The Republicans: The Quayle Quagmire

By WALTER SHAPIRO

"A Vice President cannot help you, he can only hurt you."

-- Richard Nixon, 1968

"I'm proud to have Dan Quayle at my side."

-- George Bush, 1988

The New Orleans convention was supposed to reveal the real George Bush to the American electorate. In that, it certainly succeeded, both for better and for worse. On Thursday night the Vice President delivered a stirring acceptance speech that was the equal of Michael Dukakis' oratorical triumph in Atlanta. In a strong, I'm-the-guy-in-charge-now voice, Bush fused masterful metaphors and political put-downs with his campaign themes of family, freedom and the future. He adroitly portrayed himself as both the heir to Reaganism and his own man, ready to take his seat at the big desk in the Oval Office. Bush declared, "This election -- what it all comes down to, after all the shouting and cheers, is the man at the desk. And who should sit at that desk? My friends, I am that man."

Bush also succeeded at a task that eluded Dukakis in Atlanta: to provide a telling glimpse of the private man beneath the public mask. "I may not be the most eloquent," Bush announced with gentle but revealing words that momentarily belied the disclaimer. "I may sometimes be a little awkward," he continued, "but there's nothing self-conscious in my love of country. I am a quiet man, but I hear the quiet people others don't -- the ones who raise the family, pay the taxes, meet the mortgage. I hear them and I am moved, and their concerns are mine."

But Bush's hopes for a buoyant bounce from that speech were sacrificed on the altar of Dan Quayle, the man he had selected only two days earlier to be his running mate. The surprise choice, and the way it was handled, revealed some of the weaknesses of Bush's approach to governance -- from a crippling fear of leaks to a distaste for face-to-face confrontation. At one point, only hours before Bush's acceptance speech, campaign aides considered the possibility that Quayle might be dumped from the ticket. Although Quayle survived the initial storm, there were strong indications that the Quayle factor could haunt the Republican team right through to Nov. 8.

"Watch my vice-presidential decision," Bush urged in a TIME interview three weeks ago. "That will tell all." To the Vice President, the selection of Quayle, 41, a blond, boyish, baby-boom, back-bench Senator from Indiana, represented a bold leap across generational boundaries. Bush, it seemed, had looked in the mirror and found what was most needed in the second-banana role that he had played for eight years: a younger version of himself. Quayle radiates the same bumptious enthusiasm, the same uncritical loyalty, the same palpable gratitude and the same malleable mind-set that Bush brought to the G.O.P. ticket in 1980.

But by anointing Quayle, Bush also stepped into deep boo-boo. Within 24 hours of his selection, Quayle became a political bumper car careering from one public relations crack-up to another. During an awkward press conference on Wednesday and five erratic television interviews that night, Quayle was constantly unhinged by the question that torments many of his generation: What did you do during the Viet Nam War?

In Quayle's case, he served in the Indiana National Guard, a part-time assignment that consisted mostly of writing press releases for a small public- affairs unit. That alone might have been embarrassing for the hawkish Senator, but Quayle grudgingly conceded that he had used his powerful family's connections to help him win this bullet-free billet. In his initial press conference, Quayle did not aid his own cause when he callously suggested that he joined the Guard because "I did not know in 1969 that I would be in this room today, I'll confess."

The day after the convention, Bush accompanied his new running mate to his hometown, Huntington, Ind. There, as the Vice President stayed secluded in city hall, Quayle fended off press questions about his war record in a scene eerily reminiscent of other embattled vice-presidential nominees: the Richard Nixon of the Checkers speech; Thomas Eagleton dumped from the Democratic ticket in 1972; and Geraldine Ferraro, who in 1984 endured withering scrutiny of the financial affairs of herself and her husband, Real Estate Executive John Zaccaro.

The reason Quayle's Viet Nam quagmire caused such controversy is that millions of Americans could instantly relate to what he had done and had not done. At 22, upon graduation from DePauw University in 1969, he planned to go to law school. But he had already passed his pre-induction military physical, and fears of being drafted were realistic. Later that year, Quayle would receive a draft lottery number, 210 (out of 366), which would put him on the cusp of those spared conscription. The National Guard was a beguiling option: generally it meant six months of training and then weekend-warrior status for six years, with virtually no chance of being mobilized for Viet Nam.

Enlisting in the National Guard instead of being drafted is not, as Quayle ( repeatedly pointed out in Huntington, a dishonor. But for a conservative trying to run on a banner of hawkish patriotism, it is a potential liability. The far more explosive political question last week was whether the Quayles had pulled strings to get him into the Guard. The Indiana Guard at the time was at 98.4% strength, meaning that there was a waiting list for slots in many units. Dennis Avery, 41, a Democratic state representative from Evansville, Ind., told TIME last week that he had considered enlisting in the Indiana Guard before being drafted in 1969. "I was told that the National Guard had a long waiting list," Avery said, "and that it would be futile, a several-year waiting list." But Indiana Guard records indicate that there were vacancies in the headquarters unit Quayle joined in May 1969.

In Huntington, Quayle admitted, "I ((did)) what any normal person would do at that age. You call home. You call home to Mother and Father and say, 'I'd like to get into the National Guard.' " The only difference was that Quayle's parents were not quite Ma and Pa Kettle. His mother Corinne is the daughter of Eugene Pulliam, a conservative Hoosier press lord who dominated the state as the publisher of the Indianapolis News and the Indianapolis Star. The managing editor of the News was then Wendell Phillippi, a retired major general who had commanded the Indiana Guard. According to Phillippi, Quayle called him to ask for help in getting into the Guard and to inquire about the chances of being called to active duty. Phillippi said he contacted an acquaintance in the Guard and highly recommended Quayle.

There is no more difficult political role than that of a conservative from the baby-boom generation. Attitudes and behavior that were commonplace in the late 1960s -- about drugs, sex, military service -- are now viewed with post- factum moralism through the prism of two decades of cultural revisionism. By 1969 millions of American men of draft age would have gone to great lengths to avoid combat in the most unpopular war in the nation's history. Is an entire generation of draft avoiders, who stayed within the law, barred from high political office? Or is there a special standard for hawkish conservatives, who are automatically maligned as hypocrites if they did not then put their rifles where their rhetoric is now?

There is something disturbing about Quayle's reluctant admission that he used pull to get into the Guard. In this, Quayle, scion of a wealthy family, reflects a different tradition than does the well-born Bush. The Vice President, who eagerly enlisted as a Navy aviator during World War II, was reared by a code of strict moralism that reviled special privileges and taking more than one's share. Quayle appears to reflect the more permissive and probably more common outlook that wealth and connections provide certain protections against the vicissitudes of life and that these dispensations are to be enjoyed without guilt. But in this attitude, Quayle reflects the era in which he came of age.

An iron law of scandal is that no matter how grave or trivial the initial offense, the press will inevitably reduce the issue to a simple question of honesty. By traditional, George Washington cherry-tree standards, Quayle appears to be guilty only of shading the truth. But there has also been a troubling pattern of lapses of memory surrounding Quayle's public statements since he was tapped by Bush. Initially, Quayle claimed he could not remember if anyone helped him get into the Guard. In an NBC interview Wednesday night, he conceded that "if phone calls were made . . . I don't know the specifics of that." That same evening, Quayle told the MacNeil-Lehrer Newshour that his father James also "certainly could have called people." But perhaps Quayle's most questionable assertion is one that he has clung to from the outset: that a desire to avoid combat played no role in his eagerness to enter the Indiana Guard.

The Quayle storm is, in fact, about more than a 19-year-old military record. The young Senator's stumbling attempts to defuse the issue showed how inexperienced he is on a national stage. In addition, the charges resonated because they reflected a deeper qualm about Quayle: that he is somewhat of a lightweight. Too junior to be a committee chairman when the Republicans ruled the Senate, and not regarded as a legislative craftsman, Quayle seems emblematic of the type of Senator who performs better in campaign ads than in committee rooms. The press made a concerted effort to communicate its view -- and that of some of Quayle's colleagues -- that the Republicans were about to nominate a man without the heft to handle the job. There were anonymous gibes: "Quayle is Bush Lite." His academic record became an issue; as even Quayle admits, "I was not a very good student." The Wall Street Journal quoted one of his college professors as saying, "He was as vapid a student as I can ever recall."

The selection of Quayle also resurrected stories about Paula Parkinson, the shapely Washington lobbyist known for her legislative affairs. On a golfing vacation in 1980, Quayle stayed in a Florida house with two other Congressmen and Parkinson. He left the next day and was never accused of intimacy with her; no evidence has emerged to dispute his claim that he did nothing more exciting than play golf. But in the November issue of Playboy, due on newsstands Oct. 1, Parkinson (who is pictured posing nude) will make some new allegations about Quayle's activities that weekend. Her charges are unsubstantiated and, in fact, contradict some of her previous accounts. But they are likely to provoke another unwanted flurry of publicity.

Bush trumpeted his vice-presidential selection process as a model by which his fitness for the White House should be judged. But the behind-the-scenes portrait of the troubled Bush campaign last week was one of repeated misjudgments and miscalculations. Bush should shoulder most of the adverse political consequences, stemming from both faulty staff work and his deep concern with secrecy, which kept politically experienced aides from participating in and learning much about Quayle's background check.

From the outset, Bush viewed the choice of his running mate as a case study in the loneliness of power. "I want to do this one myself," the Vice President frequently told longtime political counselors who offered to help. Bush solicited names and advice but rarely revealed his own feelings, and in the end relied almost defiantly on himself alone. "He had a preoccupation with leaks," recalls a senior staffer. Concern with maintaining firm control of the theatrics of the convention contributed to this security mania, but the primary cause was Bush's memories of the rumors that swept Detroit in 1980 as Reagan was pondering Bush's fate. As a top aide put it, "He was determined that no one be hurt."

This kindliness had consequences. A parade of would-be Veeps coming hat in hand would be demeaning, so Bush primarily communicated with the candidates through the relatively inexperienced Robert Kimmitt, who was in charge of the background checks. Kimmitt -- the top attorney at Treasury when Campaign Chairman James Baker was the Cabinet Secretary -- was under firm instructions to share most of his findings only with Bush. Thus, despite the broad-ranging search for a running mate, the most vital information of all was in the end filtered through a two-man channel.

( Bush, who was worried about his party's right wing, had hoped for consensus, but there was none to be found. The week before the convention, Bush asked his top advisers to list their three favorites for Vice President: none of the seven lists agreed. Bob Dole and Jack Kemp, both tested in the primaries, were obvious selections, but within the Bush camp they also inspired impassioned pleas of "anyone but Dole" and "anyone but Kemp." Their political prominence was also a disadvantage; Bush did not seem to want a running mate who had a strong independent record of his own. In contrast, Quayle's career had the virtue of leaving too light an imprint to arouse enemies.

Monday afternoon, just hours after the convention opened, Kimmitt reported to Bush that the background check on Quayle was complete and that nothing very adverse had been found. What remains unclear is why Kimmitt failed to discover the pulling-strings-to-get-into-the-Guard problem. Was it Kimmitt's negligence, Quayle's deceit or just the explosive mixture of an inexperienced questioner and an overly vague Senator? Two Bush insiders complain in almost identical words, "We don't know for sure whether Quayle lied to Kimmitt. That's the bottom line."

Tuesday morning, just before boarding the helicopter to Andrews Air Force Base, Bush told his top advisers that he had made up his mind, but he refused to tell them who it was. The Vice President had decided on Quayle without ever questioning him face to face; Bush had faith in Kimmitt and the process. On the two-hour flight to New Orleans, Bush discussed the timing of the announcement with aides. There were rumbles from New Orleans that both the delegates and the press were growing restive over the now tedious game of "I've got a secret." Bush was particularly concerned about putting the losing contenders out of their misery.

Bush confided first in Ronald Reagan, whispering Quayle's name to the mildly uninterested President when they crossed paths at Louisiana's Belle Chasse Naval Air Station Tuesday morning. Most of the Bush entourage learned of Quayle's selection at the home of the air-base commander. There the decision was made to announce the choice that afternoon, but only if Bush could personally notify all eleven semifinalists in time. He did. The last call was to Quayle, and Bush effusively told him, "You are my choice, my first choice, my only choice."

At this point, the Quayle tale began to go awry. Bush was scheduled to take a 30-minute riverboat ride on the Natchez, and it was decided that Quayle would be anointed when the boat docked in New Orleans. There was only one problem: Bush insisted that his top aides accompany him to guarantee secrecy. That meant all the obligatory calls to G.O.P. leaders had to be postponed until later that afternoon, leaving no senior campaign aide available to brief the press on Quayle's virtues. When the problem was posed to Bush, he said decisively, and incorrectly, "We can take that hit."

Quayle's hyperactive performance at his own investiture was criticized by many as more appropriate for a game-show host than for a would-be Vice President. He bounded across the podium, waving his arms, grabbing Bush's shoulder (the Vice President recoiled) and shouting meaningless phrases like "Go get 'em!" But many Bush advisers thought that Quayle's energy made the Vice President look like a Reaganesque elder statesman in comparison. Bush agreed. The next morning he said to an aide, "Don't let anyone try to put Dan in a straitjacket or slow him down. Let him be himself."

Quayle's Wednesday press conference should have dampened the upbeat mood, but few in the Bush high command detected the warning flares. Aides were so enraptured with Quayle's energy and enthusiasm that they failed to listen carefully to his answers. Blindsided by a question on why he joined the National Guard, Quayle fell back on the advice that Bush Media Guru Roger Ailes gave the Indiana Senator during his 1986 re-election campaign: "If there is no advantage to you in a subject, don't talk about it." So instead of a full answer, Quayle spoke in fractured sound bites.

There was neither much trepidation nor preparation as Quayle was sent off on Wednesday night to make the prime-time interview rounds. Virtually the only advice given to Quayle: "Be yourself, and whatever you do, don't lie." The peripatetic Senator followed both instructions faithfully, perhaps too faithfully. Each time Quayle sat down before the cameras, he dropped another factlet about the efforts of his family and friends to ease his way into the National Guard. At times Quayle spoke with such enthusiasm about his ambition to be a Guardsman that one almost got the impression that it was a higher calling than the vice presidency.

Late Wednesday night, the Bush camp finally grasped that it was ensnared in a full-blown media crisis. At a midnight meeting, Baker decreed the strategy ( to follow during the next 20 anxious hours: total public silence. Until the staff unearthed the facts that had somehow eluded Kimmitt, they would stonewall everything. But the truth about Quayle's military record continued to be elusive. The Indiana Senator was telephoned at his hotel, but he failed to remember many details. Quayle's father was called; yes, he had tried to help his son get into the Guard. Phillippi was contacted. But the answers remained incomplete and sometimes contradictory.

The group reconvened Thursday morning. Quayle was to be nominated in twelve hours -- or was he? The top staff mulled the consequences of dumping Quayle from the ticket and quickly decided that it would be equivalent to conceding the election. "That was the low point of a bad day," recalls a Bush adviser. More realistic was the possibility of an updated Checkers speech: Quayle would appear with his parents. In the end, desperation ploys were judged unnecessary. An aide explains, "We realized we had a public relations problem, not a real problem."

Bush never wavered in support of the man he had lifted so high. "How's Danny doing?" he asked several times. But the Vice President never felt the compulsion to question Quayle face to face. The awkward investigation was left to Baker. Around noon, Quayle grew restive about answering further questions. "Let's go," he urged, but Baker pressed to know more. By early afternoon, the mood began to brighten in the Bush bunker. There were no new revelations; the media hurricane had for the moment blown out to sea.

Thursday night, Quayle was nominated by acclamation for Vice President. His acceptance speech was as energetic as it was forgettable. The Bush camp did decide, however, to wrap Quayle in the patriotic bunting of the National Guard. Signs appeared on the convention floor heralding GUARDSMEN FOR BUSH/ QUAYLE. The vice-presidential nominee won his loudest ovation when he declared, "I served six years in the National Guard . . . and I'm proud of that." It was textbook conservative confrontational politics: pit the millions of voters who are veterans of the National Guard against a lynch mob from the national media.

That strategy was apparent on Friday, when the Bush campaign decreed that Quayle was finally prepared to meet the press. The setting in Huntington, Ind., was akin to an outdoor version of the Morton Downey Jr. Show. Aides gathered reporters on the hill sloping from the courthouse in full view of a flag-waving crowd of 12,000 media-loathing Hoosiers. The Indiana Senator, coat off, strode boldly into the swarm of sweating, shoving reporters: Dan Quayle enters the lion's den. He spoke into a microphone that boomed his answers to the hometown faithful.

This was political theater, and Quayle displayed admirable fidelity to his prepared script. Several times he answered, "I got into the National Guard fairly. I did not ask anyone to break the rules." Asked if his war record would be a campaign problem, Quayle replied, "In a way, it might help. You are going to be surprised how outraged people and families who identify with the National Guard are going to be." With each question, the heckling grew louder. Finally, when Hoosiers chanting "Boring, boring" tried to drown out a questioner entirely, Baker belatedly ordered aides to quiet the raucous sideshow.

If the script holds, Quayle could in a week or two neutralize much of the damage to the Republican ticket. But Ferraro too won a short-term lift from her marathon face-off with the national press, only to see it all slip away in the swirl of new revelations. Ferraro is a reminder of how in recent years the seemingly simple selection of a compatible vice-presidential candidate has often been a ticket to political disaster.

The truth, sadly, is that in the quarter-century since the Kennedy assassination, the nation has come to appreciate the fragility of all Presidents. Gone is the Throttlebottom era, when almost any politician, remotely competent and occasionally sober, could be drafted to fill out a ticket. In a vice-presidential candidate, the nation now sees an individual who could be called on to enter the Oval Office at a time of supreme national anguish. That is the most unfortunate thing about the Quayle quagmire -- how little of the controversy touches on the Indiana Senator's abilities to shoulder that potentially terrible burden.

With reporting by Robert Ajemian, David Beckwith and Alessandra Stanley/New Orleans