew even louder at Candidate Duong's lame answer: "I was being modest."

No Notes. Skipping the formal rallies, Premier Ky hopped around Viet Nam at the controls of his own DC-6, using the prerogatives of his office (just like any U.S. President) to make "nonpolitical" appearances, beaming confidence, usually speaking without notes. Ky's forte is the soft sell. "The election is very important," he told a labor union last week in Danang. "I therefore ask all workers to be very cautious in their choice. Think only of your own interests. I am not asking you to vote for me. Above all, I want no rigging of this election in my favor."

To underscore his promise to keep things honest, Ky also announced that all press censorship has been lifted--a move that is sure to give his opponents another sounding board for their repetitious charges of corruption.

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