KENTUCKY: Dark & Bloody Primary

Decades of warfare between the Iroquois and Cherokee gave Kentucky its name, the “dark and bloody ground.” The tradition of bloodthirsty cunning has survived with a vengeance in Kentucky politics, turned vote-hunting into a boyhood sport, factional throat-cutting into a party game that everybody enjoys. For the past quarter-century, two tough Democratic leaders have led their rival factions through a war that has engaged courthouse politicians in 120 counties. Last week, stalking each other behind hand-picked slates of candidates for state offices, the scarred chieftains were grappling toward a major test of power in the May 26 primary. The two:

Albert Benjamin (“Happy”) Chandler, 60, an up-from-newsboy who wants to be elected Democratic President of the U.S. in 1960. Back in the 1935 Kentucky primary, Happy grabbed the patronage-controlling Governor’s chair, parlayed it into a U.S. Senate seat (1939-45) and then—after a showboating interlude as baseball high commissioner (1945-51)—stormed back home by 1955 to take the chair back from his enemies. To become the Democratic nominee for President, Happy must nominate his own successor, and through him establish control of the state delegation to the National Democratic Convention.

Earle C. Clements, 62, a cold-eyed professional who wants to deliver Kentucky delegates to his good friend Senator Lyndon Johnson of Texas. Losing campaign manager of the primary that Happy won 24 years ago, Clements later beat Chandler forces to become state political boss (1947-55) and U.S. Senator (1950-56). He lost his Senate seat in the 1956 general election to Republican Thruston B. Morton; Enemy Chandler cheerfully takes the credit for switching the critical Democratic votes. In his grim drive to take state party control back from Chandler and control the 1960 delegation, Clements has spent many a day away from the $22,500-a-year job of Democratic senatorial campaign director that Lyndon Johnson got for him.

Each of the genial old pros picked a genial younger man for the test of power in the gubernatorial primary. Chandler’s early choice: his Lieutenant Governor, Harry Lee Waterfield, 48, tall, shy native of Tobacco (pop. 50) and publisher of the Hickman County Gazette. In the state capital at Frankfort, Waterfield had learned fast from a master teacher, joined Chandler in ownership of the new Indian Hills subdivision, to which their highway department conveniently ran a state road. Aside from fighting down the scandals, Waterfield’s toughest campaign job is to shake loose from the increasingly unpopular Happy and still get the nomination.

Politics at Dawn. Clements had his candidate waiting in the wings: Bert Thomas Combs, 47, onetime state Supreme Court judge who barely lost to Chandler himself in the 1955 gubernatorial primary. But long before Clements got Combs launched, the anti-Chandler field got crowded by the gubernatorial announcement of Wilson Watkins Wyatt, 53, onetime Louisville mayor (1941-45), and personal campaign manager for Adlai Stevenson in 1952. Backed by the Stevenson-prone Courier-Journal and Louisville Times, Wyatt was too much of a city egghead to suit Clements’ plans.

As Clements expected, the polls soon showed Wyatt lagging badly but splitting enough anti-Chandler strength from Clements’ Combs to give Happy’s Water-field a sure win. Clements secretly flew from Washington to Louisville in mid-January for an all-night session with Wyatt and Combs in the Standiford Motel near the airport. The deal, by dawn: Wyatt stepped down to the Lieutenant Governor’s race and became a running mate to Combs, in return was allowed to 1) write his own platform for the whole slate (e.g., an across-the-board state employee merit system), 2) expect support in the 1963 gubernatorial race, 3) split some of the state’s national convention delegates into the Stevenson camp next year rather than tie all by unit rule to the Clements-Johnson camp.

Such details tidied up, the two warring factions went at each other with every weapon known to politics, by last week campaigned across the state in the beloved rituals of fish fries, candidates’ caravans, courthouse rallies, jug-band campaign songs. Clements-Man Combs, the polls show, is a nose ahead of Happy’s man Waterfield. But nobody accustomed to Kentucky’s dark and bloody politics could count on the outcome until the two old professionals had pulled their last string, counted their last vote, maybe recounted a few.