Their feud dates to the autumn of 1959, when Bobby Kennedy went to visit Johnson at his expansive Texas ranch. His brother had sent him to Texas to gauge whether Johnson would run against Kennedy for the Democratic nomination in 1960.
President Kennedy and his brother Attorney General Robert F. Kennedy had a contentious relationship with Vice President Lyndon B. Johnson. (Abbie Rowe, White House Photographs, John F. Kennedy Presidential Library and Museum, Boston)
It was LBJ’s habit to take important guests deer hunting on his vast property, and Bobby’s visit was no different. At first, Bobby and LBJ got along extremely well—that is, until Bobby shot at a deer. The rifle’s recoil knocked him flat and opened a cut above one eye. Johnson, reaching down to help Bobby to his feet, couldn’t resist taking a swipe: “Son,” he told Bobby, “you’ve got to learn to shoot a gun like a man.”
No one speaks to Bobby Kennedy that way. Of such small moments are great feuds made.
As the election of 1960 drew nearer, it was Bobby who fought hardest against Lyndon Johnson as the choice for vice president. And it was also Bobby who personally visited Johnson’s hotel suite during the Democratic convention in Los Angeles to offer him the job—though not before trying to talk him out of accepting.
Now the Bay of Pigs will mark the moment when their careers officially veer in two radically different directions. Bobby’s stature will quickly rise, with his brother soon referring to him as the “second most powerful man in the world.”
Johnson, who privately refers to Bobby as “that snot-nosed little son of a bitch,” is already regretting leaving the Senate. LBJ is a man in decline. President Kennedy doesn’t trust him and barely tolerates him. The president is so dismissive of Johnson that he even wonders to Jackie, “Can you imagine what would happen to the country if Lyndon were president?”
Being vice president, noted John Nance Garner, Franklin Delano Roosevelt’s first VP, is like being “a pitcher of warm spit.” John Adams once described being in the position as “I am nothing.” Lyndon Johnson knows precisely what his predecessors meant. He no longer has a constituency, no longer has political leverage, and no longer has a whit of authority.
For instance, the vice president does not have a plane of his own. When his duties require him to travel, Johnson must ask one of Kennedy’s aides for permission to use a presidential plane. Though he is technically second in command of the nation, Johnson’s request carries no more weight than that of a cabinet member. Sometimes his request is denied. When that happens, the vice president of the United States might even be forced to fly commercial.
The greatest insult, however, isn’t that Johnson has lost his political pull in Washington, it’s that he has lost almost all his clout in his home state of Texas. Despite Johnson’s crucial role in delivering Texas to Kennedy on Election Day, Senator Ralph Yarborough is now moving in to take control of Texas politics, and Secretary of the Navy John Connally is making plans to run for governor. One, or both, of them will soon control political power in the Lone Star State. Johnson is becoming expendable. If Kennedy chooses another running mate when he seeks a second term in office, LBJ will be out of politics entirely.
For now, however, Johnson possesses that rare privilege of entering the Oval Office through the Rose Garden door. But when Kennedy picks up the phone to call for help on the morning of April 17, he does not call Lyndon Johnson.
It is Bobby Kennedy who answers the phone. He is in Virginia, giving a speech. “I don’t think it’s going as well as it could,” the president tells his younger brother. “Come back here.”
John Kennedy has purposely focused his brother on domestic policy issues, preferring to let others advise him on international matters. Despite their frequent phone conversations, the president sees his younger brother as a guy who’s benefited from nepotism, for it was Joseph Kennedy who insisted that JFK hire Bobby as attorney general. But now, in a moment of great insecurity, John Kennedy understands his father’s wisdom. Even though Bobby hasn’t had a CIA briefing on the Cuban operation in three months, he is the one man the president believes he can count on.
Meanwhile, Lyndon Johnson drifts farther and farther from the center of political power.
* * *
John Kennedy stands in the Oval Office, helpless to stop what he has started. The president could have called off the invasion right up to the moment on Sunday night when the highly trained men and teenage boys of Brigade 2506 clambered down from their transport ships and transferred to the boats that would carry them to shore.
But reversing course would have taken extraordinary courage. Kennedy would have lost face with Allen Dulles, the CIA, his close advisers, and the Joint Chiefs of Staff.
Yet that is the sort of unpopular decision he had been elected to make. And now Kennedy’s unwillingness to make those tough choices is threatening to devastate his administration.
He has come a long way since his days as the young commander of PT-109. But he is still learning, as Abraham Lincoln also learned, that the decision to use force should not be determined by men whose careers depend upon its use.
But it was not the CIA or the Joint Chiefs who ordered the invasion; it was John Kennedy.
Bobby has sped back from Virginia and now steps into the Oval Office to find his older brother in a pensive mood. “I’d rather be called an aggressor than a bum,” JFK laments. The news from the landing beaches is not good: the freedom fighters have failed to secure key roads and other strategic points. There is no way off the beach for the men of Brigade 2506. Cuban forces have pinned them down. The invasion is stalled.
A distraught JFK openly shares his fears with Bobby. The president knows when speaking with his brother that he is safe from security leaks or attempts to undermine his authority. But even now, with Bobby at his side, John Kennedy feels the crushing loneliness of being the president of the United States. He has made this mess in Cuba, and he alone must find a way to turn a potential fiasco into a rousing victory.
* * *
But it’s not to be.
By Tuesday, April 18, Castro himself is on the beach in a T-34 tank, fighting off the invaders. Tens of thousands of Cuban militia have taken up positions to contain the rebel advance. The Cubans now control the three main roads leading in and out of Bahia de Cochinos. Most important of all, thanks to Kennedy’s cancellation of air cover, the Cuban air force and its T-33 jets easily control the skies.
At noon on April 18, National Security Adviser McGeorge Bundy meekly reports to the president that the “Cuban armed forces are stronger, the popular response is weaker, and our tactical position is feebler than we had hoped. Tanks have done in one beachhead, and the position is precarious at the others.”
That evening, at a White House meeting shortly after midnight, Kennedy is dressed in white tie as he listens to yet another report on the failure of the invasion. Earlier that night he was called away from a White House reception for Congress—formal duties call even in the midst of the crisis.
The Cabinet Room is decorated with a map of the Caribbean, on which tiny magnetic ships have been placed to show the location of the various vessels on station to support the invasion. Among them are the aircraft carrier Essex and her protective escort vessels.
“I don’t want the United States involved in this,” snaps an incredulous JFK as he surveys the map.
Admiral Arleigh Burke, head of the U.S. Navy, takes a deep breath and speaks the truth: “Hell, Mr. President, we are involved.”