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The Blitz. The blitz, which got under way as soon as the first delegate hit the city, would go down in political history. It was as quiet as a snowfall and, like a snowfall, it covered everything. On Monday, a handful of reporters on Dewey's eighth floor saw little to report except serenity. But if they had listened carefully they might have heard the hum of wheels.
The panzer divisions were moving through the hotels. Typical of the way they operated was the story of Ohio's Delegate Chester Gillespie, who had been sent to the convention to vote for Stassen. Delegate Gillespie is a Cleveland Negro and an old friend of New York's most prominent Negro Republican, City Judge Francis E. Rivers. This information was on file.
On opening day, Judge Rivers called on Gillespie. They talked. It was pointed out to Gillespie that Tom Dewey had put an anti-discrimination law—a sort of state FEPC—through New York's legislature. Gillespie was flattered to be invited to meet the governor, who granted him a midnight audience. It lasted a full half hour. Gillespie recalled later: "I told him he had done more for Negroes than any other public figure in America. Mr. Dewey asked me, 'More than Lincoln?' I told him, 'Yes, Lincoln did his part in another way.' " Gillespie departed, pledged to support Tom Dewey on the second ballot. Every day after that, Judge Rivers met Gillespie at breakfast and stayed with him all day.
The War of Nerves. Even less audibly, a rumor machine began to grind. Rumor is an ancient contrivance of political conventions, but it had seldom been used more efficiently. Whispering stories of rebellions in opposition camps cropped up, stories of desertions, stories of growing Dewey strength. Newsmen, picking each other's brains, sped the rumors along. Philadelphia hotel lobbies, rooms and bars were suddenly filled with startling and unverified stories:
Governor Dwight Green was going to deliver a wad of Illinois' 56 votes to Dewey in return for the vice-presidency. Governor Alfred Driscoll, who was originally for Vandenberg, was going to deliver himself and at least a part of New Jersey to Dewey for the same reward. Congressman Charlie Halleck was going to deliver Indiana for the same reason. The effect of the stories was always the same. Delegates were assailed with doubts about their candidates and growing panicky over their own political hides. Were they missing a bandwagon? Would they go unrewarded when the patronage was dealt out?
First Blow. On Tuesday, the Dewey machine stepped up its power. It jolted the opposition with the first real blow. Pennsylvania's Senator Ed Martin announced that he had withdrawn as a favorite-son candidate and would not only vote for Dewey on the first ballot but make the nominating speech for him.